By Hunter Perez

After Holmgren introduced me to Quinn, I saw neither of them for several weeks. I have no idea what became of Holmgren, but I heard a few uncomplimentary things about Quinn. The first complaints came from Charleson, who somehow got into an argument with Quinn over the merits of Emily Brontë’s “Wuthering Heights,” which Charleson adored and Quinn loathed – and to make matters worse, Quinn insulted Charleson’s character based on his taste in literature.

“He had the audacity to question my intelligence and the type of home I was raised in,” Charleson fumed in confidence to me one afternoon. “Just because I wasn’t college educated like him doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate fine writing.”

More concerns about Quinn arose at the rock quarry when O’Dwyer started quizzing me about Quinn.

“What is your relation to that man the lieutenant marched by here a few weeks ago?” he asked.

“I barely know him,” I said, uncertain why the subject was being raised. “Why are you bringing him up?”

“I am hearing that he’s asking far too many questions of the other convicts,” O’Dwyer stated. “The lads in the cell block aren’t comfortable with him. He doesn’t talk to people – it feels like he is interrogating them, like a guard trying to get secrets from the convicts.”

And Patterson was irritated with Quinn. One night while he was on patrol, he chatted with me for a few minutes and noted that Quinn’s integration within the prison population wasn’t working.

“The lieutenant made a mistake in bringing him in here,” Patterson opined. “He doesn’t fit in and doesn’t try to fit in. He’s rude to the guards because he knows the lieutenant has his back, but he also looks down on the other prisoners. Someone is going to take him to task.”

When I finally saw Holmgren and Quinn again, it was during a procession moving past the quarry to the flogging stake. Despite the restraints locked upon him, Quinn strutted as if he owned the place. Holmgren stayed at the rear with Merrifield, who carried a large birch rod rather than the whip he previously brandished. Once the party was out of our sight, a chubby young guard came running back to the quarry and pointed at me to follow him. I dropped my hammer, lifted the metal ball and followed after the guard to a small patch of land that I never saw before. In the center of the space was a large wooden post topped with a pair of manacles. Quinn stood before it and slowly removed his clothing while Merrifield stood several paces behind him. The other guards were positioned in a semi-circle around the post, and I was directed to stand with Holmgren.

“Long time no see,” Holmgren said as I came up to him. “I take it that you’re well?”

I put down the metal ball and looked around the space. “Why did you ask me here, Sir?”

“No need for the ‘Sir’ stuff, the others can’t hear us if we speak in a low voice,” he said. “I wanted you to see your idea unfolding. Our undercover writer is getting his first taste of prison punishment with a flogging.”

“But why doesn’t Merrifield use his whip?” I asked.

Holmgren laughed. “Because this man is supposed to write an article about this prison, and I will be featured in his coverage. I don’t want people that read the article to think we’re a bunch of savages by whipping the flesh off men’s backs. He’ll get the idea of the process without being tortured to near-death.”

Quinn removed all his clothing and placed it folded into a neat pile. Holmgren called out his name and Quinn turned around, revealing his naked body. I could see why Holmgren went into salivary gland overdrive with this man – he was a ruggedly handsome stud with a strong, solid body. While his physique was not chiseled by modern standards, it was obvious that he was a powerful man. And as for his love muscle, nature certainly over-compensated him.

“Prisoner Quinn,” Holmgren called out. “For striking a guard, you will be tied to the stake and given 20 lashes. Do you understand your punishment?”

Quinn nodded slightly but showed no evidence of remorse, dread or defiance. Indeed, he showed no emotion at all. Merrifield moved forward and directed Quinn to the post.

“Striking a guard?” I whispered to Holmgren. “I thought he was just supposed give Private Charleson a light slap.”

“No, he went overboard,” Holmgren lamented. “They really don’t like each other. Some argument about books, I think. Quinn gave him a good wallop. If he wasn’t going to be writing about us, I would have used the whip and had Merrifield go full throttle on him.”

“Oh, Merrifield is in on this, too?” I said.

Holmgren nodded as he pulled a cigar from his jacket. “Yes, I had to instruct to go semi-easy on him. Quinn likes Merrifield – they speak French to each other. Quinn is from Montreal. Oh, wait, didn’t you teach French to Merrifield?”

“I don’t remember,” I shrugged, somewhat pissed that Merrifield was unpleasant to me in our last encounter but was now using the French lessons I gave him to befriend Quinn. Holmgren picked up on my unspoken bitterness and laughed.

Merrifield pointed to the manacles at the top of the post and Quinn raised his arms. Merrifield locked Quinn’s wrists into the restraints and then retrieved his birch rod. He then fished an object from his pocket that looked like a horse’s bit and stuffed it into Quinn’s mouth while tying its straps behind Quinn’s head. Merrifield looked to Holmgren, who nodded at him, but then Merrifield also saw me and quickly looked away. With his back to us, Merrifield stood next to the restrained Quinn, raising the rod high before driving into Quinn’s flesh. A hideous cracking noise emanated as a dark pink line took shape across Quinn’s bare back. Merrifield yelled “One!” and raised the rod higher, repeating his action and creating the same result, followed by the loud declaration of “Two!” Quinn stood perfectly still as Merrifield beat him, his body betraying no evidence of pain under the torture.

“Isn’t this guy great?” Holmgren muttered to me. “Not like you, complaining endlessly when you were in the pillory.”

I turned my back on the grotesque spectacle I was brought to watch. “This is just a game to him. Some mild indignities for 60 days and then he can write his article and go on to his next adventure.”

Holmgren lit his cigar and blew a train of smoke into the air. “Who said he’s leaving after 60 days?”

I looked at Holmgren in disbelief as he returned my gaze with a smug expression. The sound of Merrifield’s rod cracking into Quinn’s back broke the silence between us.

“Seriously?” I finally said. “Going to keep him longer than he agreed to stay?”

Holmgren blew cigar smoke into my face. “I’m thinking about it. I remembered that story you told me regarding the writer who trusted the correctional officer to get him into prison, but then couldn’t get out after the CO went back on his word. I wonder how Quinn would respond if he found himself in that kind of a predicament. After all, Quinn can’t get anyone on the outside to help him – I review all the mail that goes out, so any letter that he might send for help will go straight into my wastepaper basket. And he foolishly told me that he didn’t tell anyone he was going to be here. He’s entirely at my mercy – and you know how merciful I can be, eh?”

There were more whacks and numbers shouted before I realized Merrifield yelled out “15.”  I turned around to witness Quinn’s back turned into a mess of welts and sores. I didn’t want to believe Holmgren was playing a mind game with me about trapping Quinn in the prison – he eyed Quinn’s torture with a lascivious delight, blowing out his cigar smoke with an extra degree of vibrancy while chortling to himself as Merrifield brutalized his new obsession.

Merrifield finally yelled “20!” and Quinn stood at the stake, battered and somewhat bloodied but not physically defeated. Merrifield dropped his rod and ran to a well behind the post to fetch a bucket of water and a large sponge – both were obviously placed in anticipation of his spectacle. Merrifield carefully sponged down Quinn’s back, causing him to twitch in the first movement that the prisoner made after the assault on his body.

“The prisoner will remain at the stake for the next half-hour to meditate on his actions and perhaps learn from his mistakes,” Holmgren yelled out, then turning to me and whispering, “We usually just take them down after they’ve been flogged. We don’t wash them down, either. This is a one-time-only change of pace.”

“I want to go back to the quarry,” I said to Holmgren.

“Suit yourself,” he replied, snapping his fingers to a guard and ordering him to escort me back to the quarry. Within a few minutes, I had my sledgehammer in my hands and began to crush the rocks with a gusto that I never displayed before.

“Why the sudden power, lad?” O’Dwyer asked, admiring my rock breaking. “Did Mr. Holmgren rub you the wrong way?”

“You don’t want to know,” I replied angrily as I pounded the rocks with a force that I never knew I could possess.

“I know all about Mr. Holmgren,” O’Dwyer laughed. “I’m glad I’m not a handsome young man – I’m lucky that Mr. Holmgren has no interest in the old sods like me.”

I turned away from O’Dwyer and smashed the rocks with greater intensity.

“You’re doing well, lad,” O’Dwyer observed. “Nothing like a little hatred to bring out the best in a man. But don’t squander that anger – you’ll need your strength when we’re out of here and down in Australia.”

* * *

The next day, Holmgren was back at the quarry – and this time, he brought a rather comical looking character with him. He was a short, squat man with a bushy beard and a large stovepipe hat that seemed to emphasize his lack of height and excess of girth. If you can imagine a human version of an exclamation point, that was him. This guy was pulling a small wagon that contained a large box, and the wheels of the wagon made a screechy sound that alerted everyone to his arrival.

Holmgren and his companion came up to the edge of the quarry where we were hammering away and announced that we were going to be photographed. The short man opened his box and pulled out a tripod, followed by a bulky camera. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch him set up the tripod and then carefully attach the camera – which, to my eyes, looked like an accordion with an oversized lens at one end and a small blanket at the other. The photographer then pulled out a smaller box from the large box, from which he pulled out a metallic flat plate that he inserted into the camera.

The photographer then conversed with Holmgren while pointing in our direction. Holmgren ordered the prisoners to gather close together and form a line, holding our sledgehammers in front of us. The Jones boys were then called over, with one at each end of the line with their rifles in their hands.

“I want y’all to stand still and look at the camera,” the photographer called out, his voice laced with a slight Southern drawl.

The photographer went to the rear of the camera and buried himself under the blanket while fiddling with the lens. Everyone on the line took on a stoic expression while I flashed a big smile and gave a thumbs up signal. The photographer came out from under the blanket and called Holmgren over, pointing directly at me. Holmgren stepped forward and yelled, “Hey, clown, knock it off or your next photo will be in the pillory.”

The photographer looked to Holmgren and wet his lips with his tongue. “Oh, y’all got yourselves a pillory, too? That’ll make a great photograph. Maybe put that handsome clown in it?”

I quickly dropped my thumbs-up signal and lost my grin as Holmgren looked to me and nodded with a deep smirk. The photographer went back under the blanket and emerged in less than a minute to announce our image had been captured. Holmgren ordered everyone to go back to what they were doing, and I turned my back on him and began to wander to the rear of the quarry when one of the Jones boys came up to me, unlocked the ball and chain from my ankle and told me to report to Holmgren.

“You’re going to be helping Mr. Van Sloat with his wagon,” Holmgren said to me.

“Help him in what way?” I asked. Holmgren picked up the wagon’s handle and placed it in my hands. “Oh, that way.”

Holmgren and the photographer walked off together in conversation while I dragged the heavy, noisy wagon. We journeyed back into the prison and through the corridors until we came to Holmgren’s office, where the photographer began to pull out the tools of the trade from the large box.

“I would like to be photographed at my desk,” Holmgren declared.

The photographer looked about the office and eyed the heavy curtains that blocked the window. Looking to me, he gave a jolly grin and said, “Friend, can y’all move those curtains back so we can have a bit more light in here?”

“Yes, Sir,” I responded.

The photographer laughed. “I ain’t no Sir – ol’ Queen Vicky didn’t knight me. Y’all can call me Harry.”

“You should address him as Mr. Van Sloat,” interjected Holmgren with mild annoyance.

“He can call me Harry,” the photographer answered with greater annoyance. “He ain’t my prisoner and he ain’t gotta talk to me all fancy-like. Everyone calls me Harry, from the governor down to the street sweeper. This man in the striped pajamas is just as good as any of them, so I’m Harry to him, too.”

Holmgren grumbled as I opened the curtains, which enabled a warm glow of sunlight into the space. Holmgren asked if he should be wearing his hat for the photograph, to which questioned if he wore a hat while he did desk work.

“No, I don’t,” Holmgren said.

“Then don’t,” Harry stated. “If y’all want, I can do two photographs – one in your formal uniform, another more informal.”

Harry set up his tripod and pulled out his camera from the box. He caught me watching him from the corner of his eye and happily waved me to come over. “Y’all ever see one of these funny things? Come here, friend, and learn how I capture images in a box.”

To my delight, Harry gleefully explained the details of the camera, pointing out how it worked. He invited me to peek under the camera’s blanket and look at how Holmgren appeared through a lens.

“Do you think the lieutenant should try to sit straight with his head up?” I asked in a quiet tone. “There seems to be a shadow under his chin. It looks like he has a double chin.”

Harry peeked with me under the camera’s blanket and whispered, “Hey, let’s have some fun with ol’ stiff britches, yeah?” He then said in a too-loud voice, “Lieutenant, can y’all tilt your head back about two or three inches? There’s a shadow that makes it look like you have a double chin.”

Holmgren became agitated but obeyed Harry’s command. I piped up, “I think that makes his Adam’s apple stick out. Should the lieutenant maybe lean over slightly?”

Harry stifled a laugh and said to Holmgren, “Lieutenant, do what our friend says. The boy has a great eye for photography.”

Holmgren nervously obeyed and I tried to stifle my giggling. That seemed to set Harry off with his own deep laugh. Holmgren pounded on his desk and demanded, “What’s going on over there?”

I came out from under the camera’s blanket and couldn’t stop laughing. I started to sing out, “You’re so vain. You probably think the song is about you.”

Harry then emerged from the camera’s blanket and patted my back. “Oh, I haven’t heard that in ages. Wasn’t there something in that song about coffee?”

“Clouds in my coffee,” I answered.

Harry and I shook our heads happily and started to sing in unison, “I had some dreams there were clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee and…”

Suddenly, Harry’s smile dropped, and he looked at me as if he saw a ghost. “Wait, how could you know that song? You couldn’t possibly…”

“I know,” I interrupted. “It hasn’t been written in nearly a century, right?” I then turned to Holmgren and said, “Lieutenant, I think we found Nicky’s third ex-lover.”

To be continued…