Bartholomew Carlisle
His parents had lumbered him with the name Bartholomew but he became known as Bart to friends and family. The name Bartholomew was reserved for Sunday mornings at church or those times when he was in trouble. Even now as a young man, his mother’s shrill voice screeching, “Bartholomew” sent shivers down his spine.
Such concerns were now behind him. The time had come in his life to learn to be a man. What this learning would be was not yet revealed to him. All he know was that he would be joining his cousin Jake in Brimstone.
Before making the ride to the place, Bart had asked around about his destination. He was giving up a life of relative ease on his Pa’s ranch to learn how to be a man in a god-forsaken shit hole. He already felt bitter.
This was easily the farthest he had ever ridden and the farthest he had been from home. He did not feel safe riding alone. He could see a forest to his north and he had encountered a train line. Was there a train stop at Brimstone? His Pa had told him to find his own way. A man cannot hang off of his Ma’s skirts all his life he had told him. If he had known about the train, he would have ridden that into town but here he was, just him on his horse with money enough to pay his way during the journey. He hoped that his relatives would see him all right when he got there.
He had been assured by his Pa, though his Ma still looked worried, that no one would dare touch a Carlisle out on the road. This did little to reduce his anxiety.
He was saddle sore. He was hungry and thirsty but most of all he missed his warm comfortable bed. Life on the road was tough, a lot tougher than he had expected. He had slept rough last night or rather lain on the ground without getting much sleep. This long ride had taken its toll.
It was getting late and thoughts of finding somewhere to stop for the night were foremost in his mind. He had ridden to the crest of a hill and was making his way down the other side when he spied a woman perched on a gate.
His interest piqued, he increased his pace to a trot. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that partly covered her long lightly-coloured hair. She certainly was a beaut. Her skin was pale, probably why she wore the hat to protect it from the sun.
“Good evening, stranger,” she said. Her accent was strange. it was unlike other people he had heard speaking in these parts. It occurred to him that she might European.
“What do they call you?”
He froze. He did not want to say “Bartholomew”. That sounded too much like Sunday morning church. As for “Bart” that sounded too much like a child's name. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Bartram, ma’am,” he tugged on the brim of his bowler, “they call me Bartram, ma’am.”
“Bartram is it?” she said. There was mischief in her voice. “You are not sounding sure.”
“Caught me unawares is all,” he said, hoping to redeem himself, “don’t expect to see no comely lass out here.”
She laughed. He could not tell whether she was genuinely amused or mocking him. “You look road-weary, Bartram. We take in strangers who need a hot meal and a warm bed.” She lifted her hat slightly giving Bartram a better view of her face. She truly was a comely wench.
“I could certainly use a hot meal and a warm bed. Sleeping on the ground ain’t no fun for nobody.”
“Well, you had better come in then.” She jumped down from the gate and opened it. “Follow me, our house is this way.”
It was a short ride along a well-worn path to… he had not asked her her name… to the young woman’s house. “Say, ma’am. Mighty rude of me. Didn’t ask you your name.”
“Ingrid.”
“Ingrid,” he echoed. He could not recall meeting anyone called Ingrid before. It must be European.
“I’ll stable your horse round the back. You go in the front door. You will meet my brother Jasper. Tell him I sent you.”
Bartram dismounted and passed control of his horse over to Ingrid. He allowed himself one last look at her as she led the horse away. He believed there was much he could learn about being about a man right there.
He walked up to the front door. There was a sign there: “Welcome to Cherryvale.” He had expected a larger house, not this careworn one-storey building. Still, a roof was a roof. He had slept in worse places. He inched the door open. Not wishing to alarm anyone inside, he called out, “Jasper?” He entered the building and called out the name again. A young man appeared from behind a curtain.
“Who are you?” He asked in an accent similar to Ingrid’s.
“Bartram, sir, your sister is seeing to my horse and said I should come straight in.”
“Paying customer!” the man said in delight. “Business has been slow of late. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?”
“Coffee,” replied Bartram. He would have preferred a whiskey but thought it better to wait until after he had eaten. These folks seemed pleasant enough but he did not know them.
“Coffee it is.” Jasper disappeared behind the curtain.
Bartram remained standing and looked around the room. It was very basic. There was a table with some chairs around it. No pictures on the walls. The floor was planks of wood laid onto the ground. He could probably lift them without any difficulty.
Jasper soon returned with a steel mug and a steaming pot of coffee. He poured out a cup. “Here, wash away the dust from the road. Not taking the weight off?”
“Thanks, erm, no. Standing for a while. Been sat in the saddle for a bit too long.” Bartram said while scratching his behind. “Not used to it.”
“Suit yourself, sir. Ingrid will cook you up some supper. Perhaps we can have a chinwag later. You can tell us about where you're from. We have some liquor from the old country.”
“Old country?” asked Bartram, curious about their origins and their accents.
“You do not recognise my accent, no?”
Bartram shook his head.
“Vee are originally from zee new German Empire,” he said, overemphasising his German accent.
“Interesting,” Bartram lied. Now he knew what the accent was, he had lost interest. He wondered where Ingrid was. “Where will I be sleeping?” He looked round in the room to emphasise his question.
“Don’t worry, Ingrid will make up a bed for you.”
Bartram took a large swig of coffee. It sure felt good in his mouth. He topped up his mug. He was feeling better already and lustful thoughts of Ingrid were forming in his mind.
“So where you headed?”
“I am going into Brimstone. I was told to find the saloon, Delilah’s…”
“Ah yes, a good place. Terrible coffee and worse beer. Don’t drink the beer. The women, good women! If you want the best fuck, ask for Charlotte. She will cost you ten dollars, though not as pretty as Ingrid, no?” He winked at Bartram. “If you want a cheap fuck, go to Gentleman Jim in Pigtown. His Chinks are not much better than animals but they are young and cheap but they smell of pigs.”
“So where is your sis…” Bartram stopped himself, “Ingrid?”
“Don’t worry, she will be back shortly. She will be seeing to Mother and Father. They are both very old and speak little English.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You like the look of my sister?”
“Oh yes,” said Bartram, unaware that he was grinning like an idiot. “She’s a mighty fine woman.”
# # #
“You are our guest so you get the place of honour at the head of the table,” said Ingrid. “Sit down here and I will bring the food.”
Bartram could smell the stew. His mouth was watering and his belly growled in anticipation. He rubbed his hands together.
Ingrid disappeared behind him through the curtain and returned with the three bowls of steaming stew. “We cannot get good beer here...” said Ingrid.
“The beer in the saloon is terrible,” confirmed Jasper.
“…but we do have some sarsaparilla.” She pronounced the word awkwardly, her foreign tongue having difficulty navigating its syllables. “We have real drink after we have eaten.”
“Sounds good to me!” Said Bartram. Indoors, Ingrid did not quite have the attractive glow she had had when he first saw her perched on the gate. Perhaps it was the light in the house but her skin seemed a little grey and her blue eyes seemed tired. They were a poor family who had to do all of the work on their holding themselves. They obviously could not afford to pay farm hands to do the work for them. It made him glad to be born into a well-off family.
“Jasper,” said Ingrid as she sat down to her meal, “you wanna get the drink?”
“What?” said Jasper, sounding surprised, “oh yes. I know where it is.” He got up and disappeared behind the curtain.
Bartram was alone with Ingrid. “Jasper says you will be making up a bed for me?”
“Yes, we can put you up in here, or you can take one of our beds. I can sleep in the barn.”
“In the barn?” Said Bartram, with false courtesy. “It is not right a fine looking woman such as yourself should end up in a barn.”
“Oh, I am used to it,” she replied, with a teasing smile. “This is only a small house and we must make do.” She leaned closer. “It is not all bad. Father cannot hear what goes on in there.” She winked.
Jasper returned with the sarsaparilla. He passed out a tin mug each to Bartram, Ingrid and himself. He pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured some out for everyone. He raised his mug and said, “Your good health!” Bartram did not notice. He attention was fixed on Ingrid who was curling a strand of blonde hair with her left hand. She stared back at him. Things were going to happen in the barn tonight!
“You finish up your stew, Bartram,” said Ingrid, “here use this bread to mop it up.”
“I will go for the kirschwasser,” said Jasper, “you will like.”
Bartram took up a piece of bread to sop up the last of the stew. It really was delicious. He stuffed the bread into his mouth and looked across the table at Ingrid who was also finishing off her food. His thoughts turned to what he had planned later in the barn.
The sharp pain to the back of the head took him completely by surprise. His vision went blurred and his world turned. He tried to grasp the table to correct his balance but he misjudged it and full to the floor. He reached up to where he had been hit. There was blood on his hand. He looked up and was vaguely aware of Jasper stood over him. There was something in his hand. It looked like a hammer.
# # #
When he came to, Bartram had a splitting headache. He was shackled. The room was dark. There was the taste of blood in his mouth.
It took a short while but awareness of his current situation coalesced. Jasper had attacked him with a hammer. So much for no one daring to attack a Carlisle!
He tested the shackles but they were heavy and firm. There was no hope of breaking free. So he just sat there and looked around in the gloom. There was precious little light but his eyes adjusted. He was in a small room. The windows were painted over. There was a door. It was in the opposite wall from the one where he was shackled.
He sat there in the dark, alone. He had no means of judging how much time had passed. All he had were his thoughts. What was these people’s motive? Did they know he was a Carlisle and were holding him for ransom? Now that he thought about it, he could not recall telling these people his family name. Perhaps, they did not who he was and were intent on killing and robbing him. That did not make sense if that was the plan why tie him up in this room?
He settled and made himself comfortable as best he could and closed his eyes. Chances are he would need his wits about him if the opportunity to escape presented itself.
He tried to nod off but getting to sleep locked in a room with a hard dirt floor, while wearing heavy manacles, was easier said than done. The fear that gripped his heart refused to let him nod off.
There was no way of knowing how much later it was when the door finally opened. Stood on the doorway was the silhouette of a man. It did not look like Jasper. Reason suggested it must be his father.
He approached Bartram and stood over him. The man shouted down in German. He sounded angry. Bartram could not understand a word but the emotion was clear enough.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered.
The man kicked Bartram’s legs. Bartram responded by retreating up against the wall and curling up into a ball. The blow hurt his legs but also sent paroxysms of pain into the back of his head.
“Why are you doing this?”
The response was a short burst of German. The man bent down, grabbed Bartram by his jacket and hoisted him into the air with worrying ease.
Bartram screamed in shock and fear. “Put me down! Help me, someone! Put me down.”
The man obeyed by hurling Bartram back to the floor, knocking the wind out of him. A sharp pain ran through his head. His whole body sent messages of pain that his brain struggled to process in any meaningful way.
The attacker bent down again and ripped open Bartram shirt exposing his chest.
“Dear Lord, no!” Bartram exclaimed, fearful now that this man meant to rape him.
There was a short burst of movement and an even shorter glint of light. Then there was pain across Bartram’s chest and he could feel it was wet. The man bent over him and lapped at the wound.
Bartram screamed until his voice was hoarse and then screamed some more.
# # #
The door opened and an angry person burst into the room. The light was bright and painful. Bartram’s tortured body tried to react to this intrusion but his ordeal had taken its toll.
He blinked as he tried to get used to the light. There was a male figure stood there. Not his abuser, he recognised Jasper.
“Why didn’t you tell us you are a Carlisle, you stupid ass?” He kicked Bartram to punctuate his question. The pain was inconsequential.
“What?” Speaking was an effort through his parched throat.
“Bartholomew goddamned Carlisle!” Jasper hurled the words at Bartram in barbed accusation.
“Never asked.” Bartram was getting accustomed to the light and he could see Jasper more clearly now. Behind the man he could just make out Ingrid, waiting outside.
Jasper kicked him again. “Who knows you are coming? Who is expecting you?” The German accent was stronger now.
“Water.”
Bartram’s plea earned him another kick. He reached out his arm towards Ingrid. In desperation, he said, “Help.”
The two siblings had a short exchange in German and Ingrid disappeared from sight. Bartram felt a moment of despair. Jasper had no compassion for him. His only hope was Ingrid. She returned a short while later with a bucket.
“Do not think of trying anything stupid,” said Jasper.
Ingrid went up to him and tipped some of the water into his mouth. It did not taste too clean. It went down so quickly that he choked on it. He felt a little better.
“Better tell Jasper what he wants to know,” said Ingrid. She tipped a little more water into his mouth.
“Enough!” Barked Jasper, knocking Ingrid out of the way sending water all over the floor. “Are you expected? Who will come looking for you?”
“Yes,” said Bartram, “Expected.”
Jasper kicked him again. “Who will come looking for you?”
“Everyone,” said Bartram with as much defiance as he could muster. “Carlisles look after their own.”
Jasper threw some more German words at him. Bartram had no idea what his captor was saying but the tone suggested it was not language suitable for church on a Sunday morning.
“If you let me go and leave now. Go to Canada. You could get away.” Bartram was all too aware that his life was in deep jeopardy. He had to persuade this mad family to let him go.
Jasper kicked him again. “We… could… get… away?” He followed it up with another kick.
The two siblings were in conversation, in German. Bartram wondered what they were saying. Was Ingrid suggesting that they let him go?
“Please, you don’t have to kill me. Kill me and my family will never stop hunting you.”
“Quiet,” ordered Jasper.
The two continued their conversation. When they had finished, Jasper turned tail and left him alone with Ingrid. There was a glimmer of hope.
She crouched down and looked him straight in the eye. “You not tell us your full name. We might have given you lodgings, is all. All this is your fault. You could have avoided this. Father will feed again. You will die. Jasper is burning everything that could identify you. We sell your horse. We leave no trace. You were never here.”
In a burst of anger, he tried to lunge at Ingrid but the restraints held fast. The shackles were even heavier in his weakened state.
Ingrid got to her feet and walked away. She shut the door behind her leaving Bartram alone in the dark, again.
# # #
Was this one last torture before they finished him off? How long had they left him here after they had told him he was going to die? It was puzzling that they had left him for so long, while the threat of his vengeful family loomed.
He should have been afraid but he did not have the energy anymore. He was broken in both body and spirit. He sat there in his own filth. His captors had made no allowances for his bodily functions.
The dirty water given to him by Ingrid had helped a little to sustain him. They had not deigned to feed him. Hunger and thirst had taken their toll as well as the blood loss and beatings.
He pictured Ingrid in his mind’s eye. Even now, after everything he had endured, there were still pangs of lust. It was all he had left. One tiny, insignificant pathetic revenge, forcing himself on Ingrid in his head. He enjoyed his fantasy. Unfortunately, the reality of his situation reasserted itself after he had finished.
What would his family do after they had discovered what Jasper, Ingrid and their father had done to him? Sooner or later he would be missed and men sent out to search for him. They were bound to check out Cherryvale Inn. He imagined Jasper’s neck put into a noose and then dragged into Brimstone by a Carlisle on horseback.
“Murderer!” The townsfolk called out. “String him up!”
Bartram imagined Jasper swinging from a gibbet, his legs kicking wildly as he fights frantically for breath. Ingrid, forced to watch, cries in anguish. Next up is his father and then his mother. Ingrid, that evil succubus, is spared the noose. She is sold to Gentleman Jim. He sells her out to lusty cowpokes for ten cents a turn. The menfolk in his family all take their turn, making sure the whore sees them paying her pimp a dime. If this were not humiliation enough, she is forced to sleep with the pigs at night.
He smiles.
It is a shame he will never see the Carlisles' revenge on this family. He has to content himself with his imagination.
How much longer before that door opens and the Father puts him out of his misery?
# # #
He was woken by the sound of the door opening. He had no idea how long he had slept, not that it mattered.
