View source for Beneath Red Tail Wings The Pit of Despair

{{TplBeneathRedTailWingsStory|title=The Pit of Despair|Author=Patricia I. Williams|chapter text=<font size=7>'''The Pit of Despair'''</font size>

The days faded into one another, a sad parade with tired men struggling to save a soul with no desire left to survive. When conscious the poor boy stared as if horror struck for endless hours. His voice was lost completely after screaming, crying and begging through relentless nightmares. Their touch, their very presence finally became unremarked. Exhaustion forced his eyes to shut but when awake, only the stare. The doctor declared his mind was possibly broken forever. But Father Arturo would not give up. They forced broth into the unresisting husk at every opportunity, continued to treat his wounds and prayed.

Four months later Matthew made the effort to stand on his own two legs. He did not know if he was grateful to these men who labored so hard to save him. Two thick limbs from a tree were held in shaky fists propping him up. He remained plagued by bouts of dizziness and his vision seem to be impaired for the long haul.  Sometimes the battered muscles in his thighs and legs cramped so tightly he feared they would tear loose from his bones. Dr. Everley assured him that time would resolve these issues, but Matthew worried he was going blind as some days his vision appeared worse than others.  Assurances meant nothing to him at this point. He’d been blind before.

His recovery was tedious, the depression worse than any he suffered during the war. Fear was a specter which hovered over his shoulders. What if Harris or the Captain found out he was here and not dead overboard? What if someone carried the tale? He knew from the priest there had been searches carried out. Accusations of bribery, outright lies and speculation had fueled gossip and many outright fights in the street outside their doors. He avoided reading about the searches and the trial of the Sunrise. For the first time in his life Matthew was unsure he could stand up for what was right. The desire to flee was all there was left of him. Even after Father Arturo declared the monstrous duo incarcerated, fear dogged his waking and sleeping hours.

His letter to McNamara had gone unanswered so far. Therein he confided in his law partner about the attack and his subsequent travail at sea. Expressing his desire to be shut of the city and Harris, Matthew wished only to be gone and rebuild his life. The priest had sent an accompanying letter stating how he had found Matthew and the months of recovery. Matthew truly hoped he could be smuggled out of the city without Harris finding out. He was plagued by nightmares of the man. He would awaken choking on bile and gagging and sometimes crying aloud. It shamed him to be in such a state.

Why had he survived the war against his kin and the Indians only to come to this? Was it punishment for taking the stand which betrayed his family and way of life? Was God truly seeing him as a turncoat? Would he ever see his way clear of guilt and punishment? All he had left was a thorough disillusionment with life and the conviction one day he would be even more helpless when the periodic blindness was a permanent state. Even if he could remain in law for now, how could he go before a jury or make a living once blind?

Morning arrived after another sleepless night. Matthew eased into an old pea coat and made his way out the back door of the derelict storefront. He grimaced at the pull of scar tissue on his back. He wished to forget the horrible experience of the brothers forcing him to move about so the worst of the scars would not cripple him. 

The priest and his assistants barely managed to get by in their efforts to minister to the riff raff that populated this area off the waterfront. 

Matthew didn’t even know where they were in the city. He never asked. What did it matter?

He eased down upon an old crate and let the weak sun attempt to warm his exhausted body. The yard was muddy with only a rope strung between the building and a pole for the endless washing. The ragged bedding stirred in the chill breeze. Matthew realized some of the stains that would not wash away were caused by his own blood. Everything was washed and scrubbed and used again. The brother’s hands were raw and calloused from their constant labor and scalding water. No one gave a damn, not about them and not about him. No one. He ignored the big barrel of water boiling, full of rags and sheets even now. It added little warmth to combat the foggy atmosphere. 

As fast as the public appeared enraged by the torture of the crew, the winds had changed and Captain Clarke was once again being hailed as a bastion of good will. If Matthew ever got the chance, he would kill Clarke. He wanted Harris dead too, so very much. But the thought of that brute set him to trembling and tearing up like a baby. When nightmares plagued him, Matthew had thrown himself against the walls of his room in terror. He learned his lessons well, the size of a man doesn’t give you any idea of how much of a monster he could be. Matthew promised himself, he would get better with a gun. He would never be taken again.

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