78 CHAPTER 10
South Africa, 1902Blake wished he was dead. The pain and nausea hit him like a horse kick as he tried to sit. He rolled to one side and vomited.
The walls were whitewashed stone. The floor of the cell, now stained, was made of cattle dung and water, a local building concoction which set like shiny concrete. Weak shafts of light penetrated the gloom from a tiny barred window set high up on the wall. His bed was a stone slab with a straw mattress. The room smelled of stale piss and, now, fresh vomit.
He looked down at his feet. The laces from his boots were gone, as were his tunic, belt and braces – anything he could hang himself with, Blake thought.
The steel door to the cell creaked open and a Scottish corporal, a guard, filled the doorway. ‘Wake up! You’ve got a visitor.
