XXV“Get up. Get up and dig.”
The ironclad whipped his cane down onto Finn's bare back. Finn grunted but barely moved as he lay there in the dust, one eye to the ground. The pain was sharp, his back red raw, but one more cut made little difference. In any case he was too exhausted, too sick. His body cried out for him to rest, sleep, but the ironclad wasn't going to let him. They couldn't stop working because they were ill, nor because they were injured or starving. They had to dig and dig, and if they stopped, they were beaten until they started again or died from the injuries inflicted on them.
With a raw grunt of effort, teeth clenched, Finn rocked over onto his knees and, eyes still shut, lifted his hand axe to hew at the rock-face in front of him. He had no strength; the metal axe he
