There are moments when he has dignity again. Scattered instances in which he watches the man circle him with cool resolution, reveling in the irony of knowing he taught Jack how to do this very thing - watched him take a pliers to a man's toenails and learned but never felt, and there are bursts of beautiful symmetry in this reversal that leave his mind clear and crisp. He smiles, panting through the blood in his mouth, and spits on his guard. He doesn't tell them where Lucinda went. He doesn't even tell them that he doesn't know.
But everything has a critical mass. Some strength in him runs out and the smiling turns to gritted teeth turns to screaming and babbling and telling them anything, anything they want to hear or will even listen to and he won't remember what the next morning, muscles shrieking against the binds - someone didn't pay attention in how-to-restrain-prisoners class, or they don't care, why should they care? He doesn't.
Silas comes only once. He doesn't speak, doesn't even enter the room, but Jack knows his broad shadow and dark eyes even through the barred window of his cell. Jack laughs and hopes he sees what he has made. This is your legacy. This is your dynasty, mangled with your own hands. This is all you'll ever have of me.