Sound of the Heart (17 page)

CHAPTER 27

Voices in the Forest

John had just crawled from the tent when Dougal became aware of the quiet shushing of feet through the long, cool grass. The thoughts came louder now, still unintelligible, but their meaning was clear. A spark exploded in the campfire and for an instant Dougal saw the whites of a dozen Indians’ eyes as they emerged from the forest. Their faces and bodies were painted to blend with the darkness, their long black hair ribboned with equally black feathers. They had crept close to the camp in utter silence and hadn’t counted on being detected, so when one appeared a few feet before Dougal, he yelped with surprise, then shrieked a stream of unintelligible orders to his fellows.

Dougal acted without thinking, swinging his sword in an arc so that it sliced across the man’s belly, drawing blood. The Indian roared, seeming to gain strength from the cut. Injured or not, he seemed unconcerned about the dark red seeping down his belly. One of his hands held an ax over his head, and the arm supporting it was roped with muscle. He bared his teeth then lunged toward Dougal, eyes wide and flickering with the flames of the campfire. Dougal swiped again with his sword, using his superior reach to fend off the wicked strike, and managed to jar the ax from the man’s grip. It fell to the ground and the Indian hopped backward, avoiding the sword. Without missing a beat, he charged Dougal and bowled him over. The two rolled on the ground, both grunting with effort, both stretching their fingers around the other’s neck.

The Indian straddled him, jamming his thumbs into Dougal’s throat until stars flew and the man’s face blurred in Dougal’s vision. The Indian glared down at him, teeth clenched, sweat beading on his forehead as he pressed. Air became harder to find and Dougal’s struggles weakened. Suddenly the Indian let go and replaced his hands with one knee, pinning his weakened foe and closing off Dougal’s airway. Through vision gone red, Dougal saw the shape of the man as he reached to the side, grabbing a large granite rock with both hands and holding it, poised over his head.

Dougal closed his eyes, gasping like a fish, waiting for the strike. But John was there first, discharging his pistol before the granite reached its target. Dougal shoved the dead Indian to the side and scrambled to his feet. He nodded to John, then the two ran to see what was happening elsewhere.

The other Indians had raced back into the woods, finding safety in the dark. A group of soldiers took chase, shooting as they ran, but were left in the Indians’ wake. They returned to camp empty-handed.

John and Dougal stared at the corpse of the man John had slain. The pistol had blown a hole in his chest, just beneath a necklace of what looked to Dougal like the nails of the claw of a bear: long, curved, and the colour of cream. There was no red wool jacket to soak in the blood, no white linen shirt to stain, because the man wore nothing but a loincloth, leggings, and the feathers in his hair. Dougal squatted beside the body and examined the necklace, then studied the man’s face. So this was an Indian warrior. A celebrated one, if this necklace were any indication. About the same age as Dougal. The man’s face wasn’t so different from his own: strong-boned, lean, with full lips and dark lashes, though for the Indian they were now forever closed.

John stood beside him, looking down. “What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, I was only thinkin’ that if no’ for the ocean, this could have been me.”

“What? Dead?”

“Aye, dead, but also livin’ rough like him, maybe even dressin’ like him.”

John chuckled. “The ocean an’ perhaps a few other things. The man’s a savage.”

“So they say. But what makes him so different from me? Would I no’ have done the same thing he did? When the English took our land, did we no’ fell them wi’out hesitation? An’ I’d do it again in a moment, as would you, I reckon. So what makes me better than this poor fellow?”

John squatted beside him and studied the body. “Well,” he said slowly, “for one thing, ye’re no’ dead.”

Dougal eyed him sideways.

“All right, Plato,” John said. “I suppose ye’re right. The English say we’re much like these Indians, wi’ their clans an’ all. An’ this land is no’ so very different from where I grew up. So when ye—”

They were interrupted by the appearance of more soldiers approaching from beyond their tent. The newcomers stopped when they saw the fallen Indian.

“Ye’ve another one, have ye, MacDonnell? That makes four, I reckon,” said one, puffing his chest with bravado. “They’ll think again afore they attack us, aye? These savages are none so fierce.”

Dougal frowned up at him. “Ye fought one yerself, did ye, Hamish?”

“Well, no,” Hamish admitted, looking to the side. “But Stewart here saw—”

“Then ye’ll no’ ken the truth o’ the matter.”

Hamish paused. “Maybe no’. But I like the look o’ that wee bauble around his neck. Here. Let’s have a look.”

He squatted beside Dougal and John and stretched his fingers toward the necklace, but Dougal stopped him with a quick elbow jab. “Dinna touch that.”

“Oy!” Hamish rubbed the spot on his chest where Dougal had struck. He glared at Dougal, then spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Right then. If it’s yer kill, ye can have the thing. I only wished to see it.”

“It’s no’ mine,” Dougal said. “If spoils go to the victor, then it’s John’s.”

John reached for the necklace and held the string, still around the brave’s neck, in the palm of his hand. His thumb caressed the smooth white claws. He looked from the dead man to the forest, then to Dougal.

“What think ye of returnin’ this man to his fellows?”

The others looked at him, confused.

“It’s only, well, these men are warriors. They ken battle an’ death, an’ from what I heard, they have strong beliefs about what happens after they die. So I reckon we have a choice. I could take the man’s trophy as my own an’ show any interested Indians that we’ve the power to kill as well as they do. Or we could return the man to his family, wi’ the necklace still ’round his neck. A sign o’ respect, I reckon, wouldna go amiss.”

Dougal nodded, a slow smile creeping over his face.

“We’ve seen the scalpin’,” John continued. “We’ve seen what they did to our own dead. Should we do the same?”

“Aye, we should,” Hamish huffed. “Else they’ll think we’ve no’ heart in us.”

One of his companions shifted, then sniffed and gazed into the starless sky. “I agree wi’ John,” he said. “Maybe they’d be less inclined to come after us if we give the man his dignity.”

“Dignity?” sputtered Hamish. “This is war, lads! The savages would skin us as quick as a rabbit, an’ here we consider their honour above ours?”

“No’ above ours,” Dougal said. “But it shows we
have
honour.” He turned to John. “So what will ye do?”

“We’ll leave the man to his necklace an’ carry him to the forest.”

Hamish snorted. “The captain willna be pleased.”

“Maybe no’.” He looked pointedly at Hamish. “Maybe he’ll no’ even ken this man has died if we do it quietly.”

The men exchanged glances, silently debating their next move. Then Dougal stood and removed his jacket. He dropped it on top of the ruined chest, then leaned down to take hold of the strong copper shoulders. It would have been easier to toss him over his shoulder, but then the Indian’s blood would have painted Dougal’s shirt. John took the man’s feet and the others moved in, both to help lift the dead weight and to shield them from view. While the bulk of the camp was busy tending to their wounded, Dougal and the others carried the body into the woods. They brought him to a low-lying area they hadn’t visited before, crowded with birch that glowed in the night, and propped him up against a tree for his friends to find.

Hamish grunted. “Aye, well, I reckon this is better than if the others found him wi’ no hair.”

“Aye, they’re plenty vexed as it is. They dinna need more cause.”

The small group turned back toward their camp, saying nothing more. A damp chill gripped the air as the sky cleared, unveiling the stars. Dougal shrugged back into his jacket and noted vaguely that the dead Indian’s body had fed almost no warmth into the wool. Despite the coat, Dougal shivered.

In the end, four Indians were killed, including John’s, so the official count was three. Two soldiers had been injured, one of them seriously. He would be sent to the hospital in the morning, where he would be fed, tended, and charged two shillings per day.

With all the excitement, no one returned to sleep, though it could have been no later than three or four o’clock. Dougal wandered away from the others, picking his way along a rough trail until he could see a small stream twinkling under the moon. Ever since he’d been a wee lad, he’d gone to water when he needed to escape, to think, to renew his spirit. He needed water almost as much as he needed air to breathe. Now he cupped his hands and splashed his face, gasping at the welcome shock of it. He did it twice more, then sat back on the shore, stretching his long legs before him and leaning against the rigid bark of an oak. He stared at the silver water racing past and wiggled his bare toes. Of the few things Dougal treasured at the end of the day, taking off his shoes was one of his favourites.

The river sounded loud from where he rested, loud and soothing, blocking out the rest of the world. Dougal closed his eyes and imagined standing in rushing water to his waist, feeling it push and pull against his body.

“Who are you?” he asked silently.

Who was it that knew his name? Who knew exactly when to call for him? Why did the sound send blood roaring through him? Questions pulsed in his mind, but he kept them to the simplest. He had always known the silent thoughts he heard in others’ minds were real. But this voice was something he didn’t understand.

“Why do ye call to me?”

There was no answer, but Dougal hadn’t expected one. He breathed deeply, letting his mind drift, not quite sleeping, not quite awake. It was at this stage that his mind usually played with him, bringing him the voices of his loved ones, intriguing him with thoughts from strangers. But not tonight. Tonight the steady beating of his heart provided rhythm beneath the melody of the stream, and nothing else. The silence felt warm. It felt welcome, like an embrace.

And to Dougal’s mind, it brought safety, reassurance. He imagined his mother, her arms wrapped protectively around her eldest son while he tried so hard to be brave, to be the man he needed to grow into. His mind brought him the bittersweet images of his father, Andrew, Ciaran, and he almost felt the heat of their presence as they stood by him, their sturdy hands pressed against his arms and back as if to share once again the lives the English had stolen from them.

Leaves shimmered overhead, shushing like an unexpected ripple in the stream, and shifting his thoughts to another dreamed reunion. He thought of Glenna. Of how her arms slipped around his chest, pulling him toward her so they pressed together, their hearts almost touching through the welcoming pillow of her breasts. Of how he would sink his weight onto her, taste her neck, inhale the sweet fragrance that was hers alone, and feel as if he’d come home. God, how he longed for those arms, for that neck, for the balm of her whispers.

The embrace he felt in the air, if it were possible, tightened. Glenna held him fast, squeezing tears from his eyes. If he could have, Dougal would have disappeared willingly into the fibres of the invisible blanket, let the imagined limbs of all his lost ones carry him wherever they desired. The silence brought peace. The silence brought love.

“Dougal.”

The word was a breath, a whisper. It vanished before he could trap it, slipping through his thoughts like a curling ribbon of smoke, and Dougal was left alone. The embrace opened, the spell released him, and the night air stole the warmth he had cherished.

CHAPTER 28

Stories Told Blindly

It was peculiar, Dougal reflected for the thousandth time, how familiar and yet how strange this army was to him. The Highlanders, as always, were strong and proud, willing to follow orders that sent them through the sunken quagmires of the Carolinas, north into the frozen wilderness of Pennyslvania, New York, and farther still.

On one hand, their dedication reminded him of how the clans had marched stubbornly through the Highlands, defending their lands, their traditions, and the ancient name of Stuart.

On the other hand, the shiny buttons that adorned Dougal’s bright red jacket and the leather shoes that wrapped his feet prevented his feeling entirely a part of this army. The organised marches, when the roads were wide enough to accommodate them, were foreign; the barked orders lacked the passion and pride that had always been projected by the clan chiefs. It never felt right to Dougal, fighting for the English.

He had come to accept it was better than rotting within the icy confines of a prison cell or hanging from the end of a rope. That didn’t mean he didn’t hate himself for it. Did being here make him a coward? Perhaps. A realist? More probably. There was nothing he could do to change what he’d become. He heard his bitterness in the sharp lash of his tongue when he struck out at one of the others, and felt self-hatred hardening him from the outside in.

But somewhere deep inside, Dougal’s heart still beat as it always had. He dreamed of freedom, of laughter, of Glenna. And Dougal clung to that desperate pulse.

General John Forbes led the men to Pennsylvania, toward Fort Duquesne. Positioned at the mouth of the Ohio River, Duquesne was a major shipping port with a trading store that did a good business with the French and the Indians. Despite repeated attacks and hundreds of lost soldiers, the English had been unable to win it from the French. Forbes’s orders were to change the status quo.

“Nothin’ but swamp,” Dougal muttered to John, yanking his foot from a sucking clump of grass.

“Aye, but the king feels it should be
our
swamp.”

The mud thickened and crackled underfoot as time crawled toward November. The men pulled their hose almost to their knees and covered their faces with their plaids when the wind set in. When they moved against Fort Duquesne this time, the French surprised them by lighting explosives in the fort’s powder magazine. The explosion destroyed the entire eastern wall, the barracks, and a stable. Poor reward for the British troops. But the men made the best of the situation, celebrating around the roaring flames while they warmed their bodies and cooked their suppers.

It was natural, Dougal supposed, that the troops would divide into small groups of like-minded men. He and John, for example, spent most of their time with the other grenadiers, the larger, more dangerous men, since they had the most in common in terms of their work. There were others he spoke with, others he had nothing to do with, and others he purposefully ignored. The last group was made up mostly of disgruntled soldiers, men who carried a permanent snarl and muttered curses that worsened over time. One of those was Hamish, the man who, so long ago, had objected to John’s proposal to return the Indian he had slain to the woods for his kin to discover. Dougal caught the glares Hamish had shot at John and was surprised by their intensity. More and more he noticed Hamish pulling others aside, talking in private, then glancing back at John as if he intended nothing less than murder.

“Wee Hamish doesna seem overly fond of ye, does he?” Dougal asked John one day as they sliced through heavy growth, cutting a new road for the army to follow.

John wiped his arm across his face and shrugged. “So I’ve seen. I’ve no idea why, do you?”

“Shall we ask?”

John shrugged again, always the easy fellow. “It wouldna hurt to know what it is I’ve done to piss him off.”

But they didn’t have to bring up the subject, because Hamish took things a step further that night. John and Dougal had taken their meals aside, lighting a small fire separate from the others. They were worn out from the heavy work that day, since it had been the grenadiers’ turn to work on the road, and both men were more content in their own quiet company.

“Too good for the likes of us, are ye?” came Hamish’s voice when he tracked them down.

Dougal’s smile quirked when he looked at John, who rolled his eyes.

“Go away, Hamish,” Dougal muttered, chewing a piece of meat, still hot off the fire.

“Oh, that’s it, is it? The two of ye, so high an’ mighty, so brave an’ powerful, doin’ as ye please.”

John blinked. “What in God’s name are ye talkin’ about?”

“Oh, like ye dinna already ken that. How the two of ye, an’ the rest of the damn grenadiers, ye march around like gods, all full o’ mighty, tellin’ the rest of us what to do.”

John and Dougal exchanged a puzzled glance. “What is it we’re supposed to have said?” Dougal asked.

Hamish pointed an angry finger at Dougal. “Dinna try to corner me, MacDonnell. Ye’re just as bad as this one. Well, I’m tired of it.”

“Of what?” they asked in unison.

Hamish narrowed his glare, aiming the worst of it at John. “Ye’re a stuck-up arse wi’ yer witty tongue an’ yer judgin’ eyes on the rest of us, makin’ sure we do as we’re bid. We’re no’ here for ye to laugh at, are we, Mr. Wallace? Ye wi’ yer—”

Sensing John’s rising ire, which rose slowly at the best of times, Dougal stood up before John could. He stepped in Hamish’s face and frowned down at him. “What is wrong wi’ ye, Hamish? John’s done nothin’, an’ you—”

“And
you
! Ye think ye can stand before me, yerself a
murderer
an’ all, an’—”

Dougal couldn’t prevent the quick reflex that shoved Hamish away. He was tired, he was sick of the little man’s bickering and whining, and he was incensed that his personal history was being announced in front of everyone else. When Hamish stumbled, Dougal was there, glaring down, eyeing him as he scuttled backward.

And still the words spewed from Hamish’s mouth. “Ye see? There ye go again, throwin’ around yer unnatural size, usin’ braw to try an’ intimidate me, but I—”

“Do ye have no idea when to stop?” John demanded, standing beside Dougal. “Come on, man. None of us here wants to fight, do we? I ken I don’t, an’ neither does he,” he said, making a point of restraining Dougal’s arm.

Dougal seethed. Despite John’s attempt to defuse the situation, he would have been more than happy to leap into the fray. His muscles, wasted too long on building roads, and hefting weapons and supplies, were primed to go. His fists bunched and he raised them, savouring the power that swelled through him.

John must have noticed, for he intervened, shifting his bulk between the two men. “None of us is lookin’ for charges to be laid against us for a needless fight. We’re here to do a job, Hamish. If ye dinna like the two of us, that’s too bad—an’ rather poor judgement. We’re no’ bad fellows if ye take the time to know us. But make no mistake. We’re here for the army, no’ to make friends. We work together, an’ no one says we must enjoy that. Ye go yer way, we’ll go ours. Never ye mind what we do or say.”

Hamish backed up farther, then scrambled to his feet, still glaring. “I’ll no’ forget this, MacDonnell. Do ye hear? Ye dinna shove a man before his friends an’ walk away from it.”

God, Dougal wanted to jump on him, throttle some sense into the idiot, but John wisely stayed between the two of them. Hamish walked backward a few more steps, watching the two men as if he were memorising their features, then turned and headed back to the main fire. Dougal and John watched him go, their expressions still confused.

“Did I miss somethin’?” John asked.

Dougal shrugged and scratched his head. “I’ve no idea. But I think we should step around the man for now. He seems a bit mad.”

“He does at that.” John shook his head as if to clear it, then grinned. “Well, that was inconvenient. I hope my dinner’s no’ cold.”

The next few days passed without event, though Hamish never missed an opportunity to hiss a warning, or make some kind of rude gesture. When he lost his mind one night over drink, he was punished for it, and afterward told everyone repeatedly it was Dougal’s fault, though Dougal had been nowhere near. Fortunately, the men who had shared Hamish’s company of late had also sensed a change in the man’s demeanour, and had started to drift away, leaving Hamish to stew in his own juices.

The days were too busy to be spent worrying about petty disagreements, and usually the nights were too short, stolen by deep sleep. Life went on with the army, marching into one mission after another, whether it was helping to keep the peace between neighbouring Indian tribes and white settlers, or planning major raids against the French. After the devastation at Fort Duquesne, they built a new fort, bigger than the last. Then they were ordered farther north, into the wilds of New York, where they eventually chased the French from Fort Ticonderoga. Again, they built another fort.

Dougal was a man conflicted. Though he fought and worked with indefatigable strength, everything they did felt relatively meaningless to him. The misery of marching, chopping, hunting, and eventually curling gratefully into damp, rough blankets at night seemed endless. None of it made any sense. It was his duty, and as was his way, he acted beyond what was expected of him. He led the men with a bravado he didn’t feel.

And every time they met up with anyone, he asked about Glenna.

When the guns roared, something in his mind hardened, and he heard nothing but commands, saw only targets. His aim was always perfect, his intuition without flaw. The others followed, staying relatively safe in his wake. But in his heart he became more defeated by the day. Instead of celebrating victories, he blamed himself for any man lost, adding to the heavy toll that already weighed down his spirit. His family, his woman, now his men.

Ironically, Dougal maintained his sanity by listening to the voices in his head that no one else could hear. That fact would have, more than likely, labeled him as insane among other folk. But Dougal held on to those voices. When he heard his family, nothing else mattered.

On winter nights, after days spent plodding through the wilderness, Dougal huddled with other frozen Scots and shivered by the tiny stove in their barracks. Though he listened and told stories, laughing and commiserating in turn, his mind and heart were always somewhere else. His cheeks often burned with frostbite and his mittened hands occasionally lost all feeling, but Dougal was warmed by Glenna’s song in his ear, never there, always present. When he could face no more blood, yet was forced to polish his musket for another day of slaughter, he heard his brothers’ teasing laughter.

Men died through the winter. Scotland’s winters had been hard, but their chill had somehow felt more manageable. Or perhaps it was just that when the ice and snow got too bad, he could come back inside, sit by the fire with Glenna, and create their own warmth. Here, far from the familiar mountains of home, the men fought the cold with all they could, but their adversary always seemed better armed. It claimed casualties and left bodies in its wake, bodies that would have to wait for the softer spring earth before they could be buried.

If the winter didn’t kill men, it changed them. Their characters, already hardened by fighting years of impossible battles, grew brittle in the cold, like shells around an egg. Cracks began in some, lengthening over time. When the cracks became unmanageable, the shell fell completely apart. Such was Hamish’s fate. Dougal watched the man’s irrational hatred, now deeply rooted in his disturbed soul, grow thick and inflexible as an ancient oak. Hamish was locked away repeatedly, put in solitary confinement to try and break him of his hysterical ravings, but nothing helped. He became useless as a soldier, his mind too busy spouting nonsense to concentrate on the task at hand. He was hauled up in front of a committee of senior officers and the decision was made to release him from the army. When they reached the next town, Hamish was handed over to the local officials and confined to a prison cell.

The army continued without him, growing slimmer by the week as men died or deserted, defeated by the cold. They were back in Virginia when the season finally passed and green began sprouting around them, encouraging the men to emerge from woolen cocoons and breathe in optimism. Spring brought more than burials. It brought hunting and green leaves and warmth on better days. It was more pleasant marching and training when one wasn’t forced to trek through crunching drifts of snow, feeling the cut of the wind as it sliced unprotected skin. Spring offered hope, though what hope a soldier could find, Dougal wasn’t sure. Hope they would survive? Hope they would go home soon? Hope to die and forget all this?

There were times, like now, when nothing demanded his attention. Occasionally he welcomed the rest. But idleness summoned the voices Dougal sometimes couldn’t bear to hear. Now he sat, leaning heavily against the wall, staring between his knees. He watched an early spring beetle meander between his feet, swaying and pausing as if whisky had gotten the best of him.

“Where are ye, Glenna?” he asked softly.

The beetle toddled away and Dougal squinted critically at its random wanderings. It should have stayed with him, he thought, away from the stomping of boots.

Dougal closed his eyes. He had backed himself into a secluded section of the courtyard, where he often did, needing a place to himself. If he were given the freedom to choose his ideal place, it would have consisted of cool, clear water, tonic to his soul, but there was none available at the garrison but the stuff in buckets.

A wind swept through the yard, lifting Dougal’s hair, ruffling the heavy layers of tartan draped over his bent knees. If there had been water, it would have been frosted white by the wind. The trees nearby would be shushing, making oak leaves dance on their precarious stems. He breathed in another gust and let a smile tickle his expression. The wind was Dougal’s substitute for water.

A sergeant bellowed at his men across the yard; two soldiers wandered nearby, their conversation bobbing just above the surface of Dougal’s thoughts. Not enough to touch or disturb him. A ragged melody played from faraway bagpipes, a memory fluttering in the wind.