Sound of the Heart (3 page)

Then again, Duncan was dead. He wouldn’t have been much help.

For the thousandth time, Dougal sifted through his memories, wondering if there were anything he could have done to change the day’s outcome. At least to have his brothers and father marching alongside him on this miserable road to incarceration, rather than headed for an English funeral pyre.

Hundreds of bodies burned. Thousands more limped along this road with him, the undead marching toward the unknown. The Highlanders had set off the year before with such confidence, building their numbers and their conviction with every step. The clans had come together for their Prince, and now they had died for the man. And where was this wonderful Prince? Gone. Some of the men in the crowd actually spoke of seeing him ride away. He’d cheered them on, ridden his beautiful white horse back to a safe distance, then turned tail when the loss became horribly obvious. Dougal shook his head with disgust and winced at the resultant pounding in his head.

There was nothing he could have done to save the others. He knew that. And yet he supposed his soul would always wonder.

CHAPTER 3

Talk of Brothers

Throughout their lives, Andrew and Dougal had heard each other’s thoughts. The natural flow between the brothers wasn’t something they discussed, and they never told anyone else about it. They talked as regular people talked, of course, but this was something deeper, and something entirely their own. They had no trouble finishing each other’s sentences, or not speaking at all but knowing the words nonetheless. There were occasions when something needed doing, or emotions needed sharing, and they both knew.
God
, Dougal thought, swallowing a knot in his throat,
I will miss that most of all.

Thinking of home made him look around again, and he wondered where they were headed. The sun was there somewhere. Just hidden. He squinted up into the gray, looking for a hint of brightness. Ah. There. He had been right. West to Inverness. That was the only nearby place he could think of big enough for all of them. Three hours’ hike at least, with all these stumbling captives and their guards. His feet ached at the thought, his head even worse.

He’d been to Inverness once before, riding with his father and Andrew. It was a grand place, with more folk than he was used to seeing, though there had been even more at the Gathering two years prior to that. He smiled, despite the present situation, thinking of that week. So many of his clan and others, all coming together to celebrate . . . what? To celebrate life, he figured. To celebrate each other. The food, the music, the competitions—it had been an exciting time. And the lassies . . . oh, there was a thought to make any man smile. He could practically hear their sweet laughter even now.

Dougal loved the lassies. Fortunately, they were drawn to him like bears to honey. He knew he was handsome in their eyes. He was tall and strong, with midnight hair and a dusky complexion. His bright blue eyes twinkled with mischief, and the creases at their corners were testament to how he loved to laugh. The hill at the Gathering had been dotted with hundreds of tents and families, lit by campfires and whisky. And the lassies popped out of those tents, flirting with Dougal and Andrew, succumbing to their masculine charms with giggles and kisses.

Dougal rarely said no to an interested girl, but he’d never found one who could hold his attention for more than an hour or two. He wasn’t sure what he was seeking, but he didn’t consider it important to get married until he found that one. He had seen love in his parents’ eyes when they looked at each other. He had also seen folks whose marriage consisted of passing each other in the doorway with barely a word, meeting up once in a while to breed. Dougal knew which he wanted and was in no rush.

When they had headed to battle almost a year past, there had been no one special in his life. Ciaran had a bonny wee thing at home, but then again, he was only sixteen. He was at the age when he thought he was in love as long as a girl fluttered her lashes at him. Dougal, being twenty, was of the opinion that a man was happiest without tethers. A brief dabble in the more enjoyable aspects of socialising, but nothing permanent. So he’d left no one behind.

He and John Wallace fell into step together, both of them tall with long strides.

“From where do ye come?” Dougal asked.

“By Urquhart, in Glenmoriston. My family has a wee cottage there.”

“Well then,” Dougal said. “We’re practically neighbours. ’Tis a shame we’ve no’ met afore this. I’m from Invergarry. My uncle is the MacDonnell. Iain MacDonnell.”

“Is that so? I’m wi’ the nephew o’ the great MacDonnell, am I? Well. ’Tis an honour, sir. An’ how did he fare today?”

Dougal exhaled loudly. “I reckon he fared as well as most o’ the others. Though come to it, I’d say if I were a chief, I’d hope to die on the battlefield. I’d no’ want to think what the
sassenachs
will do to a chief in their custody.”

John said nothing, but wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

“Had ye family here today?” Dougal asked.

“Aye, I did.” For a moment John’s eyes lost their natural shine. He dropped his chin and watched the ground beneath his feet for four or five paces. “But I already lost two brothers at Prestonpans, so today ’twas only my da an’ myself. An’ he . . . well, suffice to say, he’s no’ with us on this fine day’s walk.”

They walked for a while in silence. Then Dougal said, “My da as well. I stood beside him as he fell. My brothers, well, I’ve no idea. But they’re no’ here.”

John glanced over his shoulder. “Ye’re sure, are ye? There’s an awful lot of us here.”

“I’m fair sure. They’d find me, or I them.” He didn’t bother mentioning that if Andrew had been among the prisoners, the brothers’ minds would already have found each other.

They stopped after about an hour, shivering at the side of the road while their English captors sipped beer and ate bread and cheese. Dougal looked away. He wondered if they would feed them wherever they were going. He’d give just about anything for a crust of bread.

Someone else seemed to have the same urge, because at that moment a chorus of shouts broke out a few feet behind them. Dougal and John turned toward the sound and watched two soldiers drag one of the Highlanders into the middle of the road. The man was curled into a stubborn ball, hands at his mouth, chewing furiously.

“’e stole my bread!” one soldier said belligerently, jabbing his finger into the Scot’s chest.

The accused kept chewing, then finally swallowed. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. His sunken eyes wavered in the general direction of the soldier, but they were unfocused.

“That’s thievery,” the soldier said. He looked at the others. “Cap’n wouldn’t want us to bring in a thief if’n we could help it, is my way of thinking.” Two of the men grabbed the Highlander from behind and the soldier punched him hard in the gut. The prisoner collapsed onto his knees, gasping, then looked up with empty eyes.

“I was ’ungry, ye bastards,” he said, his breathless voice a sob that twisted Dougal’s heart. His own stomach growled in sympathy.

The soldiers hauled the fallen man to his feet and grabbed him under the arms. They half marched him, half dragged him into the frozen woods, then disappeared into the early spring foliage. When they emerged again, it was only the two soldiers. Dougal never saw the thief again.

Two hours later, Inverness loomed, larger and more forbidding with every labouring step. The ragged prisoners were herded into whatever spaces could be found in the city’s gaols, cold rock cells that had already been emptied of English prisoners. Some of the Scots simply dropped where they stood. Dougal and John kept moving, hoping at the end of this there would, at least, be food. But Dougal’s hopes were disappointed. No food or water was given. With nothing else to choose from, they leaned back against the stone walls of the gaol and did little else for two long days.

On the morning of the third day, they were visited by their captors, who turned away with disgust when they witnessed the suffering spread before them. They returned a few moments later, their noses shielded by cloth, and began by removing the corpses, bodies of starved and injured men whose wounds had never been treated. They proceeded through the masses of men, trying to collect names, but few of the prisoners could even speak, weak as they were. Through clouded eyes, Dougal stared at their backs as they left the cell, leaving the Scots alone again in freezing darkness.

That night they returned, having decided to give each prisoner half a pound of oatmeal per day along with a small serving of water. Dougal tried very hard to make the meagre portions last.

“Hardly a feast,” John muttered.

“Ye’d expected one, did ye, my lord Wallace?” Dougal said, smiling at his new friend. “Wi’ a side o’ mutton perhaps? An’ a dram to wash it down?”

John closed his eyes and drooped against the wall with a slow, lazy smile. “Aye, that’s the thing,” he said. “That’s just the thing.”

CHAPTER 4

Sentinel

Very little happened in the prison over the next couple of weeks. At first the men were too weak to say or do much, which was all right since their accommodations were tight. Some struck up conversations and new friendships, but they were often tentative. Though everyone there was a Jacobite, a supporter of Prince Charles’s cause, they were not all of friendly clans. Forced together, they would have to make do. They were eventually given the bare essentials of medical supplies: water and bandages. Over the next month, some of the prisoners tended wounds that never healed. Those injuries festered and the men developed fevers until their teeth rattled with bone-deep tremors. Dougal watched helplessly, trying not to breathe in the stench as men around him turned inward, sliding away from the others, easing toward death. He wondered if they felt the actual disease take hold. He wondered if they could feel, with some kind of numb fascination, their existence hovering on the edge of death. And he wondered if they cared either way.

He had been close to death once, but he’d been young and lucky. He’d beaten the pox and been left with only a few tiny scars as evidence it had ever ravaged his body. That time in his life seemed like a dream, a dark night in which blurry shapes of his family hovered around him, disappeared, then returned, looming over his bedside like ghosts. He had thought he saw great beasts, thought his family was scheming to kill him, thought he would fall through the earth if he rolled in his bed—all lies his fever told his brain. He had recovered slowly but fully. Now he watched the brave men of Culloden rot until their hearts simply tired of battle. Cold, stiff bodies were taken every morning and the remaining group spread out a little more every time one of the corpses vacated a space. A little more food to share, a little more to drink. A little hole stabbed into each of their souls every time one of them died.

The prisoners were a mixed group of crofters and those who had existed closer to clan power. Dougal was one of the latter, having lived and worked on the land of his uncle, Iain MacDonnell, chief of Clan MacDonnell. He had enjoyed the lifestyle, the benefits of position. Now here he was, lumped in with every other poor soul whose chief had decided they would fight. And where were their chiefs now? Had they survived only to be executed?

Dougal fought his nature while he was imprisoned in Inverness. As he gained strength, every wasted muscle in his body lusted for action, demanded he break out and slay his captors. But only a fool would make enemies with the ones controlling both food and punishment. The prisoners were kept in the gaol for, he figured, just over a month. Then they were herded together and marched toward the Thames. At the port bobbed seven ancient transport ships, shadowed by their escort, the H.M.S
. Winchelsea
.

Dougal was one of about a hundred souls to board the
Thane of Fife
. The men, and even a few surviving women who had been captured alongside, were separated into groups and led one by one over the rickety gangways. Considering the unhealthy appearance of the prisoners as they boarded, in combination with the condition of the ships in which they would be jailed, Dougal reckoned there would be a lot fewer of them disembarking whenever they arrived at their destination, wherever that might be.

Dougal felt sick, waiting for his turn to step onto the creaking bridge leading from land to sea. It was more than anxiety over their destination that troubled him. Just the thought of vanishing into the black hold of one of the decrepit ships, rolling on the waves like stiffened cadavers, made him realise that while the Inverness prison had been bad, it couldn’t compare to what was coming. The ships stank of death before the men even stepped on board. But he had no choice. He, along with all the others, was shepherded across the gangplank and locked into the bowels of the ships.

The two young drummer boys were on the same leaky ship as Dougal and John, looking even frailer than they had on that long walk from Culloden Moor. They moved like twin shadows, as if attached to each other by some invisible force, and they clearly didn’t belong there, fragile creatures that they were. Like rabbits, they lived a wary existence, surrounded by large, starving men. They rarely joined in conversations with the others, but Dougal watched them, knew they listened and probably discussed their thoughts between themselves at a more private time.

The boys’ reality was made painfully clear one day—at least Dougal
thought
it was day. In truth, he wasn’t sure if it were day or night, because the light poking through holes in the old ship always seemed a dark gray of no consequence. It seemed to him that the mouldy boards containing the prisoners appeared a shade brighter when the men were given their daily rations, so Dougal assumed that marked morning. Each man received a small, dry bowl of oatmeal, a cup of ale John likened to piss, and occasionally a biscuit. They took this feast to their accustomed spots to eat in relative quiet. On this particular day, Dougal spied a couple of the men watching the boys with interest and muttering between themselves. Struan Grant, he mused. The other was Keith. He could never remember if Keith was the man’s first or last name. It didn’t matter much either way. The man was wiry and stooped, and his carcass would probably be tossed over the side soon enough.

Dougal knew what they were thinking. In fact, he knew what most men were thinking, whether he wanted to or not. Throughout his life Dougal had been able to hear the thoughts of some men, though he couldn’t hear those of women, no matter how he tried. It was different from how he and Andrew always communicated, which was mutual. Listening in wasn’t something he enjoyed doing. He usually tried to shut out what they were thinking, except when the thoughts might be of interest to him. For example, his odd talent was useful during card games, which was why he never played with Andrew. If he read the other players’ thoughts, Andrew would read his, and that took away Dougal’s edge.

Dougal had always been a defender of the underdog. He and Andrew both. Ciaran had often required their assistance, though he’d never asked for it. Their younger brother was smart, but not quite strong enough. So Dougal had always shared his own strength, stepped in when he was needed. These two boys were even slighter than Ciaran had been. Especially in their state of near starvation.

He heard the thoughts of Grant and Keith, though their voices were too low. The men were hungry and they saw an easy source with the boys. The young drummers were oblivious to the men’s attention, distracted as they were by their own private conversation. The two customarily sat off to the edge, away from the rest of the prisoners, relatively close to where Dougal and John stayed. They kept to themselves, bothering no one. Dougal leaned forward, watching as the men approached the boys.

“What’s amiss?” John asked, following Dougal’s gaze.

Dougal jerked his chin toward the men. “Up to no good, them,” he said.

John watched quietly from beside him. The boys had just noticed Grant and Keith and had risen to their feet. They stood with their bony fists on their hips, glaring up at the men with feigned bravery. The lads’ eyes were huge, but their backs were straight. They wouldn’t show their fear to anyone, and Dougal had never been able to read it in their thoughts. In fact, he couldn’t read the boys at all.

Dougal stood and crossed his arms, still watching, standing just behind Grant and Keith.

“I’ll have that bit o’ bread an’ thank ye for it,” Grant was saying, holding out his hand for the dark-haired boy’s portion.

“No ye’ll no’,” came the brave response.

Grant rolled his shoulders back. His voice dropped so it was less conciliatory. “I’ll have that bit o’ bread or ye’ll no’ have need of it.”

The boys, standing side by side, pressed against each other for support. “Ye have yer own,” said the light-haired lad, and took a cautious bite of his bread, eyes always on the man. Grant suddenly struck out and cuffed the boy’s head, sending him sprawling. But the biscuit remained clutched in the small hand.

“Give it here,” Keith demanded in his scratchy voice.

The blond lad shook his head, then bit into the biscuit again. Dougal wasn’t sure if he’d done it belligerently or simply to ensure he at least had something to eat before Grant took it away, but it was poorly timed. Everything happened at once. The men moved toward the boys more quickly than Dougal had imagined they could, until the lads were backed against the ship’s walls. Dougal stepped in between and eyed the men with a mixed expression of challenge and appeasement. And a hint of disappointment.

“Ye’d steal from children, would ye, Grant?” he asked.

“We’re no’ children,” he heard from behind him.

He scowled over his shoulder at the boys. “Shut up, the both of ye.”

“Step aside, MacDonnell,” said Grant. “This doesna involve you. These lads have somethin’ that belongs to us.”

“Oh, aye?”

Grant stepped up to Dougal until they stood chest to chest. They were about the same size, so Dougal looked directly into the other man’s narrowed eyes.

“Aye,” Grant said. His breath rushed through a gaping hole that should have contained teeth, its heat brushing Dougal’s face. Dougal, repulsed, took a half step back.

“Ye’ll no’ bother these boys for their supper,” he said.

“An’ ye’ll no’ tell us what to do,” Keith said, his voice low.

“No, maybe not. But I’ll tell ye what
not
to do,” Dougal replied calmly, and waited.

There were no weapons aboard the ship. Those had been confiscated by the soldiers weeks before. But none of the men were strangers to fighting with the weapons given to them at birth. Dougal was ready. He had, after all, put himself in the middle. So when Grant twisted to the right, clenching a fist meant for Dougal’s face, Dougal was there first with a short, direct shot to the man’s gut. Grant groaned and bent reflexively, but straightened again, red-faced. Again Dougal was ready. When Grant’s eyes were almost level with his own, he slammed his fist against the toothless jaw, snapping it to the side, knocking the man flat on his back.

Dougal was weary, weak, and hungry, like everyone else. He was sick of this putrid hold and her stinking cargo of Highlanders. No one on board was fit for fighting, but Dougal relished the sting as his knuckles split. The sharp pain was like a blast of mountain air, something he longed for with all of his soul. He spun sideways in time to slam into Keith, using his left this time: Dougal’s stronger hand. A left to his gut, a right to his jaw, and the man’s eyes rolled up in his head. He landed with a thud, his head bouncing against Grant’s slack belly.

Dougal’s blood sang until he felt dizzy. Oh, he had always loved a fight. Even in fun. It was something about the gut-clenching intensity, the primal urgency. He and Andrew had bloodied each other’s noses constantly as boys, goading each other on until one or the other collapsed. Their mother had clicked her tongue in mock horror at her filthy sons and their father had nodded approval. His boys were well respected, as they should be. Even Ciaran, though he did his best to stay out of the limelight. Duncan’s sons were nephews of the MacDonnell clan chief. They stood up for themselves and did their father proud.

As Dougal had grown older, he’d stepped into brawls, taking on the biggest men he could find, tossing smaller ones aside as if he were a bull surrounded by calves. It was as if the power of the fight fed his blood. He’d never pick a fight himself, but he wouldn’t step away from one either. When he was old enough to sample larger quantities of drink, he found the fights came more often, but he lost some of the concentration he required. That bothered him. So he never allowed drinking to get out of hand after that.

War had been a good release for him. The Highlanders had fought in their time-honoured way, screeching as they ran from their hiding places among the trees, shooting pistols, then tossing them aside when they ran out of shot. They unsheathed their swords and sliced through the enemy, but when they were too close for blades, Dougal’s fists had flown, quick, sharp, and hard as hammers.

Now he stood in the bowels of this rotting ship, panting, watching the two men slowly regain consciousness. It disappointed him that a short bout like this had worn him out. He stretched his neck from side to side, extending muscles that longed for more.

“We were fine.”

The voice came from behind him, full of tremulous bravado. Young and cocky. Dougal turned toward the boys, who had peeled themselves away from the wall and now swayed on their feet, staring at him. They were smeared with weeks of grime, but even so, Dougal could see the light-haired fellow had a dark red bruise blooming on one cheek.

“Oh, aye. I kent ye were fine,” he assured them and cocked his head toward the fallen men. “’Twas only I didna like the look o’ that one. Didna want him comin’ after
my
supper another time.”

The boys nodded, seeming satisfied. Their honour wasn’t going to be questioned then.

“Ye no’ goin’ to eat that?” Dougal asked, lifting his brow in question.

Both boys looked at the biscuits in their hands, as if surprised to see them there. They instinctively thrust the food into their mouths, then the blond stopped chewing. He frowned, pulled a small piece back out of his mouth, and held the morsel out for Dougal.

“Would ye have some yerself, sir?”

Dougal considered it. He was, after all, as hungry as anyone else. The boy swallowed.

“Nay, lad. I thank ye. I’ve had my supper.” He turned back toward his regular spot where John sat, watching the proceedings.

“Lovely, that,” John said with a nod. “Ye’ve a dead wicked temper. I’d best remember that.”

“Aye, ye should.”

“Decent of ye, helpin’ out those lads. Poor fellows, barely old enough to leave their mother’s teat.”

“Oh, they’re older than that. Only small. But quick, aye? Ye can see they’re canny.”

John pinched his thumb and finger against his scalp, grimaced, then flicked a small bug onto the floor between them. “They’ve no family, ye ken.”