Doctor Who: The Highlanders (8 page)

Algernon, understanding him, glared up. ‘You’ll regret this, Sergeant,’ he said.

‘Oh, not me, Sir,’ said the Sergeant, ‘it’s the men I’m thinking of. They’re not used to it like. They’re going to be rather curious and I wouldn’t know what to tell them, would I? Curiosity makes them very dry, you see.’

Algernon groaned. The British army, like every army of that time, was run almost entirely on small bribes or threats. He realised he was in no position to offer the latter.

‘All right, Sergeant, I’ll see you get some money to drink with. And I hope it chokes you. I have some money in my

–’ He stopped, remembering what had happened to the money he carried. ‘You’ll get it when we return to Inverness. Now for the last time, get me out of here.’

The Sergeant started scrambling down over the edge of the pit.

Trask entered the inn room where he had left the solicitor and gazed in astonishment at Perkins, lying on the table.

‘We’ve started shipping them –’ he began. Then, ‘What the blazes are you doing?’

Perkins turned his head slightly. ‘I’m resting my eyes.’

‘Damn your eyes,’ said Trask. ‘Where’s your master?’

The knocking from the cupboard suddenly resumed, louder than ever.

‘The Doctor said he must rest too.’

‘Rest!’ said Trask. He went to the cupboard, undid the catch and pulled it open, then reached in and hauled the solicitor out. ‘And what have we here, then?’

Perkins sat up, took off his blindfold, and reacted in horror as Trask ripped off Grey’s gag.

‘A pretty sight you look, lawyer,’ he laughed. ‘And what may this be a cure for – St Vitus’s Dance?’

‘Release me,’ said Grey, in a cold fury.

Trask, still laughing, started unwrapping the flag then, seeing what it was, held it up to the candlelight and examined it. Grey rubbed his arms to get the circulation back and then went over to the cowering Perkins.

‘You let him escape, you idiot!’ he said.

‘I did not know. Uh... my head...’

‘One more such folly,’ said Grey, ‘and it’ll be cured forever.’

Trask turned holding up the standard. ‘The Prince’s standard,’ he said.

Grey nodded. ‘Aye, he used it to trick me. But he won’t get far.’ He turned to Perkins. ‘Call the watch.’ Then to Trask, ‘And you get the next batch of prisoners aboard before they get here.’

Perkins, relieved to have got off so lightly, scurried away down the corridor, looking for the soldiers of the watch who patrolled Inverness at night. They were often to be found in the tap room of the inn. As he ran past the scullery, he didn’t notice the Doctor crouched under a table laden with dirty, greasy pewter and wooden platters.

At the sink there was a large, red-faced buxom woman, working a pump handle and dipping the dishes in the cold stream.

‘Mollie!’ The coarse rough voice echoed from the corridor. ‘Where are ye? You’re wanted here.’

Mollie, for that was the woman’s name, turned wearily, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Bide a wee,’ she called,

‘I’ll be there.’ She turned and shuffled out of the scullery.

Once he was sure she was out of sight, the Doctor crept out from under the table and looked around him. The room was a long combined scullery and wash house. At one end there were two large wooden tubs full of soaking clothes, mostly sheets and linens. And even more interesting to the Doctor, along one wall which obviously backed onto the main fireplace of the inn because of the warmth coming through, was a long clothes-line covered with clothes of the period. To his disgust, the Doctor saw that they were all female clothes: large gowns, petticoats, aprons–some plain, some heavily embroidered. The Doctor shrugged and turned to the door, then got an idea and turned back. He looked around carefully, and then took his coat off and started taking down some of the clothes off the line.

At the far end of the corridor, Mollie, having gathered up another load of greasy platters, was slowly making her way back along the corridor to the scullery. As she came level with it, she was surprised to see a woman exit, complete in a mob-cap which almost completely covered her face, a gown, an apron, and a large cloak thrown around her shoulder. The woman was obviously quite aged and hobbled along toward the washerwoman.

‘Good nicht, t’ ye,’ called the woman in the sing-song Inverness dialect.

Mollie shrugged her shoulders. It was a big inn and lots of people came in and out on various business, none of which was any concern of hers. All she wanted to do was get her washing done, return to her small attic room, and rest. ‘Good nicht, woman,’ she said wearily, and carried the platters back to the already overfilled sink. As they clattered on top of the other platters, she turned round and her eyes widened in astonishment as she saw the Doctor’s coat and trousers hanging on the line.

Trask, meanwhile, was walking along the upper level of Inverness gaol, gazing down at the unfortunate prisoners beneath. The soldiers were waking them up for Trask’s inspection.

‘That one,’ he called down, pointing at one of the prisoners, a big burly Highlander who was crouched by the door.

The sentry reached forward and pulled his shoulder, but the Highlander fell back, his eyes open, obviously dead.

‘Nah, no good,’ said the sentry, ‘he’s done for.’

‘Next one then, move them along,’ said Trask. He took three more steps and then looked down at the next cell.

Ben, Colin and Jamie were now standing on the top step. The water had already risen almost to their waists. Trask pointed down. ‘Those three, send them along.’

The sentry opened the door gingerly, sending the water swirling over two more steps, and Ben, Colin and Jamie gratefully followed him up from the steadily filling water dungeon. They dripped up the corridor, shivering as the cold night air hit their wet clothes.

‘You’ll be cold enough when you get aboard the brig,’

Trask’s rough voice shouted. ‘Here,’ he said, ’put ’em with the others.’ Two of the soldiers pushed them towards a group of some fifteen dejected Highland prisoners. The British Redcoats formed ranks around them, and as Trask nodded, the Sergeant in charge ordered quick march and led them out of the gaol entrance, down the hill towards the inn.

The road was rough and flinty, and Ben was relieved to see that Colin had recovered enough to walk almost unaided. As they passed the lighted inn, heading for the cluster of tall masts that proclaimed the river, an old woman staggered out and collided with the group of prisoners. Ben nearly knocked her over.

‘Sorry, old girl,’ Ben apologised.

The Doctor, for it was he in his old woman’s disguise, muttered something, and for a moment Ben thought he heard the familiar voice and turned sharply; but the old woman was already hobbling away through the darkness.

Once out of the range of the lantern, the hunched figure paused, watched and then followed the file of soldiers as they walked along the street down towards the wharf.

They stopped before a large, half derelict warehouse and Trask led the way in. The sergeant hesitated inside and looked around suspiciously, but Trask felt in his pocket and passed the man a couple of gold coins. ‘Over there,’ he said.

Aided by Trask, the men cleared a couple of barrels away from the bare wooden floor to disclose a trap door with a ring bolt. As Trask nodded, they seized and pulled it open. Underneath was a set of wooden steps leading down, and the sound of water.

‘Get them down there.’ Trask turned to the soldiers.

They started urging the tired, exhausted Highlanders down the steps towards the boat.

As Ben stumbled down the steps, he became aware of a long boat waiting to take the prisoners, manned by half a dozen rough-looking seafarers. He stopped and turned back to Trask. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘where are you taking us?’

‘Hold your tongue,’ said Trask, ‘you’ll find out soon enough.’

‘You’ve no mind to drown us, have you?’ said Jamie.

‘I wouldn’t pollute the firth with you,’ replied Trask.

‘Now get in the boat.’ They followed the others into the boat and sat on one of the thwarts.

Ben turned to Jamie as the boat pulled away. ‘Quick,’ he said, ‘we can swim for it.’ Jamie didn’t answer. ‘Well?’ Ben demanded.

Jamie shook his head. ‘I canna swim,’ he admitted.

‘Oh cripes!’ Ben turned away disgusted.

In the shadows at the back of the warehouse, the Doctor watched the soldiers form fours and march out, then quickly made his way along to the still-open hatch and gazed down. As he looked he saw the end of the boat making its way across the dark waters of the firth towards a black, sinister-looking brig.

The long boat had now moved alongside the sheer black hulk of the brig. ‘Belay there!’ Trask’s hoarse voice broke across the water, and the sailors rested on their oars. Above them in the moonlight – the fog now had cleared completely – they could make out a small knot of men standing at an open space between the gunwales of the brig. In their midst was the bound figure of a man. As they watched, the crew of the brig pushed the man over the side.

He fell straight as an arrow, hardly making a splash in the dark waters of the firth.

As Ben and Jamie watched horrified for his return to the surface, all they could see was an explosion of bubbles.

Trask turned round to the huddled prisoners. ‘There,’

he said, ‘in case you think of escaping, my fine gentlemen, watch them bubbles! Once aboard the
Annabelle
, that’s the only way ye’ll get off it. Straight downwards. Now climb aboard.’

With the sailors standing by with drawn cutlasses, the tired Highlanders climbed up the boat ladder and onto the deck.

Aboard the
Annabelle

The destination of the Scots’ Highland prisoners was the ship’s hold. It had obviously been used for the slave trade at some time. There were benches, rusty shackles, and four small portholes, not large enough to get more than a hand and an arm through along each side. There were already some thirty men huddled on the benches, trying to sleep, when the hatch door at the top of the companionway opened, sending a shaft of light down a rough ladder, and the latest contingent of prisoners were shoved unceremoniously down to join their comrades in the already overcrowded hold.

Ben was one of the last. He peered down and saw that there was barely room for anyone to sit, never mind lie down. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘there’s no room for anybody down here.’

‘Room enough for rebels,’ the big voice of Trask bellowed after him. ‘Get stowed below there.’

The three new arrivals finally made space near one of the portholes after some grumbling from the men who were first there.

‘How are ye?’ Jamie asked the Laird.

Colin, his eyes brighter than they had been, nodded at him. ‘Thank you, Jamie, a mickle bit better, I fancy. My fever’s nearly gone.’

Ben shook the man nearest him on the bench. ‘Hey, mate – got any ideas where they’re sending us?’ The man, a tough thick-set Scot in rough seaman’s canvas trousers and shirt, turned at at the sound of Ben’s English voice and moved away from him as though stung. ‘Beware of spies!’

he called out in a loud voice.

There was a chorus from the other prisoners who began to wake up and look around them. ‘There maen be an Englishman amongst us, Willy.’ The man spoken to, Willy MacKay, struggled to his feet: a rugged man with strong features and bright blue eyes, in his early forties. ‘We can strike one more blow for Scotland, lads, one more piece of vermin to stamp on.’

Ben backed away to the bulkhead, a circle of fierce Highland faces around him. ‘Once down, put your boots on him. Tramp his English bones to the deck. And remember, lads,’ Willy called, ‘the first blow is mine.’

There was a moment’s silence as MacKay raised his huge gnarled fist, then a clear voice rang out over the assembled men.

‘Will MacKay would ne’er strike a friend of the Prince.’

MacKay fell back. ‘What? Whose voice is that?’

Colin McLaren raised himself to his feet a little shakily, aided by Jamie. ‘You havena been so long away ye kenna recognise me?’

‘’Tis,’ Willy looked closely at the Laird, ‘Colin McLaren himself.’ He clasped Colin’s hand warmly.

Colin nodded. The men around began to relax.

‘And Jamie,’ said Colin. ‘The son of Donald McCrimmon, a piper like his father and his father’s father.’

‘Aye, with no pipe,’ said Jamie a little sadly.

Willy nodded to Jamie and then turned to Ben. ‘And this Englishman is a friend of the Prince?’

‘He’s aye a friend of mine,’ said Colin. ‘He helped bring me here, weak but alive.’

‘Then I humbly crave your pardon, sir,’ said Willy. ‘A friend of the McLarens is a friend of mine.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the Highlanders who now began to sink back to their former resting-places.

Ben nodded, the sweat still standing out on his brow. It had been a tight moment for him. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said.

He took Willy’s hand and shook it. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘How come you’re here?’ asked Willy.

‘He’s a deserter from the English Fleet,’ Jamie replied.

‘Aye, I’m a man of the sea myself, the master of this very vessel.’

‘Hey,’ said Ben, ‘if you’re the skipper here, what’s that Trask geezer doing on the bridge?’

‘That shark,’ said Willy, ‘was my mate. I was running arms for the Prince past the blockade, you see. Trask betrayed me and the Navy boarded the
Annabelle
. Now he runs it for King George.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Ben sounded sceptical, and Willy’s temper flared up at his tone.

‘You doubt my word?’ said Willy.

‘No,’ said Ben hastily, ‘no, skipper, not that. I just doubt that bit about him working for King George.’

‘What do you mean, man?’

‘We’re not exactly being held like prisoners of war, are we? Hasn’t it occurred to you that Trask may be using this ship without the knowledge of his King and Sovereign in some big fiddle on his own account?’

‘Fiddle?’ Willy was puzzled.

‘Look,’ said Ben, ‘he’ll sell us like the stinking fish he thinks we are. Slave labour, that’s what we’re gonna be. I think he plans to sell us over in the plantations.’ There was a small chorus of dismay from the Highlanders at this.