Sound of the Heart (4 page)

Dougal hadn’t known that. He’d tried to get inside the boys’ heads but had gleaned nothing. He thought maybe the two were so closely entwined with each other, they had no thoughts to spare for anyone else.

He ground the heel of his boot on the bug. “No? Like us then?”

John smiled. “I suppose. Only I’ve heard they never had family. Lived wild in the woods, the two of them.”

They watched the boys for a while. “Handsome wee things,” Dougal said, then grinned. “They’d best watch their arses around here.”

“True enough,” John said, digging for another mite. “The men are tiring of each other’s company, I reckon.”

The possibility prompted Dougal to move their places closer to where the boys stayed. So when it happened a couple of days later, neither Dougal nor John were overly surprised. Dougal had always slept light, his restless sleep disturbed by other men’s voices wandering through his mind. When he heard the creaking of nearby boards beneath someone’s feet, followed by a muffled cry, he was in a fighting crouch in the blink of an eye.

The men’s hands were firmly clamped over the boys’ mouths, pinning their struggling bodies to the floor. The rest of the ship writhed in its customary noisy discomfort, some sleeping, others resorting to whatever they could on which to hook their last threads of sanity. The craft moaned with her movements on the sea, with its captives, with its misery. Few heard the panicked cries of the two boys.

Dougal did. He was on his feet and shoving one man away before they were even aware of his presence. John awoke beside him and interrupted the second man’s frenzied attempts to grab at the dark-haired lad. There wasn’t much of a fight after that. The attackers were still lost in the fog of lust and attempted rape, the defenders blistering with righteous fury. The intended victims sat shaking, white as the stars they couldn’t see.

In the morning when Dougal awoke, he held a crust of bread in his hand that he couldn’t recall having seen before. A biscuit lay on the floor by John’s hand as well. Dougal peered toward the boys, who were blissfully asleep, curled around each other like overgrown puppies.

A thank-you
, he thought, and nodded to himself. He crunched into the bread, hard as the wood on which he lay, and felt the tiny morsels disintegrate on his tongue then travel down his gullet.

CHAPTER 5

Tilbury Fort

Dougal never did find out exactly where the stolen treasures came from, but he suspected the boys were more slippery than he’d thought. If they were, indeed, orphans who had lived as animals throughout their young lives, they would be well versed in the art of self-preservation. Dougal never mentioned the food to them, and they never said a word about it to him.

Attacks on the boys continued for a while. And every time, Dougal and John stood to their defence.

Throughout all of this, the floating prison on which they suffered hadn’t travelled anywhere. The
Thane of Fife
was moored at Inverness harbour for weeks before the captain received orders. When the ship finally raised her sails, the prisoners felt the increased rise and fall of the sea. The previous nauseating motion felt inconsequential compared to this. Many of the men on the
Thane
were already ill; some feared typhus and stayed as far away from others as possible, trying to avoid contact with the contagious group. When the wind rose, the ship bucked and rolled, making the illness much worse. The stink rose with the tide, never quite washing out of the floors or walls. It mixed with the reek of urine and shit and rotted fish, mingled with sweat and disease. If the English had intended to win the war simply through torture, Dougal thought, all they would have had to do was pack their enemies onto these ships.

The
Thane of Fife
and two other ships unloaded their cargoes of over two hundred Highlanders on a misty morning in August, and a new contingent of red-coated soldiers marched the dismal group to their new home at Tilbury Fort. They left four ships rocking silently on the sea behind them, four disease-infested, floating coffins cradling more of Dougal’s countrymen and kin.

The Highlanders shuffling along the road were, by then, mere shadows of the fierce warriors who had humiliated the English on the battlefields without fail—until Culloden. Their wild beards moved with lice, their eyes sank back into their heads and carried no trace of defiance. The fierce battle cries that had sent English armies fleeing in terror were reduced to helpless retching and coughing, mixed with moans of hunger.

Dougal knew he looked just as bad as the rest of them, but he had fared relatively well as far as his health. He hoped this march meant the end to the suffering was near, or at least that things would improve somewhat. He felt like a different man than the one he had been before, and not one he liked. He staggered on bare feet, which felt soft on the pebbled road, his legs were weak and unsure from their wasted time on the ship. He inhaled the fresh air, grateful they’d left the ship’s stench behind, but otherwise uncaring. Occasionally he lost concentration and his mind wandered off. And when that happened, his mental defences came down, inviting in the pathetic thoughts of so many defeated men.

God, he was tired.

John limped beside Dougal. His heel had developed a sore that threatened never to recover, and the walking opened the weak skin further. Maybe the clean air would help. Dougal hoped so. He had seen men die of wounds like this, when a small cut swelled and went dark, when pus seeped out and clouded the air with the sweet stench of sickness. When it poisoned the man, fever took over. It seemed ironic that John could die of something like this after having survived everything else. And yet it was entirely possible, if the sickness in his foot climbed up his leg and grabbed hold of his heart.

As the prisoners passed under an archway, Dougal squinted and read the words “Tilbury Fort” etched into the stone. The prisoners were directed into a long, dark room, its stone walls cold as the blade of his sword in winter. The dank walls and clammy floor smelled of gunpowder, and from that Dougal surmised they were probably inside an unused weapons magazine.

The door slammed behind them, shutting out all light but a thin crack from the edge. The men stood still, waiting for their eyes to adjust. As the vague lines of wall and floor were defined, John sighed.

“Home, sweet home,” he said.

Two days later, the prisoners were called into the rain in groups of twelve, where they followed orders and stood in the semblance of lines.

“Right,” an officer said, his youthful voice ringing across the yard. He was a new arrival, Dougal reckoned. Young and straight-backed, his jacket was freshly cleaned, his proper white wig at odds with the dingy surroundings. “You men are filthy and sick,” he declared. “We have orders to remedy both these situations as well as we might. You shall remove your clothing.”

Dougal and John exchanged a glance, then shrugged and unwound the stiff wool of their plaids from around their bodies. It made a soft crackling noise as it was peeled off. The other prisoners did the same, muttering and moving awkwardly as the plaids fell solidly to the ground. The soldiers, faces twisted with disgust, carried the lice-ridden material and tossed it into a fire that burned beneath an overhang at the other end of the yard. Dougal, feeling nothing but dazed, watched the fire catch the edges of the plaids, taste the fouled material, then burst joyfully into flame.

The captives stood waiting, naked and shivering in the rain. Clutching his arms around his body for some hint of warmth, Dougal looked at the stooped bodies of so many beaten men, their bones obvious through mud-encrusted skin. The rain started to work on the dirt, beating away layers of the stuff, and the men used their hands to weakly scrub more of the filth away.

Dougal lifted his chin and closed his eyes, letting the rainwater pelt his face. Ignoring the men around him, he dropped his hands to his sides and let the moment carry him back to the Highlands, back to his home, back to the neighbouring loch that had been his sanctuary. Despite everything, he felt a smile rising within him, but a curt order from a soldier drove it back down.

The plaids were replaced by shirts and breeks. Dougal hated the breeks. He felt confined in every sense of the word. They chafed the insides of his thighs, they blocked any possible ventilation . . . and they forced him to pick a side. The Scots objected to the clothing, feebly demanding their traditional dress, but the soldiers informed them of a recent law passed in parliament. Plaids were no longer allowed. No tartans permitted at all in the kingdom. No tartans, no bagpipes, no dancing, no traditional songs, no weapons. Anything that represented Scotland had been outlawed. The penalty for going against any of these edicts was a severe beating, even death.

“So Scotland is gone,” John muttered under his breath.

“No, John. She is only in hiding.”

When the group’s shock faded to mumbled complaints, each man was led to a chair, where servant women sheared off most of their hair and beards, letting the greasy locks drop to the dirt. This, too, was thrown into the fire.

It was a strange sensation, the tickle of air and water against Dougal’s shorn scalp. Rain washed over the bristles, running in rivers down his face and neck, making him almost giddy. He hadn’t worn short hair since boyhood. Running his fingers curiously over the uneven tufts of black hair, he tried to visualise his appearance. He dug ragged nails into his scalp and scrubbed hard, enjoying the tingle and burn of his skin under the attention.

His cohorts looked completely different, their features clear for the first time since they’d gone to war. Now that John’s hair stood up in sharp contrast to his white scalp, Dougal realised it was closer to a copper colour than brown. Where the beards had been, the men’s sunken cheeks were a sickly white, darkened by blue-black bruises of exhaustion. They were a sorry lot, and Dougal was well aware that he looked almost as haggard. Almost, because he and John had occasionally enjoyed clandestine contributions of extra food provided by the two boys.

Dougal knew a few of the men in the makeshift prison. Two were from his clan, both older than he by about ten years. There were others from nearby lands with whom he’d had a passing acquaintance growing up. But he and John had struck up a friendship from the moment Dougal had scratched his friend’s nose, and it suited them both. John was a friendly, cordial soul, just like Dougal, and both were comfortable in a fight, beating back whatever deluded fools thought to challenge them. They were also the ones who kept the men in fine spirits whenever possible, telling stories and encouraging others to do the same. Having spent months together by now, the stories were getting old, but there were ways to tell stories so they were always entertaining, and the two men were fine at that art. Dougal was convinced they would have made great friends in the outside world as well, had they been given the opportunity.

The young boys slowly emerged from within their cocoon, gaining confidence now that attacks on them dwindled. They began entering into conversations, offering glimpses of their past. John had heard correctly. They were orphans who had come from way up in the North, farther than any of the other men had ever been. When their families all died of an illness that somehow left the two of them unaffected, they set off at the age of ten, brothers in every way but birth.

They were smart, Dougal thought. Always listening, always alert, like the forest beasts with whom they’d spent their lives. The dark-haired lad, Joseph, was the louder, more assertive of the two. While both were reserved, Joseph was the one to bring up a story when it was called for, and to tell it with colour and flair.

The other boy, Aidan, could also tell a pretty tale, but tended to leave the talk to his friend. As he grew more sure of himself, Aidan contributed to the general good of the group in a unique manner. On some evenings, when spirits lagged more than usual, he sang to the men. His voice was sweet and high as a lassie’s, soothing to the men, evoking bittersweet memories. More than one man, including Dougal, wiped precious moisture from his eyes when Aidan sang. Sometimes when Dougal watched the boys, he couldn’t help remembering Andrew, and missed him so much he wondered if a heart could indeed break like the poets claimed.

Aidan was quicker than Joseph, both mentally and physically, with a lithe, slender form better suited to a rabbit than a Highlander. He wasn’t strong, but then again, none of them were anymore. The boys had taken to sleeping close to Dougal and John for protection, and on nights when sleep eluded him, Dougal stayed awake and listened to the noises around him. Sometimes, since he couldn’t hear inside the boys’ thoughts, he eavesdropped on Aidan’s habit of whispering in his sleep. The words were quiet, almost not there, but Dougal heard them, though he couldn’t understand a single syllable. There was something haunted about the whispering, urgent but unintelligible. A secret the boy’s dreams wanted to share.

At other times the boy reversed the roles, staying awake so he could listen to Dougal speak, though Dougal wasn’t talking in his sleep. He encouraged Dougal’s endless stories and asked questions just so the words could go on and on. It saddened Dougal, because it was as if his simple words somehow fed the boy’s desperately lonely heart.

“What is it ye want to hear, boy? Why do ye bother me so?” Dougal teased one night.

“I dinna ken,” Aidan said, blue eyes smiling. “I only want to hear more. More about yer family, aye? I canna remember much o’ my own, but when ye talk, it helps me think o’ them a bit.”

Sometimes Dougal felt drained by the end of the day, and his stories ran dry. Even then, Aidan stayed beside him, asking questions, sometimes offering insight into Dougal’s own thoughts. He was a very intelligent, perceptive boy, who always seemed to need . . . more. It seemed a shame he had been deprived of any sort of education besides the very basics.

One night, when Dougal’s words faded away, Aidan asked a question that had been on Dougal’s mind for weeks. “What do ye think will happen to us?”

They had been stuck in this place, doing nothing but aging. It was frustrating. The fact of their not knowing lengthened the stay interminably. “I’ve no idea,” Dougal said. “But they’ll have to think o’ somethin’. We’re only takin’ up space as it is. Maybe they’ll decide they’ve had enough an’ simply let us go, aye?” He grinned and the boy snorted. “No, no, I reckon not.”

“They wouldna just . . . kill us, would they?”

Dougal shrugged weakly. “I suppose it depends on who’s in charge at the time. But no. I’d no’ think they’d do that. Too many of us. They’d run out o’ shot, most like.”

Aidan shuddered. “I’ll no’ be here for that,” he said quietly.

“No? An’ why not? Have ye other plans?”

Dougal had expected Aidan to laugh, or at least to react with surprise, but he didn’t. Instead, the boy studied Dougal’s expression closely, as if trying to read his mind.

Dougal frowned. “What is it?”

Aidan took a deep breath, then made his decision. “Joseph an’ I, we’ve found a way out,” he whispered.

For a moment, Dougal simply stared, mouth hanging slightly open. Then he found his voice, but kept it low. “There’s a way out?”

“Aye, but I wasna sure ye’d be fit for it. Ye must be fairly wee to manage it.”

A thumping in Dougal’s chest began, a sensation he had almost forgotten. Could it be hope? “Oh, dinna fash, lad. I can make myself small enough,” he assured Aidan.

Aidan glanced toward John, who napped beside them. John seemed wearier these days, and had torn one sleeve from his tunic to wrap around the sore on his foot, which was getting worse. “And him?”

“Aye, he can, too. What is it, then?”

The blue of Aidan’s gaze on his was intense, as if he tried to read the truth behind Dougal’s lips. “It’s secret.”

“I’ll no’ tell a soul but John, aye? Ye ken it’ll go no farther.”

Very slowly, Aidan nodded. “When we go outdoors in the mornin’, everyone walks, aye?”

Dougal nodded in encouragement. He pictured the prisoners, forced on their daily march, pacing around the area like the walking dead, gaunt and unaware.

“No one does much but walk,” Aidan said softly, rolling his eyes as if he couldn’t believe the stupidity of them all. “Walkin’ an’ sometimes talkin’, but mostly just walkin’. Like there’s nothin’ else they could be doin’. Well, Joseph an’ I have been busy. We’ve no desire to live our lives out here. We found a spot, aye? A place in the wall that hasna fared so well as of late.” Aidan held out his hands, palms down. His fingers were cut and stained with old blood, the nails shredded. He looked at Dougal. “Ye see my hands?”