Sound of the Heart Read online

  “Fine lads, these,” John muttered.

  Dougal nodded, keeping his eyes on the unwary guards. “Two days, they reckon. Then we’ll go.”

  “An’ what shall we do first?” John mused.

  Dougal frowned at him. “When?”

  “When we’re out of this cesspool. When we’re free men again.”

  Dougal grinned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, there are a great many things I’d like to do. An’ to drink. But first off, I’d have myself a great, thick slice of meat. An’ fresh bread.”

  John’s expression was wistful. “Oh, I barely recall what that tastes like.” He licked his lips and Dougal noticed he’d lost a tooth that had been there the day before. “My mam always had bread for me,” John said. “She said no one could eat like I could.”

  Dougal chuckled. “She an’ my mother could have compared.”

  An official-sounding shout cut through the yard, and the soldiers awoke from their stupors. Dougal saw Joseph and Aidan wander back to the group as the soldiers corralled the prisoners. John and Dougal stood with the rest, arms folded, watching a group of important-looking men stride across the yard toward them.

  “That’d be Eyre,” said a small voice. Joseph. He peered between the shoulders of the larger men like a curious blackbird. “He’s the one in charge now.”

  Dougal had no idea how Joseph had known, but it was indeed Eyre. He was introduced to the men with much pomp, and the Highlanders watched, curious but wary. After having looked them over, Eyre straightened, jutting out a young chin freshly shaven that morning. Dougal’s own beard had grown back in, and looking at the man’s naked face made his own itch. Eyre gazed over the prisoners with a discerning eye.

  “Through the generosity of His Majesty the King,” he declared in a voice strong with confidence, “it has been determined that from the Jacobite rebels every twentieth man will be brought to trial for his part in the Uprising. He will be tried on behalf of the rest of the men contained here in this fort, as well as on behalf of those prisoners still contained on the ships tethered offshore.”

  The Highlanders exchanged puzzled glances. One man to stand and take the responsibility for twenty?

  “And what’s to do with the other nineteen?” called one of the Scots. The others kept quiet, waiting.

  “The remaining prisoners will be transported to His Majesty’s colonies.”

  That met with louder objections. The colonies were known to be a land dominated by beasts and savages who would be only too happy to feast on a Scotsman’s flesh.

  John turned to read Dougal’s expression and Dougal gave him a one-sided shrug. “I’d rather face a wild animal than feel the hangman’s noose ’round my neck.”

  “Sergeant!” Eyre shouted.

  “Yes, sir! All prisoners will now be arranged in groups of twenty, and will draw lots.”

  Dougal’s stomach tightened with anxiety. This was happening very quickly. Aidan had warned it would be soon, but today? Too soon by far. He glanced toward the boys. They had both gone white and were whispering madly to each other. This could foil their plans. This could change everything.

  The soldier began reading names from a long list, and each man stepped forward to be put into a group of twenty. Dougal and John went together, and Joseph with them, the top of his spiky black hair just reaching Dougal’s shoulder. But Aidan was directed twenty feet away and dropped into a different group, where he stood watching anxiously, looking very small.

  Eyre spoke calmly, his voice assuming the confidence of a man given full authority and no blame. “Each man will draw a paper from the hat. White paper indicates transport. Each prisoner drawing a black paper will be sent to trial. Results will be listed beside each prisoner’s name.”

  Dougal did a quick count, coming up with seventeen groups of twenty. Over three hundred starving men, all looking unusually alert, their stooped shoulders a little straighter now that a verdict was to be read. All the months of stagnancy, days and nights that never ended, and suddenly, in this one decision, their lives would be permanently changed.

  A soldier passed along the lines of each group, checking names. Behind him came another, carrying a shiny-furred beaver hat, which he held over the men’s heads. Once a prisoner’s name was checked, he was instructed to reach inside and pull out a paper.

  A black paper meant the man would remain in England and go to trial. Any man going to trial must automatically be found guilty. After all, each Scot had been dragged off a battlefield where they’d been killing English soldiers. The only way any of them would survive, Dougal thought, would be to turn evidence against their own.

  A white paper meant the man would be sentenced to an existence in the colonies, however brief that might end up being.

  One by one the men reached up and dug into the hat. Their expressions, for the most part, were either blank or shadowed by confusion, though relief did wash over some of them when they plucked a white paper from the hat. The first man to pull a black paper stared at it for a moment, then clutched it to his chest. He started chewing wildly on his lower lip, but said nothing. A friend leaned in and asked him something, but the man stared distractedly at the empty yard beyond, giving only a slight shake of his head to show he’d heard what the other had said.

  The group on Dougal’s other side quietened when a black paper was pulled. The recipient was an older man, probably a man of substance in his previous life. He stared at his sentence in silence, then the deep lines on his face wilted and he began to cry silently. After all this time, after suffering through everything, now he would die. Yes, he was promised a trial. But they all knew that meant he would die.

  The beaver hat was passed along another group and Aidan waited, wide-eyed, for his turn.

  “It’s all right,” Joseph called.

  Aidan nodded back with a vague smile. “You as well, Joseph.”

  Both boys had turned seventeen sometime over their stay in Tilbury, and yet in this moment they both still seemed very young. Dougal tried to smile encouragement toward Aidan, standing thirty feet from them, but the boy glanced away. Dougal slapped Joseph on the shoulder.

  “We will be fine,” he assured him, hoping for all their sakes he was right. He peered down the line at the men, watching their expressions as they each pulled out a white slip of paper. The odds worsened with every sigh of relief. He and John stood at the back. He felt a little queasy, watching the hat come closer.

  When it was Aidan’s turn, all three watched the boy reach inside the hat. He pulled out the paper, keeping his eyes squeezed tight, but Joseph’s happy cry urged them open.

  “Ye’re fine, Aidan! White! Ye’re fine!”

  Aidan stared at the little white square with a look of amazement, as if he’d never seen anything like it before in his entire life. Then he looked up at Joseph and smiled. His expression took Dougal by surprise—he hadn’t seen that smile before. It was the kind that came from deep within, a relief that reached inside the boy’s eyes and lit them up. He found himself staring at Aidan, remembering when he could smile like that. When his brothers smiled like that as well.

  Two soldiers stood in front of Joseph now, and the first recorded his name. The other lifted the hat slightly out of reach and laughed at Joseph’s efforts. Dougal stepped up and yanked the soldier’s arm lower, giving him a glare that discouraged arguments. The soldiers were clearly in charge, but Dougal’s expression glittered with warning. Scowling slightly, the soldier lowered the hat and let Joseph reach inside.

  He was quick, dropping his hand in, whipping it back out, watching closely. A white slip of paper fluttered between his fingers and he whooped before he could stop himself. He turned toward Aidan, whose smile was huge.

  Two more men stood behind Joseph, then it was only Dougal and John. Dougal started to feel a glimmer of fear. Trying not to change expression, he let his gaze flicker toward his friend’s face. John had the same thought, for his shadowed brown eyes were focused on Dougal’s
.

  “If it should happen to be my lot,” John said, “I’ll be sorry to bid ye farewell.” Then he grinned ruefully. “Then again, I should feel somewhat the same if it were you drawing that damn black ticket.”

  “It shallna be either of us, John,” Dougal assured him. “I’m sorry for whoever it is, but I fear ye an’ I will be huntin’ bear in the colonies before too long.”

  But the black slip wasn’t pulled by either of the men in front of them. It was down to Dougal and John.

  “Together?” John suggested.

  “Aye.”

  They dipped their hands into the beaver hat and Dougal felt the back of his friend’s hand brush against his. He felt the tickle of paper against his fingertips and they pulled out the last two pieces of paper at the same time. Dougal felt a leap of relief, then a sickening plunge. John frowned at the black paper he held between his fingers. Joseph stepped up beside him and nudged his arm.

  “It’s only a trial,” he said, though every man knew the chances of John being found not guilty were extremely slim. And John wasn’t the kind of man to turn traitor.

  John swallowed, then twisted a dark smile toward his friends. “Aye. It’s only a trial. Like life, aye? An’ we die at the end o’ that, too.”

  What bothered Dougal the most, not that it mattered anymore, was that their plans for escape were so close to fruition, and John would never reap the rewards. The soldiers took him away immediately after that, clapping him in unnecessary irons, leading him to a different cell. John had joked that maybe he’d be fed better, and Dougal had nodded speechlessly as he watched his friend’s receding form limp away.

  Dougal was quiet that night, as were most of the men. They had lost seventeen of their men in one day, and not through the usual means of illness or starvation. They had stood by helplessly, watching their friends be led to their death. It was a cold feeling, one that reeked of guilt, and Dougal let it sink deep into him. Once again, as he’d known after Culloden, there was nothing he could have done, but the warrior in him craved release. Demanded revenge. Except he had nothing with which to fight.

  The boys said very little that night, though they brought Dougal an extra helping of stew they’d found somewhere. Sometimes Dougal wondered where they found the food, but tonight he didn’t bother thinking about it. The stew was cold and tasted like foul water, but he spooned it into his mouth without a word. Something hard had settled in Dougal’s chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. He stared at the wall ahead of him while he ate, unsure of what he was feeling. He wondered if it could be resignation. He’d never swallowed that bitter taste before. If that was what giving up felt like, it was colder than the stew.

  Joseph sidled up to him and hesitated before he spoke. Then his voice was so quiet Dougal almost missed the words. “We go tomorrow,” he whispered. “We canna wait to see about John. I’m sorry, Dougal. Aidan an’ I leave tomorrow, an’ we’d like for ye to come as well.”

  Dougal swallowed, then nodded slowly. “I’m wi’ ye. John’ll no’ come back.”

  Aidan sang for John that night. Sleep never came to Dougal.

  CHAPTER 7

  Beyond the Wall

  It was difficult to predict how the rain might affect their escape attempt, but it would be a factor one way or the other. No miserable mist, this. It poured in sheets from the heavens, and the prisoners were unsure whether they would be going out for their regular breath of air. But the soldiers swung open the dark, heavy doors and ushered them outside.

  Dougal raised his face to the endless gray overhead and swallowed the raindrops as they hit his cheeks and nose. He stood alone in the middle of the muddy yard, his feet like ice. The other men had avoided him all day, as if they feared he might be contagious. Catch whatever it was from Dougal MacDonnell and lose a friend. No. They left him alone.

  The rain showed no prejudice. It pelted the English soldiers as well, sending them running for cover. They were supposed to keep their eyes on the prisoners, but why bother? The Scots weren’t going anywhere. They hadn’t in months. Why would this stormy day be any different?

  The boys had moved smoothly to their accustomed space against the wall and were shifting rocks so slowly and casually Dougal wondered, when he took a moment to look over, if the job would ever be finished. But in time it was, and Aidan glanced over at him. The boy tilted his head slowly to the side in a deliberate invitation.

  Dougal felt almost weak-kneed with anticipation. He could practically feel the grass beneath his feet, a sensation he hadn’t felt in months. The blades would be cool and wet, quick with freedom.

  How would this end? If they were caught, they’d be shot or hanged. Or at least flogged until they’d prefer death. If they survived, what then? In truth he had very little idea of where they were. Somewhere in northern England, he supposed. He and the boys would find a place and hide there until the danger was past. But if they were caught . . .

  “I’m sorry ye’re no’ here, John,” he muttered, then, for the benefit of any soldier watching, feigned disgust with the rain and slumped toward the boys.

  They stood against the long stone wall, one facing the yard, one hidden from view. When Dougal approached, they didn’t say a word, didn’t nod or show any sign of having noticed him. They’d discussed it earlier, and though they’d put up a weak argument about his size and the measurements of the hole in the wall, he’d insisted they go first. He would be their shield. It would have been easier to block the view if he’d still worn the long length of his plaid, but of course that was long gone. So instead he stood, hands on his hips, facing the rest of the yard while the two boys silently removed the stones and squeezed through the opening. A low whistle informed him that they were safely through, and Dougal stepped backward, toward his escape.

  His heart thundered, and he was glad of the rain because no one could see the rivers of sweat flowing down his ruddy face. Dougal glanced around, trying to appear bored, if anything, but always scouting for danger. Three soldiers huddled nearby under an overhanging roof, standing out of the way of the cascading water, but they were talking together, paying no mind to their charges. There were two more close by, Dougal knew, but he hadn’t seen them for a few minutes. Probably hiding from the weather.

  This was the moment. No one was near, no one was looking. The other prisoners wandered around the edges of the yard, dulled to the rain and the misery of their lives. Dougal stepped back against the wall, hands behind him, and curled his fingers around the uneven line of stones. It had taken weeks of dedicated effort and many split fingernails for the boys to have accomplished this. The opening was narrow, as they’d warned. But he was sure he could manage. Slow or quick? He decided it would have to be slow. If he moved swiftly, he was sure to catch someone’s eye. If his actions were hypnotic enough, any curious onlooker would get bored and look away.

  Dougal slipped one leg through the hole in the rock. It was awkward, because the other side of the wall was lower than the yard. He held on to the wall so his body kept blocking the passage, then slowly, slowly lowered himself sideways and twisted his other leg through. At his feet, the boys crouched, piling rocks back into place with practiced ease, seeming to know exactly where each one fit. This was the trickiest part. It had to be done in a moment, so no one noticed the thin slice in the wall. That would buy them some time before the guards realised anyone had gone. While the boys worked, Dougal stared around him with disbelief.

  Green. They had spent months in nothing but gray and brown. Green was the colour of life. Now it was the colour of freedom as well.

  “Go,” Joseph whispered. “I’ll get the rest an’ follow.”

  “I’ll no’ leave ye here,” Aidan hissed.

  Joseph fixed his friend with a dark glare, forbidding him to argue. “I’ll be right there. I ken better than ye how these stones lie. Come on. Ye ken ye dinna run fast as I. Keep up wi’ Dougal an’ I’ll meet ye beyond that tree there.”

  Aidan looked terrified at
the prospect, but Dougal understood. One person was less likely to capture anyone’s attention. He grabbed Aidan’s arm and tugged him away. The land around them was mostly flat, the grass underfoot marshy from the downpour. Dougal aimed for a clump of tall grass, intending to wait for Joseph there. Aidan ran hard beside him, bare feet slapping through puddles. They had gone forty feet or so, and had just reached the hiding spot when they heard Joseph cry out. Dougal shoved Aidan hard so they both sprawled facedown on the long grass, chests heaving from the unfamiliar exercise.

  The grass, as Dougal had imagined, was wet and cold on his cheek, and it smelled . . . of home.

  Aidan squirmed under his hand. “Stay down, fool,” Dougal whispered, burying his own head as deep into the grass as he could manage.

  “Let go!” Joseph shouted. “Get yer filthy sassenach claws off—”

  A shot rang out and Aidan uttered a small, choked gasp against the ground. Dougal held the boy’s head down and slowly raised his own. He blinked away the rainwater that streamed over his forehead and tried to see.

  Five soldiers. How they’d managed to spot wee Joseph through all that rain, Dougal would never know. But they’d come in force and shot him dead. The soldiers shoved aside the weakened rock wall and climbed through one at a time. They stepped over the small, lifeless body and peered around, clearly suspicious Joseph hadn’t been alone.

  “Dinna breathe, lad,” Dougal whispered. “Else ye’ll no’ live past this moment.”

  Aidan lay still and mute beside him, and Dougal wondered if he had, in fact, stopped breathing. He kept his palm on the boy’s back, holding him down, keeping him safe. The rain beat against their backs, cold and relentless as hammer strokes. Beneath his hand he felt a short jerk and shudder, then more rolling bumps as Aidan silently grieved.