“I do.”
“It got worse by the minute, that damn foot. Hurt like hell. By some gift of God, I was graced wi’ a judge none so keen to hang me. A fine gentleman. I was let off with a sound thrashing that had me abed for three days, an’ when I woke, the doctor was tendin’ my foot as well. He was better than most, I suppose, for I’ve barely a limp anymore.”
“No, ye march wi’ the best.”
“Pah!” John exclaimed. “I march better than they do. An’ I shoot a damn sight better than ye do, MacDonnell.”
“No’ for long,” Dougal assured him, then made good on that by pushing himself harder than ever so he could match John’s prowess.
As a result, the two won the attention of their lieutenant, Alexander Campbell, who recommended them to the posts of grenadiers. Only the biggest and strongest of the warriors were promoted to this level. Along with regular musketry, they trained with grenades and took part in specialised assault missions, combining stealth with strength.
Dougal’s life, though routine, was driven by an urgency he couldn’t control. He felt helpless, stuck in training while Glenna suffered somewhere. Or at least he hoped she was still alive. As if it might help him get to her sooner, he bullied the rest of the men, demanding they work harder, accomplish more despite their grumblings. It seemed the only way to make himself useful.
April brought a new sense of excitement to the fort. The troops marched to Greenock to board one of the huge man-of-war ships bobbing at the docks, then headed to Ireland. There they were to meet with Fraser’s Highlanders, a company similar to their own but headed farther north.
Mist shimmered on the men’s tartans as they marched and the spring chill squeezed through the layers until their skin stuck to the wool. It would be colder still on board, Dougal knew. Cold and dank and miserable. God, he hated boats. As much as he loved to swim, he couldn’t abide the claustrophobic feeling he got while he was aboard what he considered to be a floating coffin. It didn’t matter that when they travelled, the sea and air around them would be infinite. He still felt trapped.
Memories of another ship didn’t help. Dougal’s step faltered when the triple masts poked out of the fog, their sails folded neatly beneath. His eyes took in the activity on board, the shining deck, and the hatch doors leading to the unknown. Except he knew the unknown. Knew the mouldy-paneled walls that separated the wretched inhabitants of the hold from the depths of the sea, remembered the smear of it against his fingers when he tried to catch his balance. It wasn’t cannon or muskets, nor was it the shrieking bloodiness of battlefields that froze Dougal’s blood. As he looked into the murky waves of the harbour, he fought back terror at the mere idea of stepping back inside a ship.
“It’s no’ the same,” John said wryly, seeing Dougal’s ashen complexion when they reached the docks. “Ye canna smell them from here, as ye could the others.”
Dougal’s nostrils flared at the memory. “I’ll recall that stink for the rest o’ my days.” He circled his shoulders, easing the tension in his back. “Aye, ye’re right. An’ this is only a short trip.”
“An’ we’ll no’ be shoved into the bowels of the ship, either.”
Dougal’s teeth clenched involuntarily, but John was right. The hold was reserved for supplies this time, for food, weapons, and extra sails, among other things. This time the men hung in hammocks in the Lower Deck, and swung to sleep between the imposing ranks of thirty-two-pounder cannons.
They crossed the channel and trained for two months in Ireland. It wasn’t yet the colonies, but at least it was some sort of change, progress. There they exercised alongside Fraser’s Highlanders. They were all Scots, wearing the English version of Highlander dress, marching in ordered English rows, and following commands issued by former enemies. It was almost as if they were a different people altogether. But in the evenings coats were shed, bare toes were warmed by fires, and the air hummed with stories of home in the Scottish Highlands.
Over time Dougal settled into an uneasy truce with the reality of who was in charge of this army. He barely managed to contain a sneer when ordered by a distinctly English accent, but he did what was required so he could hunt for Glenna.
Then it was time to go. Dougal felt the tension in the air, heard the thoughts of men who looked forward to adventure, or at least to a break in the monotonous training. His mind also filled with other men’s anxiety and their fear that they might never return.
But over it all, or rather bubbling beneath it, was the knowledge that Dougal was finally getting closer to Glenna. He had no idea where in the colonies she might be, and he knew it was a vast land. He had no idea if he would ever find her at all. But just knowing he would be on the right side of the Atlantic energised him, helped him past his fear of yet another ship.
On the first of July they boarded their floating barracks and headed toward the colonies. Despite the rolling floor and salt-thick air, Dougal was relieved. He was among the majority who had tired of training. He craved the opportunity to test his newly developed skills in the colonies. The ships, ten in all, were escorted by three Royal Navy ships: The Falkland, The Enterprise, and The Stork, and twenty supply ships followed. Fraser’s Highlanders sailed alongside, but at one point Dougal’s ship turned toward the Charleston harbour, while the other battalion and half the supply ships continued north to Halifax.
The voyage took eight weeks, but it wasn’t much of a hardship. The late summer weather was calm, other than two or three wicked storms that threatened to capsize some of the smaller ships. Most of the men were in high spirits throughout the journey, and there were many nights during which songs and stories floated up into a clear, star-filled sky.
CHAPTER 25
The Colonies
Charleston’s port was never quiet, but when the soldiers and their supplies landed and threw their heavy ropes across, tying onto huge metal cleats, the docks swarmed like a disturbed anthill. The folk of the city crowded as close as they could, peddling wares, gawking at the men now crossing the gangplank. The soldiers, having been surrounded by relative quiet for the eight weeks aboard ship, were taken aback at first, but Dougal’s blood raced at the thought of dry land. He could hardly wait to join the noise. Glenna, he thought. I’m here, Glenna.
There was jostling going on behind him, he assumed, but the grenadiers were put at the head of the line, as they would be put at the head of the troops when the shooting began. John gallantly gestured then followed Dougal as he stepped onto the gangplank. The ocean beneath the platform foamed and splattered against the dock, as if the black depths celebrated their arrival. The air, humid but warm, lifted the coal black hair from his brow and dropped it gently back, settling like a cushion against his skin after the cutting wind of the ship.
Off to the side Dougal saw a well-rounded, red-haired woman whose flashing dark eyes focused on him. He wiggled his eyebrows and gave her a short bow before glancing to the other side.
“Very bonny,” John commented from behind him.
“Oh aye, but after two months alone wi’ these lads, I imagine anythin’ in a gown might seem that way.”
John pounded him on the shoulder. “Ye’re no gentleman, Mr. MacDonnell.”
“I am so. She didna hear me at all. An’ look. I canna please them all.” He lifted his chin so John saw another woman on the other side of the plank, ebony hair spilling over a well-displayed pair of breasts, red lips still puckered after she’d blown a kiss in their direction.
“I think that one’s for me, sir.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. See that?”
The woman wiggled her fingers in their general direction, then cupped her hands under her breasts, showing off her wares. Both men burst out laughing and she grinned.
“Look there,” John said, rubbing at his beard. “That tavern wi’ the flag out front. ’Tis callin’ my name. Can ye hear it?”
Dougal grinned. “Ah, I do. Let’s go have a well-earned dram, my friend.”
The gangplank sloped down toward the dock and Dougal took long steps, letting gravity pull him toward the bustling crowd. The port was crowded with buildings, but in the background, late summer leaves glistened in welcome, and Dougal sensed this might be a good place to be. Two other grenadiers walked before him, thumbs stuck in their belts as they happily stepped foot on dry land. Dougal followed, grinning when he felt the dirt crunch beneath his feet.
“Dougal.”
At the whispered sound his knees almost buckled and he felt dizzy, as if the impact of the voice had spun him around, then dropped him. As if the ground beneath him rolled. His skin practically vibrated, and for a moment he couldn’t focus on anything, seeing only the smeared colours of the town’s chaos.
“MacDonnell?” John grabbed the back of Dougal’s arms, jerking him into the present. “Christ, man, have ye lost yer land legs already?”
Dougal struggled to regain his feet, shaking his head as if to rid it of the noise within. He put his fingers to his temples and breathed deeply, though the stink of the port made that somewhat unpleasant. He shrugged out of John’s grasp.
“I’m fine,” he told his friend, wondering if he truly were.
What was that voice? Who? And why now? He listened hard, but there were no more utterings, nothing strange in the sounds around him now. Just people calling out, dogs barking, doors slamming, bridles ringing cheerily as horses passed. Had he really heard it? Was there anyone there?
“I need a drink is all,” he said.
The tavern filled quickly with soldiers celebrating their arrival. The volume rose, washing away the haunting memory of the voice. He was back in the world of the living, in the midst of drinking, singing, cursing, laughing men, and as was his wont, it wasn’t long before Dougal was the centre of it all. The stories he had told the prisoners so long before came bubbling back to the surface, taken up by John whenever Dougal needed a break.
And when the stories wound down, Dougal worked his way around the room, speaking with strangers, asking if they’d seen a small blond slave woman, an angel called Glenna. No one could offer anything.
Ever since Dougal had first discovered too much alcohol limited his fighting capabilities, he had avoided overdoing it. He had never been a heavy drinker to begin with, and, being such a big man, a few drinks weren’t enough to slow him down, but he knew his limit. John was not as disciplined. Dougal watched his friend’s eyes start to shine after three quickly swallowed drinks, noticed that through the ginger beard, John’s cheeks flushed as he downed a couple more. He started to sing, joining in when others danced a jig along with a fiddler’s music.
When John threw back his head and laughed at something he’d heard, the movement threw off his balance, and he tripped backward until he ran into Dougal’s table. He turned slowly, comically, giving Dougal a wide, amiable grin, then slammed both palms onto the table.
“My friend,” he said, slipping over the words. “Are ye no’ a dancer? I imagine ye’d do a fine jig, wi’ those long gams o’ yers an’ all.”
The sweet, burning scent of rum dominated John’s words, as if he’d collected the air of the tavern, syphoned it through a funnel, and now poured it over Dougal’s face.
Dougal grinned. “Will ye sit awhile, John? Maybe until the floor stops movin’ beneath yer feet? Even the best o’ dancers need to rest at times.”
John pondered the suggestion, his eyes sliding in and out of focus. His smile softened into the loose-lipped grimace of an imbecile, then he nodded and plopped down beside Dougal. They sat at a table along with three other grenadiers, enjoying the company of some of Charleston’s finest ladies. These were not like the women back home, whose sweet flirtations and harmless suggestions felt like a game. The women here were bold, used to selling what others desired, and entirely comfortable with draping their scantily clad bodies over soldiers’ laps.
They alternated between the men’s attentions, teasing one, then moving to the next as if waiting for the bids to begin. A tall, slant-eyed brunette with what Dougal considered an adorable pout appeared to claim him, refusing to budge when the women shifted places again. She distracted him from the others at the table, monopolising him with questions, batting her lashes in a well-practiced manner. She introduced herself as Clara and her friend as Rose.
“You’re all from Scotland? Ooh. That’s a wild place, ain’t it?” she asked, stretching the word “wild” into one long, sensual syllable.
He shrugged. “I’ve no idea compared to here. Maybe it is.”
“Did you come here to kill off the Frenchies?”
“Aye, that’s the plan,” he replied, chuckling when her fingertips tickled under his chin.
She leaned forward and burrowed her lips against his hair, tethered behind his neck into a windblown club. Her warm breath tickled his ear. “I tell you what, soldier. I sure could use a night with a big man like you,” she murmured, just loud enough for Dougal to hear over the crowd.
Dougal grinned. “Oh, ye could, could ye?”
She sat straighter on his lap and smiled, her eyes half-closed at the idea. How long had it been since Glenna had disappeared? Since she had last regarded him with an expression similar to this one? Six months maybe? Dougal studied the woman, trying to compare the smooth line of her lips to the ones he had kissed so often. He laid his hand against her cheek and caressed the soft skin with his thumb.
“Ye’re a bonny thing, Clara,” he told her. “But I’m a married man.”
The woman popped her pout back into place. “And where’s she? I don’t see her here. Tell you what, if she’s any kind of good woman, she’d want you to be kept happy while you’re out here fighting for our country, don’t you think? It’s a man’s God given right is what it is.”
Dougal looked in the woman’s painted face, saw the weary lines around her eyes, and prayed to God that Glenna hadn’t been forced into this kind of slavery. He knew it was possible. Many of the women here worked because they chose the life. Others had no choice.
“Clara,” he said quietly, praying she would give him the answer he sought. “Ye dinna ken a wee golden-haired lassie named Glenna, do ye? She’d have come a-ship from Scotland a few months ago.”
“I know a Glenna, sure, but she ain’t fair, and that’s a fact. The Glenna I know is darker than you even.”
Relief tingled in his chest, though he had no right to it. So this one prostitute didn’t know Glenna. That meant nothing. But it was a start.
Across the table from Dougal, John half slumped in his chair with Rose perched on his knee. Her legs were propped on John’s lap, bare skin clearly visible from her narrow ankles to halfway up the creamy white of her thighs. John’s hand rested just above her knee, his dark fingers making slight depressions in her flesh. His grip could have been desire, Dougal thought, or it could have been that he was simply trying to maintain his balance through a cloud of alcohol.
Rose, sensing Dougal’s gaze, winked at him while she squeezed John’s drooping face against her bosom. There was no mistaking her intentions. No spring lambs, these two. She wasn’t pretty, Dougal thought, though she still had most of her teeth. Her blond hair was nothing like the shining white of Glenna’s locks and she was tall enough that she would have dwarfed Glenna. The thought of her petite form came clearly to his mind, and he swallowed grief that tasted like bile.
“Oh, aye, we’re off to war on the morrow,” John declared, his words gently slurred. His expression was so sombre Dougal was tempted to laugh. “’Twould be such a kindness if ye were to care for me this eve.”
“Your friend seems to be stayin’,” Clara said, raising her carefully painted eyebrows with suggestion.
“So he does,” Dougal replied, watching John nuzzle into Rose’s neck.
“Rose lives real near me. Maybe we should take the two of them home, make sure they make it all right, you know?” She blinked prettily over big brown eyes. “These streets can be dangerous for a lady on her own.”
Dougal s
quinted at her, fighting the desire to feel a woman beneath and around him. Clara’s hands were soft but firm as they massaged his shoulders, then caressed his linen-clad arms. The need for release was more than simply physical, yet Dougal couldn’t imagine following through. Memories flooded his thoughts, images of Glenna’s soft curl of hair on his pillow, the crease in her brow and slightly parted lips when they were deep in their lovemaking. Her voice came as clearly to him as it always did, reminding him that she loved him, that she loved only him. And he knew that he could never love another woman.
“No’ tonight, my dear,” he said.
She stood and swept his hand away, uttering “Pah!” with thinly veiled disgust. After one last hopeful glance, she headed off to the bar and other potential prey.
That was when the door to the tavern swung open, ushering in a warm draft that temporarily cut through the haze of smoke. The volume in the room dropped, and Dougal sat up straighter to see who had come in. He recognised their captain’s booming voice at once and watched the short, stocky man stride around tables, growling at his men as he always did.
“Get off yer ass, ye louse-covered sod. Else ye’ll be on the receivin’ end o’ my boot.”
Dougal kicked John under the table but got no response out of the dozing man. He kicked him again, harder. John sat up with a splutter, blinking and trying to focus.
“Wh-what’s this, MacDonnell?” he demanded.
Dougal nodded toward another table nearby. “Captain’s on his way, John. Ye’d best drop yer plans for this eve.”
John looked from the approaching captain to Rose, then tilted his head. His smile, which had been rich with alcohol and anticipation, melted into a childish sulk. Rose rolled her eyes and scowled at Dougal, as if it were his fault. Dougal, quietly relieved he wouldn’t have to dig his friend out from some awkward situation later on, shrugged and stood to go. Rose left to join Clara, who was already chatting with likelier customers.
Sound of the Heart Page 17
