Sound of the Heart

by Genevieve Graham

  Hamish snorted. “The captain willna be pleased.”

  “Maybe no’.” He looked pointedly at Hamish. “Maybe he’ll no’ even ken this man has died if we do it quietly.”

  The men exchanged glances, silently debating their next move. Then Dougal stood and removed his jacket. He dropped it on top of the ruined chest, then leaned down to take hold of the strong copper shoulders. It would have been easier to toss him over his shoulder, but then the Indian’s blood would have painted Dougal’s shirt. John took the man’s feet and the others moved in, both to help lift the dead weight and to shield them from view. While the bulk of the camp was busy tending to their wounded, Dougal and the others carried the body into the woods. They brought him to a low-lying area they hadn’t visited before, crowded with birch that glowed in the night, and propped him up against a tree for his friends to find.

  Hamish grunted. “Aye, well, I reckon this is better than if the others found him wi’ no hair.”

  “Aye, they’re plenty vexed as it is. They dinna need more cause.”

  The small group turned back toward their camp, saying nothing more. A damp chill gripped the air as the sky cleared, unveiling the stars. Dougal shrugged back into his jacket and noted vaguely that the dead Indian’s body had fed almost no warmth into the wool. Despite the coat, Dougal shivered.

  In the end, four Indians were killed, including John’s, so the official count was three. Two soldiers had been injured, one of them seriously. He would be sent to the hospital in the morning, where he would be fed, tended, and charged two shillings per day.

  With all the excitement, no one returned to sleep, though it could have been no later than three or four o’clock. Dougal wandered away from the others, picking his way along a rough trail until he could see a small stream twinkling under the moon. Ever since he’d been a wee lad, he’d gone to water when he needed to escape, to think, to renew his spirit. He needed water almost as much as he needed air to breathe. Now he cupped his hands and splashed his face, gasping at the welcome shock of it. He did it twice more, then sat back on the shore, stretching his long legs before him and leaning against the rigid bark of an oak. He stared at the silver water racing past and wiggled his bare toes. Of the few things Dougal treasured at the end of the day, taking off his shoes was one of his favourites.

  The river sounded loud from where he rested, loud and soothing, blocking out the rest of the world. Dougal closed his eyes and imagined standing in rushing water to his waist, feeling it push and pull against his body.

  “Who are you?” he asked silently.

  Who was it that knew his name? Who knew exactly when to call for him? Why did the sound send blood roaring through him? Questions pulsed in his mind, but he kept them to the simplest. He had always known the silent thoughts he heard in others’ minds were real. But this voice was something he didn’t understand.

  “Why do ye call to me?”

  There was no answer, but Dougal hadn’t expected one. He breathed deeply, letting his mind drift, not quite sleeping, not quite awake. It was at this stage that his mind usually played with him, bringing him the voices of his loved ones, intriguing him with thoughts from strangers. But not tonight. Tonight the steady beating of his heart provided rhythm beneath the melody of the stream, and nothing else. The silence felt warm. It felt welcome, like an embrace.

  And to Dougal’s mind, it brought safety, reassurance. He imagined his mother, her arms wrapped protectively around her eldest son while he tried so hard to be brave, to be the man he needed to grow into. His mind brought him the bittersweet images of his father, Andrew, Ciaran, and he almost felt the heat of their presence as they stood by him, their sturdy hands pressed against his arms and back as if to share once again the lives the English had stolen from them.

  Leaves shimmered overhead, shushing like an unexpected ripple in the stream, and shifting his thoughts to another dreamed reunion. He thought of Glenna. Of how her arms slipped around his chest, pulling him toward her so they pressed together, their hearts almost touching through the welcoming pillow of her breasts. Of how he would sink his weight onto her, taste her neck, inhale the sweet fragrance that was hers alone, and feel as if he’d come home. God, how he longed for those arms, for that neck, for the balm of her whispers.

  The embrace he felt in the air, if it were possible, tightened. Glenna held him fast, squeezing tears from his eyes. If he could have, Dougal would have disappeared willingly into the fibres of the invisible blanket, let the imagined limbs of all his lost ones carry him wherever they desired. The silence brought peace. The silence brought love.

  “Dougal.”

  The word was a breath, a whisper. It vanished before he could trap it, slipping through his thoughts like a curling ribbon of smoke, and Dougal was left alone. The embrace opened, the spell released him, and the night air stole the warmth he had cherished.

  CHAPTER 28

  Stories Told Blindly

  It was peculiar, Dougal reflected for the thousandth time, how familiar and yet how strange this army was to him. The Highlanders, as always, were strong and proud, willing to follow orders that sent them through the sunken quagmires of the Carolinas, north into the frozen wilderness of Pennyslvania, New York, and farther still.

  On one hand, their dedication reminded him of how the clans had marched stubbornly through the Highlands, defending their lands, their traditions, and the ancient name of Stuart.

  On the other hand, the shiny buttons that adorned Dougal’s bright red jacket and the leather shoes that wrapped his feet prevented his feeling entirely a part of this army. The organised marches, when the roads were wide enough to accommodate them, were foreign; the barked orders lacked the passion and pride that had always been projected by the clan chiefs. It never felt right to Dougal, fighting for the English.

  He had come to accept it was better than rotting within the icy confines of a prison cell or hanging from the end of a rope. That didn’t mean he didn’t hate himself for it. Did being here make him a coward? Perhaps. A realist? More probably. There was nothing he could do to change what he’d become. He heard his bitterness in the sharp lash of his tongue when he struck out at one of the others, and felt self-hatred hardening him from the outside in.

  But somewhere deep inside, Dougal’s heart still beat as it always had. He dreamed of freedom, of laughter, of Glenna. And Dougal clung to that desperate pulse.

  General John Forbes led the men to Pennsylvania, toward Fort Duquesne. Positioned at the mouth of the Ohio River, Duquesne was a major shipping port with a trading store that did a good business with the French and the Indians. Despite repeated attacks and hundreds of lost soldiers, the English had been unable to win it from the French. Forbes’s orders were to change the status quo.

  “Nothin’ but swamp,” Dougal muttered to John, yanking his foot from a sucking clump of grass.

  “Aye, but the king feels it should be our swamp.”

  The mud thickened and crackled underfoot as time crawled toward November. The men pulled their hose almost to their knees and covered their faces with their plaids when the wind set in. When they moved against Fort Duquesne this time, the French surprised them by lighting explosives in the fort’s powder magazine. The explosion destroyed the entire eastern wall, the barracks, and a stable. Poor reward for the British troops. But the men made the best of the situation, celebrating around the roaring flames while they warmed their bodies and cooked their suppers.

  It was natural, Dougal supposed, that the troops would divide into small groups of like-minded men. He and John, for example, spent most of their time with the other grenadiers, the larger, more dangerous men, since they had the most in common in terms of their work. There were others he spoke with, others he had nothing to do with, and others he purposefully ignored. The last group was made up mostly of disgruntled soldiers, men who carried a permanent snarl and muttered curses that worsened over time. One of those was Hamish, the man who, so long ago, had objected to John’s
proposal to return the Indian he had slain to the woods for his kin to discover. Dougal caught the glares Hamish had shot at John and was surprised by their intensity. More and more he noticed Hamish pulling others aside, talking in private, then glancing back at John as if he intended nothing less than murder.

  “Wee Hamish doesna seem overly fond of ye, does he?” Dougal asked John one day as they sliced through heavy growth, cutting a new road for the army to follow.

  John wiped his arm across his face and shrugged. “So I’ve seen. I’ve no idea why, do you?”

  “Shall we ask?”

  John shrugged again, always the easy fellow. “It wouldna hurt to know what it is I’ve done to piss him off.”

  But they didn’t have to bring up the subject, because Hamish took things a step further that night. John and Dougal had taken their meals aside, lighting a small fire separate from the others. They were worn out from the heavy work that day, since it had been the grenadiers’ turn to work on the road, and both men were more content in their own quiet company.

  “Too good for the likes of us, are ye?” came Hamish’s voice when he tracked them down.

  Dougal’s smile quirked when he looked at John, who rolled his eyes.

  “Go away, Hamish,” Dougal muttered, chewing a piece of meat, still hot off the fire.

  “Oh, that’s it, is it? The two of ye, so high an’ mighty, so brave an’ powerful, doin’ as ye please.”

  John blinked. “What in God’s name are ye talkin’ about?”

  “Oh, like ye dinna already ken that. How the two of ye, an’ the rest of the damn grenadiers, ye march around like gods, all full o’ mighty, tellin’ the rest of us what to do.”

  John and Dougal exchanged a puzzled glance. “What is it we’re supposed to have said?” Dougal asked.

  Hamish pointed an angry finger at Dougal. “Dinna try to corner me, MacDonnell. Ye’re just as bad as this one. Well, I’m tired of it.”

  “Of what?” they asked in unison.

  Hamish narrowed his glare, aiming the worst of it at John. “Ye’re a stuck-up arse wi’ yer witty tongue an’ yer judgin’ eyes on the rest of us, makin’ sure we do as we’re bid. We’re no’ here for ye to laugh at, are we, Mr. Wallace? Ye wi’ yer—”

  Sensing John’s rising ire, which rose slowly at the best of times, Dougal stood up before John could. He stepped in Hamish’s face and frowned down at him. “What is wrong wi’ ye, Hamish? John’s done nothin’, an’ you—”

  “And you! Ye think ye can stand before me, yerself a murderer an’ all, an’—”

  Dougal couldn’t prevent the quick reflex that shoved Hamish away. He was tired, he was sick of the little man’s bickering and whining, and he was incensed that his personal history was being announced in front of everyone else. When Hamish stumbled, Dougal was there, glaring down, eyeing him as he scuttled backward.

  And still the words spewed from Hamish’s mouth. “Ye see? There ye go again, throwin’ around yer unnatural size, usin’ braw to try an’ intimidate me, but I—”

  “Do ye have no idea when to stop?” John demanded, standing beside Dougal. “Come on, man. None of us here wants to fight, do we? I ken I don’t, an’ neither does he,” he said, making a point of restraining Dougal’s arm.

  Dougal seethed. Despite John’s attempt to defuse the situation, he would have been more than happy to leap into the fray. His muscles, wasted too long on building roads, and hefting weapons and supplies, were primed to go. His fists bunched and he raised them, savouring the power that swelled through him.

  John must have noticed, for he intervened, shifting his bulk between the two men. “None of us is lookin’ for charges to be laid against us for a needless fight. We’re here to do a job, Hamish. If ye dinna like the two of us, that’s too bad—an’ rather poor judgement. We’re no’ bad fellows if ye take the time to know us. But make no mistake. We’re here for the army, no’ to make friends. We work together, an’ no one says we must enjoy that. Ye go yer way, we’ll go ours. Never ye mind what we do or say.”

  Hamish backed up farther, then scrambled to his feet, still glaring. “I’ll no’ forget this, MacDonnell. Do ye hear? Ye dinna shove a man before his friends an’ walk away from it.”

  God, Dougal wanted to jump on him, throttle some sense into the idiot, but John wisely stayed between the two of them. Hamish walked backward a few more steps, watching the two men as if he were memorising their features, then turned and headed back to the main fire. Dougal and John watched him go, their expressions still confused.

  “Did I miss somethin’?” John asked.

  Dougal shrugged and scratched his head. “I’ve no idea. But I think we should step around the man for now. He seems a bit mad.”

  “He does at that.” John shook his head as if to clear it, then grinned. “Well, that was inconvenient. I hope my dinner’s no’ cold.”

  The next few days passed without event, though Hamish never missed an opportunity to hiss a warning, or make some kind of rude gesture. When he lost his mind one night over drink, he was punished for it, and afterward told everyone repeatedly it was Dougal’s fault, though Dougal had been nowhere near. Fortunately, the men who had shared Hamish’s company of late had also sensed a change in the man’s demeanour, and had started to drift away, leaving Hamish to stew in his own juices.

  The days were too busy to be spent worrying about petty disagreements, and usually the nights were too short, stolen by deep sleep. Life went on with the army, marching into one mission after another, whether it was helping to keep the peace between neighbouring Indian tribes and white settlers, or planning major raids against the French. After the devastation at Fort Duquesne, they built a new fort, bigger than the last. Then they were ordered farther north, into the wilds of New York, where they eventually chased the French from Fort Ticonderoga. Again, they built another fort.

  Dougal was a man conflicted. Though he fought and worked with indefatigable strength, everything they did felt relatively meaningless to him. The misery of marching, chopping, hunting, and eventually curling gratefully into damp, rough blankets at night seemed endless. None of it made any sense. It was his duty, and as was his way, he acted beyond what was expected of him. He led the men with a bravado he didn’t feel.

  And every time they met up with anyone, he asked about Glenna.

  When the guns roared, something in his mind hardened, and he heard nothing but commands, saw only targets. His aim was always perfect, his intuition without flaw. The others followed, staying relatively safe in his wake. But in his heart he became more defeated by the day. Instead of celebrating victories, he blamed himself for any man lost, adding to the heavy toll that already weighed down his spirit. His family, his woman, now his men.

  Ironically, Dougal maintained his sanity by listening to the voices in his head that no one else could hear. That fact would have, more than likely, labeled him as insane among other folk. But Dougal held on to those voices. When he heard his family, nothing else mattered.

  On winter nights, after days spent plodding through the wilderness, Dougal huddled with other frozen Scots and shivered by the tiny stove in their barracks. Though he listened and told stories, laughing and commiserating in turn, his mind and heart were always somewhere else. His cheeks often burned with frostbite and his mittened hands occasionally lost all feeling, but Dougal was warmed by Glenna’s song in his ear, never there, always present. When he could face no more blood, yet was forced to polish his musket for another day of slaughter, he heard his brothers’ teasing laughter.

  Men died through the winter. Scotland’s winters had been hard, but their chill had somehow felt more manageable. Or perhaps it was just that when the ice and snow got too bad, he could come back inside, sit by the fire with Glenna, and create their own warmth. Here, far from the familiar mountains of home, the men fought the cold with all they could, but their adversary always seemed better armed. It claimed casualties and left bodies in its wake, bodies that would have to w
ait for the softer spring earth before they could be buried.

  If the winter didn’t kill men, it changed them. Their characters, already hardened by fighting years of impossible battles, grew brittle in the cold, like shells around an egg. Cracks began in some, lengthening over time. When the cracks became unmanageable, the shell fell completely apart. Such was Hamish’s fate. Dougal watched the man’s irrational hatred, now deeply rooted in his disturbed soul, grow thick and inflexible as an ancient oak. Hamish was locked away repeatedly, put in solitary confinement to try and break him of his hysterical ravings, but nothing helped. He became useless as a soldier, his mind too busy spouting nonsense to concentrate on the task at hand. He was hauled up in front of a committee of senior officers and the decision was made to release him from the army. When they reached the next town, Hamish was handed over to the local officials and confined to a prison cell.

  The army continued without him, growing slimmer by the week as men died or deserted, defeated by the cold. They were back in Virginia when the season finally passed and green began sprouting around them, encouraging the men to emerge from woolen cocoons and breathe in optimism. Spring brought more than burials. It brought hunting and green leaves and warmth on better days. It was more pleasant marching and training when one wasn’t forced to trek through crunching drifts of snow, feeling the cut of the wind as it sliced unprotected skin. Spring offered hope, though what hope a soldier could find, Dougal wasn’t sure. Hope they would survive? Hope they would go home soon? Hope to die and forget all this?

  There were times, like now, when nothing demanded his attention. Occasionally he welcomed the rest. But idleness summoned the voices Dougal sometimes couldn’t bear to hear. Now he sat, leaning heavily against the wall, staring between his knees. He watched an early spring beetle meander between his feet, swaying and pausing as if whisky had gotten the best of him.

  “Where are ye, Glenna?” he asked softly.