MacLeod laughed again. Danny, after asking the whereabouts of the jakes, excused himself to make use of it. He paused on the way out to steal another long look at the portrait above the bar.
After he left, MacLeod poured more champagne for the two of them. Danny’s glass sat, still half-full. Duncan hesitated.
“The lad’s not much of a drinker, at least not these days,” Fitz said.
“You’ve known him long, then?” MacLeod asked.
Well, Fitz thought, there was a long and a short answer to that question. And since the hour was late, he’d give out the short.
“We met in New Orleans about five years past. I was visiting a friend in an—establishment, in a part of the city where the gentry seldom go.” He drank a swallow of the champagne. “I had a drop or two—though nothing as fine as this—and I got into a rather violent disagreement with another patron of the place. A much larger patron.”
“One of us?”
“No, the brute carried no sword. But he did carry a nasty short club, studded with nails. And I was by way of getting the worst of it when Danny stepped in. He was working at the place as what a colorful fellow I met in Philadelphia called hired muscle.” He paused, noting a fleeting look on MacLeod’s face.
“Make no mistake, Highlander. The lad is on the small side, but he is strong and quick. He kept his head for quite a few years, pretty much on his own. Taught himself to use a sword, practiced by himself, faced a few Challenges. And I’ve taught him a thing or three since we met.”
“Head-butting?” Duncan asked, innocently.
Fitz ignored him. “As I was saying, Danny put himself between the large fellow and me, at some risk to his own person.”
“But he must have known what you are—that you weren’t really in any grave danger.”
“Of death, not. Of damage, oh my yes! So he stopped the fight, and got me back to my lodging. And lost his job over it, since the large gentleman was a regular customer, and I was not. And his bed, which was in the establishment.” Fitz shrugged. “I owed him then, a meal at least. And a few lessons, to add some finesse to his swordwork. And a bit of advice about improving his position in the world.”
“So you’ve been traveling together then—what—five years, you said?”
Fitz nodded. For tonight at least, he hoped that MacLeod would settle for the basics. For Fitz, man of words that he was, was not certain that he could find the exact words to tell his friend how he surprised himself when he had realized that he had—with no intention to do so—become Danny O’Donal’s teacher.
Danny’s return saved him the need to give the Highlander further details. Duncan then left himself, to attend to his own needs. The young Immortal did not immediately rejoin Fitzcairn. He roamed the room, running his fingers over polished wood, green felt, and brass railings. The place was spotless except for their table, cleaned after closing every night by instructions of the owner.
“When shall you ask him, Hugh?” the young man questioned. “Are you still thinking he’ll agree? I’d wonder at that. To my mind, this seems a good place to be.”
Fitz shifted in his chair; his pipe was out again. He found a match in his vest pocket, carefully played the flame over the bowl, and drew in deeply, as the tobacco glowed once more.
Of course Danny would think that the Queen of Spades was a good place to be. A lot of men, mortal or not, would find little to object to in living in a thriving city. Living well, judging by Duncan’s clothes and the thickness of the stack of banknotes in his money clip, living with a woman as beautiful and successful and wealthy as Amanda.
But Duncan MacLeod was Hugh Fitzcairn’s oldest friend, and Immortals measured friendships in centuries. Fitz knew that the Immortality that he savored for all the possibilities that it offered him—an attitude he was attempting to share with young Danny O’Donal—sometimes weighed on Duncan. The Highlander was prone to introspective musings, periods when his sense of honor and duty drained his life of joy.
Hugh Fitzcairn was an honorable man, as honorable as any Englishman ever born could be, Duncan would say. And if he took on a responsibility, he fulfilled it. But for him, Immortality was not about the Game, though he had fought and taken heads when he had to. Hugh did want to live forever—but he didn’t actually expect to.
No, Fitzcairn thought, as fragrant smoke curled from his pipe, for him Immortality was an adventure. The extra time that he and his kind were given was to be used, was to be filled with new experiences, with exploring all the places on the earth that a simple English boy—called Hugh by the farmer’s wife who found him in a rock-strewn field—would never have known existed, had he not died, struck down by a jealous husband, his body dumped into a storm-swollen river where he drowned, water filling his aching lungs, as darkness closed around him. Until, who knew how long after, far downstream, he sputtered back to life, and was pulled from the waters by a member of the King’s Guard named Henry Fitzmartin. So he lived again, lived to become—to learn to become—the Immortal Hugh Fitzcairn.
Over the last few hours, Fitz had watched MacLeod closely, and listened to the words beneath the words. The Highlander was feeling restless. He was thinking too much. About his friend Alec Hill. About a woman named Sarah he’d known before he came to San Francisco. Something had happened between them that MacLeod wasn’t easy with. He was thinking about his relationship with Amanda and his life here with her. It was as plain as could be. As his oldest friend, it was his obligation to save Duncan from himself. The man was in desperate need of a change, of a new experience, of—an adventure. Hugh Fitzcairn, at your service! he thought.
“Danny, boy, fetch a fresh lamp. The light is almost gone. And MacLeod”—he called to his friend, who had just reentered the saloon—“come here now. I’ve something to show you.”
Danny brought the lamp, and Fitz cleared a space on the table, moving the brass ashtray and several glasses aside. The three men sat once more, as Fitz reached into the inside breast pocket of the jacket that hung on the chair behind him. He drew out a small leather pouch. Opening the drawstrings, he spilled the contents into the empty space before them.
Duncan whistled softly. “All that glitters …” he said.
“Actually, laddie, it is gold in this case.” Fitz fleetingly thought of the two illiterate swordsmen they had been when they first met. Now they could quote one of Will Shakespeare’s plays with ease.
The five nuggets, each about the size of the last joint in a man’s thumb, did actually glitter in the light of the fresh lamp.
Fitz nudged one to the side with his pipe stem. “This is for our passage. We’d take ship from here to Seattle, and then another from there to Alaska.”
A second.
“And this for lodging, and such, when we arrive. There are hotels there, I’ve heard, as fancy as any in this city. And places where a man can find entertainment, of all shapes and sizes.”
A third and fourth.
“These for outfitting, gear. Food. A guide, I would think. There’ll be those already there who will know what we need.”
“And the last”—he picked up the nugget and held it between his thumb and forefinger—“for luck. One—what is it the kiddies say at birthdays?—one to grow on. There’s many more like this there, just lying around, there for the taking, I’ve heard.”
Duncan sat silent. Fitz watched him closely. Danny fidgeted, reached out to touch one of the nuggets, and drew back, as though it were somehow dangerous to handle.
Finally, the Highlander began fumbling at his watch pocket.
“MacLeod, ye thickheaded Scot,” Fitz grumbled, “it’s not the time to check the time.” He tossed the fifth nugget back on the table.
“That would be two to grow on,” Duncan stated as he withdrew a sixth nugget and tossed it on the table.
Danny gasped in surprise, as Fitzcairn, blue eyes sparkling, threw his head back and laughed aloud.
“A gift from the lady in white?” he guessed.
&nb
sp; Duncan smiled. “After the Excelsior docked, this place was packed with men just come down from the north, with their suitcases full of gold. More than a few nuggets were gambled away that night. Amanda gave this one to me to work into a watch fob. But I guess it will be put to a different use now.”
“So, you’ll join us then, Highlander?”
“I’m thinking that I might regret this after a cup or two of coffee, but, yes, I’ll join you.”
Fitzcairn whooped with delight. He rose, grabbed a half-full bottle of champagne, long since gone flat, and a glass.
“Bring glasses, lads, and follow me.”
Duncan and Danny trailed after the capering figure who, golden curls flying, danced across the Queen of Spades, down the stairs, and out the front door.
The sky was not yet light, but that gray that comes before the glow of the dawn. Fitz took a minute to get his bearings, then filled their glasses to overflowing, laughing as Duncan stepped back to save his boots from a splash of warm champagne.
Fitz positioned them and raised his glass for a toast in—he hoped—the right direction.
“North,” he cried, “to Alaska.”
Chapter 2
The next morning had brought a second thought or two. But Fitz went about booking their passage to Seattle while Duncan considered how best to broach the matter with Amanda.
The moment seemed right a few nights later, as they lay together in Amanda’s bed, tangled in peach satin. But before he could turn the subject, a knock on the door summoned them to the disaster that ended Amanda’s newfound pleasure in her identity as mistress of the Queen of Spades.
The saloon had burned down, reduced to blackened, smoldering ruins. Amanda wandered through the devastation, raging at fate—and at Kit, whom she somehow held responsible. Duncan had rarely seen her so distressed. His first instinct was to change plans and stay with her in San Francisco.
Then Fitz stepped in. He told Amanda what they were about, reminding her of the fortunes that had come off the Excelsior. At first she raged anew at Duncan for thinking of leaving her. But her rage turned quickly to cold calculation. Finally, she bade him go—with the promise that he would share any fortune he might find equally with her.
So here he stood, barely a week later, on the deck of a fine clipper ship, watching the waterfront of San Francisco fade in the distance.
Fitzcairn joined him at the rail, snug in a heavy pea jacket, a red knitted scarf wound ’round his neck.
“Oh, I say,” he drawled, “look there. If you squint, you can see Amanda, still on the dock, gazing forlornly after you.” He made a show of shading his eyes with one hand and peering toward shore.
Duncan snorted. “Well, she did take time to see us off, at least.” He glanced around. “And where is young Danny? Still reeling from Amanda’s farewell kiss?”
“Ah, the lad does have stars in his eyes, it’s true. At the moment, however, what he’s suffering from most is not l’amour but mal de mer. I left him, and a slop bucket, in the cabin.”
They both laughed, laughter tinged with sympathy. Duncan could well remember his first time at sea. It was crossing the Channel to France. Fitz doubtless had his own similar tale to tell.
As the centuries rolled by, it was inevitable—even necessary—that older Immortals began to forget some details of place, time, and person. Some by choice but more by chance, simply by virtue of the fact that while the span of years given to them might be measureless, in most other ways they were like the mortals whose lives they shared. And what mortal husband had never forgotten his wife’s birthday? Or what mortal woman did not sometimes have to stop to recall the color of her second lover’s eyes?
So the memory lapses of the Immortals were to be understood. Indeed, Duncan had such himself. But he had never, in all his years, encountered one of his kind, friend or enemy, who did not remember—vividly—his or her first time at sea. Belowdecks, young Danny was probably working on his own indelible experience.
“Should we tend to him? He’d be better on deck.”
“Tried that,” Fitz replied. “He just moaned and asked me to kill him.”
The shoreline was no longer visible. All around, all that could be seen was the mighty ocean called the Pacific. For Danny’s sake, Duncan hoped it lived up to its name.
“Come now, Highlander,” Fitz said. “I’ve some rum in the cabin we can heat. There’s maps to look over and plans to be made.”
Together they descended the narrow wooden staircase that was almost a ladder and made their way down the corridor to the cabin that they were sharing.
It was on the small side, though well-appointed. If they had been willing to delay their departure, more spacious accommodations would have been available. But each man, for his own reasons, wanted to be on his way, so the three booked what was best available.
At the door, Duncan felt the presence of another Immortal. Fitz, too, hesitated a split second. Though they both knew it was Danny, Duncan opened the latch cautiously.
Oh, yes. It was definitely Danny. Inside, the odor of sickness was strong, and from the shadowy recesses of one of the lower bunks, a weak voice whispered hollowly.
“Hugh? Could you maybe be taking my head now? Please?”
Fitz moved past Duncan and went to attend to the young man. He emptied the slop bucket out of the porthole, and replaced it by Danny’s head. Then he poured cold water from the pitcher on the table into a basin, soaked clean cloths in it, and laid them gently on his forehead.
Duncan busied himself by lighting the oil lamp, removing the maps from the bag where they were stored, and spreading them on the table.
He marveled at Fitzcairn’s solicitousness and wondered about Danny O’Donal. He’d talked to his friend a bit further about the young Immortal, gotten the basics of his background. Still, Fitz had played many roles in the years Duncan had known him—and teacher had never been among them. That he had taken on Danny O’Donal said much about the young man. So Duncan could not help but be curious about the details.
Well, there would be time for that discussion later. Now, by lamplight, Duncan trailed his fingertips over the thick paper that covered the table, tracing the outline of the landmass that made up the territory of Alaska. Over half a million square miles, the maps all said. Bought by Abraham Lincoln’s secretary of state, William Seward, from the Tsar of all the Russias, for a pittance. Which, Duncan reflected, had seemed to be about what it was worth. Until just last year, when gold was discovered. Now, as had happened sixty years before in California, the rush was on.
Fitz left Danny, who had fallen into a fitful sleep, and joined Duncan at the table.
“Some rum, then?” Without waiting for a reply, he produced a bottle and two cups, and proceeded to pour them each a generous portion.
So they sat there, far into the night, drinking good dark rum, studying the maps, arguing about the days to come, these two Immortal men who had known one another for centuries. While nearby another of their kind, a child by their reckoning, moaned and tossed in his sleep.
So cold, it was. And wet. He’d woken up not knowing whether it was morning or night—they never did, down in the hold. He’d woken up in his mother’s arms, and she’d been cold, colder even than he was. And he’d tried to snuggle closer between her breasts, had clung to her, waiting for her to hug him back. But she didn’t. No matter how hard he’d squeezed, she didn’t. She was still. And so cold. And he began crying them, soft sobs that grew louder and louder still, until one of the other women saw what had happened. She called her man, and they pulled him from Katie O’Donal’s arms, as the great ship pitched beneath them. And Danny screamed, and closed his eyes, and pretended it was but a night terror, brought by a pookah. But it wasn’t.
Danny O’Donal did not get his sea legs at all quickly. Fitzcairn continued to care for the young Immortal, cheerfully it seemed. He kept him clean. He fed him clear broth, when the lad could keep something on his stomach. And he woke him gently in the middle
of the night, when Danny would cry out wordlessly in his sleep.
Finally, Danny felt strong enough to be up and about. And once he was no longer captive to the slop bucket, he was increasingly impatient to reach their destination. Though the days passed swiftly enough as the ship headed north following the coast of California, Danny spent much of his time pacing the deck. It was as if he were trying to make the winds blow stronger by sheer force of will. Duncan and Fitz, for their part, spent the time planning, then arguing about the plans.
They met a few of their fellow travelers, men from as far away as the coast of Maine, all struck by the disease the newspapers were calling Klondike fever. There were tables in the mess set aside for use of the passengers. Sometimes, at meals, the three Immortals were drawn into the endless conversations concerning the proper disposition of the wealth that they were all sure was waiting for them at journey’s end. Some dreams were big, some small …
—“There’s a sweet piece of farmland right next ta our’n. My pappy tried ta buy it once’t …”
—“Horses, of course. Racehorses. Only the finest Kentucky blood. And a stable, and grooms, and trainers and—oh, all of that.”
—“There’s a gal back home …”
When the question came around to Danny, he answered, without hesitation. “A grand house, on a beautiful wide avenue. With a strong, dark, polished wooden door. And square in the middle of the door, a knocker of solid gold. There’d be more than one window made of bits of colored glass, so that when the light came through, it would be like having a rainbow of your own. And behind the house would be a stable, bigger and cleaner than the places most ordinary folks live.”
“You know such a place?” Duncan asked.
“I did, when I was a lad. My—sister—was in service there. In New York City, it was.”
Fitz spoke then, of buying fine things for fine ladies. And of not having to do an honest day’s work, ever again. Duncan laughed along with the rest at that, but for the most part was silent.
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