Sound of the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

would fall through the earth if he rolled in his bed—all lies his fever told his brain. He had recovered slowly but fully. Now he watched the brave men of Culloden rot until their hearts simply tired of battle. Cold, stiff bodies were taken every morning and the remaining group spread out a little more every time one of the corpses vacated a space. A little more food to share, a little more to drink. A little hole stabbed into each of their souls every time one of them died.
    The prisoners were a mixed group of crofters and those who had existed closer to clan power. Dougal was one of the latter, having lived and worked on the land of his uncle, Iain MacDonnell, chief of Clan MacDonnell. He had enjoyed the lifestyle, the benefits of position. Now here he was, lumped in with every other poor soul whose chief had decided they would fight. And where were their chiefs now? Had they survived only to be executed?
    Dougal fought his nature while he was imprisoned in Inverness. As he gained strength, every wasted muscle in his body lusted for action, demanded he break out and slay his captors. But only a fool would make enemies with the ones controlling both food and punishment. The prisoners were kept in the gaol for, he figured, just over a month. Then they were herded together and marched toward the Thames. At the port bobbed seven ancient transport ships, shadowed by their escort, the H.M.S
. Winchelsea
.
    Dougal was one of about a hundred souls to board the
Thane of Fife
. The men, and even a few surviving women who had been captured alongside, were separated into groups and led one by one over the rickety gangways. Considering the unhealthy appearance of the prisoners as they boarded, in combination with the condition of the ships in which they would be jailed, Dougal reckoned there would be a lot fewer of them disembarking whenever they arrived at their destination, wherever that might be.
    Dougal felt sick, waiting for his turn to step onto the creaking bridge leading from land to sea. It was more than anxiety over their destination that troubled him. Just the thought of vanishing into the black hold of one of the decrepit ships, rolling on the waves like stiffened cadavers, made him realise that while the Inverness prison had been bad, it couldn’t compare to what was coming. The ships stank of death before the men even stepped on board. But he had no choice. He, along with all the others, was shepherded across the gangplank and locked into the bowels of the ships.
    The two young drummer boys were on the same leaky ship as Dougal and John, looking even frailer than they had on that long walk from Culloden Moor. They moved like twin shadows, as if attached to each other by some invisible force, and they clearly didn’t belong there, fragile creatures that they were. Like rabbits, they lived a wary existence, surrounded by large, starving men. They rarely joined in conversations with the others, but Dougal watched them, knew they listened and probably discussed their thoughts between themselves at a more private time.
    The boys’ reality was made painfully clear one day—at least Dougal
thought
it was day. In truth, he wasn’t sure if it were day or night, because the light poking through holes in the old ship always seemed a dark gray of no consequence. It seemed to him that the mouldy boards containing the prisoners appeared a shade brighter when the men were given their daily rations, so Dougal assumed that marked morning. Each man received a small, dry bowl of oatmeal, a cup of ale John likened to piss, and occasionally a biscuit. They took this feast to their accustomed spots to eat in relative quiet. On this particular day, Dougal spied a couple of the men watching the boys with interest and muttering between themselves. Struan Grant, he mused. The other was Keith. He could never remember if Keith was the man’s first or last name. It didn’t matter much either way. The man was wiry and stooped, and his carcass