Date: Sun, 19 Mar 1995 02:09:41 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Three of Hearts" Part 3 (1/2) Well, it's been awhile since I've posted anything... now you know why. This part is about as long as two normal parts, so you're actually getting two for the price of one! (whooooopeee!!) I have to split part 3 into two parts because my mail program won't handle such a big file. Sorry for any inconvience that causes! Well I'm too tired to be longwinded so here it is... (I'm sure you're breathing a sigh of relief right now) "Three of Hearts" Part 3 by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 All Rights Reserved FERMOY, COUNTY CORK, IRELAND -- 3 June 1774 "His Majesty's *what*?" Gabriel exclaimed, incredulous. He sat up, and leaned against the hard iron bars of the cage: his head spun, and his body was crying out for water. The cage bounced and lurched on the cobblestone street. Outside the cage, shops and people receded slowly. A mounted and bored-looking British regular kept pace with the swaying, bouncing cage. "Shhh, don't lose your head, lad," McGee said, placing a callused hand on Gabriel's forehead. "No fever -- you're lucky to be alive. The British soldiers driving this infernal wagon spotted your body in a ditch, halfway between Cobh and Fermoy. Couple of them went down to search for timepieces, gold teeth, that sort of thing." He opened his mouth and Gabriel realized poor hygiene was not the only reason the old man was missing so many of his own teeth. "Anyway, they found nothing. But they realized you were not dead, but knocked out of your wits. So, they threw you in this cage to rot with the rest of us." Gabriel peered around and saw two other men sitting morosely on either side of the cage. One question made itself heard above all the others in Gabriel's mind. "Why?" "Don't you know? Some say the colonies across the sea are going to rebel. Mayhaps they already have; the word travels slowly. Old King Georgie doesn't want to waste his men to put down an uprising, if he can help it." McGee looked bitter. "So he figured they'd scour Ireland for recruits. The poor, the lunatics, criminals." He glared warily at the two men in the cage with them as he spoke the last word. "Expendable bodies they can throw at the colonists, if they decide to become rebels." Gabriel grunted and rubbed his eyes. "I know nothing of America. I'm not fighting in any uprising." One of the other men in the cage stopped staring at the floor and started staring at Gabriel. The man's face was blank and dark; he looked beaten down. McGee laughed softly. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice, lad. You'll have the redcoats behind you, and the rebels in front of you. The colonists have no quarrel with the Irish, rather the opposite. But they aren't likely to know an Irishman from a Brit at musket range!" Gabriel couldn't concentrate on what the old man was saying, anymore. Grief, self-pity, and the impossible things that had happened to him were all that he could think about or feel. In the space of a week he had gone from his comfortable existence and loving wife, to a stinking, rolling cage headed to -- God knew where. A week ago, his life was still happy and familiar. Now, Shannon was murdered, he'd killed someone, almost been hanged, and then kidnapped and *killed* by a female version of the Dearg-dul! The memories were painfully clear: drinking the blood from her wrist, his wounds healing, and then vomiting and dying in such intense pain... But he wasn't dead; the bone-jarring rhythm of the cage and the dryness in his mouth testified to that. The chattering old man kneeling next to him also lent credence to that observation. Part of Gabriel still wondered if he actually *had* died and gone to Hell. It would certainly explain a lot of things, he mused. McGee had grown silent; he thought he understood what the younger man was going through. "It's been rough for you, lad, hasn't it? And I don't mean being captured by our friends, the redcoats." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You were mumbling strange, terrible things while you were out." He shuddered. Gabriel looked up at McGee and squinted at the old man. From the look on McGee's face, Gabriel decided he didn't want to know what he'd been saying. Instead, what he said was, "Where is this wagon taking us?" "Dublin," McGee replied, eager to change the subject. "Most of these regulars are not too chatty, if you catch my drift; but the one who brings the food and water talks a wee bit more than the others. Ah, speak of the devil!" A soldier walked alongside the cage, two rough sacks in his hands. McGee reached through the bars and said, cheerily, "Johnston! How good to see you, my friend! Care for a spot o' tea?" Mock sadness crossed his face. "Ah, we're out of tea, we are. But there's plenty of this lovely dirty water, here--" "Shut yer hole, McGee," Johnston growled. He put the sacks in the old man's hands and quickened his pace, walking towards the front of the wagon. McGee ripped open one of the sacks, and a sickening smell rose from it. Gabriel suddenly felt even queasier. The two other men sniffed the air and eyed McGee with interest. The old man dumped the contents on the floor and sorted the bits of salted pork into four even piles. The silent men grabbed for their share and crammed pieces of meat into their mouths. Gabriel stared at his portion of the meat. He couldn't imagine eating such disgusting fare; the meat was black and rotten in places. McGee gummed a piece of pork thoughtfully, rotten bits and all. "What's the matter, lad? Not hungry?" He smiled good- naturedly. "Can't say as I blame you, but you'll get used to it." He eyed the other sack. "This one's got hardtack; it might suit you a little better." He opened the sack and gave a piece to Gabriel. It was dry and tasteless, and as hard as a lump of coal, but Gabriel ate it. ************ They traveled for a week, their monotonous journey broken only by the arrival of food twice per day. McGee had a soiled deck of cards, and the four of them would play to while away the time. McGee and Gabriel talked, mostly about what they would do if they ever escaped; McGee did most of the talking, every sentence interspersed with `lad', `laddie' and uncontrollable bouts of the exuberant old man's wild giggling. One morning, they found that one of the men who rarely spoke had died during the night; foul black blood ran from his nose and mouth. The body was not removed for a day and a night, and the others feared the sickness which had taken him would come for them, as well. But none of them became sick. Gabriel's life before the cage started to dull in his memory. There was only the cage, the card games, and the constant jarring of his body as the wheels bounced on the dirt tracks they traveled on. He spent most nights grieving and remembering; now, only a dull ache of Shannon's death remained in his heart. But he would have spent three years in the cage if he could have seen his wife just one last time. He could barely remember Syl-- the vampire; it now thankfully felt like a nightmare, and sometimes he could trick himself into believing none of it had ever happened. He started to wonder if he was going mad from the boredom. He now looked nothing like his old self. He had a rough beard, a few shades lighter than his brown hair. He'd lost weight; he was still a big man, but the skin of his face felt more drawn over the bones. He barely recognized himself in McGee's small mirror; his amber-colored eyes were sunken and glittery in their sockets. He looked desperate, and he was. Eight days after he'd first regained consciousness, they arrived in Dublin. Dublin was a full-fledged city, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He yearned to escape from his prison and lose himself among the stone buildings, labyrinthine streets, and crowds of people. The three of them gathered at the bars, looking wistfully into the street. Gabriel missed the scent of the sea in the air, and was glad to have it back. The wagon and its mounted escort navigated its way through the streets of Dublin, until they arrived at the waterfront. Massive sailing ships were docked there, most flying British flags. The docks were crowded with people, and all of seemed to be arguing, shouting, or haggling. After the silence of the countryside, the din of the docks felt strange to Gabriel's ears. Despite what lay ahead, he felt a twinge of excitement. The wagon stopped halfway down one of the docks, and Johnston the soldier unlocked and opened the gate on the side of the cage. The empty space there looked odd to Gabriel; he was used by now to seeing his world broken into segments by bars. Johnston had a flintlock rifle with a long bayonet. He waggled it at the three men; and they slowly climbed out of the cage that had been their universe for so long. McGee first, then Gabriel, then the other man. They stretched and flexed their cramped muscles; Gabriel took a deep breath of the salt air and let it out. He could see other wagons much like the one he'd traveled in: other men, most looking much like himself, stood around nervously on the top deck of the ship. A few redcoats lounged around them, looking lax and bored with their duty. The legend: "H.M.S. Vigilant" adorned the prow of the ship, in white paint. Gabriel could see where the Spanish name had been scrubbed away. "Ah, Johnston, my friend," said McGee. "Looks like we'll be parting ways now, it does. Good-bye, friend." "Get on the boat," the stern soldier said, rifle at the ready. The three men walked up the gangplank, the stiffness in their legs loosening. "Good luck, old man," Johnston said, gruffly. McGee turned back, a friendly response on his lips, but the soldier had already turned away. He was fiddling with one of the horse's bridles. They continued up the gangplank and onto the ship. A desk was set up at the end, blocking their progress. A fat blond soldier sat in a chair behind it; his red jacket stained with black ink. He looked disinterestedly at the new arrivals. A parchment, two quill pens, and inkwell sat on the desk. "State your names and sign them on the parchment," he said, probably for the fiftieth time that day. "Lucas McGee." He picked up the quill, scratched his dirty gray head, and marked "X", with a flourish of the pen. The soldier scratched a smaller parchment with the other quill. McGee nudged Gabriel with his elbow. "That means `Lucas McGee', it does, lad." He giggled, dark eyes looking back and forth, from Gabriel to the soldier. The clerk rolled his eyes. "You," he said to Gabriel. "Gabriel O'Shea." Gabriel dipped the quill and signed his name on the register, writing with the ease of long practice. The soldier repeated the process with the other man, and another soldier with a rifle led them over to where the other conscripts stood. It wasn't a long walk; the top deck was packed with men. This voyage won't be pleasant, Gabriel thought. The stench of the unwashed crowd washed over him in waves, blocking out the clean smell of the sea. Their traveling companion slinked off into the crowd. McGee scratched his head again and looked up at the British flag, fluttering in the breeze coming off the ocean. Then he snapped his fingers in Gabriel's face, getting his attention. "You didn't tell me you could *write*, lad! You're educated, aren't you?" Gabriel nodded but didn't elaborate. He was busy wondering where all these men were going to be during the voyage. He had long experience in sailing; even a ship of this size could not support so many men. He was coming to understand the philosophy of the British army, and it made him angry. Many men would die on this trip, of starvation and sickness. He stared at McGee: the old man was frail and had obviously been malnourished for a long time. Oblivious, McGee pointed a dirty finger back at the gangplank. "Gabriel, look! We're on our way!" Ragged crewmen were boarding the ship. Uniformed officers followed them. The last officer climbed the gangplank; Gabriel would have known he was the captain, even without seeing the immaculate uniform. Despite being weather-bitten and rotund, he had an easy air of watchfulness about him, and a commanding presence that exuded authority. His eyes were guarded yet vigilant. He held an antique brass spyglass in his left hand, and he sharply saluted the army leftenant with his right, his fingers brushing the edge of his black tricorne, trimmed with gold. The army officer saluted him in return, and there was an exchange of words. The army officers disembarked, leaving the regulars aboard. The captain's posture seemed to relax even more, now that he was in control of the vessel. He stood easily, surveying his new ship. The crewmen and officers surrounded him, waiting for their orders; the captain looked in no particular hurry to give them. Gabriel found himself fascinated with the man, for some reason he could not explain. He sensed that this was a great man, as full of knowledge and secrets as the sea he sailed. His preoccupation with the captain caused him to fail to notice the army regulars forcing the prisoners below decks. The stock of a rifle crashed into his lower back, bruising his kidneys. He twisted around, and faced the soldier who butted him. "Get below decks, dog!" the soldier barked. Gabriel eyed the rifle in the soldier's hands and trudged for the ladder, the dull pain in his kidneys vanishing swiftly. He climbed down the ladder, and McGee was waiting for him at the bottom. The main hold was packed with men, most of whom had never bathed in their lives; the redolence in the hold was mind-numbing. It was dark, as well, there were only a few narrow openings in the hold where cannon extended. The deck was hardwood, stained and chipped. No furnishings, other than a half dozen hammocks and a few dozen barrels stacked in the far corner. Gabriel imagined the lower decks as far worse; he saw more soldiers forcing some of the men down another ladder. Gabriel and McGee peered around the dark hold and warily selected a spot against the hull to sit down. It started to dawn on Gabriel how long and boring the voyage might be; his recent experience had sensitized him to every shade and nuance of the ennui of imprisonment. He equated sailing with activity and work, but he realized with no work to do, the boredom would be intolerable. McGee's voice shocked Gabriel out of his contemplation. "Uh, lad," he began haltingly, "since we're bound to be at sea for a wee bit of time, I'm wondering if you'd be willing to--" The old man's face was red above his salt and pepper beard. "Spit it out, Lucas." Gabriel murmured, staring around the hold. "Well, I'm fifty-five, and, well, you already know I cannot read nor write." The words came out in a rush. "My schoolboy days are long over, and I know you cannot teach an old dog new tricks, but will you to teach me how to *read*, Gabriel? And *write* words of my own?" Gabriel turned his head. "My father taught me, and I suppose it'd make his spirit happy to see me pass on the knowledge. And you're right, this will be a long voyage." He laughed softly at the old man's embarrassment. "I'll teach you, McGee," he said. The old man let out his familiar giggle and clapped Gabriel's shoulder. "You're a good lad, you are, Gabriel." ************ McGee was a quick study, despite the lack of reading material available to Gabriel. Gabriel showed the old man the alphabet, writing each letter with his finger, in the dirt and dust of the deck. McGee took to it easily, able to reproduce each letter and make its sound halfway through the first day. Gabriel showed him how all words were only patterns of the letters McGee already knew, and how the sounds of the letters flowed together to make the English syllables. Gabriel discovered something new about himself; he enjoyed teaching, and had a skill for it. And it killed the time, which always clung tenaciously to life. Soon, McGee could slowly spell out his own words upon the deck, and Gabriel would show him his spelling mistakes. The old man rarely made a mistake twice. Gabriel lost track of the days. The rocking of the boat, and the spelling lessons with McGee were the only constants in his life. Supplies were holding out, although the food was even worse than what they'd eaten on the journey to Dublin, and there wasn't as much of it, either. He hadn't gone above deck since the first day, and his skin now had a noticeable pallor. Early within the second month of the voyage, a fierce storm appeared from nowhere, suddenly blotting out the sun, and Gabriel saw the huge whitecaps of an approaching hurricane when he looked through a portal that a cannon extended from. Soon, the cracks of thunder were heard, and the ship began to be tossed like a toy on the dark waves. There was an extreme air of tension among the men. Then the rain came down, at first just pelting the boat, but then the storm started to pour solid sheets of water over the ship. The boat creaked and moaned as the storm pitched the Vigilant from giant wave to giant wave. The men were flung back and forth in the dark hold, yelling and desperately cursing the sea. Gabriel clung for life to a wooden support, McGee holding on to his arm and wailing. Gabriel *knew* what the other men only feared; the ship was probably going to sink to the bottom. A cold ball of fear collected in his throat. As if the ship wished to agree with this ominous thought, men began flying up out of the lower decks, conscripts and soldiers alike. Someone shouted, "She's taking on water down below!" Thunder crashed, as if God was laughing and enjoying His cruelness. Just then, the hatch that closed off the upper deck from the lower flew open, and a torrent of water crashed down to the deck. A dark figure unsteadily climbed down the ladder. It was a British officer, his hat was gone and he was soaked to the skin. Then, the wind blew the hatch shut with a bang. The officer yelled over the din of screaming men and ripping thunder: "Listen up, men! Some of the crew have washed overboard! I order all men with sailing experience, to climb up to the top deck immediately!" He swayed back and forth, eyes scanning the men in the hold. Gabriel reacted instantly. If he was going to die at sea, he would at least fight it to the best of his ability. He released his grip on the column, sending McGee into the arms of another man, and lurched over to the officer. Arms around each other's shoulders for support, they stared at the deathly frightened men. Seconds later, about a dozen more Irishmen followed Gabriel and staggered over. Gabriel let go of the officer and leaped for the ladder, climbed it, and slammed open the hatch. He could see almost nothing; the water was sheeting over the vessel. Waves battered the side of the ship, sending more white water over the deck; he was instantly drenched by it. Gabriel pulled himself over the cusp of the hatch and managed to get to his feet. The masts at the fore and aft were already bare of sails. He saw a few crewmen and officers struggling with tangled ropes, trying to bring the sails of the center mast in. He even saw the captain with them, helping to bring the sails under control before the mast cracked. The lines were hopelessly knotted and intertwined. "No!" Gabriel shouted urgently, over the roar of the storm. He remembered a time when his father's small fishing boat had been in a storm much like this, and the insane, desperate trick his father used to bring the sails in quickly. If he could just reach the mast... He staggered through the driving rain and spray from the waves, against the powerful rocking of the deck. He finally made it over to the sailors and grabbed a rusty knife from one of their belts. He gripped the slick wood of the mast and began to climb, the pegs in the mast providing treacherous support to his hands and stockinged toes. He transferred the dagger to his teeth; the flying drops of rain stung his face and arms. Twice, he almost lost his handhold and narrowly avoided falling to his death. At each near fatal mistake, new surges of epinephrine flooded his body, giving him the strength to continue. His heart hammered urgently in his chest and in his ears. At last, he made it to the top of the mast, directly beneath the crow's nest and flapping, cracking flag above it. He quickly located the crucial line and began to saw away at it with the dull knife. The rain stung his eyes and made the knife handle slick, and the gale threatened to tear him from his precarious handholds. Finally, it was severed, and the heavy, drenched sails whipped away from the mast, billowing to the deck. Gabriel clung to the slippery wood, cursing his impulsiveness. He had just realized he could not climb down. Electric fear crackled in his nerves. He held on for ten minutes, the mast seeming to buck like a ornery horse. He could hear the tinny voices of men calling up to him; but he could not make out words-- his tired muscles inevitably gave way and he fell, plummeting from his perch high above the deck. The sound of his own screaming in his ears was cut off abruptly when his body slammed to the deck, making an unimpressively hollow thud. *********** =========================================================================