White Silence (3 page)

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.

Later, as they made ready for bed, Danny asked, “Are you not interested in the gold then, Mr. MacLeod? Is it that you don’t need it?”

Duncan winced a little at the “Mister.” “I’ve money enough right now, Danny. Though there have been times when that wasn’t the case. Being rich—well, it is better than being poor, I’ll not disagree. But it’s not everything.”

The young Immortal shook his head. “Poor. It’s but a word, I guess. Like a lot of words, if you say it over and over, it doesn’t seem to mean much. But if you
live
it over and over …” He turned away then, and said no more.

He’d gone to bed hungry again, an ache in his stomach, the taste of the thin stew that had been dinner sour on his tongue. In the other room, Big Tom and Mother Kelly were arguing again. About “the child.” He was “the child.” The extra mouth Big Tom did not want to feed.
But I brought three coins home today, from the begging, I did,
he wanted to say.
Don’t turn me out, I’ve seen those that live on the street, I’ve seen what becomes of them.
But he was too frightened to do a thing but softly cry himself to sleep.

The crew was to be avoided. They didn’t want the passengers underfoot while they were about their work. Besides which, there was no privacy to be had on deck. So Duncan had taken to doing his swordwork in the hold. It was cramped and dim, but without doubt, he had the space to himself.

Shirtless, he moved the
katana
gracefully through a ritual of cuts and slashes. His whole being, mind and body, was in focus. Forward. Back. Again. Then repeat. It was no task, but a joy to perform—until his concentration was abruptly broken. He turned, furious at the interruption.

“Fitzcairn, ye great annoyance, I told ye what I was a—”Then he saw that it was Danny O’Donal in the shadows.

“Hugh has told me often of your sword, Mr. MacLeod. And how skilled you are. I thought, if I might watch a bit?”

It would be rude to refuse, though he was not keen on an audience.

“All right, then,” Duncan said. “But take care. There’s not much space down here.”

“I know,” Danny replied, in an odd voice.

Duncan returned to his exercises, drawing his energy inward again and then releasing it in a glorious pattern of deadly motion.

When it was completed, he rested briefly before donning his shirt.

“I’ve not ever seen the likes of that, Mr. MacLeod,” Danny said. “It’s almost a dance, is it not? But a dangerous one.” He hesitated. “Nor have I seen a weapon like yours. It came from across this very ocean, Hugh said. Could I see it closer?”

Duncan hesitated—any of their kind would—then handed the
katana
to the young Immortal.

Danny took it, running one hand gently, carefully, down the blade. He fingered the grip, the intricate carving. Even in the dimness of the hold, the beauty of the sword was apparent.

“I’ve been to a museum or two, with Hugh. And nothing there was the equal of this.”

“It belonged to a very brave and noble man. A mortal,” Duncan said. He extended his hand, and Danny returned the
katana
. “It was his dying gift to me.”

Danny smiled, with a twist of his lips. “I carry a dead mortal’s sword, too.” He produced his blade. It was the first MacLeod had seen of it. A military saber, an officer’s sword by the look of it, still bearing the gold-fringed tassel of rank.

“You were in the war, then?” Duncan asked.

“Aye,” Danny replied. “But I did not kill for this, if that’s what you are thinking. I died for it. In truth, when I got this sword, I’d died already four or five times.”

He frowned. “I’d come to believe that I was an unnatural creature. A pookah, a thing that only the dead or dying can see. I thought that, when the war was over, if I went home, I would cease to exist. But there was none I could speak to about what had happened, so I kept on, marching and killing.”

It was spring, 1864. The Union Army, under the command of General Grant, had moved south, taking the fight to the Rebs. For near a month, they fought clear down the state of Virginia, from a river in the north all the way to a city called Petersburg. History would say that those four weeks were the worst of the war. Danny O’Donal would not disagree. Men died by the thousands, Yank and Reb alike. Danny was wounded, more than a few times, and the others started to notice how quickly he healed. Even General Hays, who had led the men from Western Pennsylvania since the beginning, took note when Danny was one of but two of the thousands wounded to survive the fighting at Cold Harbor. Hays was killed the next day, though, so his noticing didn’t matter. Then his troops were put under command of a general named Burnside.

By then the Union Army had Petersburg under siege. Burnside had the bright idea to tunnel under the city. He ordered a detachment of men from Western Pennsylvania, assuming they were all coal miners, to dig the tunnel and pack it with gunpowder. Danny was among them. And when the gunpowder was ignited and the explosion over, several Union divisions ended up trapped in the resultant chaos. Danny was among them, too, and he quickly fell to the Rebel fire from above. Wisely, the Union commander surrendered, and Danny, by then revived, was among those taken prisoner.

“It was there that I finally found out what I was. Not a pookah. An Immortal, though what that might be …” He smiled faintly, and continued. “I was chained to a wall in a stable they were using to hold the prisoners when I got the—feeling. I’d gotten it once or twice before, during the fighting, but I hadn’t any notion what it was. Then a Reb officer, a captain he was, came into the stable. I could tell at once that the feeling was because of him. He ordered that I be unshackled and brought to his quarters.

“He sat me down, got me coffee, and a good meal. And he told me.”

The officer’s name was Lucas Desirée. He was a good man, fighting in a bad cause, and he wished he could do more for the frightened, inexperienced young man whom he had immediately recognized as another Immortal. But the damn war would not be over, and he had no time to take a student, certainly not a Yankee. He took the time, though, to tell the young Immortal what he needed to know—about the Game and the Rules. About how he could truly die. About how there were others like them who would hunt him, for his head, and his Quickening.