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while. And every time, Dougal and John stood to their defence.
    Throughout all of this, the floating prison on which they suffered hadn’t travelled anywhere. The
Thane of Fife
was moored at Inverness harbour for weeks before the captain received orders. When the ship finally raised her sails, the prisoners felt the increased rise and fall of the sea. The previous nauseating motion felt inconsequential compared to this. Many of the men on the
Thane
were already ill; some feared typhus and stayed as far away from others as possible, trying to avoid contact with the contagious group. When the wind rose, the ship bucked and rolled, making the illness much worse. The stink rose with the tide, never quite washing out of the floors or walls. It mixed with the reek of urine and shit and rotted fish, mingled with sweat and disease. If the English had intended to win the war simply through torture, Dougal thought, all they would have had to do was pack their enemies onto these ships.
    The
Thane of Fife
and two other ships unloaded their cargoes of over two hundred Highlanders on a misty morning in August, and a new contingent of red-coated soldiers marched the dismal group to their new home at Tilbury Fort. They left four ships rocking silently on the sea behind them, four disease-infested, floating coffins cradling more of Dougal’s countrymen and kin.
    The Highlanders shuffling along the road were, by then, mere shadows of the fierce warriors who had humiliated the English on the battlefields without fail—until Culloden. Their wild beards moved with lice, their eyes sank back into their heads and carried no trace of defiance. The fierce battle cries that had sent English armies fleeing in terror were reduced to helpless retching and coughing, mixed with moans of hunger.
    Dougal knew he looked just as bad as the rest of them, but he had fared relatively well as far as his health. He hoped this march meant the end to the suffering was near, or at least that things would improve somewhat. He felt like a different man than the one he had been before, and not one he liked. He staggered on bare feet, which felt soft on the pebbled road, his legs were weak and unsure from their wasted time on the ship. He inhaled the fresh air, grateful they’d left the ship’s stench behind, but otherwise uncaring. Occasionally he lost concentration and his mind wandered off. And when that happened, his mental defences came down, inviting in the pathetic thoughts of so many defeated men.
    God, he was tired.
    John limped beside Dougal. His heel had developed a sore that threatened never to recover, and the walking opened the weak skin further. Maybe the clean air would help. Dougal hoped so. He had seen men die of wounds like this, when a small cut swelled and went dark, when pus seeped out and clouded the air with the sweet stench of sickness. When it poisoned the man, fever took over. It seemed ironic that John could die of something like this after having survived everything else. And yet it was entirely possible, if the sickness in his foot climbed up his leg and grabbed hold of his heart.
    As the prisoners passed under an archway, Dougal squinted and read the words “Tilbury Fort” etched into the stone. The prisoners were directed into a long, dark room, its stone walls cold as the blade of his sword in winter. The dank walls and clammy floor smelled of gunpowder, and from that Dougal surmised they were probably inside an unused weapons magazine.
    The door slammed behind them, shutting out all light but a thin crack from the edge. The men stood still, waiting for their eyes to adjust. As the vague lines of wall and floor were defined, John sighed.
    “Home, sweet home,” he said.
    Two days later, the prisoners were called into the rain in groups of twelve, where they followed orders and stood in the semblance of lines.
    “Right,” an officer said, his youthful voice ringing across the yard. He was a new arrival, Dougal reckoned. Young and