A Voice from the Past

Chapter 6: Dinner with a Madman

Chapter 6: Dinner with a Madman

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. . . . .

It was disconcerting to say the least. That man had been facing me, his eyes wild, staring. My sleep was fitful, the sight of him passing to and fro onto the stage of my mind. I couldn't dismiss the thoughts as merely figments of my imagination.

At the table the next morning, Jamie noticed me picking at my breakfast. "The food isna to yer likin', Sassenach?"

"No, it's fine, I assure you."

"What is it then? Ye've no been yerself since our travels to Inverness."

"Oh, bloody hell. I may as well tell you. There was a cart that passed by us when we were out and about. Remember when you commented on how I paled at one point? The man in the back of the dray, a prisoner—I swear to you, Jamie, he looked like my Frank. I know it's utterly impossible, but I can't seem to shake it."

"So, ye think as perchance ye'd seen a ghost?"

"If you will."

My Scotty was perfectly serious in the discussion at hand; his lake-blue eyes, clear and thoughtful. Drumming his fingers on the table, he replied, "Ah ... leastwise, I expect as that would be a bit disturbin'. Ye believe in the spirits then, aye?"

"Not especially. It defies all reason, but ..."

"Ye canna explain it."

"Yes, I suppose that's one way to put it."

"Dinna fash, Claire. Some day when we're gone from this earth, we'll sort it out, ken."

"I certainly hope so."

# # # # #

He heard the leader of this rabble shout at one of the men to go on ahead and apprise the captain of their imminent arrival.

Two of the troopers roughly dragged him to his feet and French walked him through the entrance and down the stone steps to the prison cells. Throwing him into one that was unoccupied, they chuckled while Charlie yanked the handkerchief from Frank's mouth, then clanked the iron doors shut.

Black Jack in the meantime, told the messenger, "I want food for two brought to the assembly room. Then you are to bring Beechum there as soon as the meal is set on the table."

The man appeared confused. Was Randall speaking in another language? "Sir?"

"What is it you're not comprehending? I said, Bring. The. Prisoner. To. Me, in the assembly room. There, now was that so difficult?"

"No sir, I mean ... I'll see to it."

"See that you do!"

. . . . .

Three guards came to retrieve him. Was escaping these prison walls a hanging offense? No matter. What difference could it possibly make? Frank was erroneously suspected of being a spy. Erroneous or not—that in, and of itself, was grounds to summon the hangman. Swallowing thickly, he thought, what an ignominious conclusion to an otherwise less than illustrious life! So many things he wanted to accomplish, and now his world had crumbled around him, on foreign soil, and in an altogether different time period.

Putting up no resistance whatsoever, he walked meekly along with his captors, like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter.

Frank half expected to be led to the gibbet, instead he was guided up the stone staircase to a room arranged with chairs surrounding a large rectangular table. On the table itself was spread a variety of food and dinnerware. Was the captain expecting him as a guest? Was this to be his last meal?