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locker_monsterTitle: The Boy Who Waited (33/49)
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
A two day’s ride to Boston translated into a week long journey for them, made all the more cumbersome due to their need to take the back roads. Thankfully, the weather held so they encountered no rain and that made their trek a lot less dirty.
Jamie didn’t seem to care that his trousers were still covered with mud, but he lamented the fact that he didn’t have a kilt. When Rory asked why, he learned something he never knew before. Kilts were made as they were so the men working outside wouldn’t have to worry about wet trouser legs. With bare legs you could just wipe them clean and off you go.
“But don’t you get cold?”
Jamie scoffed. “We’re Highland Scots. We dinnae get cold.”
Rory immediately thought of Amy and all of the short skirts she wore. Yup, Jamie had a point.
That was the thing Rory noticed about Jamie. He accepted things as they came. Covered in mud? It made a good camouflage. Cold weather? It kept you awake. A figure from mythic song suddenly appears in your life and asks for your help? Hey, why not join him. It was that sort of attitude that probably kept him from going mad in prison and what kept him going now. A little thing like being a wanted fugitive didn’t matter as much as getting your boyhood hero back home.
And that was what Rory was to Jamie. He didn’t say it in so many words, but the truth was there, buried within his stories. He was a representation of a better time in Jamie’s life and Rory got the feeling that when they talked, Jamie saw his father. Also, who couldn’t resist the allure of interacting with a legend. It was just a little weird to think that children around the world were growing up listening to stories about him and the Pandorica.
As they neared Boston, traffic on the back roads increased. While keeping the Pandorica concealed was a priority for Rory, he also didn’t want Jamie to be discovered. The only solution he could think of was hiding them both while he went ahead on foot. Naturally, Jamie would have none of that.
“Ye dinnae know the city.”
“I need a ship. I’ll walk towards the harbour.”
They had backtracked a bit and wandered aimless for a few hours before they found a suitable hiding place for the Pandorica. The small cave stank of mould, but Jamie had assured him that nothing else lingered inside.
“And how are ye gonna pay for passage? Pass yerself off as a Redcoat?” Jamie tugged on Rory’s cape.
Rory really hadn’t thought about his lack of money. A part of him had foolishly assumed that he could just request passage on a ship. When he offered no reply, Jamie smiled smugly at him. “I’ll… think of something,” he insisted.
“Change first.” Jamie threw his pack at him. It was light; the supplies Jamie had scoured from the farm were nearly gone. “At least look like ye belong.” Clearly, the argument was over. Jamie was coming along whether Rory liked it or not.
Rory let out a sigh before heading into the cave to change in private. He shot a look at the Pandorica. “Pushy, the lot of you,” he muttered. In the back of his mind, he heard Amy laugh.
Jamie didn’t have much in way of clothes. A spare linen shirt and two extra pairs of breeches. He pulled out one of the pairs and threw them out of the cave mouth at Jamie. They hit him in the head and one of the legs ended up draped over his face. “You should change, too.” The Scot muttered something in Gaelic, but nothing flew back into the cave.
Rory began the labourious task of removing his armour. Weapons came off first, which he placed carefully on the base of the Pandorica. Helmet, cape, breastplate, wrist guards, leg guards, boots, and then the leather under armour and skirt came next. Finally, he was just clothed in his two tunics and his trousers. Everything had seen better days, especially his tunics. Both had been stitched up multiple times, due to all the stab wounds and cuts he had endured, but he had some sewing skills thanks to doing stitches and sutures so it didn’t look too horrible. He just looked like he was down on his luck and couldn’t afford anything new.
He looked far from contemporary, though, and he had to admit that Jamie had a point. He quickly stripped off his clothes and put on Jamie’s spares. The only things of his own that he put back on were his boots and his dagger, which he hid inside of his right boot. Everything else he wrapped up in his cape and he then threw the bundle on top of the Pandorica.
Jamie had already changed trousers when Rory emerged from the cave. He had even beaten off most of the dirt on his coat. He looked like your average farmer heading into town to buy supplies. Rory hoped that anonymity would help him to go unnoticed when they reached Boston.
It had been a long time since Rory had seen a bustling city of reasonable size. The Boston he saw now was a far cry from the metropolis he heard about in the future, but it was hands above the small towns and villages he had visited while travelling up the east coast of South America and Mexico. There were people everywhere he looked and they rushed about like they all had somewhere to be. The constant motion was almost nauseating.
“The harbour’s this way,” said Jamie, pointing to the east. Without any tall buildings standing in the way, Rory could actually see the tops of ships’ masts. They walked along the cobblestones, avoiding the occasional horse and cart as they rode past. “Plenty of pubs near the harbour. Shouldna be hard to find a ship heading back to England.”
“Did you come here a lot?” asked Rory, trying to be subtle about his questioning.
“Dinnae fash. This is a big city. No one knows who I am.”
As they continued along, Rory began to share in Jamie’s optimism. People were too wrapped up in their own things to notice two more slightly shabby men walking through the crowd. In fact, it was Rory who drew more attention than Jamie due to the slight oversight that he wasn’t wearing a coat and it was the middle of October. He soon hunched his shoulders against the cool breeze coming off the harbour, making it seem like he was cold.
Around the harbour, the make-up of the crowd changed noticeably. Women with their wide skirts were absent and the only children running around were dirty and scrawny street urchins, like something out of a Dickens novel. The clothes of the men became less formal and more worn and the men themselves were scruffy and weathered from work and travel. A wide range of accents could be heard as crews shouted orders from ship to dock.
Despite the change in language, it was just like the other ports Rory had visited. There was a lot of diversity in the world but in places like these, where people worked hard to make ends meet, it was always the same. Product was moved to make money; no product meant no money and that could mean missing a meal. You had to keep moving or you would get swept away.
Red Ensign flags flapped atop the majority of the ships. It wasn’t a guarantee that the ship was bound for Great Britain, but it gave Rory hope. Somewhere in this harbour was his ride back home.
“Come on.” Jamie tugged on his arm, pulling him out of his reverie. “Ye willna learn anything just standin’ there.” With his hand still firmly clamped on Rory’s arm, he dragged him inside a tavern called the Green Dragon. Rory got the distinct feeling that Jamie wasn’t just eager to find him a ship. The smell of alcohol permeated the walls.
Even in the afternoon the tavern was full of patrons. A good percentage of the crowd were probably sailors who had just landed and were seeking something more than life on the water could offer. Rory bet that they were the men wolfing down bowls of stew and draining large mugs of beer. Somewhere in the room someone was playing a set of panpipes and a raucous game of cards had a group of men in the corner shouting jeers at each other.
The door to the tavern opened, admitting a beast of a man, who promptly shouldered past Rory and nearly knocked him off of his feet. He started to protest but then thought better of it.
“Start asking around,” suggested Jamie. “I’ll try to secure us some coin.” The Scot disappeared into the crowd before Rory could say anything.
He moved away from the door to avoid being trampled and managed to squeeze in-between two muscular men to sit at a spare stool at the bar. It felt clichéd, asking the barman for information, but realistically the man would know who most of these men were and which ships were set to sail again.
Rory waved at the barman to catch his attention and it was like being back at the Traveller’s Rest, Leadworth’s only pub. It was the only place in the village that was justifiably busy. Every other business just liked to say they were busy when really only twenty people would visit in a day and not even all at once. Even the hospital never saw the sorts of crowds that the Rest did.
The burly barman slammed down a refill for the patron next to Rory, spilling some of the ale on the bar. “What do you want?” he snapped, scratching his curly beard.
For a moment, Rory wasn’t sure if the man was asking for his order or telling him to bugger off. “Information?” he asked hopefully.
The barman crossed his arms over his barrel sized chest. “Make it quick. The payin’ customers are waitin’.”
The panpipes player started to play a livelier song and some of the more inebriated patrons started singing along. Rory had to raise his voice to be heard. “I’m looking for a ship bound for England. It has to be big enough to carry large cargo.”
The barman genuinely thought this over for a second or two, though Rory wasn’t sure how he was able to hear himself think over the noise. Foot stomping had been added to the off key singing. “Try Sally-Anne.”
Rory glanced around for a woman but then he realized that the barman had named a ship, not a person.
“Cap’n’s over there,” added the barman and he pointed to a man in a navy frock coat whose grey hair was pulled back into ponytail. He sat at one of the long tables, surrounded by other men eating, drinking, and singing.
“Thank-” began Rory, but the barman walked off to serve the other patrons before he could finish. He shrugged, hopped off the stool, and manoeuvred his way through the sea of bodies towards the ship captain.
The man sat hunched over the table, nursing a mug of wine. His attention was focused on scribbling down figures in a tattered notebook. Rory sat down on the bench across from him, but the man didn’t look up. He even seemed unfazed by the loud music.
Not wanting to insult the man who could, potentially, get him home, Rory took a more subtle approach to get the captain’s attention. He grabbed the mug of wine and dumped the remaining contents into the mug of the man sitting next to him, who looked ready to fall over. With the mug now empty, he placed it back in its original spot and waited for the captain to get thirsty. Rory endured another rollicking song before the captain reached out and absently brought the mug to his mouth. He tipped the mug back and then quickly frowned when no liquid touched his lips. The table top rattled when he slammed the mug down.
“Hi,” greeted Rory. “Can I buy you another?”
The captain noticed Rory for the first time and from his perspective it seemed like he had materialized out of thin air. “Can I help you with something?” he asked briskly. He regarded Rory with clear green eyes.
Rory considered a number of conversation starters, but then he thought of the captain’s notebook and its columns of figures. “I’m looking to book passage to England.”
The potential to make some money caused the man to perk right up. He closed his notebook and stowed it in the pocket of his coat. “You’ve come to the right place, friend. My name’s Harley.” He held out his hand to Rory.
They shook hands. Harley’s hand was dry and callused, hinting at a life spent on the seas. In contrast, Rory’s was smooth as, well, plastic. “You captain the Sally-Anne?”
“I do. She’s a fine ship. Spacious and sturdy enough to handle anything God’s willing to throw at her.”
Straight into the sales pitch. Harley didn’t waste any time. “Large enough to accommodate some personal cargo?”
Some of the enthusiasm leaked out of Harley’s expression, like air leaking out of a balloon. “How big?”
It dawned on Rory that it didn’t matter what he said. The Pandorica would take up space on an already packed ship. Harley could take on the box, but he would have to give up something in the process. A shipment of fine furs or bags of flour, items that would ensure him income. The Pandorica held no promises of future profits.
He saw no point in lying. “Big, larger than a carriage.”
Harley drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. “I will gladly take you, friend, but your cargo is another matter.”
“I’ll find another ship then.”
Harley chuckled. “My ship is the largest and the fastest. I do not brag. Ask any of the captains here. If you want you and your cargo to arrive together and in one piece, then you have no choice. It must be the Sally-Anne. I’m not turning you away, but you must know that I will charge what I see fit.”
“How much?”
“Fifty pounds, all up front.”
The captain’s honesty was refreshing, if not somewhat irritating. Rory could ask around but he got the feeling that he would arrive at the same answer that Harley was providing. “And if I don’t have the money?”
“I sail without you. I will return to Boston in the spring if you wish to begin saving now.”
Rory had nothing to add. He picked at a knot in the wood of the table, resisting the urge to overturn the entire thing.
Harley stood up and headed for the door. Just as he passed Rory, he paused. “If you were somehow able to procure the money through, let us say, a more expedient manner, I would not ask how you came upon the money so quickly.” He patted Rory on the shoulder and soon became lost in the throng.
Rory just sat there, stunned by what Harley had just suggested. Steal the money? That wasn’t very scrupulous, especially if Harley was willing to turn a blind eye. But it would get him back to England sooner rather than later.
“There ye are, mo caraid.” Jamie sat down in Harley’s vacated seat. His face was flushed and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He glanced hopefully into Harley’s discarded mug but frowned when he saw that it was empty.
“What have you been doing?” asked Rory, wondering if the Scot had been running around outside the entire time he had talked to Harley.
Jamie answered by dropping a handful of coins onto the table. It wasn’t much, probably a few pounds, but it was a few pounds more than what they had when they entered the tavern.
“You didn’t…?” Rory trailed off, afraid to ask where the money had come from.
Jamie shook his head. “I’m not a thief. If anything, I would steal cows, not coins. I earned this.” He smiled proudly at the fact and Rory couldn’t help but smile, too.
“That still begs the question: how?”
“Piper.” Jamie pointed to himself. “Pipes.” He pointed to something by the fireplace.
Arching his neck to see over the heads of everyone, Rory barely made out a skinny young man with flaming red hair. In his hands was the source of the music: the panpipes. As he listened, he noticed that the music had changed tempos and was a bit more subdued than what had been playing when Rory had first spoken with the barman and then with Harley. The singing had stopped as well, as the song wasn’t one that was recognizable.
“Enough for a hot meal, I’d say,” continued Jamie, eying a tray laden with food as a serving girl walked past the table.
Rory had this to say about Jamie McCrimmon. He was a simple man with simple needs. One night as free men. They could afford that. He would worry about finding the money in the morning.
Rory felt drunk.
That wasn’t to say he was drunk, seeing as alcohol had no effect on him, but he had spent the entire night in the Green Dragon and after spending hours surrounded by men drinking, carousing, and sometimes fighting, he had taken on that woolly head feeling through osmosis. The world was just slightly out of focus and he had to concentrate on not tripping over his own feet.
At last call, Rory had convinced Jamie that it was time to leave. The young man had conceded, but with great reluctance. He had taken up the panpipes again during the night and someone had produced a drum and that had gotten the tavern rocking. Rory had never seen so many smashed mugs. He was surprised the barman hadn’t kicked them out, but with all the drinking going on, the man had probably accumulated a nice fortune from beer sales alone.
The cold night air outside washed over Rory and he sucked it in. How he felt was just psychological, but if he believed that fresh air would help his head, then it would help. Next to him, Jamie tugged on his coat and his movements were a bit sluggish. Patrons had bought him numerous drinks and it was a small miracle that Jamie wasn’t passed out in the corner of the tavern. It must have been a Scottish thing.
A long forgotten habit took Rory in that moment and he looked up at the night sky. It was something almost everyone did after leaving the pub after a heavy night of drinking. He wasn’t sure what drove the compulsion. The stars looked brighter because of the alcohol? People looked up when they stumbled? Whatever the case, he looked up now, searching for those distant points of light. There was nothing to see, of course, and that helped to shake off the fuzziness of his thoughts more than anything else. This wasn’t the world he knew. He wasn’t home in Leadworth, hanging out with mates. He was a man with a mission.
“What are ye looking at?” Jamie looked up, too, and he stumbled slightly.
“Nothing,” said Rory, holding back a laugh. He gripped Jamie lightly by the elbow and led him down the street. They had spent the money thoroughly, which left nothing for a warm bed. Spending the rest of the twilight hours in the cave was likely, but it wasn’t as if Jamie was in any condition to complain.
They passed several other men in the street, all in varying stages of intoxication. Rory even saw one man urinating off the edge of the pier. He veered off to pull the man back from the edge when Jamie placed a hand on his arm.
“Mo caraid.”
Rory paused, but Jamie urged him to keep walking. “What’s wrong?”
“Dinnae it feel like we’re being watched?”
All eyes had been on Jamie for most of the night in the Green Dragon. Rory had figured the steady stream of alcohol would cloud people’s memory of the Scot, but maybe that hadn’t been the case. A casual drinker would still have his wits and turning in an escaped slave might net a reward.
They didn’t increase their pace, but Rory kept his ears peeled and sure enough he heard the scuff of leather shoes against the uneven cobblestones and it wasn’t the stumbling gait of tipsy drunk. It could have been someone on their way home, but he didn’t want to take the chance. Spying a narrow alley up ahead, Rory slowly steered them towards it.
“Act like you’re sick,” he whispered to Jamie.
The Scot put his hand to his stomach and doubled over with a moan. Rory half carried him to the alley and they wandered in a ways. Old barrels that stank like rotten fish were stacked up around the back entrance of one of the businesses. Rory had Jamie hunch over behind one of the barrels while he climbed a stack to the roof of the building. He laid down low but he still had a clear line of sight to the mouth of the alley. Cloaked in shadows he was practically invisible.
Down below, Jamie put on quite a performance. He made retching sounds that sounded so convincing that at one point Rory peeked over the edge of the roof to see that he was all right. He quickly scrambled back into place when he heard the approaching footsteps. There wasn’t enough light to make out the person’s features, but it was clearly a man, tall and lean. He slowly crept up to Jamie, intent on grabbing the back of the Scot’s coat.
Rory jumped down from the roof, tackling the man to the ground. He let out a yelp and then grunted in pain when Rory secured his arms behind his back and shoved him up against the wall of the building. The man wore one of those ridiculous white powder wigs and it had been knocked sideways from the tackle. It fell over one eye now and the man tossed his head around in an attempt to see properly.
Jamie stood up and walked over to the man. He lifted the white wig and peered at the man’s face. There wasn’t an instant recognition, but Rory chalked that up to the low light and the amount of alcohol Jamie had consumed. After a few seconds, Jamie’s memory was finally jogged. “Let him go,” he said to Rory.
Rory let go of the man’s arms and stepped back. He expected a friendly handshake or at least an amiable greeting from Jamie.
Jamie lashed out and punched the man in the nose.
It was a clumsy punch without much power behind it, but it still looked like it hurt for both men. The man’s head snapped back and his wig fell to the ground. He muttered a curse and pulled out a lace handkerchief from his coat pocket to hold to his nose. Meanwhile, Jamie shook his hand in pain as he swore in Gaelic, but he glared hotly at the man. He might have tried for another punch if Rory hadn’t swooped in between them.
“Whoa! Jamie, what are you doing?”
“No good mongrel!” A restraining hand from Rory kept Jamie from trying to charge forward.
“Calm down. Who is this man?” The hatred he saw in Jamie’s eyes was the sort of ire one usually reserved for murderers and rapists.
“He sold my laird into slavery!” Jamie’s gaze didn’t waver from the man. “We were already captured by the Redcoats. Ye dinnae need to take him!”
The man dabbed daintily at his nose with his handkerchief. His already hawkish nose was now large and swollen, but there was no blood. “James Robert McCrimmon.” His English accent was painfully upper class. It was so sharp it felt like his words would cut you. “I thought it was you.”
Rory didn’t like where the conversation was going. If the man knew Jamie, then it was bad news. “Who are you?” he asked the man.
“Grey,” snarled Jamie. “Poncey arse,” he muttered under his breath.
“Solicitor Grey,” the man corrected, ignoring the slight. “I saved your laird from the hangman’s noose. You should be grateful.”
“And ye pocketed a tidy sum at the same time.”
The warning bells started going off in Rory’s head. Grey was a slaver. Jamie’s laird, unlike Jamie himself, would never have the chance at freedom. He completely understood Jamie’s utter disgust of the man.
“If I remember correctly, McCrimmon, the Crown sold you into servitude. You seemed rather carefree back in the tavern for an indentured man.”
It was a subtle threat, but the implications were obvious. Grey knew that Jamie was a slave, one who was clearly not where he should be. He could turn the Scot in to the authorities and receive praise for being such a concerned citizen. Jamie, on the other hand, would be severely punished or maybe even hanged. They could leave Boston, but they would be looking over their shoulders the entire time.
Jamie balled his fists and his entire body shook with anger. Rory felt like he was trying to hold back a raging bull. “I ought to wring yer neck.”
“I work for the Governor,” said Grey, smiling smugly at them. “People, important people, will notice if I go missing.”
This was just getting worse by the second. Rory took a deep breath. There was only one they could do.
He turned and punched Grey in the face.
The man was knocked off of his feet and he crashed back into the opposite wall of the alley. Rory grabbed him by the front of his coat before he could fall over and break his nose on the hard packed ground.
“Ye can punch him, but I cannae?” protested Jamie.
“Just find an empty barrel,” said Rory. The Scot sighed but he did as requested. Rory, meanwhile, picked up Grey’s handkerchief and waded it up into a ball. He shoved into Grey’s mouth and then undid the man’s tie. He wrapped the tie around Grey’s mouth and knotted it tightly in the back. Grey, extremely woozy, tried to object, but his words were badly muffled by the gag.
“Here’s one.” Jamie pried off the lid of one of the barrels and immediately crinkled his nose.
Rory dragged Grey over, scuffing the man’s polished shoes. Showing little concern for the man’s comfort, he picked him up and dropped him into the barrel. It was large enough to accommodate a man but there was no room to move. Grey’s knees were pressed right up to his chest and one of his arms ended up splayed over his head. The stench of dead fish was overwhelming.
Rory took the lid from Jamie and shoved it back into place; he gave it a good twist just to make sure that it was secure. From his boot he pulled out his dagger. He wished he could have seen Grey’s face the first time the blade punctured the wood. A startled shout sounded from within the barrel, but it sounded more like someone sneezing. He stabbed the lid four more times, creating thin air holes.
“Come on.” He slipped his dagger back into the sheath and then back into his boot. Just as he started to head for the mouth of the alley, Jamie gave the barrel a good hard kick. It was too heavy to fall over, but another muffled cry sounded from within. Jamie nodded in gratification and then joined Rory out on the street.
“Are ye sure we cannae toss the barrel into the harbour?”
It was hard to tell if Jamie was joking or not. “It’ll be a few hours before anyone finds him and hopefully a few hours more before someone starts looking for him. That should give you plenty of time.”
“Time for what?”
They were far enough from the alley that Rory felt that they could talk freely. “Time for you to find a ship and get out of Boston.”
The Scot frowned at him. “Ye make it sound like yer not coming with me.”
“I can’t afford to ship the Pandorica, at least not now, but you should leave now, Jamie, while you have the chance. You can’t go back to that farm and you certainly can’t stay here.”
“I dinnae have the money,” argued Jamie. He sounded convinced that he had hit upon a valid argument for staying behind.
Rory reached into his pocket and pulled out a money purse bulging with coins and notes. He dropped it into Jamie’s hand. “It’s Grey’s. I took it from him while you were looking for a barrel. It’s probably more than enough to get you back to Scotland.”
“No, I cannae take this.” Jamie tried to give the purse back to him.
“Do I have to stick you in a barrel, too? They don’t know who I am. They won’t be looking for me. Find the Sally-Anne. It sounded like she was leaving soon. The captain won’t question who you are as long as he’s paid.”
Jamie weighed the purse in his hand, making some of the coins jingle. The earlier mischievous twinkle in his eye when he had kicked Grey’s barrel was gone. He was obviously annoyed with Rory, but he couldn’t tell if the Scot was actually considering his offer. The thought of returning to Scotland had probably occurred to him, but he never dreamed he would actually make it home after only four years in the colonies.
“If you wanted to help me, Jamie, this is it. Go back to Scotland, settle down, and live out a nice, quiet life.”
His hand closed around the purse. “All right,” he said softly. He looked up at Rory and mustered a smile. “Ye willna give up, will ye?”
Rory’s smile was just as bittersweet. “You know me too well.”
“Where will ye go?”
There weren’t a lot of options. He couldn’t stay in Boston. Maybe it was best to get out of the future United States altogether. Revolution was on its way. “North,” decided Rory. “I hear the people there are rather polite.”
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49
A two day’s ride to Boston translated into a week long journey for them, made all the more cumbersome due to their need to take the back roads. Thankfully, the weather held so they encountered no rain and that made their trek a lot less dirty.
Jamie didn’t seem to care that his trousers were still covered with mud, but he lamented the fact that he didn’t have a kilt. When Rory asked why, he learned something he never knew before. Kilts were made as they were so the men working outside wouldn’t have to worry about wet trouser legs. With bare legs you could just wipe them clean and off you go.
“But don’t you get cold?”
Jamie scoffed. “We’re Highland Scots. We dinnae get cold.”
Rory immediately thought of Amy and all of the short skirts she wore. Yup, Jamie had a point.
That was the thing Rory noticed about Jamie. He accepted things as they came. Covered in mud? It made a good camouflage. Cold weather? It kept you awake. A figure from mythic song suddenly appears in your life and asks for your help? Hey, why not join him. It was that sort of attitude that probably kept him from going mad in prison and what kept him going now. A little thing like being a wanted fugitive didn’t matter as much as getting your boyhood hero back home.
And that was what Rory was to Jamie. He didn’t say it in so many words, but the truth was there, buried within his stories. He was a representation of a better time in Jamie’s life and Rory got the feeling that when they talked, Jamie saw his father. Also, who couldn’t resist the allure of interacting with a legend. It was just a little weird to think that children around the world were growing up listening to stories about him and the Pandorica.
As they neared Boston, traffic on the back roads increased. While keeping the Pandorica concealed was a priority for Rory, he also didn’t want Jamie to be discovered. The only solution he could think of was hiding them both while he went ahead on foot. Naturally, Jamie would have none of that.
“Ye dinnae know the city.”
“I need a ship. I’ll walk towards the harbour.”
They had backtracked a bit and wandered aimless for a few hours before they found a suitable hiding place for the Pandorica. The small cave stank of mould, but Jamie had assured him that nothing else lingered inside.
“And how are ye gonna pay for passage? Pass yerself off as a Redcoat?” Jamie tugged on Rory’s cape.
Rory really hadn’t thought about his lack of money. A part of him had foolishly assumed that he could just request passage on a ship. When he offered no reply, Jamie smiled smugly at him. “I’ll… think of something,” he insisted.
“Change first.” Jamie threw his pack at him. It was light; the supplies Jamie had scoured from the farm were nearly gone. “At least look like ye belong.” Clearly, the argument was over. Jamie was coming along whether Rory liked it or not.
Rory let out a sigh before heading into the cave to change in private. He shot a look at the Pandorica. “Pushy, the lot of you,” he muttered. In the back of his mind, he heard Amy laugh.
Jamie didn’t have much in way of clothes. A spare linen shirt and two extra pairs of breeches. He pulled out one of the pairs and threw them out of the cave mouth at Jamie. They hit him in the head and one of the legs ended up draped over his face. “You should change, too.” The Scot muttered something in Gaelic, but nothing flew back into the cave.
Rory began the labourious task of removing his armour. Weapons came off first, which he placed carefully on the base of the Pandorica. Helmet, cape, breastplate, wrist guards, leg guards, boots, and then the leather under armour and skirt came next. Finally, he was just clothed in his two tunics and his trousers. Everything had seen better days, especially his tunics. Both had been stitched up multiple times, due to all the stab wounds and cuts he had endured, but he had some sewing skills thanks to doing stitches and sutures so it didn’t look too horrible. He just looked like he was down on his luck and couldn’t afford anything new.
He looked far from contemporary, though, and he had to admit that Jamie had a point. He quickly stripped off his clothes and put on Jamie’s spares. The only things of his own that he put back on were his boots and his dagger, which he hid inside of his right boot. Everything else he wrapped up in his cape and he then threw the bundle on top of the Pandorica.
Jamie had already changed trousers when Rory emerged from the cave. He had even beaten off most of the dirt on his coat. He looked like your average farmer heading into town to buy supplies. Rory hoped that anonymity would help him to go unnoticed when they reached Boston.
It had been a long time since Rory had seen a bustling city of reasonable size. The Boston he saw now was a far cry from the metropolis he heard about in the future, but it was hands above the small towns and villages he had visited while travelling up the east coast of South America and Mexico. There were people everywhere he looked and they rushed about like they all had somewhere to be. The constant motion was almost nauseating.
“The harbour’s this way,” said Jamie, pointing to the east. Without any tall buildings standing in the way, Rory could actually see the tops of ships’ masts. They walked along the cobblestones, avoiding the occasional horse and cart as they rode past. “Plenty of pubs near the harbour. Shouldna be hard to find a ship heading back to England.”
“Did you come here a lot?” asked Rory, trying to be subtle about his questioning.
“Dinnae fash. This is a big city. No one knows who I am.”
As they continued along, Rory began to share in Jamie’s optimism. People were too wrapped up in their own things to notice two more slightly shabby men walking through the crowd. In fact, it was Rory who drew more attention than Jamie due to the slight oversight that he wasn’t wearing a coat and it was the middle of October. He soon hunched his shoulders against the cool breeze coming off the harbour, making it seem like he was cold.
Around the harbour, the make-up of the crowd changed noticeably. Women with their wide skirts were absent and the only children running around were dirty and scrawny street urchins, like something out of a Dickens novel. The clothes of the men became less formal and more worn and the men themselves were scruffy and weathered from work and travel. A wide range of accents could be heard as crews shouted orders from ship to dock.
Despite the change in language, it was just like the other ports Rory had visited. There was a lot of diversity in the world but in places like these, where people worked hard to make ends meet, it was always the same. Product was moved to make money; no product meant no money and that could mean missing a meal. You had to keep moving or you would get swept away.
Red Ensign flags flapped atop the majority of the ships. It wasn’t a guarantee that the ship was bound for Great Britain, but it gave Rory hope. Somewhere in this harbour was his ride back home.
“Come on.” Jamie tugged on his arm, pulling him out of his reverie. “Ye willna learn anything just standin’ there.” With his hand still firmly clamped on Rory’s arm, he dragged him inside a tavern called the Green Dragon. Rory got the distinct feeling that Jamie wasn’t just eager to find him a ship. The smell of alcohol permeated the walls.
Even in the afternoon the tavern was full of patrons. A good percentage of the crowd were probably sailors who had just landed and were seeking something more than life on the water could offer. Rory bet that they were the men wolfing down bowls of stew and draining large mugs of beer. Somewhere in the room someone was playing a set of panpipes and a raucous game of cards had a group of men in the corner shouting jeers at each other.
The door to the tavern opened, admitting a beast of a man, who promptly shouldered past Rory and nearly knocked him off of his feet. He started to protest but then thought better of it.
“Start asking around,” suggested Jamie. “I’ll try to secure us some coin.” The Scot disappeared into the crowd before Rory could say anything.
He moved away from the door to avoid being trampled and managed to squeeze in-between two muscular men to sit at a spare stool at the bar. It felt clichéd, asking the barman for information, but realistically the man would know who most of these men were and which ships were set to sail again.
Rory waved at the barman to catch his attention and it was like being back at the Traveller’s Rest, Leadworth’s only pub. It was the only place in the village that was justifiably busy. Every other business just liked to say they were busy when really only twenty people would visit in a day and not even all at once. Even the hospital never saw the sorts of crowds that the Rest did.
The burly barman slammed down a refill for the patron next to Rory, spilling some of the ale on the bar. “What do you want?” he snapped, scratching his curly beard.
For a moment, Rory wasn’t sure if the man was asking for his order or telling him to bugger off. “Information?” he asked hopefully.
The barman crossed his arms over his barrel sized chest. “Make it quick. The payin’ customers are waitin’.”
The panpipes player started to play a livelier song and some of the more inebriated patrons started singing along. Rory had to raise his voice to be heard. “I’m looking for a ship bound for England. It has to be big enough to carry large cargo.”
The barman genuinely thought this over for a second or two, though Rory wasn’t sure how he was able to hear himself think over the noise. Foot stomping had been added to the off key singing. “Try Sally-Anne.”
Rory glanced around for a woman but then he realized that the barman had named a ship, not a person.
“Cap’n’s over there,” added the barman and he pointed to a man in a navy frock coat whose grey hair was pulled back into ponytail. He sat at one of the long tables, surrounded by other men eating, drinking, and singing.
“Thank-” began Rory, but the barman walked off to serve the other patrons before he could finish. He shrugged, hopped off the stool, and manoeuvred his way through the sea of bodies towards the ship captain.
The man sat hunched over the table, nursing a mug of wine. His attention was focused on scribbling down figures in a tattered notebook. Rory sat down on the bench across from him, but the man didn’t look up. He even seemed unfazed by the loud music.
Not wanting to insult the man who could, potentially, get him home, Rory took a more subtle approach to get the captain’s attention. He grabbed the mug of wine and dumped the remaining contents into the mug of the man sitting next to him, who looked ready to fall over. With the mug now empty, he placed it back in its original spot and waited for the captain to get thirsty. Rory endured another rollicking song before the captain reached out and absently brought the mug to his mouth. He tipped the mug back and then quickly frowned when no liquid touched his lips. The table top rattled when he slammed the mug down.
“Hi,” greeted Rory. “Can I buy you another?”
The captain noticed Rory for the first time and from his perspective it seemed like he had materialized out of thin air. “Can I help you with something?” he asked briskly. He regarded Rory with clear green eyes.
Rory considered a number of conversation starters, but then he thought of the captain’s notebook and its columns of figures. “I’m looking to book passage to England.”
The potential to make some money caused the man to perk right up. He closed his notebook and stowed it in the pocket of his coat. “You’ve come to the right place, friend. My name’s Harley.” He held out his hand to Rory.
They shook hands. Harley’s hand was dry and callused, hinting at a life spent on the seas. In contrast, Rory’s was smooth as, well, plastic. “You captain the Sally-Anne?”
“I do. She’s a fine ship. Spacious and sturdy enough to handle anything God’s willing to throw at her.”
Straight into the sales pitch. Harley didn’t waste any time. “Large enough to accommodate some personal cargo?”
Some of the enthusiasm leaked out of Harley’s expression, like air leaking out of a balloon. “How big?”
It dawned on Rory that it didn’t matter what he said. The Pandorica would take up space on an already packed ship. Harley could take on the box, but he would have to give up something in the process. A shipment of fine furs or bags of flour, items that would ensure him income. The Pandorica held no promises of future profits.
He saw no point in lying. “Big, larger than a carriage.”
Harley drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. “I will gladly take you, friend, but your cargo is another matter.”
“I’ll find another ship then.”
Harley chuckled. “My ship is the largest and the fastest. I do not brag. Ask any of the captains here. If you want you and your cargo to arrive together and in one piece, then you have no choice. It must be the Sally-Anne. I’m not turning you away, but you must know that I will charge what I see fit.”
“How much?”
“Fifty pounds, all up front.”
The captain’s honesty was refreshing, if not somewhat irritating. Rory could ask around but he got the feeling that he would arrive at the same answer that Harley was providing. “And if I don’t have the money?”
“I sail without you. I will return to Boston in the spring if you wish to begin saving now.”
Rory had nothing to add. He picked at a knot in the wood of the table, resisting the urge to overturn the entire thing.
Harley stood up and headed for the door. Just as he passed Rory, he paused. “If you were somehow able to procure the money through, let us say, a more expedient manner, I would not ask how you came upon the money so quickly.” He patted Rory on the shoulder and soon became lost in the throng.
Rory just sat there, stunned by what Harley had just suggested. Steal the money? That wasn’t very scrupulous, especially if Harley was willing to turn a blind eye. But it would get him back to England sooner rather than later.
“There ye are, mo caraid.” Jamie sat down in Harley’s vacated seat. His face was flushed and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He glanced hopefully into Harley’s discarded mug but frowned when he saw that it was empty.
“What have you been doing?” asked Rory, wondering if the Scot had been running around outside the entire time he had talked to Harley.
Jamie answered by dropping a handful of coins onto the table. It wasn’t much, probably a few pounds, but it was a few pounds more than what they had when they entered the tavern.
“You didn’t…?” Rory trailed off, afraid to ask where the money had come from.
Jamie shook his head. “I’m not a thief. If anything, I would steal cows, not coins. I earned this.” He smiled proudly at the fact and Rory couldn’t help but smile, too.
“That still begs the question: how?”
“Piper.” Jamie pointed to himself. “Pipes.” He pointed to something by the fireplace.
Arching his neck to see over the heads of everyone, Rory barely made out a skinny young man with flaming red hair. In his hands was the source of the music: the panpipes. As he listened, he noticed that the music had changed tempos and was a bit more subdued than what had been playing when Rory had first spoken with the barman and then with Harley. The singing had stopped as well, as the song wasn’t one that was recognizable.
“Enough for a hot meal, I’d say,” continued Jamie, eying a tray laden with food as a serving girl walked past the table.
Rory had this to say about Jamie McCrimmon. He was a simple man with simple needs. One night as free men. They could afford that. He would worry about finding the money in the morning.
Rory felt drunk.
That wasn’t to say he was drunk, seeing as alcohol had no effect on him, but he had spent the entire night in the Green Dragon and after spending hours surrounded by men drinking, carousing, and sometimes fighting, he had taken on that woolly head feeling through osmosis. The world was just slightly out of focus and he had to concentrate on not tripping over his own feet.
At last call, Rory had convinced Jamie that it was time to leave. The young man had conceded, but with great reluctance. He had taken up the panpipes again during the night and someone had produced a drum and that had gotten the tavern rocking. Rory had never seen so many smashed mugs. He was surprised the barman hadn’t kicked them out, but with all the drinking going on, the man had probably accumulated a nice fortune from beer sales alone.
The cold night air outside washed over Rory and he sucked it in. How he felt was just psychological, but if he believed that fresh air would help his head, then it would help. Next to him, Jamie tugged on his coat and his movements were a bit sluggish. Patrons had bought him numerous drinks and it was a small miracle that Jamie wasn’t passed out in the corner of the tavern. It must have been a Scottish thing.
A long forgotten habit took Rory in that moment and he looked up at the night sky. It was something almost everyone did after leaving the pub after a heavy night of drinking. He wasn’t sure what drove the compulsion. The stars looked brighter because of the alcohol? People looked up when they stumbled? Whatever the case, he looked up now, searching for those distant points of light. There was nothing to see, of course, and that helped to shake off the fuzziness of his thoughts more than anything else. This wasn’t the world he knew. He wasn’t home in Leadworth, hanging out with mates. He was a man with a mission.
“What are ye looking at?” Jamie looked up, too, and he stumbled slightly.
“Nothing,” said Rory, holding back a laugh. He gripped Jamie lightly by the elbow and led him down the street. They had spent the money thoroughly, which left nothing for a warm bed. Spending the rest of the twilight hours in the cave was likely, but it wasn’t as if Jamie was in any condition to complain.
They passed several other men in the street, all in varying stages of intoxication. Rory even saw one man urinating off the edge of the pier. He veered off to pull the man back from the edge when Jamie placed a hand on his arm.
“Mo caraid.”
Rory paused, but Jamie urged him to keep walking. “What’s wrong?”
“Dinnae it feel like we’re being watched?”
All eyes had been on Jamie for most of the night in the Green Dragon. Rory had figured the steady stream of alcohol would cloud people’s memory of the Scot, but maybe that hadn’t been the case. A casual drinker would still have his wits and turning in an escaped slave might net a reward.
They didn’t increase their pace, but Rory kept his ears peeled and sure enough he heard the scuff of leather shoes against the uneven cobblestones and it wasn’t the stumbling gait of tipsy drunk. It could have been someone on their way home, but he didn’t want to take the chance. Spying a narrow alley up ahead, Rory slowly steered them towards it.
“Act like you’re sick,” he whispered to Jamie.
The Scot put his hand to his stomach and doubled over with a moan. Rory half carried him to the alley and they wandered in a ways. Old barrels that stank like rotten fish were stacked up around the back entrance of one of the businesses. Rory had Jamie hunch over behind one of the barrels while he climbed a stack to the roof of the building. He laid down low but he still had a clear line of sight to the mouth of the alley. Cloaked in shadows he was practically invisible.
Down below, Jamie put on quite a performance. He made retching sounds that sounded so convincing that at one point Rory peeked over the edge of the roof to see that he was all right. He quickly scrambled back into place when he heard the approaching footsteps. There wasn’t enough light to make out the person’s features, but it was clearly a man, tall and lean. He slowly crept up to Jamie, intent on grabbing the back of the Scot’s coat.
Rory jumped down from the roof, tackling the man to the ground. He let out a yelp and then grunted in pain when Rory secured his arms behind his back and shoved him up against the wall of the building. The man wore one of those ridiculous white powder wigs and it had been knocked sideways from the tackle. It fell over one eye now and the man tossed his head around in an attempt to see properly.
Jamie stood up and walked over to the man. He lifted the white wig and peered at the man’s face. There wasn’t an instant recognition, but Rory chalked that up to the low light and the amount of alcohol Jamie had consumed. After a few seconds, Jamie’s memory was finally jogged. “Let him go,” he said to Rory.
Rory let go of the man’s arms and stepped back. He expected a friendly handshake or at least an amiable greeting from Jamie.
Jamie lashed out and punched the man in the nose.
It was a clumsy punch without much power behind it, but it still looked like it hurt for both men. The man’s head snapped back and his wig fell to the ground. He muttered a curse and pulled out a lace handkerchief from his coat pocket to hold to his nose. Meanwhile, Jamie shook his hand in pain as he swore in Gaelic, but he glared hotly at the man. He might have tried for another punch if Rory hadn’t swooped in between them.
“Whoa! Jamie, what are you doing?”
“No good mongrel!” A restraining hand from Rory kept Jamie from trying to charge forward.
“Calm down. Who is this man?” The hatred he saw in Jamie’s eyes was the sort of ire one usually reserved for murderers and rapists.
“He sold my laird into slavery!” Jamie’s gaze didn’t waver from the man. “We were already captured by the Redcoats. Ye dinnae need to take him!”
The man dabbed daintily at his nose with his handkerchief. His already hawkish nose was now large and swollen, but there was no blood. “James Robert McCrimmon.” His English accent was painfully upper class. It was so sharp it felt like his words would cut you. “I thought it was you.”
Rory didn’t like where the conversation was going. If the man knew Jamie, then it was bad news. “Who are you?” he asked the man.
“Grey,” snarled Jamie. “Poncey arse,” he muttered under his breath.
“Solicitor Grey,” the man corrected, ignoring the slight. “I saved your laird from the hangman’s noose. You should be grateful.”
“And ye pocketed a tidy sum at the same time.”
The warning bells started going off in Rory’s head. Grey was a slaver. Jamie’s laird, unlike Jamie himself, would never have the chance at freedom. He completely understood Jamie’s utter disgust of the man.
“If I remember correctly, McCrimmon, the Crown sold you into servitude. You seemed rather carefree back in the tavern for an indentured man.”
It was a subtle threat, but the implications were obvious. Grey knew that Jamie was a slave, one who was clearly not where he should be. He could turn the Scot in to the authorities and receive praise for being such a concerned citizen. Jamie, on the other hand, would be severely punished or maybe even hanged. They could leave Boston, but they would be looking over their shoulders the entire time.
Jamie balled his fists and his entire body shook with anger. Rory felt like he was trying to hold back a raging bull. “I ought to wring yer neck.”
“I work for the Governor,” said Grey, smiling smugly at them. “People, important people, will notice if I go missing.”
This was just getting worse by the second. Rory took a deep breath. There was only one they could do.
He turned and punched Grey in the face.
The man was knocked off of his feet and he crashed back into the opposite wall of the alley. Rory grabbed him by the front of his coat before he could fall over and break his nose on the hard packed ground.
“Ye can punch him, but I cannae?” protested Jamie.
“Just find an empty barrel,” said Rory. The Scot sighed but he did as requested. Rory, meanwhile, picked up Grey’s handkerchief and waded it up into a ball. He shoved into Grey’s mouth and then undid the man’s tie. He wrapped the tie around Grey’s mouth and knotted it tightly in the back. Grey, extremely woozy, tried to object, but his words were badly muffled by the gag.
“Here’s one.” Jamie pried off the lid of one of the barrels and immediately crinkled his nose.
Rory dragged Grey over, scuffing the man’s polished shoes. Showing little concern for the man’s comfort, he picked him up and dropped him into the barrel. It was large enough to accommodate a man but there was no room to move. Grey’s knees were pressed right up to his chest and one of his arms ended up splayed over his head. The stench of dead fish was overwhelming.
Rory took the lid from Jamie and shoved it back into place; he gave it a good twist just to make sure that it was secure. From his boot he pulled out his dagger. He wished he could have seen Grey’s face the first time the blade punctured the wood. A startled shout sounded from within the barrel, but it sounded more like someone sneezing. He stabbed the lid four more times, creating thin air holes.
“Come on.” He slipped his dagger back into the sheath and then back into his boot. Just as he started to head for the mouth of the alley, Jamie gave the barrel a good hard kick. It was too heavy to fall over, but another muffled cry sounded from within. Jamie nodded in gratification and then joined Rory out on the street.
“Are ye sure we cannae toss the barrel into the harbour?”
It was hard to tell if Jamie was joking or not. “It’ll be a few hours before anyone finds him and hopefully a few hours more before someone starts looking for him. That should give you plenty of time.”
“Time for what?”
They were far enough from the alley that Rory felt that they could talk freely. “Time for you to find a ship and get out of Boston.”
The Scot frowned at him. “Ye make it sound like yer not coming with me.”
“I can’t afford to ship the Pandorica, at least not now, but you should leave now, Jamie, while you have the chance. You can’t go back to that farm and you certainly can’t stay here.”
“I dinnae have the money,” argued Jamie. He sounded convinced that he had hit upon a valid argument for staying behind.
Rory reached into his pocket and pulled out a money purse bulging with coins and notes. He dropped it into Jamie’s hand. “It’s Grey’s. I took it from him while you were looking for a barrel. It’s probably more than enough to get you back to Scotland.”
“No, I cannae take this.” Jamie tried to give the purse back to him.
“Do I have to stick you in a barrel, too? They don’t know who I am. They won’t be looking for me. Find the Sally-Anne. It sounded like she was leaving soon. The captain won’t question who you are as long as he’s paid.”
Jamie weighed the purse in his hand, making some of the coins jingle. The earlier mischievous twinkle in his eye when he had kicked Grey’s barrel was gone. He was obviously annoyed with Rory, but he couldn’t tell if the Scot was actually considering his offer. The thought of returning to Scotland had probably occurred to him, but he never dreamed he would actually make it home after only four years in the colonies.
“If you wanted to help me, Jamie, this is it. Go back to Scotland, settle down, and live out a nice, quiet life.”
His hand closed around the purse. “All right,” he said softly. He looked up at Rory and mustered a smile. “Ye willna give up, will ye?”
Rory’s smile was just as bittersweet. “You know me too well.”
“Where will ye go?”
There weren’t a lot of options. He couldn’t stay in Boston. Maybe it was best to get out of the future United States altogether. Revolution was on its way. “North,” decided Rory. “I hear the people there are rather polite.”
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Date: 2013-08-08 05:22 am (UTC)Gods, I love Rory...I wish Jaime coulda hung around a little longer. Those two would have been thick as thieves in no time. But getting Jaime out was important. The Doctor would have approved...
*HUGS*
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Date: 2013-08-09 08:14 pm (UTC)