EXCERPT FROM PATHS OF HOPE, Chapter 1
Fort
George, Massachusetts, March 2, 1723
They
have come. Unrelenting and merciless – the beat of the military drums sound
down to my dungeon deep below. Making my ears ring, every single beat of the
drum resounds like a lash of the whip filling me with dread, pain and
anticipation. Thinking of what lies ahead I shudder and wish my mind were as
empty as this dismal chamber, in which I have been held prisoner for months. If
only I could thoughtlessly stare at these damp walls and watch the dripping water
drops impress their moist traces on the mossy stone bricks and simply accept my
fate. But my human mind will not let me. I know all too well that it cannot
take much longer before they come and get me. To make the most of the remaining
time, I’m scribbling these lines that may be the last into this book.
Only
a few days ago I was still hoping for pardon. Now my destiny has finally been
sealed. A cold shiver creeps over my body and heart at the very thought of what
will happen should I reach London alive. The question of if it will happen is
no longer relevant. It is rather a matter of when, since the end of my life has
been decided. They have accused me of high treason and of collaborating with
conspirators. The day of my execution is drawing near – July 28, three days
before I turn twenty-two.
This
very second I feel the bitter smile of foreboding on my face. The barbarous
penalty inflicted on people convicted of high treason is no secret. They are
hanged, drawn and quartered. Hanging and drawing do not necessarily warrant
instant death. Some delinquents may witness the burning of their intestines
before their heart stops beating. And London’s executioners are known to be skilled
masters of their craft.
Although
the thought of my own death makes me tremble, the gnawing sense of uncertainty
is greater. I have no idea of what will become of my fellow prisoners I am
forced to leave behind today. The very people I love most dearly – my father,
Alastair MacDonnell, and my two brothers Willeam and Columban. We’ll probably never
see each other again. Nor will I ever be able to feel their reassuring
closeness again. This pain is unbearable! May the Almighty protect them in this
godforsaken world and spare them my fate. If they are, however, destined to die
I ray for their quick and painless deaths. Steps are approaching the chamber
door. My time has come…
I placed
the pencil between the pages and closed the cloth-bound booklet. In frenzy my
fingers hastily tucked at and tied the leather tape that kept the cover and
pages together.
A key
turned in the lock and it jumped open with a metal click. I let the diary
disappear in the bosom of my dress and pushed it so far down towards my hinds,
that it was no longer visible. Then I tidied my skirt. Just in time before the
heavy wooden door swung open, accompanied by the familiar lamenting squeal
sounding even more baleful in the winter morning.
“Gwenyth
Mary MacDonnell are you ready?” The gentle sounding voice of the fort’s
military surgeon, Adam Grant, inquired behind me.
Of course not, how could I possibly be?
Nevertheless, I somehow managed to face him and nod.
