Seven Stones to Stand or Fall

by Diana Gabaldon

  “The thing is,” Malcolm said, turning back from the window with a frown of concentration upon his face, “they’ll know officially that war has been declared, as soon as the captain of that ship presents his letters to the governor. But do you think they know anything about the fleet?” He saw Grey’s raised eyebrow and added hastily, “I mean,—the ship bringing the declaration—if that’s truly what it is—they might have spotted the fleet or…—or heard word of it. In which case…”

  Grey shook his head.

  “It’s a big ocean, Malcolm,” he said. “And is there anything you’d do differently if the Spanish did know about the fleet?”

  He was rather impatient with Malcolm’s orderly exegesis. His own blood was up, and he needed to be moving.

  “Actually, yes. Number one being, run—both of us. If they think the British are about to be on their doorstep, the second thing the Spanish will do—after putting both forts on full alert—is round up every British citizen in Havana, very likely starting with me. If they don’t know that, we might still have a bit of time in hand.”

  Grey saw that Malcolm was needing to move, too; he’d begun to walk to and fro behind his desk, glancing out of the window each time he passed it. He was limping heavily; walking clearly hurt him, but he seemed oblivious to the pain.

  “The Mendez slaves will be nervous—well, they are already—but they’ll be bloody well stirred up by this news. I’ve got to go and talk to them, as quickly as possible. Reassure them, you know? If I don’t, they may very well take the declaration of war as a signal to fall upon their owners and slaughter them on the spot—which, aside from being generally deplorable in terms of humanity, would be a complete waste of their value to us.”

  “Deplorable, yes.” Grey felt a qualm at the thought of the inhabitants of Haciendas Mendez and Saavedra, sitting down peaceably to their suppers tonight, with no notion that they might be murdered at any moment by the servants bringing their food. It occurred to him—as perhaps it had to Malcolm—that the slaves of those two plantations were quite possibly not the only ones on the island of Cuba who might be inclined to take advantage of a British invasion to settle scores. But there wasn’t much either Malcolm or he could do about that.

  “You’d best go, then, at once. I’ll see to the women and children.”

  Malcolm was rubbing a hand fiercely over his face, as though this might assist thought.

  “Yes. You’ll have to get them off the island before the fleet arrives. Here, take this.” He pulled out a drawer and withdrew a small, fat leather pouch. “Spanish money—you’ll attract less attention. Cojimar—I think that’s your best bet.”

  “What and where is Cojimar?” Drums. There were drums now, beating a tattoo in the courtyard, and the clatter of boots and voices as men spilled out of the recesses of the fortress. How big was the force manning El Morro?

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken that last question aloud until Malcolm answered it, distracted.

  “About seven hundred soldiers, maybe another three hundred supportives—oh, and the African laborers; perhaps another three hundred of them—they don’t live in the fort, though.” He met Grey’s eyes and nodded, divining his next thought. “I don’t know. They might join our men, they might not. If I had time…” He grimaced. “But I don’t. Cojimar is—oh, wait.” Turning, he seized the wig he’d taken off earlier from his desk and thrust it into Grey’s hands.

  “Disguise,” he said, and smiled briefly. “You rather take the eye, John. Best if people don’t notice you on the street.” He snatched up the hat and crammed it on his own bare head, then unlocked the door and pulled it open, impatiently gesturing Grey ahead of him.

  John went, asking over his shoulder, “Cojimar?”

  “Fishing village.” Malcolm was looking up and down the corridor. “It’s east of Havana, maybe ten miles. If the fleet can’t get into the harbor, it’s the best anchorage for them. Small bay—oh, and a small fort, too. El Castillo de Cojimar. You’ll want to keep clear of that.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” John said dryly. “I’ll—” He’d been going to say that he’d send Tom Byrd with any news, but the words died in his throat. Malcolm would presumably be somewhere in the countryside, tending his slaves, by the time there was any news. That, or in captivity. Or—very possibly—dead.

  “Malcolm,” he said.

  Malcolm turned his head sharply and saw John’s face. He stopped dead for a moment, then nodded.

  “Olivia,” he said quietly. “Will you tell her—” He broke off and looked away.

  “You know I will.”

  He put out a hand, and Malcolm grasped it, hard enough that the bones shifted. When they let go, his skinned knuckle burned, and he saw that there was blood from it on Malcolm’s palm.

  They spoke no more but went out into the corridor, walking fast.

  THE WIG WOULD have been much too large, given Malcolm’s round-headed resemblance to an oversize muskmelon, but Grey’s own hair—yellow and noticeable, as Malcolm had so tactfully noted—was thick, and with it stuffed up inside the wig, the horsehair contrivance sat securely, if uncomfortably. He hoped that Malcolm didn’t suffer from lice but forgot such minor concerns as he made his way through the throngs of people in the street outside La Punta.

  There was an air of curiosity in the street; people glanced at the fortress as they passed, clearly sensing some disturbance from its daily routine. But the news had not yet spread; for that matter, Grey wondered whether the news had officially reached the office of the governor—or his sickbed, as the case might be. Neither he nor Malcolm had had any doubt; only the most urgent news would have got the cutter past the boom chain with such dispatch.

  The guard at the fortress’s street gate had given him no more than a casual glance before waving him through; as was the case in peacetime, there were nearly as many civilians as soldiers inside the fort, and there were plenty of fair-skinned, blue-eyed Spaniards. The cut of his suit was not in the Spanish style, but it was discreet and sober in color.

  He was going to need a horse—that was the first thing. He could walk ten miles, but doing so in his court shoes would be both slow and painful—and making the round-trip of twenty miles on foot…He glanced up at the sky; it was well past noon. Granted, in this latitude, the sun wouldn’t set before eight or nine o’clock, but…

  “Why the devil didn’t I ask Stubbs what the word for ‘horse’ is?” he muttered under his breath, threading his way through a district of fragrant market stalls filled with fruit—he recognized plantains, of course, and papayas, mangoes, coconuts, and pineapples, but there were odd dark-green things that he’d not seen before, with pebbly skins, and lighter-green objects that he thought might be custard apples—whatever they were, they smelled delicious. His stomach growled—despite the octopus, he was starving—but then his head snapped round as he smelled something of a distinctly different nature. Fresh manure.

  IT WAS VERY LATE by the time he finally returned to Casa Hechevarria that night. A full moon sailed high overhead, and the air was thick with smoke and orange blossom and the smell of slowly roasting meat. He’d eaten in Cojimar easily enough, merely pointing at things in the tiny market square and offering what appeared to be the smaller coins in his pouch, but Cojimar was no more than a sunstruck distant memory, and he was starving again.

  He slid off the rented mule, wrapped the creature’s reins over the railing in front of the house, and went to hammer on the door. His arrival had been noticed, though, and soft lantern light flooded out upon him as he came up the shallow wooden steps.

  “Is that you, me lord?” Tom Byrd, bless him, stood framed in the open doorway, lantern in hand and round face creased with worry.

  “What’s left of me,” Grey said. He cleared his throat, clogged with dust, spat into the flowering bush by the portico, and limped into the house. “Get someone to see to the mule, will you, Tom?”

  “Right away, me lord. What’s amiss with your foot, though?�
� Tom fixed an accusing gaze on Grey’s right foot.

  “Nothing.” Grey made his way into the sala, dimly lit by a small candle before a holy picture of some sort—there were things with wings in it, which must be angels—and sat down with a sigh of relief. “The heel of my shoe came off whilst I was helping the mule out of a rocky ditch.”

  “He fell into a ditch with you, me lord?” Tom was deftly lighting more candles with a spill and now lifted this in order to examine Grey more closely. “I thought mules was meant to be sure-footed.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with his feet, either,” Grey assured him, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment. The candlelight made red patterns on the insides of his eyelids. “I’d stopped for a piss, and he took the opportunity of my inattention to walk down into said ditch, which he did without the slightest difficulty, by the way. There were some of these things growing on the bushes there that he wanted to eat.” Fumbling in his pocket, Grey produced three or four small, smooth green fruits.

  “I tried to lure him out with a handful, but he was happy as he was, and eventually I was obliged to resort to force.” Said force being applied by two young black women passing by, who had laughed at Grey’s predicament but then resolved it, one of the women tugging at the reins and addressing the mule in what sounded like deeply pejorative terms while her friend prodded it sternly in the backside with a stick. Grey yawned hugely. At least he’d learned the word for mule—mula, which seemed very reasonable—along with a few other things that might come in handy.

  “Is there any food, Tom?”

  “Those are guavas, me lord,” Tom said, nodding at the little fruits, which Grey placed on a side table. “You make jelly from ’em, but they maybe won’t poison you if you eat ’em raw.” He’d knelt and got Grey’s shoes off in a matter of seconds, then stood and deftly plucked the battered wig off Grey’s head, viewing it with an expression of deep disapproval. “I mean, if you can’t wait while I go rouse the cook.”

  “Don’t do that. It must be past midnight.” Grey dubiously prodded one of the guavas, which seemed unripe—it was hard as a golf ball.

  “Never mind, me lord, there’ll be cold stuff in the larder,” Tom assured him. “Oh—” he added, stopping at the door, wig dangling from one hand, “I forgot to say as Her Grace is gone.”

  “Her Gr—what? Where the devil has she gone?” Grey sat up straight, all thoughts of food, bed, and sore feet vanishing.

  “A note came from a Señora Valdez late this morning, me lord, saying as how Mrs. Stubbs and her little girl was both ill with fever and asking would Her Grace please come. So she went,” he added unnecessarily, and vanished, too. “Chingado huevón!” Grey said, standing up.

  “What did you say, me lord?” Tom’s voice came from somewhere down the hall.

  “I don’t know. Never mind. Get the food, please, Tom. And beer, if there is any.”

  A faint laugh, cut off by the muffled thump of a swinging door. He looked round the room, wanting to do something violent, but an ancient cat curled up on the back of a stuffed chair opened its great green eyes and glared at him out of the twilight, disconcerting him.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and turned away. So, not only were Olivia and family not headed back to Havana, his mother had decamped—how long ago had she left? She couldn’t have made it to the Valdez plantation before dark; she must be somewhere on the road—and as for Rodrigo and Azeel, God knew where they were. Had they even reached Olivia’s rural hideaway yet?

  He strode restlessly to and fro, the stone-tiled floor cool through his stockings. He had no idea in which direction the Valdez plantation lay; how far might it be from Cojimar?

  Not that it mattered, if Olivia and her daughter were too ill to travel. A moment ago, his mind had been as exhausted as his body, empty of thought. Now he felt as though his head were filled with ants, all rushing in different directions, each with tremendous determination.

  He could find a wagon. But how sick were they? He couldn’t load desperately ill people into a wagon, drive them ten, twenty, thirty miles over rocky trails, and then decant them into a boat, which might take how long to reach a safe haven….—What about food and water? The peón—that’s what someone had called him, he had no idea what it meant—with whom he’d arranged to rent a small boat had promised water;—he could buy food, but—Jesus, how many people could he get aboard? Could he leave Rodrigo and Azeel, to be rescued later? No, he’d need them to talk with the boatman, and to help, if half his passengers were prostrate and heaving, needing to be tended. What if more of the party fell ill on the way? What if the boatman succumbed to fever? What if his mother caught the fever and died at sea?

  He could all too easily envision himself making landfall on some godforsaken shore of the southern colonies with a boatload of his dead or dying family and servants…

  “No!” he said aloud, clenching his fists. “No, that’s bloody not going to happen.”

  “What’s not going to happen?” Tom inquired, backing into the room with a small wheeled table, festooned with edibles. “There’s a lot of beer, me lord. You could bathe in it, should the fancy take you.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He closed his eyes briefly and took several deep breaths. “Thank you, Tom.”

  Plainly, he couldn’t do anything tonight, and no matter what he did in the morning, he’d do it better if he had food and rest.

  Hungry as he’d been half an hour before, his appetite seemed now to have deserted him. He sat down, though, and forced himself to eat. There were small patties of some kind of blood sausage, made with onions and rice, a hard cheese, the light, thin-crusted Cuban bread—he thought he’d heard someone call it a flauta, could that be right? Pickled vegetables of some kind. Beer. More beer.

  Tom was hovering nearby, quiet but watchful.

  “Go to bed, Tom. I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s good, me lord.” Tom didn’t bother trying to look as though he believed Grey; there was a deep crease between his valet’s brows. “Is Captain Stubbs all right, me lord?”

  Grey took a deep breath and another mouthful of beer.

  “He was quite well when we parted this afternoon. As for tomorrow…” He hadn’t meant to tell Tom anything until tomorrow; no point in destroying his sleep and peace of mind. But from the look on his young valet’s face, it was much too late for any such kindly procrastinations.

  “Sit down,” Grey said. “Or, rather, get another cup and then sit down.”

  By the time he had finished explaining matters to Tom, nothing remained of his meal save crumbs.

  “And Captain Stubbs means to make these slaves come into Havana and…do what?” Tom looked both horrified and curious.

  “That, fortunately, is Captain Stubbs’s concern. Did my mother say anything about the state of Olivia and her daughter? How ill they might actually be?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “No, me lord. But from the look on her face—Her Grace’s face, I mean—the news must’ve been pretty bad. I’m sorry to say. She even left her story behind.” Tom’s face was grave in the flickering shadows. He’d lighted half a dozen thick candles, and despite muslin covering the windows, clouds of tiny insects had filtered into the room like dust, their minuscule shadows frantic on the dim white walls.

  The sight made Grey itch. He’d been ignoring insects all day and sported more than a dozen mosquito bites on neck and arms. A high, mocking zeeeee! sang past his ear, and he slapped at it in futile reflex. The gesture made Tom brighten.

  “Oh!” he said. “Wait a bit, me lord, I’ve got summat for you.”

  He returned almost at once with a stoppered vial of blue glass, looking pleased with himself.

  “Try that, me lord,” he said, handing it to his employer. Grey pulled the stopper, and a delicious, rich scent floated out.

  “Coconut oil,” Tom said proudly. “The cook uses it, and she gave me some. I mixed the mint into it, for good measure, but she says the mosquitoes don�
�t like the oil. Flies do,” he added judiciously, “but most of them don’t bite.”

  “Thank you, Tom.” Grey had shucked his coat to eat; he rolled up his shirtsleeves and anointed himself, rubbing it into every inch of exposed skin. Something occurred to him.

  “What did you mean, Tom? About my mother leaving her story behind—a book of some sort?”

  “Well, I don’t know as whether it might be a book,” Tom said dubiously. “It’s not one yet, but the servants say she writes some of it every day, so sooner or later…”

  “She’s writing a book?”

  “So Dolores said, me lord. It’s in there.” He turned and lifted his chin toward the secretaire that Grey had seen his mother use—Christ, had it been only this morning?

  Consumed by curiosity, Grey got up and opened the secretaire. Sure enough, there was a small stack of written pages, neatly bound with blue tape. The page on top was a title page—evidently she did mean it to be a book. It said, simply, My Life.

  “A memoir?”

  Tom shrugged.

  “Dunno, me lord. None of the servants can read English, so they don’t know.”

  Grey was torn between amusement, curiosity, and a certain unease. To the best of his knowledge, his mother had led a rather adventurous life—and he was well aware that his knowledge of that life was limited, by unspoken mutual consent. There were a lot of things he didn’t want her to know about his own life; he could respect her secrets. Though, if she was writing them down…

  He touched the manuscript lightly, then closed the lid of the secretaire. Food, beer, and the living, candlelit silence of the Casa Hechevarria had quieted both his body and his mind. He could think of a thousand possibilities, but in fact, there was only one thing he could do: ride to the Valdez plantation as fast as he could and assess the situation when he got there.

  Two weeks—about—before the British fleet arrived. Two weeks minus one. God willing, that would be enough time for him to sort things out.