Seven Stones to Stand or Fall

by Diana Gabaldon

  He had an army.

  TOO LATE. That was his first thought when he heard the firing of artillery in the distance as they approached the city. The British fleet had arrived, and the siege of Havana was begun. A moment’s heavy breathing, though, and the panic passed. It didn’t matter, he realized, and a wave of relief went over him.

  Ever since Malcolm had first sprung this plan on him, the matter of timing had been in his mind: the notion that the slaves’ raid must happen just before the arrival of the fleet. But Malcolm’s reference had been with respect to his original plan, having the slaves sabotage the boom chain, to allow the fleet into the harbor.

  That truly wouldn’t have worked, unless the fleet was in sight when the chain was sunk; any delay and the Spaniards would have it raised again. But the spiking of the fortress’s guns…that would be helpful at any time.

  Granted, he thought, tilting his head to try to gauge the direction of the firing, it would certainly be more dangerous to carry out such a mission with the fortress’s gun crews in place. On the other hand, said gun crews would be focused entirely on their business. It was very likely that the gun crews would be taken completely unaware. For the first few moments.

  It was going to be a bloody business, on both sides. He didn’t like the thought but didn’t shy away from it. It was war, and he was—once again—a soldier.

  Still, his mind was uneasy. He had no doubt of the slaves’ ferocity or their will, but to pit completely untrained, lightly armed men against practiced soldiers in close combat…

  Wait. Perhaps a night attack—could that be managed? He reined his mule in to a walk, the better to think it out.

  With the British Navy on their doorstep, the guns of El Morro would never sleep—but neither would they necessarily be manned at full strength during the night watches. He’d seen enough, during his brief excursion to Cojimar, to convince him that the small harbor there was the only possible base for an attack on Morro Castle. What were the distances?

  General Stanley had referred repeatedly to an intended siege of Havana. Clearly the navy knew about the boom chain, and, just as clearly, an effective siege must be mounted from the ground, not from ships. So—

  “Señor!” A shout from the line of wagons broke his train of thought, but he tucked the notion safely away for further analysis. He didn’t want the slaves to be butchered, if it could be helped; still less did he want to suffer the same fate.

  THEY WERE WELL in sight of the city wall of Havana now. In one way, the fleet’s arrival was fortuitous: A city under siege needed food, above all things. Faced with the problem of getting a hundred slaves past the city guard, Hamid had suggested loading the plantation wagons with anything that came to hand and letting each wagon be accompanied by a half dozen men, there presumably to do the unloading and delivery. Between the two plantations, they could muster ten wagons—with driver and assistant, that was eighty men. The rest could easily slip in by ones and twos.

  A decent plan, but what, Grey had asked, about the plantations’ owners, their servants? It would take time to load wagons, and their departure couldn’t be easily concealed. An alarm would be raised, surely?

  No, no, he was assured. The wagons were kept in barns near the fields. The loading would happen by night; they would be gone before daylight. And, Cano added, through Azeel, the female slaves who worked in the house could be relied upon to create distractions, as necessary. The thought made him grin his empty black grin, wolf teeth flashing yellow in the lantern light.

  It had worked, insofar as no one had come shouting out of the hacienda, demanding to know what was going on as the wagons rumbled out by moonlight. Now, what might happen when the owners and overseers discovered that a hundred able-bodied slaves were missing…

  But whatever distractions the women had devised had evidently been effective. No one had pursued them.

  He stopped the wagons just out of sight of the city gate, had a hasty check-round with the various teams, reassuring the men and making sure everyone knew where and when they were to meet—and that all the machetes were carefully concealed. Even though he had packed away his uniform and was once more in mufti—complete with Malcolm’s wig—he thought it better not to come into Havana with the wagons. He would go back to the Casa Hechevarria with Rodrigo and Azeel and find out from Jacinto what the news of the invasion was; Inocencia would try to speak with Malcolm in Morro Castle and, in the process, discover anything in the present situation that might be of strategic value.

  “Muchas gracias, my dear,” he told her, and bowed low over her hand. “Azeel, please tell her that we could not even contemplate this venture without her courage and help. The entire British Navy is in her debt.”

  Inocencia’s lips made a smile, and she bobbed her head in response, but Grey could see that she was trembling with exhaustion, and her brilliant eyes were sunk in her face. Tears quivered on her lashes.

  “It will be all right,” he said, taking her hand. “We will succeed—and we will rescue Señor Stubbs. I promise you.”

  She swallowed and nodded, wiping her face on the edge of her filthy apron. Her mouth twitched, as though she meant to say something, but she changed her mind and, pulling her hand free, dropped him a curtsy, turned, and hurried away, lost at once in the crowd of women in the market, all pushing and shouting in an effort to procure food.

  “She is afraid,” Azeel said quietly, behind him.

  She’s not the only one…He’d felt a coldness at the bone ever since he walked into the tobacco shed, and it hadn’t gone away, though the day was bright and sunny. There was a small flame of excitement at the prospect of action, though, and it was normal for the nerves to be raw—

  There was a sharp report from the direction of El Morro, echoed at once by another, and he was suddenly on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec, the cannon firing from the walls, and the army waiting, waiting there on the open ground, waiting in the agony of delay…

  He shook himself like a dog and felt better.

  “It will be all right,” he said again, firmly, and turned in to the Calle Yoenis.

  HE COULD TELL at once that something had happened. There was no singing, no chatter from the patio, no one working in the garden. He did hear muted voices, and food was being cooked—but there was no spice in the air. Only the slightly soapy smell of long-boiled beans and scorched eggs.

  He walked rapidly through the empty front rooms, and his heart stopped as he heard a baby’s high-pitched squall.

  “Olivia?” he called. The muted voices paused, though the baby’s mewling continued.

  “John?” His mother stepped out of the sala, peering into the murk of the unlighted corridor. She was disheveled, her hair in a half-unraveled plait, and she had a tiny baby in her arms.

  “Mother.” He hurried to her, his heart suddenly feeling as though it had come loose in his chest. She took a step toward him that brought her face into the bar of sunlight from a window, and one look told him.

  “Jesus,” he said under his breath, and reached out to embrace her, draw her close, as though he could fix her in space, prevent her talking, put off knowing for one minute more. She was shaking.

  “Olivia?” he said quietly into her hair, and felt her nod. The baby had stopped fussing but was moving between them, odd, small, tentative proddings.

  “Yes,” his mother said, and drew a long, quivering breath. He let go of her and she stepped back in order to look him in the face. “Yes, and poor little Ch-Charlotte, too.” She bit her lip briefly and straightened herself.

  “The yellow fever has two stages,” she said, and lifted the child to her shoulder. It had a head like a small cantaloupe, and Grey was reminded shockingly of its father. “If you survive the first stage—it lasts several days—then sometimes you recover. If not, there’s a lull in the fever—a day or two when the—the person seems to be improving, but then…it comes back.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, and he wondered when she had last slept.
She looked at once a thousand years old and ageless, like a stone.

  “Olivia,” she said, and opened her eyes, patting the child’s tiny back, “recovered, or seemed to. Then she went into labor, and—” She lifted the baby slightly in illustration. “But the next day…it came back. She was dead in—in hours. It took Charlotte a day later…she was…so small. So fragile.”

  “I am so sorry,” Grey said softly. He had been fond of his cousin, but his mother had raised Olivia from the age of ten, when his cousin had lost her own parents. A thought came to him.

  “Cromwell?” he asked, afraid to hear but needing to know. He’d delivered Olivia’s son, very much by accident, but as a result had always felt close to the boy.

  His mother gave him a watery smile.

  “He’s fine. The fever never touched him, thank God. Nor this little one.” She cupped a hand behind the infant’s fuzzy skull. “Her name is Seraphina. Olivia had time…to hold her, at least, and give her a name. We christened her at once, in case…”

  “Give her to me, Mother,” he said, and took the child from her arms. “You need to go and sit down, and you need something to eat.”

  “I’m not—” she began automatically, and he interrupted her.

  “I don’t care. Go sit down. I’ll go and blow up the cook.”

  She tried to give him a smile, and the twitch of her lips reminded him with a jolt of Inocencia. And everything else. His own mourning would have to wait.

  IF YOU HAD TO attack a fortress at night, on foot and lightly armed, doing it with black men was distinctly an advantage, Grey thought. The barely risen moon was a crescent, a thread of light against the dark sky. Cano’s men had removed their shirts and, dressed only in rough canvas breeches, they were no more than shadows, flowing barefoot and silent through the empty marketplace.

  Cano himself materialized suddenly behind Grey’s shoulder, announced by a waft of foul breath.

  “Ahorita?” he whispered. Now?

  Grey shook his head. Malcolm’s wig was wadded up in his pocket and he had assumed instead an infantryman’s cap—a contrivance of steel plates, punctured and laced together, to be worn under a uniform hat—this covered with a black knitted cap. He felt as though his head were melting, but it would turn the blade of a sword—or a machete.

  “Inocencia,” he murmured, and Cano grunted in reply and faded back into the night. The girl wasn’t yet late; the church bells had only just rung midnight.

  Like any self-respecting fortress, El Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro—the Castle of the Three Magi of the Hump, as Azeel had kindly translated its full name for him—the hump being the big black rock at the opening of the harbor—had only one way in and one way out. It also had steeply sloping walls on all sides, to deter both climbers and cannonballs.

  True, there were small penetrations on the water side, used for the disposal of garbage or inconvenient bodies, or for the arrival of provisions or the secret deliverance of a guest or prisoner held incognito. Those were of no use in the present venture, though, as the only possible approach was by boat.

  One bell bonged the quarter hour. Two for the half hour. Grey had just pulled his head covering off in order to avoid fainting when there was a stir in the darkness nearby.

  “Señor?” said a soft, low voice by his elbow. “Es listo. Venga!”

  “Bueno,” he whispered back. “Señor Cano?”

  “Aquí.” Cano was aquí, so quickly that Grey realized the man must have been standing no more than a few feet away.

  “Venga, then.” Grey moved his head toward the fortress, then paused to put on his two caps. By the time he had managed this, they were all there, a breathing mass like a herd of cattle, eyes shining now and then in an errant gleam of light.

  He took Inocencia by the arm, to prevent her being lost or trampled, and they walked quietly into the small stone guardhouse that shielded the castle’s entrance, for all the world like a bride and groom walking sedately into church, followed by a horde of machete-wielding wedding guests.

  This absurd fancy disappeared directly as they stepped into the torchlit room. There were four guards, one slumped over a table, the others on the floor. Inocencia shuddered under his hand, and, glancing at her in the flickering light, he saw that her dark dress was torn at the shoulder, and her lip was bleeding. She had drugged the guards’ wine, but evidently it hadn’t acted fast enough.

  “Bueno,” he whispered to her, and squeezed her arm. She didn’t smile but nodded, swallowed hard, and gestured toward the door on the other side of the guards’ room.

  This was the entrance to the fortress proper, portcullis and all, and his heart began to beat in his ears as they passed beneath its teeth with no sound but the shuffle of feet and the occasional clink from the bags of metal spikes.

  He had gone over and over the maps of the floors, knew where the batteries were—though not which ones were manned at the moment. Inocencia led them into a broad corridor half-lit by torches, with doors on either side. She jerked her chin upward—a stairway at the end.

  Up. He could hear the panting of the men behind him—even barefoot they made a lot of noise; surely they would be heard.

  They were. A surprised-looking guard stood at the head of the stair, his musket still on his shoulder. Grey rushed him and knocked him down; the men behind him knocked him down and trampled him in their eagerness. There was a gurgle and the smell of blood, and something wet soaked through the knee of his breeches.

  Up again, no longer in the lead, following the rush of men. He had lost Inocencia but saw her up ahead, being pulled along by Hamid and another of the Mussulman slaves, heads covered with dark bandannas. Another stair, pushing and shoving, grunting bodies hot for a fight.

  The next guard had his musket out and fired on them. Shouts from the guard, though he was quickly borne down. Shouts from beyond him and a draft of cold air—the first battery, on the rooftop.

  “Primero!” Grey bellowed, and a gang of slaves rushed the first cannon. He didn’t wait to see how they fared; he was already plunging down a stairwell at the far end of the roof, shouting, “Segundo!” at the top of his voice, then pawing and shoving through a clot of slaves and cannon crew that had poured after him and collided, struggling in the narrow space at the foot of the stair.

  He shouted, “Tres! Tres!” but he couldn’t be heard. The air was thick with shrieks and curses and the reek of blood and sweat and fury.

  He pushed out of the scrum and pressed himself against a wall, panting for breath. They were gone now, out of anyone’s control. He heard the dull bong of hammer on iron, though—at least one man had remembered their purpose…then the ring and clash of others, striking through the riot. Yes!

  Suddenly the Mussulman who had accompanied Hamid burst out of the crowd, Inocencia clutched by the arm. He hurled her at Grey like a bag of wheat and he caught her in much the same way, grunting at the impact.

  “Jesús, Maria, Jesús, Maria,” she was gasping, over and over. She was splattered with blood, blotches showing wet on the black of her dress, and her eyes showed white all around.

  “Are you hurt? Er…dolor?” he shouted in her ear. She stared at him, dazed.

  He must get her out. She’d done all she promised.

  “Venga!” he shouted in her ear, and jerked her after him, back toward the stair.

  “No!” she panted, setting her heels. “Allí!” He didn’t know that word, but she was dragging him toward the far end of the corridor. This meant leapfrogging squirming bodies on the floor, but he followed her without demur, throwing his body between her and a cannoneer armed with a ramrod. It hit him in the shoulder, numbing his arm, but didn’t knock him down. Someone had dropped a bag of spikes, spilling them on the floor, and he nearly fell as these rolled under his feet, clinking on the stones.

  They had almost reached the momentary sanctuary of the stairhead when something hit him on the head and he collapsed to his knees. His vision had gone black and his ears w
ere ringing, but through it he could hear Inocencia shrieking at the top of her voice, calling his name.

  He struggled blindly, trying to reach the wall so he could get up, but another blow came in from the right. It was a machete—he heard the blade rip the air an instant before the dull thunk of metal rang through his head.

  Shock and nausea rocked him back against the wall, but he had a hand on the dagger at his waist. He scrabbled it free and, crouching as low as he could, flung himself round on his knees, slashing. He hit someone. The impact jarred the knife from his hand, but his vision was coming back and he found the dagger again, through flashing black and white lights.

  Another scream from Inocencia, this one pure terror. He stumbled to his feet, dagger in hand. A scarred back just before him…Cano brought down his machete with murderous force and Inocencia dropped to the floor, blood spraying from her head. Without a second’s hesitation, Grey thrust the dagger up beneath the man’s ribs, as hard as he could.

  Cano stiffened, dropped his machete, clattering. He swayed, and fell, but Grey was already by Inocencia’s side, scooping her into his arms.

  “Fucking bloody hell, oh, bloody hell, please, God…” He staggered with her into the stairwell and leaned against the wall for a moment, fighting for breath. She stirred, saying something he couldn’t hear for the ringing in his ears.

  “No…” He shook his head, meaning that he didn’t understand, and she flung out a hand, pointing down, emphatically, down, down!

  “All right.” He took a tighter hold and caromed down the narrow stair, slipping and crashing into the stones, then finding his footing once again. He could hear the battle still raging above—but also heard through the fading buzz in his ears the clash of steel and hammers.

  He tried to exit at the next landing, but she was having none of it and urged him down, still down. The spots were thickening at the corners of his eyes again, and he smelled damp and seaweed, the brackish scent of low tide.