What it might mean to them all. I drew breath, uneasy. War. Battle. Uncertainty, save for the certainty of danger. The danger of illness or accident, for Brianna and Jem. The danger of death in the toils of childbirth, if she was again with child. And for Roger—danger both of body and soul. His head had healed, but I saw the stillness at the back of his eyes, when he thought of Randall Lillywhite.
“Oh, aye,” Roger said, softly, invisible behind me. “I have thought—and am still thinking … m’ athair-cèile.”
I smiled a little, to hear him call Jamie “father-in-law,” but the tone of his voice was altogether serious.
“Shall I tell ye what I think? And you will tell me?”
“Aye, do that. There is time still, for thinking.”
“I have been thinking, lately, of Hermon Husband.”
“The Quaker?” Jamie sounded surprised. Husband had left the colony with his family, after the battle of Alamance. I thought I heard that they had gone to Maryland.
“Aye, him. What d’ye think might have happened, had he not been a Quaker? Had he gone ahead, and led the Regulators to their war?”
Jamie grunted slightly, thinking.
“I dinna ken,” he said, though he sounded interested. “Ye mean they might have succeeded, with a proper leader?”
“Aye. Or maybe not—they’d no weapons, after all—but they would have done better than they did. And if so—”
We had come within sight of the house, now. Light was glowing in the back windows as the hearth-fire was stoked up for the evening, the candles lit for supper.
“What’s going to happen here—I am thinking, had the Regulation been properly led, perhaps it would have started here and then; not three years from now, in Massachusetts.”
“Aye? And if so, what then?”
Roger gave a brief snort, the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
“Who knows? I know what’s going on in England now—they are not ready, they’ve no notion of what they’re risking here. If war were to break out suddenly, with little warning—if it had broken out, at Alamance—it might spread quickly. It might be over before the English had a clue what was happening. It might have saved years of warfare, thousands of lives.”
“Or not,” Jamie said dryly, and Roger laughed.
“Or not,” he agreed. “But the point there is this; I think there are times for men of peace—and a time for men of blood, as well.”
Brianna had reached the house, but turned and waited for the rest of us. She had been listening to the conversation, too.
Roger stopped beside her, looking up. Bright sparks flew from the chimney in a firework shower, lighting his face by their glow.
“Ye called me,” he said at last, still looking up into the blazing dark. “At the Gathering, at the fire.”
“Seas vi mo lâmh, Roger an t’oranaiche, mac Jeremiah mac Choinneich,” Jamie said quietly. “Aye, I did. Stand by my side, Roger the singer, son of Jeremiah.”
“Seas vi mo lâmh, a mhic mo thaighe,” Roger said. “Stand by my side—son of my house. Did ye mean that?”
“Ye know that I did.”
“Then I mean it, too.” He reached out and rested his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, and I saw the knuckles whiten as he squeezed.
“I will stand by you. We will stay.”
Beside me, Brianna let out the breath she had been holding, in a sigh like the twilight wind.
111
AND YET GO OUT
TO MEET IT
The big clock candle had burned down a little, but there were still a good many of the black rings that marked the hours. Jamie dropped the stones back into the pool of melted wax around the flame: one, two, three—and blew it out. The fourth stone, the big topaz, was ensconced in a small wooden box, which I had sewn up in oiled cloth. It was bound for Edinburgh, consigned to Mrs. Bug’s cousin’s husband, who, with his banking connections, would manage the sale of the stone, and—with the deduction of a suitable commission for his help—would see the funds transmitted to Ned Gowan.
The accompanying letter, lying sealed in the box with the stone, charged Ned to determine whether one Laoghaire MacKenzie was living with a man in a state tantamount to marriage—and if so, further charged him to declare the contract between one Laoghaire MacKenzie and one James Fraser to be fulfilled, whereupon the funds from the sale of the stone were to be placed on deposit in a bank, to be used for the dowry of one Joan MacKenzie Fraser, daughter of the aforesaid Laoghaire, when she should marry.
“You’re sure you don’t want to ask Ned particularly to tell you who the man is?” I asked.
He shook his head firmly.
“If he chooses to tell me, that’s fine. And if he doesna, that’s fine, as well.” He looked up at me with a faint, wry look. Unsatisfied curiosity was to be his penance, evidently.
Down the hall, I could hear Brianna simultaneously talking to Mrs. Bug and admonishing Jemmy, then Roger’s voice, interrupting, and Jemmy’s excited squeal as Roger swept him up into the air.
“Do you think Roger chose well?” I asked quietly. I was very glad of Roger’s decision—and knew that Jamie was, as well. But in spite of the peculiar perspective that Brianna, Roger, and I had on coming events, I knew that Jamie had far better an idea of what was truly coming. And if the stone passage had its dangers, so did war.
He paused, thinking, then leaned past me, reaching for a small volume at the end of the bookcase. It was bound cheaply in cloth, and much used; an edition of Thucydides he had acquired in the wildly optimistic hope that Germain and Jemmy might eventually learn sufficient Greek to read it.
He opened the book gently, to keep the pages from falling out. Greek lettering looked to me like the conniptions of an ink-soaked worm, but he found the bit he was looking for with no difficulty.
“The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding go out to meet it.”
The words were before him, and yet I thought he was not reading them from the paper, but from the pages of his memory, from the open book of his heart.
The door slammed, and I heard Roger shouting outside now, cracked voice raised in warning, calling out to Jemmy, and then his laugh, deep and half-choked, as Bree said something to him, a lighter sound too far away to hear in words.
Then they moved away, and there was silence, save for the sough of the wind in the trees.
“The bravest are those who have the clearest vision. Well, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” I said softly. I laid a hand on his shoulder, just where it joined his neck. I traced the powerful cords of his neck with my thumb, looking at the worm-writhings on the page. He would, and so would I; for the vision he had was the one I had shown him.
He kept hold of the book, but tilted his head to one side, so that his cheek brushed my hand, and the thickness of his hair touched my wrist, soft and warm.
“Ah, no,” he said. “Not me. It’s only brave if there’s a choice about it, aye?”
I laughed, sniffed, and wiped the wrist of my free hand across my eyes.
“And you think you haven’t a choice?”
He paused for a moment, then shut the book, though he continued to hold it in his hands.
“No,” he said at last, with a queer tone in his voice. “Not now.”
He turned in his chair, looking through the window. Nothing was visible but the big red spruce at the side of the clearing, and the deep shade of the oak grove behind it, tangled with the brambles of wild blackberry, escaped from the yard. The blackened spot where the fiery cross had stood was overgrown now, covered with thick wild barley.
The air moved and I realized that it was not silent, after all. The sounds of the mountain were all around us, birds calling, water rushing in the distance—and there were voices, too, speaking in the murmured traffic of daily rounds, a word by the pigpen, a call from the privy. And under and over everything, the sound of children, faint shrieks and giggles bo
rne on the restless air.
“I suppose you’re right,” I said, after a moment. He was; there was no choice about it now, and the knowledge gave me a sort of peace. What was coming, would come. We would meet it as best we might, and hope to survive; that was all. If we didn’t—perhaps they would. I gathered the tail of his hair in my hand and twined my fingers through it, holding tight, like an anchor’s rope.
“What about the other choices, though?” I asked him, looking out with him over the empty dooryard, and into the shades of the forest beyond. “All the ones you made that brought you here? Those were real—and bloody well brave, if you ask me.”
Beneath the tip of my index finger, I could feel the hair-thin line of his ancient scar, buried deep beneath the ruddy waves. He leaned back against the pull of my hand, and swiveled round to look up at me, so my hand now cupped the bone of his jaw.
“Oh. Well,” he said, smiling slightly. His hand touched mine, and drew my fingers into his. “Ye’d know about that, now, wouldn’t ye, Sassenach?”
I sat down beside him, close, my hand on his leg, and his hand on mine. We sat thus for a bit, side by side, watching the rain clouds roll in over the river, like a threat of distant war. And I thought that whether it was choice or no choice, it might be that it came to the same thing in the end.
Jamie’s hand still lay on mine. It tightened a little, and I glanced at him, but his eyes were still fixed somewhere past the dooryard; past the mountains, and the distant clouds. His grip tightened further, and I felt the edges of my ring press into my flesh.
“When the day shall come, that we do part,” he said softly, and turned to look at me, “if my last words are not ‘I love you’—ye’ll ken it was because I didna have time.”
This book is for my Sister, Theresa Gabaldon,
with whom I told the first Stories.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author’s profound thanks to …
… my editor, Jackie Cantor, always the book’s champion above all.
… my agent, Russ Galen, who’s always on my side, with shield and lance.
… Stacey Sakal, Tom Leddy, and the other wonderful Production people who have sacrificed their time, talent, and mental health to the production of this book.
… Kathy Lord, that rarest and most delightful of creatures, an excellent copy editor.
… Virginia Norey, the book’s designer (aka Book Goddess), who somehow managed to fit the Whole Thing between two covers and make it look great.
… Irwyn Applebaum and Nita Taublib, publisher and deputy publisher, who came to the party, and brought their stuff.
… Rob Hunter and Rosemary Tolman, for unpublished information on the War of the Regulation and their very colorful and interesting ancestors, James Hunter and Hermon Husband. (No, I don’t make all these people up; just some of them.)
… Beth and Matthew Shope, and Liz Gaspar, for information on North Carolina Quaker history and beliefs. (And we do note as a matter of strict accuracy that Hermon Husband was not technically a Quaker at the time of this story, having been put out of the local Meeting for being too inflammatory.)
… Bev LaFlamme, Carol Krenz, and their (respectively) French and French-Canadian husbands (who no doubt wonder just what sort of friends their wives have, anyway), for expert opinions on the subtleties of French bowel movements, and help with Very Picturesque French idioms.
… Julie Giroux, for Roger’s music, and the marvelous “Culloden Symphony.” Roy Williamson for “The Flower of Scotland” (words and music) copyright © The Corries (music) Ltd.
… Roger H.P. Coleman, R.W. Odlin, Ron Parker, Ann Chapman, Dick Lodge, Olan Watkins, and many members of the Compuserve Masonic Forum for information on Freemasonry and Irregular Lodges, circa 1755 (which was a good bit prior to the establishment of the Scottish Rite, so let’s not bother writing me about that, shall we?)
… Karen Watson and Ron Parker, for advice on WWII London Tube Stations—with which I proceeded to take minor technical liberties.
… Steven Lopata, Hall Elliott, Arnold Wagner, R.G. Schmidt, and Mike Jones, honorable warriors all, for useful discussions of how men think and behave, before, during, and after battle.
… R.G. Schmidt and several other nice persons whose names I unfortunately forgot to write down, who contributed bits and pieces of helpful information regarding Cherokee belief, language, and custom. (The bear-hunting chant ending with “Yoho!” is a matter of historical record. There are lots of things I couldn’t make up if I tried.)
… the Chemodurow family, for generously allowing me to take liberties with their personae, in portraying them as Russian swineherds. (Russian boars really were imported into North Carolina for hunting in the18th century. This may have something to do with the popularity of barbecue in the South.)
… Laura Bailey, for invaluable advice and commentary on 18th century costume and customs—most of which I paid careful attention to.
… Susan Martin, Beth Shope, and Margaret Campbell, for expert opinions on the flora, fauna, geography, weather, and mental climate of North Carolina (and all of whom wish to note that only a barbarian would put tomatoes in barbecue sauce). Aberrations in these aspects of the story are a result of inadvertence, literary license, and/or pigheadedness on the part of the author.
… Janet McConnaughey, Varda Amir-Orrel, Kim Laird, Elise Skidmore, Bill Williams, Arlene McCrea, Lynne Sears Williams, Babs Whelton, Joyce McGowan, and the dozens of other kind and helpful people of the Compuserve Writers Forum, who will answer any silly question at the drop of a hat, especially if it has anything to do with maiming, murder, disease, quilting, or sex.
… Dr. Ellen Mandell, for technical advice on how to hang someone, then cut his throat, and not kill him in the process. Any errors in the execution of this advice are mine.
… Piper Fahrney, for his excellent descriptions of what it feels like to be taught to fight with a sword.
… David Cheifetz, for dragon-slaying.
… Iain MacKinnon Taylor, for his invaluable help with Gaelic translations, and his lovely suggestions for Jamie’s bonfire speech.
… Karl Hagen, for advice on Latin grammar, and to Barbara Schnell, for Latin and German bits, to say nothing of her stunning translations of the novels into German.
… Julie Weathers, my late father-in-law, Max Watkins, and Lucas, for help with the horses.
… the Ladies of Lallybroch, for their enthusiastic and continuing moral support, including the thoughtful international assortment of toilet paper.
… the several hundred people who have kindly and voluntarily sent me interesting information on everything from the development and uses of penicillin to the playing of bodhrans, the distribution of red spruce, and the way possum tastes (I’m told it’s greasy, in case you were wondering).
… and to my husband, Doug Watkins, for the last line of the book.
—Diana Gabaldon
www.dianagabaldon.com
A BREATH OF SNOW AND ASHES
A Delacorte Press Book / October 2005
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Diana Gabaldon
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data on file with the publisher.
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-440-33565-8
v3.0_r4
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
A Breath of Snow and Ashes
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Part
One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Three
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Four
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part Five
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part Six
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Part Seven
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Part Eight
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Part Nine
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 595
