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“No idea. Do you have a knife?”
“Do I have a knife,” she muttered, digging in the pocket of her jeans. “Do I ever not have a knife?”
“That was a rhetorical question,” he said, kissing her hand and taking the bright red Swiss Army knife she offered him.
The beeswax cracked and split away easily; the lid of the box, though, was unwilling to yield after so many years. It took both of them—one clutching the box, the other pushing and pulling on the lid—but finally, it came free with a small squealing noise.
The ghost of a scent floated out; something indistinguishable, but plantlike in origin.
“Mama,” she said involuntarily. Roger glanced at her, startled, but she gestured at him urgently to go on. He reached carefully into the box and removed its contents: a stack of letters, folded and sealed with wax, two books—and a small snake made of cherrywood, heavily polished by long handling.
She made a small, inarticulate sound and seized the top letter, pressing it so hard against her chest that the paper crackled and the wax seal split and fell away. The thick, soft paper, whose fibers showed the faint stains of what had once been flowers.
Tears were falling down her face, and Roger was saying something, but she didn’t attend the words, and the children were making an uproar upstairs, the builders were still arguing outside, and the only thing in the world she could see were the faded words on the page, written in a sprawling, difficult hand.
December 31, 1776
My dear daughter,
As you will see if ever you receive this, we are alive.…
EPILOGUE II
THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS
“What’s this, then?” Amos Crupp squinted at the page laid out in the bed of the press, reading it backward with the ease of long experience.
“It is with grief that the news is received of the deaths by fire … Where’d that come from?”
“Note from a subscriber,” said Sampson, his new printer’s devil, shrugging as he inked the plate. “Good for a bit of filler, there, I thought; General Washington’s address to the troops run short of the page.”
“Hmph. I s’pose. Very old news, though,” Crupp said, glancing at the date. “January?”
“Well, no,” the devil admitted, heaving down on the lever that lowered the page onto the plate of inked type. The press sprang up again, the letters wet and black on the paper, and he picked the sheet off with nimble fingertips, hanging it up to dry. “ ’Twas December, by the notice. But I’d set the page in Baskerville twelve-point, and the slugs for November and December are missing in that font. Not room to do it in separate letters, and not worth the labor to reset the whole page.”
“To be sure,” said Amos, losing interest in the matter, as he perused the last paragraphs of Washington’s speech. “Scarcely signifies, anyway. After all, they’re all dead, aren’t they?”
This Book is Dedicated to
CHARLES DICKENS
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
DOROTHY L. SAYERS
JOHN D. MACDONALD
and
P. G. WODEHOUSE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My enormous thanks to …
My two marvelous editors, Jackie Cantor and Bill Massey, for insight, support, helpful suggestions (“What about Marsali?!?!”), enthusiastic responses, (“Eeew!”), and comparing me (favorably, I hasten to add) to Charles Dickens.
My excellent and admirable literary agents, Russell Galen and Danny Baror, who do so much to bring these books to the attention of the world—and put all of my children through college.
Bill McCrea, curator of the North Carolina Museum of History, and his staff, for maps, biographical sketches, general information, and a delightful breakfast in the museum. Love them cheese grits!
The staff of the Moore’s Creek Bridge battlefield Visitors’ Center, for their kind attention and for supplying me with forty-odd pounds of new and interesting books—particularly gripping works like Roster of the Patriots in the Battle of Moore’s Creek Bridge and Roster of the Loyalists in the Battle of Moore’s Creek Bridge—and for explaining to me what an ice-storm is, because they had just had one. We do not have ice-storms in Arizona.
Linda Grimes, for betting me that I couldn’t write an appealing scene about nose-picking. That one is all her fault.
The awe-inspiring and superhuman Barbara Schnell, who translated the book into German as I wrote it, almost neck-and-neck with me, in order to complete it in time for the German premiere.
Silvia Kuttny-Walser and Petra Zimmerman, who have been moving heaven and earth to assist the German debut.
Dr. Amarilis Iscold, for a wealth of detail and advice—and periodic rolling on the floor with laughter—regarding the medical scenes. Any liberties taken or mistakes made are entirely mine.
Dr. Doug Hamilton, for expert testimony on dentistry, and what one could or could not do with a pair of forceps, a bottle of whisky, and an equine tooth-file.
Dr. David Blacklidge, for helpful advice on the manufacture, use, and dangers of ether.
Dr. William Reed and Dr. Amy Silverthorn, for keeping me breathing through the pollen season so I could finish this book.
Laura Bailey, for expert commentary—with drawings, no less—on period clothing, and in particular, for the useful suggestion of stabbing someone with a corset-busk.
Christiane Schreiter, to whose detective skills (and the goodwill of the librarians of the Braunschweig Library) we owe the German version of Paul Revere’s ride.
The Reverend Jay McMillan, for a wealth of fascinating and useful information regarding the Presbyterian church in Colonial America—and to Becky Morgan, for introducing me to the Reverend Jay, and to Amy Jones, for information on Presbyterian doctrine.
Rafe Steinberg, for information on times, tides, and general seafaring issues—particularly the helpful information that the tide turns every twelve hours. Any mistakes in this regard are definitely mine. And if the tide did not turn at 5A.M. on July 10th, 1776, I don’t want to hear about it.
My assistant Susan Butler, for dealing with ten million sticky-notes, photo-copying three copies of a 2500-page manuscript, and FedExing it all over the landscape in a competent and timely fashion.
The untiring and diligent Kathy Lord, who copy-edited this entire manuscript in some impossible time frame, and did not either go blind or lose her sense of humor.
Virginia Norey, Goddess of Book Design, who has once again managed to cram The Whole Thing between two covers and make it not only readable but elegant.
Steven Lopata, for invaluable technical advice re explosions and burning things down.
Arnold Wagner, Lisa Harrison, Kateri van Huystee, Luz, Suzann Shepherd, and Jo Bourne, for technical advice on grinding pigments, storing paint, and other picturesque tidbits, such as the bit about “Egyptian Brown” being made of ground-up mummies. I couldn’t figure out how to work that into the book, but it was too good not to share.
Karen Watson, for her former brother-in-law’s notable quote regarding the sensations of a hemorrhoid sufferer.
Pamela Patchet, for her excellent and inspiring description of driving a two-inch splinter under her fingernail.
Margaret Campbell, for the wonderful copy of Piedmont Plantation.
Janet McConnaughey, for her vision of Jamie and Brianna playing Brag.
Marte Brengle, Julie Kentner, Joanne Cutting, Carol Spradling, Beth Shope, Cindy R., Kathy Burdette, Sherry, and Kathleen Eschenburg, for helpful advice and entertaining commentary on Dreary Hymns.
Lauri Klobas, Becky Morgan, Linda Allen, Nikki Rowe, and Lori Benton for technical advice on paper-making.
Kim Laird, Joel Altman, Cara Stockton, Carol Isler, Jo Murphey, Elise Skidmore, Ron Kenner, and many, many (many, many) other inhabitants of the Compuserve Literary Forum (now renamed as the Books and Writers Community (http://community.compuserve.com/books), but still the same gathering of eclectic eccentricity, trove of erudition, and source of Really St
range Facts, for their contributions of links, facts, and articles they thought I might find helpful. I always do.
Chris Stuart and Backcountry, for the gift of their marvelous CDs, Saints and Strangers and Mohave River, to which I wrote quite a bit of this book.
Ewan MacColl, whose rendition of “Eppie Morrie” inspired Chapter 85.
Gabi Eleby, for socks, cookies, and general moral support—and to the Ladies of Lallybroch, for their boundless goodwill, manifested in the form of food boxes, cards, and enormous quantities of soap, both commercial and handmade (“Jack Randall Lavender” is nice, and I quite like the one called “Breath of Snow.” The one called “Lick Jamie All Over” was so sweet one of the dogs ate it, though).
Bev LaFrance, Carol Krenz, Gilbert Sureau, Laura Bradbury, Julianne, Julie, and several other nice people whose names I unfortunately forgot to write down, for help with the French bits.
Monika Berrisch, for allowing me to appropriate her persona.
And to my husband, Doug Watkins, who this time gave me the opening lines of the Prologue.
An Echo in the Bone 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.
Copyright © 2009 by Diana Gabaldon
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DELACORTE PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33887-1
www.bantamdell.com
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Contents
Master - Table of Contents
An Echo in the Bone
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
PART ONE
A Troubling of the Waters
1. SOMETIMES THEY’RE REALLY DEAD
2. AND SOMETIMES THEY AREN’T
3. LIFE FOR LIFE
4. NOT YET AWHILE
5. MORALITY FOR TIME-TRAVELERS
PART TWO
Blood, Sweat, and Pickles
6. LONG ISLAND
7. AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE
8. SPRING THAW
9. A KNIFE THAT KNOWS MY HAND
10. FIRESHIP
11. TRANSVERSE LIE
12. ENOUGH
13. UNREST
14. DELICATE MATTERS
15. THE BLACK CHAMBER
16. UNARMED CONFLICT
17. WEE DEMONS
18. PULLING TEETH
19. AE FOND KISS
20. I REGRET …
21. THE MINISTER’S CAT
22. FLUTTERBY
PART THREE
Privateer
23. CORRESPONDENCE FROM THE FRONT
24. JOYEUX NÖEL
25. THE BOSOM OF THE DEEP
26. STAG AT BAY
27. TUNNEL TIGERS
28. HILLTOPS
29. CONVERSATION WITH A HEADMASTER
30. SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT
31. A GUIDED TOUR THROUGH THE CHAMBERS OF THE HEART
PART FOUR
Conjunction
32. A FLURRY OF SUSPICION
33. THE PLOT THICKENS
34. PSALMS, 30
35. TICONDEROGA
36. THE GREAT DISMAL
37. PURGATORY
38. PLAIN SPEECH
39. A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE
40. THE BLESSING OF BRIDE AND OF MICHAEL
41. SHELTER FROM THE STORM
PART FIVE
To the Precipice
42. CROSSROAD
43. COUNTDOWN
44. FRIENDS
45. THREE ARROWS
46. LEY LINES
47. HIGH PLACES
48. HENRY
49. RESERVATIONS
50. EXODUS
51. THE BRITISH ARE COMING
52. CONFLAGRATION
53. MOUNT INDEPENDENCE
54. RETURN OF THE NATIVE
55. RETREAT
56. WHILE STILL ALIVE
57. THE DESERTER GAME
58. INDEPENDENCE DAY
59. BATTLE OF BENNINGTON
60. DESERTER GAME, ROUND II
61. NO BETTER COMPANION THAN THE RIFLE
62. ONE JUST MAN
63. SEPARATED FOREVER FROM MY FRIENDS AND KIN
64. A GENTLEMAN CALLER
65. HAT TRICK
66. DEATHBED
67. GREASIER THAN GREASE
68. DESPOILER
69. TERMS OF SURRENDER
70. SANCTUARY
PART SIX
Coming Home
71. A STATE OF CONFLICT
72. THE FEAST OF ALL SAINTS
73. ONE EWE LAMB RETURNS TO THE FOLD
74. TWENTY-TWENTY
75. SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI
76. BY THE WIND GRIEVED
77. MEMORARAE
78. OLD DEBTS
79. THE CAVE
80. OENOMANCY
81. PURGATORY II
82. DISPOSITIONS
83. COUNTING SHEEP
84. THE RIGHT OF IT
PART SEVEN
Reap the Whirlwind
85. SON OF A WITCH
86. VALLEY FORGE
87. SEVERANCE AND REUNION
88. RATHER MESSY
89. INK-STAINED WRETCH
90. ARMED WITH DIAMONDS AND WITH STEEL
91. FOOTSTEPS
92. INDEPENDENCE DAY, II
93. A SERIES OF SHORT, SHARP SHOCKS
94. THE PATHS OF DEATH
95. NUMBNESS
96. FIREFLY
97. NEXUS
98. MISCHIANZA
99. A BUTTERFLY IN A BUTCHER’S YARD
100. LADY IN WAITING
101. REDIVIVUS
102. BRED IN THE BONE
103. THE HOUR OF THE WOLF
Author’s Notes
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books By This Author
About the Author
PROLOGUE
The body is amazingly plastic. The spirit, even more so. But there are some things you don’t come back from. Say ye so, a nighean? True, the body’s easily maimed, and the spirit can be crippled—yet there’s that in a man that is never destroyed.
PART ONE
A Troubling of the Waters
SOMETIMES THEY’RE REALLY DEAD
Wilmington, colony of North Carolina
July 1776
The pirate’s head had disappeared. William heard the speculations from a group of idlers on the quay nearby, wondering whether it would be seen again.
“Na, him be gone for good,” said a ragged man of mixed blood, shaking his head. “De ally-gator don’ take him, de water will.”
A backwoodsman shifted his tobacco and spat into the water in disagreement.
“No, he’s good for another day—two, maybe. Them gristly bits what holds the head on, they dry out in the sun. Tighten up like iron. Seen it many a time with deer carcasses.”
William saw Mrs. MacKenzie glance quickly at the harbor, then away. She looked pale, he thought, and maneuvered himself slightly so as to block her view of the men and the brown flood of high tide, though since it was high, the corpse tied to its stake was naturally not visible. The stake was, though—a stark reminder of the price of crime. The pirate had been staked to drown on the mudflats several days before, the persistence of his decaying corpse an ongoing topic of public conversation.
“Jem!” Mr. MacKenzie called sharply, and lunged past William in pursuit of his son. The little boy, red-haired like his mother, had wandered away to listen to the men’s talk, and was now leaning perilously out over the water, clinging to a bollard in an attempt to see the dead pirate.
Mr. MacKenzie snatched the boy by the collar, pulled him in, a
nd swept him up in his arms, though the boy struggled, craning back toward the swampish harbor.
“I want to see the wallygator eat the pirate, Daddy!”
The idlers laughed, and even MacKenzie smiled a little, though the smile disappeared when he glanced at his wife. He was at her side in an instant, one hand beneath her elbow.
“I think we must be going,” MacKenzie said, shifting his son’s weight in order better to support his wife, whose distress was apparent. “Lieutenant Ransom—Lord Ellesmere, I mean”—he corrected with an apologetic smile at William—“will have other engagements, I’m sure.”
This was true; William was engaged to meet his father for supper. Still, his father had arranged to meet him at the tavern just across the quay; there was no risk of missing him. William said as much, and urged them to stay, for he was enjoying their company—Mrs. MacKenzie’s, particularly—but she smiled regretfully, though her color was better, and patted the capped head of the baby in her arms.
“No, we do have to be going.” She glanced at her son, still struggling to get down, and William saw her eyes flicker toward the harbor and the stark pole that stood above the flood. She resolutely looked away, fixing her eyes upon William’s face instead. “The baby’s waking up; she’ll be wanting food. It was so lovely to meet you, though. I wish we might talk longer.” She said this with the greatest sincerity, and touched his arm lightly, giving him a pleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach.
The idlers were now placing wagers on the reappearance of the drowned pirate, though by the looks of things, none of them had two groats to rub together.
“Two to one he’s still there when the tide goes out.”
“Five to one the body’s still there, but the head’s gone. I don’t care what you say about the gristly bits, Lem, that there head was just a-hangin’ by a thread when this last tide come in. Next un’ll take it, sure.”