The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

“No matter, Sassenach,” he said, and yawned immensely. He sat up, stretched, then scrubbed his hands through his damp, loose hair. “Have ye had supper?”

  “Yes, I ate with the women. Have you?” He normally ate with his crew of laborers when they stopped work, but sometimes was summoned to dine with General St. Clair or the other militia officers, and these quasi-formal occasions took place much later.

  “Mmm-hmm.” He lay back on the pallet and watched as I poured water into a tin washing bowl and dug out a tiny lump of lye soap. I stripped to my shift and began meticulously scrubbing, though the strong soap stung my already raw skin and the fumes of it were enough to make my eyes water.

  I rinsed my hands and arms, tossed the water out the window—pausing briefly to shout, “Gardy-loo!” before doing so—and started over.

  “Why are ye doing that?” Jamie asked curiously.

  “Mrs. Wellman’s little boy has what I’m almost sure is the mumps. Or ought that to be are the mumps? I’ve never been sure whether it’s plural or not. In any case, I’m taking no chance on transmitting it to you.”

  “Is it a terrible thing, mumps? I thought only weans got it.”

  “Well, normally it is a child’s disease,” I said, wincing at the touch of the soap. “But when an adult gets it—particularly an adult male—it’s a more serious matter. It tends to settle in the testicles. And unless you want to have balls the size of muskmelons—”

  “Are ye sure ye have enough soap there, Sassenach? I could go and find more.” He grinned at me, then sat up again and reached for the limp strip of linen that served us as a towel. “Here, a nighean, let me dry your hands.”

  “In a minute.” I wriggled out of my stays, dropped my shift, and hung it on the hook by the door, then pulled my “home” shift over my head. It wasn’t quite as sanitary as having surgical scrubs to wear to work, but the fort absolutely crawled with diseases, and I’d do whatever I could to avoid bringing them back to Jamie. He’d run into enough of them in the open.

  I splashed the last of the water over my face and arms, then sat down on the pallet beside Jamie, giving a small cry as my knee cracked painfully.

  “God, your poor hands,” he murmured, gently patting them with the towel, then swabbing my face. “And your nose is sunburnt, too, the wee thing.”

  “What about yours?” Callused as they normally were, his hands were still a mass of nicks, scraped knuckles, splinters, and blisters, but he dismissed that with a brief flick of one hand and lay back down again with a luxurious groan.

  “Does your knee still hurt, Sassenach?” he asked, seeing me rub it. It hadn’t ever quite recovered from being strained during our adventures on the Pitt, and climbing stairs provoked it.

  “Oh, just part of the general decline,” I said, trying to make a joke of it. I flexed my right arm, gingerly, feeling a twinge in the elbow. “Things don’t bend quite so easily as they used to. And other things hurt. Sometimes I think I’m falling apart.”

  Jamie closed one eye and regarded me.

  “I’ve felt like that since I was about twenty,” he observed. “Ye get used to it.” He stretched, making his spine give off a series of muffled pops, and held out a hand. “Come to bed, a nighean. Nothing hurts when ye love me.”

  He was right; nothing did.

  I fell briefly asleep, but woke by instinct a couple of hours later to go and check the few patients who needed an eye kept on them. These included Captain Stebbings, who had—to my surprise—stoutly refused either to die or to be doctored by anyone but me. That hadn’t gone over well with Lieutenant Stactoe or the other surgeons, but as Captain Stebbings’s demand was backed up by the intimidating presence of Guinea Dick—pointed teeth, tattoos, and all—I remained his personal surgeon.

  I found the captain mildly feverish and wheezing audibly, but asleep. Guinea Dick rose from his own pallet at the sound of my step, looking like a particularly fearsome manifestation of someone’s nightmare.

  “Has he eaten?” I asked softly, laying my hand lightly on Stebbings’s wrist. The captain’s tubby form had shrunk considerably; even in the gloom, I could easily see the ribs I’d once had to grope for.

  “Him has little soup, ma’am,” the African whispered, and moved a hand toward a bowl on the floor, covered with a handkerchief to keep out the roaches. “Like you say. I give him more when he wake to piss.”

  “Good.” Stebbings’s pulse was a little fast, but not alarming, and when I leaned over him and inhaled deeply, I detected no scent of gangrene. I’d been able to withdraw the tube from his chest two days before, and while there was a slight exudation of pus from the site, I thought it a local infection that would likely clear without assistance. It would have to; I had nothing to assist it.

  There was almost no light in the hospital barracks, only a rush-dip near the door and what little illumination came from the fires in the courtyard. I couldn’t judge of Stebbings’s color, but I saw the flash of white as he half-opened his eyes. He grunted when he saw me, and closed them again.

  “Good,” I said again, and left him in the tender charge of Mr. Dick.

  The Guinea man had been offered the chance to enlist in the Continental army but had refused, choosing to become a prisoner of war with Captain Stebbings, the wounded Mr. Ormiston, and a few other seamen from the Pitt.

  “I am English, free man,” he had said simply. “Prisoner maybe for a little, but free man. Seaman, but free man. American, maybe not free man.”

  Maybe not.

  I left the hospital barracks, called in at the Wellmans’ quarters to check on my case of mumps—uncomfortable, but not dangerous—and then strolled slowly across the courtyard under a rising moon. The evening breeze had died down, but the night air had some coolness in it, and moved by impulse, I climbed to the demilune battery that looked across the narrow end of Lake Champlain to Mount Defiance.

  There were two guards, but both were fast asleep, reeking of liquor. It wasn’t unusual. Morale at the fort was not high, and alcohol was easily available.

  I stood by the wall, a hand on one of the guns, its metal still faintly warm from the day’s heat. Would we get away, I wondered, before it was hot from being fired? Thirty-two days to go, and they couldn’t go fast enough to suit me. Aside from the menace of the British, the fort festered and stank; it was like living in a cesspool, and I could only hope that Jamie, Ian, and I would leave it without having contracted some vile disease or having been assaulted by some drunken idiot.

  I heard a faint step behind me and turned to see Ian himself, tall and slender in the glow of the fires below.

  “Can I speak to ye, Auntie?”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering at this unaccustomed formality. I stood aside a little, and he came to stand beside me, looking down.

  “Cousin Brianna would have a thing or two to say about that,” he said, with a nod through the half-built bridge below. “So has Uncle Jamie.”

  “I know.” Jamie had been saying it for the last two weeks—to the fort’s new commander, Arthur St. Clair, to the other militia colonels, to the engineers, to anyone who would listen, and not a few who wouldn’t. The folly of expending vast amounts of labor and material in building a bridge that could be easily destroyed by artillery on Mount Defiance was clear to everyone except those in command.

  I sighed. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen military blindness, and I was very much afraid it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Well, leaving that aside … what did you want to speak to me about, Ian?”

  He took a deep breath and turned toward the moonlit vista over the lake.

  “D’ye ken the Huron who came to the fort a wee while past?”

  I did. Two weeks before, a party of Huron had visited the fort, and Ian had spent an evening smoking with them, listening to their stories. Some of these concerned the English General Burgoyne, whose hospitality they had previously enjoyed.

  Burgoyne was actively soliciting the Indians of the Iroquois League, they sa
id, spending a great deal of time and money in wooing them.

  “He says his Indians are his secret weapon,” one of the Huron had said, laughing. “He will unleash them upon the Americans, to burn like lightning, and strike them all dead.”

  Knowing what I did of Indians in general, I thought Burgoyne might be a trifle overoptimistic. Still, I preferred not to think what might happen if he did succeed in persuading any number of Indians to fight for him.

  Ian was still staring at the distant hump of Mount Defiance, lost in thought.

  “Be that as it may,” I said, calling the meeting to order. “Why are you telling me this, Ian? You should tell Jamie and St. Clair.”

  “I did.” The cry of a loon came across the lake, surprisingly loud and eerie. They sounded like yodeling ghosts, particularly when more than one of them was at it.

  “Yes? Well, then,” I said, slightly impatient. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Babies,” he said abruptly, straightening up and turning to face me.

  “What?” I said, startled. He’d been quiet and moody ever since the Hurons’ visit, and I assumed that something they’d told him had caused it—but I couldn’t imagine what they might have said to him regarding babies.

  “How they’re made,” he said doggedly, though his eyes slid away from mine. Had there been more light, I was sure I could have seen him blushing.

  “Ian,” I said, after a brief pause. “I decline to believe that you don’t know how babies are made. What do you really want to know?”

  He sighed, but at last he looked at me. His lips compressed for a moment, then he blurted, “I want to know why I canna make one.”

  I rubbed a knuckle across my lips, disconcerted. I knew—Bree had told me—that he had had a stillborn daughter with his Mohawk wife, Emily, and that she had then miscarried at least twice. Also that it was this failure that had led to Ian’s leaving the Mohawk at Snaketown and returning to us.

  “Why do you think it might be you?” I asked bluntly. “Most men blame the woman when a child is stillborn or miscarried. So do most women, for that matter.”

  I had blamed both myself and Jamie.

  He made a small Scottish noise in his throat, impatient.

  “The Mohawk don’t. They say when a man lies wi’ a woman, his spirit does battle with hers. If he overcomes her, then the child is planted; if not, it doesna happen.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Well, that’s one way of putting it. And I wouldn’t say they’re wrong, either. It can be something to do with either the man or the woman—or it may be something about them together.”

  “Aye.” I heard him swallow before he went on. “One of the women wi’ the Huron was Kahnyen’kehaka—a woman from Snaketown, and she kent me, from when I was there. And she said to me that Emily has a child. A live child.”

  He had been moving restlessly from foot to foot as he talked, cracking his knuckles. Now he stilled. The moon was well up and shone on his face, making hollows of his eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking, Auntie,” he said softly. “I’ve been thinking for a verra long time. About her. Emily. About Yeksa’a. The—my wee bairn.” He stopped, big knuckles pressed hard into his thighs, but he gathered himself again and went on, more steadily.

  “And just lately I have been thinking something else. If—when,” he corrected, with a glance over one shoulder, as though expecting Jamie to pop up through a trap, glaring, “we go to Scotland, I dinna ken how things might be. But if I—if I was to wed again, maybe, either there or here …” He looked up at me suddenly, his face old with sorrow but heartbreakingly young with hope and doubt.

  “I couldna take a lass to wife if I kent that I should never give her live bairns.”

  He swallowed again, looking down.

  “Could ye maybe … look at my parts, Auntie? To see if maybe there’s aught amiss?” His hand went to his breechclout, and I stopped him with a hasty gesture.

  “Perhaps that can wait a bit, Ian. Let me take a history first; then we’ll see if I need to do an examination.”

  “Are ye sure?” He sounded surprised. “Uncle Jamie told me about the sperm ye showed him. I thought maybe mine might not be quite right in some way.”

  “Well, I’d need a microscope to see, in any case. And while there are such things as abnormal sperm, usually when that’s the case, conception doesn’t take place at all. And as I understand it, that wasn’t the difficulty. Tell me—” I didn’t want to ask, but there was no way round it. “Your daughter. Did you see her?”

  The nuns had given me my stillborn daughter. “It’s better if you see,” they had said, gently insistent.

  He shook his head.

  “Not to say so. I mean—I saw the wee bundle they’d made of her, wrapped in rabbit skin. They put it up high in the fork of a red cedar. I went there at night, for some time, just to … well. I did think of taking the bundle down, of unwrapping her, just to see her face. But it would ha’ troubled Emily, so I didn’t.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But did … oh, hell, Ian, I’m so sorry—but did your wife or any of the other women ever say that there was anything visibly wrong with the child? Was she … deformed in any way?”

  He glanced at me, eyes wide with shock, and his lips moved soundlessly for a moment.

  “No,” he said at last, and there was both pain and relief in his voice. “No. I asked. Emily didna want to talk about her, about Iseabaìl—that’s what I would ha’ named her, Iseabaìl—” he explained, “but I asked and wouldna stop until she told me what the baby looked like.

  “She was perfect,” he said softly, looking down at the bridge, where a chain of lanterns glowed, reflected in the water. “Perfect.”

  So had Faith been. Perfect.

  I put a hand on his forearm, ropy with hard muscle.

  “That’s good,” I said quietly. “Very good. Tell me as much as you can, then, about what happened during the pregnancy. Did your wife have any bleeding between the time you knew she was pregnant and when she gave birth?”

  Slowly I led him through the hope and fear, the desolation of each loss, such symptoms as he could remember, and what he knew of Emily’s family; had there been stillbirths among her relations? Miscarriages?

  The moon passed overhead and started down the sky. At last I stretched and shook myself.

  “I can’t be positive,” I said. “But I think it’s at least possible that the trouble was what we call an Rh problem.”

  “A what?” He was leaning against one of the big guns, and lifted his head at this.

  There was no point in trying to explain blood groups, antigens, and antibodies. And it wasn’t actually all that different from the Mohawk explanation of the problem, I thought.

  “If a woman’s blood is Rh-negative, and her husband’s blood is Rh-positive,” I explained, “then the child will be Rh-positive, because that’s dominant—never mind what that means, but the child will be positive like the father. Sometimes the first pregnancy is all right, and you don’t see a problem until the next time—sometimes it happens with the first. Essentially, the mother’s body produces a substance that kills the child. But, if an Rh-negative woman should have a child by an Rh-negative man, then the fetus is always Rh-negative, too, and there’s no problem. Since you say Emily has had a live birth, then it’s possible that her new husband is Rh-negative, too.” I knew absolutely nothing about the prevalence of Rhesus-negative blood type in Native Americans, but the theory did fit the evidence.

  “And if that’s so,” I finished, “then you shouldn’t have that problem with another woman—most European women are Rh-positive, though not all.”

  He stared at me for so long that I wondered whether he had understood what I’d said.

  “Call it fate,” I said gently, “or call it bad luck. But it wasn’t your fault. Or hers.” Not mine. Nor Jamie’s.

  He nodded, slowly, and leaning forward, laid his head on my shoulder for a moment.

  “Thank ye,
Auntie,” he whispered, and lifting his head, kissed my cheek.

  The next day, he was gone.

  THE GREAT DISMAL

  June 21, 1777

  William marveled at the road. True, there were only a few miles of it, but the miracle of being able to ride straight into the Great Dismal, through a place where he vividly recalled having had to swim his horse on a previous visit, all the while dodging snapping turtles and venomous snakes—the convenience of it was astonishing. The horse seemed of similar mind, picking up its feet in a lighthearted way, outpacing the clouds of tiny yellow horseflies that tried to swarm them, the insects’ eyes glinting like tiny rainbows when they drew close.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” William advised the gelding, with a brief scratch of the mane. “Muddy going up ahead.”

  The road itself, while clear of the sweet gum saplings and straggling pines that crowded its edge, was muddy enough, in all truth. Nothing like the treacherous bogs and unexpected pools that lurked beyond the scrim of trees, though. He rose a little in the stirrups, peering ahead.

  How far? he wondered. Dismal Town stood on the shore of Lake Drummond, which lay in the middle of the swamp. He had never come so far into the Great Dismal as he was now, though, and had no notion of its actual size.

  The road didn’t go so far as the lake, he knew that. But surely there was a trace to follow; those inhabitants of Dismal Town must come and go on occasion.

  “Washington,” he repeated under his breath. “Washington, Cartwright, Harrington, Carver.” Those were the names he’d been given by Captain Richardson, of the Loyalist gentlemen from Dismal Town; he’d committed them to memory and punctiliously burned the sheet of paper containing them. Having done so, though, he was seized by irrational panic lest he forget the names, and had been repeating them to himself at intervals throughout the morning.

  It was well past noon now, and the wispy clouds of the morning had been knitting themselves up into a low sky the color of dirty wool. He breathed in slowly, but the air didn’t have that prickling scent of impending downpour—yet. Besides the ripe reek of the swamp, rich with mud and rotting plants, he could smell his own skin, salty and rank. He’d washed his hands and head as he could but hadn’t changed nor washed his clothes in two weeks, and the rough hunting shirt and homespun breeches were beginning to itch considerably.