The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  General Fraser’s grave was at that point noted on the Park Service map—but it wasn’t in the Great Redoubt; it was located near the river. I’d been down there but found no marker for it, and so inquired where it was—and why wasn’t it in the Great Redoubt? I was informed that the Park Service had at one point—I don’t know when, but fairly recently—done an archaeological excavation of the Great Redoubt, including the supposed gravesite. To everyone’s surprise, General Fraser was not buried there, nor was anyone else. There were signs that a grave had once been dug, and a uniform button was found there, but no signs whatever of a body. (And while the body itself would be long since decomposed, you would expect still to see some signs.) There was (the employee told me) an account that said that General Fraser’s grave had been moved to a site near the river, and that that was why the map was so marked—but no one knew where the specific place was, or, in fact, whether the General was in that one, either, which was why there was no marker there.

  Well, novelists are a conscienceless lot. Those of us who deal with history tend to be fairly respectful of such facts as are recorded (always bearing in mind the proviso that just because it’s in print, it isn’t necessarily true). But give us a hole to slide through, an omission in the historic record, one of those mysterious lacunae that occur in even the best-documented life … so all in all, I rather thought that perhaps General Fraser had been sent home to Scotland. (Yes, they did send bodies to and fro in the eighteenth century, on occasion. Someone exhumed poor old Tom Paine from his grave in France, intending to ship him back to America so he could be interred there with honor as a prophet of the Revolution. His body was lost in transit, and no one’s ever found it. Speaking of interesting lacunae …)

  Anyway, as it happened, I went to Scotland last year, and while wandering round the countryside in search of a logical place near Balnain in which to plant General Fraser, stumbled over (literally) the large chambered cairn at Corrimony. Such sites are always evocative, and when I read on the sign posted there that there had once been a body in the central chamber, but it had evidently decayed into the soil (there were traces of bones left in the earth, even after a thousand years or more), and that the tomb had been broken into sometime in the nineteenth century (thus explaining why you won’t find anything in the cairn if you happen to go there now) … well, hey. (People always ask novelists where they get their ideas. Everywhere!)

  Quaker Plain Speech

  The Religious Society of Friends was founded around 1647 by George Fox. As part of the Society’s belief in the equality of all men before God, they did not use honorific titles (such as “Mr./Mrs.,” “General/Colonel,” etc.), and used “plain speech” in addressing everyone.

  Now, as any of you who know a second language with Latin roots (Spanish, French, etc.) realize, these languages have both a familiar and a formal version of “you.” So did English, once upon a time. The “thee” and “thou” forms that most of us recognize as Elizabethan or biblical are in fact the English familiar forms of “you”—with “you” used as both the plural familiar form (“all y’all”), and the formal pronoun (both singular and plural). As English evolved, the familiar forms were dropped, leaving us with the utilitarian “you” to cover all contingencies.

  Quakers retained the familiar forms, though, as part of their “plain speech,” until the twentieth century. Over the years, though, plain speech also evolved, and while “thee/thy” remained, “thou/thine” largely disappeared, and the verb forms associated with “thee/thy” changed. From about the mid-eighteenth century onward, plain speech used “thee” as the singular form of “you” (the plural form remained “you,” even in plain speech), with the same verb forms normally used for third-person singular. For example, “He knows that/Thee knows that.” The older verb endings—“knowest,” “doth,” etc.—were no longer used.

  Scots/Scotch/Scottish

  As noted elsewhere (Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade, see Author’s Notes), in the eighteenth century (and indeed, well into the mid-twentieth century), the word “Scotch” and its variants (e.g., “Scotchman”) were commonly used (by both English people and Scots) to describe an inhabitant of Scotland. The terms “Scottish” and “Scots” were also occasionally used, though less common.

  Typos and Terminology

  There may be an impulse to regard the term “mess-kid” (as used in Part Three of this book) as a typographical error. It’s not. A mess-kid was a shallow, circular bucket in which sailors of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were served their food. A mess-kit, on the other hand, referred to the utensils carried and used by a soldier.

  By the same token, while “crotch” is the usual American English term, the older form, “crutch,” would have been used in eighteenth-century English-English usage. Which is not to say there aren’t any typographical errors in this book (despite the heroic efforts of Ms. Kathy Lord, the copy editor; the alerts of various friends and translators who read the manuscript in chunks; and a fair amount of diligence by myself, these things happen) but these particular terms aren’t.

  Saratoga

  A tremendous amount of historical research goes into a book like this (I am often bemused by letters from people telling me they’d visited a museum, seen some eighteenth-century artifacts, and been struck all a-heap by discovering that I hadn’t just made it all up!), and while there isn’t room to acknowledge or list even a fraction of the sources I’ve used, I did want to mention one specific book.

  The two battles of Saratoga were historically important, remarkably dramatic, and very complex, both in the logistics of the battles and in the troop movements and politics that led up to them. I was fortunate to find, early on in my researches, Richard M. Ketchum’s Saratoga, which is an amazingly well-done portrait of the battles, the background, and the plethora of colorful individuals who took part. I just wanted to recommend this book to those of you with a deeper interest in the historical aspects, as these could only be touched on lightly in the context of a novel.

  Loch Errochty and Tunnel Tigers

  During the 1950s and ’60s, a great hydroelectric scheme was implemented in the Scottish Highlands. The work of a great many “tunnel tigers” (also known as “the Hydro boys”)—laborers, many of them from Ireland and Poland—went into digging tunnels through the mountains and building dams for the creation of man-made lochs. Loch Errochty is in fact one of these man-made lochs. The tunnel I’ve drawn as being associated with it (complete with miniature train) is like those common to the hydroelectric scheme as a whole, but I don’t know that there actually is one at Loch Errochty. On the other hand, the dam, turbine service chamber, and fish-viewing chamber at Pitlochry are indeed all there. So are the anglers.

  To all my good dogs:

  Penny Louise

  Tipper John

  John

  Flip

  Archie and Ed

  Tippy

  Spots

  Emily

  Ajax

  Molly

  Gus

  Homer and JJ

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It takes me a good three years to write one of these books, during which time I constantly ask people questions, and during which time helpful people offer me fascinating bits of information that I didn’t think to ask for. I’ll never remember them all, but think of them all with enormous gratitude.

  In addition, I wish to offer grateful thanks to …

  … John Flicker and Bill Massey, my editors, both gentlemen of gall and kidney, who coped nobly with a book written in pieces (lots of pieces), and an author who lives dangerously.

  … Danny Baror and Russell Galen, my literary agents, two gentlemen literally worth their weight in gold—which is saying something in these recessionary days.

  … Kathy Lord, heroic copy editor, and Virginia Norey, book designer (aka “the book goddess”), who are jointly responsible for the beauty and read ability of this book.

  … Vincent La Scala and the o
ther cruelly used members of the production crew, who succeeded in getting this book into print on time against looooong odds.

  … Steven Lopata for his vivid description of being chased overland by a cottonmouth—as well as the poetic description of what copperheads smell like (“A combination of that snakehouse smell from the zoo and rotten cucumbers”).

  … Catherine MacGregor and Catherine-Ann MacPhee for Gàidhlig translations and help in the subtleties of Gaelic usage. Also Katie Beggs and various unsung but much appreciated members of the International Gaelic Mafia.

  … Tess the nurse, Dr. Amarilis Iscold, Sarah Meir (Certified Nurse Midwife), and a number of other helpful medical professionals, for advice on matters medical, picturesque maladies, and horrifying surgical details.

  … Janet McConnaughey for OEDILF (Omnificant English Dictionary in Limerick Form) entries, being the Muse of Bloody Axes, and drawing my attention to exploding cypress trees.

  … Larry Tuohy (and others) for telling me what a Spitfire pilot’s flight jacket looked like.

  … Ron Parker, Helen, Esmé and Lesley, for ’elp with the ’airy ape.

  … Beth and Matthew Shope and Jo Bourne for useful information regarding the Religious Society of Friends. Any inaccuracies are definitely my fault.

  … Jari Backman, for his detailed time lines and excerpt listings, and for help with the night sky and which stars are visible in Inverness and Fraser’s Ridge.

  … Katrina Stibohar for her exquisitely detailed lists of who was born when and What Happened to Everybody then. Also to the hordes of kindly trivia freaks who are always on hand to tell me how old someone is, or whether Lord John met Fergus when he had the measles.

  … Pamela Patchet Hamilton (and Buddy) for a nose-wrenchingly vivid description of a close-range skunking.

  … Karen Henry, Czarina of Traffic, who keeps my folder in the Compuserve Books and Writers Community tidy and the inhabitants diplomatically herded. (http://​community.​compuserve.​com/​n/​pfx/​forum.​aspx?​nav=​start​&webtag​ = ws​-books)

  … Nikki Rowe and her daughter Caitlin, for the wonderful YouTube channel they created for me (http://​www.​youtube.​com/​user/​voyages​of​the​artemis—for those who want to see whether I really do sound like Donald Duck when I talk).

  … Rosana Madrid Gatti, my web-mistress, for prompt and faithful updates and imaginative design.

  … Susan Butler, for constant logistic support, dog sleepovers, keeping me supplied with black-ink cartridges, and for her brilliant suggestion regarding Jem.

  … Allene Edwards, Catherine MacGregor, and Susan Butler, for proof reading and Extremely Helpful (if eyeball-numbing) nitpicking.

  … Shirley Williams for the Moravian cookies and vistas of New Bern.

  … Becky Morgan for the historical cookbooks.

  … my great-grandfather, Stanley Sykes, for Jamie’s line about marksmanship.

  … Bev LaFrance, Carol Krenz, and many others for help with French. Also Florence the translator, Peter Berndt, and Gilbert Sureau for the nice distinctions between the French Lord’s Prayer of 1966 (accorde-lui) versus the earlier, more formal version (accordes-lui).

  … John S. Kruszka, for the proper spelling and pronunciation of “Kościuszko” (it’s “kohs-CHOOSH-koh,” in case you wondered; nobody in the Revolution could pronounce it, either—they really did all call him “Kos”).

  … the Ladies of Lallybroch, for continuous support and Really Interesting Gifts.

  … my husband, because he knows fine what a man is for, too.

  … Alex Krislov, Janet McConnaughey, and Margaret Campbell, sysops of the Compuserve Books and Writers Community, and the many, many, many helpful people who roam through the site daily, offering observations, information, and general entertainment.

  … Alfred Publishing for permission to quote from the lyrics to “Tighten Up,” by Archie Bell and the Drells.

  “The White Swan,” taken from Carmina Gadelica, is reproduced by kind permission of Floris Books.

  Also by Diana Gabaldon

  (in order of publication)

  THE OUTLANDER SERIES

  OUTLANDER

  DRAGONFLY IN AMBER

  VOYAGER

  DRUMS OF AUTUMN

  THE OUTLANDISH COMPANION

  (nonfiction)

  THE FIERY CROSS

  A BREATH OF SNOW AND ASHES

  THE LORD JOHN SERIES

  LORD JOHN AND THE PRIVATE MATTER

  LORD JOHN AND THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLADE

  LORD JOHN AND THE HAND OF DEVILS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Diana Gabaldon is the New York Times bestselling author of the wildly popular Outlander novels—Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, and A Breath of Snow and Ashes (for which she won a Quill Award and the Corine International Book Prize)—and one work of nonfiction, The Outlandish Companion, as well as the bestselling series featuring Lord John Grey, a character she introduced in Voyager. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.

  www.dianagabaldon.com

  Read on for a

  special early preview of

  Written in My Own

  Heart’s Blood,

  the next Outlander novel following

  An Echo in the Bone.

  Claire, having just discovered that Jamie is alive, meets Jamie’s sister, the recently widowed Jenny Murray, in Philadelphia, in the wake of other traumatic discoveries …

  MRS. FIGG WAS SMOOTHLY SPHERICAL, GLEAMINGLY BLACK, and inclined to glide silently up behind one like a menacing ball-bearing.

  “What’s this?” she barked, manifesting herself suddenly behind Jenny.

  “Holy Mother of God!” Jenny whirled, eyes round and hand pressed to her chest. “Who in God’s name are you?”

  “This is Mrs. Figg,” I said, feeling a surreal urge to laugh, despite—or maybe because of—recent events. “Lord John Grey’s cook. And Mrs. Figg, this is Mrs. Murray. My, um … my …”

  “Your good-sister,” Jenny said firmly. She raised one black eyebrow. “If ye’ll have me, still?” Her look was straight and open, and the urge to laugh changed abruptly into an equally strong urge to burst into tears. Of all the unlikely sources of succor I could have imagined.… I took a deep breath and put out my hand.

  “I’ll have you.”

  Her small firm fingers wove through mine, and as simply as that, it was done. No need for apologies or spoken forgiveness. She’d never had to wear the mask that Jamie did. What she thought and felt was there in her eyes, those slanted blue cat-eyes she shared with her brother. She knew me, now, for what I was—and knew I loved—had always loved—her brother with all my heart and soul—despite the minor complications of being presently married to someone else. And that knowledge obliterated years of mistrust, suspicion, and injury.

  She heaved a sigh, eyes closing for an instant, then opened them and smiled at me, mouth trembling only a little.

  “Well, fine and dandy,” said Mrs. Figg, shortly. She narrowed her eyes and rotated smoothly on her axis, taking in the panorama of destruction. The railing at the top of the stair had been ripped off, and cracked banisters, dented walls, and bloody smudges marked the path of William’s descent. Shattered crystals from the chandelier littered the floor, glinting festively in the light that poured through the open front door, the door itself hanging drunkenly from one hinge.

  “Merde on toast,” Mrs. Figg murmured. She turned abruptly to me, her small black-currant eyes still narrowed. “Where’s his lordship?”

  “Ah,” I said. This was going to be rather sticky, I saw. While deeply disapproving of most people, Mrs. Figg was devoted to John. She wasn’t going to be at all pleased to hear that he’d been abducted by—

  “For that matter, where’s my brother?” Jenny inquired, glancing round as though expecting Jamie to appear suddenly out from under the settee.

  “Oh,” I said. “Hm. Well …” Possibly worse than sticky. Because …
<
br />   “And where’s my Sweet William?” Mrs. Figg demanded, sniffing the air. “He’s been here; I smell that stinky cologne he puts on his linen.” She nudged a dislodged chunk of plaster disapprovingly with the toe of her shoe.

  I took another long, deep breath, and a tight grip on what remained of my sanity.

  “Mrs. Figg,” I said, “perhaps you would be so kind as to make us all a cup of tea?”

  Having just discovered Jamie Fraser is his true father, William leaves Lord John’s house in a whirlwind of shock and rage …

  WILLIAM RANSOM, NINTH EARL OF ELLESMERE, VISCOUNT Ashness, shoved his way through the crowds on Broad Street, oblivious to the complaints of those rebounding from his impact.

  He didn’t know where he was going, or what he might do when he got there. All he knew was that he’d burst if he stood still.