The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  Thomas Lally

  Thomas Arthur, Comte de Lally, Baron Tollendal, is one of the real historical figures who appear in this book, along with George II, George III, and Horace Walpole. Born of an Irish father and a French mother (from whom he inherited his titles), he served with the famous Irish Brigade at Fontenoy and was a French general during the Seven Years War. He did in fact serve as Charles Edward Stuart’s aide de camp during the battle of Falkirk, in the ’45, and was mixed up in various Jacobite plots, including one hatched in Ireland in the 1760’s.

  I have taken one small liberty with Thomas Lally, though. He was captured by the British following the Siege of Pondicherry, in India, and taken to England in 1761, not 1760. Given his real involvement with the Irish Jacobites—and his obvious spiritual kinship with Jamie Fraser as a prisoner of the English—I thought the minor temporal dislocation was worth it.

  An interesting—if grim—footnote to Lally’s life is that he was indeed Just Furious about slurs cast on his reputation in France, following the French defeat at Pondicherry, and agitated to be sent back to France to defend himself at a court-martial. After five years of steady badgering, the British did send him back to France—where, in 1766, he was promptly convicted of treason and beheaded.

  Twenty years later, a French court reviewed the evidence and reversed his conviction, which I trust he found satisfying.

  Bog Bodies

  I’ve always found bog bodies—the corpses of people found preserved in peat bogs—fascinating. The garb and accoutrements of the body found on Inchcleraun (which is a real place, and has a real monastery) are a composite of such items found on or with bog bodies from Europe. My thanks to the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History for hosting a special exhibition on bog bodies that provided me with a great deal of useful information, and to the British Museum, whose Lindow Man has always spoken powerfully to me.

  George II, George III, and Horace Walpole

  I love Horace Walpole, as does anyone with an interest in eighteenth-century English society. The fourth son of Robert Walpole, who was England’s first prime minister (though he himself never used the title), Horace was not politically active, nor was he socially important, physically attractive, or otherwise very noticeable. He was, however, intelligent, observant, witty, sarcastic, and apparently never suffered from writer’s cramp. His letters provide one of the most detailed and intimate views of English society during the mid-eighteenth century, and I’m indebted to one of these missives for Lord John’s experience of King George II’s state funeral.

  Below is the text of Walpole’s account of the funeral; you may find it interesting to compare this with the fictionalized view in Chapter 43. The temptation, when presented with such eloquent historical largesse, is to use it all, but that’s a temptation that should, by and large, be resisted. The point of fiction is to tell a particular story, and too much embroidery can’t but detract, no matter how fascinating.

  In this instance, the point of showing you the king’s funeral was primarily that it provided Lord John with his moment of enlightenment regarding Jamie’s motive for remaining at Helwater. Secondarily, it shows a historical turning point that a) anchors the reader in time, b) metaphorically underlines the conclusion of the Grey brothers’ quest, c) marks a turning point in Lord John’s relationship with Jamie Fraser, and d) opens the door to a new phase of both personal and public history—for George III (who was the grandson, not the son, of George II) is, of course, the king from whom the American colonies revolted, and we see in the later books of the Outlander series just how that affects the lives of Lord John, Jamie Fraser, and William.

  To George Montagu, Esq.

  Arlington-street, November 13, 1760.

  … Do you know, I had the curiosity to go to the burying t’other night; I had never seen a royal funeral; nay, I walked as a rag of quality, which I found would be, and so it was, the easiest way of seeing it. It is absolutely a noble sight. The prince’s chamber, hung with purple, and a quantity of silver lamps, the coffin under a canopy of purple velvet, and six vast chandeliers of silver on high stands, had a very good effect. The ambassador from Tripoli and his son were carried to see that chamber. The procession, through a line of foot-guards, every seventh man bearing a torch, the horse-guards lining the outside, their officers with drawn sabres and crape sashes on horseback, the drums muffled, the fifes, bells tolling, and minute guns,—all this was very solemn. But the charm was the entrance of the abbey, where we were received by the dean and chapter in rich robes, the choir and almsmen bearing torches; the whole abbey so illuminated, that one saw it to greater advantage than by day; the tombs, long aisles, and fretted roof, all appearing distinctly, and with the happiest chiara scuro. There wanted nothing but incense, and little chapels here and there, with priests saying mass for the repose of the defunct; yet one could not complain of its not being catholic enough. I had been in dread of being coupled with some boy of ten years old; but the heralds were not very accurate, and I walked with George Grenville, taller and older, to keep me in countenance. When we came to the chapel of Henry the seventh, all solemnity and decorum ceased; no order was observed, people sat or stood where they could or would; the yeomen of the guard were crying out for help, oppressed by the immense weight of the coffin; the bishop read sadly, and blundered in the prayers; the fine chapter, Man that is born of a woman, was chaunted, not read; and the anthem, besides being immeasurably tedious, would have served as well for a nuptial. The real serious part was the figure of the duke of Cumberland, heightened by a thousand melancholy circumstances. He had a dark brown adonis, and a cloak of black cloth, with a train of five yards. Attending the funeral of a father could not be pleasant: his leg extremely bad, yet forced to stand upon it near two hours; his face bloated and distorted with his late paralytic stroke, which has affected too one of his eyes, and placed over the mouth of the vault, into which, in all probability, he must himself so soon descend; think how unpleasant a situation! He bore it all with a firm and unaffected countenance. This grave scene was fully contrasted by the burlesque duke of Newcastle. He fell into a fit of crying the moment he came into the chapel, and flung himself back in a stall, the archbishop hovering over him with a smelling-bottle; but in two minutes his curiosity got the better of his hypocrisy, and he ran about the chapel with his glass to spy who was or was not there, spying with one hand, and mopping his eyes with the other. Then returned the fear of catching cold; and the duke of Cumberland, who was sinking with heat, felt himself weighed down, and turning round, found it was the duke of Newcastle standing upon his train, to avoid the chill of the marble. It was very theatric to look down into the vault, where the coffin lay, attended by mourners with lights. Clavering, the groom of the bed-chamber, refused to sit up with the body, and was dismissed by the king’s order.

  I have nothing more to tell you, but a trifle, a very trifle. The king of Prussia has totally defeated marshal Daun. This, which would have been prodigious news a month ago, is nothing today; it only takes its turn among the questions, “Who is to be groom of the bed-chamber? what is sir T. Robinson to have?” I have been to Leicester-fields today; the crowd was immoderate; I don’t believe it will continue so. Good night.

  Yours ever.

  Remarks on Some Eighteenth-Century Words and Foreign Phrases

  “making love”—This term, like some other period phrases, exists in modern speech, but has changed its meaning. It was not a synonym for “engaging in sexual relations,” but was strictly a male activity and meant any sort of amorous wooing behavior, including the writing or reading of romantic poetry to a young woman, giving her flowers, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, or going so far as kissing, cupping (breasts, we assume), toying (pretty open-ended), etc.—but certainly not including sexual intercourse.

  “gagging” (e.g., “What had the gagging wee bitch been saying?”)—This is a Scots word (not Gaelic), meaning “hoaxing,” from which we might deduce an etymology that led to the present-d
ay “gag,” meaning a joke of some sort.

  “imbranglement”—period colloquialism; an onomatopoetic word that means just what it sounds like: complicated and involuntary entanglement, whether physical, legal, or emotional.

  whisky vs. whiskey—Scotch whisky is spelled without an “e” and Irish whiskey is spelled with an “e.” Consequently, I’ve observed this geographical peculiarity, depending on the location where the substance is produced and/or being ingested.

  pixilated—nowadays, you occasionally see this term (spelled as “pixelated”) used to mean “rendered digitally, in pixels,” or “of unusably low-resolution,” in reference to a photographic image. It was used as a reference to stop-frame photographic technique even before the development of digital photography, and spelled as “pixilated” it was used as a synonym for drunkenness from the mid-nineteenth century. The original meaning, though, was very probably a literal reference to being “away with the pixies (fairies)”—i.e., delusional, and Jamie uses the word in this fashion.

  Humpty-Dumpty—The first known published version of this nursery rhyme is from 1803, but there’s considerable evidence for the name and general concept—as well as, perhaps, earlier versions of the rhyme—existing prior to this. “Humpty dumpty” is a documented slang term from the eighteenth century, used to refer to a short, clumsy person, and while Tom Byrd doesn’t use the name, he’s obviously familiar with the concept.

  Plan B—I had some concern from one editor and one beta-reader as to whether “Plan B” sounded anachronistic. I didn’t think so, and explained my reasoning thus:

  Dear Bill—

  Well, I thought about that. On the one hand, there is “Plan 9 from Outer Space” and the like, which would certainly lead one to suppose “Plan B” is modern. And it certainly is common (modern) short-hand for any backup contingency.

  On the other hand … they certainly had plans (as used in Lord John’s sense) in the 18th century—and presumably, a man with an orderly mind would have listed his plans either as 1, 2, 3, or A, B, C (if not I, II, III). WhatImeantersay is, it could reasonably be regarded as simple common-sense usage, rather than as a figure of speech—and IF so, it isn’t anachronistic.

  If you think it might trouble folk unduly, though, I can certainly reorder his lordship’s language, if not his plans.

  To which the editor luckily replied:

  Dear Diana

  That all makes perfect sense. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it sounds like the natural expression of an orderly 18th-century mind. So let’s keep it.

  Scots/Scottish/Scotch—As I’ve observed in the notes to other books, the word “Scotch,” as used to refer to natives of Scotland, dropped out of favor in the mid-twentieth century, when the SNP started gaining power. Prior to that point in history, though, it was commonly used by both Scots and non-Scots—certainly by English people. I don’t hold with foisting anachronistic attitudes of political correctness onto historical persons, so have retained the common period usage.

  “Yellow-johns” and “swarthy-johns” were both common Irish insults of the period used in reference to the English, God knows why (cf. Ireland and the Jacobite Cause, 1685–1766: A Fatal Attachment, by Éamonn Ó Ciardha).

  Gàidhlig/Gaeilge

  The Celtic tongue spoken in Ireland and Scotland was essentially the same language—called “Erse”—until about 1600, at which point local variations became more pronounced, followed by a big spelling shift that made the Gaelic of the Highlands (Gàidhlig) distinct from the Irish Gaelic (Gaeilge). The two languages still have much in common (rather like the relation between Spanish and Italian), but would have been recognizably different even in 1760.

  Now, with reference to my own novels, I did know that Gaelic was the native tongue of the Scottish Highlands, when I began writing Outlander. Finding someone in Phoenix, Arizona (in 1988), who spoke Gaelic was something else. I finally found a bookseller (Steinhof’s Foreign Books, in Boston) who could provide me with an English/Gaelic dictionary, and that’s what I used as a source when writing Outlander.

  When the book was sold and the publisher gave me a three-book contract, I said to my husband, “I think I really must see the place,” and we went to Scotland. Here I found a much bigger and more sophisticated Gaelic/English dictionary, and that’s what I used while writing Dragonfly in Amber.

  And then I met Iain. I got a wonderful letter from Iain MacKinnon Taylor, who said all kinds of delightful things regarding my books, and then said, “There is just this one small thing, which I hesitate to mention. I was born on the Isle of Harris and am a native Gaelic-speaker—and I think you must be getting your Gaelic from a dictionary.” He then generously volunteered his time and talent to provide translations for the Gaelic in subsequent books, and the Gaelic in Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, The Outlandish Companion, and A Breath of Snow and Ashes is due to Iain’s efforts, and those of his twin brother Hamish and other members of his family still residing on Harris.

  At this point, Iain was no longer able to continue doing the translations, but I was extremely fortunate in that a friend, Catherine MacGregor, was not only a student of Gaelic herself but was also a friend of Catherine-Ann MacPhee, world-famous Gaelic singer, and a native speaker from Barra. The two Cathys very generously did the Gaelic for The Exile and An Echo in the Bone.

  And then I rashly wrote a book that not only involved Scottish Gaelic and Irish, but actually employed the language as a plot element. Fortunately, Cathy and Cathy-Ann were more than equal to the challenge and dragooned their friend Kevin Dooley, musician, author, and fluent Irish speaker, to provide those bits as well.

  One thing about Gaelic is that it doesn’t look anything like it sounds—and so my ever-helpful Gaelic translators kindly offered to make a recording of themselves reading the bits of Gaelic dialogue in the book aloud, for those curious as to what it really sounds like. You can find this recording (and a phonetic pronunciation guide) on my website at www.DianaGabaldon.com, or on my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/AuthorDianaGabaldon.

  Gaelic and Other Non-English Terms

  Here, I’ve just listed brief common expressions that aren’t explicitly translated in context.

  Moran taing—thank you

  Oidhche mhath—good night

  Mo mhic—my son

  Scheisse!—Shit! (German)

  Carte blanche—literally “white card,” used as an expression

  in picquet to note that one holds a hand with no points. In

  more general parlance, it means one has the freedom to do

  anything in a given situation, as no rules apply.

  Sixième—Sixth

  Septième—Seventh

  To those selfless champions of a beautiful and beloved language who have so kindly helped me with Gaelic translations through the years:

  Iain MacKinnon Taylor (and members of his family)

  (Gaelic/Gàidhlig): Voyager, Drums of Autumn,

  The Fiery Cross, and A Breath of Snow and Ashes

  Catherine MacGregor and Catherine-Ann MacPhee

  (Gaelic/Gàidhlig): An Echo in the Bone,

  The Exile, and The Scottish Prisoner

  Kevin Dooley (Irish/Gaeilge): The Scottish Prisoner

  Moran Taing!

  Acknowledgments

  To Jennifer Hershey and Bill Massey, my editors, who have so gracefully and skillfully handled the business of editing a book simultaneously from two different countries, companies, and points of view …

  To the delightful copy editor Kathy Lord, who knows how many esses there are in “nonplussed,” and who repeatedly saves my bacon by knowing how old everybody is and how far it is from Point A to Point B, geography and chronology not being my strong points at all, at all …

  Jessica Waters, editorial assistant, adept at juggling several huge wads of manuscript, requests for interviews, and miscellaneous snippets of this and that simultaneously …

  Virginia Norey (aka “the Book Goddess
”), who designed the elegant volume you hold …

  Vincent La Scala, Maggie Hart, and the many, many hardworking and endlessly tolerant people in the production department at Random House …

  Catherine-Ann MacPhee, that glowing daughter of Barra, actress, TV presenter, traditional singer, teacher, and recording artist—whose wonderful Gaelic recordings can be found at www.Greentrax.com—and who provided the marvelously nuanced translations of Scottish Gaelic for this book …

  Kevin Dooley, fluent speaker of Irish, musician, storyteller, and author (see www.kevindooleyauthor.blogspot.com), for his lovely and thoughtful translations of the Irish Gaelic. Any loss of fadas (the little accent marks scattered over written Irish like ground black pepper) is the fault either of me or the unavoidable friction involved in typesetting, and we apologize if we inadvertently lost any, either way …

  Catherine MacGregor (aka “Amazingly Perceptive and Generous Reader”), both for assistance in procuring and recording the Gaelic translations, helpful commentary on the manuscript, and for Eyeball-Numbing Nitpickery …

  Barbara Schnell and Sarah Meral, for the German bits …

  Laura Bailey, for helpful information on gaiters and other items of eighteenth-century costume …

  Allene Edwards, for Advanced Typo-spotting and Nitpickery …

  Claudia Howard, Recorded Books producer, for her open-mindedness and courtesy while going about the tricky business of getting the audiobook of The Scottish Prisoner on sale simultaneously with the print version …

  Malcolm Edwards and Orion Publishing, for their faith in and stout support of this book …