A Trail of Fire

by Diana Gabaldon

  Nicholls had had an eyetooth missing, the front tooth beside the empty space badly chipped. If he ever visited Hunter’s house again, might he come face to face with a skull with a missing tooth?

  He seized the brandy decanter, uncorked it, and drank directly from it, swallowing slowly and repeatedly, until the vision disappeared.

  His small table was littered with papers. Among them, under his sapphire paperweight, was the tidy packet that the widow Lambert had handed him, her face blotched with weeping. He put a hand on it, feeling Charlie’s doubled touch, gentle on his face, soft around his heart.

  You won’t fail me.

  ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘No, Charlie, I won’t.’

  With Manoke’s help as translator, he bought the child, after prolonged negotiation, for two golden guineas, a brightly coloured blanket, a pound of sugar and a small keg of rum. The grandmother’s face was sunken, not with grief, he thought, but with dissatisfaction and weariness. With her daughter dead of the smallpox, her life would be harder. The English, she conveyed to Grey through Manoke, were cheap bastards; the French were much more generous. He resisted the impulse to give her another guinea.

  It was full autumn now, and the leaves had all fallen. The bare branches of the trees spread black ironwork flat against a pale blue sky as he made his way upward through the town, to the small French mission. There were several small buildings surrounding the tiny church, with children playing outside; some of them paused to look at him, but most of them ignored him; British soldiers were nothing new.

  Father LeCarré took the bundle gently from him, turning back the blanket to look at the child’s face. The boy was awake; he pawed at the air, and the priest put out a finger for him to grasp.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, seeing the clear signs of mixed blood, and Grey knew the priest thought the child was his. He started to explain, but after all, what did it matter?

  ‘We will baptise him as a Catholic, of course,’ Father LeCarré said, looking up at him. The priest was a young man, rather plump, dark and clean-shaven, but with a gentle face. ‘You do not mind that?’

  ‘No.’ Grey drew out a purse. ‘Here: for his maintenance. I will send an additional five pounds each year, if you will advise me once a year of his continued welfare. Here – the address to which to write.’ A sudden inspiration struck him – not that he did not trust the good father, he assured himself, only . . . ‘Send me a lock of his hair,’ he said. ‘Every year.’

  He was turning to go when the priest called him back, smiling.

  ‘Has the infant a name, sir?’

  ‘A—’ He stopped dead. His mother had surely called him something, but Malcolm Stubbs hadn’t thought to tell him what it was before being shipped back to England. What should he call the child? Malcolm, for the father who had abandoned him? Hardly.

  Charles, maybe, in memory of Carruthers . . .

  . . . one of these days, it isn’t going to.

  ‘His name is John,’ he said abruptly, and cleared his throat. ‘John Cinnamon.’

  ‘Mais oui,’ the priest said, nodding. ‘Bon voyage, monsieur – et allez avec le Bon Dieu.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, and went away, not looking back, down to the riverbank where Manoke waited to bid him farewell.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  The Battle of Quebec is justly famous, as one of the great military triumphs of the eighteenth-century British Army. If you go today to the battlefield at the Plains of Abraham (in spite of this poetic name, it really was just named for the farmer who owned the land, one Abraham Martin), you’ll see a plaque at the foot of the cliff there, commemorating the heroic achievement of the Highland troops who climbed this sheer cliff from the river below, clearing the way for the entire army – and their cannon, mortars, howitzers and accompanying impedimenta – to make a harrowing overnight ascent and confront General Montcalm with a jaw-dropping spectacle by the dawn’s early light.

  If you go up onto the field itself, you’ll find another plaque, this one put up by the French, explaining (in French) what a dirty, unsportsmanlike trick this was for those British lowlifes to have played on the noble troops defending the Citadel. Ah, perspective.

  General James Wolfe, along with Montcalm, was of course a real historical character, as was Brigadier Simon Fraser (whom you will have met – or will meet later – in An Echo in the Bone). My own rule of thumb when dealing with historical persons in the context of fiction is to try not to portray them as having done anything worse than what I know they did, according to the historical record.

  In General Wolfe’s case, Hal’s opinion of his character and abilities is one commonly held and recorded by a number of contemporary military commentators. And there is documentary proof of his attitude toward the Highlanders whom he used for this endeavour, in the form of the letter quoted in the story: ‘. . . no great mischief if they fall.’ (Allow me to recommend a wonderful novel by Alistair McLeod, titled No Great Mischief. It isn’t about Wolfe; it’s a novelised history of a family of Scots who settle in Nova Scotia, beginning in the eighteenth century and carrying on through the decades, but it is from Wolfe’s letter that the book takes its title, and he’s mentioned.)

  Wolfe’s policy with regard to the habitant villages surrounding the Citadel (looting, burning, general terrorising of the populace) is a matter of record. It wasn’t an unusual thing for an invading army to do.

  General Wolfe’s dying words are also a matter of historical record, but like Lord John, I take leave to doubt that that’s really what he said. He is reported by several sources to have recited Grey’s ‘Elegy written in a Country Churchyard’ in the boat on the way to battle – and I think that’s a sufficiently odd thing to have done that the reports are probably true.

  As for Simon Fraser, he’s widely reported to have been the British officer who fooled the French lookouts by calling out to them in French as the boats went by in the darkness – and he undoubtedly spoke excellent French, having campaigned in France. As to the details of exactly what he said – accounts vary, and that’s not really an important detail, so I rolled my own.

  I am greatly indebted to Philippe Safavi, who translates my novels into French, for checking and correcting the French inclusions, both in The Custom of the Army and The Space Between.

  Lord John and the Plague of Zombies

  Introduction to

  Lord John and the Plague of Zombies

  The thing about Lord John’s situation and career – unmarried, no fixed establishment, discreet political connections, fairly high-ranking officer – is that he can easily take part in far-flung adventures, rather than being bound to a pedestrian daily life. To be honest, once I started doing ‘bulges’ involving him, I just looked at which year it was, and then consulted one of my historical timeline references to see what kinds of interesting events happened in that year. That’s how he happened to find himself in Quebec for the battle there.

  In terms of this story, though, the impetus came from two different sources, both ‘trails’ leading back from the main books of the series – Voyager, in this case. To wit: I knew that Lord John was the Governor of Jamaica in 1766, when Claire meets him aboard the Porpoise; it wasn’t impossible for a man with connections and no experience to be appointed to such a post – but it was more likely for a man who had had experience in the territory to which he was appointed. I knew also that Geillis Duncan wasn’t dead, and where she was. And after all, with a story set in Jamaica, how could I possibly resist zombies?

  Lord John and the Plague of Zombies

  There was a snake on the drawing-room table. A small snake, but still. Lord John Grey wondered whether to say anything about it.

  The governor picked up a cut-crystal decanter that stood not six inches from the coiled reptile, appearing quite oblivious. Perhaps it was a pet, or perhaps the residents of Jamaica were accustomed to keep a tame snake in residence, to kill rats. Judging from the number of rats he’d seen since leaving the ship, this
seemed sensible – though this particular snake didn’t appear large enough to take on even your average mouse.

  The wine was decent, but served at body heat, and it seemed to pass directly through Grey’s gullet and into his blood. He’d had nothing to eat since before dawn, and felt the muscles of his lower back begin to tingle and relax. He put the glass down; he wanted a clear head.

  ‘I cannot tell you, sir, how happy I am to receive you,’ said the governor, putting down his own glass, empty. ‘The position is acute.’

  ‘So you said in your letter to Lord North. The situation has not changed appreciably since then?’ It had been nearly three months since that letter was written; a lot could change in three months.

  He thought Governor Warren shuddered, despite the temperature in the room.

  ‘It has become worse,’ the governor said, picking up the decanter. ‘Much worse.’

  Grey felt his shoulders tense, but spoke calmly.

  ‘In what way? Have there been more—’ He hesitated, searching for the right word. ‘More demonstrations?’ It was a mild word to describe the burning of cane fields, the looting of plantations, and the wholesale liberation of slaves.

  Warren gave a hollow laugh. His handsome face was beading with sweat. There was a crumpled handkerchief on the arm of his chair, and he picked it up to mop at his skin. He hadn’t shaved this morning – or, quite possibly, yesterday; Grey could hear the faint rasp of his dark whiskers on the cloth.

  ‘Yes. More destruction. They burnt a sugar press last month, though still in the remoter parts of the island. Now, though . . .’ He paused, licking dry lips as he poured more wine. He made a cursory motion toward Grey’s glass, but Grey shook his head.

  ‘They’ve begun to move toward King’s Town,’ Warren said. ‘It’s deliberate, you can see it. One plantation after another, in a line coming straight down the mountain.’ He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t say straight. Nothing in this bloody place is straight, starting with the landscape.’

  That was true enough; Grey had admired the vivid green peaks that soared up from the centre of the island, a rough backdrop for the amazingly blue lagoon and the white sand shore.

  ‘People are terrified,’ Warren went on, seeming to get a grip on himself, though his face was once again slimy with sweat, and his hand shook on the decanter. It occurred to Grey, with a slight shock, that the governor himself was terrified. ‘I have merchants – and their wives – in my office every day, begging, demanding protection from the blacks.’

  ‘Well, you may assure them that protection will be provided them,’ Grey said, sounding as reassuring as possible. He had half a battalion with him – three hundred infantry troops, and a company of artillery, equipped with small cannon. Enough to defend King’s Town, if necessary. But his brief from Lord North was not merely to defend and reassure the merchants and shipping of King’s Town and Spanish Town – nor even to provide protection to the larger sugar plantations. He was charged with putting down the slave rebellion entirely. Rounding up the ringleaders and putting a stop to the violence altogether.

  The snake on the table moved suddenly, uncoiling itself in a languid manner. It startled Grey, who had begun to think it was a decorative sculpture. It was exquisite: only seven or eight inches long, and a beautiful pale yellow marked with brown, a faint iridescence in its scales like the glow of good Rhenish wine.

  ‘It’s gone farther now, though,’ Warren was going on. ‘It’s not just burning and property destruction. Now it’s come to murder.’

  That brought Grey back with a jerk.

  ‘Who has been murdered?’ he demanded.

  ‘A planter named Abernathy. Murdered in his own house, last week. His throat cut.’

  ‘Was the house burnt?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. The maroons ransacked it, but were driven off by Abernathy’s own slaves before they could set fire to the place. His wife survived by submerging herself in a spring behind the house, concealed by a patch of reeds.’

  ‘I see.’ He could imagine the scene all too well. ‘Where is the plantation?’

  ‘About ten miles out of King’s Town. Rose Hall, it’s called. Why?’ A bloodshot eye swivelled in Grey’s direction, and he realised that the glass of wine the governor had invited him to share had not been his first of the day. Nor, likely, his fifth.

  Was the man a natural sot? he wondered. Or was it only the pressure of the current situation that had caused him to take to the bottle in such a blatant manner? He surveyed the governor covertly; the man was perhaps in his late thirties, and while plainly drunk at the moment, showed none of the signs of habitual indulgence. He was well-built and attractive; no bloat, no soft belly straining at his silk waistcoat, no broken veins in cheeks or nose . . .

  ‘Have you a map of the district?’ Surely it hadn’t escaped Warren that if indeed the maroons were burning their way straight toward King’s Town, it should be possible to predict where their next target lay and await them with several companies of armed infantry?

  Warren drained the glass and sat panting gently for a moment, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, then seemed to pull himself together.

  ‘Map,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, of course. Dawes . . . my secretary . . . he’ll— he’ll find you one.’

  Motion caught Grey’s eye. Rather to his surprise, the tiny snake, after casting to and fro, tongue tasting the air, had started across the table in what seemed a purposeful, if undulant, manner, headed straight for him. By reflex, he put up a hand to catch the little thing, lest it plunge to the floor.

  The governor saw it, uttered a loud shriek, and flung himself back from the table. Grey looked at him in astonishment, the tiny snake curling over his fingers.

  ‘It’s not venomous,’ he said, as mildly as he could. At least he didn’t think so. His friend Oliver Gwynne was a natural philosopher and mad for snakes; Gwynne had shown him all the prizes of his collection during the course of one hair-raising afternoon, and he seemed to recall Gwynne telling him that there were no venomous reptiles at all on the island of Jamaica. Besides, the nasty ones all had triangular heads, while the harmless kinds were blunt, like this little fellow.

  Warren was indisposed to listen to a lecture on the physiognomy of snakes. Shaking with terror, he backed against the wall.

  ‘Where?’ he gasped. ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘It’s been sitting on the table since I came in. I . . . um . . . thought it was . . .’ Well, plainly it wasn’t a pet, let alone an intended part of the table décor. He coughed, and got up, meaning to put the snake outside through the French doors that led onto the terrace.

  Warren mistook his intent, though, and seeing him come closer, snake writhing through his fingers, burst through the French doors himself, crossed the terrace in a mad leap, and pelted down the flagstoned walk, coat-tails flying as though the Devil himself were in pursuit.

  Grey was still staring after him in disbelief when a discreet cough from the inner door made him turn.

  ‘Gideon Dawes, sir.’ The governor’s secretary was a short, tubby man with a round, pink face that probably was rather jolly by nature. At the moment, it bore a look of profound wariness. ‘You are Lieutenant-Colonel Grey?’

  Grey thought it unlikely that there was a plethora of men wearing the uniform and insignia of a lieutenant-colonel on the premises of King’s House at that very moment, but nonetheless bowed, murmuring, ‘Your servant, Mr Dawes. I’m afraid Mr Warren has been taken . . . er . . .’ He nodded toward the open French doors. ‘Perhaps someone should go after him?’

  Mr Dawes closed his eyes with a look of pain, then sighed and opened them again, shaking his head.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ he said, though his tone lacked any real conviction. ‘I’ve just been discussing commissary and billeting requirements with your Major Fettes; he wishes you to know that all the arrangements are quite in hand.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you, Mr Dawes.’ In spite of the unnerving nature of the governor’s departure, he f
elt a sense of pleasure. He’d been a major himself for years; it was astonishing how pleasant it was to know that someone else was now burdened with the physical management of troops. All he had to do was give orders.

  That being so, he gave one, though it was phrased as a courteous request, and Mr Dawes promptly led him through the corridors of the rambling house to a small clerk’s hole near the governor’s office, where maps were made available to him.

  He could see at once that Warren had been right regarding both the devious nature of the terrain, and the trail of attacks. One of the maps was marked with the names of plantations, and small notes indicated where maroon raids had taken place. It was far from being a straight line, but nonetheless, a distinct sense of direction was obvious.

  The room was warm, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back. Still, a cold finger touched the base of his neck lightly, when he saw the name ‘Twelvetrees’ on the map.

  ‘Who owns this plantation?’ he asked, keeping his voice level as he pointed at the paper.

  ‘What?’ Dawes had fallen into a sort of dreamy trance, looking out the window into the green of the jungle, but blinked and pushed his spectacles up, bending to peer at the map. ‘Oh, Twelvetrees. It’s owned by Philip Twelvetrees – a young man, inherited the place from a cousin only recently. Killed in a duel, they say – the cousin, I mean,’ he amplified helpfully.

  ‘Ah. Too bad.’ Grey’s chest tightened unpleasantly. He could have done without that complication. If . . . ‘The cousin – was he named Edward Twelvetrees, by chance?’

  Dawes looked mildly surprised.

  ‘I do believe that was the name. I didn’t know him, though; no one here did. He was an absentee owner, ran the place through an overseer.’