Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“Will they go and fetch their muskets, all orderly, sir?”


“They will,” Grey said. “And hurry. Go with them, Sergeant—it is Sergeant?”

“Sergeant Aloysius Cutter, sir,” the short gentleman replied with a nod, “and pleased to know an officer what has a brain in his head.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. And fetch back as many more men as fall conveniently to hand, if you please. With arms. A rifleman or two, if you can find them.”

Matters thus momentarily attended to, he turned his attention once more to the river, where two of the Harwood’s small boats were herding one of the fireships away from the transport, circling it and pushing water with their oars; he caught the splash of their efforts and the shouts of the sailors.

“Me lord?”

The voice at his elbow nearly made him swallow his tongue. He turned with an attempt at calmness, ready to reproach Tom for venturing out into the chaos, but before he could summon words, his young valet stooped at his feet, holding something.

“I’ve brought your breeches, me lord,” Tom said, voice trembling. “Thought you might need ’em, if there was fighting.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Tom,” he assured his valet, fighting an urge to laugh. He stepped into the breeches and pulled them up, tucking in his shirt. “What’s been happening in the camp, do you know?”

He could hear Tom swallow hard.

“Indians, me lord,” Tom said. “They came screaming through the tents, set one or two afire. They killed one man I saw, and…and scalped him.” His voice was thick, as though he might be about to vomit. “It was nasty.”

“I daresay.” The night was warm, but Grey felt the hairs rise on arms and neck. The chilling screams had stopped, and while he could still hear considerable hubbub in the camp, it was of a different tone now: no random shouting, just the calls of officers, sergeants, and corporals ordering the men, beginning the process of assembly, of counting noses and reckoning damage.

Tom, bless him, had brought Grey’s pistol, shot bag, and powder, as well as his coat and stockings. Aware of the dark forest and the long, narrow trail between the shore and the camp, Grey didn’t send Tom back but merely told him to keep out of the way as Sergeant Cutter—who, with good military instinct, had also taken time to put his breeches on—came up with his armed recruits.

“All present, sir,” Cutter said, saluting. “?’Oom ’ave I the honor of h’addressing, sir?”

“I am Lieutenant-Colonel Grey. Set your men to watch the ship, please, Sergeant, with particular attention to dark craft coming downstream, and then come back to report what you know of matters in camp.”

Cutter saluted and promptly vanished with a shout of “Come on, you shower o’ shit! Look lively, look lively!”

Tom gave a brief, strangled scream, and Grey whirled, drawing his dagger by reflex, to find a dark shape directly behind him.

“Don’t kill me, Englishman,” said the Indian who had led them to the camp earlier. He sounded mildly amused. “Le capitaine sent me to find you.”

“Why?” Grey asked shortly. His heart was still pounding from the shock. He disliked being taken at a disadvantage, and disliked even more the thought that the man could easily have killed him before Grey knew he was there.

“The Abenaki set your tent on fire; he supposed they might have dragged you and your servant into the forest.”

Tom uttered an extremely coarse expletive and made as though to dive directly into the trees, but Grey stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Stay, Tom. It doesn’t matter.”

“The bloody hell you say,” Tom replied heatedly, agitation depriving him of his normal manners. “I daresay I can find you more smallclothes, not as that will be easy, but what about your cousin’s painting of her and the little ’un she sent for Captain Stubbs? What about your good hat with the gold lace?!?”

Grey had a brief moment of alarm—his young cousin Olivia had sent a miniature of herself and her newborn son, charging Grey to deliver this to her husband, Captain Malcolm Stubbs, presently with Wolfe’s troops. He clapped a hand to his side, though, and felt with relief the oval shape of the miniature in its wrappings, safe in his pocket.

“That’s all right, Tom; I’ve got it. As to the hat…we’ll worry about that later, I think. Here—what is your name, sir?” he inquired of the Indian, unwilling to address him simply as “you.”

“Manoke,” said the Indian, still sounding amused.

“Quite. Will you take my servant back to the camp?” He saw the small, determined figure of Sergeant Cutter appear at the mouth of the trail and, firmly overriding Tom’s protests, shooed him off in care of the Indian.



IN THE EVENT, all five fireships either drifted or were steered away from the Harwood. Something that might—or might not—have been a boarding craft did appear upstream but was frightened off by Grey’s impromptu troops on the shore, firing volleys—though the range was woefully short; there was no possibility of hitting anything.

Still, the Harwood was secure, and the camp had settled into a state of uneasy watchfulness. Grey had seen Woodford briefly upon his return, near dawn, and learned that the raid had resulted in the deaths of two men and the capture of three more, dragged off into the forest. Three of the Indian raiders had been killed, another wounded—Woodford intended to interview this man before he died but doubted that any useful information would result.

“They never talk,” he’d said, rubbing at his smoke-reddened eyes. His face was pouchy and gray with fatigue. “They just close their eyes and start singing their damned death songs. Not a blind bit of difference what you do to ’em—they just keep on singing.”

Grey had heard it, or thought he had, as he crawled wearily into his borrowed shelter toward daybreak. A faint, high-pitched chant that rose and fell like the rush of the wind in the trees overhead. It kept up for a bit, then stopped abruptly, only to resume again, faint and interrupted, as he teetered on the edge of sleep.

What was the man saying? he wondered. Did it matter that none of the men hearing him knew what he said? Perhaps the scout—Manoke, that was his name—was there; perhaps he would know.

Tom had found Grey a small tent at the end of a row. Probably he had ejected some subaltern, but Grey wasn’t inclined to object. It was barely big enough for the canvas bed sack that lay on the ground and a box that served as table, on which stood an empty candlestick, but it was shelter. It had begun to rain lightly as he walked up the trail to camp, and the rain was now pattering busily on the canvas overhead, raising a sweet, musty scent. If the death song continued, it was no longer audible over the sound of the rain.

Grey turned over once, the grass stuffing of the bed sack rustling softly beneath him, and fell at once into sleep.