Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“What do I taste like?” he’d asked, out of curiosity.

Manoke, absorbed in his business, had said something that might have been “cock” but might equally have been some expression of mild disgust, so Grey thought better of pursuing this line of inquiry. Besides, if he did taste of beef and biscuit or Yorkshire pudding, would the Indian recognize that? For that matter, did he really want to know, if he did? He did not, he decided, and they enjoyed the rest of the evening without benefit of conversation.

He scratched the small of his back where his breeches rubbed, uncomfortable with mosquito bites and the peel of fading sunburn. He’d tried the native style of dress, seeing its convenience, but had scorched his bum by lying too long in the sun one afternoon and thereafter resorted to breeches, not wishing to hear any further jocular remarks regarding the whiteness of his arse.

Thinking such pleasant but disjointed thoughts, he’d made his way halfway through the town before noticing that there were many more soldiers in evidence than there had been when he’d left. Drums were pattering up and down the sloping, muddy streets, calling men from their billets, the rhythm of the military day making itself felt. His own steps fell naturally into the beat of the drums; he straightened and felt the army reach out suddenly, seizing him, shaking him out of his sunburned bliss.

He glanced involuntarily up the hill and saw the flags fluttering above the large inn that served as field headquarters. Wolfe had returned.



GREY FOUND HIS own quarters, reassured Tom as to his well-being, submitted to having his hair forcibly untangled, combed, perfumed, and tightly bound up in a formal queue, and, with his clean uniform chafing his sunburned skin, went to present himself to the general, as courtesy demanded. He knew James Wolfe by sight—Wolfe was about his own age, had fought at Culloden, been a junior officer under Cumberland during the Highland campaign—but did not know him personally. He’d heard a great deal about him, though.

“Grey, is it? Pardloe’s brother, are you?” Wolfe lifted his long nose in Grey’s direction, as though sniffing at him, in the manner of one dog inspecting another’s backside. Grey trusted he would not be required to reciprocate and instead bowed politely.

“My brother’s compliments, sir.”

Actually, what his brother had had to say was far from complimentary.

“Melodramatic ass” was what Hal had said, hastily briefing him before his departure. “Showy, bad judgment, terrible strategist. Has the devil’s own luck, though, I’ll give him that. Don’t follow him into anything stupid.”

Wolfe nodded amiably enough.

“And you’ve come as a witness for who is it—Captain Carruthers?”

“Yes, sir. Has a date been set for the court-martial?”

“Dunno. Has it?” Wolfe asked his adjutant, a tall, spindly creature with a beady eye.

“No, sir. Now that his lordship is here, though, we can proceed. I’ll tell Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart; he’s to chair the proceeding.”

Wolfe waved a hand.

“No, wait a bit. The brigadier will have other things on his mind. ’Til after…”

The adjutant nodded and made a note.

“Yes, sir.”

Wolfe was eyeing Grey, in the manner of a small boy bursting to share some secret.

“D’you understand Highlanders, Colonel?”

Grey blinked, surprised.

“Insofar as such a thing is possible, sir,” he replied politely, and Wolfe brayed with laughter.

“Good man.” The general turned his head to one side and appraised Grey. “I’ve got a hundred or so of the creatures; been thinking what use they might be. I think I’ve found one—a small adventure.”

The adjutant smiled despite himself, then quickly erased the smile.

“Indeed, sir?” Grey said cautiously.

“Somewhat dangerous,” Wolfe went on carelessly. “But, then, it’s the Highlanders—no great mischief should they fall. Would you care to join us?”

“Don’t follow him into anything stupid.” Right, Hal, he thought. Any suggestions on how to decline an offer like that from one’s titular commander?

“I should be pleased, sir,” he said, feeling a brief ripple of unease down his spine. “When?”

“In two weeks—at the dark of the moon.” Wolfe was all but wagging his tail in enthusiasm.

“Am I permitted to know the nature of the…er…expedition?”

Wolfe exchanged a look of anticipation with his adjutant, then turned eyes shiny with excitement on Grey.

“We’re going to take Quebec, Colonel.”



SO WOLFE THOUGHT he had found his point d’appui. Or, rather, his trusted scout, Malcolm Stubbs, had found it for him. Grey returned briefly to his quarters, put the miniature of Olivia and little Cromwell in his pocket, and went to find Stubbs.

He didn’t bother thinking what to say to Malcolm. It was as well, he thought, that he hadn’t found Stubbs immediately after his discovery of the Indian mistress and her child; he might simply have knocked Stubbs down, without the bother of explanation. But time had elapsed, and his blood was cooler now. He was detached.

Or so he thought, until he entered a prosperous tavern—Malcolm had elevated tastes in wine—and found his cousin-by-marriage at a table, relaxed and jovial among his friends. Stubbs was aptly named, being approximately five foot four in both dimensions, a fair-haired fellow with an inclination to become red in the face when deeply entertained or deep in drink.

At the moment, he appeared to be experiencing both conditions, laughing at something one of his companions had said, waving his empty glass in the barmaid’s direction. He turned back, spotted Grey coming across the floor, and lit up like a beacon. He’d been spending a good deal of time out of doors, Grey saw; he was nearly as sunburned as Grey himself.

“Grey!” he cried. “Why, here’s a sight for sore eyes! What the devil brings you to the wilderness?” Then he noticed Grey’s expression, and his joviality faded slightly, a puzzled frown growing between his thick brows.

It hadn’t time to grow far. Grey lunged across the table, scattering glasses, and seized Stubbs by the shirtfront.

“You come with me, you bloody swine,” he whispered, face shoved up against the younger man’s, “or I’ll kill you right here, I swear it.”

He let go then and stood, blood hammering in his temples. Stubbs rubbed at his chest, affronted, startled—and afraid. Grey could see it in the wide blue eyes. Slowly, Stubbs got up, motioning to his companions to stay.

“No bother, chaps,” he said, making a good attempt at casualness. “My cousin—family emergency, what?”