Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“This way.” There was more light below, bright flashes from the narrow windows at the ends of long corridors, dim flickering of lanterns on the walls, a strong smell of whale oil. Malcolm led the way down to his office, where he said something in rapid Spanish to the secretary, who rose, looking surprised, and went out. Malcolm closed the door and locked it.

“Now what?” Grey asked. His heart was beating fast, and he felt a sense of confusion: an alertness like that of impending battle, an absurd urge to flee, the urgent need to do something…but what? The first knuckle on his right hand was bleeding; he’d scraped it when he slipped on the stairs. He put it to his mouth in reflex, tasting silver blood and stone dust.

Malcolm was breathing harder than the brisk walk merited. He braced himself with both hands on the desk, looking down at the dark wood. Finally he nodded, shook himself like a dog, and straightened up.

“It’s not as though I haven’t been thinking about it,” he said. “But I hadn’t expected you to be here.”

“Don’t let me interfere with your plans,” Grey said politely. Malcolm looked at him, startled, then laughed and seemed to settle into himself.

“Right,” he said. “Well, there’s the two things, aren’t there? The slaves, and Olivia—and your mother, of course,” he added hastily.

Grey thought he might himself have reversed those two items in order of importance, but, then, he didn’t know just how dangerous the slaves might be. He nodded.

“Do you really think they’ll arrest you?”

Malcolm lifted one heavy shoulder and let it fall.

“Yes, I do—but I don’t know how long it might take them to get round to it. After all, I’m no particular threat, so far as they know.” He went to the small window and peered out. Grey could hear shouting in the courtyard below, someone trying to create order in the midst of a rising gabble of Spanish voices.

“The thing is,” Malcolm said, turning back from the window with a frown of concentration upon his face, “they’ll know officially that war has been declared, as soon as the captain of that ship presents his letters to the governor. But do you think they know anything about the fleet?” He saw Grey’s raised eyebrow and added hastily, “I mean,—the ship bringing the declaration—if that’s truly what it is—they might have spotted the fleet or…—or heard word of it. In which case…”

Grey shook his head.

“It’s a big ocean, Malcolm,” he said. “And is there anything you’d do differently if the Spanish did know about the fleet?”

He was rather impatient with Malcolm’s orderly exegesis. His own blood was up, and he needed to be moving.

“Actually, yes. Number one being, run—both of us. If they think the British are about to be on their doorstep, the second thing the Spanish will do—after putting both forts on full alert—is round up every British citizen in Havana, very likely starting with me. If they don’t know that, we might still have a bit of time in hand.”

Grey saw that Malcolm was needing to move, too; he’d begun to walk to and fro behind his desk, glancing out of the window each time he passed it. He was limping heavily; walking clearly hurt him, but he seemed oblivious to the pain.

“The Mendez slaves will be nervous—well, they are already—but they’ll be bloody well stirred up by this news. I’ve got to go and talk to them, as quickly as possible. Reassure them, you know? If I don’t, they may very well take the declaration of war as a signal to fall upon their owners and slaughter them on the spot—which, aside from being generally deplorable in terms of humanity, would be a complete waste of their value to us.”

“Deplorable, yes.” Grey felt a qualm at the thought of the inhabitants of Haciendas Mendez and Saavedra, sitting down peaceably to their suppers tonight, with no notion that they might be murdered at any moment by the servants bringing their food. It occurred to him—as perhaps it had to Malcolm—that the slaves of those two plantations were quite possibly not the only ones on the island of Cuba who might be inclined to take advantage of a British invasion to settle scores. But there wasn’t much either Malcolm or he could do about that.

“You’d best go, then, at once. I’ll see to the women and children.”

Malcolm was rubbing a hand fiercely over his face, as though this might assist thought.

“Yes. You’ll have to get them off the island before the fleet arrives. Here, take this.” He pulled out a drawer and withdrew a small, fat leather pouch. “Spanish money—you’ll attract less attention. Cojimar—I think that’s your best bet.”

“What and where is Cojimar?” Drums. There were drums now, beating a tattoo in the courtyard, and the clatter of boots and voices as men spilled out of the recesses of the fortress. How big was the force manning El Morro?

He didn’t realize he’d spoken that last question aloud until Malcolm answered it, distracted.

“About seven hundred soldiers, maybe another three hundred supportives—oh, and the African laborers; perhaps another three hundred of them—they don’t live in the fort, though.” He met Grey’s eyes and nodded, divining his next thought. “I don’t know. They might join our men, they might not. If I had time…” He grimaced. “But I don’t. Cojimar is—oh, wait.” Turning, he seized the wig he’d taken off earlier from his desk and thrust it into Grey’s hands.

“Disguise,” he said, and smiled briefly. “You rather take the eye, John. Best if people don’t notice you on the street.” He snatched up the hat and crammed it on his own bare head, then unlocked the door and pulled it open, impatiently gesturing Grey ahead of him.

John went, asking over his shoulder, “Cojimar?”

“Fishing village.” Malcolm was looking up and down the corridor. “It’s east of Havana, maybe ten miles. If the fleet can’t get into the harbor, it’s the best anchorage for them. Small bay—oh, and a small fort, too. El Castillo de Cojimar. You’ll want to keep clear of that.”

“Yes, I’ll do that,” John said dryly. “I’ll—” He’d been going to say that he’d send Tom Byrd with any news, but the words died in his throat. Malcolm would presumably be somewhere in the countryside, tending his slaves, by the time there was any news. That, or in captivity. Or—very possibly—dead.

“Malcolm,” he said.

Malcolm turned his head sharply and saw John’s face. He stopped dead for a moment, then nodded.

“Olivia,” he said quietly. “Will you tell her—” He broke off and looked away.

“You know I will.”

He put out a hand, and Malcolm grasped it, hard enough that the bones shifted. When they let go, his skinned knuckle burned, and he saw that there was blood from it on Malcolm’s palm.

They spoke no more but went out into the corridor, walking fast.