Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

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; I suppose “The Plains of Martin” just didn’t have the same ring to it), 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 sneaky British 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 endeavor, 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 MacLeod, titled No Great Mischief. It isn’t about Wolfe; it’s a novelized 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 terrorizing of the populace) is a matter of record. It wasn’t (and isn’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 Gray’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 years before. As for the details of exactly what he said—accounts vary, and that’s not really an important detail, so I rolled my own.





Now, speaking of French…Brigadier Fraser spoke excellent French. I don’t. I can read that language, but I can’t speak or write it, possess absolutely no grammar, and have a really low tolerance for diacritical marks. So for the purposes of this story I did as I always do in such cases; I solicit the opinions of several native speakers of French for those bits of dialogue that occur in that language. What you see in this story is due to the assistance of these kind and helpful speakers. I fully expect—because it happens every time I include French in a story—to receive indignant email from assorted French speakers denouncing the French dialogue. If the French was provided to me by a Parisian, someone from Montreal will tell me that’s not right; if the original source was Quebecois, outraged screams emanate from the mother country. And if it came from a textbook or (quelle horreur) an academic source…well, bonne chance with that. There’s also the consideration that it’s very difficult to spot typographical errors in a language you can’t speak. But we do our best. My apologies for anything egregious.





Now, you may notice that John Hunter is referred to in various places either as “Mr. Hunter,” or as “Dr. Hunter.” By long-standing tradition, English surgeons are (and were) addressed as “Mr.” rather than “Dr.”—presumably a nod to their origins as barbers with a sanguinary sideline. However, John Hunter, with his brother William, was also a formally trained physician, as well as an eminent scientist and anatomist—hence entitled also to the honorific “Dr.”





THE SPACE BETWEEN





INTRODUCTION


The Comte St. Germain


THERE WAS AN historical person (quite possibly more than one) who went by this name. There are also numerous reports (mostly unverified) of a person by this name who appears in various parts of Europe over parts of two centuries. These observations have led some to speculate that the Comte (or a Comte of that name) was a practitioner of the occult, a mystic, or even a time traveler.

Let’s put it this way: The Comte St. Germain in this story is not intended to portray the documented historical person of that name.





Paris, March 1778

HE STILL DIDN’T KNOW why the frog hadn’t killed him. Paul Rakoczy, Comte St. Germain, picked up the vial, pulled the cork, and sniffed cautiously, for the third time, but then recorked it, still dissatisfied. Maybe. Maybe not. The scent of the dark-gray powder in the vial held the ghost of something familiar—but it had been thirty years.

He sat for a moment, frowning at the array of jars, bottles, flasks, and pelicans on his workbench. It was late afternoon, and the early spring sun of Paris was like honey, warm and sticky on his face, but glowing in the rounded globes of glass, throwing pools of red and brown and green on the wood from the liquids contained therein. The only discordant note in this peaceful symphony of light was the body of a large rat, lying on its back in the middle of the workbench, a pocket watch open beside it.

The comte put two fingers delicately on the rat’s chest and waited patiently. It didn’t take so long this time; he was used to the coldness as his mind felt its way into the body. Nothing. No hint of light in his mind’s eye, no warm red of a pulsing heart. He glanced at the watch: half an hour.

He took his fingers away, shaking his head.