Outlander [08] Written in My Own Heart's Blood Read online

  Written in My Own Heart’s Blood is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Diana Gabaldon

  Title page art from an original photograph by Laura Shreck

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  DELACORTE PRESS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Gabaldon, Diana.

  Written in my own heart’s blood : a novel / Diana Gabaldon.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-385-34443-2

  eBook ISBN 978-0-440-24644-2

  1. Philadelphia (Pa.)—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction.

  2. United States—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction. 3. Scottish

  Americans—Fiction. 4. Time travel—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.A22W85 2014

  813′.54—dc23 2013043591

  www.bantamdell.com

  Author photo: © Doug Watkins

  Jacket design: Marietta Anastassatos

  Jacket illustration: © Robert Hunt; Symbol of octothorpe © Conrad Altmann

  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  An Outlander Family Tree

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Nexus

  1: A HUNDREDWEIGHT OF STONES

  2: DIRTY BASTARD

  3: IN WHICH THE WOMEN, AS USUAL, PICK UP THE PIECES

  4: DON’T ASK QUESTIONS YOU DON’T WANT TO HEAR THE ANSWERS TO

  5: THE PASSIONS OF YOUNG MEN

  6: UNDER MY PROTECTION

  7: THE UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES OF ILL-CONSIDERED ACTIONS

  8: HOMO EST OBLIGAMUS AEROBE (“MAN IS AN OBLIGATE AEROBE”)—HIPPOCRATES

  9: A TIDE IN THE AFFAIRS OF MEN

  10: THE DESCENT OF THE HOLY GHOST UPON A RELUCTANT DISCIPLE

  11: REMEMBER PAOLI!

  12: EINE KLEINE NACHTMUSIK

  13: MORNING AIR AWASH WITH ANGELS

  14: INCIPIENT THUNDER

  15: AN ARMY ON THE MOVE

  16: ROOM FOR SECRETS

  17: FREEDOM!

  18: NAMELESS, HOMELESS, DESTITUTE, AND VERY DRUNK INDEED

  19: DESPERATE MEASURES

  20: OF CABBAGES AND KINGS

  21: BLOODY MEN

  22: THE GATHERING STORM

  23: IN WHICH MRS. FIGG TAKES A HAND

  24: WELCOME COOLNESS IN THE HEAT, COMFORT IN THE MIDST OF WOE

  25: GIVE ME LIBERTY …

  PART TWO

  Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch …

  26: A STEP INTO THE DARK

  27: NOTHING’S SO HARD BUT SEARCH WILL FIND IT OUT

  28: WARMER, COLDER

  29: RETURN TO LALLYBROCH

  30: LIGHTS, ACTION, SIRENS

  31: THE SHINE OF A ROCKING HORSE’S EYES

  32: “FOR MANY MEN WHO STUMBLE AT THE THRESHOLD ARE WELL FORETOLD THAT DANGER LURKS WITHIN”

  33: IT’S BEST TO SLEEP IN A HALE SKIN

  34: SANCTUARY

  35: AN GEARASDAN

  36: THE SCENT OF A STRANGER

  37: COGNOSCO TE

  38: THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST

  39: THE GHOST OF A HANGIT MAN

  40: ANGELS UNAWARE

  41: IN WHICH THINGS CONVERGE

  42: ALL MY LOVE

  43: APPARITION

  44: AMPHISBAENA

  45: THE CURE OF SOULS

  46: BABY JESUS, TELL ME …

  PART THREE

  A Blade Fresh-Made from the Ashes of the Forge

  47: SOMETHING SUITABLE IN WHICH TO GO TO WAR

  48: JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT

  49: UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE

  50: THE GOOD SHEPHERD

  51: SCROUNGING

  52: MORPHIA DREAMS

  53: TAKEN AT A DISADVANTAGE

  54: IN WHICH I MEET A TURNIP

  55: VESTAL VIRGINS

  56: STINKING PAPIST

  57: DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

  58: CASTRAMETATION

  59: A DISCOVERY IN THE RANKS

  60: QUAKERS AND QUARTERMASTERS

  61: A VISCOUS THREE-WAY

  62: THE MULE DISLIKES YOU

  63: AN ALTERNATE USE FOR A PENIS SYRINGE

  64: THREE HUNDRED AND ONE

  65: MOSQUITOES

  66: WAR PAINT

  67: REACHING FOR THINGS THAT AREN’T THERE

  PART FOUR

  Day of Battle

  68: GO OUT IN DARKNESS

  69: SPARROW-FART

  70: A SINGLE LOUSE

  71: FOLIE À TROIS

  72: MORASSES AND IMBROGLIOS

  73: PECULIAR BEHAVIOR OF A TENT

  74: THE SORT OF THING THAT WILL MAKE A MAN SWEAT AND TREMBLE

  75: THE CIDER ORCHARD

  76: THE DANGERS OF SURRENDER

  77: THE PRICE OF BURNT SIENNA

  78: IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME

  79: HIGH NOON

  80: PATER NOSTER

  81: AMONG THE TOMBSTONES

  PART FIVE

  Counting Noses

  82: EVEN PEOPLE WHO WANT TO GO TO HEAVEN DON’T WANT TO DIE TO GET THERE

  83: SUNDOWN

  84: NIGHTFALL

  85: LONG ROAD HOME

  86: IN WHICH ROSY-FINGERED DAWN SHOWS UP MOB-HANDED

  87: MOONRISE

  88: A WHIFF OF ROQUEFORT

  89: ONE DAY, COCK OF THE WALK—NEXT DAY, A FEATHER DUSTER

  90: IT’S A WISE CHILD WHO KNOWS HIS FATHER

  91: KEEPING SCORE

  92: I WILL NOT HAVE THEE BE ALONE

  93: THE HOUSE ON CHESTNUT STREET

  94: THE SENSE OF THE MEETING

  A CODA IN THREE-TWO TIME

  PART SIX

  The Ties That Bind

  95: THE BODY ELECTRIC

  96: NAY GREAT SHORTAGE OF HAIR IN SCOTLAND

  97: A MAN TO DO A MAN’S JOB

  98: THE WALL

  99: RADAR

  100: BE THOSE THY BEASTS?

  101: JUST ONE CHANCE

  102: POSTPARTUM

  103: SOLSTICE

  104: THE SUCCUBUS OF CRANESMUIR

  105: NO A VERY GOOD PERSON

  106: A BROTHER OF THE LODGE

  107: THE BURYING GROUND

  108: REALITY IS THAT WHICH, WHEN YOU STOP BELIEVING IN IT, DOESN’T GO AWAY

  109: FROTTAGE

  110: THE SOUNDS THAT MAKE UP SILENCE

  PART SEVEN

  Before I Go Hence

  111: A DISTANT MASSACRE

  112: DAYLIGHT HAUNTING

  113: THANKS FOR ALL THE FISH

  114: BELIEF IS A WISE WAGER

  115: THE RAVELED SLEEVE OF CARE

  116: A-HUNTING WE WILL GO

  117: INTO THE BRIAR PATCH

  118: THE SECOND LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS

  119: “ALAS, POOR YORICK!”

  120: A CRACKLING OF THORNS

  121: WALKING ON COALS

  122: HALLOWED GROUND

  PART EIGHT

  Search and Rescue

  123: QUOD SCRIPSI, SCRIPSI

  124: BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LETTERS Q, E, AND D

  125: SQUID OF THE EVENING, BEAUTIFUL SQUID

  126: THE OGLETHORPE PLAN

  127: PLUMBI
NG

  128: GIGGING FROGS

  129: INVASION

  130: A SOVEREIGN CURE

  131: A BORN GAMBLER

  132: WILL-O’-THE-WISP

  133: LAST RESORT

  134: LAST RITES

  135: AMARANTHUS

  136: UNFINISHED BUSINESS

  PART NINE

  “Thig crioch air an t-saoghal ach mairidh ceol agus gaol.”

  137: IN THE WILDERNESS A LODGING PLACE

  138: FANNY’S FRENULUM

  139: A VISIT TO THE TRADING POST

  140: WOMAN, WILT THOU LIE WITH ME?

  141: THE DEEPEST FEELING ALWAYS SHOWS ITSELF IN SILENCE

  142: THINGS COMING INTO VIEW

  143: INTERRUPTUS

  144: VISIT TO A HAUNTED GARDEN

  145: AND YOU KNOW THAT

  Author’s Notes

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by this Author

  About the Author

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  PROLOGUE

  IN THE LIGHT OF eternity, time casts no shadow.

  Your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions. But what is it that the old women see?

  We see necessity, and we do the things that must be done.

  Young women don’t see—they are, and the spring of life runs through them.

  Ours is the guarding of the spring, ours the shielding of the light we have lit, the flame that we are.

  What have I seen? You are the vision of my youth, the constant dream of all my ages.

  Here I stand on the brink of war again, a citizen of no place, no time, no country but my own … and that a land lapped by no sea but blood, bordered only by the outlines of a face long-loved.

  A HUNDREDWEIGHT OF STONES

  June 16, 1778

  The forest between Philadelphia and Valley Forge

  IAN MURRAY STOOD with a stone in his hand, eyeing the ground he’d chosen. A small clearing, out of the way, up among a scatter of great lichened boulders, under the shadow of firs and at the foot of a big red cedar; a place where no casual passerby would go, but not inaccessible. He meant to bring them up here—the family.

  Fergus, to begin with. Maybe just Fergus, by himself. Mam had raised Fergus from the time he was ten, and he’d had no mother before that. Fergus had known Mam longer than Ian had, and loved her as much. Maybe more, he thought, his grief aggravated by guilt. Fergus had stayed with her at Lallybroch, helped to take care of her and the place; he hadn’t. He swallowed hard and, walking into the small clear space, set his stone in the middle, then stood back to look.

  Even as he did so, he found himself shaking his head. No, it had to be two cairns. His mam and Uncle Jamie were brother and sister, and the family could mourn them here together—but there were others he might bring, maybe, to remember and pay their respects. And those were the folk who would have known Jamie Fraser and loved him well but wouldn’t ken Jenny Murray from a hole in the—

  The image of his mother in a hole in the ground stabbed him like a fork, retreated with the recollection that she wasn’t after all in a grave, and stabbed again all the harder for that. He really couldn’t bear the vision of them drowning, maybe clinging to each other, struggling to keep—

  “A Dhia!” he said violently, and dropped the stone, turning back at once to find more. He’d seen people drown.

  Tears ran down his face with the sweat of the summer day; he didn’t mind it, only stopping now and then to wipe his nose on his sleeve. He’d tied a rolled kerchief round his head to keep the hair and the stinging sweat out of his eyes; it was sopping before he’d added more than twenty stones to each of the cairns.

  He and his brothers had built a fine cairn for their father before he died, at the head of the carved stone that bore his name—all his names, in spite of the expense—in the burying ground at Lallybroch. And then later, at the funeral, members of the family, followed by the tenants and then the servants, had come one by one to add a stone each to the weight of remembrance.

  Fergus, then. Or … no, what was he thinking? Auntie Claire must be the first he brought here. She wasn’t Scots herself, but she kent fine what a cairn was and would maybe be comforted a bit to see Uncle Jamie’s. Aye, right. Auntie Claire, then Fergus. Uncle Jamie was Fergus’s foster father; he had a right. And then maybe Marsali and the children. But maybe Germain was old enough to come with Fergus? He was ten, near enough to being a man to understand, to be treated like a man. And Uncle Jamie was his grandsire; it was proper.

  He stepped back again and wiped his face, breathing heavily. Bugs whined and buzzed past his ears and hovered over him, wanting his blood, but he’d stripped to a loincloth and rubbed himself with bear grease and mint in the Mohawk way; they didn’t touch him.

  “Look over them, O spirit of red cedar,” he said softly in Mohawk, gazing up into the fragrant branches of the tree. “Guard their souls and keep their presence here, fresh as thy branches.”

  He crossed himself and bent to dig about in the soft leaf mold. A few more rocks, he thought. In case they might be scattered by some passing animal. Scattered like his thoughts, which roamed restless to and fro among the faces of his family, the folk of the Ridge—God, might he ever go back there? Brianna. Oh, Jesus, Brianna …

  He bit his lip and tasted salt, licked it away and moved on, foraging. She was safe with Roger Mac and the weans. But, Jesus, he could have used her advice—even more, Roger Mac’s.

  Who was left for him to ask, if he needed help in taking care of them all?

  Thought of Rachel came to him, and the tightness in his chest eased a little. Aye, if he had Rachel … She was younger than him, nay more than nineteen, and, being a Quaker, had very strange notions of how things should be, but if he had her, he’d have solid rock under his feet. He hoped he would have her, but there were still things he must say to her, and the thought of that conversation made the tightness in his chest come back.

  The picture of his cousin Brianna came back, too, and lingered in his mind: tall, long-nosed and strong-boned as her father … and with it rose the image of his other cousin, Bree’s half brother. Holy God, William. And what ought he to do about William? He doubted the man kent the truth, kent that he was Jamie Fraser’s son—was it Ian’s responsibility to tell him so? To bring him here and explain what he’d lost?

  He must have groaned at the thought, for his dog, Rollo, lifted his massive head and looked at him in concern.

  “No, I dinna ken that, either,” Ian told him. “Let it bide, aye?” Rollo laid his head back on his paws, shivered his shaggy hide against the flies, and relaxed in boneless peace.

  Ian worked awhile longer and let the thoughts drain away with his sweat and his tears. He finally stopped when the sinking sun touched the tops of his cairns, feeling tired but more at peace. The cairns rose knee-high, side by side, small but solid.

  He stood still for a bit, not thinking anymore, just listening to the fussing of wee birds in the grass and the breathing of the wind among the trees. Then he sighed deeply, squatted, and touched one of the cairns.

  “Tha gaol agam oirbh, a Mhàthair,” he said softly. My love is upon you, Mother. Closed his eyes and laid a scuffed hand on the other heap of stones. The dirt ground into his skin made his fingers feel strange, as though he could maybe reach straight through the earth and touch what he needed.

  He stayed still, breathing, then opened his eyes.

  “Help me wi’ this, Uncle Jamie,” he said. “I dinna think I can manage, alone.”

  DIRTY BASTARD

  WILLIAM RANSOM, Ninth Earl of Ellesmere, Viscount Ashness, Baron Derwent, shoved his way through the crowds on Market Street, oblivious to the complaints of those rebounding from his impact.

  He didn’t know where he was going, or what he might do when he got there. All he knew was that he’d burst if he stood still.

  His head
throbbed like an inflamed boil. Everything throbbed. His hand—he’d probably broken something, but he didn’t care. His heart, pounding and sore inside his chest. His foot, for God’s sake—what, had he kicked something? He lashed out viciously at a loose cobblestone and sent it rocketing through a crowd of geese, who set up a huge cackle and lunged at him, hissing and beating at his shins with their wings.

  Feathers and goose shit flew wide, and the crowd scattered in all directions.

  “Bastard!” shrieked the goose-girl, and struck at him with her crook, catching him a shrewd thump on the ear. “Devil take you, dreckiger Bastard!”

  This sentiment was echoed by a number of other angry voices, and he veered into an alley, pursued by shouts and honks of agitation.

  He rubbed his throbbing ear, lurching into buildings as he passed, oblivious to everything but the one word throbbing ever louder in his head. Bastard.

  “Bastard!” he said out loud, and shouted, “Bastard, bastard, bastard!” at the top of his lungs, hammering at the brick wall next to him with a clenched fist.

  “Who’s a bastard?” said a curious voice behind him. He swung round to see a young woman looking at him with some interest. Her eyes moved slowly down his frame, taking note of the heaving chest, the bloodstains on the facings of his uniform coat, and the green smears of goose shit on his breeches. Her gaze reached his silver-buckled shoes and returned to his face with more interest.

  “I am,” he said, hoarse and bitter.

  “Oh, really?” She left the shelter of the doorway in which she’d been lingering and came across the alley to stand right in front of him. She was tall and slim and had a very fine pair of high young breasts—which were clearly visible under the thin muslin of her shift, because, while she had a silk petticoat, she wore no stays. No cap, either—her hair fell loose over her shoulders. A whore.

  “I’m partial to bastards myself,” she said, and touched him lightly on the arm. “What kind of bastard are you? A wicked one? An evil one?”

  “A sorry one,” he said, and scowled when she laughed. She saw the scowl but didn’t pull back.

  “Come in,” she said, and took his hand. “You look as though you could do with a drink.” He saw her glance at his knuckles, burst and bleeding, and she caught her lower lip behind small white teeth. She didn’t seem afraid, though, and he found himself drawn, unprotesting, into the shadowed doorway after her.