Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(207)
Grey tried to imagine that meeting and, surprisingly, could envision it: Malcolm, artificial foot and all, limping alone into a dark shed to convince dangerous men to forgo their own murderous plans in favor of his. In Spanish.
“You aren’t dead, so they listened to you,” Grey said slowly. “What did you offer them?”
“Freedom,” Malcolm said simply. “I mean,—the army goes about freeing slaves who enlist—why oughtn’t the navy to be similarly enlightened?”
“I’m not so sure that a sailor’s life is noticeably better than that of a slave,” Grey said dubiously. “In terms of food, they may be better off as they are.”
“I don’t mean they’re to enlist, booby,” Malcolm said. “But I’m sure I can persuade either Albemarle or Admiral Pocock that they should be freed in token of regard for their service. If they survive,” he added thoughtfully.
Grey was beginning to think that Malcolm might actually be a decent diplomat. Still…
“Since you mention service—what, exactly, are you proposing that these men do?”
“Well, my first notion was that they might creep along the shoreline after dark and detach and sink the boom chain across the harbor mouth.”
“A good notion,” Grey said, still dubious, “but—”
“The batteries. Yes, exactly. I couldn’t very well go down and ask to inspect the batteries, but…” He reached into his coat and withdrew a small brass telescope.
“Have a look,” he said, passing this to Grey. “Wave it around a bit, so it doesn’t look as though you’re spying out the batteries particularly.”
Grey took the telescope. His hands were chilled and the brass, warm from Malcolm’s body, gave him an odd frisson.
He’d seen one of the batteries close to, on the way in; the one on the opposite side of the harbor was similarly equipped: six four-pounders and two mortars.
“It’s not only that, of course,” Grey said, handing back the telescope. “It’s the—”
“Timing,” Malcolm finished. “Yes. Even if the men could swim from down shore rather than come through the battery, it would have to be done with the British fleet actually in view, or the Spaniards would have time to raise the chain again.” He shook his head regretfully. “No. What I’m thinking, though—and do say, if you have a better idea—is that we might be able to take El Morro.”
“What?” Grey glanced across the channel at the towering hulk of Morro Castle. Set on a rocky promontory, it rose considerably higher than La Punta and commanded the entire channel, most of the harbor, and a good bit of the city, as well. “How, exactly?”
Malcolm bit his lip, not in concern but concentration. He nodded at the castle.
“I’ve been inside, several times. And I can make an occasion to go again. You’ll go with me—it’s a blessing that you should have come, John,” he added, turning his head to Grey. “It makes things much easier.”
“Does it, indeed?” Grey murmured. A faint uneasiness began to stir at the base of his spine. A seagull landed on the parapet near his elbow and gave him a beady yellow look, which didn’t help.
“The governor’s down with fever, at the moment, but he might be better tomorrow. I’ll request a meeting to introduce you. While you’re engaged with de Prado—or his lieutenant, if de Prado’s still indisposed—I’ll make an excuse, slip off, and manage to take note of the floor plan, entrances and exits, all that—” He broke off suddenly. “You did say two weeks?”
“About that. But there’s no telling, is there? What if Martinique didn’t surrender easily, or there was a typhoon as they left the island? It could be a month or more.” Another thought struck him. “And then there are the volunteers from the American colonies. Lieutenant Rimes says a number of transports are meant to rendezvous with the fleet here.”
Malcolm scratched his head. The clipped bronze curls rippled in the wind like shorn autumn grass.
What? John thought, quite shocked at the poetic image his errant brain had presented him with. He didn’t even like Malcolm, let alone…
“I don’t suppose the transports would come near the harbor until they’d joined the fleet,” Malcolm pointed out. “But two weeks seems decent odds—and that’s long enough to get Olivia and your mother safely off the island.”
“Oh. Yes,” John said, relieved at this apparent return to sanity. “I had Mother send a note to bring them back to—oh, damn. You did say you’d sent them away on purpose.”
The seagull made a disapproving noise, defecated on the parapet, and launched itself into the air.
“I did, yes. I tried to persuade your mother to go with Olivia, but she insisted on staying. Said she’s writing something and wanted to be left in peace for a few days.” Malcolm turned his back on the harbor and stared contemplatively at the stones under his feet.
“Adelante!” A shout came from behind Grey; he turned at the sound of marching feet and clanking weaponry. Another detachment drilling. They clumped past, eyes fixed forward, but their corporal saluted Malcolm politely, including Grey with a brief nod and a sidelong glance.
Was it his imagination, or had the man’s eyes lingered on his face?