Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(209)
“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.
THE WIG WOULD have been much too large, given Malcolm’s round-headed resemblance to an oversize muskmelon, but Grey’s own hair—yellow and noticeable, as Malcolm had so tactfully noted—was thick, and with it stuffed up inside the wig, the horsehair contrivance sat securely, if uncomfortably. He hoped that Malcolm didn’t suffer from lice but forgot such minor concerns as he made his way through the throngs of people in the street outside La Punta.
There was an air of curiosity in the street; people glanced at the fortress as they passed, clearly sensing some disturbance from its daily routine. But the news had not yet spread; for that matter, Grey wondered whether the news had officially reached the office of the governor—or his sickbed, as the case might be. Neither he nor Malcolm had had any doubt; only the most urgent news would have got the cutter past the boom chain with such dispatch.
The guard at the fortress’s street gate had given him no more than a casual glance before waving him through; as was the case in peacetime, there were nearly as many civilians as soldiers inside the fort, and there were plenty of fair-skinned, blue-eyed Spaniards. The cut of his suit was not in the Spanish style, but it was discreet and sober in color.
He was going to need a horse—that was the first thing. He could walk ten miles, but doing so in his court shoes would be both slow and painful—and making the round-trip of twenty miles on foot…He glanced up at the sky; it was well past noon. Granted, in this latitude, the sun wouldn’t set before eight or nine o’clock, but…
“Why the devil didn’t I ask Stubbs what the word for ‘horse’ is?” he muttered under his breath, threading his way through a district of fragrant market stalls filled with fruit—he recognized plantains, of course, and papayas, mangoes, coconuts, and pineapples, but there were odd dark-green things that he’d not seen before, with pebbly skins, and lighter-green objects that he thought might be custard apples—whatever they were, they smelled delicious. His stomach growled—despite the octopus, he was starving—but then his head snapped round as he smelled something of a distinctly different nature. Fresh manure.
IT WAS VERY LATE by the time he finally returned to Casa Hechevarria that night. A full moon sailed high overhead, and the air was thick with smoke and orange blossom and the smell of slowly roasting meat. He’d eaten in Cojimar easily enough, merely pointing at things in the tiny market square and offering what appeared to be the smaller coins in his pouch, but Cojimar was no more than a sunstruck distant memory, and he was starving again.
He slid off the rented mule, wrapped the creature’s reins over the railing in front of the house, and went to hammer on the door. His arrival had been noticed, though, and soft lantern light flooded out upon him as he came up the shallow wooden steps.