Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(218)

“You must then put down your names. If you do not…have letters…you can tell me your name, I will write it, and you can make a mark to say it is yours.”

Instant alarm, much looking to and fro, the shine and flicker of eyes in the dark, agitation, a gabble of voices. He raised a hand and waited patiently. It took several minutes, but at last they calmed enough for him to speak again.

“I will go with you into the castle, too,” he pointed out. “What if I am killed? Then I will not be there to tell the king you should have your freedom. But this will tell him.” He tapped a finger on the blank sheet.

“What if some of you become lost in the city after we leave the castle? If you go later to the chief of the English sailors and say to him that you have done this great thing and now you must be free, how will he believe you?” He tapped again.

“This will speak for you. You will tell the English chief your name, and he will see it on this paper and know what you say is true.”

“…es verdad.” Azeel looked as though she, too, was about to faint from the strain, the heat, and—no doubt—the fear of the situation, but her voice was loud and firm.

Cano and Hamid had drawn together, were engaged in a low-voiced debate. Sweat was dripping from the tail of Grey’s hair; he could feel it hitting the small of his back through his shirt with the regularity of grains of sand—slow grains of sand, he thought wryly, very slow—in an hourglass.

At last they settled things between them, though, and Cano took several steps forward, to face Grey himself. He spoke, looking intently into Grey’s face from a distance of no more than a foot; Grey could smell the man’s breath, hot with tobacco and with a hint of rot from his teeth.

“He says,” Azeel said, and stopped to work a little saliva into her mouth, “he says that they will do it. But you must make three papers—one for you, one for him, and one for Hamid, because if you are killed and have the only paper, what good is it?”

“Very reasonable,” Grey said gravely. “Yes, I will do that.”

The sense of relief ran through his limbs like warm water. But he wasn’t quite done yet.

“One thing,” Grey said, and took a breath. Too deep a breath; it made him dizzy, and he took another, shallower.

Cano inclined his head, listening.

“The people in the haciendas—the Mendez family, the Saavedras—I know what your intention was, and we will say no more of that. But you must assure me that these people will not be harmed, will not be killed.”

“…Ellos no serán asesinados.” Azeel’s voice was soft now, remote, as though she was reading the terms of a contract. Which, Grey reflected, it was, in all justice.

Cano’s nostrils flared at that, and there was a low sound—not quite a growl—from the men in the shadows. The sound of it made Grey’s scalp contract.

The man nodded, as though to himself, then turned to look into the shadows, first to one side and then the other, deliberate, as a barrister might look to see the temper of a jury. Then he turned back to Grey and nodded again.

“No los mataremos,” he said.

“We will not kill them,” Azeel whispered.

Grey’s heart had stopped thumping and now seemed to be beating with unusual slowness. The thought of fresh, clean air steadied his mind.

Without thinking about it, he spat into his palm, as soldiers and farmers did, and held out his hand. Cano’s face went quite blank for an instant but then he nodded, made a small “huh” under his breath, spat in his hand, and clasped Grey’s.

He had an army.



TOO LATE. That was his first thought when he heard the firing of artillery in the distance as they approached the city. The British fleet had arrived, and the siege of Havana was begun. A moment’s heavy breathing, though, and the panic passed. It didn’t matter, he realized, and a wave of relief went over him.

Ever since Malcolm had first sprung this plan on him, the matter of timing had been in his mind: the notion that the slaves’ raid must happen just before the arrival of the fleet. But Malcolm’s reference had been with respect to his original plan, having the slaves sabotage the boom chain, to allow the fleet into the harbor.

That truly wouldn’t have worked, unless the fleet was in sight when the chain was sunk; any delay and the Spaniards would have it raised again. But the spiking of the fortress’s guns…that would be helpful at any time.

Granted, he thought, tilting his head to try to gauge the direction of the firing, it would certainly be more dangerous to carry out such a mission with the fortress’s gun crews in place. On the other hand, said gun crews would be focused entirely on their business. It was very likely that the gun crews would be taken completely unaware. For the first few moments.

It was going to be a bloody business, on both sides. He didn’t like the thought but didn’t shy away from it. It was war, and he was—once again—a soldier.

Still, his mind was uneasy. He had no doubt of the slaves’ ferocity or their will, but to pit completely untrained, lightly armed men against practiced soldiers in close combat…

Wait. Perhaps a night attack—could that be managed? He reined his mule in to a walk, the better to think it out.

With the British Navy on their doorstep, the guns of El Morro would never sleep—but neither would they necessarily be manned at full strength during the night watches. He’d seen enough, during his brief excursion to Cojimar, to convince him that the small harbor there was the only possible base for an attack on Morro Castle. What were the distances?