Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(219)
General Stanley had referred repeatedly to an intended siege of Havana. Clearly the navy knew about the boom chain, and, just as clearly, an effective siege must be mounted from the ground, not from ships. So—
“Se?or!” A shout from the line of wagons broke his train of thought, but he tucked the notion safely away for further analysis. He didn’t want the slaves to be butchered, if it could be helped; still less did he want to suffer the same fate.
THEY WERE WELL in sight of the city wall of Havana now. In one way, the fleet’s arrival was fortuitous: A city under siege needed food, above all things. Faced with the problem of getting a hundred slaves past the city guard, Hamid had suggested loading the plantation wagons with anything that came to hand and letting each wagon be accompanied by a half dozen men, there presumably to do the unloading and delivery. Between the two plantations, they could muster ten wagons—with driver and assistant, that was eighty men. The rest could easily slip in by ones and twos.
A decent plan, but what, Grey had asked, about the plantations’ owners, their servants? It would take time to load wagons, and their departure couldn’t be easily concealed. An alarm would be raised, surely?
No, no, he was assured. The wagons were kept in barns near the fields. The loading would happen by night; they would be gone before daylight. And, Cano added, through Azeel, the female slaves who worked in the house could be relied upon to create distractions, as necessary. The thought made him grin his empty black grin, wolf teeth flashing yellow in the lantern light.
It had worked, insofar as no one had come shouting out of the hacienda, demanding to know what was going on as the wagons rumbled out by moonlight. Now, what might happen when the owners and overseers discovered that a hundred able-bodied slaves were missing…
But whatever distractions the women had devised had evidently been effective. No one had pursued them.
He stopped the wagons just out of sight of the city gate, had a hasty check-round with the various teams, reassuring the men and making sure everyone knew where and when they were to meet—and that all the machetes were carefully concealed. Even though he had packed away his uniform and was once more in mufti—complete with Malcolm’s wig—he thought it better not to come into Havana with the wagons. He would go back to the Casa Hechevarria with Rodrigo and Azeel and find out from Jacinto what the news of the invasion was; Inocencia would try to speak with Malcolm in Morro Castle and, in the process, discover anything in the present situation that might be of strategic value.
“Muchas gracias, my dear,” he told her, and bowed low over her hand. “Azeel, please tell her that we could not even contemplate this venture without her courage and help. The entire British Navy is in her debt.”
Inocencia’s lips made a smile, and she bobbed her head in response, but Grey could see that she was trembling with exhaustion, and her brilliant eyes were sunk in her face. Tears quivered on her lashes.
“It will be all right,” he said, taking her hand. “We will succeed—and we will rescue Se?or Stubbs. I promise you.”
She swallowed and nodded, wiping her face on the edge of her filthy apron. Her mouth twitched, as though she meant to say something, but she changed her mind and, pulling her hand free, dropped him a curtsy, turned, and hurried away, lost at once in the crowd of women in the market, all pushing and shouting in an effort to procure food.
“She is afraid,” Azeel said quietly, behind him.
She’s not the only one…He’d felt a coldness at the bone ever since he walked into the tobacco shed, and it hadn’t gone away, though the day was bright and sunny. There was a small flame of excitement at the prospect of action, though, and it was normal for the nerves to be raw—
There was a sharp report from the direction of El Morro, echoed at once by another, and he was suddenly on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec, the cannon firing from the walls, and the army waiting, waiting there on the open ground, waiting in the agony of delay…
He shook himself like a dog and felt better.
“It will be all right,” he said again, firmly, and turned in to the Calle Yoenis.
HE COULD TELL at once that something had happened. There was no singing, no chatter from the patio, no one working in the garden. He did hear muted voices, and food was being cooked—but there was no spice in the air. Only the slightly soapy smell of long-boiled beans and scorched eggs.
He walked rapidly through the empty front rooms, and his heart stopped as he heard a baby’s high-pitched squall.
“Olivia?” he called. The muted voices paused, though the baby’s mewling continued.
“John?” His mother stepped out of the sala, peering into the murk of the unlighted corridor. She was disheveled, her hair in a half-unraveled plait, and she had a tiny baby in her arms.
“Mother.” He hurried to her, his heart suddenly feeling as though it had come loose in his chest. She took a step toward him that brought her face into the bar of sunlight from a window, and one look told him.
“Jesus,” he said under his breath, and reached out to embrace her, draw her close, as though he could fix her in space, prevent her talking, put off knowing for one minute more. She was shaking.
“Olivia?” he said quietly into her hair, and felt her nod. The baby had stopped fussing but was moving between them, odd, small, tentative proddings.
“Yes,” his mother said, and drew a long, quivering breath. He let go of her and she stepped back in order to look him in the face. “Yes, and poor little Ch-Charlotte, too.” She bit her lip briefly and straightened herself.