Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(222)

It was like the sort of nightmare that involves endless repetition of something insane, he thought. The last such nightmare hadn’t smelled like a dead octopus, though…

“Aquí!” She squirmed suddenly and he lost his grip on her. She staggered and crashed into a door that looked as though it had been left outdoors for a century or two. Still pretty solid, he thought dimly.

“God, do you mean I have to break it down?”

She ignored him, swaying as she fumbled in her skirts. Her face, her hair, and her shoulder were drenched with blood, and her hands shook so hard that she dropped the keys as soon as she found them. They landed in a clash of metal, drops of blood blooming on the stones around them.

John fumbled in his sleeve for a handkerchief, in some hope of stopping the bleeding, and there ensued an awkward struggle, him trying to tie the cloth around her head, she bending and snatching vainly at the keys, falling every time she bent over.

Grey finally said something in German and grabbed the keys himself. He thrust the handkerchief into Inocencia’s twitching fingers and stabbed at the door.

“Quién es?” said Malcolm’s voice, quite loudly, near his ear.

“Es mi, querida!” Inocencia collapsed against the door, palms plastered to the wood, and left streaks of blood as she slid slowly down it. Grey dropped the keys, fell to his knees, and grabbed his handkerchief out of her limp hand. He found Malcolm’s wig in his pocket, wadded it, and bound it as tightly to her head as he could. There was a long slash through her scalp, and her left ear was hanging by a thread, but he thought dimly that it wasn’t that bad—if she didn’t bleed to death.

She was gray as a storm cloud and gasping heavily, but her eyes were open, fixed on the door.

Malcolm had been shouting for the last few minutes, pounding on the door ’til it shook. Grey stood up and kicked it several times. The pounding and shouting stopped for a moment.

“Malcolm?” Grey said, bending to look for the keys. “Bloody get dressed. We’re leaving as soon as I get this damn door open.”



BY THE TIME they reached the main level of the fortress, most of the noise above had ceased. Grey could still hear shouts and the sounds of an occasional scuffle;—there was a lot of muffled Spanish that had an official tone—the officers of the fortress marshaling men, assessing damage, starting the clearing up.

He’d told the slaves: “Spike the guns, and run. Don’t wait about for your companions or for anything else. Make your way into the city and hide. When you think it’s safe, go to Cojimar, where the British ships are. Ask for General Stanley or the admiral. Tell them my name.”

He’d given a letter of explanation, and the document signed by the slaves, to Tom Byrd, with instructions to find General Stanley. He hoped Tom had made it to the siege lines without being shot—but he’d sent Tom because of his face. No one could doubt he was an Englishman, at whatever distance.

The night outside was quiet. He breathed the clean sea air and felt the touch of it soft on his face. Then he touched Malcolm’s arm—Malcolm was carrying the girl—and pointed toward Calle Yoenis.

“We’ll go to my mother’s house,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything when we get there.”



SOME LITTLE TIME later, too restless to sit, he limped from the sala into the garden and leaned against a flowering quince tree. His ears still rang with the sounds of steel, and he closed his eyes, seeking silence.

Maricela had assured him that Inocencia would live. She herself had stitched the ear back on and applied a pulpa of several herbs whose names Grey didn’t recognize. Malcolm was still with her. Grey hadn’t had the strength to tell Malcolm that he was now a widower rather than an adulterer. The night would vanish, all too soon, but for the moment, time had no meaning. Nothing need be done.

He couldn’t know the extent of the slaves’ success—but they had been successful. Even in the brief frantic interstices of the fighting, he’d seen a dozen guns spiked, and heard the ring of hammers above as he’d half-fallen down the stairs with Inocencia. As he and Malcolm had made their way out of the fortress with her, he’d heard Spanish shouting from the rooftop, furious and thick with curses.

He stood among the fragrant bushes for what seemed a long time, feeling his heart beat, content simply to be breathing. He stirred, though, at the sounds of the garden gate opening and low voices.

“Tom?” he came out from under his sheltering quince, to find both Tom and Rodrigo—both of whom were amazingly, if flatteringly, delighted to see him.

“We thought you was done for, sure, me lord,” Tom said for the third or fourth time, following Grey into the kitchen. “You sure you’re all right, are you?”

The tone of accusing doubt in this question was so familiar that Grey felt tears come to his eyes. He blinked them away, though, assured Tom that he was somewhat banged about but essentially undamaged.

“Gracias a Dios,” Rodrigo said, with such heartfelt sincerity that Grey looked at him in surprise. He said something else in Spanish that Grey didn’t understand; John shook his head, then stopped abruptly, wincing.

Tom looked at Rodrigo, who made a small helpless gesture at his inability to be understood and nodded at Tom, who took a deep breath and looked at his employer searchingly.

“What?” Grey said, somewhat disturbed by their solemn attitudes.