Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(87)

Fettes blinked, this being as close to an expression of astonishment as he ever got, and Cherry looked openly sceptical. Grey did not choose to go into the matter of Mrs. Abernathy nor yet to explain his conclusions about the maroons’ disinclination for violence. Strange, he thought. He had heard Captain Accompong’s name only moments before, but with that name his thoughts began to coalesce around a shadowy figure. Suddenly there was a mind out there, someone with whom he might engage.

In battle, the personality and temperament of the commanding officer was nearly as important as the number of troops he commanded. So. He needed to know more about Captain Accompong, but that could wait for the moment.

He nodded to Tom, who approached respectfully, Rodrigo behind him.

“Tell them what you discovered, Tom.”

Tom cleared his throat and folded his hands at his waist.

“Well, we…er…disrobed the governor”—Fettes flinched, and Tom cleared his throat again before going on—“and had a close look. And the long and the short of it, sir, and sir,” he added, with a nod to Cherry, “is that Governor Warren was stabbed in the back.”

Both officers looked blank.

“But…the place is covered with blood and filth and nastiness,” Cherry protested. “It smells like that place where they put the bloaters they drag out of the Thames!”

“Footprints,” Fettes said, giving Tom a faintly accusing look. “There were footprints. Big, bloody, bare footprints.”

“I do not deny that something objectionable was present in that room,” Grey said dryly. “But whoever—or whatever—gnawed the governor probably did not kill him. He was almost certainly dead when the…er…subsequent damage occurred.”

Rodrigo’s eyes were huge. Fettes was heard to observe under his breath that he would be damned, but both Fettes and Cherry were good men and did not argue with Grey’s conclusions, any more than they had taken issue with his order to hide Warren’s body: they could plainly perceive the desirability of suppressing rumour of a plague of zombies.

“The point, gentlemen, is that after several months of incident, there has been nothing for the last month. Perhaps Mr. Warren’s death is meant to be incitement, but if it was not the work of the maroons, then the question is…what are the maroons waiting for?”

Tom lifted his head, eyes wide.

“Why, me lord, I’d say—they’re waiting for you. What else?”



WHAT ELSE, INDEED. Why had he not seen that at once? Of course Tom was right. The maroons’ protest had gone unanswered, their complaint unremedied. So they had set out to attract attention in the most noticeable—if not the best—way open to them. Time had passed, nothing was done in response, and then they had heard that soldiers were coming. Lieutenant-Colonel Grey had now appeared. Naturally they were waiting to see what he would do.

What had he done so far? Sent troops to guard the plantations that were the most likely targets of a fresh attack. That was not likely to encourage the maroons to abandon their present plan of action, though it might cause them to direct their efforts elsewhere.

He walked to and fro in the wilderness of the King’s House garden, thinking, but there were few alternatives.

He summoned Fettes and informed him that he, Fettes, was, until further notice, acting governor of the island of Jamaica.

Fettes looked more like a block of wood than usual.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “If I might ask, sir…where are you going?”

“I’m going to talk to Captain Accompong.”



“ALONE, SIR?” Fettes was appalled. “Surely you cannot mean to go up there alone!”

“I won’t be,” Grey assured him. “I’m taking my valet and the servant boy. I’ll need someone who can translate for me, if necessary.”

Seeing the mulish cast settling upon Fettes’s brow, he sighed.

“To go there in force, Major, is to invite battle, and that is not what I want.”

“No, sir,” Fettes said dubiously, “but surely a proper escort…!”

“No, Major.” Grey was courteous but firm. “I wish to make it clear that I am coming to speak with Captain Accompong, and nothing more. I go alone.”

“Yes, sir.” Fettes was beginning to look like a block of wood that someone had set about with a hammer and chisel.

“As you wish, sir.”

Grey nodded and turned to go into the house, but then paused and turned back.

“Oh, there is one thing that you might do for me, Major.”

Fettes brightened slightly.

“Yes, sir?”

“Find me a particularly excellent hat, would you? With gold lace, if possible.”



THEY RODE FOR nearly two days before they heard the first of the horns. A high, melancholy sound in the twilight, it seemed far away, and only a sort of metallic note made Grey sure that it was not in fact the cry of some large exotic bird.

“Maroons,” Rodrigo said under his breath, and crouched a little, as though trying to avoid notice, even in the saddle. “That’s how they talk to one another. Every group has a horn; they all sound different.”

Another long, mournful falling note. Was it the same horn? Grey wondered. Or a second, answering the first?