Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

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?

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.”