Someone mentioned a couple of days ago that it was Lord John’s birthday. Possibly it was <g>, though I don’t recall ever specifying the date…
Still, let us take the opportunity to wish his Lordship many happy returns, even though his present state is perhaps not that happy…..
Excerpt from A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT, Copyright © 2026 Diana Gabaldon
John Grey sat up abruptly, hearing the grate of the key in the lock. The door swung open and the big Polish seaman sidled in, bearing a tray.
“Has no one ever told you that you should knock before entering someone’s room?” John asked. “What if I had been engaged in something requiring privacy?”
He didn’t expect an answer, which was a good thing, as he didn’t get one. He had inveigled the Pole into telling him at least his first name, by dint of deliberately meeting the man’s eye every time the Pole appeared, touching his own chest and saying, “John,” very distinctly.
It had taken more than a week, but one day, the Pole set down his tray, tapped his own chest delicately, and gruffly said, “Mikolaj.” Then hurried out, not looking at John, but leaving him with a fleeting sense of exhilaration.
This had not led to any further exchange of confidences, though, and Mikolaj had reverted to his original face of stone when bringing in trays, removing chamber pots and escorting John on occasional strolls around the deck, the Pole carrying the iron ball attached to Grey’s ankle chain. While he appreciated the courtesy—if that’s what it was—it made him somewhat nervous, as he realized that should Mikolaj, whether by Richardson’s order or from simple pique, choose to toss the heavy ball overboard, Grey himself would inevitably follow it to the bottom of the sea.
For the moment, though, their interaction was limited to the placement of the tray on Grey’s small desk, and his customary thanks to the seaman. As he opened his mouth to utter this, though, he had a thought, and seizing the Pole’s sleeve to prevent his immediate departure, pointed to himself, saying, “John,” and at once at the Pole, saying, “Mikolaj.” Then to himself, “Thank you” and once more pointed at Mikolaj, eyebrows raised in question.
The Pole’s face went blank—well, slightly blanker than usual—for a moment. Then his lips pursed in thought, but after a moment, he nodded and said something that sounded like, “Jenkooyeh.”
“Jenkooyeh,” John said and bowed. The Pole gave him a short nod, turned and left.
Well, he supposed he could learn to speak Polish one word at a time. He wasn’t bloody doing anything else…
He glanced at the small stack of hand-written pages, placed criss-cross fashion to separate the documents:
A letter to William. Well, another letter to William. This was what, the fifth? Sixth?
Two sheets of fragmentary poetry—well, doggerel, at least, and he did wonder why it should be called that. He was fond of dogs, but had never detected any sense of whimsy, let alone any talent for rhyme in one.
A draft—another one—of his will. He was slightly hampered in the disposition of his property by not knowing exactly what it consisted of. He owned a small property in Philadelphia; he’d bought the house on Chestnut Street outright—but given the vagaries of war and government, had no idea whether he still owned it, or whether it had been appropriated by the Crown for the billeting of soldiers, or confiscated by the Continental Congress as the property of an enemy alien.
His house in Savannah was presumably still in British hands, but that was only rented.
He thought he had some share in a Cornish tin mine, but where it was, or of what his share consisted, he had no idea.
Why don’t I even know anything about my own affairs? He thought crossly.
You don’t know, because you don’t care.
“Well, not about houses,’ he said aloud. “Nor yet bloody tin mines.” He pushed the paper away and sat back in his chair. At his request, Miklolaj had had the port opened for light and air, and a brisk sea-breeze ruffled his hair and fluttered the papers on his table.
What do you care about?
“William,” he said, touching the small stack of pages. “Mother. Hal. Minnie and the boys.”
The thought of Hal’s sons conjured thoughts of Benjamin, and he felt a cramp in his gut. There was nothing whatever that he could do about it, though, and he forced his thoughts in a different direction.
“That bloody Scot,” he thought, and smiled, despite himself. And Claire, he added, to be fair.
“Oh, and Brianna, of course.” Thought of that redoubtable young woman made him smile again, and he picked up his quill and took a fresh sheet of paper.
“My Dear,” he wrote, “you will never suppose where I am—I would tell you, but I have no Idea, the Atlantic Ocean being a rather large Place. Finding myself with Time and to spare, I think I will amuse myself—and, perhaps, you—with the Tale of my recent Travails…”
His attempt to do this, though, met with difficulties. Being hit on the head and dragooned had the benefit of action, but the state of being kidnapped, considered solely for its dramatic effect, was rather… well, not boring, exactly, but far from entertaining.
He was further constrained by the knowledge that Richardson might read any of his papers whenever he chose, and it might therefore be less than prudent to tell Brianna Fraser MacKenzie what Richardson’s professed motives were, let alone his own opinion of the man.
Demented, and doesn’t wash often enough. That made him smile, though the description—had he written it—would have continued with “Bloody dangerous, though.”
Sighing, he put that letter aside for the moment and returned to the one to William.
“My dearest son…” To hell with Jamie Fraser, you’re my son as much—if not more—than his… “With luck, you will never receive this…” Idiot. If he doesn’t ever receive it, why should I apologise for sending it? But that’s not the point—if he does receive it, that should signal a sense of apology, shouldn’t it?
Oh, fncking hell…
Click to visit my official Book Ten webpage for information on A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT, and to read many more excerpts from it.
NB: The painting is “Baby’s Birthday” by Frederick Daniel Hardy, 1867, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
This excerpt was also posted on my official Facebook page.
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The first sound froze me in place, just inside the tiny privy. I extended one foot behind me, groping gingerly for the doorsill. The snake didn’t like that; I froze again as the warning buzz increased in volume. I could see the vibrating tip of his tail, sticking up like a thick yellow finger, rudely pointing from the heap of coils.
The front door was open, and Brianna heard Mandy’s shrieks—and her father’s Gaelic shouting—coming from the office before she’d reached the porch.
Rather to William’s surprise, Fraser appeared for departure clad in a faded kilt with a ragged hem, this worn with a hunting shirt shadowed with ancient blood-stains, and a belt from which depended an assortment of weaponry and a small goatskin bag whose purpose was a mystery. Tartan stockings on his feet, and a cartridge box hung from a strap over his shoulder completed the ensemble.
Sunday, December 21, 2025
In a comment on my Facebook page, Rene R. had a question:
Ahhhhhhghhhhhhh, is more or less what’s in my mind, to be honest. Something went wrong with my password to my Facebook page, and I’ve been fighting@#$%@ Facebook to get it back for the last three or four days.