Free The Custom of the Army by Diana Gabaldon Page B

Wolfe made no show of it. It was as though he was simply talking to himself, and a shiver went over Grey as Wolfe intoned:
    The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power
,
    And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave
,
    Awaits alike the inevitable hour
.
    “The paths of glory lead but to the grave,”
Wolfe ended, so low-voiced that only the three or four men closest heard him. Grey was near enough to hear him clear his throat, with a small “hem” noise, and saw his shoulders lift.
    “Gentlemen,” Wolfe said, lifting his voice, as well, “I should rather have written those lines than have taken Quebec.”
    There was a faint stir and a breath of laughter among the men.
    So would I
, Grey thought.
The poet who wrote them is likely sitting by his cozy fire in Cambridge, eating buttered crumpets, not preparing to fall from a great height or get his arse shot off
.
    He didn’t know whether this was simply more of Wolfe’s characteristic drama. Possibly—possibly not, he thought. He’d met Colonel Walsing by the latrines that morning, and Walsing had mentioned that Wolfe had given him a pendant the night before, with instructions to deliver it to Miss Landringham, to whom Wolfe was engaged.
    But, then, it was nothing out of the ordinary for men to put their personal valuables into the care of a friend before a hot battle. Were you killed or badly injured, your body might be looted before your comrades managed to retrieve you, and not everyone had a trustworthy servant with whom to leave such items. Grey himself had often carried snuffboxes, pocket watches, or rings into battle for friends—he’d had a reputation for luck, prior to Crefeld. No one had asked him to carry anything tonight.
    He shifted his weight by instinct, feeling the current change, and Simon Fraser, next him, swayed in the opposite direction, bumping him.
    “Pardon,”
Fraser murmured. Wolfe had made them all recite poetry in French round the dinner table the night before, and it was agreed that Fraser had the most authentic accent, he having fought with the French in Holland some years prior. Should they be hailed by a sentry, it would be his job to reply. Doubtless, Grey thought, Fraser was now thinking frantically in French, trying to saturate his mind with the language, lest any stray bit of English escape in panic.
    “De rien,”
Grey murmured back, and Fraser chuckled, deep in his throat.
    It was cloudy, the sky streaked with the shredded remnants of retreating rain clouds. That was good; the surface of the river was broken, patched with faint light, fractured by stones and drifting tree branches. Even so, a decent sentry could scarcely fail to spot a train of boats.
    Cold numbed his face, but his palms were sweating. He touched the dagger at his belt again; he was aware that he touched it every few minutes, as if needing to verify its presence, but couldn’t help it and didn’t worry about it. He was straining his eyes, lookingfor anything—the glow of a careless fire, the shifting of a rock that was not a rock … Nothing.
    How far? he wondered. Two miles, three? He’d not yet seen the cliffs himself, was not sure how far below Gareon they lay.
    The rush of water and the easy movement of the boat began to make him sleepy, tension notwithstanding, and he shook his head, yawning exaggeratedly to throw it off.
    “Quel est ce bateau?” What boat is that?
The shout from the shore seemed anticlimactic when it came, barely more remarkable than a night bird’s call. But the next instant Simon Fraser’s hand crushed his, grinding the bones together, as Fraser gulped air and shouted,
“Celui de la Reine!!”
    Grey clenched his teeth, not to let any blasphemous response escape. If the sentry demanded a password, he’d likely be crippled for life, he thought. An instant later, though, the sentry shouted,
“Passez!”
and Fraser’s death grip relaxed. Simon was breathing like a bellows but nudged him and