pixilated--nowadays, you occasionally see this term (spelled as "pixelated") used to mean "rendered digitally, in pixels," or "of unusably low-resolution," in reference to a photographic image. It was used as a reference to stop-frame photographic technique even before the development of digital photography, and spelled as "pixilated" it was used as a synonym for drunkenness from the mid-nineteenth century. The original meaning, though, was very probably a literal reference to being "away with the pixies (fairies)"--i.e., delusional, and Jamie uses the word in this fashion.
Humpty-Dumpty--The first known published version of this nursery rhyme is from 1803, but there's considerable evidence for the name and general concept--as well as, perhaps, earlier versions of the rhyme--existing prior to this. "Humpty dumpty" is a documented slang term from the eighteenth century, used to refer to a short, clumsy person, and while Tom Byrd doesn't use the name, he's obviously familiar with the concept.
Plan B--I had some concern from one editor and one beta-reader as to whether "Plan B" sounded anachronistic. I didn't think so, and explained my reasoning thus:
Dear Bill--
Well, I thought about that. On the one hand, there is "Plan 9 from Outer Space" and the like, which would certainly lead one to suppose "Plan B" is modern. And it certainly is common (modern) short-hand for any backup contingency.
On the other hand ... they certainly had plans (as used in Lord John's sense) in the 18th century--and presumably, a man with an orderly mind would have listed his plans either as 1, 2, 3, or A, B, C (if not I, II, III). WhatImeantersay is, it could reasonably be regarded as simple common-sense usage, rather than as a figure of speech--and IF so, it isn't anachronistic.
If you think it might trouble folk unduly, though, I can certainly reorder his lordship's language, if not his plans.
To which the editor luckily replied:
Dear Diana
That all makes perfect sense. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it sounds like the natural expression of an orderly 18th-century mind. So let's keep it.
Scots/Scottish/Scotch--As I've observed in the notes to other books, the word "Scotch," as used to refer to natives of Scotland, dropped out of favor in the mid-twentieth century, when the SNP started gaining power. Prior to that point in history, though, it was commonly used by both Scots and non-Scots--certainly by English people. I don't hold with foisting anachronistic attitudes of political correctness onto historical persons, so have retained the common period usage.
"Yellow-johns" and "swarthy-johns" were both common Irish insults of the period used in reference to the English, God knows why (cf. Ireland and the Jacobite Cause, 1685-1766: A Fatal Attachment, by Eamonn O Ciardha).
Gaidhlig/Gaeilge
The Celtic tongue spoken in Ireland and Scotland was essentially the same language--called "Erse"--until about 1600, at which point local variations became more pronounced, followed by a big spelling shift that made the Gaelic of the Highlands (Gaidhlig) distinct from the Irish Gaelic (Gaeilge). The two languages still have much in common (rather like the relation between Spanish and Italian), but would have been recognizably different even in 1760.
Now, with reference to my own novels, I did know that Gaelic was the native tongue of the Scottish Highlands, when I began writing Outlander. Finding someone in Phoenix, Arizona (in 1988), who spoke Gaelic was something else. I finally found a bookseller (Steinhof's Foreign Books, in Boston) who could provide me with an English/Gaelic dictionary, and that's what I used as a source when writing Outlander.
When the book was sold and the publisher gave me a three-book contract, I said to my husband, "I think I really must see the place," and we went to Scotland. Here I found a much bigger and more sophisticated Gaelic/English dictionary, and that's what I used while writing Dragonfly in Amber.
And then I met Iain. I got a wonderful letter from Iain MacKinnon Taylor, who said all kinds of delightful things regarding my books, and then said, "There is just this one small thing, which I hesitate to mention. I was born on the Isle of Harris and am a native Gaelic-speaker--and I think you must be getting your Gaelic from a dictionary." He then generously volunteered his time and talent to provide translations for the Gaelic in subsequent books, and the Gaelic in Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, The Outlandish Companion, and A Breath of Snow and Ashes is due to Iain's efforts, and those of his twin brother Hamish and other members of his family still residing on Harris.
At this point, Iain was no longer able to continue doing the translations, but I was extremely fortunate in that a friend, Catherine MacGregor, was not only a student of Gaelic herself but was also a friend of Catherine-Ann MacPhee, world-famous Gaelic singer, and a native speaker from Barra. The two Cathys very generously did the Gaelic for The Exile and An Echo in the Bone.
And then I rashly wrote a book that not only involved Scottish Gaelic and Irish, but actually employed the language as a plot element. Fortunately, Cathy and Cathy-Ann were more than equal to the challenge and dragooned their friend Kevin Dooley, musician, author, and fluent Irish speaker, to provide those bits as well.
One thing about Gaelic is that it doesn't look anything like it sounds--and so my ever-helpful Gaelic translators kindly offered to make a recording of themselves reading the bits of Gaelic dialogue in the book aloud, for those curious as to what it really sounds like. You can find this recording (and a phonetic pronunciation guide) on my website at www.DianaGabaldon.com, or on my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/AuthorDianaGabaldon.
Gaelic and Other Non-English Terms
Here, I've just listed brief common expressions that aren't explicitly translated in context.
Moran taing--thank you
Oidhche mhath--good night
Mo mhic--my son
Scheisse!--Shit! (German)
Carte blanche--literally "white card," used as an expression
in picquet to note that one holds a hand with no points. In
more general parlance, it means one has the freedom to do
anything in a given situation, as no rules apply.
Sixieme--Sixth
Septieme--Seventh
To those selfless champions of a beautiful and beloved language who have so kindly helped me with Gaelic translations through the years:
Iain MacKinnon Taylor (and members of his family)
(Gaelic/Gaidhlig): Voyager, Drums of Autumn,
The Fiery Cross, and A Breath of Snow and Ashes
Catherine MacGregor and Catherine-Ann MacPhee
(Gaelic/Gaidhlig): An Echo in the Bone,
The Exile, and The Scottish Prisoner
Kevin Dooley (Irish/Gaeilge): The Scottish Prisoner
Moran Taing!
Acknowledgments
To Jennifer Hershey and Bill Massey, my editors, who have so gracefully and skillfully handled the business of editing a book simultaneously from two different countries, companies, and points of view ...
To the delightful copy editor Kathy Lord, who knows how many esses there are in "nonplussed," and who repeatedly saves my bacon by knowing how old everybody is and how far it is from Point A to Point B, geography and chronology not being my strong points at all, at all ...
Jessica Waters, editorial assistant, adept at juggling several huge wads of manuscript, requests for interviews, and miscellaneous snippets of this and that simultaneously ...
Virginia Norey (aka "the Book Goddess"), who designed the elegant volume you hold ...
Vincent La Scala, Maggie Hart, and the many, many hardworking and endlessly tolerant people in the production department at Random House ...
Catherine-Ann MacPhee, that glowing daughter of Barra, actress, TV presenter, traditional singer, teacher, and recording artist--whose wonderful Gaelic recordings can be found at www.Greentrax.com--and who provided the marvelously nuanced translations of Scottish Gaelic for this book ...
Kevin Dooley, fluent speaker of Irish, musician, storyteller, and author (see www.kevindooleyauthor.blogspot.com), fo
r his lovely and thoughtful translations of the Irish Gaelic. Any loss of fadas (the little accent marks scattered over written Irish like ground black pepper) is the fault either of me or the unavoidable friction involved in typesetting, and we apologize if we inadvertently lost any, either way ...
Catherine MacGregor (aka "Amazingly Perceptive and Generous Reader"), both for assistance in procuring and recording the Gaelic translations, helpful commentary on the manuscript, and for Eyeball-Numbing Nitpickery ...
Barbara Schnell and Sarah Meral, for the German bits ...
Laura Bailey, for helpful information on gaiters and other items of eighteenth-century costume ...
Allene Edwards, for Advanced Typo-spotting and Nitpickery ...
Claudia Howard, Recorded Books producer, for her open-mindedness and courtesy while going about the tricky business of getting the audiobook of The Scottish Prisoner on sale simultaneously with the print version ...
Malcolm Edwards and Orion Publishing, for their faith in and stout support of this book ...
My husband, Doug Watkins, for helpful information on horses, mules, harness, and small boys ...
Karen Henry, Czarina of Traffic and Aedile Curule of the Diana Gabaldon folder (in the Compuserve Books and Writers Forum), without whom I would have a lot more distraction and fewer words on paper, both for herding the bumblebees and for her detailed and helpful manuscript comments ...
Susan Butler, for invaluable logistical assistance, household and dog management, and encyclopedic knowledge on how to ship things most expeditiously from Point A to Point B ...
Jeremy Tolbert, Nikki Rowe, Michelle Moore, Loretta McKibben, and Janice Millford, for Web-based constructions and management ... I can't clone myself, but they're the next best thing ...
Lara, Suellen, Jari Backman, Wayne Sowry, and the dozens of other lovely people who've given me useful details and suggestions, or have remembered things for me that I had forgotten, but needed ...
Vicki Pack and The Society for the Appreciation of the English Awesomesauce (Lord John's fan club), for moral support and a great T-shirt ...
Elenna Loughlin, for the lovely author photo (taken in the eighteenth-century walled garden at Culloden House, near Inverness) ...
Judy Lowstuter, Judie Rousselle, and the Ladies of Lallybroch, for the bench in the eighteenth-century walled garden at Culloden House, kindly dedicated to me and my books ...
Allan Scott-Douglas, Ewen Dougan, and Louise Lewis for various Scots idioms, and for the correct spelling of "tattie" ...
Betsy ("Betty") Mitchell, Bedelia, Eldon Garlock, Karen Henry ("Keren-happuch"), and Guero the mule (aka "Whitey")--for the use of their names, though I hasten to add that with the exception of Guero, none of the above has anything in common with the characters bearing those names ...
Homer and JJ, for observations on dachshund puppies ...
and
Danny Baror and Russell Galen--better agents, no one's ever had.
By Diana Gabaldon
(in chronological order)
Outlander
Dragonfly in Amber
Voyager
Drums of Autumn
The Fiery Cross
A Breath of Snow and Ashes
An Echo in the Bone
The Outlandish Companion
(nonfiction)
(in chronological order)
Lord John and the Hellfire Club (novella)
Lord John and the Private Matter
Lord John and the Succubus (novella)
Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade
Lord John and the Haunted Soldier (novella)
Custom of the Army (novella)
Lord John and the Hand of Devils (collected novellas)
The Scottish Prisoner
Plague of Zombies (novella)
About the Author
DIANA GABALDON is the New York Times bestselling author of the wildly popular Outlander novels--Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, A Breath of Snow and Ashes (for which she won a Quill Award and the Corine International Book Prize), and An Echo in the Bone--as well as one work of nonfiction, The Outlandish Companion; the Outlander graphic novel The Exile; and the bestselling series featuring Lord John Grey, a character she introduced in her Outlander series. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, with her husband.
www.dianagabaldon.com
Turn the page for a
special early preview of
Written in My Own
Heart's Blood,
the next Outlander novel after
An Echo in the Bone.
Claire, having just discovered that Jamie is alive, meets Jamie's sister, the recently widowed Jenny Murray, in Philadelphia, in the wake of other traumatic discoveries ...
MRS. FIGG WAS SMOOTHLY SPHERICAL, GLEAMINGLY BLACK, and inclined to glide silently up behind one like a menacing ballbearing.
"What's this?" she barked, manifesting herself suddenly behind Jenny.
"Holy Mother of God!" Jenny whirled, eyes round and hand pressed to her chest. "Who in God's name are you?"
"This is Mrs. Figg," I said, feeling a surreal urge to laugh, despite--or maybe because of--recent events. "Lord John Grey's cook. And Mrs. Figg, this is Mrs. Murray. My, um ... my ..."
"Your good-sister," Jenny said firmly. She raised one black eyebrow. "If ye'll have me, still?" Her look was straight and open, and the urge to laugh changed abruptly into an equally strong urge to burst into tears. Of all the unlikely sources of succor I could have imagined.... I took a deep breath and put out my hand.
"I'll have you."
Her small firm fingers wove through mine, and as simply as that, it was done. No need for apologies or spoken forgiveness. She'd never had to wear the mask that Jamie did. What she thought and felt was there in her eyes, those slanted blue cat-eyes she shared with her brother. She knew me, now, for what I was--and knew I loved--had always loved--her brother with all my heart and soul--despite the minor complications of being presently married to someone else. And that knowledge obliterated years of mistrust, suspicion, and injury.
She heaved a sigh, eyes closing for an instant, then opened them and smiled at me, mouth trembling only a little.
"Well, fine and dandy," said Mrs. Figg, shortly. She narrowed her eyes and rotated smoothly on her axis, taking in the panorama of destruction. The railing at the top of the stair had been ripped off, and cracked banisters, dented walls, and bloody smudges marked the path of William's descent. Shattered crystals from the chandelier littered the floor, glinting festively in the light that poured through the open front door, the door itself hanging drunkenly from one hinge.
"Merde on toast," Mrs. Figg murmured. She turned abruptly to me, her small black-currant eyes still narrowed. "Where's his lordship?"
"Ah," I said. This was going to be rather sticky, I saw. While deeply disapproving of most people, Mrs. Figg was devoted to John. She wasn't going to be at all pleased to hear that he'd been abducted by--
"For that matter, where's my brother?" Jenny inquired, glancing round as though expecting Jamie to appear suddenly out from under the settee.
"Oh," I said. "Hm. Well ..." Possibly worse than sticky. Because ...
"And where's my Sweet William?" Mrs. Figg demanded, sniffing the air. "He's been here; I smell that stinky cologne he puts on his linen." She nudged a dislodged chunk of plaster disapprovingly with the toe of her shoe.
I took another long, deep breath, and a tight grip on what remained of my sanity.
"Mrs. Figg," I said, "perhaps you would be so kind as to make us all a cup of tea?"
Having just discovered Jamie Fraser is his true father, William leaves Lord John's house in a whirlwind of shock and rage ...
WILLIAM RANSOM, NINTH EARL OF ELLESMERE, VISCOUNT Ashness, shoved his way through the crowds on Broad Street, oblivious to the complaints of those rebounding from his impact.
He didn't know where he was going, or what he might do when he got the
re. All he knew was that he'd burst if he stood still.
His head throbbed like an inflamed boil. Everything throbbed. His hand--he'd probably broken something, but he didn't care. His heart, pounding and sore inside his chest. His foot, for God's sake, what, had he kicked something? He lashed out viciously at a loose cobblestone and sent it rocketing through a crowd of geese, who set up a huge cackle and lunged at him, hissing and beating at his shins with their wings.
Feathers and goose shit flew wide, and the crowd scattered in all directions.
"Bastard!" shrieked the goose-girl, and struck at him with her crook, catching him a shrewd thump on the ear. "Devil take you, Schmutziger Bastard!"
This sentiment was echoed by a number of other angry voices, and he veered into an alley, pursued by shouts and honks of agitation.
He rubbed his throbbing ear, lurching into buildings as he passed, oblivious to everything but the one word throbbing ever louder in his head. Bastard.
"Bastard!" he said out loud, and shouted, "Bastard, bastard, bastard!!" at the top of his lungs, hammering at the brick wall next to him with a clenched fist.
"Who's a bastard?" said a curious voice behind him. He swung round to see a young woman looking at him with some interest. Her eyes moved slowly down his frame, taking note of the heaving chest, the bloodstains on the facings of his uniform coat and green smears of goose shit on his breeches, reached his silver buckled shoes, and returned to his face with more interest.
"I am," he said, hoarse and bitter.
"Oh, really?" She left the shelter of the doorway in which she'd been standing, and came across the alley to stand right in front of him. She was tall and slim, and had a very fine pair of high young breasts--which were clearly visible under the thin muslin of her shift, because while she had a silk petticoat, she wore neither stays nor bodice. No cap, either--her hair fell loose over her shoulders. A whore.
"I'm partial to bastards, myself," she said, and touched him lightly on the arm. "What kind of bastard are you? A wicked one? An evil one?"