Chapter 18: Raiders in the Rocks

In this chapter, a raid, 18th-century privacy norms, and small-arms training.

We're back on the road. Those last two or three chapters gave Claire and Jamie some space to create their new relationship, but now we're thrust back into the wider world and all its complications.

Dougal tells Claire of his meeting with Black Jack Randall, who was not pleased to hear that she had slipped through his grasp:

"I am not sure I should tell ye what he actually said; there's likely limits even to your tolerance for bad language, Mistress Fraser."

So, are we just saying Fraser out in the open now? That's not a concern?

Dougal also refers to Claire as Colum's niece, which is true, but had not really occurred to Claire before. She spends some time pondering the vast web of her new family, which offers her some protection from Black Jack. But it is also jarring to suddenly have a defined place, enmeshed in the clans, rather than being an outsider. She's safe. Well, safer.

And that, after all, had been the point of this ridiculous arrangement.

I stole a glance at Jamie, riding ahead now. His back was straight as an alder sapling and his hair shone under the sun like a helmet of burnished metal.

Dougal followed my glance.

"Could have been worse, no?" he said, with an ironic lift of his brow.

Is Dougal actually being nice here? So hard to tell.

After days on the road, the party stops for a rest in a not-particularly cozy location among a "towering jumble of rocks." They need to hide in the rocks because they are near the border where the MacKenzie lands meet the territories belonging to the Grants and Chisholms, and they could be raided by those other clans.

Surprise! That's exactly what happens. Just in case the title left you in any doubt.

Everyone is hanging out by the fire, Murtagh singing songs, Rupert telling stories. Suddenly, the horses get restless and the men tense up, but they try to play it cool.

[A note here, Rupert tells a long story about the waterhorse's human wife, and how she was unhappy after being kidnapped and forced to live at the bottom of a loch. Solution: the waterhorse kidnaps a builder and forces him to build a hearth and chimney so that the wife can keep warm and cook her food. And the wife is happy. So I suppose all Jamie needs to do is force someone into inventing vaccines and running water and he is golden.]

Back to the raid.

All the men are moving closer to their weapons. Claire goes on a bit about Jamie's weapons: the pair of pistols, the claymore ("somber and lethal-looking"), the broadsword ("a deadly, gleaming thing with Islamic tracery snaking its way up the blue steel blade to the spiraled basket hilt, enameled in reds and blues"). If Starz wants to draw more men into their audience for this show, they should put in some more of this sword porn. Game of Thrones makes a point of showing swords glinting in firelight and dripping with blood — my brothers are all over that. And it's not just men. I can appreciate a lovely sword. I could sacrifice maybe three to five seconds of candlelight caressing Sam Heughan's abs for a single shot of him fondling a beautiful blade.

Jamie instructs Claire to hide in a cleft in the rocks, armed with a dirk. Just in time, too — the raiders jump out and the fighting begins.

On hands and knees, I made for the rocks. I banged my head and scraped my knees, but managed to wedge myself into the small crevice. Heart hammering, I fumbled for the dirk in my pocket, almost jabbing myself in the process. I had no idea what to do with the long, wicked knife, but felt slightly better for having it.

I'm assuming she has a sheath for that thing? How else would you keep a dirk in your pocket? And if it's in a sheath, how would she jab herself? 

Claire doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger, though. The raiders are out for loot, not killing. I suppose she could be kidnapped (again), but she's hidden and Murtagh is guarding her, so I'm not that worried.

In all the confusion, Claire spots Jamie and Dougal, fighting several raiders who are looking to take them alive and ransom them.

Dougal and Jamie suffered from no such scruples and were attending to business with considerable grim efficiency. Back to back, they formed a complete circle of threat, each man covering the other's weaker side. When Dougal drove his dirk hand upward with considerable force, I thought that "weaker" might not be precisely the term.

This is a pretty entertaining fight scene. Gabaldon manages to convey both Claire's horror and her admiration for the skill on display.

Jamie throws his sword at a guy. That's pretty badass. Though, contra Claire's assumption that "the wound was not deep," I'd like to point out that the man had a broadsword sticking in his leg deep enough that it had to be pulled free. How can that not be a deep wound? Maybe didn't hit bone, but that's no scratch.

In the end, the raiders carry off a couple of horses, some grain, and one captive. No one is killed, but there are some wounds, including a gash on Dougal's arm that requires stitching. Claire does her combat nurse thing.

The only needle available turned out to be a sturdy thing like a slender awl, used by the drovers to mend harness. I eyed it dubiously, but Dougal merely held out his arm and looked away.

Surely, there are finer needles somewhere in 18th-century Scotland. Forget sentimental wedding gifts — what Claire needs is a suture kit. make it happen, Dougal — you will all reap the benefits.

Whisky all around for the wounded and the shaken alike, then off to bed.

"It was a wonderful feeling to have Jamie lie down and firmly gather me in, next to his large, warm body . . . "Ye did a braw bit o' work tonight, lass. I was proud of ye."

I rolled over and put my arms about his neck.

"Not as proud as I was. You were wonderful, Jamie. I've never seen anything like that."

He snorted deprecatingly, but I thought he was pleased nonetheless.

It's nice that they can acknowledge and appreciate the other's work. This was somewhat lacking in Claire's relationship with Frank — she was openly dismissive of his scholarly work and he both expected her to give up nursing and had no interest in her botany hobby other than that it kept her busy.

Then we get an answer to the question of whether Claire has adjusted to 18th-century expectations of privacy.

"Jamie! Not here!" I said, squirming away and pushing my skirt down again.

Not quite, though 20th-century scruples fall by the wayside fairly quickly.

"Jamie! There are twenty men sleeping right next to us!" I shouted in a whisper.

"They wilna be sleeping long, if you keep talking."

As a mother of young children, I know this dilemma well. Though this has an added layer of difficulty, which is that it seems sort of bad manners to fuck your wife right in front of other men who have been going without for weeks at this point. Rude.

Despite myself, my legs were beginning to loosen. Twenty-seven years of propriety were no match for several hundred thousand years of instinct. While my mind might object to being taken on a bare rock next to several sleeping soldiers, my body plainly considered itself the spoils of war and was eager to complete the formalities of surrender.

This comes up over and over again. Claire repeatedly denies her own control over her sexual conduct, turning again and again to the idea that her body acts in opposition to her mind and that there is nothing she can do but obey her body's demands. In so many scenes, Claire's body knows what she REALLY wants and her mind is just going to have to catch up.

Now, I could get upset about this as a bland repackaging of the hoary old "no means yes" bullshit. But I am not going to do that. Because, in reading these books and doing these recaps, I am deciding to treat Outlander as literature worth analyzing. And that means I need to ask what the argument of this novel is by looking at the whole story, not just this chapter (and the thousand other times Claire repeats the body-knows-best idea). She's not the only character who thinks the flesh knows a deeper truth than the mind — we will talk more about the logic of corporal punishment when we get to the spanking scene. 

And the truth is that this line of thinking will have absolutely devastating consequences once we get to the rape at the end of the book. Jamie came through his flogging just fine — an example of mind over matter. But when Black Jack rapes him and, much worse (to him), his own body responds to the assault, that's matter over mind. And it isn't a fun, sexy adventure as it is for Claire here — it is shattering for him. 

I won't say more here because I've only seen the TV show and I'll save a close reading for when I actually get to this point in the book. But I wanted to highlight yet another example of Claire explicitly commenting on the mind/body dilemma and falling solidly on the side of matter leading the way. Why does she do this? Is she absolving herself of responsibility so she can go home to Frank with a clear conscience? Is she such a completely embodied person that she really believes in trusting physical experience over rational thought? If so, will she stick by that worldview after the end of this book? And is Diana Gabaldon really setting up this logic so that she can knock it down?

Perhaps this is more analysis than Outlander can bear. But I do think that it is trying to get at an argument about the flesh vs. the mind. Or maybe flesh vs. soul. So far, Claire's had pretty good luck trusting to her body and negating the importance of her own will. But we are only a third of the way through this novel.

That was a bit more than I expected to write on that subject. I'm still working through it. Back to the scene:

"Fighting gives ye a terrible cockstand, after. Ye want me, do ye no?" he said, pulling back a little to look at me. It seemed pointless to deny it, what with all the evidence to hand. He was hard as a brass rod against my bared thigh.

Surely, the other men are in the same predicament. Like I said, rude.

"Be quiet, Sassenach," he said with authority. "It isna going to take verra long."

oh baby oh baby

It didn't. I began to climax with the first powerful thrust, in long, racking spasms.

Sure you did.

Turning my head, I could see the dim figure of the sentry, leaning against a rock on the far side of the fire. He had his back tactfully turned. I was mildly shocked to realize that I was not even embarrassed.

And with that, you have become a true inhabitant of the 18th century. You'll be picking fleas out of your clothes and relishing wine-and-egg beverages any day now.

Next morning, Claire gets some knife-wielding lessons. Rupert instructs her on basic techniques and human anatomy.

"If ye can slip the knife between the ribs, that's one thing, but that's harder to do than ye might think. But here, under the last rib, ye stab upward into the kidney. Get him straight up, and he'll drop like a stone."

Even if I hadn't been spoiled on this, I think I would have been able to pick up on the hints that Claire is going to be stabbing someone soon. Warm up the Body Count ticker.

"As [Rupert] grew winded, all the men took it in turns to act as victim, obviously finding my efforts hilarious."

Seems harsh to laugh at someone on their first try at doing something you've been practicing since childhood. I'd like to see any of them on their first day of touch-typing. 

I was timid and extremely clumsy at first, but Rupert was a good teacher, very patient and good about demonstrating moves, over and over. He rolled his eyes in mock lewdness when he moved behind me and put his arm about my waist, but he was quite businesslike about taking hold of my wrist to show me the way of ripping an enemy across the eyes.

I like Rupert. His crude jokes lack Dougal's menacing undertones. 

Jamie and the men go off to make a dummy so that Claire can actually stab something. That leaves her a few minutes alone with Dougal:

"How is it then?" He asked, not meaning my skill with small arms.

"Well enough," I answered warily, not meaning knives either. Dougal's gaze flicked toward Jamie, busy with something by the wagons.

"Marriage seems to suit the lad," he observed.

"Rather healthy for him—under the circumstances," I agreed, somewhat coldly. His lips curved at my tone.

"And you, lass, as well. A good arrangement for everyone, it seems."

Dougal acknowledges that he is among the beneficiaries of this arranged marriage, but refrains from hitting on Claire, which I appreciate. He's still frightening, but not quite as creepy as TVDougal.

Claire goes back to her knife practice, which goes well until she hits one of the dummy's fake bones.

I thought for a moment that my arm had suddenly fallen off. The shock of impact reverberated all the way to my shoulder, and the dirk dropped from my nerveless fingers. Everything below the elbow was numb, but an ominous tingling warned me it wouldn't be for long.

Good to see that this is actually difficult. Everybody goes around imagining themselves a hero *Ben Carson* but it isn't easy to kill someone (psychologically or logistically)

This leads to a discussion of pistols and Jamie refusing to teach Claire to use one.

"I felt my face flush at this. "Oh?" I said sarcastically. "You think women aren't bright enough to understand the workings of a gun?" . . .

"Look," he said, holding it in front of me. "You hold it here, ye brace it on your forearm, and ye sight along here. And when ye pull the trigger, it kicks like a mule. I'm near a foot taller than you, four stone heavier, and I know what I'm doin'. It gives me a wicked bruise when I fire it; it might knock you flat on your back, if it didna catch ye in the face. He twirled the pistol and slid it back into its loop.

"I'd let you see for yourself," he said, raising one eyebrow, "but I like ye better wi' all of your teeth. You've a nice smile, Sassenach, even if ye are a bit feisty."

This is a reasonable argument. And yet. One would hope that they never encounter a situation where Jamie, wounded or cornered, needs Claire to load a pistol for him, or perhaps a time when Claire needs to hold someone at gunpoint and look convincing about it. It's true that black powder weapons are no joke. I grew up in a house with muzzle-loading black powder rifles, and share Jamie's concerns re: losing teeth to recoil. But I still know how to load, and I'm not living in a situation where there is even the remotest possibility of that being useful knowledge. All I'm saying is that adventure novel characters should prepare for all possible disasters.

The tiny sgian dhu, the sock dagger, was deemed acceptable, and I was provided with one of those, a wicked-looking, needle-sharp piece of black iron about three inches long, with a short hilt.

A question of little consequence: Is the "dhu" in "sgian dhu" the same as the "dhu" in "Brian Dhu"?

The chapter ends with Murtagh's opining that "the only good weapon for a woman is poison."

I imagine that Claire is perfectly capable of poisoning people, what with her knowledge of herbs. If she needs anything exotic, I'm sure Geillis can hook her up. But, as Dougal says, it's good to be prepared for face-to-face combat as well.

A final note:

I need to give some extra points to TV Canon here, as it seems that Frank's scenes in the middle of the season were invented for the show. In the novel, it has been a looooong time since we saw Frank, and Claire's thoughts about him are few and fleeting. It's difficult to take "going home to Frank" as a serious possibility when he's so distant. I appreciate the TV show's efforts to give us some sympathetic Frank scenes in this section. 

Body Count:

Jamie: 3 + assorted redcoats + two years as mercenary in France