Fantasy
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Drums of Autumn (25th Anniversary Edition): A Novel (Outlander Anniversary Edition)
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The fourth book in Diana Gabaldon's acclaimed Outlander saga, the basis for the Starz original series. Don't miss the new Outlander novel, Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone, available November 23!
This special twenty-fifth-anniversary edition features a never-before-seen reader's guide.
"Unforgettable characters . . . richly embroidered with historical detail."-The Cincinnati Post
What if you knew someone you loved was going to die? What if you thought you could save them? How much would you risk to try?
Claire Randall has gone to find Jamie Fraser, the man she loved more than life, and has left half her heart behind with their daughter, Brianna. Claire gave up Jamie to save Brianna, and now Bree has sent her mother back to the mysterious Scottish warrior who was willing to give his life to save them both. But a chilling discovery in the pages of history suggests that Jamie and Claire's story doesn't have a happy ending.
Brianna dares a terrifying leap into the unknown in search of her mother and the father she has never met, risking her own future to try to change history . . . and to save their lives. But as Brianna plunges into an uncharted wilderness, a heartbreaking encounter may strand her forever in the past . . . or root her in the place she should be, where her heart and soul belong.
This special twenty-fifth-anniversary edition features a never-before-seen reader's guide.
"Unforgettable characters . . . richly embroidered with historical detail."-The Cincinnati Post
What if you knew someone you loved was going to die? What if you thought you could save them? How much would you risk to try?
Claire Randall has gone to find Jamie Fraser, the man she loved more than life, and has left half her heart behind with their daughter, Brianna. Claire gave up Jamie to save Brianna, and now Bree has sent her mother back to the mysterious Scottish warrior who was willing to give his life to save them both. But a chilling discovery in the pages of history suggests that Jamie and Claire's story doesn't have a happy ending.
Brianna dares a terrifying leap into the unknown in search of her mother and the father she has never met, risking her own future to try to change history . . . and to save their lives. But as Brianna plunges into an uncharted wilderness, a heartbreaking encounter may strand her forever in the past . . . or root her in the place she should be, where her heart and soul belong.
Editorial Reviews
Drums of Autumn is Diana Gabaldon at her finest and most mesmerizing.
-Affaire de Coeur Passionate...remarkable--a mix of history, fantasy, romance and unabashedly ribald storytelling.
-Arizona Republic
Wonderful...this is escapist historical fiction at its best.
-San Antonio Express-News
-Affaire de Coeur Passionate...remarkable--a mix of history, fantasy, romance and unabashedly ribald storytelling.
-Arizona Republic
Wonderful...this is escapist historical fiction at its best.
-San Antonio Express-News
Readers Top Reviews
Mr. John E. L. Spenc
This is the fourth copy of Drums of Autumn that will be added to my wife's bookshelf. The 25th anniversary edition is a work of art! It will occupy a special shelf with the other anniversary editions we have purchased. It's a very heavy book almost 2.0 Kg and nearly 900 pages. It's not a quick read but an ideal Christmas present for any Diana Gabaldon fans.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
A Hanging in Eden
Charleston, June 1767
I heard the drums long before they came in sight. The beating echoed in the pit of my stomach, as though I too were hollow. The sound traveled through the crowd, a harsh military rhythm meant to be heard over speech or gunfire. I saw heads turn as the people fell silent, looking up the stretch of East Bay Street, where it ran from the half-built skeleton of the new Customs House toward White Point Gardens.
It was a hot day, even for Charleston in June. The best places were on the seawall, where the air moved; here below, it was like being roasted alive. My shift was soaked through, and the cotton bodice clung between my breasts. I wiped my face for the tenth time in as many minutes and lifted the heavy coil of my hair, hoping vainly for a cooling breeze upon my neck.
I was morbidly aware of necks at the moment. Unobtrusively, I put my hand up to the base of my throat, letting my fingers circle it. I could feel the pulse beat in my carotid arteries, along with the drums, and when I breathed, the hot wet air clogged my throat as though I were choking.
I quickly took my hand down, and drew in a breath as deep as I could manage. That was a mistake. The man in front of me hadn't bathed in a month or more; the edge of the stock about his thick neck was dark with grime and his clothes smelled sour and musty, pungent even amid the sweaty reek of the crowd. The smell of hot bread and frying pig fat from the food vendors' stalls lay heavy over a musk of rotting seagrass from the marsh, only slightly relieved by a whiff of salt-breeze from the harbor.
There were several children in front of me, craning and gawking, running out from under the oaks and palmettos to look up the street, being called back by anxious parents. The girl nearest me had a neck like the white part of a grass stalk, slender and succulent.
There was a ripple of excitement through the crowd; the gallows procession was in sight at the far end of the street. The drums grew louder.
‘‘Where is he?'' Fergus muttered beside me, craning his own neck to see. ‘‘I knew I should have gone with him!''
‘‘He'll be here.'' I wanted to stand on tiptoe, but didn't, feeling that this would be undignified. I did glance around, though, searching. I could always spot Jamie in a crowd; he stood head and shoulders above most men, and his hair caught the light in a blaze of reddish gold. There was no sign of him yet, only a bobbing sea of bonnets and tricornes, sheltering from the heat those citizens come too late to find a place in the shade.
The flags came first, fluttering above the heads of the excited crowd, the banners of Great Britain and of the Royal Colony of South Carolina. And another, bearing the family arms of the Lord Governor of the colony.
Then came the drummers, walking two by two in step, their sticks an alternate beat and blur. It was a slow march, grimly inexorable. A dead march, I thought they called that particular cadence; very suitable under the circumstances. All other noises were drowned by the rattle of the drums.
Then came the platoon of red-coated soldiers and in their midst, the prisoners.
There were three of them, hands bound before them, linked together by a chain that ran through rings on the iron collars about their necks. The first man was small and elderly, ragged and disreputable, a shambling wreck who lurched and staggered so that the dark-suited clergyman who walked beside the prisoners was obliged to grasp his arm to keep him from falling.
‘‘Is that Gavin Hayes? He looks sick,'' I murmured to Fergus.
‘‘He's drunk.'' The soft voice came from behind me, and I whirled, to find Jamie standing at my shoulder, eyes fixed on the pitiful procession.
The small man's disequilibrium was disrupting the progress of the parade, as his stumbling forced the two men chained to him to zig and zag abruptly in order to keep their feet. The general impression was of three inebriates rolling home from the local tavern; grossly at odds with the solemnity of the occasion. I could hear the rustle of laughter over the drums, and shouts and jeers from the crowds on the wrought-iron balconies of the houses on East Bay Street.
‘‘Your doing?'' I spoke quietly, so as not to attract notice, but I could have shouted and waved my arms; no one had eyes for anything but the scene before us.
I felt rather than saw Jamie's shrug, as he moved forward to stand beside me.
‘‘It was what he asked of me,'' he said. ‘‘And the best I could manage for him.''
‘‘Brandy or whisky?'' asked Fergus, evaluating Hayes' appearance with a practiced eye.
‘‘The man's a Scot, wee F...
A Hanging in Eden
Charleston, June 1767
I heard the drums long before they came in sight. The beating echoed in the pit of my stomach, as though I too were hollow. The sound traveled through the crowd, a harsh military rhythm meant to be heard over speech or gunfire. I saw heads turn as the people fell silent, looking up the stretch of East Bay Street, where it ran from the half-built skeleton of the new Customs House toward White Point Gardens.
It was a hot day, even for Charleston in June. The best places were on the seawall, where the air moved; here below, it was like being roasted alive. My shift was soaked through, and the cotton bodice clung between my breasts. I wiped my face for the tenth time in as many minutes and lifted the heavy coil of my hair, hoping vainly for a cooling breeze upon my neck.
I was morbidly aware of necks at the moment. Unobtrusively, I put my hand up to the base of my throat, letting my fingers circle it. I could feel the pulse beat in my carotid arteries, along with the drums, and when I breathed, the hot wet air clogged my throat as though I were choking.
I quickly took my hand down, and drew in a breath as deep as I could manage. That was a mistake. The man in front of me hadn't bathed in a month or more; the edge of the stock about his thick neck was dark with grime and his clothes smelled sour and musty, pungent even amid the sweaty reek of the crowd. The smell of hot bread and frying pig fat from the food vendors' stalls lay heavy over a musk of rotting seagrass from the marsh, only slightly relieved by a whiff of salt-breeze from the harbor.
There were several children in front of me, craning and gawking, running out from under the oaks and palmettos to look up the street, being called back by anxious parents. The girl nearest me had a neck like the white part of a grass stalk, slender and succulent.
There was a ripple of excitement through the crowd; the gallows procession was in sight at the far end of the street. The drums grew louder.
‘‘Where is he?'' Fergus muttered beside me, craning his own neck to see. ‘‘I knew I should have gone with him!''
‘‘He'll be here.'' I wanted to stand on tiptoe, but didn't, feeling that this would be undignified. I did glance around, though, searching. I could always spot Jamie in a crowd; he stood head and shoulders above most men, and his hair caught the light in a blaze of reddish gold. There was no sign of him yet, only a bobbing sea of bonnets and tricornes, sheltering from the heat those citizens come too late to find a place in the shade.
The flags came first, fluttering above the heads of the excited crowd, the banners of Great Britain and of the Royal Colony of South Carolina. And another, bearing the family arms of the Lord Governor of the colony.
Then came the drummers, walking two by two in step, their sticks an alternate beat and blur. It was a slow march, grimly inexorable. A dead march, I thought they called that particular cadence; very suitable under the circumstances. All other noises were drowned by the rattle of the drums.
Then came the platoon of red-coated soldiers and in their midst, the prisoners.
There were three of them, hands bound before them, linked together by a chain that ran through rings on the iron collars about their necks. The first man was small and elderly, ragged and disreputable, a shambling wreck who lurched and staggered so that the dark-suited clergyman who walked beside the prisoners was obliged to grasp his arm to keep him from falling.
‘‘Is that Gavin Hayes? He looks sick,'' I murmured to Fergus.
‘‘He's drunk.'' The soft voice came from behind me, and I whirled, to find Jamie standing at my shoulder, eyes fixed on the pitiful procession.
The small man's disequilibrium was disrupting the progress of the parade, as his stumbling forced the two men chained to him to zig and zag abruptly in order to keep their feet. The general impression was of three inebriates rolling home from the local tavern; grossly at odds with the solemnity of the occasion. I could hear the rustle of laughter over the drums, and shouts and jeers from the crowds on the wrought-iron balconies of the houses on East Bay Street.
‘‘Your doing?'' I spoke quietly, so as not to attract notice, but I could have shouted and waved my arms; no one had eyes for anything but the scene before us.
I felt rather than saw Jamie's shrug, as he moved forward to stand beside me.
‘‘It was what he asked of me,'' he said. ‘‘And the best I could manage for him.''
‘‘Brandy or whisky?'' asked Fergus, evaluating Hayes' appearance with a practiced eye.
‘‘The man's a Scot, wee F...
