Excerpt from A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT, Copyright 2026 Diana Gabaldon
Hal gave up the notion of neatly folding his uniform coat—it looked simple enough when his valet did it, but as with many things, practice evidently mattered—and rolled it into a sort of thick sausage, which he folded in half and crammed into his saddlebag, moleskin breeches, clean neckcloth and gold-laced epaulets stuffed in on top. Anything else?
“Shirt, God damn it,” he said aloud, clutching the front of the one he was wearing. Cursing under his breath, he pawed through the armoire in search of a clean frilled shirt. The search not only resulted in a shirt—already folded, too!--but focused his mind to a sufficient extent as to remind him of stockings, dress boots and…what? Something else was missing…
“Oh, gorget, yes. Can’t forget that.” ‘That’ was on his dressing table, as usual. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand as he usually did before putting it on, for the tactile pleasure of it. Solid, smooth silver-gilt, gracefully made, with his regimental insignia embossed upon it. He reached to drop it into the saddlebag, then impulsively put it on instead, tucking it down inside the rough shirt he’d put on for the journey. Strange, that it should have the same effect upon his spirit as putting on armor might have had to an earlier warrior—though that’s what it was, in all fairness—armor, the remnant symbol of a breastplate.
He took a deep breath, and with it, found the last scrap of courage that he needed.
He closed the flap of the saddlebag, set it with its fellow by the door, and sat down at his desk to write to his wife.
_I had hoped to surprise you with an early return to England, but Things have fallen out otherwise. Ben is alive—but I forget, you likely don’t know he was supposed to be dead. He’s not. He has turned his Coat, though, and I must go and—_
He broke off and eyed the paper, twiddling the quill between his fingers.
“And what?” he said aloud. Reproach Ben? Kidnap him? Kill him?
“God knows,” he muttered, and wrote, “_mend Matters. I love you_.” He hesitated for a moment, considering whether to add “_trust me_”, but didn’t, instead folding, sealing and stamping the note. He wrote “Her Grace the Duchess of Pardloe” by way of direction, then laid it atop the pile of mail for one of his aides to take away.
His stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten anything yet today, he hadn’t been hungry before. He glanced at the leather case that lay on the desk, and the hunger pangs disappeared.
He knew everything was in order, but flipped the case open anyway, unable not to check once more.
The brace of duelling pistols lay gleaming somberly in their lambswool beds, facing each other like the men who would hold them.
[end section]
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I love military objects, for assorted reasons, but one thing that I do several times over the course of these books (which have a lot to do with war, fighting, men, etc.) is to show a man getting ready for a coming battle, especially dressing in his uniform or prepping his weapons. There's a sense of ceremony in such objects, and the shape of that ceremony--as well as the weapons themselves--tells you a lot about the man involved, and also in his circumstances and frame of mind.
For instance, contrast Hal's and Jamie's attitude toward potential combat (and the circumstances of that combat). Note also that their wives are among the most important objects in their preparations....]
Excerpt from A BLESSING FOR A WARRIOR GOING OUT, Copyright 2026 Diana Gabaldon
“So,” I said, sitting up. “You’re proposing to go off for some unknown period of time, to unknown places, to do unknown things that are likely bloody dangerous, fortified only by your memories of my hands and my bottom?”
“They’ll be my shield and buckler,”Jamie assured me, straight-faced.
“What _is_ a buckler? I’ve always wondered.”
“It’s something like a targe,” he said, reaching for his shirt. “A bittie round shield. About the size of your arse,” he added helpfully.
“I’ve _seen_ targes, you know,” I said, somewhat coldly.
“Have ye ever sat on one?”
“No. Have you?”
“Aye, many times. Comes in handy, if you’re tired to death and out in the wet or havin’ to eat your supper in the snow. Mind,” he added fairly, bending to pick up his kilt off the floor, “ye canna do that if ye’ve got one o’ the fancy ones wi’ a spike in the middle. I couldna afford one o’ those, though—not at the time.”
_Not at the time_. I rather thought the last time he’d held a targe would have been at Culloden. I felt the expected pang at the thought of that—but for once, the memory was tempered by another. He’d come back from that battle. _And a good many others_. And at least this search would keep him off battlefields. I hoped.
I slid off the table as he turned round, and put my arms around him, comforted by his solid warmth and the taste of salt on his skin.
“I’ll remember your hands, too,” I said. “If I recall what Roger was saying in church last month, though, that psalm says, “His truth shall be your shield and buckler.” If a buckler _is_ a shield, why do you need another?”
“To guard against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Sassenach,” he said, and kissed my brow. “A targe is for swords and knives. The close work, aye?”
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Basically, objects are like any other story element: any object you use should have a purpose (in the story, as well as just in action), and YOU need to know what that purpose is, even if you plan to conceal it from the reader.
In both these snips, though, the purpose of the objects is clear: both men are preparing themselves--both emotionally and physically--to go out and do something that's likely to be dangerous. We can see from the clumsiness of Hal's packing that a) he's upset, and b) he doesn't normally pack his own clothes (because he's a Duke and a senior officer) , and c) the fact that he _is_ doing it himself is a strong indication of his state of mind and the urgency of his circumstances.
Jamie, on the other hand, is pretty cavalier at the moment (he's just had sex with his wife--which is a definite part of _his_ prep for war), but you can tell from the way he describes targes to Claire that he's _very_ familiar with his weapons.
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LINK TO VIDEO ON USE OF OBJECTS IN WRITING:
