Previously...
The Battle of Culloden will happen... today.
Just as history foretold.
And we must go now.
You promised me that if it came to this,
you would go back through the stones, back home...
you and the bairn.
My name is William Grey, second son of Viscount Melton.
I'm afraid I'm not prepared to kill ye.
I owe you my life.
- I'm pregnant. - No.
It's Jamie's.
I've been offered a post at Harvard.
- Boston? - Yes.
I want us to be together.
We will raise this child as our own...
yours and mine.
I cannot share you with another man.
- You must let him go. - I know.
I accept your conditions.
- sync and corrections by Mr. C - - www.addic7ed.com -
_
Bring that block over there.
Uhh!
Take a knife.
- Sergeant? - Yes, sir.
Oh!
Uhh...
Ah!
Aah!
The travel canteen was a gift from my father
on my 21st birthday.
Mark me, James,
I will watch the Duke of Cumberland drink from it
when this day is done.
This is nothing but a diversion!
Cumberland wants to rattle our nerves.
If we stand fast and force him to come to us across the moor...
Then we will have them, sir.
- The time is now. - Aye.
Sire, give the command to charge
while there is still a chance.
Uhh!
Yah!
Aah!
- Aah! - Uhh!
- Ah!
Ah... uhh!
Uh... uhh!
- Uhh! - Ooh...
And where've ye been?
Enjoying a wee whisky?
Aah!
Ye're welcome.
And the Lallybroch men are safe home.
Aah!
Uhh!
Aah!
Red hot, boys, all along the line!
Fire!
Aah!
Ah!
- Gah! - Aah!
Ooh... uhh!
Yah!
Oh!
Ahh!
Ah...
Ah!
Ah... uhh!
Ah... ah!
Are you alive?
Jamie, are ye alive, man?
Dunno...
Quiet.
There's redcoats still about,
and they're killin' the wounded where they lie.
- Can ye stand? - No.
Let me be.
I'm not gonna leave ye to die in the mud.
Even if ye are a pig-headed loon who canna hold his whisky.
Drink you under the table.
Get out, ye ken?
(orchestration continues dramatically ?
Are you sure we can afford all this?
Mm, it's a little tight, but...
You've always said you wanted a real home.
It certainly is real.
All this space just for the two of us.
Soon to be three.
Yes.
The history professor's study, I presume?
Well, maybe.
The study can be
wherever the lady of the house desires.
Well, the lady of the house desires it thus.
The kitchen, where, presumably, the lady of the house
will be rustling up various appetizing dishes and...
"Rustling"?
That's what they say in America.
"I mean to rustle me up some vittles."
Well, I wouldn't get your hopes up too high, partner.
Ha. I'm a little out of practice these days.
Hey.
I will be happy with whatever you make.
Oh! Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!
Like some help with that?
Oh, no, I-I'm good. Thank you.
Now just you never mind.
Here.
I remember when I was having my first.
My back ached something fierce, and that handsome,
but lazy sack of bones I call a husband
never did lift a finger.
I can manage, really.
Well, of course you can manage, my dear,
but why should you when you can have help?
Millie Nelson.
Claire Randall.
Where did you learn to do that?
My uncle taught me how to cook
over the campfire.
Sounds dirty. All that ash and soot.
Actually, it gives the food a really lovely, smoky flavor.
Well, your husband must like it.
That's all that matters, I suppose.
Yes.
Well... I hope so.
Oh... so you're just gonna spring it on him.
He likes surprises, does he?
Not really.
Well, you're a braver woman than I.
I swear to God, if I surprised Jerry
with something other than pot roast, meatloaf,
baked beans with cabbage one night,
he'd up and have a heart attack.
Hey, now there's an idea.
No, actually, I think Frank will really like
something different for a change.
He's very progressive.
Very... open-minded.
Well, God love Jerry, and I do, despite what you might think.
He's really no different than most men in this world
who don't want their wives doing anything out of the ordinary.
Just cook, clean, raise the kids,
look pretty when they meet the boss.
You're lucky.
You won't find another man like Frank again.
There, slowly.
Mm...
So... do we run for it?
I'm no' running anywhere.
Barely a man here can stand.
If ye can go, Rupert, then go.
Dinna linger on our account.
No. I'll bide.
For one thing, the British are still thick as lice out there.
Aye. Even those that fled the field yesterday
will no' get far.
I heard the British troops passing by quick-march.
It winna be hard for them to hunt down our bedraggled lot.
Claire, darling, we need to leave in 20 minutes.
Coming, Frank.
Got to look pretty when you meet the boss.
Truman's ascension to the presidency
was a... an accident of history,
a cosmic joke meant to humble the nation just as America's power
had reached its Olympian zenith at the end of the war.
And, uh, since that sad day
when he took up the reins of government,
the, uh, "haberdasher from Missouri"
has proven himself to be totally unequal to the task
of assuming the mantle of Washington,
- Jefferson, and Lincoln. - Hmm.
Obviously, we are both new to these shores, but if I was a betting man,
I wouldn't count the Democratic nominee out just yet.
Oh, well, you're alone in that sentiment, Professor.
Certainly, the press believes that his defeat in November is all but assured.
Perhaps I prefer it to believing we're doomed
to the presidency of Thomas Dewey.
Well, I read a piece just last week
that said the president actually has more support
than it appears.
I beg your pardon?
Well, I was just saying that I read a column in "The Globe"
that predicted victory for the president
if he continues to pound away
at the Republican congress as ineffectual,
whereas Mr. Dewey only offers the voters platitudes.
Ha. "A column in 'The Globe.'"
Professor Randall, you're gonna have to pay closer attention
to your wife's reading habits.
She keeps reading "The Globe," the next thing you know,
she'll be trying to get women into Harvard Law.
Harvard Medical
enrolled female students three years ago.
A bone cast in the general direction
of Eleanor Roosevelt and her coterie of agitators.
My understanding is the girls are barely adequate
in their studies.
Past experience has shown
few women succeed as physicians.
Dean Jackson, I don't believe I mentioned
my wife was a combat nurse
with Royal Army Medical Corps during the war.
Really? Oh, well.
Very patriotic, Mrs. Randall,
"pitching in in time of crisis" and that sort of thing.
But I'm sure you were happy
to resume more important and, um...
fitting domestic concerns for a lady
with the conclusion of the war.
Yes.
I'm very happy.
Of course you are.
What young woman wouldn't be
at the prospect of impending maternal bliss?
Um, have you had, uh, an opportunity
to examine the prospectus for the, uh,
spring seminar on the Wars of the Roses?
Uh, I fear Professor Holloway is overloading the schedule...
- You all right? - Hmm?
You're very quiet.
I'm fine.
Murtagh.
Murtagh...
Aye.
Wha... what happened to Murtagh?
I dinna ken.
Any word on Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser?
I lost sight of him in the fight.
I hope to God he's already dead.
Private! You two, check on the back.
Right away, sir.
Christ.
I am Lord Melton.
Rupert MacKenzie, of Leoch.
And others late of the forces of His Majesty, King James.
So I surmised.
I have been ordered by His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland,
to execute any man found to have engaged
in the recent treasonous rebellion.
Does any man here claim innocence of treason?
No, My Lord.
Traitors all.
Shall we be hanged, then?
You will be shot.
Like soldiers.
Thank you, My Lord.
You have an hour in which to prepare yourselves.
If any of you wishes writing materials to...
compose a letter, perhaps,
the clerk of my company will attend to you.
Tell you, after eight years of rationing,
I could wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs
for the rest of my natural life.
That's the last of the bacon, I'm afraid.
I'll go down to the market later this afternoon.
All right. Did you sleep well?
It's a little hard to get comfortable these days.
I've got it.
I've said it before and I'll say it again.
These are an abomination.
Well, that's how they drink it here.
Mm-hmm.
It doesn't even smell like tea after weeks
of sitting in these... little paper diapers.
There is coffee if you'd rather.
I mean, why change something that works perfectly well?
Tea in a tin. Scoop it out.
Put it in a pot.
Is it really so difficult?
I suppose not.
Well, I'm not sure I'll ever understand the American obsession with the new.
Like everything has to be new, new, new.
Well... that's one of the reasons I like this country.
- It's young... - Mmm, thank you.
It's eager.
It's constantly looking towards the future.
You know, I've been thinking.
Will you pass me some toast?
Thanks.
I'd like to apply for citizenship.
Really?
Well, I've lived all over the world,
and I've never really had
a strong attachment to England.
And I-I want our child to have a-a real home.
Our child...
Since when were you never attached to England?
Can you walk away from your heritage that easily?
Hastings and "Magna Carta",
Drake, Marlborough;
the Tudors,
Stuarts, the Plantagenets.
These are things I fought a-a war for.
It's just something I want to do.
Well, there's no need.
My employment provides us both with residency indefinitely.
That's not what this is about.
No.
It's not what this is about.
It's about that.
A wife who won't let me touch her.
Admit it.
You are using this pregnancy to keep me at a distance.
You have retreated further and further into your shell
ever since we got here.
- I'm sorry. - Don't walk away, Claire.
It is time we dealt with this like adults.
As opposed to the way that I've been dealing with it?
Please stop! Stop...
And talk to me.
And say what, Frank?
What is it that you want from me?
I want to know when you're going to come back
from the fucking past!
You asked me
to leave behind everything that truly mattered to me!
And yet it's fine for you to go on about the things
that you've missed in the good old days.
"Never talk about the past."
That was the bargain.
And I've kept that bargain to the letter.
No, the bargain was that we raise this baby together.
Our child.
It hasn't even been born yet, and you will not let me in...
let alone touch you, God forbid.
Is it sex? Is that what this is?
When you need a good fuck and you can't find one?
Well, I hear there's some lovely girls at Radcliffe
who would just die over your English accent.
Well, I'm not the one who's been fucking other people.
I didn't force this bargain on you, Claire.
I didn't force you to come to Boston.
And I'm not forcing you to stay.
I never thought otherwise.
Go... or stay.
But please...
do it because it's what you really want to do.
Reload!
I beg ye not to judge them by the same standard
that ye apply to the rest of the men.
They're naught but lads.
They canna be held responsible for their actions.
His Grace has specifically directed that there be
no exceptions made on account of age.
I'm sorry.
Hey, hey. Steady now, lads... hey?
It'll be over soon.
Chin up, okay?
All right.
Names?
Giles... McMartin.
Frederick MacBean.
Oh.
Do you want me to write a letter for you, Jamie?
Something to yer family, perhaps?
No.
No, no.
Let it be.
What about yer wife?
What about Claire?
She's gone.
Where did she go?
Does any man wish to be next?
Aye.
I'll take my leave of ye now, Jamie.
I'll see you again soon.
Gordon Killick.
I'm glad ye're awake.
I didna want to say farewell
while you snored and farted in yer sleep.
You always snored louder than any man I ever heard.
Eh, folk always blamed me fer it, but...
Angus was the one who snored.
Huh.
It'll be good to see him again.
Be good to see the two of you together.
Huh.
I'm no saying I forgive you for Dougal.
But I'll no go to my grave hatin' you for it either.
The Lord will judge us both,
and I trust in His mercy.
Farewell, Jamie.
Reload.
Does any man wish to be next?
Aye.
Rupert Thomas Alexander MacKenzie.
I mean to set a quick pace, so try to keep up.
Next.
Dear Reverend,
I find myself in need of your assistance once more.
I hope you'll indulge me in undertaking some research
regarding an 18th century Highlander
who fought in the battle of Culloden.
His name was James Fraser.
Frank?
Claire.
What is it?
My waters have broken.
All right.
Uh, I'll warm up the car.
The ambulatory wounded have all been executed, My Lord.
We'll have to carry the rest out.
Have the Corporal of the Guard select stretcher bearers.
Yes, My Lord.
Are they to be shot laying down...
Prop them up, certainly.
Good Lord.
No man in the king's custody
shall be shot lying down on my watch.
Not even traitors.
Yes, My Lord.
Sorry, My Lord.
You men who are unable to walk
shall be carried outside to face your sentence.
Does any man wish to go first?
Aye. Aye.
Aye, get this over with.
Name?
James...
Alexander...
Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser...
Of Broch Tuarach.
Fraser?
Are you the Jacobite known as "Red Jamie"?
I've been called that by my enemies.
God's blood.
Does any other man wish to go next?
Aye. I'll go.
Does the name John Grey mean anything to you?
Listen to me!
Grey. John William Grey.
Do you know that name?
Look.
Either shoot me...
or go away.
Near Corrieyairack.
A boy, about 16.
You encountered him in the wood.
Aye.
Aye, the one that...
tried to kill me while I was taking a pish.
I broke his arm, I recall.
John Grey is my brother.
He told me of his meeting with you,
that you then spared his life,
and he made you a promise.
Is that true?
Aye, he promised to kill me.
But I dinna mind if you do it for him.
He said he owed you a debt of honor.
Present... fire!
My Lord?
This is a deuce of a situation, Wallace.
This Jacobite scum is "Red Jamie."
The one on the broadsheets?
The same. His Grace would be more than pleased
to hear of such an illustrious prisoner.
They have not yet found Charles Stuart,
but a few well-known Jacobites
should appease the crowds at Tower Hill.
Shall I send a message to His Grace?
No. This filthy wretch spared my youngest brother's life,
thus incurring a bloody great debt of honor upon my family.
I see.
So you can't give him to His Grace after all.
I can't even shoot the bastard.
Not without discrediting my brother's sworn word.
I winna tell if you dinna.
Perhaps we could shoot him...
under an alias.
Present... fire!
It will be dark in three hours.
Continue with the executions and then find a small wagon
and have it filled with hay.
Pick a driver, someone discreet,
by which I mean willing to accept a bribe,
and have them here before it gets dark.
Yes, My Lord. And, uh,
what about the prisoner, My Lord?
What about him?
He's too weak to crawl, let alone run.
He's not going anywhere.
At least not until the wagon gets here.
I don't want to go anywhere.
I want to be shot.
Raving.
I doubt he'll live through the journey...
But at least his death won't be on my head,
or on my family.
Yes, My Lord.
Where are we sending him?
No...
They're taking their sweet time.
I'm here, I'm here.
- It's all right. Shh. - Oh... oh...
- Breathe. - Oh. It's all right.
It's perfectly normal.
I'm glad I missed you with that ashtray.
Your aim was spot on, it was my cat-like reflexes that saved me.
Mm.
Good evening, Mr. and Mrs.,
uh, Randall. I'm Dr. Thorne.
I'll be your attending physician this evening.
- Where's Dr. Bell? - Uh, he was unavailable.
I left a message with his service.
Stay calm, do exactly as I tell you when I tell you to do it,
and all will be well. There's no reason to panic.
I'm not panicking. I...
How far apart are her contractions?
Um, I'm not sure.
- Three minutes. - First child?
- Yes. - No.
No, I-I had a miscarriage...
about a year ago.
Of course.
That does complicate things a bit.
Higher risk factors for both mother and child.
Well, I think it's time we got your wife into delivery,
Mr. Randall.
Give her a kiss and I'll take charge of her from here.
You'll be fine.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the miscarriage.
None of that matters now.
Just promise me one thing.
Try not to throw an ashtray at that doctor.
I can't promise that.
- Ooh... - Shh.
God, I wish I could be there.
No, you don't. Trust me.
I'll be waiting, okay? No matter how long.
Off you go, Mr. Randall.
The father's waiting room is down the hall and to the left.
Just follow the smell of cigarettes and flop sweat.
Claire...
I love you.
Ooh... oh...
Mm... oh...
Don't worry, Mrs. Randall, you won't feel a thing.
And when you wake up, you'll be a mother.
Wait, no. I don't want to be put under.
Nurse Watkins, if you'd be so kind?
Now, now, Mrs. Randall, all is well.
Well, you needn't worry your pretty little head
- about anything. - Please.
Don't tell me what I need.
I'm perfectly capable of deciding how I want my baby delivered.
I just... Oh!
Oh! What was that?
Just something to calm you down.
Good night, Mrs. Randall.
Leave everything to us.
You bastard.
Ohh...
Jamie?
Jamie!
Jamie, can you hear me?
Jamie, can ye speak?
Am...
am I dead?
Ye've come home... to Lallybroch.
Lallybroch.
I can't believe you're really home, brother.
Oh. Where's my baby?
- Where is my baby? - Ah, Mrs. Randall, you're awake.
Where's my baby?
Is it dead?
- Shh. - This way, Mr. Randall.
Claire. Claire.
It's all right.
- Here she is. - Oh!
Shh...
Oh. There she is.
It's a baby girl.
Ooh.
She's all right.
She's perfect, Claire.
Oh, you are so beautiful.
Just like her mother.
Frank...
I've been so horrid to you.
No, no, no.
Forget all about that.
This is all that truly matters now.
Yes.
It's going to be all right.
We're gonna be all right.
I promise.
Maybe this right here...
really can be a new beginning.
Yes.
- For all of us. - Yes.
Let's make it so.
I love you.
What a beautiful little angel.
Thank you.
Where'd she get the red hair?
- sync and corrections by Mr. C - - www.addic7ed.com -