Outlander

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 will go back through the stones, back home, you and the bairn.

My name is William Grey, second son, 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.

Bring that block over there.

Take a knife.

- Sergeant? - Yes, sir.

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.

And where've ye been? Enjoying a wee whiskey?

Ye're welcome.

And the Lallybroch men are safe home.

Burn it up, boys, all along the line!

Fire!

Fire!

Fire!

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?

Let me be. 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 whiskey.

Drink you under the table.

Yeah, I'll say you can.

Are you sure we can afford all this?

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.

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'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.

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.

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 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 since that sad day when he took up the reins of government,

the "haberdasher from Missouri" has proven himself to be totally unequal

to the task of assuming the mantle of Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln.

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.

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.

"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 the 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 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 an opportunity to examine

the prospectus for the 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.

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.