The Custom of the Army – Diana Gabaldon (2010)

The Custom of the Army is a historical novella by Diana Gabaldon, first published in 2010 as part of the Lord John series, a well-regarded offshoot of her Outlander saga. Set in the mid-18th century, this installment follows Lord John Grey—soldier, aristocrat, and reluctant adventurer—as he is swept from a scandal in London into military intrigues in Quebec during the Seven Years’ War. Originally included in the anthology Warriors (edited by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois), the story blends historical authenticity with personal drama, presenting a richly textured narrative that enhances the broader tapestry of the Outlander universe.

Plot Summary

All things considered, it was probably the fault of the electric eel. Or perhaps the poet. Either way, Major Lord John Grey found himself flat on his back in a crowded London salon, heart stunned still, lungs searching for air, after volunteering to hold hands in a circuit that ended in an eel’s wrath. The eel party had promised frivolity and fashionable curiosity, not a duel, a broken nose, and eventual deployment across the Atlantic. Yet the chain of events, sparked by electric folly and tangled in matters of honor, would land him in the Canadian wilds, standing sentinel against darkness both in man and wilderness.

The eel – large, gray, and unimpressive to the eye – had been the centerpiece at Lady Lucinda Joffrey’s gathering. Among the guests, the Honorable Caroline Woodford and the leering Edwin Nicholls had taken their places beside Lord John. But where Caroline possessed wit and bravery, Nicholls dripped entitlement and drink. When Nicholls seized Caroline in a drunken kiss post-shock, it was John’s fist that landed squarely, breaking the poet’s nose and quite likely sparking the challenge that followed. Somewhere amid the blurred aftermath, pistols were drawn, shots fired. Lord John’s aim had been to delope – to intentionally miss – but fate, or perhaps his wrist’s rebellion, tipped the barrel just enough. Nicholls staggered and bled.

By morning, London’s rain had not yet washed away the scandal. Nicholls lay dead. A furious letter from Lord Enderby, Caroline’s brother, demanded satisfaction. Another letter, tear-streaked and frantic, arrived from Caroline herself, begging John’s forgiveness. But before scandal could ripen further, his brother Hal, Duke of Pardloe, stepped in. Within the hour, John received his new commission and a summons to Canada to testify on behalf of an old acquaintance, Captain Charles Carruthers. A convenient exile, Hal assured him – escape and duty wrapped into one.

Thus began Lord John’s crossing, the Atlantic vast and indifferent. With his young valet Tom Byrd in tow, he disembarked on a wooded island along the St. Lawrence River. Here, British troops encamped under Captain Woodford’s care prepared for further skirmishes with the French. Among them lurked native scouts, musket fire, and whispers of raids. The air was sharp with minted bear grease, sweat, and unspoken fear.

It was not long before night fell with screams and flame. Fireships, floating infernos, drifted downriver toward the anchored Harwood. From the trees came the ululations of Abenaki warriors. Grey rallied what men he could, standing between ship and forest, suspecting a trap meant to split defenses. While fire consumed the water’s edge and shouts rang through the canvas rows of tents, a quiet dread settled in. Tom returned with John’s breeches and pistol, and together they faced a night interrupted by violence. The Harwood, miraculously, survived intact. The attackers slipped away with captives and blood.

Dawn did not bring peace, only smoke and exhaustion. And news – Captain Carruthers was not held prisoner but paroled in the town of Gareon. There, in the attic room of a widow’s house near a French mission, the man himself waited. Gaunt, weakened by a defective heart, and shadowed by the weight of impending judgment, Carruthers greeted John not as a witness, but as a last ally. They had known each other in youth, briefly and bodily, their shared past a memory best left between them.

Carruthers told his tale plainly. General Wolfe’s strategy for starving the French included brutal raids on civilian villages – burning homes, stealing livestock, scattering terrified families. Carruthers had obeyed. But it was Major Gerald Siverly who twisted policy into profit. Withholding soldier pay, confiscating plunder, and eventually hoarding rare rifles for private sale, Siverly provoked mutiny. The men, half-drunk and incensed, stormed his quarters and beat him near to death. Carruthers had arrived too late to prevent it – and too principled to defend the man.

Rather than let the affair vanish quietly, Carruthers demanded a court-martial. Let truth, however dangerous, be spoken aloud. It would cost him everything. His own body, already faltering, might not carry him to the verdict. But he needed his name clear before it failed.

Lord John listened, understanding both the danger and the nobility of it. Later, beneath the stars and clouds swollen with rain, he walked the forest’s edge, brushing away mosquitoes and the heaviness of memory. A scout – Manoke, greased and amused – warned him: his blond scalp would fetch a fine price from the French-aligned tribes. Still, Grey found an odd peace in the wilderness, away from salons and scandal.

That night, another raid tore through the camp. Fires again bloomed, and screams rang sharp against the trees. Yet it was after the chaos, in the hush of morning drizzle, that something stranger occurred. Lord John awoke in his tent to find Manoke crouched beside him. No weapon, no threat – only a kiss, soft and fleeting, on the lips. Then the Indian vanished into the rain.

In Gareon, John tracked Carruthers again, finding him bent over papers, crafting his statement for the court. Siverly remained untouched by justice, his deeds wrapped in the safety of rank and silence. Carruthers, once so bright, now thinned by illness and resolve, spoke not of bitterness but of duty. He would bear the charge, but not the guilt. And Grey, whether out of affection or shared understanding, promised to speak for him.

The court-martial loomed ahead, distant yet certain. The wilderness had receded, and in its place, the mechanisms of power began to grind. But somewhere behind the noise of drums and orders, beyond the river’s flow and the echo of gunfire, lingered the strange truths of friendship, duty, and the choices made in silence.

Main Characters

• Lord John Grey – A British major with noble lineage, Lord John is sharp-witted, dutiful, and compassionate. His quiet stoicism masks personal complexities, including his concealed homosexuality in an unforgiving era. In this story, a duel sparked by the antics of a drunken poet and an electric eel incident leads to his entanglement in an overseas military trial, forcing him to navigate personal danger and ethical dilemmas.

• Dr. John Hunter – A real historical figure and eccentric anatomist, Hunter’s presence at a London party provides both comic relief and medical urgency. His fascination with the human body aligns with his role in shocking (literally) events involving the titular eel, and later in the implications surrounding body snatching.

• Caroline Woodford – A spirited and clever young lady whose involvement in the eel party duel inadvertently pulls Lord John into a broader scandal. Caroline’s charm is shadowed by her brother’s reaction to her public embarrassment, leading to a formal challenge.

• Edwin Nicholls – A foppish, drunken poet whose untimely advances on Caroline and subsequent duel with Lord John serve as the catalyst for the narrative’s dramatic turns. His unexpected death following the duel becomes a key plot point.

• Hal Grey (Duke of Pardloe) – Lord John’s older brother, authoritative and pragmatic, who provides both familial support and professional redirection. His presence adds weight to John’s choices and offers context from within the military and aristocratic spheres.

• Charles Carruthers – An old acquaintance of Lord John and a physically frail officer facing court-martial in Canada. Carruthers’ request for Lord John’s testimony propels the story to Quebec, where the real heart of the novella lies—in themes of honor, corruption, and personal reckoning.

Theme

• Honor and Reputation – The title itself, The Custom of the Army, invokes the theme of institutionalized honor. Lord John must navigate the rigid expectations of military conduct, societal standing, and personal ethics—whether in the context of dueling, courtroom testimony, or personal integrity in wartime.

• Justice and Corruption – A central narrative thread is the impending court-martial of Captain Carruthers. His story exposes a broader critique of corruption in military leadership, particularly through the figure of Major Siverly, whose exploitation of his rank sparks unrest. The tension between institutional justice and moral action is explored in nuanced ways.

• Sexuality and Secrecy – Lord John’s carefully guarded sexuality remains a powerful undercurrent. His internal conflict, clandestine past with Carruthers, and brush with intimacy amid the war-torn frontier bring both emotional resonance and quiet danger to his character arc.

• Wilderness and Civilization – Gabaldon juxtaposes refined British society—complete with powdered wigs and literary parlors—with the raw, elemental vastness of North America. The New World becomes both a physical and psychological space for reckoning, transformation, and a confrontation with mortality.

Writing Style and Tone

Diana Gabaldon’s prose in The Custom of the Army is richly descriptive, historically textured, and filled with sly humor. She possesses a remarkable ability to recreate the 18th century with immersive detail, blending real historical figures and authentic period language into her fictional tapestry. The writing often shifts fluidly between high drama and dry wit, especially through Lord John’s internal monologue, which anchors the reader in both tension and levity.

The tone oscillates between gallows humor, grim realism, and poignant introspection. Gabaldon wields irony with precision—never mocking her characters, but often highlighting the absurdities of their social codes. Her handling of Lord John’s sexuality is particularly elegant: understated yet deeply human, rendered with empathy and restraint. The contrast between the civility of London and the brutal honesty of the Canadian wilderness is sharply drawn, allowing the tone to darken as the stakes grow more personal and existential.