‘I’m … a little hot.’
He faltered, his gaze searching, full of self-reproach. ‘Forgive me. I should’ve been more careful of ye. Would water help?’
She nodded, looking around for Rowena, or her mother, or any reasonable means of escape. She’d no wish to insult Jamie, but the whispering was an embarrassment. It brought back memories she’d dearly like to forget. Glen tongues did love to wag, but that they now wagged about Jamie and her was clear. And beyond humiliating.
When he returned with the water, she feigned exhaustion and begged him dance with someone else that she might recover. A flicker of regret crossed his face, and she felt a pang of contrition, only a pang though; the urge to distance herself from him was overwhelming. Yet it did seem a betrayal too. She was beholden to him, though that knowledge was far from welcome.
She sat down with her mother to watch the others revel. The release of tension acted as a tonic to the humble crofting folk, and they stamped and clapped and kidded up their heels.
‘Did ye not enjoy yer dance wi’ Jamie?’ her mother asked.
‘Aye, I liked it fine. Only,’ she frowned, ‘I wasna so keen on the onlookers.’
Grace looked a little mystified, and Morven sought to distract her, pointing out the swarm of young admirers jostling to partner Sarah. Even as a wee bairn, Sarah had shown a blustering confidence that far outstripped her humble roots. Yet, looking at her now, pale hair flying loose about her waist, it was clear she’d grown in loveliness and audacity both, and used them now in equal measure.
At length, they stopped to feast on roast grouse, hare, and trout wrapped whole in dock leaves. Ale flowed freely, food abundant too, and the chafe of hunger was stilled for a while. When the last bone had been picked clean, Alec lifted his pipes and began a pibroch, the classical pipe music of the Highlands. With skill, he pulled together the recurring threads of the melody, playing with his heart, the emotion of the music reflected in his face. The gathering was stirred and roused, then moved to melancholy. Watching Jamie's face, Morven saw his breathing quicken, swept along by the intensity of her brother’s playing.
As the drone of pipes faded plaintively away, folk stamped their feet for more. Alec beckoned to her and, knowing what was to come, she rose eagerly to join him. Her voice was strong, with the lyrical cadence of the Gael, and singing with Alec was always a tonic. When she sat down, she felt Jamie’s gaze upon her again and despite herself, her own, too, was drawn inexorably to him. She could not have explained the feeling his expression, full of his emotions, raised in her, for she didn’t understand it herself.
At the urging of the crowd, all much flushed with whisky, Alec reverted to reels and jigs, and she felt a pressure on her elbow. ‘Would ye do me the honour again?’
Regretfully, she shook her head.
Hard pressed to resist it, Alec handed his pipes to Craigduthel, who could squeeze out a tolerable tune, and seizing Sarah by the hand danced her round and round the bothy. She grasped him about the waist and in a lusty press of kilts and skirts rode out the tune amid ribald whistles and shouts. At last, flushed crimson and abashed, Alec let her go and returned, reluctantly, to his piping while she swept him a mocking bow.
By the time the shadows had lengthened on the hill, and the sun dipped below the Cromdales, folk had settled themselves into wee groups. Rowena sat with the MacRaes and gently pressed Morven’s arm.
‘I've something I would ask ye,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘’Tis a lot to ask.’ She took a long breath. ‘I'd not ask it if there was another way.’
‘What is it?’
‘Will ye teach Jamie the whisky-making? Take him to yer bothy and let him watch how ’tis done?’ Rowena swallowed at the enormity of what she asked. By necessity, the still was hidden away in the hills; a place known of by only a trusted few.
Morven drew a startled breath, glancing instinctively at her father. ‘’Tisna fer me to say.’ Though she generally worked the pot-still through the sowing and reaping months, ’twas her father laid down the law in the matter of whisky.
Rowena nodded, turning dubiously to Malcolm. ‘I ken ye’ll nae wish to take the risk Malcolm, and I canna blame ye fer that, ’tis a great thing I ask. I'd not ask it if Duncan were here, but with our own pot-still discovered. Destroyed,’ she corrected. ‘I canna think what else to do.’
Jamie squeezed her shoulder. ‘I wish to help my kinswoman manage the croft,’ he told an incredulous Malcolm. ‘But she tells me it's whisky-making that pays the rental, nae cattle, and I ken little of the distiller's art.’
‘Aye, that I can believe.’
‘Only, if we'd whisky to sell,’ Rowena pressed him. ‘There'd nae be the same danger of being put out by McGillivray, whether the man cares fer me or not.’
‘Are things so bad, then?’ Grace put in.
‘I canna see how I'm to find the rental come Martinmas, already I'm behind. ’Tis my beasts will go to his Grace this time, and without them I'm finished.’ She turned back to Malcolm, snaring him with her eyes. ‘The lad knows well the need fer secrecy, should ye give it, ye have my word he'll not betray yer trust. And … and once he’s familiar wi’ the way ’tis done, he'll set up his own bothy.’ She looked a little darkly at his louring face. ‘Will ye help us?’
Malcolm made a strangled sound and turned away, fixing the hills of Cromdale with his stare.
‘Sir?’ Jamie prompted.
Her da had always hated being put upon, yet Morven sensed he'd once have agreed to this readily enough, and with a deal more grace. ‘Da!’ she pleaded.
He turned back to Jamie and nodded once to him. ‘Ye may watch the lass and learn. And I'll thank ye to repeat my business to no man!’
‘I'm indebted to you, sir.’ Jamie moved to clasp the crofter's hand, but Malcolm was already on his feet and hoisting the keg atop his shoulder.
‘No more than I am to you,’ he muttered, and stalked off across the heather.
‘Bless ye,’ Rowena whispered after him. Her eyes were guarded and watchful.
Jamie quirked a smile at Morven, perhaps embarrassed he’d made no mention of this earlier in the day.
‘What are ye all gawping at each other fer?’ demanded Sarah, appearing suddenly at Jamie's shoulder. She looked hot and rattled and tugged on his arm. ‘Have ye an aversion to dancing wi’ yer own cousin, then?’
‘No, no. Not at all!’ And with a startled smile, he allowed her to lead him away.
CHAPTER FIVE
Since childhood, Morven had heard tales of whisky-making in the high glens. Uisge-beatha, the water of life, had been distilled in Strathavon since the days when Saint Columba first trod the Highland passes, bringing with him the word of God. Some claimed the tradition was older still. Yet Parliament and King George cared little for Highland traditions. The Highlands stood for rebellion, a proud outlandish race holding British rule in contempt. In the years since the last Jacobite rising, government reprisals had been many and harsh. Lands were forfeit, clan chiefs were turned into landlords, and a wave of enforced evictions spread throughout the Highlands. Even the Gaelic language and the playing of the pipes had been proscribed.
For the crofters of Strathavon, it was the aggressive taxing of their whisky, the currency of the glen, that bit the hardest. Highland whisky was more than fierce liquor, it embodied the battered pride of their race, and they were damned if they’d pay the Crown for the privilege of distilling it. And as southern palates had now acquired a taste for the fiery liquor, the glenfolk were more than eager to provide it.
For long now, the smugglers of the glen had bought their barley from McGillivray, though the practice rankled bitterly with every one of them. His prices were high, twice those charged in the market town of Elgin, though his grain was no better and made no finer whisky. But there were reasons enough. Those that bought from McGillivray enjoyed his protection to a degree. They were still forced to carry on their illicit trade in secret, and
just as many had their whisky seized, but when they landed up before him, and invariably they did, William McGillivray the magistrate doled out fines of merciful leniency. To those, that is, that sourced their barley wisely. The fact that such a system served to perpetuate the scourge of whisky smuggling, as well as fatten McGillivray's pocket, went wholly unremarked by the authorities of the land.
In Strathavon, the crofters marked it well. They cursed his thieving ways and grumbled over his prices, yet still, they paid. Even Malcolm MacRae, sour and crabbit though folk said he was, coughed up for malt that granted him a measure of protection from the gaol. Yet as Morven trudged the rutted cart track through the Shenval Pass to Lochy Mill that forenoon, Rowena revealed her young kinsman would sooner buy in Elgin.
‘Elgin?’ Morven’s eyes widened. ‘’Tis a three-day ride!’
Grimly, the widow nodded.
‘But … did ye nae press on him the risks of that? If he's caught and comes up afore McGillivray …’ There was little need to say more, both women were aware of the route the factor's wrath could take.
‘He’s a man o’ principles, though,’ sighed Rowena. ‘Like his father.’ She sat down on the heather bank at the side of the track and massaged her brow. ‘I urged the lad to buy from McGillivray, but he wished no truck with the man. Called him a contemptible rogue and a bigot. Said he'd heard all about the factor, how the man believes me a priestess o’ the black arts. He'd no wish to waste what little money his father left him in fattening the pocket of such a man.’
Morven paled, she’d not meant him to act so rashly. ‘I meant only to warn him,’ she said. ‘Nae to get on the wrong side o’ the factor.’
Rowena smiled a little crookedly. ‘The lad’s a keen sense o’ justice, ye see. His da was the same. Jamie thought it a dishonour to his father to throw away the wee bit siller his da left him on the likes of McGillivray.’
‘I can see that, but still –’
‘I know.’ Rowena rose and, hooking her basket over her left arm, offered Morven her right. ‘We must pray the malt makes fine whisky, is what we must do. And above all, pray the lad's nae caught.’ Tightening her grip on Morven's arm, she set them on the track again, both women sunk in their thoughts. ‘He’s had tragedy enough,’ she said softly.
The lonely hills seemed to frown down on Morven, their brows stern and accusing. A bitter wind buffeted her ears, and she hunched herself against it. At last, as they broke from the high pass, the MacPherson's mill on the Lochy Burn came in sight where their patient awaited them.
‘Rowena!’ Morven clutched at her companion’s arm. The conical Hill of Achmore was visible in the distance, a pall of black smoke wrapped like a winding sheet about its summit.
‘The Balintoul signal.’ Rowena's breath whistled in her throat as she thought hard. ‘We'd best keep on and warn them at the mill. Likely Alastair has barley he's malting and the gaugers’ll be upon him afore he kens what's what.’
Morven blinked the wind-pricked tears from her eyes. Sympathisers in Balintoul had raised the hilltop fires in warning of an imminent raid by excisemen. Gathering up her skirts, she hurried after Rowena.
The buildings of the mill, low turf-thatched steadings, enclosed a dirt yard where flecks of grain and chaff swirled. The largest building, with its mill wheel, housed the grinding stone while the smallest, with its reeking chimney, was home to the MacPhersons and their sons. Alastair MacPherson was clearing weed from the millrace and seemed relieved to see them. He threw down his rake and beat vigorously at his breeks, raising a cloud of dust.
‘There was nae need fer such haste,’ he observed, noting their breathless and dishevelled state. ‘Elspeth's abed, but nae rappin' upon the Pearly Gates just yet, I’m thinking.’
Rowena cut through the proprieties. ‘Ye'll have malt here, Alastair?’
‘I … er …’ He blinked at her. ‘I wouldna like to say.’
‘It’s nae my business if ye have,’ she assured him. ‘But the warning fires are blazing atop Achmore, and I'm thinking the gaugers’ll make the mill their first call.’
The miller spun on his heels and sprinted to the kiln. ‘Ye saw the signal yerself?’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘Wi’ our own eyes. Is there aught we can do to help?’
He stopped for a moment, the muscles of his face working. ‘My lads are out at the sowing.’ He shook his head. ‘I'll have to manage wi'out them. If I bag the malt, will ye help me hide it?’
Morven nodded. ‘Only make haste!’
Above the kiln, the drying floor was spread thickly with swollen grains, their thread-like shoots beginning to wither in the warmth from a peat fire. The musty aroma of malt was potent and overwhelming; any excise officer would recognise it instantly. They grabbed shovels and brooms and began scooping it into sacks.
It was sweltering work. Within moments, Morven was flushed and sweating, the muscles of her arms beginning to burn and dust catching at the back of her throat. Alastair thrust his head out of the tiny loft window, then hastily drew it in again and redoubled his efforts. No-one spoke. The rattle of rough-drawn breath was the only sound above the rhythmic shoomf of the shovels.
At last, grim-faced, Alastair tied the last sack.
‘Where can we hide it?’ Morven wheezed.
‘I canna think.’ The miller peered out of the window again. ‘Once they get a whiff o’ this, they'll turn the whole place ower.’
Panting, Rowena leant on her shovel. ‘Elspeth's abed, did ye say?’ She wiped the sweat from her brow with a corner of her plaid. ‘I might just ken a place, but first I must speak with her.’ She hurried away, leaving Morven and the miller to heave the heavy malt sacks onto the man’s handcart.
When Rowena returned, her face was set in a calm but determined expression. ‘If it's McBeath that comes,’ she told them, ‘we might be in luck.’
‘The Black Gauger! Where's the luck in that?’
Rowena nodded darkly at the miller. ‘I’ve no great love fer the man either.’
‘No, I ken ye’ve not.’
‘Only, we both know how eager he is to sniff out whisky and the malt of its making, yet I doubt he'd be willing to risk his own neck to secure it.’
‘How’d ye mean?’
‘Wait an' see,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘Stow the malt under Elspeth's bed and leave the rest to me.’
Alastair gawped at her. ‘Under her bed?’
‘Ye'll be thinking it madness, but if ye'll but trust me.’
He made an odd sound and turned to Morven.
Morven had no notion what Rowena planned to do but instinctively recognised the miller must do as she directed. ‘Rowena would never harm Elspeth,’ she assured him.
‘I ken, but –’
‘Then, please. Do as she bids.’
Barely had the last sack been concealed when Morven heard the ring of hooves on the packed earth of the yard. She ran to the door. There were two gaugers; she recognised McBeath at once, and his companion was the duller faced of his two hirelings. They were accompanied by a patrol of six Black Watch dragoons, resplendent in Government Tartan, crimson coats, and wide shoulder belts. Each was armed with musket and sword.
‘No-one move!’ bellowed McBeath. The slight hint of a smirk lingering at the corners of his mouth betrayed how much he relished the task set him, not to mention the importance he believed it ascribed him. Company horses shied nervously, snorting and prancing in the cramped yard. ‘Search the mill and kiln. Look in every byre and festering hovel.’ He turned a mite scornfully on the patrol officer. ‘You do know what it is you're looking for?’
The officer gave him a withering look and gestured for his men to dismount and begin their search. Shifting the reins, he turned his horse's head and brought his mount alongside the exciseman's beast. The words of their exchange did not reach Morven, although the tone was plain enough – toes had been stepped on. Snorting, McBeath slid from the saddle and advanced on the kiln-house. Alastair loitered in the
doorway.
‘A guid morning to ye, gentlemen,’ Alastair offered. He shot Morven a look, then reading her frantic eye signal, snatched his bonnet from his head. ‘Can I be helping ye wi' anything?’
‘I doubt it.’ McBeath shoved him roughly out of his way.
The patrol officer seemed a deal more civil. Tucking his feathered hat under one arm, he nudged his mount forward and nodded deferentially to Alastair. ‘Sergeant John Shiach of the 7th Black Watch.’ He settled his hat on his crown again. ‘Pray pardon the intrusion. There’s no need to be alarmed, sir. If you could but tell me how many people you have here?’
The miller twisted his bonnet. ‘Just myself, my wife, and two women friends who're tending her. She's sickly.’
‘My sympathies. You don’t, then, keep malt here for the illegal distillation of alcohol?’
‘Lord, no!’ A further indignant denial was forming on Alastair's lips when McBeath burst from the kiln-house behind him.
‘There’s malt here! I can smell it as plain as day. Doubtless, they were kilning it as we arrived. I want it found.’ He glared at the sergeant, who stoically returned the look. ‘Well, get to it, man! If need be, I'll have the place turned inside out!’
Morven's heart was hammering in her throat, but she maintained as calm an exterior as she could feign, standing guard beneath the lintel of the MacPhersons’ home. Advancing on her, the gauger’s eyes narrowed in distrust. ‘Out of the way!’ he snapped, shoving her roughly aside. Then, squinting, he turned back to look her up and down. ‘I’ve seen you before.’ His eyes raked her face. ‘You don’t belong at the mill.’
A flush burned at her throat, and under his scrutiny, she felt it move upward drying her tongue. ‘I –’
‘You forget yourself, Mr McBeath,’ cut in the sergeant. ‘My men are just that – my men. Here to assist in the arrest and detainment of lawbreakers. I see no such felons here. Any searching for contraband, any turning inside out, I believe is entirely your concern.’ Regimental hooves clipped soundly on the pressed earth of the yard. Alongside them now, the sergeant nodded once to Morven, then cocked his head at the exciseman, brows raised in irritation.
The Blood And The Barley Page 8
