Scotch Rising
S J Garland
MAPLE KAKAPO PUBLISHING
Napier, New Zealand
Title: Scotch Rising
Authors: S J Garland
Publisher: Maple Kakapo Limited
Address: 2069 Pakowhai Road, Napier, New Zealand, 4183
Format: Softcover
Publication Date: 5/2014
ISBN 978-0-473-28491-6
For Andy, it can’t be sunny every day.
Chapter 1
I have returned after ten long years to haunt these austere corridors. I was a boy seeking escape, pining for adventure and the wood-panelled walls, the smell of lyme soap have long lived in my memory, though if asked yesterday to describe the War Office, I would not have thought of these details. My head crowded with the adventure to come, the happiness of escape. I would not have noticed my present self. Sitting upon a simple polished wooden bench, waiting for an audience. My military career was about to end. I was too young, too foolish, far too caught up in my own self-importance and cleverness at my escape from calamity to know how it might end. My boyish heart could not accept my gladness at having it come to an end, even in the face of an uncertain future. I would be free.
The knuckles on my fists stand out white, opening my hands, I trace the familiar calluses, scars, the marks of my trade with my eyes. Being a soldier is everything I have known in my adult life. It existed in a space of neither here nor there, never meant to be for a man from such a station. At least an hour has past, the corridor is cold and I must keep shifting in order to ease the aching in my limbs. The anticipation of the confrontation is always worse than the actual event. I learned this in battle.
“Captain Clyde-Dalton.” Colonel Manners stood in the doorway to his office. I could glean nothing from his curt nod. He remained an efficient man. Who spoke with conviction and authority, I do not know of any soldier who has disobeyed any of his commands.
I stood stiffly and briefly stretched my shoulders before following Manners into his sanctuary, prepared from my last meeting to greet the Spartan formality of his office. Looking around, I spied a fire burning in the grate, a luxury for the old soldier in the mid-November weather. His clerk’s desk stood empty. This meeting would remain private, not a formal dishonourable discharge. Perhaps I might be able to sell my commission and quietly step away from this life.
Colonel Manners’ face, deeply marred by weathered lines, held many secrets. The broad planes of his chin and forehead commanded attention. A soldier by birth, just as his father had been born a soldier and fought in the Civil War, the bloodiest conflict England had endured. Jerking his head, he indicated I should sit as he poured two glasses of an amber liquid and pushed one heavily toward me, the glass dancing in the candlelight.
“I cannot say I imagined fate would bring you through my door in such a sorry state, my boy.” He drank deeply from the liquid, watching as I contemplated my own glass. “Your bald head, is it the result of some mourning ritual for your dead Indian wife?”
I held my breath as red mist distorted my vision, the bones in my knuckles showed through the skin, every muscle in my body tightened. I fought the urge to throw myself over the desk. I could feel my hands around the old man’s neck. They would be stiff, as they were now. I had killed too many to count. I could gladly kill one more. I mentally stumbled and finally caught the last of my control before it slithered away. I looked steadily into Manners’ face and saw not a disgusted or contemptuous look, but one of pity, of understanding.
Taking another pull from his glass. He set it down carefully. “I am happy to find not all the reports from the colonies are true. Indeed, I received a very disturbing letter.” Manners stared at me hoping for a nod to continue. I gave him no outward indication I even listened. He would continue at his own leisure, men of his rank took for granted others’ permission. “Your commanding officer reported your behaviour in the stocks as, let me take a minute, I do not want to get this wrong.” Manners scratched his head, momentarily dislodging his wig, “Right, you behaved as a man dead, neither moving nor eating, nor speaking when men of your acquaintance visited. In short your will to live effectively sapped from you, some thought you might be possessed by some evil native spirit.”
My teeth ground at the last comment. I had finally gathered my scattered thoughts to reply when Manners held up a hand. “Your rather fierce response to my probing leads me to believe otherwise and I can only be happy. If our mutual friend Mr Wick thought I might have permanently damaged you by sending you to the New World, I would have to look forward to many long and irritating monologues.” He poured himself another draught from the crystal decanter.
Colonel Manners did not engage in idle chatter to my own knowledge, others agreed. Whatever his game, he was straying from his normal course, but curiosity did not impede my need for this interview to be over. “Colonel Manners,” my voice rough. It was true I hardly spoke unless necessary. “No secret has been made of my wish to sell my commission, my time in the army is over. I have served my country for nearly ten years,” I shrugged. “I am not a soldier any more.”
“On the contrary, a better soldier and a better man would be hard to find in these precarious times.” Colonel Manners straightened from his desk. Now the reckoning I dreaded and anticipated all afternoon would take place. I held my breath in expectation.
“Your time in the New World is done, your incarceration in the military stocks has been generously regarded as time served for your attack on John March, Boston Militia Commander.” Manners studied my tense profile. I gleaned nothing from his demeanour. “Only a few are aware of your supposed marriage to the native girl, and it will remain thus. We have done this not only for your protection. As you appear to have forgotten you are a peer of the realm, but for our own, the army cannot be seen to endorse entanglements with the native population.”
I sat surprised. Though aware of scarcely anything important happening around me during the weeks I spent in the military stocks. It felt as though every man who peered between the metal bars stood privy to the secret I held for nearly five years. The one I was only a week away from revealing to the world. Guilt made me believe every man accused me of her death and I punished myself for it with every glance and every stare.
“However, your tenancy with the army has not come to an end. Indeed, England and I have need of your special talents. It is an unstable time for Her Majesty, Queen Anne. As you know, she has lately come to a throne, on the brink of a rebellion. We must not return to the evil days of civil war.” Manners’ brows reached his slate iron wig, demanding my understanding. I only felt numb.
Grasping at my resolve, my voice grew insistent. “I should think, Colonel, my performance and spectacular fall from grace would only serve as evidence contrary to my commitment to the army. In fact I shall tell you now. I will not take up the post. I wish to be discharged of my duties, I no longer have the will to carry them through!”
“What you wish or what you think, has not been within your own power since you walked out of my door and joined the regiment.” Manners stood and braced his hands on the desk, all attempts at civility gone. He became the avenging angel, the statesmen, the renowned military leader. “You will do as you’re damned well told, and I will have my way in this matter, Captain, or I will have you thrown back in the stocks and court-martialled. Your uncle may have turned a blind eye to your activities in the past. I do not believe he is likely to ignore a rather large black smudge over the family name brought about by an ungrateful nephew, far too cocksure for his own good.”
Mouth pressed in a firm line, I nodded to indicate I understood the threat clearly. On this day there would be no freedom from the army. I wanted to drink myself into oblivion, live in
the darkest places of London. I needed to punish myself for the death of Onatah, my wife. Once the only future I could imagine. Now Manner’s will force me to relieve my torment for years to come.
Regaining his seat, Manners once again took up his glass. “You acquired a certain skill set while with your regiment. Unbeknownst even to your superiors, you successfully infiltrated the native population. Even going so far as to marry one of them, yet you remained steadfastly loyal to your country. It will be important for your survival to draw upon these skills, where I am sending you.” I leaned forward in my seat, curious despite myself. I do not want any part of this, my heart screamed. “The Act of Union put through Parliament this year effectively binds the Scots to us. We need to show those heathens we are watching their every move and there is no better way than through taxing their most precious commodity.” Manners held up his glass.
“Whisky,” surprise rang in my voice. It was not a tipple I enjoyed myself. Beer remained the drink of choice amongst soldiers, with anything stronger reserved for great victories or defeats.
“I have been reminded it is imperative to be seen to tax alcohol equally on both sides of the border. To aid in this endeavour, we are deploying soldiers, mostly clerks, to monitor alcohol production north of the border.” Manners leaned forward, suddenly intent. “It might be said I am dealing lightly with you, especially as men have been hanged for less than your recent transgressions. Fortunately for you, I want seasoned soldiers up there and I want reports. The old pretender, James Francis, has a following who would like nothing better than to see a Stuart back on the throne of England and Scotland.
The mention of danger to the Crown caught my interest. Manners knew how to goad soldiers into doing his bidding; here stood the successful commander, the same feeling of tension and excitement twisted in my guts. The way it had in Boston when the Colonel called in his special force. We would prepare for a raid against the French, the riskier the task, the more desirable the challenge. “How big a threat to the Crown? Surely, if there is a nest of vipers hiding in Scotland waiting for the old pretender, we can rouse them out with a small force?”
“The enthusiasm I once spied in your person has appeared once again.” Manners smiled for the first time. “The treasury is severely low on funds. It has never recovered from Cromwell and his cronies. Nor did it fare much better under the opulent spending of recent monarchs, the present Queen included. A full-scale operation is out of the question under the present tightening of purse strings. The placement of highly gifted and men loyal to us is the lightest option for Parliament. You are a soldier, Clyde-Dalton. I do not pretend to know of your hurts, but I think a stint in the Highlands of Scotland will give you a chance to rethink your present circumstances. Besides, there may yet be a reconciliation with your uncle, or you could easily take your place in society without him.”
“As to my uncle, Colonel, I doubt greatly any reconciliation between us. The last contact I had with the man coincides with the first time I stepped into this office and it will stay exactly as it is. He has grown stubborn in his old age and it seems I am not impervious to the same effects – perhaps it is in our blood.” Sighing, I once again began to feel the burden of familial responsibility before physically shaking it from my shoulders and thinking of my new unwanted task.
Tossing a satchel of papers across his desk, Manners indicated the parcel with his chin. “These are your orders, information on the distilleries in your area, taxes, former yields, the owners, everything known of the operations, you are to report there by no later than two weeks, otherwise I’ll have the militia after you.” A thought crossed the other man’s brow. “And do not despair, rather than thinking of this as a curtailment to your plans to enjoy oblivion, think of it rather as a small interlude. Let us agree upon a year of service to me before I accept your resignation.”
“I will take my post straightaway.” Standing, I grabbed the parcel, heavier than I would have first thought, but still easily held in one hand. With the other, I downed the whisky, not letting its harsh burn affect the features on my face. “I will send word once I have arrived.”
“Goodbye, Clyde-Dalton, one year.” Manners shouted. I slammed the door on any further words. I thought it might be best to put some distance between this place and myself. Still stunned at the outcome, a quick look at the bench I previously occupied reminded me of my initial intentions. Boots ringing on the polished marble, I strode through the corridors of offices, labyrinths of ambition and fortitude, into my next life, weary and thin.
I went out into the deepening dusk, took a breath of air to clear my thoughts before regretting it. All manner of cooking stoves, bonfires and chimneys spewed forth their smudged air. I gagged at the unpleasant smell of sewage in the streets. Not having spent much time in London as a child or as a young adult, I never became accustomed to its rank odour, to the crush of humanity down cramped streets. It’s a far cry from Boston and I wonder what Onatah might have thought of such a place. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. Thoughts of her only brought sorrow and misery. The papers held loosely in one hand could make a welcome distraction, filled with information on my new, unwanted assignment. No point in railing over this unexpected fate. Colonel Manners possessed spies all over England, Europe, and the New World. Indeed, he had people positioned anywhere even a sniff of conspiracy might be found. A slip of paper from a grimy hand and Colonel Manners would have my whereabouts.
The small inn at Covent Garden sat next to a pub, a quiet place to look over the information and discover what prompted Manners to send an experienced soldier, rather than a clerk up to a seemingly irrelevant post in the middle of nowhere. After the change in my plans, I did not have the patience. Seeking distraction, I turned north and walked along the Strand. Fewer bonfires lit the path. Oil lamps had replaced the old method of lighting the streets, the neighbourhood wealthy enough to afford such a luxury. I would admit only to myself at having a small amount of curiosity for my uncle’s well being. Through old friends, I knew his health was as robust as ever and he had made several changes at Pendomer House, such as having water piped in. He enjoyed keeping up with the latest innovations. It was the only topic we ever agreed upon, the improvement of man by way of science.
A string of tutors in my early childhood had taught me of my family’s fortunes after the Civil War ended. Several of the great families began building large houses along the Thames and my grandfather, the fourth Baron Pendomer, would be no exception. He built Pendomer House to the highest extent his purse would allow, almost falling into total financial ruin several times and eventually dying in debt.
My first memory of the house was as a boy arriving in a carriage along with my tutor and nanny, for my first grown-up Christmas with my absent uncle. The light shining from the windows, as it presently shone in the darkness, caught my imagination, along with the immaculate façade, the servants rushed to the coach. I slipped and skinned both my knees, tearing my new silk breeches while running along the riverfront terrace. Apparently modelled after the one commissioned by Charles I’s, dowager queen at Somerset House. My nanny reminded me repeatedly of the expense of the stone, carted all the way from our mines in eastern Wales. At the time I was much more interested in how the stone might be quarried. How the mechanics of the carts worked for loading and carrying. She did not know and rapped my knuckles for impertinence.
I watched from my position further down the strand, as carriages full of guests began lining the small drive. Jostling for position as their occupants unloaded, checking wigs and dresses before stepping through the marble archway for an early dinner at Baron Pendomer’s expense before heading to their next evening’s entertainment. In the years I spent under my uncle’s care, I always remained here. The outsider peering into the position I would one day occupy. Viewing it neither with suspicion or jealousy, only as I do now, as a burden, the weight of my new orders suddenly felt much lighter, my trials in the New World a test of my fortitude. As I had so
many years ago, I turned away from Pendomer House. Away from my uncle and his aristocratic presumptions for my life, and walked unhurriedly further up the Strand. I paced through Temple, where the last vestiges of bewigged lawyers appeared harried and over-worked. Up along Fleet Street, wider than many of the spidery lanes and thus full of traffic until the London Wall suddenly appears.
I spotted Gresham College, in Bishopsgate, where I spent many a fine evening along with other men and a few women, delving into the unexplained. Who enjoyed the art of argument over questions of formulae and mathematics. In short, a bastion of scientific learning and exploration. I received the Royal Society papers from the college while away in the New World. Even making several contributions to their study of fauna and animal behaviour.
I walked up the steps, and a doorman dressed in the familiar College livery of burgundy and gold opened the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke with a broad cockney accent. “My lord, the lectures are full, best be about your business someplace else.”
I scratched the stubble on my head with some bemusement and looked down at my worn breeches and stained stockings. My boots impeccably shined to a glossy finish, in contrast my tightly buttoned frock coat worn around the edges. Incredulous, I stood with my mouth open for a minute.
“The policy of this College is to give entrance to every person seeking knowledge of science and philosophy, though I have spent a long sojourn away from the capital I cannot believe the hospitality of this institution changed to such a degree as to refuse my entrance.” Though disinherited, I was an heir to a Baron.
The wiry man used his body to prevent further intrusion and his voice became indignant. “Listen here, you. I can tell who’s supposed to be in here with the rest of the fancy, and who belongs out there, in the streets, and you do not belong here.” He tried to shut the door further and I wedged a boot between it and the doorway.
Scotch Rising Page 1
