Scotch Rising

by S. J. Garland

  “I fully understand the position you have taken over my lack of apparent qualifications to enter this building, I have not spared the time to visit a tailor nor a wigmaker, I am newly arrived from Boston and have cause to meet with Mr Wick, I am sure he is haunting the halls this evening.” I kept the reasons behind my lack of wig to myself, being because I hated them, and my shaved head, the results of my effort to put an end to the louse infestations due to my imprisonment.

  The other man’s eyes grew dim for an instant. The Londoner’s natural belief in his existence being higher than any colonial came to my aid. Wedging my thigh and some of my upper body through the portal I suddenly heard my name shouted from the interior of the building and lifted my chin in surprise. Mr Wick’s green frock flying out behind him to reveal a pink waistcoat, never one to disappointment his tailor. He looked similar to a fashion plate come to life in the wood panelled corridors of the College.

  “My boy! My dearest Esmond, you are returned to us at last!” The shout brought bewigged heads from out of more than a few doors to investigate the cause of the disturbance. Wick ignored the shushing and, coming to an abrupt halt, he hugged me to his breast as if I were still a child. I stood taller than him these days. Even in his heeled, buckled shoes, his wig tickled my nose. I sneezed on the powder he used to keep it fresh from lice.

  The small doorman took my acceptance by one of the oldest members of the Royal Society as an indication of previously unknown self-worth and retreated back to his seat by the doorway. Where he reigned, supremely confident in his chosen occupation.

  Mr Wick stepped back and I used the freedom to take a deep breath. “Mr Wick.” I sketched as good a bow as any soldier might. “It gladdens me to see you looking so well, and sprightly, may I add.” I clapped the older man on the arm.

  Feigning a wince, he smiled back at me. “Not as firm by half as when you last saw me,” sobering, the older man studied the lines of my face. I knew well the changes he would see and watched as he filed them away in his great brain, corridors of memory. “I hoped you would come to see me in Aldersgate, we are well met here. They are conducting an experiment using a microscope to study the single-celled organisms of Antoine van Leeuwenhoek. He is giving a discussion on the matter, are you interested in joining?”

  I would have been interested in listening to the lecture as I missed him when attending classes at Cambridge, but I looked down at my attire and my lack of preparation would only embarrass me. I began to make my excuses but the old man already guessed my thoughts. “No need to rush into the fray, he will be around in the future. I am sure. He is considered a valuable member of the College and you can read of his lecture and findings in the papers.” He squeezed my shoulder, assuring himself of my physical presence. “Why don’t we walk around the corner for a dinner? The Hollybush does a decent turkey pie.”

  Mr Wick chatted amiably on the latest news concerning the Royal Society. Though I read the papers when I eventually received them in the New World, some of the most interesting happenings were between members, rather than their experiments. “And Mr Cotswald replied, he wished he had never taken Jenkins as his partner in the experiment and he would never have him along one of his specimen-gathering walks again, as he is a rogue of the worst sort! I would not believe it myself dear boy, if I had not heard the words straight from his mouth. Well, it’s all a sorry affair as now the two are arguing over who made the mineral discovery, as it is worth some money to the finder.”

  After ordering two cups of Northdown Ale and Wick being disappointed over the turkey pie being finished. We decided to have the beef and cabbage instead. We sat in a relatively quiet corner of the smoky pub. “I am sorry to hear of Mr Cotswald’s troubles. He was a nice man when I knew him ten years ago. Unfortunately I cannot say anything on this Jenkins, having never met him.”

  “Right, right,” Wicks took a deep drink and studied me over the rim of his clay cup. “I am sure you have no interest in all these goings on.” He smiled with relief. “Now you are home, you might want to have a man take over your affairs, mine has done as good a job as any. Your stipend from you late parents’ estate still gives you five hundred Sterling a year. My man of affair’s says you hardly use any of it, and you might presently consider a reconciliation with your uncle.”

  Sensing the hesitation in his voice, I carefully constructed a firm yet truthful reply. “You have mentioned your hopes in letters you sent and you already know my answer. He made his choice and I made mine. I want to be free to choose my own path in life, not the one he has arranged, as you said, I do fine on my stipend and I have my army pay, such as it is, to keep me.”

  Wick’s brow crumpled in thought. “The last letter from you,” his hands shook, “full of despair, self-hatred. I worried for your state of mind, pondered over the words of comfort, you clearly stated your intentions to sail home and sell your commission. Your time in the army finished, your service to our country at an end, has there been a change?”

  “Your old friend, Colonel Manners, used a persuasive argument to dissuade me from selling my commission.” For the first time I pointed to the satchel sitting on the table. “I have an assignment and I will be leaving on the morrow for Scotland. I am sorry this will have to be a short visit.” The frown on the old man’s face made me put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  To my surprise the old man began to cry, a few tears tracked their way down his cheeks before a flood erupted. Astonished, I searched through my pockets for a kerchief. Fortunately, Wick produced one at the ready, and sobbed into it a few times. Between attempts to clear his blocked nose he mumbled. “I wish I had never sent you to Colonel Manners. If I had known I would not see you for ten long years, well, I never would have helped you. I would have sent you straight back to your uncle. Some days I think your father watches from the grave and he hates me.”

  “Mr Wick, you have always been a valuable friend to me, the best a lonely boy could ever want.” Wick looked from behind the wet rag to study may face. “I would never even know my parents if not for your stories. You know my uncle never spoke of them, and my father was a soldier. He would have been proud to have me follow him to the regiment.” I tried to reassure the old man. He carried a heavy burden. He introduced my beautiful, independent and well-dowered mother to his friend, a penniless soldier, working his way through the ranks of the army. He helped them marry in secret and ride the storm of my uncle and society’s disapproval. “You are our family’s saviour, I think, we all must come to you for help out of some trouble or another. I would have joined the army with or without your help. You gave me the opportunity to train as an officer rather than start as a foot soldier, much more dangerous in these tumultuous times.”

  Wick secreted the rag into one of his pockets and took another long pull from his cup, finishing the ale and signalling for another. “Still, I know you believe your mind to be set on the matter, however a reconciliation with your uncle will set give you good stead with the rest of society. You would be welcome at court, along with all the privileges, even take a seat in the Lords. As a boy you wanted to change things.”

  Finishing the rest of my ale, I handed the serving girl the empty cup. “When young, I wanted a great many things. I wanted a family. I wanted to take apart the great steam engine I saw at the Royal Exhibition in order to find out how it worked. I wanted to be a good nephew,” sighing heavily into my second cup. “None of those things, I am disappointed to say, have come to pass.”

  Face lighting up, Wick leaned forward. “Here you have a chance to do all those things in one!” He carried on excitedly, not even seeing me anymore, completely absorbed in his own cleverness at finding a solution to what he believed were my problems. “You only need to reconcile with the Baron, it might take some prostrating on your part. You will be a good nephew again. I might be able to find the plans for a steam engine. I will ask around and you can build your own, think of the lecture you could give at the Royal Society. All you need do to
rectify the first is get married, it is well past the time for a young man such as yourself to find himself a woman.”

  Placing the clay cup down with enough force for a good measure of the contents to spill around the lip. I stared at Wick. “I had a good woman. I had a wife, she is dead, though not be my hands, by my actions and surely by the actions of the Boston Militia.”

  Wick made to protest, to placate. “None reading your letters would ever doubt you loved the girl, Esmond. It rang out in the words you used to describe her, the everyday tasks she accomplished. Your marriage could never have worked. She was a savage. You could not have brought her home with you and you could not marry under the laws of the Church, only some pagan ritual.” The last words delivered with a squeak.

  My temper, ever at the surface since the death of my wife, boiled over onto the old man. “Native she may have been, seen as a savage by you perhaps, in every bone of her body she was steadfast. She was loyal and she was carrying my child.” The last came out in a whisper. Wick’s expression of horror either reflected my anger or my admission. I did not care. “She and the child were meant to be the start of my family and now she is dead. I suggest you make peace with this before you find my direction again.”

  I stood and picked up the parcel, stowing it beneath my arm. Anger and pain radiated from my body. I watched it sting every person with whom it came into contact. Wick stood up and reached a hand out, I rebuffed him and walked back out into the darkened street. The shadows would hide my grief until morning.

  Chapter 2

  My eyes adjusted to the candlelight spilling from the compact windows of two rows of tightly packed stone houses facing the road with relief. The town of Markinch rose before me. My final destination and I turned my shaggy horse into the main street. Following the main road whose path eventually led the traveller ever northward, into further wilds, towards Aberdeen. My bones ached after ten days in the saddle. It was not the hardest ride I had ever undertaken, but unfortunately after a month’s incarceration followed by a fortnight’s journey across the Atlantic with no exercise. My body needed to become accustomed to the gruelling pace. Coming to a halt under a sign for the Thistle and Rose. I made out the shape of a small figure, hidden in the shadows created by the light from the windows. The boy obviously believed he remained well hidden, because he did not shy away from his curious inspection of my person when I looked directly at him.

  “Boy,” the single word shot through the air, and made the lad jump, as I intended. Suppressing a smile I continued. “I am looking for directions to the Deoch-an-Dorus Distillery, or the Clunes estate?”

  Large eyes shone through the darkness. I could not distinguish the colour, however they spoke of intelligence. The lad weighed his options as he finished examining me. He finally spoke with a heavy brogue. I strained my ears to understand his words filtering through the night air.

  “Deoch is locked up for the night. Folk will head back again in the morn. The Clunes castle is back the away ye came, past the turn down tae Auld Reikie, and past the distillery up to the big castle.” The lad finished his long speech on a breath of air, and looked up at me for a moment before continuing. “Most of the men are here fur cup of ale or a cap of Scotch mind, before heading home tae their family.”

  Believing it might be better to give the lad encouragement rather than bothering with a repetition, I smiled. “Thank you, there must be someone inside with information.” He nodded in agreement and I swung a leg over the saddle and dismounted slowly, letting my legs stretch as they hit the ground. I rustled through my saddlebags and moved to secure my mount to the hitching post. The boy cautiously eyed the creature. I could see his hair was overgrown and sticking up in places. His kilt in need of a good wash, maybe even a delousing. My horse returned his look of interest with one of unconcern.

  “He’s an unusual beastie,” the boy put a hand out to pet his nose. “What’s his name?”

  The horse shied. He pulled his hand back quickly. I held the horse firmly by the reins and waited until he settled. “Put your hand under his nose, so he can give you a sniff,” I watched the lad cautiously extend his hand once again. “Good, he wants to see if you’re friendly. I am fairly certain he does not bite, his name is Tasunke.”

  The boy rubbed the horse’s forehead, while trying the foreign name out loud, “Tasunke.” It slipped from his brogue and elongated into a double-o sound. He tried again with moderate success. “Where is that name from?”

  “I purchased him from members of the Sioux tribe who passed near Boston while I remained stationed there. The name Tasunke means horse in their language.” I stroked Tasunke’s thick fur. His coat was mostly white with large brown patches. No purebred fancy, a cross between a workhorse and a wild animal, I loved him the moment I saw him. My wife, Onatah, and her brother, Hania, chided me for paying such a large sum for an unbroken horse. They said the Sioux tribe were full of back dealers, and the horse would probably die in the first winter. He proved them wrong, however, and with a bit of work and patience he became a good companion.

  Wiping the memory from my mind before it led to unpleasant reminders, I turned to the boy. “I am trusting you with Tasunke while I step inside and speak with the innkeeper.” The lad’s face lit up and he stood a bit taller. “Make sure nothing happens to him out here.” I smiled, Tasunke could be relied upon to watch the boy and himself.

  Stepping through the portal into the crowded tap, I encountered the usual sights of a drinking house. A long bar, made of polished wood, tables set near the walls and longer benches across the room. A crowd of a couple dozen men lingered inside nursing drinks of different descriptions. He was mainly silent except for a few whispers among neighbours, every eye trained upon one man at the far end of the room. Dressed in a red pleated kilt, one side draped over his heart, pinned with a silver brooch. The man held the audience’s attention with ease, his intense eyes and flourishing hands punctuating his speech, drawing power to him and reflecting it back into the crowd in such a way as to make each man believe he spoke only to them. The old General in Boston remained the only other man I could recall ever having the power to match this one, who must have been the same age as myself. Yet his demeanour rivalled the wisest of old men with the spirit of youth, such passion could be frightening in its power. Its potential for misuse a destructive force.

  The counter stayed relatively empty, I signalled the barman and ordered ale. He gave me a curious look before turning to the barrels behind the bench. Strangers arriving in Markinch after dark were probably not a common occurrence. Especially in the Highlands, the roads were dangerous at night, potholes, and animals, even people making mischief given the right opportunity. I tried to listen to the thickly accented words of the mesmerizing man standing in front of the fire. However, my arrival had caught the attention of another man, who peered over his small glass of Scotch, thought for a moment and rose, lumbering more than walking over to my side.

  The other man arched a brow, he stood a full head taller than myself, black raven hair fell to his broad shoulders. He wore the usual highland garment, a pleated kilt with one end draped over his shoulder. His bright blue eyes held mine, sizing up my courage. He spoke in a deep voice with a hint of soft brogue. His words much easier to make out than the boy’s, “And who might ye be, sir? It’s fairly late fur a traveller tae stop looking tae sup an ale.”

  The large man did not appear unfriendly, his voice, however, held a note of strength used by men in positions of authority when giving orders. My army experience gave me invaluable lessons in sizing up men. This one could be a potential deadly enemy, not tonight though. “My name is Esmond Clyde-Dalton and, as you surmised. I am a new arrival in Markinch.”

  “Captain Clyde-Dalton?” The other man spoke the question and tapped the sporran hanging from his belt. “I am in receipt of Whitehall’s letter regarding yer new post as Excise Collector. Welcome to the Highlands, Captain.” The other man nodded and gave me a wide grin.

&nb
sp; I doffed my cap in response to the warm greeting. “Thank you, I could not be sure if word of my arrival would reach the proper authorities. I was impatient to leave London, my business concluded.” In truth I needed to escape the confines of the overcrowded city and avoid Mr Wick. I picked up the pint the barman placed at my elbow and took a deep pull. The flavour of the ale was dark and rich, sharp and not unpleasant. I contemplated the liquid as I set the cup down.

  “A guid honest ale, made here in Markinch by the barman. I canna say I indulge often being the manager up at Deoch-an-Dorus.” I looked up at the other man in surprise. “I am afraid we were nae expecting someone tae replace the other lad so soon. We hae a cottage the distillery rents tae the Crown fur yer keep, trying tae get some of our coin back. ” The other man broke out into loud guffaws over his humour. “My name is Beathan Clunes.”

  Beathan’s enjoyment over his own joke brought several glances sliding my way, some turned back to the speaker, others outwardly stared. Marking each detail in my appearance, their scowls an indication of their feelings over my arrival in their village. I arranged my face into a study of boredom and stared straight back. I turned my head to look back at Beathan, my gaze falling upon the orator of the evening, staring back at me, mouth frowning in anger. I saw him look to Beathan and he shrugged in response. The other man lifted his arm and pointed directly at me. “Och, here is the gauger newly from London, and we hae Clunes making couthy with him. Nae respect fur the fact it’s our labour going intae those taxes.”

  Heads swivelled, eyes trained on my face. I was the focus of intense scrutiny by each man in the taproom. Weighing the other man’s words, searching my person for the truth of my crimes against them. I tried to remain a study in unconcern and brought the pint to my lips once again.

  “Logan, you’ve had yer say, Markinch, nae Deoch, does nae need any trouble from London. Too many jobs count on it, best ye and everyone else here this evening remember it.” Beathan looked steadily back at the crowd, with an extra nod at Logan, the rabble rouser.