Scotch Rising

by S. J. Garland

  It appeared the instigator would not be set aside so lightly. He stepped through the silent men, who watched, waiting for a spectacle. Waiting for the other man to put firmly in my place. I had lived in the army for ten years, an institution perpetuated by bullying and submission. I stood my ground and hoped my look of mild curiosity stayed in place.

  “It is the new gauger, how ready Her Majesty is when there is coin tae be collected. Even all the way up here in the Highlands, taken from the pockets of honest folk. I should give ye a beating.” Logan’s final step placed him within arm’s reach, anger rolling off of him in waves. I could pin him in one move, the other man was the same size as me. He appeared to lack the decade of fighting experience.

  I stared directly into Logan’s eyes, raising my voice so the whole room could easily understand. “I am Captain Esmond Clyde-Dalton, returned from fighting in the New World and newly stationed in Markinch as the Excise Collector.” I emphasised the last two words. “As a representative of Her Majesty, I will fulfill my duty by any means necessary.”

  Logan frowned for several heartbeats, stunned by my aggressive approach. I thought this might be an end to it, until he produced a sly smile. Raising his hand, he pointed a finger at my chest, stopping an inch short of touching my frock coat. “I think ye better bide yerself, Captain, there’s many accidents can befall a man up here in the wilds.”

  “May I remind you, sir, an attack on Her Majesty’s soldiers is considered an attack on her person? Treason is punishable by hanging, drawing and quartering. It would be a mighty shame to have your bits spread out in the four corners of England. You might enjoy Cornwall as a final resting place.” The threat met its mark. Logan gave me a look of contempt and his hand balled into a fist. A small feeling of achievement burst in my chest. Perhaps I had goaded him into a fight. I needed to give someone a good, honest thrashing to lift my spirits, but as Logan leaned in to strike, Beathan intervened.

  “Logan, you hae caused enough trouble fur one evening, the captain is right. He is a representative of the Crown and should be treated as such, best be off, if ye still want yer job in the morn.” A long look passed between the two men and Logan seethed under Beathan’s words, before turning on his heel and stalking towards a group of men sitting in the corner of the room.

  Conversations sprouted amongst the men, Beathan cleared his throat and attempted a weak smile. “Logan is the foreman up at Deoch,” he watched Logan’s back. “He’s a guid worker and, as ye can see, motivates the rest of the lads. If he stuck tae his job and left off the politicking. He would probably be more personable, such as it is, yer not the only one tae have a wee run in with him.”

  “A wee run in?” I repeated the words incredulously. “The man threatened a known soldier of the Crown, twice I recall. I have seen men hang for less, Mr Clunes. It is not my responsibility to keep such men from becoming problems, however, I warn you now. I will not hesitate to bring a speedy conclusion to this Logan’s forays into disparaging the Crown.” I finished the rest of the pint. Beathan stood silently beside me, an unreadable look on his face. “I think it’s time for you to show me this cottage, Mr Clunes. I will need somewhere to stable my horse.”

  “Please call me Beathan, Mr Clunes is my faither.” The man gave a laugh, cut off abruptly when I did not join in. “Right, it’ll be best if ye leave yer mount here at the inn’s stables. Mr Turner, the previous tenant, did nae ride and I’m afraid the modest stable is in need of some repair.” Beathan shuffled his feet, and took a deep breath. “In truth, you might be more comfortable staying here at the inn fur a few nights. I received yer letter today and the cottage has nae been seen tae since Mr Turner, well, since he concluded his position.”

  I laughed for the first time in many weeks, my cheeks were stiff and the sound raw, it must have been the tiredness from travelling affecting my wits. “Beathan,” I used the other man’s first name in order to put him at ease. “I have lived in some of the lowest conditions a man might suffer. In all manner of hot weather in the middle of a bog, sharing a tent with my horse in freezing snow drifts, with only the thunderclouds and rain as my companions. I do not think a few cobwebs will diminish my constitution.”

  “Right,” reluctantly, Beathan spoke with the barman, who sent his boy around the front to collect Tasunke. “I suppose we had best be on our way.” His feet heavy, he opened the door and stepped out into the cool evening. These Scots appeared to be extremely fastidious, even the men.

  After watching the stable boy for a few minutes, I left Tasunke to his and Kieran’s ministrations before balancing my saddlebags on my shoulders and indicating to Beathan we should precede. I fell into a purposeful stride next to him, trying to let my eyes adjust to the light from the lamp swinging in Beathan’s hand.

  “The cottage is nae far from the village, ten minutes’ walk at the most. Further up the road ye will find Deoch and further still is my family’s keep.” Beathan paused for a minute. “If the cottage is nae habitable, we can easily go back tae the Thistle. There is a room available for the next few nights. Freya, the housemaid can tidy the place up in a trice.”

  I let my silence answer his nervous ramblings. The night air had grown even more chilled and a wind swept from the surrounding hills fiercely battering any exposed skin. It was mid-November, and it felt as if the deepest winter were only a few days away. I looked out and up at the dark clouds, tumbling across the sky.

  Beathan noticed my interest. “Ground’s frozen already, winter comes early here.” He inspected my boots, hose and frock coat. “Ye might need some better winter clothes, a trip back down tae Edinburgh might set ye right, plenty of guid tailors.” Beathan rubbed his chin and looked back at the road.

  “The rest of my belongings will be arriving by the next post. I have several winter garments from my time in Boston, I do not think it can be much colder here than there.” I finished with an inspection of Beathan’s bare legs, the kilt would keep the parts of him it covered warm, as for the rest, I could only guess. The houses of the village thinned and before the road veered sharply to the left, a stone building appeared out of the darkness, more a house than a cottage. Beathan stopped and went through an opening in the low stone fence, stopping before the front door to search through his sporran. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled out a long skeleton key and opened the door with a few jiggles. I followed him into the whitewashed entranceway, complete with pegs for coats and a faded mirror. My companion halted a few feet away, next to another door.

  He looked back at me with an apologetic frown before opening the portal and stepping through. I cautiously followed him and let my eyes adjust to the candles flickering to life on the tables and walls as Beathan walked around and lit several oil lamps. Blinking several times I peered around in wonder. The walls had been covered in slips of paper, a close inspection of the ones pinned nearest revealed mathematical formulations and a large board meant for chalk stood in one corner. Deciphering the numbers, lines and letters I was positive they must have something to do with one of Newton’s theories. The room was a treasure trove of mathematics. The man who lived here before must have been a fanatic. Some of the equations would require further study. At a guess I would say the man was a genius. Moving further into the room to appease my curiosity, I abruptly stopped, a rope dangling from a beam in the centre of the space filling me with dread.

  “Yer predecessor, Mr Turner, was a touch eccentric.” Beathan appeared apologetic and began to stack a pile of papers on a desk near him. “Wee laddie from Devon, excessively clever. Would sit in here fur hours, days if he could, working out all these maths questions. Once he got a problem stuck in his head.” Beathan’s voice trailed off, and I walked further into the room and inspected the rope. It was fascinating in a macabre sense, and not dissimilar to the way the spectacle of public hangings enthrals a crowd.

  “Once he got intae the tax ledgers, well there was nae stopping his need fur total accuracy. Put a bug in auld Logan’s ear.” I loo
ked over at Beathan in surprise, and he continued. “Harmless wee fellow though, could bowl him over with a breath of air. Always the first in the village tae come down with an ailment. We naturally sent word tae Whitehall informing them of the tragic events, apparently his folk are all gone. Whitehall sent us money tae give him a burial and told us tae do what we liked with his belongings.” Beathan’s arms swept over the room. “As you can see, it would be better tae hae a professor from university organise this mess, than a housemaid.”

  “Perhaps a fortuitous circumstance has made this my new post. I am a member of the Royal Society. Mathematics is not my main area of interest, however I am sure I can discover if any of these are worthy of publication.” I watched Beathan who wore a dubious expression. “We might find a mathematical equation in here that explains how the whole world works.”

  Beathan nodded his head. “If yer sure ye want tae take on such a mess, I will leave ye tae it.” He stepped around the rope. “Give me a moment and I will take down this rope at the least.” He nudged a footstool into place.

  I set my saddlebags onto the cushions of the settee. “There is no need to bother with it tonight, I will deal with it in the morning. Perhaps you might show me the rest of the cottage. It’s been a hard ride up from the south and I would be partial to getting some rest.” I wanted to be alone, and I did not want Beathan to fuss over anything.

  Sensing my impatience, Beathan stepped down from the footstool. “We should get on with it, I suppose. I need tae get some work done before the still runs in the morning.” He went back out the door and I followed him through to a room with a table set in the middle, seating at least eight. “This is the dining room, a bit large fur a single person, and the scullery is through those doors.” Beathan waved in the direction of a door. “Freya comes with the cottage and she prepares the meals and cleans. There is a door tae the rear of the cottage, where ye will find the water pump, the privy and the stables.”

  I nodded to indicate my understanding and followed him back through the dining room door into the narrow hall. We took the steps to the second story and I was surprised to find four doors leading from a small landing. “This is a rather grand house for a person occupying such a lowly position as myself.”

  Beathan laughed, “Yer right about that.” He continued to smile. “This is the auld Clunes home, where my faither spent his childhood aiding his faither in making Scotch.” There was a touch of pride in the other man’s voice and something else, a sense of ownership over his own story, his own destiny. “Deoch soon became the Scotch of choice amongst the fashionable set down in Edinburgh and Glasgow, giving my faither the opportunity tae expand. He bought the Markinch Castle and lands and built the distillery. I was born up there.” He frowned. “My faither has never forgotten where he comes from and if I ever thought tae behave in a cruel manner, we would come down here and he would tell me our family’s story.”

  Beathan appeared to be lost in thoughts from the past. I did not nudge him from his reverie. As a boy I wished for parents who might have taken some interest in me. I hoped with each year’s visit my uncle would find something he might invest in and I would finally be the man he was proud to call a nephew.

  Shaking his head, Beathan smiled. “This house is my history.” He pointed to the rooms at the front of the house. “These are the largest bedrooms, both hae windows looking out tae the front. The two back room’s hae beds, though they are mostly used fur storage. I think you’ll find sheets and other linen in there.” With a nod he turned and walked back down the steps.

  Beathan halted in front of the door to the drawing room. “Yer sure ye dinnae mind cleaning up this mess, it seems a trifle unfair fur ye tae be forced tae tidy up after the last excise officer.” He frowned up at the rope.

  “As I said before, it will be more of a pleasure than a duty. As a man of science, it is my prerogative to make sure no discovery goes without recognition.” I studied the tapestry of papers and formulas. “Besides I have a feeling life in Markinch may make time for such personal pursuits.”

  “Yer correct if ye believe nae much happens up here.” Beathan nodded his head and put his hand on the front door. He hesitated a moment and turned back. “I won’t go intae all of it tonight, I can see yer tired. I should warn ye, there are rumours in the village over Mr Turner’s death. Rumours I give nae credit. Hae a guid night and I’ll see ye up at Deoch tomorrow fur a tour.”

  I stared at the closed door, tired, drained. I let Beathan’s comments concerning Mr Turner slide to the back of my mind, whatever the rumours regarding the other man’s death, they could not have any bearing on the rest of my evening’s activities. Nor did I believe they would have any influence on my time in Markinch. One year would begin on the morrow.

  After a closer inspection of the rooms above stairs, I decided not to bed down for the night in any of them. I shook out a couple of blankets from a linen closet and wrestled them back downstairs and into the parlour. A stack of kindling aided my attempts at getting a fire created in the grate. I searched the back of the cottage until I found a large woodpile, bringing in several armloads, until the fire burned cheerily. The scraps of paper stuck to the walls shimmered in the light. A less than fruitful search through the kitchen yielded only a couple bottles of Scotch and a bag of flour. Freya the housemaid kept a tidy kitchen, which had much to recommend it.

  Sitting in a large, comfortable chair near the fire, I uncorked the Scotch with my teeth and took a deep pull. Not accustomed to the strong liquor, I coughed several times as it burned down my throat, making my eyes water. After taking several deep breaths, I brought the bottle back to my lips. This was something in Scotland I was going to enjoy immensely. Setting the Scotch on a low table, I unwrapped the last of the cheese and bread I had purchased at an inn on the highway. The hard cheese still tasted sharp, and the bread had become hard, but I had lived on worse for more than one night in the past.

  Chewing slowly, I looked around the room, trying to imagine the frenzied preoccupation of a man capable of producing this amount of work. His determined mind focused on solving the problem. I thought of where I should launch an attempt to find order from the chaos. Mr Turner’s rope hung in the centre of the room, without preamble or malice, exposed and frail considering the life it snuffed out. The great mind it forced into submission and stasis. Even in my deepest despair I never thought of this as an option. I wanted revenge after Onatah’s death and I sought out the man I knew was responsible. He still lives. I failed in my task to kill him. At least he lives in disgrace and ruin, no longer the Captain of the Boston Militia, and I must live with the knowledge he yet breathes.

  Perhaps if my will to live had been less, my mind not set on revenge. After anguish filled my soul and now set on seeking the shortest course to my own oblivion, the gentleman’s way, through drinking and gambling. I might have used the rope, but I wanted to suffer, as I know she suffered in her last moments. Hatred strong enough to propel me out of my comfortable seat stole over my senses. I loathed this contraption for easy death. Life is for suffering and duty, not made for quick exits. I stepped onto the cushioned stool and found the knot around the ceiling beam a foot out of my reach.

  Stepping down from the footstool, I searched the room for a better ladder. I discarded ideas as frequently as I made them. Until I spied a low table near the settee, dragging it over to the rope. I placed it underneath. Carefully, so as not to scratch the wood on the surface of the polished table, I placed the footstool on top, recognizing the elaborate needlework. I made an unsteady set of stairs. I first stepped onto the table and with a wobble onto the stool. I could reach the rope where it was wrapped three times around the wooden beam, a knot on one side held the whole in place. I have never seen such intricate work and I studied it for several minutes before I tried to loosen it. Each time I tugged the rope one way. It would tighten in another spot. Finally, frustrated by my lack of success, I heaved on the rope.

  The extra downward force pr
oduced by my careless action resulted in a groan of protest from the cushion under my feet. I had time to think it might be a good idea to extricate my person from this precarious situation when a tearing noise ripped through the drawing room, sending my boots through the footstool. My arms splayed wide immediately and instinct propelled them in a similar fashion to a windmill. How this action might halt my calamitous fall was beyond rational explanation. Unable to gain any purchase on the polished wooden surface of the low table with my ankles bound together in the sewing frame. I fell backward, slowly at first, then with a frightening rapidity. I was doomed, lost, there could be no escape from the writhing heap my body became as it hit floor with a solid thud.

  Cursing loudly enough for a person on the road to hear. I rubbed the back of my head where it hit the edge of the settee. The rope slightly swayed, mocking my anger. “You may have won this battle, however a tactical retreat will see me fight again and the war is far from over, my friend.” I reached down and untangled the footstool cushion frame from my feet and inspected the damage before throwing it with great satisfaction across the room. A good polish would see the table set to rights. Satisfied, I sat back in my previous chair and took a couple healthy swigs of Scotch, studying the knot in the rope. It was fancy work, and if Mr Turner were smaller than I, it meant there would be a ladder stored somewhere around the cottage, probably in the stables. The rope would have to wait until morning.

  A volume on botany newly from the bookseller’s in London sat unopened in my saddlebag, but I was too tired to concentrate on the plates. I set to finishing the Scotch before morning in the hopes it would chase any evil dreams away and let me sleep for at least a few hours.