Chapter 3
Head pounding, as I stood before the fire in the drawing room. Shaving mirror balanced on the mantel in front of one of the large candlesticks, the remains of the Scotch bottle on the table making my stomach turn. It was still morning. Not early however, as a steam whistle signalling the onset of the workday at Deoch went several hours beforehand. I judiciously decided to wrap myself further in the pilfered blankets rather than face the day. My bones aching from sleeping on the floor, the squeak of the door opening at the rear of the cottage halted my shaving. I listened carefully to the slight footfalls in the scullery, opening and shutting cupboards, wood clattering on the stone floor.
Unconcerned with the intrusion, I continued my morning’s ministrations. Wiping my face with a linen cloth I robbed from the linen closet. After inspecting my work, I reached for my shirt. Thinking I would be happy to have a couple of new ones as the buttonholes on this remained sorely frayed.
“Captain,” a choked female voice croaked from the hallway, making her brogue even thicker. “I canna believe yer standing in the middle of the drawing room completely naked, nae mind tae my purpie-smiles, and what hae ye done with my linen?”
Turning sharply, I caught a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway to the drawing room. Her head only reached my chest. She was as wide as she was tall, a hand held to her heart, her face as red as the hair scraped back into a knot on the back of her head. She looked as if she might faint dead onto the floor.
“Purpie-smiles? I questioned and with as much haste as possible, I shoved my arms into the sleeves of my frayed shirt. Frantically buttoning it down the front, in order to preserve her modesty as much as mine.
“My cheeks, my face, I must be rosy all over.” The woman appeared to have regained some of her calm and she wrestled her eyes away from my covered body. She inspected the demolition of the drawing room, the blankets in a pile, the upturned table and finally the embroidered cushion that once graced the top of the low footstool.
Hoping to end the growing look of outrage on the woman’s face, I decided to strike on the offensive, a handy tactical manoeuvre I had used in the past. “Freya, I believe Beathan informed me of your name last evening, it is nice to meet you this morning. As you can see, I was involved in a minor incident last night. I will of course replace anything broken.
Freya stared at the torn sewing, her small hands stretching the material and rubbing the loose threads between her fingers. “Mr Clune’s mother sewed this cushion as a gift tae her husband, Beathan’s grandfather. The damage is complete, I dinnae believe it can be fixed.” Freya took a deep breath. I watched the anger grow in her stance. It made her taller. Chin up. She pointed the ruined cushion at me. “I dinnae know tae what purpose footstools are put in the New World, or in England, Captain, but here in the Highlands, they are used tae rest feet upon, and family heirlooms are treated with care, nae put to the Lord only knows what purpose.”
“I am sorry over the cushion’s damage.” I thought of trying to explain my drunken logic over the rope and Mr Turner’s death, however the look on the woman’s face ordered appeasement and apologies, not explanations. I witnessed such a look many times from countless nannies and even my wife. “I am truly sorry. I am sure for a coin or two we can find someone who might fix it.”
This was hardly an auspicious beginning to our relationship, which we would have to endure for an entire year. Freya glowered at me, shoulders hunched. “I’ve put porridge on the fire and there will be hot water fur coffee, if ye hae a mind.” She turned and walked back out the door. “Beathan sent word this early this morning ye hae arrived, but I hae two boys tae ready fur lessons.”
I nodded at her explanation for being late. I ate two bowls of porridge in the hopes my enjoyment would soften Freya’s contempt for me, but the silence during the entire meal extended to my exit of the cottage. Similar to other females of my acquaintance, I suspected she had formulated an intricate plan of punishment involving long silences and a pinched face. The walk up to the distillery aided in clearing my thoughts of the unpleasant interlude. My wife could be charmed with a few compliments and a token of my affection. Perhaps Freya would not be adverse to something sweet brought up from London.
The air felt crisp, and by the formation of the clouds I doubted snow would be far off. The brown fields, spotted with heather, covered with a few patches of white, it gave the hills a feeling of desolation. I wrapped my frock coat tighter to my person. Logan’s threats over the dangers of the Highlands, though misplaced, were correct. Wandering into these hills could be treacherous. An unprepared man might find his death from cold and hunger before ever reaching help. Not least the fact bandits and outlaws filled the hills, living out of reach of authorities. The rugged savagery of the place appealed to me. The lure of untamed nature only increased my enjoyment of the New World, once away from Boston, with Onatah and her brother, I was free to live as I pleased. These hills held men’s secrets and the expansive sky protected the people who lived here from the weak. To make a life in the Highlands, one needed to be strong and have an aptitude for survival.
A crest in the road revealed several red buildings, along with a watermill. Men carried out the still’s business, carrying sacks or chatting amongst themselves. A farmer and his son kept busy loading sacks onto a cart pulled by a donkey. The first building shouted to the world, Deoch-an-Dorus, Purveyors of Fine Scotch, Clunes and Sons. The sign spoke of success and permanence, giving the still and the business a foothold in the desolate landscape. The energy coming from the people working gave it a life and soul of its own. Here a shelter rose for the people of Markinch, capable of weathering all storms.
I easily recognised Beathan’s large frame further up the road speaking to a wiry man, knees protruding from a yellow kilt and a matching cap desperately trying to contain an erratic thatch of white hair. He turned to stare at me and said something to Beathan.
The other man turned and waved in greeting. I sped up to join them. “Captain, I hope ye enjoyed yer first evening in Markinch, I sent Freya down tae the cottage this morn tae start her duties. I’m sure she made a good impression.” Beathan finished on a broad grin and I wondered if word had reached him over the morning’s events.
“Everything was satisfactory.” I could wait until at least mid-afternoon before discussing my perfidy with Beathan. The village was small enough. I knew he would eventually come upon the truth of the cushion. I turned to the other man. “As Beathan said, I am Captain Esmond Clyde-Dalton.”
The older man doffed his cap and nodded. “I’m Tavish, just Tavish and I will be showing ye around the place this morn. Get ye up tae speed with the goings on here at Deoch. I am the former foreman, before I got too slow.”
“Come now. Tavish, ye speak as if we hae done ye a disservice.” Beathan clapped the other man on the back hard enough to buckle one of his knees. “Yer only semi-retired, besides if we had ye going full time, folk would say I canna take care of my elders.”
The old man took exception to Beathan’s remarks and aimed a kick at his shins. “I’ve known ye all yer life, Beathan Clunes, and I am nae elderly.”
Beathan stepped out of the way without much grace. “Captain, my faither sent ye an invitation tae dine with us this evening. I can see by the look of yer face ye would prefer tae decline, but I dinnae accept.” He gave us both a salute and whistled as he walked away.
“The young hae a penchant fur wasting youth.” Tavish said under his breath as he watched Beathan’s back, turning to me. “Welcome tae Markinch and Deoch. We make the best Scotch in the world. If ye will follow me back down the road, we’ll look over the malting barn.” The old man wagged his overgrown white eyebrows indicating his excitement.
I mustered my enthusiasm for the morning’s tour. Having enjoyed the product of these men’s labours last evening, perhaps it was only fair I learned how they made their Scotch. Besides my only other business would be tidying Mr Turner’s papers and it would force me to sha
re more silent time with my brooding housemaid.
Tavish went forth with a bounce in his step that a few younger men of my acquaintance might watch with jealousy. I lengthened my strides in order to match his pace and watched while he greeted the other workers with a nod or smile. Reaching the first large barn on the left side of the road, Tavish opened a side door and indicated I should precede him. The warmth and the smell of the barn collided with my senses, leaving me momentarily dazed.
“Welcome, Captain, tae the malting barn.” Tavish swept inside and walked over to one of the many long wooden boxes, which looked like troughs for water.
Stepping inside the warmth of the barn, I walked over to the row of troughs. Soggy barley filled each one. “This is where the germination process occurs, water is added tae the barley and we bide a few days fur the seeds tae germinate, fur the plants tae emerge from the seeds.”
I decided not to inform him I was well aware of the process of germination, having witnessed many experiments in the process as a student at Cambridge and later as a member of the Royal Society. The older man needed to believe in my interest in the stills workings. So I nodded for him to continue.
“As Deoch prides itself on producing the best Scotch in the Highlands, we only use barley from local farmers who we trust. Ye might nae be aware of this, Captain, but many diseases can befall guid barley and it is up tae the farmers and us tae spot them.” Tavish proceeded to describe in detail the various fungus and blight that ruined good barley.
Pointing to a set of stairs, Tavish indicated the second floor, the door firmly shut. “The barley is moved up to the drying floors.” I followed him up the narrow staircase and slipped quickly behind him as he carefully entered the loft. My eyes burned and I blinked rapidly, the peat burning in the metal grate at the far end of the room heated the air to a pleasant temperature, however, there were no windows for the smoke to escape.
“We use the peat from the surrounding fens tae give our Scotch a light smoky taste. Markinch peat makes our Scotch special, there is nae other place in the Highlands hae as guid a peat as here.” Tavish assured me with a smile.
I looked around the large space through watery, narrowed eyes. The barley looked at least ankle deep. Pointing to two large rakes leaning beside the wall. “How are these devises put to use?”
Beaming with approval at my interest, Tavish plucked up one of the rakes and began to flick the barley over. “The boys come up here every so often and rustle the barley. It’s crucial the mixture isnae left fur too long otherwise ye get rot. If we find one bit of rot. We must destroy the whole batch. Can nae even feed it tae the livestock.”
Tavish rewarded my interest by rushing me back down the stairs and out of the malting barn. Grateful for the clean air, I inhaled several deep breaths. Even though the cold stung my face, at least my eyes halted their weeping.
After regaining control of my senses, I watched Tavish, who appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. The morning air began to seep into my clothes and the cold was uncomfortable after the intense heat of the drying floors. “Tavish, I presume there is another step in the process of Scotch we have yet to explore.” I prompted lightly in order to get our bodies moving.
Tavish gave me a grim smile and dragged his feet towards the double doors of the watermill. I became exceptionally excited. Here was an opportunity to watch the cogs and stone in motion, the curiosity of machinery never diminished as I left boyhood.
“The mill was built shortly after the Clunes purchased the Castle and surrounding lands.” Tavish scratched his head. “I remember working on it along with the builder from Edinburgh. I was full amazed with how all the pieces fit together. Took all the lads and oxen we had tae get the stone in place. Worth every shilling, we grind our own malt intae grist, saving time and coin by nae sending it off the mill down in the lowlands and we trade a grinding service tae farmers if they sell us barley and they hae the rest ground.” Tavish cleared his throat. “Mr Clunes is an enterprising fellow.”
Tavish opened a smaller door set into one of the larger portals with far less enthusiasm than when he explained how to look for small scabs of black on barley in order to find rot. Ignoring the other man’s apprehension, I boldly walked through to the first floor of the watermill. A man looked up from watching the grooved stones working together to grind the barley into grist. He shouted up to the second floor and another batch of grain fell from a chute to the middle of the stone circles where it would eventually work itself to the edges, ground and perfect. Without hesitating, I went up the steps covered in ground meal dust to the second floor. The gears would be located here and I was not disappointed. The waterwheel was driving the shaft, turning the pit wheel and meshing with the crown shaft in order to spin the main shaft down to the turning stones on the first floor.
My breath caught at the arresting sight, watching the fluidity of such a large machine in action. Knowing man had been using such an incredible device for years in order to turn a crop, grown in the fields, inedible, into the basic staple of human survival, bread and of course in the case of the still, grist for making alcohol.
“Och, well, Captain, I wondered when I might be making yer acquaintance.” A Scottish brogue echoed down from the loft above the gears, the face a replica of the man’s standing behind me. I even turned to check Tavish stood at the top of the steps, perhaps this was a trick played on every new man in Markinch. “Uncanny, isn’t it? Though I suspect I am the better looking brither, our mother told me as much, bless her soul. Younger and handsomer than my older, dunce of a brither.” The other man grinned with malice, his gaze focused past me on Tavish.
“Captain, may I make my younger brither, Angus, known tae ye.” Tavish stepped beside me and frowned up at his kin. “He runs the watermill fur Deoch and any business with it goes through him.” Tavish turned and tried to make a hasty departure to the first floor.
“Angus!” cried the other man from the top of the ladder. He threw himself down and chased after his older brother. “Now ye are nae running the distillery, ye are nae longer entitled tae use our last name only. I am the Tavish and it is only fair ye call me as such!”
An argument between the two brothers erupted below stairs and I hurried to watch the outcome. The lad above stairs feeding the wheel nodded to the one watching the grinding stones and produced a worn silver coin. Meanwhile two floury faces appeared from below stairs with avid looks. The two brothers quarrelling was an event.
“Ye know damn well, the oldest male in each family holds the family name. Father has been dead all our lives, making me the Tavish. It has naught tae do with the posts we hold, Angus.” Tavish put emphasis on his brother’s name in order to pin it there with force.
“If our mother lived, ye would know differently.” Angus pointed his bony finger straight between the eyes of his brother, the mention of their mother appeared to galvanise both brothers.
Observing the two men, I tried to guess which one might win a physical fight. Tavish may have been older, but the two appeared so alike, one could not be stronger than his sibling. From the twinkle in each of their eyes, they did not look above fighting dirty and now the two stood toe to toe in the dusty mill house, in an effort to inject some reason into the argument. I began, “I am sure your mother never intended you to fight over your last name at your advanced ages. Did she not give you both acceptable first names to face the world?”
Two sets of piercing blue eyes bore into my face, all menace between the brothers dropped in favour of the destruction of a common enemy. “Sassenach,” Angus’s voice low. “Ye better never, ever say anything about my mother ever again. Nae tae me, nae tae anyone.”
The anger radiating from the other man burned the air, more nods and coins exchanged hands and each brother flexed his fists, readying for a confrontation. I did my best to keep a straight face. As much as I would like to face each brother, they were at least twice my age, maybe even thrice. I bowed. “I beg your pardon.” Turning to walk back out
side, hoping neither would see the grin on my face.
The door to the mill closed. “Hae ye got a brither, Captain, or any siblings?” Tavish’s sheepish voice came from beside me, as the old man scratched his head for a moment and reshaped his plaid hat before fixing it back over his flyaway white hair.
Crossing to the other side of the road, I spoke. “Ill luck left me as an only child. My parents died before I grew from my small clothes. My uncle did his best for me.” The reply standard, any new acquaintance received the same distilled version of my childhood circumstances. For many, my situation did not appear unusual or hard.
Finally entering the last of the three red buildings, we stood next to two large polished metal tuns, an apparatus with stairs built around it for easy viewing. Tavish pointed. “These are the mashing tuns, the grist is steeped with hot water and eventually a mash is made, the end product is called wort. We brew the wort at least three times and this is where the excise comes in. The quality of this end product will determine how much spirit is finally produced.”
I injected a comment here to show my knowledge. “At this time, I believe the yeast is added to the cool mixture and a rudimentary beer is produced.” The operation at Deoch was large enough not to change any of its processes in order to cheat taxes and if they did make any hasty changes, it would be noticeable. Still, I did not want any trouble.
If I studied under Tavish’s instruction, the look of joy on his face at my understanding of the wort process might have filled me with pleasure. It gave me the opportunity to watch someone who truly enjoyed his work. He took pleasure from the simple chemical processes in making alcohol. Here was not a soldier killing for wages, but a man who gained satisfaction from giving other people enjoyment.
“Captain, yer knowledge of the process is correct indeed, the beer contains only a wee percentage of alcohol, it’s enough tae gie drunk from mind.” Tavish pointed to two men, one busy sweeping the compact dirt floor and the other cleaning some instruments. “It’s why we always hae two men in here watching the mash tuns and the pot stills. Some workers hae been sorely tempted fur a taste in the past.”
Scotch Rising Page 4
