Scotch Rising

by S. J. Garland

  The thought of putting the wash to my lips made my stomach protest over the amount of porridge I consumed earlier. The genuine look on Tavish’s face confirmed the reality of such shenanigans. “It is well you have the matter in hand. Are those the pot stills?”

  We walked to the opposite side of the barn where two large copper pot stills gleamed in the light of oil lamps. A man studiously polished the side of one while the run poured into another metal container. A glass box protected the newly distilled alcohol and I peered curiously at the iron padlock.

  Wagging his eyebrows. “Ye can imagine if a fellow is tempted by the wort, how much temptation they might face watching this divine liquid spill forth. The padlock keeps us all honest.” Tavish winked, pointing at the lyne arm where the evaporated alcohol cools and turns back to liquid. “Our arm is lengthier than any other in the Highlands, fur maximum cooling.”

  The device caught my interest and I walked up the narrow stairs and stood on the wooden platform surrounding the top of both pot stills. The lyne arm was indeed longer than the ones normally used for the distillation process, and it fell at more of a diagonal angle. “You Scots appear to have some ingenious ideas when it comes to making alcohol. Now if only you could apply the same principles to your politics you might stay out of trouble.”

  “Och, Captain, never let it be said a Scotsman has nae nose fur making improvements tae Scotch. Deoch is one of those rare places where new ideas are nae frowned upon. We like tradition in Markinch, and we like tae be the ones with best equipment.” Tavish patted the still. “Ye might notice the shape.”

  “The gauger come tae inspect our stills. I am sure ye will find everything in order, Sassenach.” The last word delivered on a hiss made every instinct in my body scream and come alive. Logan had noted my presence at Deoch, as I looked over the railing at the kilted man standing below me.

  I balled my fists and set my jaw with a snap. I buried the urge to shout back down at Logan remanding him for his rudeness. Instead I trained my gaze back on Tavish. “I believe you were going to mention something significant over the shape of the tuns, please continue.”

  Unsure at first, Tavish glanced down at Logan. Measuring the other man’s reaction and made a decision. “As ye can see, the tuns hae been reshaped, squashed intae more of an onion shape.” Tavish’s chest stood out proudly. “This slight change has made the distilling process much more effective. I convinced Clunes of its worth.”

  I clapped the other man on the shoulder, a reflex from my time as a soldier. Camaraderie between friends meant in times of strife, when fighting might be fiercest, allies and friends became saviours and heroes. The action felt stilted with Tavish, however the other man’s smile rewarded my presumption.

  “This is a cosy sight, Tavish making couthy with the Sassenach. Hae ye any wonder over yer replacement by a younger man. I think ye should look back on this moment,” Logan spat the words up at the older man.

  Tavish’s shoulders slumped, the light shining only moments ago in his blue eyes dimmed. He became a puppet of a man. Turning, I set my boots to the ladder sharply and quickly, not entirely sure of the logic spurring my hurried actions. My only thought to end the torment of an old man, stepping from the ladder, I strode with menace to Logan. Leaving only a hand’s breadth between us, I stopped abruptly. The other man swayed back to put space between us.

  “In England, we have respect for our elders, it’s a quaint custom, which appears to be on short supply here in the Highlands. No matter, I am happy to teach you the basics, even if I need to beat it into you.” I kept my voice low. I knew it brought instant fear in other men. My focus tightened onto my prey. I knew Tavish stood at the bottom of the steps and the two men from the mashing tuns crept closer for a better view brooms in hand. The lad shining the still, stopped in mid stroke. Outnumbered, I relished the thought of a fight. I may not win against all of them at once but I was going to inflict some serious pain.

  Logan blinked several times, his voice clear and reedy. “Last night ye were content tae hide behind Her Majesty fur protection. I find the change in yer attitude refreshing, though I wouldnae want tae be led intae a trap, it is treason tae attack a representative of the Crown, I hear.”

  I let a smile creep across my lips, my eyes remained cold. “I am happy to remove my excise hat for long enough to beat some respect out of your hide. I think you have a big mouth, Logan. A big opinionated mouth I want to permanently shut. If you would step outside?”

  A heartbeat passed and Logan commenced laughing and stepped away. “Yer nae milk and bread sop from the south, perhaps there’s a bit of Highlander in ye.” I did not relax my stance. I watched Logan visibly forced himself into a casual position indicating the conclusion of the confrontation. “Ye might stand a better chance of surviving up here than yer predecessor.”

  “Another threat, Logan?” I asked mildly, letting my hands unclench. Logan looked nervous, surprised by my attitude. I did not back away from fights. “I suggest you keep your comments to yourself and out of earshot from me. You might stand a chance of not receiving a beating such as your father never dreamed of giving you.”

  Logan’s lip curled into a snarl. I tensed waiting for impact. Surprisingly it never came. The other man appeared to be an instigator to his bones. However he could rein it in with a control few men possessed. Once again, I was impressed in spite of my annoyance with the man. Logan turned and yelled at his companions to get back to work.

  Stepping in front of me, Tavish blocked my view of Logan’s back as he stomped out the door. His bushy eyes contemplating me before he spoke. “I am nae right sure if I’m supposed tae thank ye. I’m the previous foreman, when Beathan took over. He replaced me with Logan, someone younger able to keep up with the demands of Deoch. I’m still the master blender, along with Mr Clunes, of course.”

  “Tavish, I would like to make an apology to you.” The need for honesty provoked me. “I let Logan and his rude treatment of you annoyed me. I let my anger rule my actions.” The other man nodded and I tried to explain further. “The last few months have not been generous to me and I behave without thinking.”

  Nodding, Tavish walked back out of the barn and, once on the road, he looked around. A few men were gathered together smoking in front of the mill. He turned and walked up the hill out of the distillery buildings. “Markinch is a family name, nae long ago there was a Laird of Markinch. He owned all the lands and the Castle fur as far as ye can see,” Tavish spread his arms wide to indicate the brown smudged hills.

  Not understanding where this conversation might lead, I went over all the information Colonel Manners had provided regarding the post and Markinch. I had made a thorough study of each document on the ride north. “The information on Markinch and Deoch did not mention a Laird in the area. Only the Clunes and several smaller landowners, unusual in the Highlands, yet not unique.”

  The other man waved a gnarled hand. “The Laird of Markinch,” Tavish paused for a moment before taking a deep breath, “I may hae been only a laddie but I remember him. Stoatin brute of a man with terrible wrath and even more enormous pride, made worse by his family’s ill fortune. They were destitute. It’s nae easy trying tae scratch a living from these hills, envied the Clunes and their Scotch. Figured the troubles would be his turn tae make a great fortune. Fur a while he and his son fought as mercenaries along with the rest of the Scotch fur the Parliamentarians, raiding and fighting. Taking anything of value they could carry.”

  The terrible days of civil war only lived in the memories of boys reading texts now, as the men who fought had taken their places in the grave. Families pitted against one another, the shame of regicide still hangs over our Parliament like a plague, a generation of honourable men dead, only to return a king to his thrown, a terrible waste.

  “When the royalists came up tae Scotland tae make a deal in Forty-Seven, promising reform and such. Markinch and his son quickly signed fur the King, hoping tae do at least as well fur Markinch as d
one with the Parliamentarians.” Tavish stopped and over a crest of the next hill, I could see the crenelated walls of a castle. “Guess there is nae a man amongst us who thinks they are gonnae die.” Tavish looked long and hard at my profile before I turned to stare him in the eye, I only nodded for him to continue. “I suppose their maker had need of them as Markinch and his heir died the following year at the Battle of Preston. Only his badge made it back tae the Highlands, presented tae his dochter along with a sealed letter frae the Sassenach declaring her faither and brither as traitors, all money and lands seized at once.”

  I gave Tavish a puzzled look. “Many families were torn apart during the civil war; I do not understand how the plight of the Markinch family has any real precedence over Deoch-an-Dorus now.” I looked back to the castle. It could have grown from the ground in a great upheaval, its solid walls appeared hewn from the earth.

  “I was a boy when Mr Clunes’ faither made a deal with the Parliamentarians. He bought the castle and the surrounding lands, promising never tae rise up against them,” Tavish chuckled. “He told the story tae the lads about how he travelled all the way to London. He waited fur days tae receive an audience with the magistrates and finally they gave it tae him without much pause, as none of the fine Sassenach Lords wanted a castle in the middle of the Highlands. After he returned, Mr Clunes set tae expanding his business and kept Markinch away from the fighting in the south. None hereabouts had any taste for it, as it had naught tae dae with us.”

  Tavish scratched his bristly chin for a moment. “The point of this whole rambling tale is to tell ye the story of Logan. He is the great, great grandson of the auld Markinch Laird, and he wears his jealousy of the Clunes’ success on his sleeve.”

  Chapter 4

  I spent the afternoon in Tavish’s company, going through the old production logs. I insisted on making an inventory of all the grain arriving at the mill. Illegal stills could be using missing grain to make Scotch. Dusk fell as I walked back down to the cottage in order to prepare for my supper invitation. Tiny flakes from clouds obscuring the sky began to fall, creating an atmosphere of hushed enchantment.

  Walking through the front door of the cottage. I could smell peat burning in the grate, the pleasant smell of light smoke escaping through the chimney. Closing the door behind me, I shut my eyes and tried to conjure a picture of Onatah busily at work somewhere in the house.

  “There ye are, Captain.” Freya’s voice rang from above and her stout figure filled my vision as she came down the stairs. “I hae tidied above stairs this afternoon. I aired one of the front rooms and made the bed fur ye.” She stopped on the bottom step and still craned her neck to look up at me. “Beathan has informed me of yer supper invitation, so there is naught in the larder.” Freya paused a moment, looking uncertain. “You’ll hae tae tell me if ye want meals made, otherwise I’ve got my own brood tae feed.”

  The morning’s altercation forgotten, at least set to the side, I could only be relieved, not having much patience for women’s moods and tantrums. “Thank you, Freya, I am sure the two of us will do our best to get along. Please let me know of any expenses you incur and I will provide reimbursement.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Freya turned her attention to the drawing room, and stepped closer in order to share in her confidence. “The Thistle and Rose acts as a market fur most goods and a tab will be run in yer name payable at the end of each month. They hae catalogues fur any items ye may want tae purchase from Auld Reikie, Edinburgh tae ye, or Glasgow.” Her look took in my sad frock coat. “We pride ourselves as having as guid a selection as anyone in town or Scotland. I thought tomorrow it would be appropriate fur me tae begin clearing away poor Mr Turner’s work,” sniffing dismissively. “I know it is wrong tae speak nae well of the dead and I dinnae believe any of the rumours circulating in the village. He never let me tidy up properly in here. I will hae tae fetch a ladder and a couple of my laddies to get the rope down.”

  What were these rumours? I wanted to ask for details concerning them, but a thought diverted me. “Take the rope down with a ladder. Is there not one around? I thought Mr Turner’s stature shorter than mine.”

  “Aye, he stood only just taller than I.” Freya smiled at a memory, putting her hand to her forehead and grimacing up at me. “Sometimes I still can nae believe it. He might have been an odd body, however I never thought him capable, if I had.” She took a couple of deep sobbing breaths.

  Female hysterics were something I never acquired the ability to deal with, perhaps if my mother might have lived or a younger sister tormented me. I would have been more prepared to deal with them. I patted Freya on the back, “It’s just as well. I want to leave the rope up. The knot is peculiar, there is something missing in the puzzle.” I let my voice trail away.

  Hiccoughing a couple of times, Freya frowned up at me and for the second time in one day. I could feel her approbation for a social misstep vibrating from her being. “Ye want me tae keep that horrible rope up in the drawing room. Want me tae clean around it, knowing what happened in there. It’s a terrible macabre thing!”

  I let my hand fall back to my side. Seeing her point, I grimaced, acknowledging the rope’s macabre presence in an effort to placate her. “Until I finish my study of the knot, I think it’s best for you to leave the drawing room off your list of duties. Besides I would enjoy going through Mr Turner’s mathematical work. It looks incredibly interesting.”

  “Ye are an odd body, Captain.” Freya stepped away, towards the door to the dining room. “I can nae condone such barbaric actions, maybe ye dinnae know how yer actions might affect my poor nerves,” she sniffed. “The same as Mr Turner, strange behavioiur by folks from the south.”

  An urge to run my hands through my hair and pull as hard as I could came into my mind. Instead I fisted my hands and breathed deeply as the rear door to the cottage opened and closed forcefully. Taking today as a preview of the discord to come over the next year, I shuddered to think of the mess of nerves I might be left with in the end.

  With heavy boots, I trod up the stairs to find what mischief Freya may have made while I spent the day up at Deoch. To my surprise, the results of her cleaning were not all bad. She’d organised one of the front rooms, lighting a fire in the grate, setting my shaving kit along with fresh water on the commode. Even the heather in a small vase did not grate too much. Guilt washed over me, twice today I caused Freya to be unhappy and, in truth, I resolved to do my best to right our relationship once and for all in the morning.

  After washing my face of the day’s activities, I dressed in my best linen shirt and hose. Both made of good quality material, they stood the test of time. The hair on my head felt downy and I paused for a good minute. Pondering whether to shave my head again or let it grow. In the New World, I had resolved never to wear a wig again, fashionable or no. A red ribbon caught my attention, and I picked up the delicate furbelow, careful not to disrupt any of the long strands of black hair it held in a curl, tears welled behind my eyes. I looked into the small mirror. I was a fraud, a disgrace to her memory. My wife lay dead and buried and I was to sup in style with the only society in the vicinity.

  I smelled the hair, rubbing its silky texture on my cheek. I placed it carefully back onto lace set out by Freya. Luckily she took precautions with my precious keepsake. I needed to cancel this invitation, not a month ago I stood rotting in the stocks in Boston, for attacking the man responsible for my wife’s death.

  Thinking of ways to bow out gracefully, my gaze fell upon my lapel pin, my only reminder of my place in society, of where I came from, the Clyde coat of arms set in gold with the family motto, Courage to the Last, written on the bottom. Never one for cowardice, I had attacked in the front lines in the New World, I would bear my burden.

  Full darkness descended over Markinch, a lamp in one hand to light the way through the snowflakes my only companion on the road up and through the distillery. The workers either home or down at the Thistle for the evening, tu
cked warmly into their evening rituals. A night guard watched my progress from his post on the road in front of Deoch.

  The lantern light reflected off the snow gathering in pockets on the ground, making it easy to pick my way over the rough surface. Just as I relaxed into the embrace of the wilds of the fens, lights from the castle were visible ahead, guiding me gently back to civilization, to the purpose of my evening’s journey. The doors leading into the courtyard were open, in fact a quick inspection of the metal gate above my head revealed it probably had not been down in some time. Large cauldrons lit with peat stood at intervals and I nodded to the workmen and servants before climbing the great steps.

  I felt slightly embarrassed at the archaic formality of banging the large metal knocker on the door to alert the inside servants of my presence. Surely they would have seen my approach. However, just as social niceties were different in the New World, so would they be different here in the Highlands? The door creaked open and a grim-faced gentleman, wearing the same plaid as Beathan, peered out at me. Without speaking, I found myself ushered into a cavernous reception hall, resplendent with a blaze in the large fireplace. My eye caught various bits of weaponry including muskets and rapiers adorning the walls. A large broadsword placed on the mantel caught my attention and I walked forward in order to make a closer inspection. The grim-faced clansman coughed in the back of his throat and indicated I should give him the oil lamp before proceeding with my curious journey.

  Only a person twice the size of any man could wield this sword. Even with the added strength the warrior would need two hands to swing it. The hilt resplendently decorated with fine gold filigree and gems, with a large ruby set in the hilt, heavy scroll work wound down the blade and I squinted to read it properly.