Scotch Rising (4 page)
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 looked 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 produced 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.
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 share 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.