Scotch Rising (3 page)

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.

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.

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.”