The Blood And The Barley

by Angela MacRae Shanks

  ‘You're refusing me the service of your men?’ McBeath exclaimed in disbelief.

  ‘Not at all.’ The officer’s expression tightened, endeavouring to maintain a reasonable manner despite the trials of the situation; his men had just emerged from the mill, their splendid uniforms covered in a fine dusting of flour. ‘Should you find any desperate criminals,’ he assured McBeath, ‘my men are at your disposal.’ Ordering his men to follow suit, he spurred his horse to the rough dyke at the entrance to the yard and waited there while the detachment filed through. They regrouped in the heather around their superior to await further orders.

  McBeath drew breath viciously up his nose. ‘Pompous arse!’ He kicked the door wide and stalked into the cottage, his assistant scuttling after him.

  Morven threw Alastair a desperate look. Had they given Rowena enough time? Shaking his head, the miller followed her inside.

  Rowena was working quietly at the hearth, her plaid wrapped like a mask over her mouth and nose. She looked up at the intrusion and raised her brows at the two men. Wrong-footed by her presence, McBeath stumbled over a three-legged stool, cursing it to damnation. He recovered quickly and turned on the miller.

  ‘Well, well, Alastair, taken yourself a new wife, have ye? Or is it the bonny witch has turned to whoring now to meet her rental?’

  Alastair reddened at the insinuation. ‘Elspeth's poorly. The widow Forbes is here to tend her. Her and the lass.’

  McBeath’s eyes flicked to Morven, fixing her with a sceptical look. ‘Are they now? Poorly, eh?’ He turned back to Rowena, his gaze drawn greedily to her face, a hard glitter in his eyes.

  ‘Elspeth has smallpox,’ Rowena informed him. She directed her gaze to the door on the far wall behind which lay Elspeth’s sickbed. The plaid had deadened her voice but did nothing to lessen the impact of her words.

  ‘Smallpox!’ The hireling backed to the door. ‘Saints preserve us!’

  ‘I'll do what I can fer her,’ she continued. ‘But I fear she's in God's hands.’ Turning back to her preparations, she asked Morven to pass her a root from her basket.

  ‘’Tis a trick, Dougal. Can ye no see that?’ McBeath threw his assistant a scornful look. ‘Granted the widow Forbes is here, but d'ye no think we'd have heard if there was smallpox in the glen?’

  ‘I dinna ken,’ Dougal muttered.

  McBeath’s interest was drawn back to Rowena, and he took a step closer, his nostrils flaring as he breathed her in, a wolfish grin turning the corners of his mouth. She had pared the root Morven passed to her, revealing a grainy white substance, and now dropped it into the bubbling pot.

  ‘Tis barely a half-hour since we got here,’ she said wearily. ‘And I'd nae even broken the news to Alastair, though he may be infected too. I suggest ye leave now afore it's too late.’ She looked up slowly, the threat riding the air between them.

  McBeath flicked his tongue out, assessing, his eyes still fastened on her face. ‘Ye'll no mind if we take a wee lookie round first though, eh? After all, ’tis our own health we'll be risking.’ His grin lingered, and he gestured with his head for Dougal to tackle the other room.

  Dougal's eyes widened. ‘I dinna ken,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Come, man!’

  The hireling was trembling and glanced at each of them in turn, perhaps hoping a means of escape would materialize. Wiping his hands down the sides of his breeks, he edged forward, pushing the door with the toe of his boot. It swung open a foot or two. He took a quick breath, jerked his head through and then recoiled violently. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ The chairs at the heavy oak table clattered to the floor as he scrambled to make his escape.

  The exciseman stared after him. Twitching in exasperation, he stalked to the door and threw it wide. It crashed against the wall and rebounded, almost closing again, but not before they all glimpsed Elspeth's face livid against the white linen pillow. It oozed with purple encrusted pustules.

  ‘Dear Lord!’ Alastair swayed on his feet.

  Watching him, Morven felt a stab of conscience. The miller's dismay was plainly genuine and was all the more touching for being so. She glanced into the pot hanging over the fire. Not all the ingredients in the brew were known to her, although she recognised blaeberries by their vibrant colour. Elspeth's pustules, she surmised, oozing in a thin oat gruel. She caught Rowena's eye. Something flickered there, a wry acknowledgement perhaps, or maybe a warning. She glanced away.

  McBeath seemed rooted to the spot. His face had turned a nasty grey, his grin now stretched to an indeterminate line, and a tick appeared under one eye.

  Alastair pushed past the gauger, his bonnet wrung tight in his hand. ‘Elspeth, my love.’ He lapsed into Gaelic, the only language through which he could adequately express himself, and Rowena spoke softly to him in the same tongue. He turned and stared at her.

  Morven's gaze was drawn to the strange drape that hung around the base of the bed and the peculiar sack-like lumps that bulged from it. She prayed the exciseman's gaze would not be similarly drawn. But there was no danger of that; he hurtled from the room, bellowing for his mount.

  From the comparative safety of the saddle, he shouted to Rowena. ‘If this be sorcery, witch-woman, ye'll reap a whirlwind!’ He shuddered and spat some noxious substance onto the ground. His horse reared, knocking him back in the saddle, then careered from the yard scattering the patrol of dragoons with the exciseman clinging on at a drunken angle.

  ***

  Alastair reached out tentatively and brought his thumb across his wife's cheek. A pustule smeared wetly and came away squashed onto his thumb. He gasped and looked over at Rowena.

  ‘A deception!’ He examined the pustule more closely. ‘I thought it might be devilry, but ’tis nothing o' the kind.’ He shook his head. ‘A mere trick!’

  Elspeth chuckled delightedly. ‘And worked like a charm.’ She sat up and twisted about. ‘Ye ken, I believe I’m feeling better.’

  Rowena nodded and began packing her things.

  ‘Bless ye,’ said Alastair, and reached to grip her hand.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Down there?’ Jamie looked incredulous. ‘There's never a whisky still down there! I see nothing but rocks and water.’

  ‘Ye're nae meant to see it.’ Morven was forced to raise her voice above the thunder of falling water, yet there was laughter in it. ‘That's the idea. ’Tis hidden. Disguised.’

  He peered down at the chasm cut by the Lochy Burn. Water hurtled through a series of spouts and falls before crashing in an ear-splitting din on the rocky ledges below. From the top where they stood, an icy mist rose and beaded in his hair. ‘Are ye certain this is the place?’

  ‘I’m certain.’ Had she nae made the climb a hundred times or more? ’Twas easier than it looked. ‘See that bank to yer left?’ She pointed with her head. ‘The one that rises in a wee ridge wi' bracken sprouting from it?’

  He craned forward. ‘I see it, aye.’

  ‘That's the roof o’ the bothy. The entrance faces the falls and a cave burrows into the hillside there. Perfect, aye?’

  ‘Perfect,’ he reluctantly agreed. ‘But a treacherous climb fer a slight young lass like yerself. Is there nae a way up from below?’

  At thirteen, she’d distilled her first dram in that very cave, though he wasn’t to know it. ‘Aye,’ she said a mite stiffly. ‘There's a way. But it’s nae any easier and means making a two-mile circuit down the hill wi' the malt. I can manage the climb just fine, though.’

  By the time they reached the bothy, she could tell by the glint of amused respect in his eyes that he understood her to be no faintheart. Several times, he attempted to help her down over sharp overhangs and slippery moss-slimed ledges, but each time she firmly rejected his help. She could manage the dripping walls blindfolded, in truth, revelled in the rare lushness of the gorge. Ferns and liverworts sprouted from every crevice and clinging to the steep banks gnarled rowan and alder bent their branches to the spray.

  Only once did he succeed in
helping her. She hitched up her gown, tucked it into her arisaid, and prepared to leap the last few feet. A look of alarm flitted across his face, and instinctively he raised his arms to catch her. Unable to deflect her plunge, she leapt straight into them. Clasped tight in his hold, the thunder of falling water seemed to fade away, and something passed between them. They both felt it, for he didn’t chide her for her rashness but released her directly and waited while she untied the sack of malt and hurled the rope up into an overhanging tree. ‘I didna hurt ye?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, mightily embarrassed, and eyed him warily. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Still keeping him in sight, she straightened her gown, attempting to smooth her ruffled dignity. He was here to help Rowena, and nothing mattered more than that. Spreading her hands wide, she croaked, ‘This is our bothy.’

  It was cool and dark inside and surprisingly dry. Puzzled, Jamie looked up to examine the roof. Plainly man-made, the branches of still-growing trees had been bent over and laced together, then covered with a layer of turf. In the wet conditions, bracken had taken root and now sprouted quite naturally from the roof. A perfectly ingenious camouflage. He looked at her in astonishment, and she nodded, pleased at his approval.

  ‘Everything's stored in the cave,’ she told him. ‘I'll light a fire, and then ye’ll be able to see better.’

  Using the tinderbox and kindling her father stored in the cave, she raised a fire inside a hollowed cairn built for the purpose. Intrigued, Jamie stepped out onto the rocky ledge to watch the smoke blend imperceptibly with the spray from the falls. He shook his head. ‘Ye've thought of everything.’

  ‘I do believe so, though it wasna my doing, da fashioned this place fer the whisky-making when I was a nipper. It's never been discovered, but we're mindful of coming and going here, nae to bring notice to the place, if ye take my meaning.’

  ‘I do.’

  Inside the cave, she showed him the cauldron used for the mashing process, the fermentation cask and the tin still with its head and strangely coiled copper worm. An assortment of earthenware jars was piled in readiness and smelled strongly of whisky. As their eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she noticed Jamie's shone and he examined everything minutely, eager to get started. Together they carried the heavy cauldron through from the cave. Jamie's gaze fell on a pile of heather and blankets in a dark corner. ‘Ye dinna sleep here?’

  ‘Ye might if the distilling's at a critical stage and canna be left, but I've never slept here.’

  He appeared relieved to hear it.

  They lifted the cauldron onto the fire, setting it atop the cairn made to hold it. There was an opening near the base of the vessel; Morven plugged it with heather and then sealed it with caulking. Building up the blaze beneath it with dry peats, they filled the cauldron with water, then sat back on piles of empty sacks to wait for the water to boil. While they waited, Morven opened the sack of malt and examined it. ’Twas fine malt; plump grains of barley soaked and allowed to germinate, then withered over a peat fire. She slanted a look at him, then slid the malt back into the sack.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Nae wi' the malt, no.’

  ‘What then?’

  She sighed; was her unease so plainly marked? ‘Ye shouldna have gone to Elgin fer it,’ she said bluntly. ‘’Twas too risky. Ye should've bought it from McGillivray like the rest o’ us.’

  ‘Aye, Rowena warned me. It’s just we have so little. I'd no wish to waste what we have on that grasping cheat. Nae when there’s a chance to break free of him.’

  ‘We'd all like to break free of him.’ An image of McGillivray's arrogant face with its fleshy dewlaps forced its way into her head. ‘But the risks are too great.’

  He studied her curiously. ‘Does my safety trouble you so much, then?’

  ‘Nae just yours. Only, I hope it wasna my words made ye do it.’

  ‘I see.’ He let his gaze drop with a hint of disappointment. ‘’Twas a matter of honour to me. And self-respect.’

  ‘Honour’s an indulgence ye can scarce afford,’ she pointed out. ‘The risks are many, and you've others now to think on.’

  He said nothing but stared into the cauldron, watching tiny bubbles begin to pearl on its side. His jaw tightened a fraction.

  ‘It wasna my intention to judge ye.’

  He looked up, and his eyes were hard and dark now with what she took for anger. ‘My kin are all that's left me. Each one is dearer than my own life. I’d not put them at risk on an indulgence.’

  ‘No, I see that.’ He meant it, she could see it in his eyes; they changed, glittered like scales of mica. Not for the first time, she sensed ’twas a bold man would cross him.

  Dropping his gaze back to the steaming cauldron between them, he made a little dismissive gesture with his head, endeavouring to soften the hard lines of his mouth.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she murmured. ‘I see now ye love Rowena as much as I do.’ A strange sensation arose in her belly at that knowledge; it made her feel light, like thistledown. ‘You’d never knowingly endanger yer kinfolk.’

  ‘I’ve seen what it is to be evicted. The loss of our home left my father bereft … shamed. He was only half a man after losing Druimbeag.’

  The water was boiling now, she emptied the malt into it, then bent to stir it with a wooden spurtle. ‘This needs to mash in the hot water now. Here, ye can stir it.’ The steam had brought a flush to her cheeks that she was thankful for; it helped conceal the swell of emotion that rose in her heart at his words. Even now, she couldn’t be sure he fully understood how malleable was McGillivray; as soft as clay in the hands of the exciseman. But his heart was true. Nothing ill would happen to Rowena, nae with such a kinsman by her side.

  ‘Ye were lucky, though.’ She did love to have the last word. ‘Ye mightna be again.’

  He seemed to accept what she said and sat back thoughtfully on the empty sacks. ‘Ye’re right, ’twas foolish. Perhaps I wished to prove a point.’ He smiled, a little shamefaced. ‘And I was lucky, for had I met gaugers, doubtless they’d have paid me a deal more heed than the redcoats did.’

  ‘Ye came on redcoats, then? On the road from Elgin?’

  He nodded. ‘I travelled at night wi’ the ponies, tried to keep out o’ sight during the day.’ He stirred the mash absently. ‘I could hear them coming from way off; the thud of iron-shod hooves, the jingle o’ fancy horse fittings, and as they neared, the clip of English tongues. I hid the malt in a clump of broom and made out I was that drunk, I’d passed out. They took a kick at me, tried to find out who I was, but when I did nothing but mutter and snore they rode away.’

  ‘Christ, Jamie!’

  He quirked her a lopsided grin, running his hands through his hair, pushing the damp locks back from his brow and fixed her with a steady, slightly remorseful look. ‘If I’ve alarmed ye with my actions, I –’

  ‘No matter. Had it been the Black Gauger, I doubt ye’d have been so lucky.’

  ‘Then I pray I prove a more able smuggler than a judge of circumstance.’

  She chuckled. ‘Ye'll do just fine.’

  Then, feeling she’d perhaps over chastened him, she added, ‘I’ve never fathomed why we’re bound by law to pay duty to the Crown on our own whisky. We make it ourselves from our own barley. ’Tis no different to making porridge from our oats. Even supposing we were able to pay, seems like brazen thievery to me.’

  He looked directly at her, a light of affinity glowing in his eyes, eyes that didn’t seem so dark now, then puffed his cheeks out with a lightning smile. ‘I suppose, ’tis but another way fer southern rule to impose and interfere.’

  She laughed, then confided, ‘To outfox the gaugers, Jamie, ye must be wily. ’Tis worth the trouble though, fer in the ale-houses of Perth and Edinburgh they do pay a king's ransom fer Highland whisky, and ours, from the glen of the A’an, is most particularly sought.’

  ‘Then I relish the opportunity to supply it.’ After a moment, he cant
ed his head at her. ‘Why does he dislike my aunt so? McBeath, the Black Gauger?’

  The question unsettled her. Rowena had never spoken of it, and she wondered if ’twas right for her to do so. She knew not the full details, but enough, she supposed, to satisfy Jamie's need to know more.

  ‘I dinna ken the full story,’ she confessed. ‘But I’ll tell ye what I do know.’

  He sat forward, hands clasped beneath his chin, and stared into the cauldron. An air of stillness descended on him.

  She drew a deep breath and cast her memory back to the tales her mother told of the glen before McBeath came and the changes he brought.

  ‘He first came to Balintoul as a young man, afore I was born. The man he replaced was fair-minded, local to the glens. He knew Highland folk had been distilling whisky in these hills since long syne. Those caught could expect a hefty fine or gaol, their whisky seized, and their still-equipment destroyed. But he always allowed a decent time to pass afore he raided the same folk again, so they could make up their losses. That way each managed to scrape a fair living.’

  She looked over at Jamie; the set of his shoulders revealed he was listening intently. ‘Folk soon noticed McBeath was different – lazy and paid no heed to traditions. Instead of handing folk ower fer punishment, he demanded money. Wished an arrangement, a payment fer each anker he allowed through.’

  ‘He was idle and thought to profit from being so?’

  ‘And from the poverty and pride that keeps the smuggling alive.’

  ‘There could be no complaining to the factor, I suppose?’

  ‘Some tried, but McGillivray wished no involvement wi' the whisky trade, no knowledge o’ what's done with his barley once it leaves his barns. He’s long been on familiar terms wi’ McBeath and will hear nothing ill of him.’ She sighed. ‘Even now he still holds the man above reproach, is happy to let him court favour and send him word of the goings-on in the glen.’