Scotch Rising

by S. J. Garland

  As a child I wished for a family. For my uncle to embrace me, as more than an heir to the title, yet he never did. “Your father seems to care for you and your brother very much. I wish my life contained such a man, my uncle only ever cared for improving the family’s connections.”

  Smiling, Phil took up her Scotch glass again. “We are lucky tae hae such a man as Magnus in our lives. He says he never regretted marrying my mother, even though she spent most of her time in Edinburgh, carrying on with other men. The last one resulting in a pregnancy, both she and the child died. My faither picked up the pieces. He is a strong man.”

  Standing, I walked over to the sideboard and fetched the bottle of Scotch, refilling Phil’s glass before she could refuse. I firmly believed a strong libation was required when discussing family. “My own childhood was marked by years of loneliness.” I waved a hand in the air. “I was surrounded by tutors and nannies, yet I only experienced a real companionship when I met my parents’ great friend, Mr Wick.”

  Phil smiled curiously and reached into a bag at her feet. She pulled out a folded broadsheet and handed it over the table. “Nae the same Mr Wick of the Royal Society? My true purpose in visiting this afternoon nae tae share auld family gossip, I came tae give ye the Royal Society papers, the vacuum pumps are an interesting invention, however I have been conducting my own small experiments with them and the information is nae new.”

  I took the papers from her and unfolded them. “One and the same.” I did not have much interest in the vacuum pumps either “You have been conducting your own experiments. Have you sent your findings to the Royal Society?”

  A light pink infused her cheeks and she looked away, out the window into a world growing dark. “I dinnae think the Society would be interested in the results of experiments conducted by a woman, an unmarried bluestocking. As my brother would hae everyone know.”

  “You might be correct.” I scratched my chin. “There is much debate over women’s involvement in scientific matters and whether they have the constitution to carry out the rigorous work involved in proving or disproving theories.” Phil perked up in her seat, looking as if she might have an argument on the matter. “However, this is the age of science and if we can make a spark-producing machine, surely women can further science?”

  “Hear, hear,” Phil responded cheerfully and raised her glass. “Perhaps I could write up some of my findings and send them in. I do find the Society repeats many of their auld experiments with nae further innovations gained from it and some of the time I think they try things only in order tae spectate the absurd.”

  Laughing at some of the experiments I witnessed in my time with the Royal Society before I left for Boston. “I must agree with you. I think the older, wealthier members use it as an escape from their wives and the boring social rounds they are obliged to do. Especially when Parliament is in session.” My eyes strayed to Mr Turner’s diary, lying open on the travelling writing desk.

  Phil spied the same volume, interest infused her features and she reached over to pick it up. A stray curl from the severe knot on the back of her head came loose. She used her free hand to gently wipe it out of her eyes as she studied the numbers. Flipping through the pages, her expression grew even more absorbed in the numbers. “This can nae be a mathematical question. Hae ye written yer diary in code?” She looked up smiling. “Ye are mysterious, Captain, how clever.”

  A voice in my gut shouted for me to not disclose the true owner of the diary. I did not want to give up my rights to Mr Turner. I felt close to finding the cipher. Soon I would have the key to his innermost thoughts and they might lead me to a murderer. “Yes, a habit from childhood, one too many prying nurses. Having my thoughts reported on to my uncle could be an unpleasant experience.” I tried to artfully grab the book from her hands. She pulled it away and pointed to the failed cipher pages.

  “And hae ye forgotten how tae decode yer own diary, Captain?” She leaned over to make a closer inspection of my efforts. Knowing I might be lying, which did not sit well. With her attention distracted, I liberated the volume from her slackened hand. She watched me curiously, a taint of mistrust in her face.

  “Sometimes I am too clever for my own good.” I tried to laugh naturally, however it sounded hollow and perpetrated the idea I might be up to something. “You should probably be on your way, Phil, it is growing dark and I need to get back to work.”

  Phil rose reluctantly from the couch, eyeing me and the diary with outright suspicion, she did well to hold her tongue. “I give my leave of ye, Captain, I hope ye will enjoy the society papers and I will think on yer suggestion to make a submission.”

  “I am sure the Society would be very happy to hear from you.” I ushered her quickly to the door. An urgency to have her prying eyes away from Turner’s diary giving fuel to my actions. “There are several lady members. Good evening.”

  Giving Phil a quick push out the door. I clutched Mr Turner’s last words to my chest and stared down the empty hall. Phil’s perfume lingered and I enjoyed the smell of lavender for a moment before walking into the kitchen to fetch some stew.

  Chapter 10

  Splashing cold water on my face from the basin aided in dispelling the fog of sleep from the rest of my brain. I needed my wits in full operation today. If I had possessed them yesterday, I might not have handled Phil so poorly. The hurt look on her face after my sudden insistence on her leaving haunted the rest of my evening. I expelled her for finding interest in Turner’s diary. An interest I could have prevented if only I had closed the book upon her arrival. My defence lay in the new knowledge that I am sensitive over who knows of the existence of the diary. Something I did not foresee earlier. Otherwise I might have taken better care. I felt the knave for behaving roughly with her, especially after she revealed her late mother’s behaviour and its obvious effects on her and Magnus. I could only imagine what it must have done to Beathan.

  There would be some way I could make it up to her. All I need do was wait and the opportunity would hopefully present itself and all could be well between us. It appeared Phil’s and my friendship might always be tumultuous. I needed action, and repairing the damage I caused to Phil yesterday was not on the agenda. Instead I would investigate a certain pair of cattle rustlers who many believed to be Scotch runners. Not only for my own pride but also for Colonel Manners. If I could prove the pair posed no significant threat to English excise. I would have a solid excuse for excluding them from my first report. Better to take care of unwanted attention quickly and quietly than have a whole militia march through the village.

  Besides, the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the accusations against Mr Turner would bring unwanted scrutiny on Markinch and its new excise officer. Perhaps Colonel Manners intended this situation all along. Everyone knew the Colonel operated one of the largest spy rings in the whole of the English military. His informants slid through war zones and ballrooms as ghosts, melting into the fabric of society, none ever suspect. I rubbed the whiskers on my chin. The grain of stubble rough on hands already losing some of the calluses built by years of practising with firearms, swords and especially the tomahawks Hania gave me. Onatah’s brother acted as a scout appointed by the government to lead the army into the wilderness. He knew the land and how to avoid detection. He despaired at our ignorance.

  We became fast friends on my first summer of campaigning. We raided villages and supply chains and, after saving my miserable hide several times, he took me under his wing. Told me I had wasted his time and now I owed him a debt. He taught me to remain unseen in the woods, to survive in the unrelenting harsh landscape of the New World. Where a simple mistake could mean instant death and a big mistake could mean a slow agonizing demise. His constant reminders of the dangers the elements posed, the need to step lightly, to attack fiercely and retreat softly was foreign to me at first.

  The opportunity to make my goodbyes with Hania never came to be. My imprisonment after my actions at finding Onatah dead me
ant I missed her funeral and Hania’s departure for the winter hunting grounds. I might be a reasonably well respected captain in the English army, however I wondered if Magnus, Beathan or even Tavish were to learn the secret of the actions leading to my imprisonment and reassignment in the army. They would trust me again. There would be no further invitations for dinner up at the Castle. Shaking my head, none of this mattered. I only needed to serve out my year here and I would be off, living the rest of my life. In any manner I wished, preferably with less dissection of my past and present circumstances. The only matter I needed to attend today was the McGreevys. Did they pose a threat to only themselves or the village as a whole? And from the explosion the other night, I thought the latter might be the case.

  Staring at the only unopened trunk in the corner of the room, nostalgia for my previous life rose. It did not somehow feel tainted with Onatah’s death. I walked over, unlocked the buckles, and heaved the lid open, the smell of stale air wafting in my face. The voyage had not been overly gentle to some of the items, a couple of tobacco pouches would have to be thrown outside immediately before they could taint any more air. Laying bare fingers on them wrinkled my nose. The winter deerskin pants and shirts lined with fur Onatah made me years before appeared serviceable enough. The fur-lined garments might mean extra warmth. The snow had halted sometime in the evening, however the temperature remained enough to freeze my bones. I dug out my fur-lined moccasins with the beads sewn on the toes for good measure.

  I ate my porridge leisurely, hoping Freya might walk in and discover an American Indian in her perfectly clean kitchen. My hopes remained dashed, as she did not arrive before my departure out the back door. I did not want to attract too much notice with my outfit as I headed out into the wilderness alone, after much advice opposing such actions, if I kept my footing this time. I should be able to follow the rabbit and other animal prints through the bridle paths. The sky would be light for hours, no need to worry about darkness blinding my way. I stopped at the edge of what appeared to be the manicured garden and looked out over the vast fens. Taking a sharp deep breath, I stepped into the fens once again, the crunch of snow and ice underfoot the only sound in the vast emptiness. Staring straight ahead, I convinced myself I could be the only man alive for miles. No notion of a village or a Scotch distillery operating near.

  Travelling through the fens towards the site of the explosion went quicker than I anticipated. I must have been in a much more inebriated state the other evening than I previously imagined. The soft deer-hide boots left hardly any imprint in the snow. They did not give good grip on the icy path and I stepped carefully until finally reaching a small clearing. Although snow covered most of the debris, peat burning under the surface kept the ground free from cover. I stepped carefully around the perimeter of the burned area. Some small fragments of glass lay in the midst of the mud and dirt, nothing else of a foreign nature.

  The burnt and broken glass could be clues of a still. It could also be from any number of things, broken glass bottles from an earlier settlement or the sight of a previous rubbish pile. Kicking through the snow around the blackened space revealed nothing more than a frozen crust of bread, either forgotten or hastily discarded. Someone or a pair of someones had been clever in covering up their mess. They knew somebody such as myself would be along to investigate. They must have cleared it before the big storm yesterday. Otherwise their prints would be all over the site.

  Releasing my frustration in a low growl, I once again made a circle around the burnt peat. Two bridle trails led away over the snow, one leading towards east and Deoch, the other led towards the west and the McGreevys’ farmhouse. With the picture of Beth McGreevy and her shotgun in the back of my mind as well as a good imaginary picture of Levy McGreevy’s size and weight. I picked my way towards their farmhouse. Unfortunately, unlike the places I stalked through with the military in the New World. No trees and brush grew high enough here to hide my passage. The best way to stay unseen lay in crouching and moving quickly between small hillocks.

  Even with this strategy, I remained hopelessly visible and easy prey to anyone looking out on the moors, especially from the east. I felt relatively safe from onlookers in the village as enough dilating ground lay between to restrict my movements. This same reason might have prompted the McGreevys to feel safe from prying eyes at the explosion site. Tracking came naturally to me, I picked up Hania’s tips and movements quickly. Not the same as understanding the mechanical parts in a steam engine or rebuilding a winch in order for it to carry a heavier load, yet easy enough to feel the accomplishment in the task. My skill only increased my sense of belonging and eventually I became part of an advanced scouting party. Going deep into French territory in order to find positions. Some of my fondest memories came from those missions, positioned on the edge of a knife with only my wits to save me.

  I had been away with Hania and a few others when the attack on Onatah and the rest of the village occurred. Hania had warned me trouble could be close. I heard rumours the French remained near to Boston. Unfortunately, I trusted the remnants of the city’s militia to do its duty and protect the village, while I saved the rest of their lives. I could not think of it now. I possessed a task to complete and I halted for a moment, resting my back on a small hill to catch my breath. My legs burned with the effort of crouching and running, my fighting fitness fading with every passing day. The edge of the fens appeared close. Trees began to grow along the edge, providing cover. I needed to pick my way there carefully. Someone could be using the trees as their own cover.

  Checking the tomahawks and guns at my waist, I squatted facing the tree line and started out cautiously, taking my time to step through the heather and frozen earth. The only sound my heavy breathing. An echo from the trees instantly froze my body and I peered into the thick gloom, scanning for any sign of movement. Holding my breath, I listening for any noise giving away man or beast. All my focus on the scene in front of me straining, and nothing came. I knew an animal could not outwait me easily. Smaller animals’ instinct might be to wait a few seconds and rush to safety. While larger animals could wait for several minutes if they sensed danger might be near.

  Either the animal making the noise was long away or the animal was human, waiting for me to move and give away my position. Or hoping I would lose interest in their presence and again give away my position. In both situations I needed to assume a human, who did not want their presence known and knew my position. The potential for violence as yet unknown, they could have many reasons for not wanting to reveal themselves to a man dressed in a foreign costume. Poachers remained rife in the area, the Clunes did not take much stock in handing out penalties for the crime.

  I could not stay here all day, the fur-lined clothes made my adventure much more bearable, however they would only provide so much warmth. I needed to make the first move in order to control the situation’s outcome. Steeling my nerves, the familiar rush of excitement and apprehension filled my guts. I felt alive again, in the throes of seeking out an unknown enemy. I ducked my head, squeezed my shoulders in tight, trying to create as small a target as possible and ran crouched towards the trees. A definite crashing sound came from ahead, my heart beating hard with every breath. I stood up straighter and tried to run with my full stride. The mistake cost me more than my pride.

  The first shot rang out, and as I felt the lead race past my skull, the wind lightly ruffling my hair. I instinctively dropped the other shoulder. Hoping the loss of balance would throw off the shooter while I fell to the safety of the ground. Unfortunately, the second shot caught my left arm, above the elbow. I grimaced in pain. The bullet was hot and warm blood began to seep down my arm. I grunted as I hit the ground hard, and quickly turned to face the sky. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. A trick Onatah had taught me to reduce blood loss. I forced myself to take long slow breaths.

  Once the panic of the wound lifted, I took stock. Stretching my ears and listening for any other movement, w
hile using my right hand to investigate the damage. Gritting my teeth, I inched my hand up my wounded arm and finding the bullet hole. I felt for an entrance and exit. The arm throbbed in protest at the invasion, however I quickly determined the bullet went straight through. Ripping a length of linen from my undershirt, I tied it clumsily around my arm. It would suffice until the barber could take a look. I forced the fingers on my left arm to open and close several times. I did not think there was any bone damage, but the waning strength in the limb might mean muscle damage. I could not throw a tomahawk with it. I might be able to hold a gun, but a shot would likely carry the pistol from my grasp.

  I needed to make an escape. I was sure the shots had not come from the cover of the trees. The shot came from behind me. In my foolish arrogance, I thought none could possibly have an advantage over my superior skills and I’d assumed I was alone on the fens. Careful not to jar my injured arm, I made a brief scan of the immediate area. No signs of human occupation. I did not expect any. The shooter had had plenty of opportunity to seek me out after the bullet hit my arm to finish off his work. A mad picture of Beth McGreevy stalking me through the fens with her hunting rifle flitted through my brain. I shook my head. There was no way she could have pounced on a dairy cow let alone a man with my many talents, I hoped.

  The safest way to get to cover would be to crawl on my elbows. I flipped quickly and tested the weight on my injured arm, the pain was not unbearable, I started slowly at first, picking my way over the ground. Proceeding with more urgency as I felt a new trickle of blood escape the bandage every time I put pressure on it. I had been injured many times fighting. I thought I would die in the bog only a few days past. My heartbeat steady and strong reminding me of a will to live I had no conscious control over. With the trees only a few yards ahead, I risked getting unsteadily to my feet and running the rest of the way. Once inside the enclosed space, I fell onto a tree and slid down, unmindful of the bark pushing up the back of my deerskin, scratching my back.