“Captain, may I make my younger brither, Angus, known tae ye.” Tavish stepped beside me and frowned up at his kin. “He runs the watermill fur Deoch and any business with it goes through him.” Tavish turned and tried to make a hasty departure to the first floor.
“Angus!” cried the other man from the top of the ladder. He threw himself down and chased after his older brother. “Now ye are nae running the distillery, ye are nae longer entitled tae use our last name only. I am the Tavish and it is only fair ye call me as such!”
An argument between the two brothers erupted below stairs and I hurried to watch the outcome. The lad above stairs feeding the wheel nodded to the one watching the grinding stones and produced a worn silver coin. Meanwhile two floury faces appeared from below stairs with avid looks. The two brothers quarrelling was an event.
“Ye know damn well, the oldest male in each family holds the family name. Father has been dead all our lives, making me the Tavish. It has naught tae do with the posts we hold, Angus.” Tavish put emphasis on his brother’s name in order to pin it there with force.
“If our mother lived, ye would know differently.” Angus pointed his bony finger straight between the eyes of his brother, the mention of their mother appeared to galvanise both brothers.
Observing the two men, I tried to guess which one might win a physical fight. Tavish may have been older, but the two appeared so alike, one could not be stronger than his sibling. From the twinkle in each of their eyes, they did not look above fighting dirty and now the two stood toe to toe in the dusty mill house, in an effort to inject some reason into the argument. I began, “I am sure your mother never intended you to fight over your last name at your advanced ages. Did she not give you both acceptable first names to face the world?”
Two sets of piercing blue eyes bore into my face, all menace between the brothers dropped in favour of the destruction of a common enemy. “Sassenach,” Angus’s voice low. “Ye better never, ever say anything about my mother ever again. Nae tae me, nae tae anyone.”
The anger radiating from the other man burned the air, more nods and coins exchanged hands and each brother flexed his fists, readying for a confrontation. I did my best to keep a straight face. As much as I would like to face each brother, they were at least twice my age, maybe even thrice. I bowed. “I beg your pardon.” Turning to walk back outside, hoping neither would see the grin on my face.
The door to the mill closed. “Hae ye got a brither, Captain, or any siblings?” Tavish’s sheepish voice came from beside me, as the old man scratched his head for a moment and reshaped his plaid hat before fixing it back over his flyaway white hair.
Crossing to the other side of the road, I spoke. “Ill luck left me as an only child. My parents died before I grew from my small clothes. My uncle did his best for me.” The reply standard, any new acquaintance received the same distilled version of my childhood circumstances. For many, my situation did not appear unusual or hard.
Finally entering the last of the three red buildings, we stood next to two large polished metal tuns, an apparatus with stairs built around it for easy viewing. Tavish pointed. “These are the mashing tuns, the grist is steeped with hot water and eventually a mash is made, the end product is called wort. We brew the wort at least three times and this is where the excise comes in. The quality of this end product will determine how much spirit is finally produced.”
I injected a comment here to show my knowledge. “At this time, I believe the yeast is added to the cool mixture and a rudimentary beer is produced.” The operation at Deoch was large enough not to change any of its processes in order to cheat taxes and if they did make any hasty changes, it would be noticeable. Still, I did not want any trouble.
If I studied under Tavish’s instruction, the look of joy on his face at my understanding of the wort process might have filled me with pleasure. It gave me the opportunity to watch someone who truly enjoyed his work. He took pleasure from the simple chemical processes in making alcohol. Here was not a soldier killing for wages, but a man who gained satisfaction from giving other people enjoyment.
“Captain, yer knowledge of the process is correct indeed, the beer contains only a wee percentage of alcohol, it’s enough tae gie drunk from mind.” Tavish pointed to two men, one busy sweeping the compact dirt floor and the other cleaning some instruments. “It’s why we always hae two men in here watching the mash tuns and the pot stills. Some workers hae been sorely tempted fur a taste in the past.”
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 done 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.