Page 57 of Laird of Secrets
“The boiled mash is taxed according to how much whisky might be produced. We are obligated to report each time a wort is made from barley.”
“I do not see how the government can expect that,” she said, frowning.
“Just so,” he replied. “It is part of the problem. Highlanders grow barley, use it for food, and sell it as grain. Only a portion of it is used to produce whisky, and not by all. Whatever we grow for our families and our livelihoods should be considered ours, with nothing owed to the government. Most Highlanders feel that way, I assure you. But lowering the wort tax means many more Highlanders can produce it, which eventually takes away the value of good Highland whisky. It is an underhanded way of making smuggling unnecessary.”
“No wonder there is such tension between excise officers and smugglers.”
“It goes even deeper. They do not show fair treatment to simple citizens or honor their rightful household production. Gaugers make a fee on each bottle they confiscate, so they are just as eager to take it as Highlanders are to hide it. Lower taxes on the wort makes whisky smuggling less profitable, and so the government assumes making it will no longer be worth the effort.”
“Is it truly not worth making?”
“Do you want a Highlander’s opinion?” He laughed. “At any rate, the king’s men have the devil of a time enforcing any laws in the Highlands. Regulations that make sense in the law courts of Edinburgh and London are nearly impossible to enforce in the Highlands.”
“And you could be arrested for stills the revenuers find in Glen Kinloch, even if they are not your own stills?”
“True. But Highland stills are well hidden. Many have been in place for generations. What my tenants produce is their concern, not mine. The law does not agree, so we make sure the stills are not found. Not all Highland whisky is illicit, I promise you,” he added. “And more legal distilleries are opening every year, encouraged by the lower taxes. The new laws will help many to make a living from producing and selling legal Highland whisky.”
“And if the laws decrease smuggling,” she said, “those ventures will die out.”
“Someday. So you see why we opened our Kinloch distillery, to make our very fineuisge-beatha ghleann ceann loch.”He touched her elbow. “Have you never seen whisky in the making? Come, let me show you.”
* * *
As they entered a shady little glade, Fiona saw a tidy cluster of whitewashed buildings with neat slate roofs and doors painted in different colors. It looked more like a picturesque village than a busy enterprise. The path led to a wooden footbridge that crossed a burbling stream. All seemed quaint and peaceful.
“I thought Highland whisky was made in small copper stills,” she said, looking up at Dougal MacGregor as he walked beside her. “The equipment here must be much larger than that. Surely you produce quite a bit here.”
“We needed more buildings for a legal distillery and enterprise.” He strolled with her over the wooden bridge. “Originally these were outbuildings for Kinloch Castle. Two hundred years ago an old castle stood on the hill before the tower house was built,” he explained. “That largest building was the stable, and the others were byre, granary, and bakehouse. They were abandoned once the tower came into use. My grandfather and father reclaimed them for the whisky.”
On the bridge, Fiona paused beside Dougal and looked down over the railing. Water rushed over rocks to channel away, the sound swift, the moisture in the air refreshing. Two young men exited the largest building and waved at Dougal. They glanced curiously at Fiona and went on their way.
“It looks a flourishing place,” she said.
“Busy enough.” He seemed pleased and proud, Fiona thought, his smile slight but genuine. Her brother had mentioned that there were hundreds of secret stills to be found in the Highlands, and casks moved by smugglers bold enough to manufacture and move whisky rather openly. The laird of Kinloch must be one of the bolder ones, she thought, to oversee such an organized business that included both smuggled and legitimate whisky.
She thought of the moonlit night when she had stood on a hillside watching Kinloch and a band of smugglers walk past with their ponies. Fiona, go home, he had said, and lock your door. A shiver went through her at the memory.
“What a rogue you are, Kinloch,” she said quietly.
“Am I?” He tilted his head to look at her.
“Making whisky without apology, and smuggling it out of Scotland, when you could make it all legitimately.”
“One of the reasons I brought you here,” he murmured, “was to show you that I am not just a smuggler and a rogue. That I have dreams.”
Revelation struck. She had been wrong. “Oh! I apologize. I thought you were combining both your ventures, making large quantities here in the open, but smuggling it out. It is a licensed venture.”
“Fully licensed.” He chuckled. “But what a bold ambition—an enormous smuggling enterprise that we only pretend is legal. Perhaps we should plant more trees to hide the place.”
She laughed ruefully. “The revenue officers would notice so much chimney smoke and activity here. You would have to produce the documents for them.”
“Rest assured, every square inch here has been examined and approved. King George himself might be served Glen Kinloch whisky at court one day.”
“The king asked for his favorite whisky when he visited Edinburgh last summer. There was quite a kerfuffle over it—he did not even realize that he was asking for illegal spirits, and he seemed unaware that his favorite brew came to London through smuggling. Some people were outraged. Others were amused.”
“Highlanders enjoyed it, I expect. I did hear something of it,” he went on. “A cousin of mine, Ronan MacGregor, is responsible for the king’s favorite brew, Glenbrae. A very fine whisky, I must admit. It was delivered to the king in Edinburgh under—well, highly suspect circumstances, from what my uncles heard said in Callander one day.”
“Ronan MacGregor is your cousin? I saw him at one of the king’s assemblies. A very handsome fellow, all done up in Highland kit, looking like a true warrior. He put some of the other Highlanders, who were dressed rather like tartan peacocks, to shame.”
