#excisemen

[scotianostra]

17th December 1798 saw a skirmish at Collieston, Aberdeenshire that reulted in the death of smuggler, Phillip Kennedy.

Scotland's love of gin has been long forged with smuggling of the clear spirit hitting its peak in the 18th Century as demand for cut price contraband soared.

In 1707, the excise duty on spirits was dramatically hiked in a bid to put drink out of reach of the lower classes with the tax opening up a thriving illicit trade with Holland.

So hard fought were attempts to secure the booty that excise men - known as gaugers - were in repeated running battles with the smugglers over the cargo.

Violence was regularly used to secure the liquor and, according to a 19th Century account by William Alexander, the exciseman was deemed “a fit subject for rough handling as occasion offered.”

“To tie his legs together and fasten his hands forcible behind his back and leave him lying helpless on the lone hillside was not deemed out of place by any means,” Alexander wrote.

One moonlit encounter between the exciseman and smugglers on the Aberdeenshire coastline led to the brutal death of Philip Kennedy, one of Scotland’s most notorious gin smugglers

In December 1798, the lugger Crooked Mary landed 16 ankers of gin at Cransdale with Kennedy, who also farmed in the area, among those charged with moving the alcohol ashore.

Part of the cargo was due to be shifted across land by night by cart, with the gaugers tipped off about the planned movement.

Three excise men lay in wait - fully armed with swords - near the Kirk of Slains for the passing consignment.

As a precaution, the smugglers sent several men, including Kennedy, to check the route was clear.

Alexander wrote: “One of those who first encountered the excise men was Kennedy, and being a man of feared courage as well as powerful physique, he seized and then threw down two of them, calling to his companions to secure the third.”

However, his associates fled and hid in the bushes as the violent encounter unfolded with Kennedy’s brother believed to have been among them.

Kennedy was soon struck over the head by a sword held by the third exciseman.

Alexander wrote: “The savage gauger who was still free was then observed by some of the cowards lying perdu in the adjacent bushes to hold his sword above his head as if to make certain that he was using the edge.

“With a sweeping and relentless stroke, the smuggler’s skull was laid open with a frightful bash.”

With blood streaming, Kennedy staggered around a quarter of a mile to Kirkton of Slains, where he collapsed and died.

Now encounters like this must have been quite common, what makes this a wee bit more memoravle is that it is said the death of Kennedy inspired parts of Sir Walter Scott’s novel Guy Mannering.

A simple gravestone in the Slains Kirkyard is now the only visible reminder of the smuggling run that went disastrously wrong.

According to Duncan Harley in the A-Z of Curious Aberdeenshire, the skull of Philip Kennedy has been occasionally dug up during later internments at the graveyard.

“Gravediggers can easily identify it by the deep cut of the exciseman’s cutlass,” Harley wrote.

The stretch of coastline between Aberdeen and Peterhead was a smugglers’ paradise during the 18th Century given the never ending network of caves that can be found here.

According to accounts from the early part of the century, more than 1,000 ankers of foreign spirits were landed here every month.

Contraband as also hidden on the beaches with pits dug deep into the sand.

Dry sand and wet sand were used to cover the booty to conceal any changes to the ground caused by digging.

According to accounts, the pit was lined with bricks or timber, and the roof was always at least six feet underground in a bid to defy the probes used to locate hidden caches on the beach, which were six feet long.

[scapegrace74-blog]

The Man from Black Water, Chapter 16

A/N  Alright, we’re moving into the home stretch, but first, someone really needs to give Murtagh a bath.  Plus, Hamlet needs to be found.  Whoever is up to the task? Previous chapters are available on my AO3 page.

“It isna bad, a goistidh.  A far cry from the gutrot ye usually make.”

Jamie and Murtagh sat in the shelter of the older man’s wagon, three booted legs extended towards a blazing fire.  Nearby, the River Ericht burbled ceaselessly.  The night was cold enough to see one’s breath, but the peaty whisky Murtagh poured into their tin cups more than compensated.

“Do ye still have the bottles I gave ye?” Murtagh inquired.

“Aye.  I havena had the chance tae see about selling them.”

Murtagh rose stiffly and hopped to the cart, sliding out a wooden crate that clanked as he made his way back to the fire.

“Take them wi’ ye tae Dundee,” he advised, pushing the crate of bottles against Jamie’s thigh.  “They willna be enough fer the lass’ dowry, but t’will give ye a good beginning.”

“Now hold on…” Jamie began to protest, knowing his godfather lived on next to nothing and had worked most of his life to produce this first batch of decent whisky.  Murtagh held up a hand to forestall Jamie’s protests.

“Yer father and I built tha’ still t’gether.  Twas he that brought the copper pot o’er the pass from Braemar. As his only heir, that makes ye a full partner.”

Jamie shook his head, moved once again by his godfather’s practical but heartfelt generosity.  He knew from experience that there was no point in further protest, so he simply took another drink, enjoying the smoky burn in the back of his throat.  It really was quite tolerable stuff.

“Ye reckon there’s enough profit tae split twa ways?” he teased, leaning over the crate and counting nine bottles of various sizes.

“Better drink up,” the old man advised.  “Could be all yet get from the partnership.”

The next morning the two men rolled into Dundee, having decided to sell the whisky together so Murtagh could stock up on provisions before the winter.   Instead of steering the cart towards the nearest tavern, Jamie guided them instead to a filthy alley that smelled of piss.

“What are ye up tae, lad?  We need tae sell this liquor afore the law gets wind o’ what we’re about and locks us both up.”

Jamie asked for five minutes of forebearance, dismounted Donas and trotted away.  Not three minutes later he was back with second wooden crate, this one full of clean glass containers, identical and empty.

“Are ye daft, boy?” Murtagh lamented.  “We already had jars an’ now ye’ve gone and spent profits we dinna have…”

Murtagh broke off as he watched Jamie carefully decant the whisky into the new bottles.  Because of their uniform size, they now had twelve bottles, not nine.  The old man grunted in acknowledgement.  Not quite done with surprising his godfather, Jamie then brandished a pen.  Lips pursed in concentration, his bold cursive soon adorned the plain label on each bottle.  Murtagh picked up the nearest bottle and examined it.  Watching his godfather out of the corner of his eye, Jamie saw his face go slack.  

Sassenach Whisky

Glen Isla, Perthshire

1885

 The dual meaning of the name had come to Jamie the previous night as they sat in quiet companionship beneath the stars.  A Sassenach woman had inspired Murtagh’s foray into spirit making.  God willing, her Sassenach daughter would benefit from the result.

“Now we dinna have tae hide from the excisemen,” Jamie said once he had returned the pen to the owner of the mercantile store.  “An’ we can charge more fer each bottle.”

“We may make a whisky smuggler o’ ye yet, lad,” Murtagh said with pride.

***

The following night the two men once again sat at their camp by the Ericht, considerably cleaner and well-fed.  The whisky enterprise had netted them five pounds each, more money than Jamie made in a month as a labourer.  He’d insisted they spend one night in a hotel, where Murtagh had been introduced to the unaccounted joy of indoor plumbing with heated water.  Jamie had been concerned he might have to forcibly remove the old man from the tub, so intense was his delight.  With a trimmed beard and freshly laundered clothes, he was barely recognizable.

“Ye’ll be awright?” he asked for the third time, concerned for his godfather’s welfare all alone during a Highland winter.  Normally Henry or Jamie would look in on him every few weeks, always disguising their purpose with a semi-plausible excuse of needing the old man’s advice or some implement from his assortment of tools.

“I’ve been lookin’ after myself since afore ye were in nappies, lad.  Dinna fash,” Murtagh repeated his standard answer.

Jamie opened his mouth to retort, but a snapping branch sent him to his feet, eyes peering into the darkness.

“Dinna listen tae him, lad,” the darkness spoke.  “He loves it when folk fuss o’er him.  Fair glories in it.”

The lean form of Hugh Munro stepped out from between the trees, his features menacing as they caught the firelight and at odds with his hearty laugh.

“Thought I would find ye here,” he spoke as he shook Jamie’s hand. “Lookin’ up at yon mountains.”

“The only hame I’ll e’er ken,” Jamie confirmed, feeling the twist of homesickness in his gut.  If it weren’t for Claire and his promise to make Lallybroch suitable for her, he’d be up in the vales and glens already.

“Shouldna ye be leagues from here, Munro?” Murtagh groused as he slid over to make room next to the fire.  “There’s no cattle here for ye tae drove.”

“I’m headin’ back tae Netherton,” the wayfarer confirmed. Jamie leaned forward, suddenly much more interested in what the man had to say.  “An’ tis no’ cattle I’ll be searching fer, but a horse.”

“What?” the two other men spoke as one.   Hugh explained that Beauchamp’s prized colt had been set free, and now a call had gone out across the county for men willing to ride out and recover him.

“I reckoned ye might want tae join us,” he directed at Jamie.

The young Scot scoffed.  “I’m no’ sucker fer punishment.”

“Tis a shame,” Munro said philosophically.  “Beauchamp is sayin’ twas ye that set the horse free.”

“What!” Murtagh exclaimed.

“Me?  An’ ye expect me tae come tae his aid?  Tis askin’ too much o’ a man.”

Murtagh and Munro exchanged a significant look over the young man’s copper curls.

“Man, ye say?” Murtagh questioned.

“Tis what my faither raised me tae be,” Jamie replied petulantly.

“They say ye’re good wi’ a horse,” Munro interjected.  “What do ye do when one bucks ye off.”

“Ye dinna let it get the better o’ ye,” Jamie retorted with no little heat.  “Ye get right back on.”

Hugh Munro nodded sagely.  Jamie sighed, realizing he’d been beaten by his own words.

“Beauchamp willna want me anywhere near his… property,” he voiced one last feeble objection, not happy with the prospect of seeing Claire again before he had made good on his promise.

“Let me worry about that, lad,” Munro reassured him.

***

The Netherton stableyard was abuzz with the bodies of several dozen men and their horses, all milling about and speaking in raised voices. Into the centre of the crowd rode Henry Beauchamp.

“Gentlemen, I thank you for answering my summons.  As you know, my two-year old colt, Hamlet out of Masquerade, was nefariously freed the night before last.  Tracks show him fleeing into the hills.  Now, I’ve sent out scouts who will signal at the first sign…”

Henry tapered off as Hugh Munro cantered up.

“Munro, thank you for coming.”  The Highlander acknowledged the Englishman with a nod, but Henry Beauchamp’s attention was drawn by another figure approaching on horseback.

“What the devil is that outlaw doing here.  Come to inspect his handiwork, I suppose,” Henry muttered.   “Dougal!  I want that man off my property!”

Before the foreman could dispatch his orders, Hugh Munro spoke up.

“If he had done it, he wouldna be here.”

“You don’t really believe that…”

“I asked him along.”

“You did what?” the landlord asked in shock.

“I want him along,” Munro insisted.

Henry Beauchamp shook his head in disbelief.  “Have it your way, Munro.  He’ll dig his own grave.”

Without wasting any more time, the Englishman rose up on his stirrups and shouted to the crowd.

“There will be a reward, to be distributed amongst you as you see fit, once the colt has been recovered.  One hundred pounds!”

A roar went up from the assembled riders.  They turned as one and rushed to be the first down the narrow lane.

Jamie held Donas back, knowing there was no point in exhausting him this early in the chase.  A slight figure in a simple daydress made her way across the yard to where they stood.

“You’ll be careful?” Claire asked, one hand resting on his knee.

“Aye, Sassenach.  Dinna fash. I ken my way around the Highlands blindfolded,” he reassured her with a smile.

“It’s not the Highlands I’m worried about.  Dougal and his crew would do anything my father asked, without question.”

Jamie realized she had a point, but he felt confident in his ability to avoid sabotage.  He glanced towards the road, where the cloud of dust kicked up by so many horses was moving steadily away.

“Here,” Claire urged.  “Take these.”  Into his outstretched palm, she dropped three sugar cubes.

“Rollo, guard yer mistress,” he commanded his dog, and with a cheeky smile he cantered down the lane.

[overwatch]

Me: gun bad

Random American @ me: uhm excisemen... It's in the Constitution..!? My father shoots rats with an airsoft gun in our kitchen... but the guns always always locked up in a wooden and glass cabinet, so what... check mate liberal...

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

There was a sudden loud hammering at the door. It didn’t sound like knocking, but as though someone really were using a metal-headed hammer to demand admittance. I got to my feet to answer the summons, but without further warning, the door burst open, and a slender imperious figure strode into the room, speaking French in an accent so pronounced and an attitude so furious that I could not follow it all.

“Are you looking for Madame Jeanne?” I managed to put in, seizing a small pause when he stopped to draw breath for more invective. The visitor was a young man of about thirty, slightly built and strikingly handsome, with thick black hair and brows. He glared at me under these, and as he got a good look at me, an extraordinary change went across his face. The brows rose, his black eyes grew huge, and his face went white.

“Milady!” he exclaimed, and flung himself on his knees, embracing me about the thighs as he pressed his face into the cotton shift at crotch level.

“Let go!” I exclaimed, shoving at his shoulders to detach him. “I don’t work here. Let go, I say!”

“Milady!” he was repeating in tones of rapture. “Milady! You have come back! A miracle! God has restored you!”

He looked up at me, smiling as tears streamed down his face. He had large white perfect teeth. Suddenly memory stirred and shifted, showing me the outlines of an urchin’s face beneath the man’s bold visage.

“Fergus!” I said. “Fergus, is that really you? Get up, for God’s sake—let me see you!”

He rose to his feet, but didn’t pause to let me inspect him. He gathered me into a rib-cracking hug, and I clutched him in return, pounding his back in the excitement of seeing him again. He had been ten or so when I last saw him, just before Culloden. Now he was a man, and the stubble of his beard rasped against my cheek.

“I thought I was seeing a ghost!” he exclaimed. “It is really you, then?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I assured him.

“You have seen milord?” he asked excitedly. “He knows you are here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!” He blinked and stepped back half a pace, as something occurred to him. “But—but what about—” He paused, clearly confused.

“What about what?”

“There ye are! What in the name of God are ye doing up here, Fergus?” Jamie’s tall figure loomed suddenly in the doorway. His eyes widened at the sight of me in my embroidered shift. “Where are your clothes?” he asked. “Never mind,” he said then, waving his hand impatiently as I opened my mouth to answer. “I havena time just now. Come along, Fergus, there’s eighteen ankers of brandy in the alleyway, and the excisemen on my heels!”

And with a thunder of boots on the wooden staircase, they were gone, leaving me alone once more.

— Voyager

Gif: giphy.com, Season Three, Episode Six, October 22, 2017

Gif: tvfanatic.com, Season Three, Episode Six, October 22, 2017

Gif: thebookboyfriendharem.tumblr.com, Season Three, Episode Six, October 22, 2017

Photo: Starz, Season Three, Episode Six, October 22, 2017

Book: Voyager, Diana Gabaldon, 1994

Tumblr: October 17, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Three Episode Six #S3E6 #A. Malcolm #Voyager #Chapter Twenty-Six #Milady! You have come back! A miracle! God has restored you! #Fergus, is that really you? Get up, for God’s sake—let me see you! #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Fergus Claudel Fraser #152 #101718

[gotham-ruaidh]

I can't recall how Jamie came into ownership of the printing business. If he had been in Edenborough for only 2 years, that seems like a short time period to build a whiskey smuggler ring? Timeline seems off.

All we learn in Voyager is that he purchases the business as a means to conceal his smuggling - see quote below, which implies he’d been at the smuggling much longer than he was a printer. Though how he got into smuggling is never explained.

To start with he had only been looking for a business that would help to conceal and facilitate the smuggling. Possessed of a sizable sum from a recent profitable venture, he had determined to purchase a business whose normal operations involved a large wagon and team of horses, and some discreet premises that could be used for the temporary storage of goods in transit.

Carting suggested itself, but was rejected precisely because the operations of that business made its practitioners subject to more or less constant scrutiny from the Customs. Likewise, the ownership of a tavern or inn, while superficially desirable because of the large quantities of supplies brought in, was too vulnerable in its legitimate operation to hide an illegitimate one; tax collectors and Customs agents hung about taverns like fleas on a fat dog.

“I thought of printing, when I went to a place to have some notices made up,” he explained. “As I was waiting to put in my order, I saw the wagon come rumbling up, all loaded wi’ boxes of paper and casks of alcohol for the ink powder, and I thought, by God, that’s it! For excisemen would never be troubling a place like that.”

-- Voyager

[georgiansuggestion]

thwart the excisemen in your smuggling of wool

[yellowfeather84]

Is there a passage on the book where is described Fergus' reaction to see Claire is back?

There is! And I love his confusion of how this is all going to work out with Jamie’s current marital status. 

I sat back on the small velvet sofa, feeling mildly dazed. Somehow I hadn’t realized that quite so much went on in brothels in the daytime. 

There was a sudden loud hammering at the door. It didn’t sound like knocking, but as though someone really were using a metal-headed hammer to demand admittance. I got to my feet to answer the summons, but without further warning, the door burst open, and a slender imperious figure strode into the room, speaking French in an accent so pronounced and an attitude so furious that I could not follow it all. 

“Are you looking for Madame Jeanne?” I managed to put in, seizing a small pause when he stopped to draw breath for more invective. The visitor was a young man of about thirty, slightly built and strikingly handsome, with thick black hair and brows. He glared at me under these, and as he got a good look at me, an extraordinary change went across his face. The brows rose, his black eyes grew huge, and his face went white. 

“Milady!” he exclaimed, and flung himself on his knees, embracing me about the thighs as he pressed his face into the cotton shift at crotch level. 

“Let go!” I exclaimed, shoving at his shoulders to detach him. “I don’t work here. Let go, I say!” 

“Milady!” he was repeating in tones of rapture. “Milady! You have come back! A miracle! God has restored you!” 

He looked up at me, smiling as tears streamed down his face. He had large white perfect teeth. Suddenly memory stirred and shifted, showing me the outlines of an urchin’s face beneath the man’s bold visage. 

“Fergus!” I said. “Fergus, is that really you? Get up, for God’s sake—let me see you!” 

He rose to his feet, but didn’t pause to let me inspect him. He gathered me into a rib-cracking hug, and I clutched him in return, pounding his back in the excitement of seeing him again. He had been ten or so when I last saw him, just before Culloden. Now he was a man, and the stubble of his beard rasped against my cheek. 

“I thought I was seeing a ghost!” he exclaimed. “It is really you, then?” 

“Yes, it’s me,” I assured him. 

“You have seen milord?” he asked excitedly. “He knows you are here?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh!” He blinked and stepped back half a pace, as something occurred to him. 

“But—but what about—” He paused, clearly confused. 

“What about what?” 

“There ye are! What in the name of God are ye doing up here, Fergus?” Jamie’s tall figure loomed suddenly in the doorway. His eyes widened at the sight of me in my embroidered shift. “Where are your clothes?” he asked. “Never mind,” he said then, waving his hand impatiently as I opened my mouth to answer. “I havena time just now. Come along, Fergus, there’s eighteen ankers of brandy in the alleyway, and the excisemen on my heels!” 

And with a thunder of boots on the wooden staircase, they were gone, leaving me alone once more.

[veraadxer]

_”How on earth did you come to be a printer? It’s the last thing I would have thought of.” “Oh, that.” His mouth widened in a smile. “Well—it was an accident, aye?” To start with he had only been looking for a business that would help to conceal and facilitate the smuggling. Possessed of a sizable sum from a recent profitable venture, he had determined to purchase a business whose normal operations involved a large wagon and team of horses, and some discreet premises that could be used for the temporary storage of goods in transit. Carting suggested itself, but was rejected precisely because the operations of that business made its practitioners subject to more or less constant scrutiny from the Customs. Likewise, the ownership of a tavern or inn, while superficially desirable because of the large quantities of supplies brought in, was too vulnerable in its legitimate operation to hide an illegitimate one; tax collectors and Customs agents hung about taverns like fleas on a fat dog. “I thought of printing, when I went to a place to have some notices made up,” he explained. “As I was waiting to put in my order, I saw the wagon come rumbling up, all loaded wi’ boxes of paper and casks of alcohol for the ink powder, and I thought, by God, that’s it! For excisemen would never be troubling a place like that.” It was only after purchasing the shop in Carfax Close, hiring Geordie to run the press, and actually beginning to fill orders for posters, pamphlets, folios, and books, that the other possibilities of his new business had occurred to him. “It was a man named Tom Gage,” he explained. He loosed his hand from my grasp, growing eager in the telling, gesturing and rubbing his hands through his hair as he talked, disheveling himself with enthusiasm. “He brought in small orders for this or that—innocent stuff, all of it—but often, and stayed to talk over it, taking trouble to talk to me as well as to Geordie, though he must have seen I knew less about the business than he did himself.” He smiled at me wryly. “I didna ken much about printing, Sassenach, but I do ken men.” It was obvious that Gage was exploring the sympathies of Alexander Malcolm; hearing the faint sibilance of Jamie’s Highland speech, he had prodded delicately, mentioning this acquaintance and that whose Jacobite sympathies had led them into trouble after the Rising, picking up the threads of mutual acquaintance, skillfully directing the conversation, stalking his prey. Until at last, the amused prey had bluntly told him to bring what he wanted made; no King’s man would hear of it. “And he trusted you.” It wasn’t a question; the only man who had ever trusted Jamie Fraser in error was Charles Stuart—and in that case, the error was Jamie’s. Voyager Diana Gabaldon —¿Cómo se te ocurrió meterte a impresor? Es lo último que habría imaginado. —Ah, eso. —Ensanchó la boca en una sonrisa—. Bueno, fue por casualidad. En un principio, había estado buscando un negocio que sirviera para disimular y facilitar el contrabando. Puesto que poseía una suma considerable, gracias a una operación reciente, decidió adquirir una empresa cuyas operaciones normales requirieran una carreta grande, con su tiro de caballos, y algún local discreto que se pudiera utilizar para almacenar provisionalmente la mercancía en tránsito. —Lo de la imprenta se me ocurrió cuando fui a encargar algunos carteles —me explic��—. Mientras esperaba que me atendieran vi llegar la carreta, cargada con cajas de papel y barriles de alcohol para diluir la tinta en polvo. Entonces pensé: «¡Caramba, eso es!» A la policía nunca se le ocurriría sospechar de un sitio así. Sólo después de comprar la empresa de Carfax Close, contratar a Geordie y recibir los primeros encargos, se le ocurrieron las otras posibilidades del oficio. —Fue por un hombre llamado Tom Gage —explicó—. Me hacía pequeños encargos, todos inocentes, pero venía con frecuencia y se quedaba charlando conmigo y con Geordie, aunque debió haber notado que él conocía mejor el oficio. Obviamente, Gage estaba explorando las simpatías de Alexander Malcolm: al identificar su acento montañés, mencionó a algunos conocidos que se habían visto en dificultades después del Alzamiento por sus ideas jacobitas y manejó hábilmente la conversación hasta que la divertida presa le dijo, sin más rodeos, que podía encargarle lo que deseara; los hombres del rey no se enterarían. Así comenzó la asociación; en un principio fue estrictamente comercial, pero con el transcurso del tiempo se fue profundizando hasta convertirse en amistad. Viajera Diana Gabaldon

[outlanderanatomy]

Todays Fun Fact: grume Anatomy def: Grume is an archaic term for a mass of blood, such in blood clot. Clots form as a protective mechanism designed to staunch the flow of blood from breached vessels. Our modern equivalent term is, hematoma. Outlander def: In another “Claire, what-ha’-ye-done!!!" moment, our good doctor fells John Barton, Esq., by slashing his leg with her wee knife! Puir John trips, falls and strikes his head on the stone hearth! Let this be fair warning to all excisemen - dinna mess with this Surgical - Sassenach - she is licensed to wield a blade! Learn about grumes / hematomas in Anatomy Lesson #37, Mars and Scars. Read more fun facts at: http://ift.tt/2j7XCKO! Link in profile. 👆🏼 A deeply grateful, Outlander Anatomist #grume, #bloodclot, #dianagabaldon, #clairefraser, #caitrionabalfe, #outlanderanatomy, #outlandishanatomy, #headinjury, #hematoma, #starz, #sony http://ift.tt/2AqftRr

[margsld]

Outlander Epi 3.07 Recap

Crème de Menthe mixed with lemonade is dreadful.

This week's episode saw an unfamiliar writers name on the title cards, for fans.  Karen Campbell is credited and by the surname, sounds like she comes from good Scottish stock!  We like her already.  It was another difficult part of the books to cover which drew mixed reviews but I actually enjoyed this episode. 

We start in the middle of the previous episode’s cliff hanger which had our fresh-from-the-clouds lass Dr Claire, in da house or kittle hoosey to be exact.  She was scarily caffeine deficient and fighting that accountant thug for her life!  To distract him she asked what Pi times 3,562 was and while he couldn’t resist such a juicy random calculation, she grabbed the nearest knife.  Go Claire!

No caffeine makes Claire very nasty so he had to dodge her viper-like advances which sent him tripping, smashing into the fireplace’s stone hearth like a pumpkin falling from a great height.  The resulting thunk meant Mr H&R Block was not going to be lodging any returns anytime soon. 

The cavalry arrive too late as usual.  Jamie, Fergus and Madame Jean/Jan burst into the room after hearing the kerfuffle. Claire was sipping her cup of Joe by then calmly declaring "He’s dead, chillax!"

Suddendly Mr H&R Block aka Blockhead stirs on the hearth and Claire rejoices that he hasn’t died.  She's like a cat playing with a half-dead mousey.  

Now fully caffeinated and firmly under the Hipocratic Oath, examines him and diagnoses a severe swelling on the brain.  Hitting stone from a height will do that to a head, Claire.  Much to Jamie's chagrin, she's determined to give him a second chance and knows it will kill him if she doesn’t do something fast. 

#AccountantLivesMatter!

Jamie can’t hang about and watch though as the excisemen who hired Mr Blockhead, will be looking for him soon.  He organizes the last of their smuggled casks & barrels hidden in the basement to be moved.  He then sends Fergus and Young Ian to negotiate their sale on his behalf so that he can pretend nothing is going on if/when they are raided.

Claire races to the local apocothary for brain surgery supplies and pushes in like a two year old waiting to get on the jumpy castle.  Another customer, a Mr Archie Campbell takes opposition to her impatience and she offers to pacify him by visiting his sick sister (as an experienced healer or killer in the next few minutes, if you don’t move). He accepts this offer and Claire leaves with her supplies, keen to dig her scalpel into Mr Blockhead’s smashed-in noggin. Party on!

Ian (all of 16, making him a master negotiator) talks their customer into buying all the barrels for a good price and throws in 3 Crème de Menthe barrels to sweeten the deal. As you do.  Nothing dodgy about Crème de Menthe sold by a 16 year old. Nope.

Back in the Brothel, Claire is prepping for building a shed.  Errh sorry, saw a drill and jumped to conclusions.  No.... she’s drilling a massive hole in her assailants head. Mayhap so he can get better Wifi or you know...live.  Same same. 

Downstairs Madame Jean is pulling out her hair and all her charm school knowledge as the shifty Sir Percival arrives with his henchman, the freaky Mad Eye Moody doppleganger. Creepy much?

Claire is like a ghoulish kid in the candy store and is soon drilling a hole in Mr Blockhead’s block head.  Yi Tien Cho is her surgical assistant/cheer squad through the process. Eventually and after some classic grinding/sucking sounds, blood gushes out and we assume Mr Blockhead will live to ride the excise wagon again. *Cheer!

In the basement, Sir Percival is unhappy to find the floor is bare apart from some spilled water.  At least we hope it was water.  I'm not touching it.

With the coast clear, Jamie heads back to check on Claire.  Unfortunately, Mr Blockhead will not be lodging his tax next year and has died.  That bed needs to be burned now surely?

Claire is unhappy to lose her patient because her God complex is firmly ingrained after saving people for 14 years.  Jamie is his usual supportive self and says she can save someone else another time.  Moving on. Whisky anyone?

To celebrate their successful barrel clearance sale, Fergus and Ian chug a few coldies down at the pub.  Soon it’s clear that Young Ian has goo-goo eyes for the barmaid Brighid.  Fergus calls her over and leaves Ian with her to get cosy. Fergilicious is the best wingman ever! 

Ian is a virgin and inexperienced with women but followed Fergus' advice even though he was nervous af.  Bridhid is taken with his cuteness so agrees to have a drink with him.  In the background Mad Eye Moody quietly watches on giving Ian serious side-eye.  Not the good sort either.  Ominous music alert.

Claire is still sulking about the dead guy in her bed.  Building a bridge, she decides to go find another patient that needs her and is not likely to pop their clogs before sunset. She goes to visit Archie Campbell and his ailing sister Margaret. 

Like my husband in his cave on a Wednesday night, Margaret isn’t in the mood for company.  Archie introduces Claire to Margaret and Margaret unexpectedly springs to life, ranting wildly about blood and Abandawe. I love her, she's fun. 

Archie explains she is known as a Seer and people pay well to hear her visions.  Seems Scotland had a lot of cray crays errhh, I mean Seers in this era.

Claire provides the recipe for some wicked herbal teas before suggesting another visit tomorrow.  Archie declines her self-invite explaining they are catching the red-eye to the West Indies on the ‘morrow, to see a rich client.  Oooh la lah!

Young Ian has turned the Printshop into his private Love Shack and is wooing his new GF with songs and kisses.  Stop!  You are killing us with cute. 

Claire returns to the Brothel to find Jamie at the table.  The king was in his counting house, counting out his money.... along came a frustrated Claire and said it’s time to move.  Burning the bed wouldn’t be enough for me either, Claire. 

As always, they are interrupted by a knock at the door announcing Ian Murray Senior is down stairs.  Stuff a duck, it's peg leg!  I've missed him so much.

Ian is very happy to see Claire but he’s frantically looking for Young Ian. He’d run away from home again, the wee pest.  Jamie lies to him and Claire is trying to think of England so Ian can't see she knows something. Ian is really distraught and it tugs at all our heartstrings.  Jamie promises to bring him to Lallybroch if he turns up.

On the way out Ian asks Jamie if Claire knows the big SECRET.  She doesn’t.  OMG to the max.  Ian runs/hobbles all the way home to share the gossip with Jenny McHappypants.

Over in the Love Shack, Ian’s cherry has been carefully popped, stuffed and mounted on the mantelpiece for prosperity.  They have company though and hear someone breaking into the shop. 

Ian sends Brighid scarpering and goes to confront the intruder - Mad Eye Moody.  MEM is looking for the smuggled barrels and is searching high and low.  Ian tells him there is nothing to find and to leave but as happens, a fight breaks out.  After a bit of shovey-lovey, MEM bumps a secret door and out pops some hot-off-the-press seditious pamphlets.  Bugger.

Ian struggles to grab the pamphlets off him.  MEM pushes Ian off, pulls out his pistol and shoots at Ian, missing him but accidentally starting a fire.  Things soon escalate into a scene from a Burning Man festival in Carfax Close.  Oh Lordy there's a fire!  *pass the marshmallows  Young Ian finding himself trapped, waits for help.

After Ian has left, Claire confronts Jamie about lying to his family. She's upset that Jamie thinks he knows what’s best for Ian Jnr instead of letting his parents know he's ok.  Claire tries to reason with the stubborn gingernut but he thinks she should be used to lying, having lied their way around Paris.  Typical bloke logic to bring up something that happened 20 years ago.  Ugh.

Claire throws the “you aren’t his parent” line at him and he returns a volley of bitterness for having missed Bree’s upbringing.  Turns out Jamie is jealous of Frank too. Duh, Frank was a sexy spy! 

Before they can throw ashtrays and start slamming doors, Jamie is alerted to the fire and races to the Printshop with Claire close behind.  

On arrival at the Printshop and finding it ablaze, Jamie realises Ian is still inside and goes to his rescue.  We all love the nod to Batman as Jamie jumps from the top level down to young Ian with full super hero drop slow mo. Rounds of applause please.

Checking Ian is breathing and looking for a way out, Jamie finds the miniature of Willie and stuffs it in his pocket.  Sentimental fool, there's a fire!  Get out now!  Throwing Ian over his shoulder like a Santa sack, he climbs a press, squeezes through a window, down the front stairs to safety.  Just in time to see the Edinburgh fire department squirt a tiny water pistol at the inferno.  Good job fellas.

Knowing his life in Edinburgh is now cooked.  *pun intended  Jamie instructs Yi Tien Cho to go pay Leslie and Hayes for their work.  Fergus is sent to try and intercept Mad Eye Moody before he can give the pamphlets to Sir Percival and make Alex Malcolm a very wanted man.  After that, he instructed Fergus to then round up Ned Gowan (Solicitor from Season 1) and get him to Lallybroch.  Jamie wants him to help sort out the fact he has another wife there.  Confucius say WHAT!!!!  That is a pretty yucky Secret Mr Fraser.

The End.

Can't wait for next week!  Thanks for reading.

[scotianostra]

July 31st 1780 saw the first edition of Robert Burns’ poems, published, known commonly as “The Kilmarnock Edition.”

Officially called ‘Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect’ Burns was still farming in Ayrshire when he had this published by local printers John Wilson who has a press in Kilmarnock, the town giving it the name most of us know it by today.

Earlier in 1786 Burns had circulated a prospectus inviting friends and patrons to subscribe to the printing of an edition of his poems. Of this first edition, 350 were paid for by subscribers and a total of only 612 were printed altogether, so if you have one it is quite rare!

The collection included what were to become some of his best-loved works including Tae a Mouse, The Cotter’s Saturday Night and The Holy Fair.

The printing of the Kilmarnock edition of his poems was a turning point in Burns’ life. He abandoned his plans to emigrate to Jamaica and instead spent the next year or so in Edinburgh where he was acclaimed as a poet and welcomed in Edinburgh Society.

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer is from The Kilmarnock Edition, here Burns is poking thirsty fun at 'damn'd Excise-men', long before he was to become one of them himself!  Rabbie’s exasperation with what he took to be Parliament's bias against the national drink of his native land sums up too, his larger discontent with London's prejudice against the national interest. Oh how little has changed since then eh! 

The poem was prompted by the Scotch Distillery Act of 1786, a protectionist act on behalf of London gin distillers that hiked duties on whisky exported to England and taxed Scottish still capacity. It was a call for action to Scotland’s 45 members of Parliament from a man who knew all too well the destructive power of such acts.   

Burns challenges the Scottish MP’s, many by name, to bear witness in Parliament to the devastating impact of “that curst restriction / On aqua-vita.” He appeals to their compassion and patriotism, calls on them to stand strong, flatters them as statesmen on par with Demosthenes, prays for God’s blessing on them, and wishes the devil on any hypocrites. 

He asks if any Scot could fail to feel his blood boil at seeing Mother Scotland’s stills destroyed and wealth plundered, crying to the MPs

The poem concludes  as he hails whisky as the drink of the “freeborn, martial boys” of Scotland, and he readily sees the “foe” as government: “royal George’s will.” His final lines are well founded. If tyranny is linked to the oppression of distilling, then it follows that “Freedom and whisky gang thegither.”

I’ve copied and pasted it in a way that you can click on any words you toil with and you will get a translation from the Burns.Org site 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires, An' doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple poet's pray'rs Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her arse Low i' the dust, And scriechinhout prosaic verse, An like to brust! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On aqua-vitae; An' rouse them up to strong conviction, An' move their pity. Stand forth an' tell yon Premier youth The honest, open, naked truth: Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, His servants humble: The muckle deevil blaw you south If ye dissemble! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant them; If honestly they canna come, Far better want them. In gath'rin votes you were na slack; Now stand as tightly by your tack: Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, An' hum an' haw; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'. Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle; An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a stell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel, Or limpet shell! Then, on the tither hand present her- A blackguard smuggler right behint her, An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sight? But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell,^2 There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your Honours! can ye see't- The kind, auld cantie carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An' gar them hear it, An' tell them wi'a patriot-heat Ye winna bear it? Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause, An' with rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster,^3 a true blue Scot I'se warran'; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;^4 An' that glib-gabbit Highland baron, The Laird o' Graham;^5 An' ane, a chap that's damn'd aulfarran', Dundas his name:^6 Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;^7 True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;^8 An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;^9 An' mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. See sodger Hugh,^10 my watchman stented, If poets e'er are represented; I ken if that your sword were wanted, Ye'd lend a hand; But when there's ought to say anent it, Ye're at a stand. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle; Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, Anither sang. This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her whisky. An' Lord! if ance they pit her till't, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, An'durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' the first she meets! For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks! E'en cowe the cadie! An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin' lady. Tell you guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, ^11 I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's ^12 Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Was kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He needna fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert. And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still you mither's heart support ye; Then, tho'a minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your gingers, poor an' hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours, a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie's! Your humble poet sings an' prays, While Rab his name is. Postscript Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne're envies, But, blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys Tak aff their whisky. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms, When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves; Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves! Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a'throw'ther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe! He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi'bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me whisky's name in Greek I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till, whare ye sit on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam; Freedom an' whisky gang thegither! Take aff your dram!

[mercurygray]

Caleb Brewster, for F or G. I couldn't choose :3

[Send me a letter and I’ll write a minific!]

F: An absent touch.

Caleb Brewster didn’t consider himself the homesick type. When he’d first shipped out with the whalers, a scrub-cheeked youth of eighteen, he’d given no second thought to his family’s farm, or his aunt and uncle, or the friends he’d leave behind - his only thought was for the sea, and to hell with the rest. That was what he had sworn, tumbled into his hammock during a high sea listening to one of the other greenhands snivel and cry for home.   Some men would go for the money, the distant promise of shares in the profits paid out when they returned to shore  - and those were the same men who shirked at the first sign of a rough sea, who turned into their beds at night and unhappily dreamed of home.

Caleb promised himself he wouldn’t snivel, no matter how hard it got.

Those men rarely shipped again, too glad to return to shore and the dull farm lives they’d left behind, too eager to go back to what was easy, what they knew. But as soon as he was back on land Caleb was anxious to get to sea again. The salt air haunted him the whole winter, and as soon as captains were taking crews again, he was back to New York with his chest and his papers, badgering the wharves and coffeehouses in search of a ship. And the rhymn his life fell into, the sea and the waiting, suited him. Sometimes he shipped with the whalers and sometimes with merchantman and sometimes with a quick and nimble ship looking for hands with stout hearts and still tongues trying to get past the excisemen.

Until one winter he came home, and his sister dragged him to church of a Sunday to hammer something of salvation back into him, and there, sitting in Reverend Tallmadge’s church, was a siren he’d never seen before, all dark curls and bright eyes, and suddenly there was no salt in the air, and no salvation he wanted more. He asked her name, and Ben, home from school, had laughed, and gave it, leaving his friend to wonder when Merry Hayman had gotten so pretty.

He wasn’t quite so quick running back to New York and his ships after that, finding himself wishing that winter would linger, that the ice would take just a little bit longer to thaw, that the leaves wouldn’t come quite so soon back to the trees in the apple orchard, that the days would stay short and dark so he might have the comfort, a little while longer, of her face by the fireside as she visited with his sister on Sunday evenings. “You might ask her to stay,” Charity would offer, watching Caleb’s eyes follow her out into the dark as she walked home. “We could do with a Mrs. Brewster about the place.”

But the time never seemed right for asking. For a smile, a piece of her ribbon, a kiss, always, but for her, her whole self?

He’d come close, once, but the words couldn’t move past his lips, and he’d tripped through a different request, far less demanding.

He lay in his hammock and held it now, the consolation prize he’d wished himself. A woman’s outline, inked, for a pretty penny, onto a canvas by an artist traveling through Setauket, banded above and below with scrollwork bearing the legend “Home Again”. A sorry substitute. But was that not so like her hair, to curl in wisps at the base of her head, and was that not her nose, her cheeks, her shoulders?

His fingers curled around the edges of the canvas.

If he tried quite hard, he could still feel the touch of the hand that had given it to him.

[techscopic]

‘Outlander’ stars Caitriona Balfe and Sam Heughan discuss the Season 3 finale’s twist ending

Spoiler alert: This recap contains plot details for Outlander Season 3, episode 13, titled “The Eye of the Storm.” To refresh your memory of where we left off, check out our episode 12 recap.

Outlander Season 3 has taken Claire and Jamie Fraser on a truly epic voyage — from Scotland to Jamaica, and now to America, as the last moments of the finale revealed.  

The two have faced impossible odds — from murderous excisemen and jealous wives to kidnappings and arrests, not to mention a separation of 20 years (on top of a separation of 200 years) — but Season 3 still ends on a hopeful note. After surviving a devastating storm, Claire and Jamie have inadvertently washed up on the shores of America, leaving the baggage of the past behind them. Read more…

More about Outlander, Spoilers, Sam Heughan, Caitriona Balfe, and Outlander Season 3

‘Outlander’ stars Caitriona Balfe and Sam Heughan discuss the Season 3 finale’s twist ending syndicated from http://ift.tt/2wBRU5Z

[wesonerdy]

RECAP: 'Outlander' Season 3, Episode 7 "Crème de Menthe"

RECAP: ‘Outlander’ Season 3, Episode 7 “Crème de Menthe”

Jamie’s and Claire’s life together has always been crazy and this week’s Outlander brings the chaos: from bootlegging and dead excisemen, to prophetic seers and family drama. Full recap of “Crème de Menthe,” including new clips (first aired Sunday, October 29 at 8pm ET|PT on STARZ).

(more…)

[thegentlemanselection-blog]

✅Did you know that Magnus Eunson the forerunner of the Famous Highland Park Distillery used to be a church officer but also an illegal spirit distiller? He used to hide his forbidden spirits under the pulpit of the local church, away from the attention of Excise officers. Ironically, Magnus finally fell arrested on the hands of John Robertson the same Excisemen that later on would purchase the highland park distillery and assumes control of the whisky production in 1816 👊✅ I will be reviewing this Weekend the Highland Park 25 years old 48.1%ABV. 😉 Follow me turn on your notifications and stay tuned. Have a great weekend Whisk(e)y lovers cheers 🥃👌✅ #whisky#whiskey#singlemalt#scotch#scotchwhisky#highlandparkwhisky#branding#productphotography#glendronach#cigars#cigar#singlemalts#whiskyreview#malt#dram#themacallan#Whiskytasting#dappertude#glenfiddich#japanesewhisky#whiskyporn#sydneydrinks#hibiki#yamazaki#johnniewalker#hibikiwhisky#kanpai#whiskygram#macallan#instawhisky (at Sydney, Australia)

[essayeditorblr-blog]

Help with my custom definition essay on pokemon go

Online essay help http://gaspy.info/help-with-my-custom-definition-essay-on-pokemon-go/

Help with my custom definition essay on pokemon go

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