Luceo Non Uro || Outlander

Chapter 28

Fergus

Milord used his shovel to mark a ring in the dirt.

"How far down will we dig?"

"Hm. Eight or ten feet." 

I groaned inwardly. I had tried to think of some excuse to get out of this work, but Marsali insisted. She held Brianna's leaving over my head as reason to spend the day digging Milord's privy. At least it was not one in use, only the start of one.  

I heard Josiah's shovel pierce the ground. He sent a pile of dirt arching through the air. It hardly made a dent in the earth. We had a long ways to go to reach ten feet.

"What do ye think?" Milord asked. 

"What a privilege to help with such a task."

"You may laugh, but there's an art to it."

"Voltaire says perfect is the enemy of good," which translates to can we dig the damn hole already and call it a day? I was anxious to return to the still. I had begun another batch of whiskey that I wanted to blend with our three-year aged casks. Over the winter, I had begun experimenting with different blends and distillation techniques. I was certain this product would be a dramatic improvement from our first batches, which were already better than anything else we could find in North Carolina. 

"I'm sure Voltaire has never dug a privy."

I heard a booming sound ring through the air. My stomach dropped. There was a plume of black smoke rising over the tree line. I could see debris hurling through the sky.

"The still." 

I began to run. My thoughts were racing. Had I left the fires burning? Did I leave a candle lit? I could not believe an explosion of that size was my fault. There was no way a simple pot still could do such damage. Fires were one thing. It was a risk that we understood. But from the black plume still stretching into the sky, I knew the still was completely obliterated. 

And on fire. 

My still was on fire. Two of its walls were partially ripped down by the blast, and the flames were spreading across the roof. It threatened collapse at any moment. The explosion had also torn the copper still into pieces. Sharp bits of metal piping littered the ground, and there was a gaping hole in the side of the wash still. 

I had helped Milord design it. We had spent weeks drawing plans and arguing over the exact angle and width of the lyne arm, and the bell shape of the stills. The blacksmith had molded the finest copper money could buy to fit our specifications down to the smallest detail.

"Fergus!" I heard Milord shout behind me. I had not realized I was still charging towards the burning building. I knew we were not only losing the still, but the years of work we had put into our product. The casks had not yet caught fire. "Fergus, leave it!"

I considered his words. But this was the one thing I contributed to the Ridge. It was the only thing I truly excelled at. I pressed forward. I raised my cravat to cover my mouth and nose in a futile attempt to keep the black cloud of smoke from choking my airways. 

"Form a line, we will pass them out," I ordered Josiah. He nodded once and stood ready to accept the first cask.

There was no time. We only managed to save five quarter-casks of our three year old whiskey. All of last year's production, and this season's whiskey were consumed. As the flames claimed each one, I felt as though a piece of me was lost. Each one was a promise for my children's future. It was my livelihood. I sank to my knees and watched it burn.