14. Scotland, 1780His weariness had lasted for months. And yet it wasn’t physical, not the kind felt after a hard day of work. No, even at sixty-seven years old, Niall Fearmòr’s body still had the vigour needed to perform the labour of farming and distilling.
What was really wearing him down was fighting a war of attrition. For twenty years, he had been relentlessly opposing an unjust regime and system, by wielding the only weapon he and his family had against an all-powerful government: whisky. And even if he could pride himself on having won more often than not, Niall suffered from the feeling of bequeathing an unfinished struggle to his son, a hopeless war for his people’s independence.
“Even a stupid exciseman should be able to find it.”
The comment from Tom, his eldest son, aged ni
