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Highlands. Much of his property—from its northern boundary on the original MacDonnell estate near Arisaig, which he had inherited from his mother, to the east as far as Glen Finnan and to the south as far as Glen Tarbert—was heavily timbered. A grateful government had awarded the estates to him for his Campbell loyalty after the failed Rising twenty years before.
    When he looked at his trees, Sir Renfrew did not see lush green oaks, beeches, and Caledonian pines. He saw good English gold, and he was no fool. Much as he owned, he knew that he needed more. He was burning five tons of timber for each ton of iron he produced, and at such a rate a bloomery denuded its forests more rapidly than anyone had expected, and then had to be moved.
    The bell rang and rang to announce the tapping, and children who had been gathering dead wood for fuel from the forest floor ran from every direction to see the grand sight of molten metal pouring like the devil’s own blood from the furnace mouth. One small one, holding her skirt to her chin and flying barefoot over the pine needles, rocks, and cones in her path, tripped over a root and sprawled right at Sir Renfrew’s feet. Tangled in her skirt, she fell again when she tried to get up, and began to wail in frustration.
    Bending over, he picked her up, set her on her feet, and dusted her off. “Cease yer bleating, lassie,” he said kindly. “Ye willna die of a wee fall, ye ken.”
    “I want tae see the deevil’s fires,” she sobbed.
    “Aye, sure, and so ye will. Yonder they spew from the furnace, and they’ll be pouring forth the whole livelong day, so ye canna miss seeing them. Here,” he added, reaching into his pocket for a halfpenny when she looked at him with her lower lip extended and tears spilling down her pale cheeks. “Here’s a wee copper bit to make ye smile again.”
    Blue eyes widening, the child took the halfpenny and clutched it in her grimy fist. Beginning to turn away, she remembered her manners and bobbed an awkward curtsy before dashing off to see the tapping.
    He watched her go, then turned when he heard his furnace manager’s voice call out behind him.
    “It looks to be going well, MacIver,” Sir Renfrew said with a nod. “Ha’ ye the figures yet from the last run?”
    “Aye, sir. Took just over a hundred pounds o’ wood, that ’un, but this’ll tak’ more. We’ve no so much o’ the hardwoods left till we can cut more, and whilst the pine burns hot, it burns gey quick as well.” He handed Sir Renfrew a sheaf of papers. “Mr. MacPhun said tae give ye this, sir. ’Tis the list o’ them what still owes the furnace stores for flour and meal and whatnot.”
    Sir Renfrew scanned the list. “Did he tell ye who owes the most?”
    “Aye, Gabhan MacGilp.”
    “He owns a cow, does he not?”
    “Aye, a fine one, and a wee pony as well.”
    “Tell MacPhun to go and put my brand on the cow. Tell him MacGilp can buy her back when he pays his shot for his supplies. That will bring the others in quick enough, I vow.”
    “Most ha’ no siller tae pay,” the man said uneasily.
    “They’ll find a way. Tell them they can work extra hours in the gravel pits or loading gravel and tobacco if they want to earn more, or they can sign on with one of my ships.”
    “Aye, I’ll tell them, but most work eighteen t’ twenty hours the day, as it is, and the ones wha’ fancy a life at sea ha’ gone wi’ the boats already.”
    Sir Renfrew, being of no mind to listen to paltry excuses, turned away without reply. Then, bethinking himself of another matter, he turned back and called to the man, “Has MacKellar returned yet from Mingary?”
    “Aye, sir. I saw him ride up tae Dunbeither House earlier when I were up on the ridge top. Likely he stayed the night wi’ his granny at Shielfoot. He’ll likely be along straightaway.”
    Sir Renfrew nodded and dismissed the man, then turned and walked up to the furnace. Built from bricks he had imported all the way