Love and Music Will Endure (15 page)

Charles straightened his back and summoned up a smile as Peter Nicolson was ushered in. He was a meaty man whose muscular shoulders strained the seams of his jacket. When John invited him to begin he spoke in English with a hesitant Gaelic lilt.

‘I've come from Skye where I spoke with Captain Fraser's tenants. He seems to be universally despised.' Màiri nodded triumphantly. ‘Also, I spent some time meeting crofters in the Braes townships near Portree. Three in particular: Gedintailear, Balmeanach and Peinchorran. They're all tenants of Lord MacDonald.'

‘An absentee landlord,' John added.

‘That's not true!' cried Màiri, ‘He returns to Skye every summer.'

‘He does indeed, by a special train all the way from his grand house in London up to Strome Ferry. Then he transfers to his private steam yacht, “The Lady of the Isles” isn't it called?' said John in a mocking tone.

‘And he expects all his tenantry to cheer him as it sails to Armadale. I suggest we listen to what Peter has to say about the mood of the people after the terrible season Skye has suffered.' Henry Whyte motioned for him to continue.

‘Aye, it's been a dreadful year. The potato blight struck again and most of the other crops have been lost, swept out of the fields in violent gales. The final blow was the loss of over two hundred fishing boats in the storms, but at least the rents of the Braes men have not been increased.'

Màiri grunted in approval.

‘Surely the rents are already too high for their inferior land. So their yields will be poor even in good years. That's the trouble when landlords take away the best land for sporting estates and farms,' The Clach commented.

‘It's more complicated than that,' replied Charles, ‘After all, the sporting estates bring money and employment into the Highlands.'

‘It's time the landlords listened to the grievances of their tenants. There's growing anger against them and if they don't take care they may indeed face the same violence that has happened in Ireland,' The Clach retorted.

‘I suggest we hear Mr Nicolson's report before we enter into a debate,' Henry Whyte intervened. He nodded at their guest to carry on.

‘The Braes crofters were talking about Ben Lee. Twenty years ago they lost their common pasture land there when a tacksman, called John MacKay, took it over and ran up to a thousand sheep on the hillside, but recently there've been rumours that he doesn't want to renew the lease. This has raised hopes that Lord MacDonald's factor, Alexander MacDonald, might return Ben Lee to them.'

‘When I was a girl there used to be a big fair at Sligachan. The folk from Uist used to graze their cattle on Ben Lee while it was on.'

‘As always, Màiri, you have a wealth of local knowledge,' observed Charles.

Again Peter Nicolson waited until the Secretary gestured for him to continue.

‘I was invited to the cèilidh house and made welcome with a seat close to the fire and a dram pressed into my hand. I asked them why a stranger called MacKay held land in a place that since the beginning of time belonged to MacDonalds, MacLeods and MacKinnons. There was a silence and then a greybeard spoke up, Alasdair the Seer he was called.

“You're a Nicolson yourself?” he asked.

“Aye, indeed, from Mull,” I replied, “It's a proud name too on Skye I believe.”

The old man, a MacDonald himself, scrutinised me, “Maybe so but the Nicolsons are outsiders on Skye.” Then he counted back the generations on his fingers and declared that the Nicolsons only arrived there three hundred years ago.'

The Clach seized the chance to scuttle off into the undergrowth and startle a wild goose into flight, ‘How fascinating to see the oral tradition in action, going back through the Christian names and patronymics of their forefathers,' he enthused, leaning forward, ‘I wonder how far back he could go – maybe even to the time of Somerled himself. As you know I've a great interest in genealogical research. I've even discovered that William Gladstone and I are related to each other.'

‘Would that be on the right side of the blanket?' cackled Màiri.

‘Fascinating indeed. Perhaps you could deliver a lecture on the topic later at a Gaelic Society meeting,' suggested Charles, moving his words around slowly as if shifting heavy pieces of furniture. ‘Proceed, Mr Nicolson.'

‘So the
bodach
went on, saying how generous the Lord MacDonald of the time was in giving land at Scorrybreac, near Portree, to the exiled Nicolsons and upsetting his old enemy MacLeod of Dunvegan in the process. Anyway, it looked as if a quarrel might break out then and there between the different clan members. Fortunately a younger man spoke up, asking them all to give me a chance to be heard.

‘So I painted a vision of the future, of how life could be for them if they had their rightful land returned. How they would have better crops and more money from selling their beasts. How they wouldn't be living hand to mouth any longer. How their
sons could learn trades; masons, carpenters and tailors would be needed. They started to nod as I spoke but that old man interrupted, “It's not the future you're talking about but the old days before the tacksmen took all the best land. What we've been left with will never be any good to raise more crops. All we have in abundance is our children. They go off to the Lowlands and send us money to keep us going. Aye, we're good at breeding children here.” He cackled with laughter and they all joined in.

‘“But surely,” I said, “Once those children go away they never return? They raise their own children in other places and the link to the land is lost.” But I knew that they'd stopped listening to me. When I left I could hear them mocking me behind my back.'

‘In what way?' enquired John.

‘They were muttering under their breath the words of that old song about the man from Islay, the man from Mull and the Devil himself.'

‘And the worst of the three was the man from Mull,' added Màiri, smiling in amusement, ‘That's a very ancient joke.'

A mottled flush spread up Peter Nicolson's neck, ‘And a bad one,' he said through clenched teeth.

‘There's always been rivalry between the different islands,' said John gently, ‘I know I'm laughed at behind my back as the strange Islay man in the kilt who tramps through the countryside.'

‘Did you meet with any other crofters while you were in the Braes?' Henry Whyte asked.

‘Well,' Nicolson continued, ‘Later I spoke with the Free Church elders and the schoolmaster. They listened politely enough. I was cautious, pointing out that Lord MacDonald was nothing like Captain Fraser. Nevertheless I suggested that his taking Ben Lee sixteen years earlier had caused hardship and that he now had the chance to return the pasture to its rightful owners.'

‘Did they agree?' The Clach asked.

‘Did they, indeed,' Nicolson sighed, ‘They all leapt to his defence. “But Lord MacDonald was only a boy of twelve years old at that time. He can't be held responsible,” said one. “He's such a busy man. How can we expect him to deal with such matters directly when he is only here for a short time each year?” said another of them. Then the schoolmaster joined in. I hoped he might be bolder in his opinions, “We must remember all the generosity of the MacDonalds over the years,” was what he said. And so it went on. Every time I cut down one argument they raised up another. “We've heard about the fighting in Ireland. We don't want anything like that here. We must trust in our faith in the Lord to show us the way,”' Nicolson quoted with a sigh.

‘They're not used to new ideas,' John suggested. ‘The old loyalties to the chief run deep. MacDonald is not a tyrant like Fraser. His sins are those of omission rather than commission. He deludes himself that he can enjoy the life of an English milord while forgetting about his tenants. We mustn't be too downcast. I'll visit them myself and encourage them to demand the return of Ben Lee.'

Màiri had been tapping her fingers on the table's shiny surface while the discussion went on around her. Now she placed her hands down firmly on it and half rose to her feet. Sweat glistened on her brow and basted her face.

‘I can't listen in silence any more. Why is your message not being heard? It's because you're talking to the wrong people.' She gulped a breath, ‘
Bodachs
steeped in old battles and elders too preoccupied with the state of their immortal souls – and other people's – to notice what's happening around them. Who is it who has to endure the worst hardships? Who has to do the hard work, the beast's work, carrying creels full of peats or pulling a harrow through stones because no-one can afford a horse to do
the work? Who is it who stands up to the sheriff's creature when he comes to deliver the eviction notice?' She glowered fiercely at each of the men in turn, ‘It's the women of the townships, of course. They're the ones who thirst for change and justice.'

They were all temporarily silenced, except for The Clach, ‘But surely it's the men who do the heavy labour on the land?' he asked.

She hooted in derision, ‘You've written plenty about the Highlands but have you ever visited them? The men work hard when they're there but they have to go away to the fishing so that the family doesn't starve in the lean months before the harvest.' Her voice rose like a wind scouring the shore and bending the trees beyond. ‘And the women do the milking, the spinning, cooking meals from what little they have,' she paused for breath, ‘And what about the hardest labour of all – bearing and rearing large families? Those big families they joked about come at a high cost for the mothers who bear them. I attend poor women in Greenock who are worn out by long hours working in the mills. But they at least can afford a midwife. The women on Skye have no such help and if their labour is long and difficult they die in childbirth or are left broken in health. They suffer the most. So they are the ones who most desire change.'

Her listeners were shifting uneasily in their seats.

‘Màiri, we know that you understand the plight of the women folk,' Charles said smoothly, ‘We should listen to their concerns. However, except in the case of widows, it's the men who are the named tenants. Soon these men will be given the vote. They're the ones we must win over to our cause.'

As Màiri sank back into her chair John spoke, ‘There's truth in what Màiri says. The womenfolk have influence with their families.' Seeing that she was about to speak again, he hurried on, ‘We need to win them over. But I come back to what I said
earlier. We must follow the example of the Irish and work closely with the Scottish supporters of the Irish Land League here in Glasgow.'

Charles looked grim while The Clach openly groaned at his words.

The sullen silence that followed was broken by Angus Sutherland, a small man with neat, alert features who had been listening to the earlier discussion with a glint of amusement in his eyes, ‘You met Charles Parnell himself while you were in America, I believe. What opinion did you form of him?'

John smiled, ‘Aye, I did meet him, in Philadelphia. He's not a typical Irish orator, no poetical language or striking poses. He spoke quietly and earnestly about a suffering people. I didn't have a chance to speak privately with him as he had to leave straight away after his speech.'

‘Hmm. I've heard that he doesn't like sharing the stage. Maybe he was envious of your oratorical skills,' Angus said.

John shrugged, embarrassed.

‘What's your opinion, Angus, of that Land League fellow Davitt? What sort of man is he?' asked The Clach, wanting to turn attention away from John.

‘A powerful speaker with a soldier's bearing. The ladies see him as a tragic hero with his missing arm and solemn demeanour. A freelance by nature, but sensible enough to throw in his lot with Parnell after he was released from prison.'

‘A man after my own heart. He must be a grand fellow if he went to prison,' laughed Màiri, The Clach joining in while John shook his head.

‘Now, Màiri, you cannot maintain that all those sent to prison are necessarily of good character.'

She turned to face John. Her eyes flashed, ‘I cannot speak for others but I know that for me prison was my university and a
hard one. It's many a rock I've rubbed against in my life but that one was the worst. When I stood in that courtroom it was as if I was trapped in a madhouse. I could understand nothing. I lost sight of who I was, like when the Old Man of Storr is covered in mist and the whole rock disappears as if it had never existed. You can't ever understand what it was like and no words of mine can ever convey it.'

For a moment time hung suspended. Then Charles coughed and spoke, ‘I am opposed to any sort of alliance with the Irish, either in their own land or here in Scotland. Davitt has been associated with violence in the past although he's taken up a more moderate stance recently. As I've said already we cannot risk losing the good reputation of Highlanders.'

Peter Nicolson had been listening intently, forgotten by the others, ‘You may not be able to stop it. The links have already been made with the Irish. The young men from the Braes go fishing in the summer and they have been talking with Irish sailors in Kinsale. The language there's not so different that they can't understand each other.'

The Clach was listening hard, his small predatory eyes gleaming, ‘We need to find a way to get all these groups in the Lowlands and Highlands working together. We need someone who can be at the centre of the web. Charles has his parliamentary duties in London and the rest of you stay in Glasgow. However, I'm based in Inverness which is a good position for gaining intelligence from all sides.'

‘You see yourself as the big spider, do you, Clach?' broke in Màiri, ‘Who are the flies that you'll trap, I wonder?'