Love and Music Will Endure (18 page)

Inverness, May 1882

My Dear Friend,

I trust this letter finds you in good health. You have certainly chosen an auspicious time to return to your native island now that it’s become so important in the campaign. I heard that other Skye stalwart in our cause, John MacPherson, declare that the imprisonment of the Glendale crofters had done more to remove tyranny and oppression from Skye than anything that has happened during the present century. He declared that if Joseph had never been sent into Egyptian bondage, the children of Israel might never have escaped from slavery. I fancy that he sees himself in the role of Joseph although as a staunch adherent of the Free Church he could not allow himself to clothe that thought in words. However, I would dispute his claim. It was the Battle of the Braes and the trial of the five men from there which lit the fire of protest. And whose voice was it that rallied the warriors? It was the voice of Màiri nighean Iain Bhàin herself.

I’m writing to give you an account of the trial. I’ve been sitting there in the courtroom, scribbling away in my notebook so that I can publish a verbatim account of the proceedings. The events of the trial are as absorbing as any stage play. Even if you’ve already heard the outcome I’m sure that you will enjoy reading the details of what happened.

Our supporters sought my advice about which lawyer we should appoint as defence counsel. My recommendation was Mr Kenneth
MacDonald, the Town Clerk of Inverness. From the beginning he has shown a sure hand at the helm. He secured bail for the Braes men which resulted in their triumphant return to Skye.

Also, Mr MacDonald has made the world aware of the injustice of the Crown Agent in insisting on a summary trial before the Sheriff, far from their homes rather than trial by a jury. Even when Charles raised the issue in the House of Commons the Lord Advocate remained firm in his resolve to have a summary trial. What a heavy weight of legal process has been brought to bear against a few older men of peaceful habits and general good character whose worst weapon was a lump of wet turf!

When I was a boy I had a great fondness for the novels of Sir Walter Scott. I was stirred by all those sturdy heroes like Ivanhoe and Rob Roy. I have learnt now from the Battle of the Braes that it’s not the flamboyant leaders who change the world but the slow-burning determination of ordinary men, and indeed women, who risk losing everything they own when they fight for justice.

Mr Macdonald convinced the Sheriff to withdraw the first charge of impeding the sheriff-officer from delivering his summonses. Only the second offence of assault remained.

By the time that the witnesses were summoned and questioned our lawyer was at full tilt, trampling reputations underfoot. Allow me to give you a flavour of his sparring when he examined Alexander MacDonald:

Mr MacDonald’s cleverness in making the chief witness look ridiculous gave us all great hope. The Sheriff’s summing up however raised alarm. He spoke of Alexander Finlayson having a stick in his hand and acting in a threatening manner.

At that point I could sense everyone in the courtroom collectively holding their breath – our party in dread and our enemies in hopeful anticipation. Then there was enormous relief when moderate fines were announced, rather than the long sentences we had feared; a mere £2 10s for Alexander Finlayson and Donald Nicolson and 20s only demanded of the other three. As you can imagine it gave me
much pleasure to brandish a cheque in payment of the fines in front of the court official’s face.

My dear friend, Màiri, nighean Iain Bhàin, even if my letter is old news to you by the time it arrives I hope that you will relish hearing about how foolish our enemies were made to look.

Kind regards from a joyful friend,

The Clach

Dear Mairead,

My dearest old friend, what must you be thinking of me? It’s so long since I came to visit you. You’ll be saying I deserve a good skelping for my neglect. What can I say to excuse myself? I’ve been so busy in Portree and the Braes that I’ve not had time to draw breath, let alone come up to the North End. Much as I would rather have a good cèilidh with yourself I’ve had to accept bed and board with good folk down here.

I’ve been keeping you in mind though. I was remembering how fondly you spoke of your mother singing the old Skye songs when you were a wee lassie in Australia. Once I’m more settled I shall write you a song to atone for abandoning you.

As I cannot provide you with any diversion in my own person, I shall tell you what has been going on here since the fight at An Cumhang or ‘The Battle of the Braes’, as people are calling it now. The Clach is putting the trial of the Braes men into a book. All those English Lords in Parliament will have to sit up and pay attention to us now.

I’ve been busy travelling with that old warrior John. He’s brought a new young hero to tramp around the island and put fire into bellies. He’s an Ulsterman called Edward McHugh. He has a fine broad brow, a full dark beard and a piercing gaze. When he addresses a meeting he speaks with such power and conviction that you feel yourself being swept along on the tide of his words. He speaks in English and in the Irish tongue which is not so hard to follow once
you tune yourself to it. At first though it was like listening through a seashell held to your ear – lots of swishing, muffled sounds. It’s close to our Gaelic but not quite the same, like when you hail a friend across the street and when she turns round you see it’s not her but her sister or someone who walks in the same way. Anyway he spoke with such passion about us Gaels and our Irish brethren who have both suffered so much at the hands of the Sasannachs. We should stand shoulder to shoulder with them in our struggles for fair rents and more land. He said that even in England many farmers had been cheated out of their land in days gone by. He gave us an old English verse:

Then when he had us all hanging on his words he held out a single stick, quite a thick one and broke it across his knee with a loud crack that made me gasp. Next he picked up a bundle of thin sticks tied together with rope and struggled to break them, to no avail. He let the silence grow while he stood and smiled.

‘I don’t need to spell the message out,’ he said softly, ‘I believe, as all of you do, that God created the Earth as a dwelling place for us, his children. He intends us to share in his bounty and to labour together to provide for the needs of us all. Everyone has a right to the natural elements essential for life; air, water and land. When the right to land is denied, as it is here, the result is terrible misery and poverty. However, if we stand together we can’t be broken.’

By then the whole audience was breathing in every word as if their lives depended on it. He carried on speaking for an hour in the open air and kept us under his spell. Maybe you judge me impious for praising him to the heavens, especially as he is a Papist. How I wish that there were more leaders in our Church who could be so inspiring.

He was wise as well as brave. The tide of his words never swept out of control. He warned us not to break the laws of the land but to be as cunning as our enemies. When he left Ireland as a young man and moved to Greenock he learnt the printing trade.

‘And how did we printers deal with bosses who worked us too long and too hard? We didn’t strike only to find ourselves having to crawl back to work later, half-starved. No, we practised ‘ca’ canny’ – we didn’t work too fast at our tasks. We took our time over them. So in the end they had to take on more workers. Now you might say that factory owners in the cities are not the same beast as landlords in the countryside but they’re not so different. When the crofters refuse to pay for rent increases it makes the landowners pay attention. Will they dare to send soldiers against poor, peaceable folk? Never! Public opinion would crucify them.’

What applause he got! I’m surprised that it didn’t carry over the miles to you. The poor young man looked hollow-cheeked and ravenous afterwards but he refused the offer of a dram.

‘I’ll not help the liquor trade that takes advantage of the poor man, stealing his wages and sapping his strength. Neither will I eat meat for it inflames anger. Don’t you think that our enemies would be delighted if they had an excuse to accuse me of drunkenness and arrest me?’

‘But surely you need some sort of recreation?’ I asked him, ‘I’d wager that Irishmen, like Gaels enjoy music and dancing.’

He shook his head solemnly, ‘I think life is so short and the struggle for justice so hard that I’ve no time or inclination for frivolity.’

‘I hope though you would make time for courting – a fine young man like yourself.’ That made him blush a little.

Well, my dear friend, I must rest my weary hand now. I remember how hard I found it to write when I first started to train at the hospital.

I trust that this letter finds you in good health and spirits,

Màiri, the penitent.

Os, June

My Dear Màiri,

I hope you’re not exhausting yourself gadding around with handsome young strangers. Neither of us are spring lambs any longer. Of course I’m disappointed not to see you but I realise that an eminence like yourself has many calls on her time. I shall have to wait my turn.

I was interested to hear about Edward McHugh. His name has been carried on the wind all over Skye but as you know I dislike attending big meetings, so I’ve not had the chance to hear him speak. Your account of his character reminded me of what you’ve told me about Isaac. He was a powerful speaker too. No wonder you’ve fallen in love with this Ulsterman. I can hear your protests but as one of your oldest friends I‘m allowed to tease you a little.

Anyway, there has been much talk about him here. He’s made an amazing impression for a man who never appeared. That sounds like a riddle but I’ll explain. A stranger has been travelling around the North End this last week, inquiring about the Irishman. He’s a tall, well-built fellow in a good dark suit of clothes, with big hands and feet. The big feet are shod in well-polished shoes. He stayed at the Staffin Inn and kept poor Mr Nicolson up to the wee small hours with idle conversation until he was desperate for his bed.

Eventually the stranger says, ‘You must know about everyone who lives round about.’

‘Aye.’

‘And off course all the goings on among the crofters.’

‘Aye’.

‘There’s been lots of newspaper men about, Scots and English. Have you seen an Irishman at all?’

‘No.’

‘This Irishman was travelling around the Stenscholl area, I believe. Did you hear anything about him being there?’

‘No.’

‘I heard he was travelling around telling men in the townships to seize land for themselves. Do you know anything about that?’

‘No.’ Then he loosens his tongue a wee bit. ‘There wasn’t hide nor hair of any Irishman round here. Maybe you should go up to Uig and ask there about him.’

‘Thank you for your advice,’ says the stranger, plodding off to Uig. But he learns nothing about your fine fellow there. Eventually he arrives footsore at Donald Ross’s shop in Idrigill while Donald is serving Angus MacLeod. This time the stranger steers the conversation round to the land troubles. Angus drops in McHugh’s name.

‘Who’s this McHugh?’ pants the stranger, as excited as a dog smelling dinner.

‘I’ve heard tell that he’s one of those Land Leaguers,’ says Angus, wide eyed.

‘Has he visited the crofters in Idrigill?’ the large stranger demands.

‘No, indeed not,’ shouts Donald, slapping his hands down on the counter, ‘Why would we want him here? Didn’t we get our rents reduced by a quarter this year?’

‘He’s a trusair I hear,’ Angus joins in, ‘Do we need a Catholic Irishman to tell us what to do?’ says he spitting on the floor, near the well-polished shoes, although I imagine they were a little worn after all that trudging around.

‘Well, that’s very interesting,’ says our stranger, reaching inside his jacket to lift out a wee book before thinking better of it and groping for his handkerchief instead.

Donald and Angus don’t dare open their mouths for fear of laughing.

But our sturdy hero continues on the trail of the invisible Irishman. He huffs and puffs off to Earlish and ends up outside the door of Archibald Gillies’s house.

‘Aye, McHugh was here on Saturday.’ Now our man is foaming at the bit while Archie takes his time lighting his pipe, ‘But we didn’t want to see the man at all. So we stayed quietly at the other end of the house when he called out and left my youngest daughter to speak to him. He waited in the kitchen for a while and when no-one else appeared he left some pamphlets with her.’

‘Do you still have them?’ he asks, hopping from one big foot to the other in excitement.

Archie scratches his head and frowns, ‘Ah, I remember now. We left them beside the door of the byre. We didn’t want to read any Papist rubbish. Oh, did you want to read them yourself?’

So our fine fellow plods back to Portree, carrying the pamphlets as carefully as if he had an orphan lamb in his arms and sends his report to Sheriff Ivory, that champion of justice. For our mysterious stranger was none other than Sergeant Malcolm MacDonald, travelling disguised in plain clothes. I’m sure your Mr McHugh will be pleased to know that he’s worrying the authorities so much. You’d better warn him that they’re hot on his trail.

With affectionate regards,

Mairead