Love and Music Will Endure (22 page)

‘Come in John and warm yourself by the fire.’ Màiri was shocked to see how haggard her old friend had become. When he loosened his plaid she could see his gaunt frame, like a family cow after a hungry winter in the byre. She hid her concern by bustling around, bringing him crowdie and oatcakes. She watched over him while he ate as if he were a patient.

‘I wish you’d take a dram, John. It would revive you.’

‘Now, Màiri, you know my opinion on strong drink,’ he muttered impatiently, his usual good humour vanished.

‘As you wish, John,’ she soothed him. ‘Tell me about your travels on Tiree. It still has a Highland landlord, doesn’t it?’

‘Aye, the Duke of Argyll, and very pleased he is with himself,’ he snorted. ‘During the famine he encouraged, no doubt with a good push, nearly half of his tenants to emigrate. He took what he called their wretched scraps of land and joined them together to create larger crofts, nearly twice the size of the ones on Skye.’

‘Wasn’t that a good thing for those who were left?’

‘Aye, as far as it goes. But at the same time there are three hundred cottars on the island with barely any land at all. There’s an active branch of the Land League there and the Commission raised their hopes. But the crofters are under the iron fist of Hugh MacDiarmid. The “Black Factor” he’s called, and not for his hair colour. He keeps them working on the Duke’s land three or four times a week, as if they were Russian serfs. Then more trouble started to brew last year after the
Cairnsmuir
ran aground off the island.’

‘Aye, I remember hearing about that. It was carrying drink, wasn’t it? So at least the islanders could toast the ship.’

He smiled thinly, ‘I wouldn’t begrudge them a few gleanings from the sea to warm their blood but the Duke was very heavy handed. The customs officers complained that threatening groups of islanders kept them away from the wreck. All the officials could find were empty cases on the beach.’

‘What did they expect? The tides would have swept the bottles away,’ she chuckled.

‘The Duke wasn’t amused at all. He had notices put up in the churches forbidding his tenants from drinking spirits at weddings or any other gathering. I think it was that action that hardened the people’s resolve.’

‘And no wonder!’ Màiri declared.

‘Anyway, resistance came to a head with the lease on Griannal Farm ending. Everyone expected the land would be divided up among the crofters but, no, the lease was given to one man, Lachlan MacNeill, a crofter who had done well for himself. He was also a leading member of the Land League branch while his brother Neil was the President. You may well look shocked, so were the other crofters. They expelled the brothers and elected a new President.’

‘Quite right, those two acted like Judas, betraying their fellows,’ she shook her head, making her jowls wobble like the wattles of an agitated hen, ‘How can Gaels betray each other for a mess of pottage? And what about you, John? You were betrayed too in losing the election in Glasgow? I thought the Irish there were supposed to be shoulder to shoulder with us, so why didn’t they vote for you? I heard that when that fine young Mr McHugh urged them to support you he was booed.’

John rubbed his aching eyes, ‘Aye, he was brave to do that but you must understand that the Irish voting for the Tories wasn’t a personal attack against me.’ He snapped his eyes open
and looked at her intently, ‘It was about political strategy. Parnell had made a deal with the Tories. He was promised their support in Parliament if he helped them win the election. So all the Irishmen in Britain were told to vote Tory.’

Seeing her disapproving expression, he continued, ‘Let me put it another way. Parnell was like a maiden being courted by two men, a Liberal and a Tory. He had to decide who would be the better marriage prospect and accept that offer. So he chose the Tory. Davitt wasn’t happy at the idea of allying with the Tories but his hands were tied. He didn’t want to publicly disagree with Parnell and split the Home Rule party, especially when it’s on the cusp of winning. So, in a way Davitt and McHugh are like the bride’s relatives, not impressed by the successful suitor but making the best fist of it so that they can avoid fighting in the family. You don’t look convinced, Màiri.’

‘No, I’m not. I don’t like all that scheming and plotting, but I’m not such an innocent that I don’t know it happens.’ She folded her sturdy arms like a resting prize fighter, ‘But what I can’t stomach is knowing who did win the seat; that Alexander Craig Sellar. I can hardly bring myself to spit out his surname, the son of that devil who drove the folk out of Sutherland for that witch of a duchess. May Patrick Sellar’s name be damned for all eternity.’

John’s shoulders slumped, ‘Aye, that name turns my blood to ice too but we mustn’t condemn the son for his father’s sins.’

‘You’re too long suffering John. You should have heard what The Clach said about it. He was as white as snow with the shock. The son is cut from the same cloth as his father. It was the son who threatened to take The Clach to court for writing about his scunner of a father. And now he’s been elected to Parliament.’

‘Aye, The Clach took a risk in publishing his book. I was surprised, I didn’t think he had so much steel in his soul.’

Màiri raised her eyebrows at the sharp edge in his voice. He reached out to touch her arm, ‘Take no notice of me. I’m a battle weary sour old man. I’ve never seen eye to eye with The Clach. I’ve always suspected he was more interested in fame than in the plight of the crofters. And I can’t help feeling envious that he survived libel threats while I didn’t.’

Màiri squeezed his hand, ‘Aye, John you’ve laboured hard in the vineyard and seen The Clach treated like the Prodigal Son while your efforts are forgotten. He likes fame right enough but he changed after the Battle of the Braes. His eyes were opened to all the injustice.’

John swallowed hard and cleared his throat, ‘I fear there’s more trouble to come. I urged the Land League on Tiree to be careful if, more likely
when
, the police are sent there. I told them not to help the police but not to attack them either. I worry about the more irresponsible reporters too; the ones who exaggerate the dangers. It means the authorities start jumping at shadows.’

‘Everyone’s weary of waiting for the Commissioners to decide on fair rents. They’re bound to reduce them in the end, so you can’t blame folk for not paying them until they know what’s happening,’ Màiri replied.

‘Aye, but they should own their land outright and not be paying rent at all.’

‘But if we have fair rents won’t that be like the old days before the Clearances?’

He gazed at her before replying softly, ‘The old days are gone for ever and I doubt they were ever that golden. You’re a dear old friend and I have no desire to offend you but even the decent landlords like Lachlan MacDonald still keep the best land for their own use. And they drive a wedge between their tenants by treating some of them more generously than others.’

Màiri’s jaw was set firm, ‘I know full well what you’re hinting at, John. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of in living in this house rent free. Lairds have always kept bards and pipers. It’s part of an old tradition and I’ll have no more said about it. But I’m fearful we’ll have marines and police here on Skye again. One of the teachers in Skeabost told me that they aren’t going to be paid any more because the rates haven’t been coming in. He said it’s the fault of the crofters for not paying anything. I don’t see how that could be.’

‘Ah, Alexander MacDonald, the man with a finger in every pie, is the one causing trouble. He’s pressing Ivory – how ironic that such a black soul should have such a white name – and the Secretary for Scotland, begging for another military expedition because the crofters have refused to pay, not only their rents, but also the school and poor rates. So MacDonald claims that because the crofters refuse to pay their share of the rates there’s no money to pay the teachers. Well, our friend Charles with his sharp lawyer’s brain smelt a rat. He asked the Government for the full details of the arrears of rates on Skye. I’m sure you can guess who owed the lion’s share, nearly three quarters of the total – the landlords. And which of the landlords owed the most? None other than Alexander’s own employer, Lord MacDonald himself. It would be a wonderful sight to see Ivory himself marching down to Sleat to serve a summons on Lord MacDonald.’

He stretched and stifled a yawn, ‘Your good food and fire have revived me Màiri, but I’m ready for my bed now.’

‘Off you go, John. Everything’s ready for you. That factor MacDonald will surely be shown up as a fool, as he was at the trial of the Braes men.’

Inverness, November 1886

My Dear Màiri,

I trust this letter finds you in good health. I know how much you thirst for news. So I’ll do my best to refresh you. Things have gone from bad to worse since John’s visit to Tiree. I’ve been rendered speechless. A rare occurrence, I can hear you say.

As I feared the new Tory government is as prone to panic as the old Liberal one was, like an old lady screaming and lifting her skirts when she sees a mouse. The landlords squawked and the gunboats were sent in again as if the government were dealing with Indian or Chinese natives. Three ships with four hundred marines and police! Soon there’ll be enough of them for every family in Tiree to take one home as a household pet. As always the crofters treated the soldiers with kindness. They offered them milk to drink when they were overheated with carrying guns and ammunition round the island. So much for them being savages as the Duke of Argyll claims.

What a travesty of justice that the Tiree men were found guilty of trespass and obstructing the Messenger at Arms. Lord Balfour claimed that sentences of four to six months would have a ‘wholesome effect on the people of Skye.’ I would like to ask him how these sentences compare with the scant eight months meted out to the directors of the City of Glasgow Bank when it collapsed not long ago after losing six million pounds. Argyll’s new tenant is ensconced at Griannal farm now. We can only hope that the Duke won’t try to bully the Commissioners when they finally arrive on Tiree to set the rents.

And what about the trouble on the Misty Isle? I can’t believe that marines and police are back again. Ivory’s back to his old trick of making enemies. Did you hear about him picking a fight with Chief Constable MacHardy because he wouldn’t allow his men to wear the ‘Ivory medals’ the sheriff gave them for their ‘valour’ in attacking women and boys? While the two of them were quarrelling aboard ship the marines and policemen were left waiting in open boats in the pouring rain. I feel some sympathy for the poor fellows having to follow Ivory’s orders when their hearts are probably not in it. It’s almost impossible to see Ivory himself as a human being rather than a bogey man but I wonder if he’s scared witless underneath all that bravado. I’m enough of a cynic to believe that the government, whether Liberal or Tory, is making use of him. Like a magnet he draws everyone’s hatred to himself and he’ll be the scapegoat if the unrest gets worse.

Enough of gloom! We both like to find the lighter side in any story. I heard a tale from Tiree that will amuse you. It concerns the reporter from The Scotsman. The newspaper men descended like vultures on the island but they couldn’t transmit their stories because the march took place on a Sunday. What an affront to God-fearing folk. So this particular correspondent suggested a sort of cease fire to the other reporters. Why didn’t they all delay sending out their articles until Monday? Then they wouldn’t offend anyone by asking for the reports to be sent by telegraph on the Sabbath. The others agreed.

What did the cunning fellow do then? He sent off a carrier pigeon with his report. I suppose it was acceptable for a bird to break the sanctity of the Sabbath but it was attacked by seagulls. So it flew back to the hotel at Scarinish, scattering the pages of the report through the island as it tried to escape its tormentors. The Tiree branch of the Land League called for the reporter to be expelled from the island. Would that we could do that with Ivory!

I was thinking back to some of the merriment we had in the earlier days. What about that time we were on the wee ferry boat
at Strome with Charles and Hector? Calum had said he would risk taking us across all together but I noticed his lips moving in prayer as we sailed over. Didn’t you make a song about that trip?

Have you composed anything new recently? Why don’t you pen some verses about Ivory for me to publish? Don’t hold back, after all I prevailed against Sellar’s son when he threatened libel action against me.

Your dear friend,

The Clach

Portree, November 1886

Màiri banged the door of Donald Stewart’s shop as she left. She had been looking at two gowns he had brought out for her. One was navy blue, but it was the other one that had caught her eye; an unusual shade of deep red. He must have seen how much she coveted it because when she asked the price he narrowed his eyes and said, ‘Seven shillings and sixpence’.

She dropped it as if it was on fire and shook her head. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Why don’t you want it?’

‘Because it’s terribly dear.’

He smirked, showing sharp little teeth. ‘Well, if you compose a song for me I could reduce the price.’

The impudence of the man! The words flooded through her mind and out of her mouth,

That had wiped the silly smile off his face. The day wasn’t going well at all. The Clach’s letters usually made her laugh but this morning’s one had left her troubled. He had forced her to see Ivory in a different light, as a puppet whose strings were being pulled by unseen hands down in London. She would much prefer to see him as an imp of the Devil. Then she could flay him in verse. She had put the letter to one side and decided to go and buy herself a new gown, only to have Stewart try to swindle her. Now she stood outside the shop, uncertain what to do next.

A woman was walking towards her, her head bent over her shawl. She looked up at Màiri and smiled in recognition.

‘It’s Mistress MacRae from Peiness, isn’t it and this wee
isean
is one of mine,’ she said, stroking the top of the baby’s head that was poking out of the shawl, ‘I’ve just had words with Donald Stewart. Fancy him thinking he could cheat me! But what’s the matter? You’re crying. Is there something wrong with the baby or is it one of your other children?’

The mother wiped her face with the end of her shawl. ‘Please tell me Mistress MacPherson, How much is a baby worth?’

‘What an odd question. A baby’s a gift from God. You can’t put a value on a baby. A baby is priceless.’

‘He’s worth more than six pence, then?’

Màiri put her hands on the other woman’s shoulders and squeezed them.

‘Something has happened to distress you but I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

The mother gulped, ‘Well, you know the sheriff has been sending men around Skye to seize people’s belongings for not paying their rates.’

‘I know. He had to bring in carters from Inverness because no-one here would do his dirty work,’ Màiri glowered.

‘It was our turn yesterday. He sent his man MacDonald. In he came to our house with his notebook, looking at everything and shouting out prices, “Dresser and crockery, 1s.6d; wooden seats, 2s; chair, 1s; bed, 2s; puppy dog, 1s.” Then he saw the cradle …’ Tears sprang into her eyes again, ‘and without drawing breath, he shouted out, “cradle and child, 6d.” I thought it was some sort of strange joke. But he said with a straight face, “I’ll take the baby too.”’

Màiri’s face gaped open in disbelief as she put her arms around her.

‘My man came in and ordered him out. Six or so soldiers and police came in and took everything away, except the wee one.’

Later when she returned home Màiri sat down and unfolded The Clach’s letter to read it again. Then she started her reply, slashing her pen across the paper:

Woodside Cottage

Skeabost Bridge.

My Dear Clach,

I’m in excellent health except for a touch of rheumatics but Mairead tells me I’ve nothing to complain about for an old boiling fowl. I smiled when you reminded me about the overloaded boat. I’ve been singing the song to myself since you reminded me of it:

I know I was never one of Pharoah’s lean cattle. Mind you, high living has turned you into a fatted calf yourself. So the two of us together would certainly sink the vessel if we boarded it now. We’re not like poor John who has become so scraggy.

My heart is overflowing with rage when I think about Ivory. I’ve just heard about his latest crime and I’m so angry that I can’t even write about it. If wishes were deeds he would have fallen dead to the ground from the weight of curses heaped on his head.

Then I thought about the bards of old who wrote elegies when the chief or a noble warrior died. I’ve written an elegy of a different sort for Ivory. I imagined that his body had been found in a black pool in the Mointeach Mhòr, near St Columba’s Loch.

Ivory can’t scare me with the threat of prison. I’ve faced Hell on Earth already. If you don’t want to risk him hauling you through the courts you could write that the song was composed by “Mary of the Poems” to throw him off the scent.

There, I feel better for spitting that out.

With kindest regards,

Màiri