Love and Music Will Endure (23 page)

Màiri smiled as the crowds in Wentworth Street parted respectfully to allow her a place in the front row. Banners with hand written slogans swayed above their heads; ‘The Earth He created for the Children of Men’, ‘Land for the People’ and ‘The Crofters are mightier than the Landlords’. The old were cheering as heartily as the young and women were waving their handkerchiefs. There was a cry of, ‘Up with the bonnets!’ and arms shot up like masts, their bonnets whirling on the top of walking sticks. How rousing it was, so different from the curses and hisses that had greeted Ivory not so long ago.

He was coming now, striding up towards the Portree Hotel. The cheers redoubled. Voices called out for a speech.

‘We won’t move until you talk to us,’ a man shouted. He stood in the hotel doorway and turned to face them, his lips curving slightly. He was a tall slender figure, standing very upright and not at all self-conscious about the droop of his empty right sleeve. Suddenly the mouth beneath his bushy dark moustache burst into a boyish grin, ‘It looks as if I’ve been taken prisoner. Never mind, I’m used to that. Wait a moment. I’ll be back.’

Michael Davitt leapt through the door and a moment or so later appeared at the window on the floor above, nimbly pushing the sash up one handed. The window was set in the wedge shaped front of the hotel, jutting out at the corner of the street, facing the Square. As he leant forward holding on to the balcony he looked like a spectator in a box at the theatre gazing down at the stage. He waved to acknowledge the cheering and then he spoke in a clear voice with only a hint of an Irish accent.

‘I’ll speak first in Gaelic and then in our Irish tongue. That way the important people can understand.’ He smiled and paused, ‘Those unlucky souls who only have the English will have to wait for a translation.’ The crowd laughed and then fell silent to drink in his words.

‘I know that the sympathy you’ve shown in this enthusiastic welcome is extended more to the people I represent than to myself on account of anything I have done personally. I’m glad to know that recent distinguished visitors to your island haven’t succeeded in convincing you that the people of Ireland are wrong in their struggle for Home Rule. I never believed for a moment that the people of this island, or of any part of the Highlands of Scotland, could be convinced by any amount of sophistry that the Irish cause was not a cause deserving of the sympathy of the Scottish people.

‘In many respects we are not only identical in race, but in political and social aspirations as well. The land system that has impoverished Ireland and made it the home of agrarian misery and crime has also been felt in this island and in other parts of Scotland. I am sure that the people of Skye are convinced that if the Irish succeed in abolishing landlordism, an effective blow will be struck at the root of a similar evil system in your islands.

‘Reading the mottoes you have on your banners, I see you are a people who study the Bible. Well, many of our modern philanthropists would rather you gave your spare time to the study of political economy. They think it was a mistake for the Creator to lay down a doctrine that the earth was created for the children of men. They would rather call your attention to the study of Adam Smith and Malthus, writers who, they say, show that Providence made a mistake when he said the land was created for the people to live on. They would rather you put the Bible on one side and took up the doctrines of those distinguished writers,
and they would be better pleased if you agreed that your duty is to put up with misery and small patches of land in order that sheep and deer may enjoy the soil which God Almighty created for you.

‘I believe that the land of Scotland, like the land of Ireland, was made by Providence to be enjoyed by the people. I’ve come here to advise the people to follow our example in Ireland; to go in for the complete abolition of landlordism. That system of legalised robbery is a social evil that must be got at in order to be torn up root and branch.

‘This must be done before the misery, suffering and degradation existing in Ireland can be cured; and my advice to the people of Portree and the people of this island is, not to be satisfied with half measures of change, but to go in for what is your just and your natural right, the ownership of the land of Skye for its people.

‘For Ireland I know well that in the coming struggle we’ll have the moral support of public opinion in Scotland, and with that strength behind us I hope that the next time I come to Skye it will be my privilege to say that Home Rule has been won in Ireland, and that landlordism is ready to give up the ghost.’

After the peals of applause had fallen silent he introduced his colleagues, John Murdoch and Angus Sutherland MP, ‘I’ll bid you farewell for I think this window is becoming too crowded.’ Then he smiled and withdrew into the upstairs room. Màiri, wedged tight in the shoulder to shoulder crowd, noted how everyone listened attentively enough to them but the first froth of excitement had blown away.

Later, while Davitt was being shown to his room, Angus, slender like the Irishman but shorter, turned to John, ‘A good speech, I thought,’ he said in his slightly abrasive, high pitched voice, ‘His Biblical references went down well of course. Then
he flattered them by talking about political economists as if the audience had the likes of Malthus on the tips of their tongues. Of course he kept the message vague; all Celts together fighting for their rights. Then he neatly slipped in the idea of abolishing landlordism.’

John shook his head, ‘Aye, but I fear the Skye folk will let the idea of land nationalisation go over their heads. They just want the Land Commission to set them fair rents. They don’t want to get rid of the landlords altogether, I’m afraid. It’s Davitt the man they’re drawn to, not to his ideas, more’s the pity. I’ve spent years trying to drum up some radicalism here but it’s a thankless task. If you’ll excuse me I must go and find my old friend Màiri and invite her to join us. She was standing out there right at the front, like an old warhorse smelling the battle and pawing the ground. Although I fear that she doesn’t always know which side she’s fighting for – crofters or landlords.’ He sighed and half smiled.

Angus grimaced, ‘From what I’ve heard she’s less like a warhorse and more like an old cow feeling frisky in the spring. I hear she half suffocated poor Edward McHugh with her unwelcome attentions. Has she developed a taste for gobbling up young Irish patriots, do you think?’

John frowned before replying sharply, ‘I’m sure Michael will be pleased to meet her. He knows how highly people here regard her and he’s always a gentleman.’

‘Oh, don’t be so prim, John. Michael can look after himself but I’ll keep out of her way. I can’t endure listening to her assuring me how wonderful the Duke of Sutherland is now that he’s changed his spots and become the complete model landlord. I’ve been lectured enough already on that subject by Professor Blackie. The Good Lord preserve me from sentimental Gaels who fawn over landowners just because they’re from old Highland stock.’

‘Well Angus, we must keep a broad church if we’re all to work together. We should follow Michael’s example. He heartily disapproves of Parnell trying to be all things to all nationalists but never a word of criticism passes his lips in public.’

After bringing Màiri in, John introduced her to Davitt, ‘I’m sure you two will have much to discuss. Did you know, Màiri, that Michael here has written poetry?’ John clasped his hands behind his back and declaimed,

‘Please stop there,’ Michael said, raising his hand and flushing, ‘In the name of all the poets who have ever sung in Erin, I will not have my past poetic transgressions disinterred from a kindly oblivion.’

‘As you wish,’ John shrugged, ‘but you can’t deny that your prose is very stirring, even if you disclaim your poetry. The audience today certainly thought so. I shall leave you two to become better acquainted.’

‘What despair your poor mother must have felt when you had that terrible accident,’ said Màiri pointing at Michael’s dangling right sleeve.

He was nonplussed. Usually people pretended not to notice his missing limb although he would often catch them looking furtively at it when they thought he wasn’t aware. Unbidden, the memory came to him of his nine year old self, lying in a feverish half-conscious state. He could hear the urgency in the doctor’s upper class tones and the softer gusts of his mother’s voice. The
whispering in his ear though was more distinct. It was their neighbour Molly Maden, murmuring, insistent as a creeping tide, “Don’t let the doctors butcher your arm. What will you be with only one arm? A cripple for life. Every
Sasannach
boy will insult and beat you.” The coils of her voice slithered into his mind, hissing about a life in Heaven free of pain and suffering, squeezing his will to live.

But his determined mother had prevailed. He was pinned down and gagged by a chloroform-soaked cloth. He awoke mourning the loss of his right arm, taken off almost to the shoulder. He knew though that he was relieved to be alive.

With an effort he wrenched his mind back to the present, ‘It was a terrible shock to her when she saw me brought back from the mill in a cart, dripping blood along the cobbles. She feared I‘d never be able to earn a living. Providence works in strange ways though, doesn’t it? I lost a limb and my job but I went back to school and gained an education. The parish priest sent me to the best local school and it happened to be a Wesleyan one. That’s where I learnt that religious differences don’t have to be a barrier to working together. It’s not religion but the ownership of land that’s the sword that divides. After my schooling I was even able to find work as a one handed printer before I got caught up in the cause of Irish freedom. If I’d kept my arm I would have stayed as a factory slave.’

‘And if I hadn’t been sent to prison I wouldn’t have become the bard of the Land League.’ She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, ‘We’re both jailbirds. Of course
I
was innocent and wrongly accused. What about you?’

Again he was startled by this elderly woman’s bluntness. Well, she was a simple soul, a sturdy peasant woman, like so many of those Irish exiles he remembered from his youth. ‘I was wrongly accused of planning to murder an associate. The police
found a letter written in my hand sent to another member of the Brotherhood. They claimed it was proof that I intended to bring about the death of a third party, to punish him for being a police informer. The truth of it was that I had written telling the other man not to assassinate the traitor.’

‘So like me, you were innocent of the accusation made against you. Were you able to understand what was said in the courtroom? I had the double tribulation of being innocent of any crime and of not being able to follow what they were saying about me.’

‘Fortunately I was fluent in English as well as Gaelic but I know that many of my countrymen have suffered in the same way as yourself,’ he replied gently.

‘One thing surprises me in your story. What I‘ve seen of the police here shows me that they aren’t wise enough to outwit a Gael using only half his brain. So how did they manage to catch such a smart young man as yourself?’

‘Bad luck and treachery too. They arrested me at Paddington Station on my way to pick up a consignment of guns being brought down by a passenger from Birmingham.’

Màiri laughed aloud, ‘Wasn’t this a giveaway when they were looking out for you. She flicked his limp sleeve. His eyes sparked but he held his peace.

‘Would those guns have been used against policemen or soldiers?’

‘They were never used in anger,’ he said with quiet emphasis.

‘So maybe we are different, after all. I was completely innocent but in your case you were not proved to be guilty.’

‘I do believe that you would have made a lawyer of great distinction,’ he retorted, with an abrupt laugh.

She touched his hand, ‘Forgive my forthright words. I’m a
cailleach
who speaks her mind. I know your cause is a true
one and you’ve paid a high price for your beliefs. I was only in prison for a month but you had to endure a long sentence. It must have been terrible to hear the judge’s words when he sent you down.’

How hard it was to keep up with this woman’s twists and turns, one moment sympathetic, the next probing. Softening, he replied, ‘I can remember waiting in the cell under the courtroom in Newgate Prison and reading the words scratched on the walls by prisoners who had waited there before me. “M.D. expects ten years for the crime of being an Irish Nationalist and the victim of an informer’s perjury” is what I wrote.’ He laughed bitterly, ‘I was wrong. I was sentenced to fifteen years.’

‘How were you able to work in prison with only one arm?’

He screwed his eyes up, ‘A good question. They couldn’t find suitable work for me in Dartmoor; one-armed men are rare birds in prison. I was put to stone breaking until the blisters on my hand made it impossible for me to continue. Then I had to haul a cart around the prison until the harness rubbed my stump raw. The next job was by far the worst of them all – bone breaking.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You may well ask. The bone shed, next to the cesspool, was where all the bones from the meat supplied to the prison were collected. They stank to the very heavens after being left outside in the sun. My job was to pound this decaying mess into dust to be used as manure.’

Màiri wrinkled her nose and laughed, ‘Well, I was foolish enough to ask.’

‘Later I was moved to the washhouse. After being frozen for so long I was now too hot, drenched in sweat from working the wringing machine. Of course, as a political prisoner I was treated worse than the common criminals.’

‘You were like me. Your pride wouldn’t submit to prison.’

‘Only men who have no honour can bow to injustice.’