living at Dervaig, Mull, with his father, Charles, son of Fair Neil
of Dervaig. This lad, as he grew up to manhood, became noted for his
great strength and prowess, as well as for his handsome person. At
the same time he was reckless and foolish. Despising his father’s
reproofs and heedless of his counsel, advice or admonitions, he went
on in his mad career until at last he purloined money from him, with
which he bought a ship and went sailing away, none of his friends knew
whither. After some years he returned home, broken-down in appearance,
empty-handed, and a complete “tatterdemalion,” having wrecked his ship
on the coast of Ireland, and lost all the wealth he had accumulated to
repay his father, who was now dead. The grieve (_an t-aoirean_) had the
land, and he went where he was. The grieve told him about his father’s
death, and advised him to go to his father’s brother, Donald, son of
fair Neil, who had Hynish, Tiree, at that time, and whatever advice
he would get from him, to follow it, and he (the grieve) would give
him clothing and means to take him there, on condition of being repaid
when he returned. As there was no other way open to him of redeeming
his past errors, he agreed to the grieve’s conditions and went to
Tiree to his uncle, by whom he was coldly received. “What business has
brought you, and where are you going when you have come here?” “To ask
advice from yourself,” he said. “Good was the advice your father had
to give, and you did not take it; what I advise you to do is, to go
and enlist in the Black Watch, and that will keep you out of harm. You
will stay here to-night, and I will give you money to-morrow morning
to take you to the regiment,” his uncle said. His uncle was married
to a daughter of MacLean, Laird of Coll. Her husband did not tell her
of his nephew’s arrival, as he was displeased at his coming. When the
Big Lad was leaving the house next morning, she saw him passing the
window and asked who the handsome-looking stranger was. On being told,
she made him return to the house, gave him food, drink, and clothing,
and on parting, money to take him on his way. He returned to Dervaig,
paid the ploughman his due, and went off to the wars. At the first
place he landed, said to be Greenock, a pressgang was waiting to seize
whoever they could get to suit the king’s service, and on seeing this
likely man they instantly surrounded him, to carry him off by force.
He turned about and asked what they wanted with him. They said, “To
take you with us in spite of you.” When he understood their intentions
he opened his arms to their widest extent and drove all those before
him, eighteen men, backwards into the sea, and left them there floating
to get out the best way they could. He then made his way till he
enlisted in the Black Watch, then on the eve of leaving for America,
where it remained for seven years. During that time the Big Lad (_an
Gille mòr_) won the esteem and commendation of his superiors in rank,
by his exemplary conduct and good bearing, as well as the admiration
and affection of his equals, to whom he was courteous and forbearing.
When the regiment was returning to England, the officers frequently
spent their leisure time, on board of the man-of-war that brought it
home, playing dice. One day, when they were at their games, the Big Lad
was looking on, and he saw a young man, one of the English officers,
insolently, but more in jest than in earnest, striking on the ear the
colonel of the regiment, who, the Big Lad knew, was a Highlander. When
he saw the insult was not resented, he said in Gaelic to the Colonel,
“Why did you let him strike you?” (_C’ ar son a leig thu leis do
bhualadh?_). “You are, then, a Highlander,” the colonel said to him,
“and you have been with me for seven years without telling me that you
are.” “If you would do what I ask you, I will make you one that he will
not do the same thing to you again,” he said to the colonel.
“What do you want me to do?” the colonel said. “That you will write out
my discharge when we reach London,” he said. “But a soldier cannot get
his discharge without an order (stamped) under the crown,” the colonel
said. “Write what you can for me and I will not plead for more,” he
said. “Anything I can write will not do you any good,” the colonel
said. “Write that itself,” he said; and he got it written. Next time
the play was going on, the Big Lad looked on, and when he saw the same
one striking the colonel again, he went to him and asked why he did
it. The reply he got was that soldiers were not allowed to question
their officers. “This is my way of excusing myself,” the Big Lad said,
giving him a blow he had cause to remember all his life, if he ever
recovered from it. The soldier was sentenced to be severely punished,
but on arriving in England, he deserted--though desertion of the army
is not a custom of Highland soldiers--and became a fugitive. The great
esteem in which he was held prevented any one from hindering his
flight. He got ashore at night among the baggage, and harbour lights
not being numerous in those days, he could not easily be seen making
his escape. Whenever he got his foot on land he set off, and during the
remainder of the night he ran on flying from pursuit. In the day-time
he hid himself under hedges and haystacks, and next night fled on. On
the following day he was becoming exhausted, and he ventured to ask
food at a wayside house. As his appearance was that of a poor soldier
he got scanty fare, but he asked with civility for better food, and
it was given to him. While he was taking it two strangers came in to
the same room with him, and seeing his table well supplied while their
own was poorly furnished, one of them said, “It is strange to see a
Highland soldier with good food, while we have next to nothing,” and
he went over and swept away all the meat from the soldier’s table to
his own. The soldier called the mistress of the house and asked her who
the men were. She said they were travellers, and she asked them why
they took the meat from the soldier’s table, and told them if they had
in a civil manner asked better food for themselves they would have got
it, instead of raising a quarrel. The soldier said he would settle the
quarrel; and finding a large iron hoop (_lùbach mhòr iaruinn_) at hand,
he straightened it (a fathom in length) and flung it round the head of
the one nearest to him, then twisted it in a noose and put the other
one’s head in the remainder. He then drew them both out after him, and
left them on the high road. “Now,” he said to them at parting, “you can
travel on, for you will not come out of that tie till you are put in
a smithy fire (_teallach gobhainn_).” He returned to pay the hostess,
who said to him, “You do not appear to have much money.” “I have seven
day’s pay of a soldier left, to pay my way,” he said. “Good youth,” she
said, “here is double the amount to you, to take you on your journey,
and I am sufficiently repaid by your ridding my house of disagreeable
guests.” He took the gift thankfully, and turned his face northwards,
to come to Scotland (_Albainn_). The next evening, he saw a fine house,
to which he went in the dusk, and asked permission to warm himself. He
was allowed to enter, and while standing with his back to the fire,
the daughter of the house saw the handsome stranger, and she told her
father. He desired food to be given to him, and that he was to be sent
where he was. When she went with this request, the soldier asked who
her father was. She said he was a nobleman (_àrd-dhuin’ uasal_). “A
soldier is a bad companion for a nobleman,” he said. He went with her
and saw her father, a grey-haired man in a chair, looking about him.
The soldier was asked to sit down. After conversing some time, the old
man said, “Young man, I have a daughter here who gives me much trouble
to keep her in company. If you can play cards (_iomairt chairtean_),
take my place at the table; there is a money reward (_duais airgid_)
for every game won.” “I have no money,” the soldier replied. “I will
lend you some,” she said. The play went on till he won six games, one
after another. He then wanted to stop playing, and offered her back
all the winnings, but she would only take the sum she lent him, saying
the rest was rightly his own. He was to remain there that night, and
was not to go away in the morning without telling them. Being afraid
of pursuit, he went away at daybreak. He had not gone far when he
knew that a horseman was coming after him. He waited to see if he was
sent to get back the money he had won at the card table; but it was
a messenger with a request to him from the nobleman to return to the
castle. When he appeared the nobleman chid him for leaving the castle
unknown to him, and told him how his daughter had fallen in love with
him, and had resolved never to marry any one else. The soldier said,
“A soldier is a poor husband for her.” The nobleman was convinced that
he was not a common soldier whatever circumstances had placed him in
that position, and said he preferred his daughter’s happiness to wealth
or rank. He remained with them and married the daughter; and when he
laid aside the soldier’s dress, there was not his equal to be seen
in the new dress provided for him. He was esteemed for the dignity
of his demeanour as much as he was admired for his fine appearance,
and he lived, without remembrance of his past misadventures, in the
enjoyment of happiness and prosperity. In those days news travelled
slowly, newspapers appearing only once or twice a year in populous
villages, and they did not reach remote places. In one which came to
the nobleman at this time, there was an account of two men tied in
an iron rod (_ann an slait iaruinn_) who were being exhibited at a
market town in England. He went with the nobleman and his friends to
see this wonder, the two who were in the union (_an dithis a bha ’s a’
chaigionn_). Whenever the men saw the Highlander they said to him “If
you were dressed in the kilt, we would say you were the man who put us
in this noose.” “If you had been more civil,” he said to them, opening
the coil, “when you met me, you would not to-day be fools going through
England with an iron rod round your necks.” On this he was cheered
by the people, and if he was held in esteem before, he was much more
on his return home, where he remained and became a great man (_duine
mòr_), beloved and esteemed to the end of his life.
STORY OF DONALD GORM OF SLEAT.
Donald Gorm was at one time in the Island of Skye with his galley and
crew. When returning home to Uist, the day they set out happened to
become very stormy, and stress of weather obliged them to return and
make straight for Dunvegan, the nearest place of shelter they could
reach, where Donald Gorm was not very willing to go if he could in
any way avoid landing there, since he had killed MacLeod of Dunvegan
in a quarrel[18] which had arisen between them; but there was no
alternative. On observing the boat coming and in danger of being lost
MacLeod and the men of Dunvegan went to the shore to meet them, and
when they were safely landed gave them a kindly reception. MacLeod took
them with him to his castle and provided hospitably for them. Donald
Gorm was invited to MacLeod’s own table, but refused, saying, “When
I am away from home, like this, with my men, I do not separate from
them but sit with them.” MacLeod said, “Your men will get plenty of
meat and drink by themselves, and come you with me.” “I will not take
food but with my men,” he said. When MacLeod saw that Donald Gorm was
resolved not to be separated from his own men, and being unwilling to
let him sit with his, he asked in preference Donald Gorm’s men to his
own company. When dinner was over, drinking commenced, and MacLeod
becoming warm said to Donald Gorm by way of remembrance, “Was it not
you who killed my father?” “It has been laid to my charge that I killed
three contemptible Highland lairds (_trì sgrogainich de thighearnan
Gaidhealach_), and I do not care though I should put the allegation
on its fourth foot to-night;” Donald Gorm said, drawing his dirk:
“There is the dirk that killed your father; it has a point, a haft
(_faillein_), and is sharp edged, and is held in the second best hand
at thrusting it in the west.”[19] MacLeod thought he was the second
best hand himself, and he said, “Who is the other?” Donald Gorm shifted
the dagger to his left hand, raised it, and said, “There it is.”
MacLeod became afraid and did not revive any other remembrance. When
Donald Gorm was offered a separate room at night, he said, “Whenever
I am from home I never have a separate bed from my men but sleep in
their very midst until I return to my own house again.” They told him
that his men had a sleeping-place provided for them, and that he would
be much better accommodated by himself in the room prepared for him.
When they saw he could not be persuaded to alter his determination of
passing the night with his men, they made beds for himself and men in
the kiln (_àth_).[20] The men, being wearied, slept without care, but
Donald Gorm did not close an eye. He had a friend, somehow, in his
time of need (_caraid éiginn air chor-eiginn_), in the place, who came
secretly to the kiln where he and his men lay, and called to him, “Is
it a time to sleep, Donald?” (_An cadal dhuit, a Dhòmhnuill?_) “What
if it is?” (_’Dé na ’m b’ è?_), he answered from within the kiln. “If
it is, it will not be” (_na ’m b’ è cha bhì_), said the one outside.
“Waken men, and rise quickly,” he said to his company. They got up at
once and with all speed went out, shutting the door of the kiln behind
them when they were all through to the outside. They fled straight to
the shore and launched their boat; and fortunately for them the wind
had calmed and they were able to put out oars and row the galley some
distance from the shore before their flight was observed. They had not
gone far to sea before they saw the kiln on fire. “In place of your
father and grandfather you have left yourself without a house, and
Donald Gorm is where you cannot reach him,” Donald Gorm said, and he
got safely home to his own house without hurt or injury (_gun bheud gun
mhilleadh_).
NOTES:
[18] The quarrel in which MacLeod was killed was caused, it is said,
by Donald Gorm’s having repudiated his wife, who was a daughter of
MacLeod, in order to marry MacKenzie of Kintail’s sister, and MacLeod
resenting the insult attacked Donald Gorm, who killed him and his two
sons by throwing them over precipices in the Coolin hills in Skye
where the skirmish took place. A different version of this incident is
given in an early account of the “Troubles in the isles betwixt the
Clan Donald and the Seil Tormot, the year 1601,” and is to the effect
that the feud was carried on by “Sir Rory MacLeod of the Herries,”
brother-in-law of Donald Gorm MacDonald of Sleat, the reprisals being
fierce and frequent until the MacLeods were beaten at “Binguillin,”
where a brother of Sir Rory and other chief men of his party were taken
prisoners by Donald Gorm, but on a reconciliation taking place they
were set at liberty. (See Gregory’s History of the Western Highlands
and Isles, p. 295).
[19] In regard to the story and incident of the dagger, there was a
song made, of which the writer has only been able to get the following
verse:--
This is the dirk that killed your father,
And it has not refused you yet,
Farewell to you from the side of the channel.
“Holoagaich h-ol-ò
Sud a’ bhiodag a mharbh d’ athair,
’S cha do dhiùlt i ri thusa fhathast;
Soraidh leat o thaobh a’ chaoil.”
[20] Kiln (_àth_) here mentioned was in a thatched house about 17 feet
long and 10 wide, the breast being about 5 feet deep, one being built
in every township for preparing corn for grinding. Some peacefully
disposed, observant old men (_bodaichean sicire foirfe_) built kilns
in their own barns, to avoid being hindered or disturbed by their
neighbours at their work.
DONALD GORM IN MOIDART.
The wife of the laird of Moidart (_Bean Mhac ’ic Ailein Mhùideart_)
once took great umbrage at Donald Gorm. He came to Mac ’ic Ailein’s
house, dressed, as was his custom, in a suit of cloth of dun (natural)
coloured sheep’s wool, with a stout oaken cudgel in his hand. The
laird’s wife happened to be the first person he met, and without any
preliminary word he asked, “Is the lad Mac ’ic Ailein at home?” (_Bheil
am balach Mac ’ic Ailein a stigh?_) “No, he is not, at this time,”
she answered indignantly resenting his superciliousness. The next
question he asked was, “Will it be a long time before he comes home?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You will tell him when he returns home, that
I was asking for him here, and that The Herd is the name I get (_gur
e am Buachaille a their iad rium_).” Mac ’ic Ailein came home soon
afterwards, and his wife told him about the bold man who was enquiring.
At her husband’s request she described the stranger’s appearance and
dress, and how “The Herd” was the name he got. “Did you ask him in?”
her husband asked. “No,” she said, “he was so impertinent.” “None but
me will pay the penalty for that,” he said, “for he was Donald Gorm of
Sleat” (_Dòmhnull Gorm Shléibhte_). Mac ’ic Ailein desired a horse to
be saddled, and he rode at full speed after, and overtook, Donald Gorm
at the inn. After much entreaty he was persuaded to return to Mac ’ic
Ailein’s house. On their arrival his wife made ample apology, and the
friendship was not broken.
Mac ’ic Ailein had to hold MacConnel, the Herd of the Isles (_Mac
Chonnuill Buachaille nan Eileinean_) stirrup at every feast and fair.
THE BLACK RAVEN OF GLENGARRY.
The boundary line between the estates of Glengarry and Kintail was, for
ages, a winding river (_amhuinn cham_, literally “crooked river”) which
often overflowed its banks, changed its course, and made encroachments
on the land, sometimes on one side and as frequently on the other,
causing disputes and quarrels, in regard to their respective rights and
limits, between the proprietors of the estates which it separated; the
tenantry (_an tuath_) on each property taking the part of their chief
when the strife ran high. In order to put an end to the quarrelling
the Chief of Glengarry (_Mac ’Ic Alasdair_) at this time insisted on
a straight line being drawn to mark the boundary between them, but
MacKenzie of Kintail would not give his assent to any proposal for
changing the old line which followed the course of the river, and the
feud broke out afresh (_bha an tabaid air a bonn a rithist_). Glengarry
had three sons, and in the skirmish that took place on that occasion
the two eldest sons were killed. The youngest having been left at home
on account of his youth, escaped the fate of his brothers. He became
known afterwards as the Black Raven of Glengarry. When he grew up to
manhood his father said to him one day, “An insulting message (_fios
tàmailteach_) has been sent to me from Kintail about the boundary line,
and I must accept the challenge and gather the men, and you must go
with us.” “If it is fighting you have in view,” said the Raven, “you
must do it yourself, for me; my two dear brothers were killed through
your foolish quarrels, and I would have been killed also if I had been
old enough to be with them at the time, but since I can now understand
how trifling the cause is, I will let yourselves be fighting.” His
father could only gather his men and go to the contest without him.
When they were out of sight, the Raven put on his best suit of armour
and took several turns round the hill to elude the notice of any
straggler who might have been left, and then set off at his utmost
speed to get in advance of his father and men. Before evening closed
he was at the head of Loch Duich, where he passed the night. Next day
he procured a plaid of MacKenzie tartan which he wrapped round him to
disguise the red badge (_suaicheantas dearg_) of Glengarry, and made
his way to the enemy’s headquarters at Donan Isle (_Eilean donnan_),
where the Kintail men were rapidly gathering to the fray. It was
customary in those days to set a large long table (_bòrd mòr fada_)
supplied with abundance of food and drink for the entertainment of the
men who assembled from far and near. The Chief sat at the head, and
every man on taking his place stuck his dirk (_biodag_) in the edge
of the table in front of him before sitting down. The Black Raven got
in among the men unnoticed, and when the Chief of Kintail came in, he
said to the man who was beside him, “I wish to sit next to Kintail.”
His appearance did not betray him, and no one objected to his request,
but when he was taking the seat beside the Chief, he threw MacKenzie
backwards on the ground and put his foot upon him to keep him down,
and the point of his dirk resting on the breast of the prostrate man.
His plaid having slipped aside, the red (_an dearg_) was exposed, and
in an instant a hundred dirks were ready to riddle him (_g’ a dheanamh
’n a chriathar-tholl_); but he said, commanding them, “The moment I am
approached, your Chief will be a dead man.” “If I fall,” he said to the
Chief, “it will be on the hilt of my own weapon, and you will never
rise--its point is on your breast, and any attempt to take my life
imperils yours. I did not come here for war but for peace, and unless
you will consent to lay aside all animosities, and solemnly promise
never to renew this quarrel, your life is forfeited. I have only to
press the hilt of this dagger, on which my hand rests, and whatever
fate awaits me you will have no more power to do harm.” Kintail agreed
to make peace, and gave his oath twice on the cold iron of the dirk on
his breast that he would faithfully keep his promise. The Black Raven,
after sharing in the hospitalities provided for the occasion, returned
home, the Chief and men of Kintail accompanying him part of the way.
When he met his father with his band of fighting men, he told them to
return home, that he had done alone more than they had ever been able
to do with all their boasting and fighting; he had put an end to their
fighting, and got a guarantee for a lasting peace without one drop of
bloodshed, and henceforth if he found any one among them making or
renewing the quarrel, he would give the Chief of Kintail full liberty
to treat them as he saw proper.
The friendship then made between the Chieftains was ever afterwards
steadily maintained by them, and the Raven became one of the most
distinguished men in the service of his country at that time.
CAILLEACH POINT, OR THE OLD WIFE’S HEADLAND,
Is one of the stormiest and most dangerous headlands on the west coast
of Scotland. From base to top it is rocky, and for a considerable
distance on each side.
It faces the Island of Coll, and commands a view of the Point of
Ardnamurchan, from which it is distant about seven or eight miles. At
its base there is a strong tidal channel which has never been known to
be dry at the lowest ebb tide. From its highest point the spectre of
“Hugh of the Little Head” is said to cross on horseback to Coll to
give warning, as he is wont to do, to any descendants of the house of
Lochbuie of their approaching end. Hugh is said to have had his head
cut off by a broad sword in one of the clan skirmishes of old times. He
has his head in a blaze of fire, and the tracks of his horse seen on
the snow shew only three legs, and the terror of children and credulous
people is increased by his being said to drag a chain after him. To the
south of the Point there is a cave, which becomes accessible only when
the tide has half fallen. Its Gaelic name is _Uamh Bhuaile nan Drogh_.
Wild pigeons tenant it, and are seen emerging when the tide has fallen.
The cooing sound of the birds heard under water seems to have led to
the name, which means, the Cave of the Cattle-fold of the fairies, and
it is noticeable that the word _Drogh_ denotes that it first received
its name from a Teutonic source, very possibly from the race that came
ultimately to tenant the Orkney islands. It is said, however, that
Dutchmen possessed the fisheries on the west coast of Scotland, and
it has been suggested that the word _Drogh_ is from Dragnet, which
they kept in the cave. The tides which sweep past this point render it
more difficult and dangerous to get past in a head wind than even the
Point of Ardnamurchan, of which the dangerous character is well known.
To the north of the Point in the direction of Croig in Mull, there is
an indentation which is called _Achlais na Caillich_ (the old woman’s
oxter or armpit) where salmon nets are set. It has been characterised
as not the armpit of a smooth woman (_Achlais na mnà mìne_) and the
story which is said to have given its name to the Headland, is, that an
old woman was gathering shell-fish in the neighbourhood when the tide
began to make, and the woman finding no other means of escape made a
last effort by climbing up the rocks. When at the top, and almost out
of danger, she said “I am safe now, in spite of God and men” (_Tha
mi tearuinte nis ge b’ oil le Dia ’s le daoine_). She was converted
into a stone forming part of the rock distinctly to be seen from the
highest point of _Cailleach_. It is said that the figure of the old
woman was very distinctly to be seen at first, and hence the name of
the Headland, but time has done its own work and the figure is not now
so unmistakable. Even the origin of the name is only known to those who
are natives of the neighbourhood.
On one occasion, the writer being himself ensconced under the side deck
of a smack, then plying to the island, heard a Tiree boatman, who was
conversing with a minister from the south of Argyleshire, and had no
fancy for the overly pious talk of the too-zealous stranger, remarking
that there was an old woman here and when she gave a snort, she could
be heard over in Coll. [“_Tha Cailleach an so ’s trà nì i sreothart
cluinnidh iad ’an Cola i._”] The minister said that that was most
extraordinary, and as it now began to rain the boatman began to exhort
him to go below, and professed much regard for the minister’s health.
At last he got rid of him.
A TRADITION OF ISLAY.