met the gauger at the door, and dropping a curtsy, gave him a hearty
welcome, while Somhairle Dubh told Eachainn to lead the pony to the
stable; but seeing the poor lad hardly able to stand, and having
been told the reason, he immediately helped him into the kitchen,
and seating him by the fire, called for the whisky bottle—the usual
panacea in those days for all evils in the Highlands—and giving
Eachainn a good dram, he applied the same remedy to the wounded limb,
rubbing it in before the fire, while a messenger was dispatched for his
mother, who was noted for her skill in the use of herbs.
In the meantime Mr Gillespie had been shown to his bedroom, to change
his wet clothes, while his dinner was preparing. Before he began his
meal, the landlord brought out his own peculiar bottle—a mixture of
whisky, camomile flowers, and coriander seeds—and offered his guest a
glass as an appetiser, which was gladly accepted, for he was feeling
far from well. He ate but little of the good plain dinner provided for
him, and soon after went to his bed. Before doing so, however, he asked
for Eachainn, wishing to give him a trifle for his guidance, but on
being told that the lad had gone home with his mother, he gave
Somhairle Dubh a shilling to give to him.
Although Gillespie was very tired, he could not sleep. He tossed and
turned, and only as the day was breaking did he fall asleep, but it
did not refresh him, for the incidents of his journey haunted him in
his sleep. He was again riding the pony, going at a furious rate,
while Eachainn sat at his back holding him in a grasp of iron. There
arose before him the figure of a snake of gigantic proportions, which,
writhing round his neck, was nearly strangling him, but instead of
hissing, it uttered the ‘craik,’ ‘craik,’ of the trian-ri-trian. With
an effort he awoke, and found himself stiff and feverish, and his
throat very sore. In a word, the honest man was in for a bad attack of
quinsey or inflammation of the throat. After a few days had elapsed,
he expressed his surprise that Eachainn had not called to inquire
for him; but he was told the lad had gone to a village ten miles off
to spend his shilling. Somhairle Dubh and his goodwife became very
concerned about their guest, and nothing could exceed their kindness
and attention to him. They sent for the doctor, but he was away some
distance and could not come at once. On the fourth day of Gillespie’s
illness, Somhairle Dubh, seating himself by the sick man, with great
solemnity of manner, said, ‘Sir, we must all die. Now, sir, I am come
to do to you as I would like to be done by; for sore, sore would it
be to me to think that my body should not be put in the grave of my
fathers in Kilmuir. So, sir, by your leave, where would you choose to
be buried?’
‘Buried!’ exclaimed the gauger, aghast, sitting up in his bed, and
staring at his host. ‘Buried! surely I am not so bad as that?’
Without noticing his emotion, the worthy man continued, ‘Folk have
different ways in different countries; but you may depend upon it, sir,
it’s no my father’s son that would suffer the corpse of a duine-uasal
not to be treated in every way most honourably. You shall be properly
washed and stretched, that you may be sure of; and you shall not want
for the dead shirt, for by my faith, and I’ll do as I promise, sir, you
shall have my own dead shirt, that my wife made with her own hands, of
real good linen, and beautifully sewed too. And we’ll keep you, sir,
for seven days and seven nights, and I’ll get Ian Saor to make as good
a chest for you as ever he made, with brass-headed nails all round it,
and with shining handles like silver, and you shall lie in your chest
like a duine-uasal should, with two large candles at your head, and two
at your feet, and a plateful of salt on your breast.’
Here poor Gillespie could contain himself no longer, but groaned aloud
at this dismal recital of what was to be done to his corpse.
‘What, sir? you’re may be thinking the alaire, or death feast, will not
be good enough; but ye need not trouble yourself for that, there shall
be plenty whisky and plenty meat, and my wife shall make good bannocks.’
‘Yes, indeed, I will,’ said the good woman, wiping her eyes with her
apron as she sobbed out. ‘Ochan, ochan! little does his mother know how
her son is the night.’
‘But,’ continued her husband, ‘think what a comfort it’ll be to her to
hear of his being buried so decent like; for, sir, you shall be put in
my own grandfather’s grave, and that’s what I’d not do to many, but
I’ll do it to you, for though you are a gauger you’re a stranger far
from your own people, and I’d like to show kindness to you.’
Indeed the worthy man never doubted but he had afforded Gillespie the
greatest comfort in thus having settled all the particulars of his
funeral; for an intense anxiety about the proper disposal of his
remains, and the complete fulfilling of all the customary ceremonies of
death, is a characteristic trait of the Highlander.
It was the seventh day of Mr Gillespie’s illness when Eachainn
returned, and he immediately went to see the sick man, who by this time
could scarcely speak. He lay pale and languid, with his eyes closed,
and apparently the dews of death on his brow. The lad was greatly
shocked. He expected to find him ill, but not so bad as this—not for
death. ‘Ochan, ochan!’ he exclaimed, and covering his face with his
hands, he burst into tears. The gauger on opening his eyes and seeing
his visitor, smiled faintly and said, ‘It’s all over with me, Eachainn.’
‘Oh no, no, sir; don’t say that, I hope you’ll be better soon. And
don’t you be thinking of the tàsg, sir, for she’ll not be for you at
all, sir, but for the minister’s goodmother, who died last night with
the fever, and his children have got it, too, for it’s very smitting;
but I’ll no be caring. I’ll just be going up to the manse, and tell the
doctor to come to you.’
‘Stop,’ said the gauger with difficulty, and then pointing to his
fowling-piece, which stood in a corner, he continued with a faltering
voice, ‘Keep it for my sake, for I shall never use it again.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ replied Eachainn in a broken voice. ‘I’ll be hoping to
see you use her many’s the time yet. We’ll be shooting the muir-hens
together some day, but I must be going for the doctor quick.’ So
saying, the lad hurried out of the room, for fear he should again break
down.
In about three hours the tramping of a horse announced the arrival of
the doctor, who had galloped in from the manse, while Eachainn ran and
panted all the way at his horse’s side. And while the doctor was
making for the inn, Eachainn ran to his mother’s, and told her to get
her herbs ready, for perhaps she would be able to do more good than
the doctor, after all their hastening back. He was in the sick-room
as soon as the doctor, who, having examined his patient in silence
for a few minutes, began the following harangue with a pompous voice
and manner—‘You see, sir, you are labouring under what is commonly
called a quinsey, but which, professionally, we denominate _Cynanche_,
to which may be added in your case the adjective noun _maligna_. I
regret to say that your case is exceedingly desperate. Had I been able
to have seen you earlier, I should have followed Celsus’ excellent
advice in these cases, but I am sorry to say that the Celsian treatment
is now entirely out of the question. There can be no doubt that the
opening into the trachea is very nearly closed up by the phlegmon or
inflammation, when death by asphyxia must ensue. There is here, then,
but one course. Here,’ taking a small case of instruments out of his
pocket, ‘here, you see, is a fine sharp-pointed knife or scalpel,
with which an incision being made into your trachea, I shall insert a
small tube so as to keep up the communication between the atmosphere
and the lungs, to obviate what would otherwise be the fatal closing
of the glottis.’ With that the doctor arranged his instruments at the
bedside, and was preparing to operate at once, when a dim sense of his
intentions began to break in upon the minds of the spectators.
‘And where do you mean to cut, sir?’ asked Somhairle Dubh, first
breaking silence.
‘Here, exactly here,’ replied the doctor, placing his finger on Mr
Gillespie’s throat a little below the chin.
‘And have you no other cure but that, doctor?’
‘None whatever,’ answered he, shaking his head, and taking up the
scalpel, at the sight of which the sick man shrank to the other side of
the bed with a look of pitiable despair.
‘No other cure than to cut the duine-uasal’s throat,’ screamed
Eachainn, coming forward, with a face blanched with horror; ‘No, no,
sir,’ he continued, ‘you’ll shust have to cut my throat first. If
you’ll no be doing better than that, I could be doing as good myself
with the corran yonder, and not to trouble you to be coming with them
awful knives, shust enough to frighten a body.’
On hearing this, the poor gauger smiled gratefully on Eachainn, and
pressed his hand between both his own.
‘Sir!’ exclaimed the doctor, hoarse with passion, ‘what is the meaning
of this? Am I to perform the operation or not?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the sick man in a scarcely articulate voice. ‘I
throw myself upon the mercy of God. I can but die.’
‘Then die, sir,’ said the enraged doctor, ‘and your blood be upon your
own head;’ and hastily packing up his instruments, he turned to leave
the room just as Eachainn’s mother (a descendant of Fearchair Lighiche)
entered. She gave him a respectful greeting, which, however, was very
ungraciously received, and soon the sound of his horse’s hoofs was
heard as he galloped away, Eachainn muttering something to himself
about the Diabhul going along with him.
Eachainn’s mother now took up the case, and having tenderly examined
the throat, called for a pot and boiling water, into which she cast
some herbs and boiled them over the fire. This decoction she ordered to
be applied on flannels, as hot as he could bear it, to the sick man’s
throat, while he inhaled the hot steam of the same from the spout of a
kettle. The good woman then called for a skellet, into which she
measured two or three cups of water; she then threw into the water some
dried herbs and fresh roots. When the mixture was hot it threw up a
green scum, which she skimmed off. She then poured some of the potion
into a tumbler, and approaching the patient, said in Gaelic, ‘Try, my
dear, and swallow this; I know it is very painful for you to do it, but
life is precious, and for your mother’s sake, if you have one, make the
attempt.’
On her wishes being explained to Gillespie, he grasped the tumbler,
and with a great effort slowly but painfully drained it. In about
half-an-hour after he had taken it, his face became of a ghastly green
shade; he stretched himself out at full length; his pulse seemed to
fail; he heaved deep sighs; and at length began to retch violently. It
now appeared as if a struggle between life and death, but at length
the imposthume burst, and the poor man swooned away. The spectators
now thought all was over with the poor gauger, but Eachainn’s mother
knew better. She held his head with one hand, while with the other
she chafed his temples, calling to her son to throw some water in the
patient’s face, and telling the landlord to bring some red wine, if he
had any in the house. Her orders being promptly carried out, the sick
man soon opened his eyes, and in a little while was able to speak,
expressing his gratitude to the worthy woman for the great relief she
had afforded him.
From this time Gillespie mended fast, but was necessarily obliged to
keep his bed for several days, and, finding the time hanging heavy,
he would keep Eachainn by him for hours together, as he had taken a
great liking to the lad, besides being under such an obligation to his
mother, of whose skill and the wonderful cures she had effected, her
son was never tired of talking about.
‘But how did your mother gain all this knowledge?’ asked the gauger.
‘Well, sir, you must know my mother is descended from the famous man,
Fearchair Lighiche.’
‘And who may he be?’ inquired Gillespie.
‘Ah, sir, it was him that was the clever man. He could cure every
disease in the shutting of a taibhshear’s eye, and knew every herb and
plant, every tree and root, every bird and beast. And there’s something
more wonderful yet,’ continued Eachainn in an awe-struck tone.
‘And what is that?’ asked Gillespie.
‘Well, sir, maybe you’ll no be believing it, but it’s true all the
same, that Fearchair Lighiche had the gift to know what the birds would
be saying to each other.’
The gauger threw a quick glance at his companion, thinking he was
trying to gull him, but seeing that Eachainn spoke in all sincerity,
and even with a certain amount of awe in his manner, Gillespie did not
interrupt him, merely remarking, ‘That was a gift indeed, if he made
good use of it.’
‘That he did, sir, for he was a real good man, and a blessing was on
all he did.’
‘Well,’ said the gauger, with an air of incredulity, ‘tell me now of
some instance where this gift was shown by your wonderful relative,
Farquhar Lick, or whatever his name was?’
‘By your leave, sir, his name is not Lick, but Lighiche, and that means
“Healer.” The people will be calling him that because of the cures he
did. But his own right name was Beaton, and I could be telling you lots
of stories about him. One time, on a beautiful summer morning, he was
walking by the sea-side, and he met old Colin Macrae and his two sons
going to their boat to go to Skerry-Rona to cut sea-ware, when they
spoke to the seer. He looked to the north and to the south, with a face
full of trouble, and shust then a raven flew over their heads, and gave
a hollow croaking kind of sound.’
‘So do all ravens, man,’ interrupted the gauger.
Without noticing the interruption, Eachainn continued, ‘And then, sir,
when Fearchair Lighiche heard the raven, he turned to the old man and
commanded him and his sons not to enter the boat or put to sea that
day, for, said he, “I have it from them that never deceive that evil
will come to a boat from Harlosh coast this day.”’
‘And did they take notice of the warning?’
‘The old man, sir, was minded to stay, but the young lads laughed,
and said they did not care for all the ravens between the Point of
Uishinish and the Coolin Hills, so they set off. But the wise man stood
looking after them with a sad face, and then the raven flew past again;
and when Fearchair heard the croak of the bird, he clasped his hands,
and looking up he cried out, “Lost! lost! lost!”’
‘And what became of the men?’ inquired Gillespie, interested, in spite
of his unbelief.
‘I’ll shust tell you, sir. About the middle of the day there was a
thick fog, which covered the sea and the land, and when the night came
on there was a dreadful storm, so that no boat could live. The people
will be blaming old Meg Mackintosh, the witch of Glen Dubh, for it, for
she met the men that very morning, shust after they’ll be finding a
dead door-mouse, and that is shust always a sign of death. Well, when
the night was come, the house of John Mac John Mac Kenneth was all
cheerless and dark, for they that went out in the morning never come
back; and the poor wife sat all her lone, on a three-legged stool, by
the side of the fire, crying bitterly for her man and her sons, whose
three stools stood empty opposite her on the other side. Her dog
lied at her feet, and the poor brute kept licking her hand, for he
knew she was in trouble; and when her sobs became more convulsively
audible, he would raise a low whine in sympathy. Well, sir, it’ll
shust be about the middle of the night, when in a distracted state
the woman exclaimed, “Oh, this fearful suspense! it is worse than
the worst reality. Would to heaven I were certain whether they are
dead or alive.” She had scarcely left off speaking, when she’ll hear
a queer-like sound, and the dog she’ll hear it too, for she’ll growl
and go close to the wife’s side, and then she’ll see three shivering
figures sitting before her on the stools that were empty before, all
wet, pale, and with the death-look on them. You may be sure she was
awful frightened. She daren’t speak; but she shust held out her arms to
embrace them, but she could not lay hold of them, for with a soundless
tread they glided away and vanished, while she heard pronounced these
words, “Cha till, cha till, cha till sinn tuille” (We return, return,
return no more). Then she gave a great skirl and fell down, and she was
found in the morning shust quite senseless, with the poor beastie of a
dog watching her.’
‘That is certainly a very strange story, Eachainn.’
‘Yes, sir; and there’s plenty more I could be telling, if you like.
Once the laird was taken ill all of a sudden with a bad pain in his
chest, when he was walking near some rocks where the fairies lived.
Some say he was struck by an elf-bolt, as one was picked up near the
spot the next day. So he sent to Fearchair Lighiche to come to heal
him. It was a long way to go, and when Fearchair and the man that
was fetching him got to about five miles from the laird’s house a
gobhar-athair flew over them, and when Fearchair heard the cry of the
bird he stopped, and told the man it was no use to go any further, for
his master was dead, and so he turned back. When the man got home, he
found that his master had died just at the very time they heard the
gobhar-athair. Sometimes he would fall into a trance, when he would be
seeing most beautiful things. One day he was travelling with his nephew
and his foster-brother, who always carried his herb-box and his Hebrew
Bible, and they came to a place where a great battle was fought long
ago. And there’s a big cairn there over the bones of the men who were
killed, and people will be seeing the spirits of them if they go that
way at night. Fearchair said to his nephew that he was going to lie
down and sleep, and that they were to be sure not to wake him, nor even
touch him. Well, sir, he went to sleep, and at first he was breathing
very hard, and his face was full of trouble, but after a little he did
not breathe at all, and his face got as white as snow, and he looked
shust as if he was dead. His nephew got so frightened when he saw
him, that he jumped up to wake him, but the other held him back and
whispered, “For your life, move not, speak not, touch not;” and they
then saw coming out of the mouth of the sleeping man a tiny, tiny, wee
thing like a beautiful butterfly. When the nephew saw it, he made as if
he would catch it, but the other man called out, “For any sake, don’t
touch it, for there’s something awful in it,” so they looked and saw it
go into the cairn. The night had well nigh fallen before they saw the
beautiful wee creature coming out of the cairn and going back into the
mouth of Fearchair. Then he woke up and sneezed three times, and said,
“’Tis well; let’s on, let’s on.” He didn’t speak again for a long time,
but once they heard him say, like to himself, in Gaelic, “Eternal!
eternal! eternal!”’
‘And what did the people think of all this?’ asked Gillespie.
‘Oh, sir, they say that when he’ll be in a trance his spirit would come
from his body, and go to the spiritual worlds, or anywhere he liked.
There was only three men on earth to whom he told what it was that
he’ll be seeing at such times, and they dared only each tell it to
one another, their nearest relatives when they arrived at the age of
twenty-nine.’
When Eachainn had finished the last story, he left Gillespie to
himself, who was now fast recovering under the kind treatment of
Somhairle Dubh and his excellent wife. The host was in the gauger’s
room as often as he could, relating such stories as he knew; and thus
enabled the patient to pass away the time more agreeably. I heard
several of them, but the one about the