Donald Campbell of Scalpay, Harris—whose name is on record in
connection with Prince Charles, when a refugee in the Western Isles
after his defeat at Culloden—had a very beautiful daughter, who
was so modest, pleasant, and affectionate, that she had few equals
in the Isles. The charming Annie was for some considerable time,
previous to the year 1768, loved by Allan Morrison, son of Roderick
Morrison, of Stornoway, a ship captain. Being a gallant, and withal a
comely young man, his affection was reciprocated by the fair Annie.
Captain Allan—he was seldom called Morrison—traded with his vessel
principally between Stornoway and the Isle of Man, but he frequently
went to Spain. Like many other lovers, Captain Allan, when he returned
from abroad, presented the object of his affections with small presents
of silk and linen—rare articles in the Highlands in those days. The
more Allan saw of his Annie, the more he loved her, and he ardently
longed for the day when they should be united in wedlock. This day was
at length fixed; but before the happy event could take place, a voyage
to the Isle of Man and back had to be accomplished. It was arranged,
however, that the preliminary ceremony—the ‘contract’—should be gone
through prior to setting out on the voyage, on the evening before
setting sail. For this purpose, one afternoon in the spring of 1768,
Captain Allan left Stornoway for Scalpay with his vessel. Besides
having a select number of relatives on board, who were to be present
at the ceremony, he was accompanied by another ship, commanded by his
brother, Captain Roderick. It was a fine day, with a nice breeze of
fair wind, when they set sail. They did not proceed far, however, when
the wind, which veered round to the south, rose suddenly to a perfect
hurricane. To make matters worse, a blinding sleet shortly afterwards
set in. Nobly, but in vain, did both the ships strive to bear up
against the furious onsets of the rolling Minch; but notwithstanding
their brave efforts to reach Scalpay before nightfall, they had barely
got as far as the Shiant Isles when it was pitch dark, and thus their
already dangerous situation became more perilous still. That each
vessel might know the position of the other, a red light, in addition
to the usual white one, was exhibited on the masts of both, and the
brothers, being determined to arrive at their destination that night,
if possible, continued to battle against the mighty billows, which now
dashed themselves with fearful force against the creaking planks of
the vessels, and anon broke over them with a deafening noise. This did
not continue long when it became apparent that they could not possibly
hold out much longer together. This was at least part of Captain
Roderick’s surmises, when he suddenly heard loud cries proceeding from
his brother’s ship. Being slightly in advance of Captain Allan at the
time, and supposing that the shouts were intended as a sign for him to
keep up his courage, he paid very little attention to the matter, for
under the circumstances there was no possibility of rendering the least
aid, should such be required. Above the sound of the raging tempest,
the shouts from Allan’s ship continued to be distinctly heard for a
few seconds, when lo! all of a sudden, the screaming ceased, and the
lights on the mast suddenly disappeared. It was then, and only then,
that Captain Roderick understood the real meaning of the shouts which
came from his brother’s crew, whose ship had been sinking, and had now
evidently gone to the bottom. Although there was but little hope of his
being able much longer to keep his own ship afloat, Captain Roderick,
like a brave sailor and an affectionate brother, directly made for the
spot where the lights of his brother’s ship were last observed, but
nothing, alas! was seen or heard of the ship or crew. The deep wail
which now rose from Captain Roderick’s crew was truly heart-rending.
From that day till now nothing has been seen of Captain Allan’s crew or
his ship.
Soon after the foundering of the gallant ship the gale moderated
so much that Captain Roderick was able to reach the north harbour
of Scalpay early next morning. Being expected there the previous
night, none of the Campbells—who were, as might be supposed, greatly
concerned for Captain Allan’s safety, knowing, as they did, that his
non-arrival arose from the furious tempest—went to bed that night.
They were, therefore, by early dawn on the top of the hill which
flanked their house, which is still standing, and from which they
secured a view of the Minch in all directions. From this position
they early descried Captain Roderick’s ship making for the island. As
the brave vessel passed up through the narrow Sound of Scalpay, the
Campbells, and chief among them the fair Annie, some relatives and
friends, stood on the north-east point of the island, and, thinking
it was Captain Allan’s ship, welcomed her with waving handkerchiefs.
But their gay signs of joy were but of short duration, for presently a
small flag was observed half-mast-high, and the next moment a sharp
scream burst from the lovely Annie, exclaiming that Allan Donn was
gone! Captain Roderick’s ship soon cast anchor; in a few minutes he
landed, and conveyed the sad tidings of his brother’s and relatives’
untimely end, as above described.
We will not attempt to describe the effect which this melancholy
intelligence had upon the fair Annie, whose grief at that moment knew
no bounds—her heart broke for him whom she would never see again.
Refusing to be comforted, she might be seen at early dawn, mid-day,
and twilight, wandering sorrowfully on the shore, looking for her
‘dear Allan’s body,’ and crying ‘Allain Duinn Shiubhlainn leat.’ She
continued thus while she lived, which was only a few days, her heart
having, it is said, literally burst. It is even asserted that her pure
white breast wasted to that extent that an aperture was formed opposite
her heart. She composed a song or lament for her devoted lover each day
afterwards while she lived.
The song composed by Annie Campbell on the day she received the tidings
of her beloved’s death, is entitled, ‘Allain Duinn, Shiubhlainn leat.’
It has a peculiarly touching air, and is still sung by many people
on the Island of Harris, and it is now published in Part II. of Mr
Sinclair’s “Oranaiche.”
It was an oft expressed wish of the broken-hearted maiden that her body
should be buried in the sea, that she might share her ‘dear Allan’s
grave.’ But whether her friends promised compliance with her request
is not said. It is worthy of note, however, that his name was the last
word she uttered. Surrounded by a crowded chamber of weeping friends,
her gentle spirit took its flight to that brighter region which lies
beyond the grave; and, though grief had wasted her body to a mere
shadow, the same pleasant features which graced her in life continued
to adorn her even when embraced in the cold arms of death. Her demise
excited universal regret in the whole Outer Hebrides.
The respect and admiration in which Annie Campbell was held by her
acquaintances in life were fully demonstrated at her death, for during
the week in which her body lay in state at Scalpay, scores of people
who could not, on account of the throng, obtain admission to the house
of mourning, although kept open day and night, might be seen, with sad
countenances and sorrowful hearts, standing around it from morn to
eve, and eve to morn, and the respectful silence which prevailed among
them was such that ‘the fall of a pin might be heard.’ Some people
may be disposed to say that to devote a whole week to the ceremony
called the ‘leekwake,’ was a needless waste of time. But, considering
the great preparations which had to be made for the deceased lady’s
funeral, it must be confessed that it was short enough. Fifteen gallons
of whisky, two or three large creelfuls of beef, mutton, and fowl,
and a corresponding supply of newly-baked oaten cake, and cheese,
were generally required at the interment of a common person in the
Highlands in the olden times; and although they had neither pastry nor
confections from Edinburgh, nor brandy from Cognac, at Annie’s funeral,
the expenditure was, nevertheless, most profuse. There was gin from
Schiedam, wine from Oporto, and whisky from Berneray, in unlimited
quantities; and as to the supply of oat and barley meal cakes, cheese,
beef, mutton, and fowl, it was simply enormous.
Rodel, the place of interment, was only twelve miles from the island
of Scalpay, but, on account of the large number of people which was to
take part in the proceedings at Cille Chliaran (Rodel churchyard),
which is supposed to have been built in the tenth century, and was
dedicated to St Clement, three large galleys, or boats, were required
for the funeral procession. One of the boats, which was manned by a
select crew, was intended for the coffin and chief mourners; another
was for the deceased’s kinsfolk and friends, and the third for carrying
the provisions. The day fixed for the funeral arrived—it was a
Saturday in the year 1768—a day which will be remembered in Harris
while a Highlander breathes on its soil. On the morning of that day,
the three boats left Scalpay for Rodel. In the foremost boat, Am Bata
Caol Cannach, was the coffin, and the chief mourners were Kenneth
Campbell, deceased’s brother; Campbell of Marrig, Campbell of Strond,
Macleod of Hushinish, Macleod of Luskintyre, and two or three other
leading Harris-men. It also contained several casks of rum, gin, &c.
The morning was so calm and pleasant, that the surface of the Minch
seemed like a huge sheet of glass, so that the sails, which seamen
depend so much upon, were useless; but, stripped to the shirts, the
stalwart oarsmen pulled their respective galleys through the briny
water with great speed. The little procession had hardly passed Rudha
Reibinish when a smart head-wind began to blow. The horizon was soon
afterwards darkened by a sheet of black clouds that betokened the
approaching storm, which almost immediately set in. It soon blew a
perfect hurricane, against which oars could make little headway. At the
outset of the rising wind, the Bata Caol Cannach set sail, was thus
carried far out to sea, and was in mid-channel when the tempest was at
its height. The sails were torn to shreds, and the snow, which began to
fall thick and fast, hid the land from view. They were now in a most
critical position, for it was impossible for any boat to live long
in such an awful sea, and the boat was half full of water. They gave
up all hope of surviving many moments longer, and each began to pray
earnestly for his soul’s salvation, when to their still greater horror,
the form of a female—Annie’s phantom—was observed quite near them,
following in the wake of their boat. This extraordinary circumstance
was at once laid down as one of the direst omens. Nor need we wonder
much if it did, when we consider the peculiar circumstances under
which the figure appeared, and the superstitious beliefs which then,
and to a certain extent still, prevail in the Highlands. Each time the
phantom, which seemed to scowl angrily upon them, appeared, the Bata
Caol Cannach shipped fearful seas. Life being sweet, the poor fellows
used every means in their power to keep their vessel afloat. They used
the wine and gin ankers, out of which they knocked the ends, spilling
the liquor among the salt water, for bailing the boat. The phantom
still followed, and was coming closer and closer to the boat’s stern,
when they recalled to mind Annie’s oft expressed desire to be buried in
the sea, that she might share Allan’s grave; and they at once concluded
that her spirit followed them, first in the storm, and now in visible
shape, to enforce compliance with her last request. Some of them,
therefore, advised that the coffin should be immediately committed
to the deep; but to this proposal Kenneth Campbell, the deceased’s
brother, would not consent. He was sitting in the stern of the boat,
and his late sister’s spirit drew so near to him that she could put her
hand on his shoulder. He chanced to have a bunch of keys in his pocket,
to which some fabulous charm was attached, and he threw them to the
phantom to appease her, but without effect. By this time some of the
crew lay helplessly in the bottom of the boat, when one of the most
courageous proposed that, to lighten the craft, the ‘knocked up’ men
should be thrown overboard. ‘Not one,’ replied an elderly man, ‘of
the living shall be put out, till the dead is put out first.’ He had
hardly finished speaking, when a huge sea rolled over the boat, which
almost swamped her, and the coffin, which was then floating in the
boat, striking Kenneth Campbell on the chest, had almost pitched him
overboard. He, thereupon, immediately ordered it to be thrown out,
an order which, we need hardly say, was directly obeyed; but another
tremendous sea again threw it into the water-logged boat. They managed,
however, with great difficulty to unship it again, and knocking one of
the ends out of it with their oars, all that remained of the fair Annie
sank in a twinkling to the bottom of the sea, and the angry spirit
immediately disappeared.
Meanwhile, the other two boats, which had never raised their sails at
all, went ashore at Manish. Having landed, the men proceeded at once
by land to Rodel, where they communicated the manner of their parting
with the Bata Caol Cannach, as above described. All agreed that she
had foundered, ‘for it was impossible,’ they said, ‘for any open,
or other boat, to live in the Minch that day.’ This was a terrible
circumstance—a calamity which plunged the whole country into an
overwhelming grief. The deaths of Annie Campbell and Allan Donn were
wholly absorbed by this extraordinary affair—an affair which seemed,
to all appearance, to be nothing less than a judgment from God; for the
flower of all the Harris gentlemen shared in one hour the same watery
grave. The sorrow caused by this sad occurrence was so universal that a
dry eye could not be found that evening from one end of Harris to the
other; and this general grief continued for days and nights together,
for all sympathised with the bereaved.
But to return to the Bata Caol Cannach, which we left water-logged,
and about to sink in the middle of the Minch. It was a remarkable
coincidence, that as soon as the cold clay of the fair maiden sank in
the sea, the furious storm immediately abated, and the raging billows
ceased their wild commotion. The Bata Caol Cannach was then bailed as
quickly as possible, and one of the men—Malcolm Macleod—happening to
have his plaid along with him, it was hoisted before the wind instead
of a sail. The boat’s stern was turned to the wind which drove it
forward at a considerable rate, but, being pitch dark, none of them
knew whither they were going. A new danger now began to alarm them—the
danger of the boat being dashed to pieces on some shore. This fresh
evil had only presented itself when the Bata Caol Cannach’s keel struck
the ground. The gratitude to an all-ruling Providence that filled their
hearts at that moment none but those similarly situated can tell.
They immediately leaped ashore, leaving the boat in the spot where it
struck; and after wandering about for some time, stumbled upon a house,
where they were kindly received and cared for. On entering this house,
they discovered that one of their number was amissing, and, hungry and
exhausted though they were, they immediately went to search for him,
and found him lying insensible in the bows of the boat. He was at once
carried to the house which they had just left, and with much care and
attention he soon recovered. The place where the Bata Caol Cannach went
ashore, and where the men were so hospitably entertained, was Snizort,
in the Isle of Skye. It was some time before the Harris-men had
thoroughly recovered from the hardships they underwent; but, as soon as
they were able to undertake the journey, they returned home.
Kenneth Campbell, Annie’s brother, was afterwards also drowned. He
commanded a vessel, and being met by a French pirate, his ship, after
being robbed, was sent to the bottom, every soul on board perishing.
There are many other anecdotes connected with the men who composed the
crew of the Bata Caol Cannach on the occasion referred to, but I must
conclude, merely mentioning that the body of the unfortunate Allan Donn
was found at the Shiant Isles shortly after the death of his sorrowing
lover Annie, and was interred with befitting solemnities in the family
sepulchre in Lewis. As an extraordinary coincidence, the body of the
fair Annie Campbell was soon after Di-Sathairn an Fhuadaich also found
at the Shiant Isle, and in the very spot where the body of her lover
had been recovered. Whether it was placed in the same grave as Allan
tradition does not record.
Malcolm Macleod, grandson of Malcolm Macleod, whose plaid was used as a
sail in the Bata Caol Cannach, an elder in the Free Church at Tarbert,
Harris, who only died about two years ago, repeatedly told me the above
story. The Bata Caol Cannach was so called on account of having been
purchased by the Campbells from a man in the island of Canna.
[Illustration]