Love and Music Will Endure (2 page)

When Màiri left, Lachlan Macdonald hobbled over to the table. He reached over to the decanter standing sentinel on the polished tray. He had decided that he was going to have a drink even if the pain pounced again and sank its claws into his flesh. It seemed to toy with him, loosening its grip and leaving him whimpering with relief. But it stalked him and would return to savage him again weeks later. It seemed to wax strong in the damp climate. If he had remained in India would the heat have sapped its strength?

But he had yearned to return to the native island he had left as a young man and he loved this house he had built, adorned over the entrance with his own and Wilhemina’s intertwined initials. A visitor who had drunk too much port one evening had told him how Henry the Eighth had used the same idea at Hampton Court. Later on the king had been obliged to bring in stonemasons to change the letters each time he had changed wives.

‘That won’t happen here,’ Lachlan had replied tersely.

Yes, both he and Màiri, daughter of Fair Iain, had opened their infant eyes on the same beloved island. That was why he helped and defended her against her critics. She had already reached the allotted three score years and ten and although he was more than a decade younger she had left him feeling frail and limp in comparison. She was a force of nature, like a standing stone that had hoisted up its skirts to rampage across the land.

He poured himself a mean measure and sipped it, clinging gratefully to each drop. It seemed so unjust that he, a man of moderate habits, should be forced into abstinence by this
damned gout. How long ago was it since he had first met her? He had long known of her powerful presence at the hustings and Land League meetings. John Murdoch had encouraged her of course. With his radical views he had assumed that Lachlan was a traditional laird, stiff with dignity rather than a younger son who had made his own way as an indigo planter.

It must have been ten years ago when John had arrived unannounced, as was his way, rosy faced and wild bearded. Lachlan had wished that he had been out shooting when John and his entourage arrived but it was a day of torrents and floods. So he had been sitting in front of a glowing fire reading the latest batch of letters and accounts from India when they had arrived. He welcomed John and his pack in for refreshment, including that fellow from London, he couldn’t remember his name but he had the predatory stare of a fanatic.

‘Is this your first visit to Skye?’ Lachlan had asked him as they all sat at table.

‘It is, and I’m horrified at what little effort the landowners have made to improve conditions for their tenants.’ He paused to chew a piece of venison stew and banged the table with his fork.

‘Of course, as we all know, property ownership is merely legalised theft. The solution is to nationalise all the estates in Scotland and give them to the tenants.’ As he spoke he sprayed fragments of food in front of him.

He’s shooting the enemy with his own hospitality, Lachlan thought, suppressing a grin as he caught John’s apologetic eye. Later on there was a lull between showers. He and John left the Englishman savouring one of his host’s cigars and strolled down to the loch.

‘I’ve a favour to ask,’ John had said. ‘I wondered if you might be able to help Màiri. She’s had to stay in Greenock to earn her living but she would dearly love to return here.’

‘What does she need?’

‘A house with a low rent. All the travelling is tiring and expensive for her although she’s too proud to complain. She would be so useful here too – the fight has moved out of the cities to the islands.’

‘As long as she’s not as ferocious as your London friend. I think he would like to murder me in my bed, after he’s eaten me out of house and home.’

‘I do apologise about him’. John frowned but when Lachlan laughed he joined in. The matter was arranged easily enough. Lachlan offered her Wood End Cottage rent free.

‘You would be doing me an honour if you accepted. It’s a pleasant house and I don’t want it to stand empty.’

So she had moved in. He didn’t see a great deal of her from day to day but he did hear about her activities from his tenants, especially in recent years when the Land League activity had quietened down.

‘Always gallivanting around the countryside, demanding a seat on a cart, appearing at people’s doors and staying for hours.’ That was old Mrs Beaton, prodding the ground with a stick in time with each grievance. ‘What an appetite! Still at least she brings her own provisions. But she will insist that her herrings are put straight onto the hot peats, as if we didn’t have proper pans in the house.’ That was Mrs MacLeod adding grace notes to the criticism.

What a relief that the old ladies hadn’t heard about the fox or the refrain of grumbles would never have ended. He knew too well the snags of envy that caught the successful returning Gael. She was free to treat the house as her own. He didn’t want her to feel indebted but she hadn’t even thanked him for getting her poems published. He remembered how she had held court in his library like a maharani while the eminent Gaelic scholar
scratched away frantically to keep pace with her warbling cascade of words. Then sometimes she would halt suddenly and frown before singing out loud in a surprisingly girlish voice, very different from the confident boom of her speaking tones.

‘The music guides the words like a faithful horse carries his rider when he forgets his way,’ she had explained.

He had not intended to be sharp with her – that was discourteous – but she had shaken him when she had spoken about her daughter. He had felt a clammy touch on the back of his neck, the touch of his own long dead child, never spoken about and rarely brought to mind. She had been the child of his youth, born when he was struggling to build up his indigo estate. Those days were exciting but lonely too. His servant’s daughter was so lithe and slender, her skin a warm brown and her eyes glowing with laughter. When their daughter was born she had the same dark velvet eyes as her mother and the baby’s feathery tufts of hair were deep black. Her skin though was pale and he could see in her face a miniature copy of his own mouth and chin. He made plans for her future as he watched her grow old enough to totter about, chuckling to herself. But she caught the fever that dulled her eyes until they shrivelled and shrank back into her skull. She died so suddenly, another small victim of the harsh heat of India. Damn the woman, he thought angrily. How dare she surprise him like that so that his heart floundered again after so long?

He reached out for the decanter but stayed his hand. No, he had to starve the demon gout. He had made the mistake of giving Màiri too generous a measure and she had downed it so quickly. Is that why she had started smirking at him and digging him in the ribs? The whisky must have gone straight to her head. Good Heavens! Was she flirting with him? It was like being cornered by an elephant in must. He had heard the jokes about her craving
for male company, a need that seemed to have grown rather than diminished over the years. Still, he had escaped lightly with a brief duet. He had taken care to ram his hands into his pockets to stop her seizing them.

His eye was caught by a movement outside. It was one of the farm cats, a scrawny tabby, crouching down, one foreleg raised in slow motion, its eyes fixed on its prey. Suddenly he remembered the mongoose that used to live near his Indian bungalow. Half tame, it would hover around the kitchen quarters. The servants tolerated it because it killed snakes. One time he had seen it feinting and darting around an infuriated cobra. Màiri made him feel like that bamboozled snake, constantly swivelling his head to see where she would strike next. What a holy terror she was.

‘Look there she is’, Iain pointed, his voice trembling.

‘Aye’, replied Flòraidh breathlessly, looking at the
square-rigged
ship sailing into the harbour at Portree. They had come down the hill from the Sluggans, the open ground at the edge of the village where the travelling people stayed all summer mending pots and living in their strange tents with a chimney sticking out of one end. They had been to the cattle sale there. Iain was pleased with the price he had got for his beasts and kept fingering the weight of the coins through the piece of cloth knotted around his waist. His plans were working out. There was enough money for a night at MacNab’s inn rather than having to stay with his wife’s relatives.

‘We can look around her before she sails,’ he said, quickening his pace and forcing her to lengthen her usual shuffle. They hurried down to the harbour to see the
Phoenix
. She had a battered grace, awkward as a heron among the small, bobbing craft that jostled her. Iain stared in amazement. He had never seen such a large vessel, a good ninety feet long. She must be able to carry two hundred people, he reckoned. A crowd had already gathered, some carrying belongings, others to gawp. A small boat was being lowered from the ship’s side with two men aboard. As they drew it up on the shore Iain caught a sailor’s eye and called out, ‘Did you have a good journey from Greenock?’ The man looked blank and sneered. Iain frowned. The other sailor spoke to him.

‘You’re wasting your time with most of the crew. They’ve only got the English.’

‘See Iain, there are families aboard already’, said Flòraidh, drawing his attention to some figures sitting huddled together in the stern.

‘We’re going back to the ship in a moment, Mistress. Why don’t you come with us and get a proper look?’ the sailor suggested.

She turned to Iain who nodded in agreement but once she had been rowed over she gazed up at the ship in horror and bewilderment. How was she to get aboard? Small boats she was used to, clambering over the side into waiting arms. But the swinging rope ladder dangling from the sheer cliff face of this vessel terrified her, especially now that her pregnancy had made her body unwieldy. She imagined herself slipping and hurtling down into the sea that would drown both her and the tender life curled within.

She turned to look for Iain but he was already striding away to check that their belongings were safe at the inn. A hand reached out to grip her arm. It was the sailor guiding her hands and feet onto the swaying ladder. She gritted her teeth as she inched upwards. He stood behind her, steadying it until she staggered aboard and stumbled over shards of timber left over from the ship’s last cargo.

Meanwhile, as Iain climbed the brae to the inn he could feel a lightness in his step. He would soon be his own man, master of his own land with no-one telling him what to do. Still, he felt rage when he remembered what had brought them here. They had not planned to emigrate. Only last year they were newly married and settled into a decent sized croft with sweet grazing nearby. They were harvesting their first crop of oats and barley. They were half way through by the Saturday and the weather was holding up well.

Then he woke early on the Sabbath to see the clouds moving in, dark battalions from the west. He hurried out to finish the job, ignoring Flòraidh’s protests, cutting and stacking the crop,
a good thing too because ferocious wind and rain savaged the land the next day and for the whole of the following week. But of course some pious busybody, jealous of his good fortune, had tattled to the minister. There he came hopping up to their door with his beaky red nose and crow black plumage.

‘I hear you’ve broken the commandment to keep the Sabbath Day holy’, he said.

‘I had no choice. Would the Good Lord think it right for me to leave us short of meal next spring?’

‘It’s not for you, Iain MacDonald, an unlettered man, to questions God’s commands.’

‘Maybe not, but didn’t the Saviour himself love and forgive sinners? He would understand that poor men like me have to work so that we don’t starve. We can’t be like the fowls of the air that neither sow nor reap.’

Hearing her husband’s raised voice, Flòraidh had rushed out, wringing her hands. ‘Please forgive Iain, Sir. I’m sure he regrets the error of his ways.’ She grasped her husband’s arm but he shook her hand off.

‘I want to hear the sinner himself repent.’

Iain stood motionless, towering over the slender figure of the minister. The silence lengthened like an afternoon shadow. Eventually the minister sniffed away a dewdrop and, gathering his dignity, turned away.

But the damage was done. The other women of Skeabost shunned Flòraidh or whispered behind her back while the men gave Iain sidelong glances. She was much grieved by this and Iain himself now felt unsettled on the land that had given him so much satisfaction to work. He carried on, his anger still rumbling within him until the day came for him to pay his rent to the factor, James MacDonald, a hard faced man with shrewd eyes. He was called
Seumas an Sionnach
, but not to his face.

‘What’s this I hear about you taunting the minister,
Iain Bàn
? It won’t be forgotten. You’re a marked man now.’ He grinned wolfishly.

Iain glared at him through fierce blue eyes, under thick sandy eyebrows.

‘Don’t you long to be free of people meddling in your life? Aren’t you tired of being a bull pulled along by the ring through his nose?’

Iain grunted.

‘Wouldn’t you rather be free of all that canting interference?

‘Of course I would but I don’t see how.’

‘What about going to the colonies? You would be free there.’

Iain clenched his jaw, ‘I won’t be driven from my native land.’

‘No, but you better yourself by going on your own terms. You’ll have heard of Lord Selkirk who arranged for lots of Skye folk to sail to Prince Edward Island? They’ve thrived there. Now a good friend of mine, a lawyer in Glasgow, is at this very moment chartering a vessel to give the same chance to other emigrants.’ He raised his hand as he saw Iain was about to protest. ‘No, hear me out. It’s not for paupers but for men with minds of their own. Men who can go to Canada, clear the forest and claim it for themselves.’

‘And what do you get from it?’

James laughed harshly. ‘Nothing except getting rid of the more thrawn tenants and making my job easier, and I do get a small consideration for my trouble. I have to be careful because Lord MacDonald doesn’t want to lose his more active crofters.’ He shrugged, ‘Well, I can see my proposal is falling on deaf ears. Of course you need to be an exceptional man to undertake such an adventure. It’s not for the faint hearted.’

The conversation ended there but the idea smouldered in Iain’s mind like a peat fire damped down overnight. The more
he thought about it the more the flames bloomed. He did have a choice. He didn’t have to stay pawing the earth like a tethered bull. He could be free.

He stood brooding in the doorway of the inn until he felt his arm nudged.

‘Why not come in and have a dram to drown your sorrows?’

It was the sailor who had spoken to him earlier. They went in and sat down at a bench.

‘Are you having second thoughts about going?’

‘I can’t afford to have second thoughts. I’ve burnt my boats; sold my cattle and ended the lease on the croft. I’ve been thinking about going for weeks but now I’ve seen the ship it’s hit me that I’ll never see my home again. It’s different for you, I suppose. You spend your life sailing the oceans.’

‘Aye.’ The sailor swirled his drink around in the glass. ‘What do you know about Canada?’

‘Not much. The factor told me about it. He said how well Lord Selkirk’s settlement went and how there’s plenty of land still for the taking.’

His companion screwed up his face and slurped his drink down as he rose to his feet. ‘I’d best get back to the ship.’

Iain grabbed the man’s scrawny arm in his beefy hand, ‘Wait a moment. What aren’t you telling me?’

The sailor prised off Iain’s fingers and muttered, ‘I can’t talk here. I don’t want to end up overboard. Wait a moment and then follow me out.’

‘What’s up? Is there something wrong with the ship?’ Iain hissed once they had found an empty corner near the midden at the back of the inn.

‘It’s not too bad. It’s old and overfull but you can survive that. It’s what happens afterwards.’

‘Spit it out man.’

The sailor sneaked a glance around them before continuing, ‘Selkirk did the job properly. He victualled the ships and when they landed he lent money to the settlers. This time you’ll have to manage on your own.’

‘I’m not afraid of hard work. I can turn my hand to anything.’

‘I’m sure you can my friend – when you’re here. But over there it’s very different; bitter cold and feet of snow on the ground from October to May. The moment you arrive you’ll have to set to cutting down a forest so you can clear the land and build a cabin. Have you ever built a log house? You’ll arrive too late in the season to plant for the next year. Have you money to tide you over?’ His words spilt out in a rush. Iain shook his head slowly.

‘The other thing you should know is that all the best land near the sea has already gone. The backlands aren’t so fertile and too far away from the shore for fishing. Have you relatives out there already who could help you?’

‘No, but whatever your warnings, I won’t turn back now. I would look a fool.’

‘Well, better a live fool than a dead one. If you don’t take heed for yourself think of your poor wee wife. She looks delicate. The harsh life there takes a terrible toll on women and children.’

Iain was scowling and biting his thumb, ‘So you’re saying we’ve been duped. But it can’t be that cold. The factor spread out a map and showed me that Prince Edward Island is due west from here.’

‘Right enough but he didn’t see fit to tell you how much colder it is in winter. Anyway, you must make up your own mind.’ His voice trickled away to silence and then he was gone.

Iain walked back down to the shore in turmoil. Surely it was too late now to turn back without losing face? He wouldn’t get his old croft back, it was rented out to someone else now. His hopes of independence were crumbling away. Flòraidh, back on
dry land, waved to him. Her face looked strained and the skin under her eyes was bruised with tiredness. She begged him to take her back to their room at MacNab’s so that she could lie down.

Once inside their room she sank back on the bed and began to sob. All her fears came pouring out. She had spoken to the women who had come from Greenock and inspected the living accommodation for herself. She saw that there was a rough pine bunk for each family, with barely two feet of space from top to bottom. There were a few fish oil lamps hanging from the bulkheads and filthy lidded wooden buckets for the passengers to relieve themselves. Even worse than the dark cramped quarters was the stench of vomit and urine, mingled with the reek of the soaking briny timbers. The wood was so rotten that she could pick off slices of it with her fingernails.

‘I’m terrified of dying down there, Iain,’ she cried, ‘What if the ship goes down in a storm or we catch a fever? What if the baby comes early and I have to give birth in that hell-hole?’

He tried to comfort her but she was inconsolable. The women had told her about the bad smell coming from the barrels of meal and salted meat carried aboard. What scared her more than anything though was the story one of the sailors had told her about an earlier emigrant ship.

‘It left from Ullapool but before it sailed one of the passengers was out looking after his cattle one evening. He noticed a small creature, hopping like a rabbit from cow to cow and suckling milk from each of them. He tried to shoot the creature without success. Then he took a silver sixpence from his pocket and used it as a bullet. This time he wounded the beast and it limped away leaving a trail of blood. He asked in the village if there was anyone who had been injured and was told that an old woman had been hurt. Her neighbour heard her say that the ship would
never reach America. The passenger was worried enough to ask for the
cailleach
to be kept confined in her house until the ship arrived safely.’ She lifted a finger to stop him interrupting.

‘Anyway, they made a safe crossing and when they docked they met another ship returning to Ullapool. Word was sent back with this boat that they could set the old woman free. What do you think happened next, Iain?’

‘Some terrible disaster, no doubt,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Barely had the passengers got ashore when for no reason the ship sank to the bottom of the sea. It was the witch who did it!’

‘Did anyone drown?’

‘No but they almost did. Next time the spell might work earlier when the ship’s still out at sea.’

‘Well, she wasn’t much good with her spells. I bet that after the people went ashore and lightened the vessel the crew took the ballast out too quickly and she toppled over.’

But no words of his could clear the haunted expression from her fine-boned face, ‘I don’t want to disobey you but I don’t believe that I can force myself aboard that cursed ship.’

He stared at her, frowning while she gulped back her tears. Then she bent forwards, her face in her hands. He waited a moment and put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

‘Hush now. You don’t have to go. I’ve heard things too. Not silly stories about witches and their spells but about us being tricked by that devil
Seumas
, may God rot his soul in Hell.’

So the ship sailed without them aboard. The coins wrapped in the piece of cloth paid instead for them to travel down to Glasgow and start a new life there.

A few weeks later Flòraidh lay awake while her husband twitched restlessly in his sleep. When Iain had said that they must emigrate she had closed her mind to thoughts of home but now that they were still in Scotland she allowed herself to
throw open the shutters. She pictured the wandering Snizort River, unravelling itself through its shallow dished valley. The encircling hills could appear stark but to her they were cupped hands holding the glen safely. She imagined herself among the trees down by the water, their roots coiled like corded veins, their branches bowing to the rhythm of the wind. The minister would say that it was God’s hands that were holding the glen and the people who lived there, but she couldn’t help believing too that the river, the wind, the trees and all the living creatures each had their own different spirit that gave them being. She couldn’t return there now. For the time being they would have to stay in this room in a dingy close where the walls seeped damp, in a city where the air was sour and the Clyde greasy and lifeless.