Love and Music Will Endure (20 page)

The door was flung open so that it shuddered on its hinges.

‘Ah, it’s yourself, Màiri,’ her friend observed as she hurried to see who had stormed into her kitchen, ‘Do come through,’ she muttered ironically to the broad, rigid back blustering into her front room, ‘Will you be wanting a wee
strupag
?’

‘I’ve no time for that, Mairead,’ Màiri wheezed as she thumped her basket down on the table. ‘I need to get a place on a cart to Uig in a moment.’

‘And why would you be going all the way there? And when it’s getting dark too?’

‘I have to be at the Land League meeting at the school of course. John MacPherson is speaking and yon Reverend MacCallum.’

‘Did no-one arrange more suitable transport for you?’ Then seeing the furtive look in Màiri’s eyes she tutted gently, ‘You’ve not been invited to be on the platform?’

‘Do you know those two are paid £1 a week, just fancy it, to speak at Land League meetings,’ she blustered, ‘as well as the Reverend being paid by his church. And there was me being invited to all those meetings in Glasgow and up here, just for a wee bit of money to pay for my travel. It’s not right.’

‘Well, you know I don’t understand these political matters but I know John has a family to keep. Anyway, I thought you were a supporter of the Reverend MacCallum.’

‘Well, he’s a Reverend but not a Free Church minister. So he can’t have the same depth of learning,’ she declared, waving
a triumphant finger, ‘and with all that gallivanting round the island he can’t be ministering properly to his flock.’

‘You’ve changed your tune, Màiri. Back in May you were praising him to the heavens after hearing him speak at the Fairy Bridge. “The Prophet of Waternish” you called him.’

‘Well, I’ve had cause to revise my opinion since then. His head’s been turned and he’s too full of his own importance now.’

‘And of course he can’t compare with a handsome young prophet from over the water,’ Mairead laughed.

Màiri fell silent and Mairead glimpsed a flicker of pain in the peaty depths of her friend’s eyes.

‘Come on, take the weight off your legs. The water’s nearly boiling and you can spare a moment for a cup of tea. If you want to go to the meeting you should go. I’m sure folk will be pleased to see you. I just hope the young men don’t get too excited. We don’t want any trouble while there are still marines on the island.’

‘From what I hear the soldiers are more interested in chasing the lassies than in chasing crofters,’ Màiri sighed as she plumped down onto a chair and her louring expression lifted. ‘Some of them will soon need my services as a midwife. It’ll be an important meeting. The reporter from the
Oban Times
will be there.’

Mairead handed her a cup, ‘Yon Duncan Cameron? He’s a funny one. Did you hear about what happened to him? Last month when the gunboats arrived all those reporters were desperate to get their telegrams sent from Portree. That fellow Cameron usually borrowed a horse from the minister at Stenscholl but he was a hopeless horseman, sitting on the beast like a sack of tatties. So he was relieved when another reporter offered him a place on the waggonette that the rest of them travelled in. He was thankfully lowering his aching backside onto the seat when he glanced up and saw the other reporter riding off like the Devil on the minister’s horse to get to the Post Office first.’

Màiri slurped her tea and laughed, ‘Men can be such fools. They’re taken in so easily. Even more so when there’s a woman involved. Remember that Mrs Gordon Baillie? She fooled that popinjay Ivory. He invited her to dinner with Alasdair Ruaidh and the pair of them drooled over her fair hair and tinkling laugh. Then later she went with Ivory over to Glendale. When they arrived they heard a crowd cheering ahead of them. And who was it holding forth to the crowd, there in his city suit with a waxed moustache and tam o’ shanter but Mrs Baillie’s so-called secretary? “The landowners have stolen your land. Are you going to wait for the government to act or are you going to be men and seize the day?” And Mrs Baillie meanwhile was gathering the folk together in the centre of the village to sing “God save the Queen.”’

‘It would’ve helped if they’d known the English words and even then they wouldn’t have approved of singing something that wasn’t a psalm’, Mairead smiled, ‘Still, as I recall, it was you who described to me the wonderful reception in Portree where she presented her grandfather’s sword to John MacPherson. You praised her for her speech comparing the Braes folk to some warriors from long ago who held back the Persians from getting through some pass or other in Greece. She was as gracious as a Queen you said, wishing Lord MacDonald a long life in the affection of his people. You all lapped it up like fresh crowdie.’

‘Well she was a very convincing actress,’ Màiri conceded, pouting, ‘Who would have guessed that she would have left the island without paying her bills? I wonder if she still has her ‘
bide-a-wee
’ secretary to keep her warm at night,’ she added wistfully. ‘Anyway, time I was away.’ She hoisted herself to her feet and picked up her basket.

‘Is that a bottle I can hear clanking, Màiri? You’re a caution!’

‘I never go visiting empty-handed.’

‘Nor without something to say either.’

Màiri swept through the door in full sail.

The schoolhouse in Uig was already crammed to bursting but Màiri squeezed herself through the press of bodies. The audience was mostly men. There were only a few shawls and bonnets bobbing among the caps. She wriggled through, elbowing a space for herself and inhaling the smells of peat fire, rough tobacco and the sweat of man and beast rising like a mist from the audience. She nudged the young man standing next to her and introduced herself. At first he looked blank but then his face split in a broad grin.

‘I’m Donnie MacLeod and I’ve heard about you right enough. You helped bring my wee brother Archie into the world. My mother said that he was slow about making an appearance. He’s still like that now, late for everything. She heard you were up in Skye and sent my father off hot-foot to fetch you. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when you came in the door and you soon chivvied my wee brother up. When it was all over you poured out a dram. Pappa had his hand out ready but you said, “It’s the mother who needs it,” and he was packed off to get water straight from the stream to bathe the baby in. He went out muttering about what a mad idea it was.’

‘And has your brother grown up strong?’

‘Aye and he never takes a cold at all,’ Donnie laughed.

‘As it happens I’ve brought a bottle with me tonight. Take a swig and pass it along.’

‘Well that’s grand, thank you. We’ll have to be careful as there’s plenty of Temperance folk here tonight.’ 

John MacPherson came forward to open the meeting, a solid man with a bushy beard. He stood calmly, watching until all the shuffling and murmuring ceased. He spoke in a quiet but penetrating voice, ‘In the last few months I’ve been travelling the length and breadth of the Highlands; on foot, on horseback and by boat, through weather sometimes fair but more often foul, to talk with people like yourselves, loyal members of the Land League. There are so many of us now that it would be easier to stop the waves of the ocean than to slow our advance. We’ll continue the struggle against the landlords and the agents of the government until we have justice, both for the crofters with too little land and for the cottars who have none at all. When I was released from prison I vowed that the spark of protest in the heather would become a blaze. The heat of that fire is now singeing the ears of our nation’s leaders down in London.’

He waited for the foot stamping and cheering to stop, a smile curving his lips, ‘The landlords and their factors often have the advantage over us because they’re cunning, while we honest men say what we mean. Think of that wily old fox, MacLeod of MacLeod.’

He was greeted with groans and shouts. ‘What does a cunning fox do when he’s troubled by fleas? He picks up some dry wool in his mouth and goes backwards into a burn against the current. Then he puts his whole body under the water until only his long snout is showing. When all the fleas are gathered on the wool he suddenly thrusts his muzzle below the surface and lets the wool float away with the fleas aboard. Then they become someone else’s problem. That’s what old MacLeod did. First he evicted the folk from Bracadale and sent them to Glendale where of course they were given less land than they held before. Later he sold the land in Glendale so that the crofters, like the fleas, became someone else’s responsibility. That’s how …’

‘And I’m sure that the new owner would be blamed for the old laird’s wrongdoing,’ interrupted Màiri in a booming voice, ‘That’s what happened to poor Mr Lachlan MacDonald. He was wrongly accused before the Commissioner gentlemen of evicting tenants when the deed had been done before he ever bought the land. Of course it’s the rich men who come up from the South to buy up estates who are the real devils, not so much the lairds from the old families who …’

‘Just what I was leading up to Madam,’ MacPherson intervened smoothly, aware of the craning necks and frowns of disapproval in Màiri’s direction, ‘When I spoke to the Commissioners I told them we wanted to own our land, not just the poor scraps we have now but the land that was wrongfully taken from our forefathers. All men are equal in the sight of God and all are entitled to use the land that He has given us. I said the landlords in Glendale could not give us a satisfactory reply but kept telling us to have patience. Our ancestors died after waiting patiently all their lives and we can wait no longer. Yet here we are now waiting for the Commissioners to write their report. We’ve been treated as badly as if we were Irish Fenians who use the club and the gun. Warships have brought soldiers to our shores. Still we’ve been forbearing and welcomed the marines as guests but our forbearance can’t last much longer. It’s said that the mills of God grind slowly but exceedingly small. I trust that the mills of the Commissioners will grind a little faster and render the landowners just as small.’

His voice dropped to a fierce whisper towards the end. His head drooped and he reached out his arms in front of him. It seemed to Màiri as if he was drawing his listeners in to hold them against his heart. She cheered with everyone else, thinking what an inspiring speaker he was, glowing with life like a hot peat. Every word pealed out, summoning each of his listeners
personally. Then he smiled modestly and turned to introduce MacCallum.

The minister stepped forward, a slighter and younger figure than the middle aged MacPherson. His features were less careworn. Well, thought Màiri, he had enjoyed a softer life. His burning eyes darted over the audience and when he spoke he used dramatic gestures, sweeping his arms wide and repeating phrases for emphasis. He must have been practising those tricks when he was in the pulpit, she thought. His strange Argyllshire Gaelic wasn’t easy to follow either. Still he was a vigorous speaker, well versed in the Bible. He spoke in a vivid way so that she could picture Moses, carrying his staff aloft and leading the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt and forward to the Promised Land. ‘Do not be slaves to men but children of God. Be of good courage. There are many that will stand against you. It is better to fall in righteousness than to stand in injustice.’

His words have a fine ring, she thought. I was right to describe it as a new dawn breaking when he stood with us at Fairy Bridge. Maybe Mairead was right about me being contrary in turning against him.

‘As Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha of Bethany, was held in the sleep of death for so many years, so too were we Highlanders held in the sleep of slavery. In the fearful darkness of the house of death, he that was dead heard the quickening voice of the Son of God saying to him, “Lazarus come forth,” and he came forth, still bound in his grave clothes. It’s the quickening voice that our brethren heard in the house of bondage and they too are coming out.’

His voice crackled and sputtered with emotion. As he ended he wiped his glistening forehead. As the gusts of applause began to wear themselves out, MacPherson stepped forward to thank him. Donnie whispered in Màiri’s ear, ‘Come on, get up and sing while everyone’s on fire.’

‘I fully intend to, young man,’ she replied with dignity as she squeezed herself to the end of the row before advancing to the front. ‘After all that fine speechifying we should open our mouths and hearts for a song or two,’ she shouted.

MacCallum’s mouth gaped open in surprise before snapping shut again. He squared his shoulders and intoned, ‘Well, Mistress MacPherson, it’s indeed a surprise to see you here tonight. I didn’t know you were expected.’ His eyes bored into her, daring her to challenge his authority.

‘Surely, Sir, it matters not whether I was expected. I’m ready and willing to sing some of my verses and I believe the folk here would be pleased to hear me.’ Her voice was firm although she could feel her legs quivering at the minister’s fierce stare. Everyone waited, spectators at a trial of strength.

‘On the contrary, it certainly does matter. Look around you. This is a meeting for men, for crofters to discuss serious matters, not a cèilidh.’

‘We want to hear Màiri sing,’ called out Donnie in a slurred voice, ‘better a song than a speech any day.’

MacCallum fingered his clerical collar and glowered, ‘It seems I need to remind both you and the good lady of what St Paul said, “Let your women keep silence.”’

Donnie spoke in a soft, boyish voice, ‘Tell me please, Sir, does St Paul mean that women should not speak in front of men at a meeting?’

‘Indeed he does. He was speaking about women in church but I think we can take him to mean all public places. That’s why I would request Mrs MacPherson to resume her seat and behave with modesty.’

Donnie grinned, ‘Well I do believe that we have a solution to this wee problem. Mrs MacPherson isn’t going to speak, is she? She’s going to sing. Does St Paul have anything to tell us about women
singing
in public?’

MacCallum’s voice sliced through the laughter which followed, ‘Young man, do not bandy the word of God with me. I have a closer knowledge of the Scriptures than you. 1 Timothy reads, “I do not permit a woman to teach or have authority over a man.” That statement can brook no argument.’

‘She’s only going to sing a song or too, not lead us into battle or become a Member of Parliament,’ another voice called out.

‘And she’s one of our own. We want to hear her,’ shouted a man from the back.

MacCallum drew himself up to his full height and proclaimed in his strongest pulpit voice, ‘The time is over for women to sing. We need manly resolve to go forward now. Mrs MacPherson, you’ve played your part in voicing the pains that the Gaels have endured. However, you are of the weaker sex and heavy with years. I suggest you should stay quietly at home and leave the task of land reform to the men.’

‘Do I look weak and delicate to you?’ Màiri boomed, turning on the spot and flexing her arms, ‘Am I some poor
cailleach
?’

Cheers and clapping rebounded from the walls and ceiling.

‘You could pick up the wee minister and tuck him under your arm, like a pet lamb,’ someone else in the audience shouted.

Màiri waited for the noise to abate and spoke again, ‘Were the brave women who fought the police at the Braes weak and delicate? They had the blood of brave clansmen coursing through their veins.’

‘We don’t need sermons from a minister of the Established Church, the Church that’s hand in glove with the landlords,’ shouted Donnie, ‘Our Free Church ministers support their flocks. How many parishioners do you have in Waternish? I’ve heard it’s only your family and housekeeper that take Communion. That won’t keep you very busy.’

A different voice from the back could be heard chanting the mocking rhyme, composed at the time when the Free Church
had broken away, leaving many of the Church of Scotland kirks nearly empty:

and other voices joined in –

MacPherson decided it was time to intervene. He walked forward to stand beside MacCallum who was glowing with rage. MacPherson raised one hand and spoke, not too loudly so that people had to quieten down to hear him, ‘All of us here are standing shoulder to shoulder for the cause of justice. We’re all marching behind the same banner. Our enemies – the landlords, Sheriff Ivory, the politicians in London – would be rubbing their hands in glee if they could hear us now, attacking each other.’ He mimicked a clipped Edinburgh accent, ‘“Just look at those ignorant savages, still fighting their clan battles. If we leave them alone they’ll destroy each other and save us the trouble of doing it.”’

He waited a minute for his words to sink in and turned to Màiri, ‘Màiri, nighean Iain Bhàin, you have been a mother of song to us and a light of inspiration. You’ll always be welcome in our midst. Please sing for us.’

While all the arguing had been going on Màiri had been running through in her head which songs she would sing. She glanced at MacCallum, who was silent although his eyes glittered angrily. She was determined that her performance would last longer than his. She would sing “Farewell to Skye,” one of her best known and liked songs. She ran through her favourite verses:

And there were a good twenty more verses too. “Island of Mists” she would save to the end, with its message of hope,

But before then I’ll surprise them by singing, “The Crofters’ Meeting,” she decided.

And when she came to the lines;

she would sing lustily and nod to him in acknowledgement. She would be gracious in victory. Well, Mairead, you had no need to be so fearful on my behalf. You’ll be amazed at my feat, she thought as she stood, head held high, legs planted firmly – a captain sure of her vessel and riding the waves of fame.