Angus MacMillan’s Life Story – VII [Militia Days]

A previous blog offered a summary of Angus MacMillan’s life story. It may be divided into eleven sections of varying lengths. Here is offered the seventh part (NFC 1180, pp. 368–418) where MacMillan relates to Maclean his time as part of the Militia. Some of his recollections as quite racy such as his courting days as well as an interesting account of a fight which took place on a ferry returning home on leave. MacMillan’s assessment of this period of his life leaves little doubt that it was one of the happiest times of his life. The opportunity has been taken to modernise the Gaelic orthography and also to offer a translation. A summary of this section may be given as follows:

7.  Militia Days

After recuperating at home, MacMillan was called up to the Militia during the Boer War. MacMillan lied about this age on the advice of the recruiting sergeant so that he would receive higher pay. For training, MacMillan travelled to Aldershot and thence to Ireland. MacMillan describes in a fair amount of detail his journey from Uist to the mainland, including a disturbance that took place on the ferry when he was making his way home. MacMillan then gives an account of his courting days. He then describes an incident with a travelling woman. An anecdote about a particularly religious Harrisman then follows. MacMillan then relates his experience of storytelling to a Sergeant-Major. MacMillan notes that he got the opportunity to go to Africa but he unfortunately caught measles. On his recovery, MacMillan went back on home on leave but by accident overstayed. He eventually went back to the Militia without consequence and then took part in two tours of Ireland. MacMillan was then bought out of the army as his father was ailing. Overall, MacMillan reckoned that he spent fifteen years in the Militia.

7. Anns a’ Mhailisidh

Bha mi a-nist deagh threis a-staigh aig an taigh agus bha mi ceart gus bhith a’ frithealadh dhan dotair gus an deach mo chorragan am feabhas agus bha mi an uair sin ceart gu leòr. Bha mi ag obair còmh’ ri m’ athair gus an do thogadh a-rithist dhan arm mi an ceann bliadhna na dhà. Agus thogadh dhan arm mi agus bha mi as an arm ann a shineach an àm Cogadh Africa. Sin an t-àm a bh’ ann.

Bha sinn còrr mòr is bliadhna suas. Bha sinn an toiseach an Aldershot agus shifteadh an uair sin gu ruige Èirinn sinn. Gu dearbha gu dearbha ’s e àite glè mhath a bh’ ann an Èirinn. ’S e fada a b’ fheàrr leam a bhith ann na a bhith ann an Sasann. Bha Sasann anabarrach fhèin fuar le reòdhadh agus le sneachda agus ghabh mise a’ ghriùrach ann a shin agus bha mi glè, glè dhona leithe, leis a’ ghriùraich. Cha robh sìon ach gun do thill mi agus thàine mi a sin dhachaigh air fòrladh agus ’s ann gu ruige Èirinn a chaidh sinn nuair a thill mi air ais.

Cha robh mi ach sia bliadhna deug a dh’aois nuair a liostaig mi agus bha mi anabarrach mòr ged nach robh mi ach caol as an àm. Agus thuirt mi ris an t-sergeant gun robh mi airson liostaigeadh.

“Glè mhath,” ors’ esan, “dè ’n aois a tha thu?”

“Seachd bliadhna deug.”

“A! well, ’ille,” ors’ esan, “seall an rud a nì thu. Chan eil duine air an t-saoghal a dh’ aithnigheas,” ors’ esan, “nach eil thu a h-ochd deug agus can gum bheil thu a h-ochd deug,” ors’ esan, “agus gheibh thu am pàigheadh slàn, ach ma chanas tu,” ors’ esan, “nach eil thu ach a seachd deug, chan fhaigh thu ach leth-paighidh.”

“Very well,” ors’ mi fhìn, “nach can sibh gum bheil mi a h-ochd deug fhèin?”

“Canaidh.” ors’ esan. “Cuiridh mi sìos,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil thu a h-ochd deug.”

Agus bha an sergeant sin anabarrach fhèin math dhomh agus ’s ann a mhuinntir Uibhist a bha an sergeant,[1] Uibhist a Tuath.”

“Tha agad, ma-thà, an ath-oidhche a dhol a-mach dhan hotel,” ors’ esan, “Creag Ghoiridh agus mionnaichear ann a shin thu.”

“Glè mhath,” orsa mise.

Agus cuimhnichibh ’s ann gun fhiosda dha m’ athair is dha mo mhàthair a bha mi. Dh’fhalbh mise am feasgar a bh’ ann an seoach. Sguir mi meadheanach tràth agus bha mi a’ sìor dhèanamh deiseil agus ghlan mi m’ aodann agus chuir mi aodach orm, aodach meadhanach math, an t-aodach a b’ fheàrr a bh’ agam. Cha robh sìon a dh’ fhios aca cà’ robh mi. Ràine mi Creag Ghoiridh agus bha an sergeant ann a shin romham agus:

“Tha thu air tighinn,” ors’ esan.

“Tha,” orsa mi fhìn.

“Cha tàinig duine dhen chòrr,” ors’ esan “tha e coltach. A bheil cabhag ort,” ors’ esan.

“O! chan e: chan eil cabhag idir orm.”

“Tha e a cheart cho math dhut,” ors’ esan, “tighinn a-staigh.”

Rùisg e ann e shin mi agus sheall e air mo chraiceann an robh marc sam bith orm. Cha robh. Well, phassaig e mi. Cha robh am passaigeadh cho cruaidh is a bha e an-diugh.

“Tha,” ors’ esan, “tha ceart gu leòr agus bi thu ceart gu leòr a-nist,” ors’ esan.

Agus thug e dhomh tasdan:

“Dè a-nist,” ors’ esan, “a tha thu a’ dol a dhèanamh ris an tasdan a tha siud?” ors’ esan.

Bha mi ris an smoc an uair sin agus:

“Tha mi cinnteach,” ors’ esan, “gun gabh thu dram dha na bheil an seo.”

“An-dà, cha ghabh,” ors’ mi fhin. “Cha ghabh mi dram idir,” orsa mi fhìn. “Tha mi ris a’ phìob,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus gheibh seo deagh chuid thombaca dhomh.”

“Gu dearbha,” ors’ esan, “mo bheannachd ort,” ors’ esan. “Cha ghabh thu dram idir,” ors’ esan.

“Cha ghabh.”

“Leòra,” ors’ esan, “bheir mi fhìn dram dhut.”

“O! tha mi glè choma dheth,” orsa mi fhìn. “Is fheàrr leam cus,” orsa mi fhìn, “a bhith às aonais.”

Agus thug e dhomh sia sgillinn eile leis cho math ’s a bhruidhinn mi. Well, dh’fhalbh mi:

“Well,” ors’ esan, “gheibh thu notice,” ors’ esan, “nuair a bhios agad ri falbh. A bheil fhios,” ors’ esan, “aig t’ athair is aig do mhàthair?”

“Chan eil,” orsa mise, “chan eil sìon a dh’ fhios aca.”

“Saoil am bi iad toilichte” ors’ esan, “gu falbh thu?”

“O! tha mi a’ smaointinn gum bi,” orsa mise, “gum bi iad toilichte gu leòr.”

Well, dh’fhalbh mise agus dh’fhalbh mi bhon duine agus ’s e fear MacAoidh a bha san t-sergeant a bh’ ann an seo, duine anabarrach laghach. Cha robh sìon a dh’ fhios aig duine gun do liostaig mi ach aon teaghlach a bha sa bhaile a b’ fhaisge dhomh. ’S e Clann ’icAoidh a bh’ annta fhèin agus bhuineadh iad dhomh fhìn agus dh’iarr mi orra sineach gun ghuth a thoir’ gu bràth gus am faigheadh iad fhèin a-mach gun do liostaig mi. Bha gille eile as an taigh sin agus bha e fhèin a’ falbh agus ’s e b’ òige na mise agus bha e a’ falbh às an aon t-suidheachadh rium fhìn agus thug am fear sin e fhèin suas às an ochd bliadhna deug cuideachd. Cha d’fhuair duine riamh a-mach gun do liostaig mise gus an d’ fhuair mi notice airson falbh. Cha robh fhios on t-saoghal mhòr gu dè an litir mhòr, fhada a bha seo ach thuig mise taghta math gu dè an litir a bh’ ann. Agus cò thàinig an rathad ach nàbaidh dhomh agus mi air a’ chladach a’ feumannadh le cairt agus beothach eich agus ’s e a dh’innis gur h-e notice a bha seo airson mo thoir’ gu ruige Inbhir Nis gun robh mi air liostaigeadh as a’ Mhailisidh. Bha iad fo thuiream is fo bhròn mo mhàthair nuair a thàine mi dhachaigh agus:

“Dè tha ceàrr?”

“O!” ors’ ise, “gu dè tha ceàrr,” ors’ ise, “tha gu leòr ceàrr,” ors’ ise. “Tha thu a’ falbh,” ors’ ise, “a cheann seachdain,” ors’ ise, “dhan arm. Is dòcha nach fhaic sinn gu bràth tuilleadh thu.”

“Hut,” orsa mise, “is sibh a chì,” orsa mise, “agus bi cinnteach gu leòr gum bi preasant na dhà agam-sa,” orsa mi fhin, “gur n-ionnsaigh. Co-dhiù, dhiù,” orsa mi fhìn, “bi leth-phunnd snaoisein agaibh-s’,” ors’ mise, “agus punnd thombaca gu m’ athair agus nam bithinn a’ fuireach a-staigh” orsa mi fhìn, “cha b’ urrainn domh a h-aon dhiubh sin a thoir’ seachad.

Ach theann mo mhàthair co-dhiù air dèanamh deiseil airson gu faighinn-sa beagan aodaich a thoir’ leam. Cha robh sìon a dh’fheum air aodach ach bha sinn a’ dol a dh’fhaighinn a h-uile sìon as a’ Mhailisidh. Airson stocainnean bha sinn a’ faighinn dà phaidhir stocainn agus dà lèinidh agus briogaisean agus seacaidean agus èibhleadh. Cha robh sìon a’ dol ga chosg. Cha toirinn leam ach am paidhir stocainn a bha mam chasan. Ach fhuair mi a’ mhòine a bhuain is a h-uile sìon agus bha an latha a-niste ann airson gu falbhamaid. Dh’fhalbh sinn. Cha robh duine againn riamh an taobh thall dhan Fhadhail à Tuath mura robh duine na dithis. Dh’fhalbh sinn is choisicheadh à Càirinis gu ruige Loch nam Madadh. Bha sin aona mìle deug na còrr. Dh’fhan sinn ann a shin fad na h-oidhcheadh ann an taigh beag a bhiodh munntir na Mailisidh a’ dol ann daonnan. Dh’fhan sinn ann a shin gus an tàinig an stimear an làr-na-mhàireach. Bhiodh e mu ochd uairean nuair a thàinig i. Chaidh sinn air bòrd. Dh’fhalbh sinn as an siud as an stimear sin gus an d’ràine sinn àite ris an canadh iad Caol Loch Aillse. Well, bha cùram air na sergeants. Cha robh againne ri sìon a dhèanamh. Fhuair sinn trèan às à sin co-dhiù agus cha do stad i riamh, riamh gus an do ràine sinn barracks Inbhir Nis. Dh’fhan sinn an oidche sin as na barracks agus an làr-na-mhàireach eadar a seachd is a h-ochd a dh’uaireannan dh’fhalbh sinn às à sin a dh’àite ris an canadh iad Fort George. Agus sin far an do chuir sinn seachad na deich seachdainean a bha sin. Agus dh’fhuirich mise a’ chiad sheachdain a cheart cho fada is ged a bhiodh deich bliadhna ann. Ach a-mach on chiad sheachdain theann sinn air fàs toilichte. Bha daoine anabarrach laghach gar n-ionnsachadh agus nan gabhamaid comhairle bha iad na bu laghaiche ach mar a thuirt iad: Chan eil No san arm idir ach bithibh ullamh, allamh air a h-uile sìon a dhèanamh a dh’iarrar oirbh agus gheibh sibh air adhart gu math nas fheàrr.”

Fhuair sinn air adhart glè mhath as a dheaghaidh sin. Thàinig an seo an ceann chòig seachdainean as a dheaghaidh sin na seann-làmhan. ’S e mios a bha iad sin a’ cur à staimh. Agus a dh’innseadh dhuibh: mun deach na deich seachdainean seachad ’s ann a bha cianalas òirnne a’ falbh às an àite. Mura h-òlainn-se roimhe dram, roimhe sin, dh’òlainn gu leòr an uair sin agus theann mo ‘bord’ air fàs titheach air. Agus dè am mathas sin, a h-uile sìon a gheall mi dha m’ athair is dha m’ mhàthair fhuair mi e. Thug mi punnd thombaca gu m’ athair, leth-phunnd snaoisein gu mo mhàthair agus thug mi slippers gu mo mhàthair cuideachd agus bha iad glè thoilichte nuair a thàine mi dhachaigh. Agus bha botal uisge-bheatha agam. Bha m’ athair gu math titheach air dram a ghabhail agus fhuair e beireadh dhan bhotal agus thug mi an còrr dha mo mhàthair dheth. Cha robh mi fhìn buileach trom air ach gun gabhainn e an uair sin. Agus sin agaibh mar a chaidh dhomh-sa as a’ Mhailisidh a’ chiad trip. Bha mi aon chòig bliadhna deug innte agus a h-uile bliadhna riamh bha mi nas toilichte agus cha robh duine sam bith aig an robh spite dhomh. Bha mi còmhla ri daoine nach gabhadh iad a bhith na b’ fheàrr. ’S ann a mhuinntir an àite againn fhìn a bha iad ceart gu leòr ach ’s e an fheadhainn bu trice a bha mi còmhla riutha ’s ann a mhuinntir an Taobh à Tuath a bha iad agus bheirinn an gran as an ùir dhan fheadhainn sin air laghaicheadh agus bha iad a leithid eile mum deidhinn. Chan urrainn dhomh-sa mòran a ràdha ach gun robh iad nan daoine mòra, làidir foghainteach nach robh ann as an àm bu làidire na iad. Bha aon fhear ann às a’ Cheann à Tuath, a t-Heisgeir agus nam biodh beagan ionnsachaidh is practice aige tha mi a’ smaointinn gur h-e duine bu làidire a chunna duine riamh. Chuir e geall ruinne, agus ’s e diùnlaich a bh’ annta an uair sin uile gu lèir, gun èireadh e orra, air sia duine dheug a bhiodh air a mhuin, gun èireadh e orra. Agus chuireadh an geall sìos agus ’s e an geall a bha shìos nan cumamaid fodha e gu feumadh esan dà ghalan leann a thoir’ dhuinn agus nan èireadh esan oirnne gun toireamaid an dà ghalan dhà-san. Cha robh an leann daor an uair sin ann agus chaidh an geall sìos agus chaidh na sia duine deug air a mhuin eadar làmhan is casan is aodann. Dh’èibh e an robh sinn deiseil agus thuirt sinn gun robh sinn glan-dheiseil ma bha e fhèin. Thug e aon spreadhadh às agus chan eil facal dheth seo ach an fhìrinn. Chaith e duine thall ’s a-bhos agus cha mhòr nach do chuir e an t-eanchainn asainn le chèile agus ’s e e fhèin bu luaithe a bha air a bhonn. A dh’innseadh dhuibh cho làidir is a bha an duine agus bha iad làidir uile gu lèir, bhiodh tug o’ war againn san àm as àm bitheamaid a’ falbh dhachaigh an t-seachdain mu dheireadh. Bhiodh mòran, mòran gar feuchainn. Cha do rinn aonan aca riamh sìon oirnn. Bha sinn ga slaodadh mar gum bitheamaid a’ slaodadh pàisde a thaobh gun robh an neart agus an spiorad ceart as na gillean.

Nuair a bhitheamaid a’ tighinn dachaigh an uair sin bhitheamaid as a’ bhàta a’ tighinn dachaigh. Bhithinn fhìn is am fear sa daonnan, daonnan còmhla. Chaidh sinn dhan cheabain an oidhche a bha seo.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “fana’ sinn ann a sheo,” ors’ esan, “gus am bi sinn glè fhaisg air Loch nam Madadh.”

“Tha e a cheart cho math,” orsa mi fhìn, “gun a bhith as an èigheach a tha shuas gu h-àrd.”

Ach, co-dhiù, chuala sinn noise shuas gu h-àrd agus noise mhòr cuideachd agus coltas sabaid. Thàinig fear a-nuas dhan cheabhain agus dh’fhosgail e an doras.

“An ann an seo a bha thusa,” ors’ esan, “nuair a bha còir agad,” ors’ esan, “seasamh airson do dhùthcha.”

“Dè tha suas?” orsa Dòmhnall Eòghain.

“Tha gu leòr suas,” ors’ esan. “Thig a-mach à seo,” ors’ esan.

“Well,” ors’ esan, Dòmhnall Eòghain, “cha mhòr a nì thusa airson seasamh airson do dhùthcha agus bi a’ tarraing a-mach às à sin,” ors’ esan, “agus ma chì mise a-staigh air an doras tuilleadh thu,” ors’ esan, “leigidh mi fhaicinn dhut,” ors’ esan.

Dh’fhalbh esan, am fear sin agus cha robh e fad sam bith gun tilleadh a-rithist.

“A bheil thu idir,” ors’ esan, “a’ dol a thighinn a-mach?” ors’ esan.

“Tha,” ors’ esan, “agus ’s e thusa a’ chiad bhean,” ors’ esan, “a bhios leis a’ chliathaich,” ors’ esan, “mura grad-tharraing thu.”

Thug e tàrradh air ach cha d’rug e idir air agus dhùin e an doras. Cha do nochadh riamh tuilleadh, ach ’s ann an sabaid a bha na Tuathaich agus na Sgitheanaich agus na Tearraich. Ach chuireadh na daoine bochda a bh’ ann an sineach nan cùil. ’S e an t-uisge teth a bh’ aig na làmhan leis an hose a chuir sgapadh as air neo bhiodh murt sgràthail ann.

Bha trip eile ann agus bha sinn a’ tighinn dachaigh agus daonnan, daonnan bha am bàta a’ tadhall air an Tairbeart an toiseach mun tigeadh e a Loch nam Madadh. Ach an trip a bh’ ann an seoach rinn sinn suas ar n-inntinn a h-uile duine riamh a bha an Uibhist gun toireamaid air an sgiobair tighinn gu ruige Loch nam Madadh an toiseach, a thaobh ’s ann madainn an làr-na-mhàireach a gheibheamaide às an stimear agus nan gabhadh i straight an dèidh an trèan ar fàgail, straight gu ruige Loch nam Madadh, bhitheamaid a-staigh an oidhche sin. Ach, co-dhiù, nuair a chaidh sinn air bòrd chaidh na Tuathaich, chaidh iad suas far an robh a sgiobair agus dh’fhaighneachd iad:

“Cà bheil dùil agaibh a dhol a-nochd air thoiseach. An ann gon an Tairbeart,” ors’ esan, “no Loch nam Madadh?”

“Chan ann, ‘s ann a thèid sinn gon an Tairbeart.”

“An-dà, cha tèid,” ors’ am fear-sa, “ach thèid sibh a Loch nam Madadh.”

“An ann agaibh-se,” ors’ esan, “a tha còir air a’ bhàta?”

“’S ann,” ors’ esan, “mura gabh thusa ar comhairle. Ach gabh comhairle,” ors’ esan, “agus ghabh straight gu ruige Loch nam Madadh. Tha an Tairbeart sin,” ors’ esan, “a’ faighinn am better,” ors’ esan, “a h-uile trip a tha sinne a’ tighinn,” ors’ esan. “Bu choltach,” ors’ esan, “gun tige’ sibh,” ors’ esan, “route mu seach.”
A-mach air a h-aon deug a ghabh na seòid agus bha Uibhist uile gu lèir air cùl an Tuathaich a bha seo agus bha iad nan rank ri cùl a chèile. Bha an duine cho rag, an sgiobair agus nach trèigeadh e idir. Rugadh air agus rinneadh ceangal nan trì chaol air. Bha na Tuathaich bha iad nan seòladairean pailt cho math ris fhèin agus ghabh iad os làimh am bàta obrachadh. Ach theann an round agus theann an row a bha sgràthail cuideachd. Theann an row a bha sgràthail agus, b’ e sin an row nach fhacas riamh a leithid eadar na Sgitheanaich agus na Tearraich agus na Leòdhasaich. Ach ma theann bha slàtaradh ann a bha eagalach. Mu dheireadh fhuair iad an làmh an uachdair orra. Ach cha do leigeadh às an sgiobair riamh. Bha an sgiobair air a cheangal agus Tuathach ag obrachadh a’ bhàta gus an tànaig e dìreach a fianais Loch nam Madadh.Chaidh iad an uair sin suas far a robh an sgiobair.

Ma bheir thu suas an case a tha seo,” ors’ esan, “sin a’ mhionaid mu dheireadh dha da shaoghal. Tha sinn dìreach a-niste air tighinn a-staigh agus gheibh thusa cead a dhol chon na drochaid air neo bheir sinn fhìn a-staigh i,” ors’ esan, “pailt cho math riuth-sa’,” ors’ esan. “Ach ma bheir thu suas an case,” ors’ esan, “chan eil ann an Loch nam Madadh,” ors’ esan, “na shàbhaileas tu,” ors’ esan.
Mhionnaich e nach toireach.  
“Well, leigidh sinn ma sgaoil thu,” ors’ esan, “agus gheibh thu chon na drochaid.”

Sin agad oidhche bu chunnartaiche san robh mise riamh. Tharraing mi buillean an oidhche sin. Tharraing mi grunn cuideachd agus grunn mòr. Thug mi slàtaradh air cuid. Thug cho math is a b’ urrainn dhomh. Fhuair mi buillean. Fhuair mi sùil ghorm agus gu leòr eile a bharrachd orm ach cha tuirt sinn dad. Ach rinn sinn an gnothach air càch, na Tuathaich agus na h-Uibhistich o dh’fhalbh sinn a Loch nam Madadh gu ruige sibh Poll a’ Charra a’ stialladh air a’ chuid eile.

An trip a bha seo ach is mi a’ falbh dhan Mhailisidh, bha gamekeeper ann an Langais is bhithinn daonnan, daonnan a’ dol ann nuair a bhithinn a’ falbh dhan Mhailisidh. ’S e fear MacCumhais a bh’ ann agus bha e anabarrach fhèin laghach agus bhiodh e a’ sgrìobhadh daonnan ’ugam an uair sin. Agus sgrìobh e an trip-sa mar an ceanda ’ugam.

“Nuair a thig thu a-nall air an fhadhail tha mi cinnteach gun tèid tha a Chàirinnis. Falbhadh tu às à sin agus cha stad thu gu sìorraidh gus an ruig thu Langais agus bi thu còmhla rium-sa ann a shineach gus am bi agad ri falbh sa mhadainn làr-na-mhàireach. Ach, co-dhiù, bha mi fhìn agus gille, mac poileasman a bh’ ann, dh’innis mi fhìn seo dhan ghille.

“Agus cha ghabh sinn company duine sam bith ach sinn fhìn le chèile.”

Ràine sinn Càirinnis agus thug sinn linn botal uisge-bheatha às à sin agus dh’fhalbh sinn air an rathad. Ràine sinn Clachan a’ Ghluip. Chum sinn romhainn gus an d’ràine sinn Langais agus bha direach an gamekeeper aig ceann an taighe san àm agus thug e an aire dhuinn a’ tighinn:

“O! well,” ors’ esan, “tha sibh air tighinn.”

“Tha,” orsa mi fhìn, “sinn air tighinn.”

“Cò am fear a tha còmh’ riut an seo?”

“O! tha,” orsa mi fhìn, “friend mòr dhomh fhìn,” orsa mi fhìn.

Dh’innis mi fhìn gur h-e mac a’ phoileasmain a bh’ ann.

“O! glè mhath,” ors’ esan.

“Dè a-nist,” orsa mi fhìn, “an tàinig duine fhathast?”

“Cha tàinig duine,” ors’ esan.

“Dè a-nist an ulaidh,” orsa mi fhìn, “an ulaidh a tha sinn a’ dol a dh’ fhaighinn a-nochd?”

“Dèan air do shocair,” ors’ esan. “Tha dithis shearbhantan snoga,” ors’ esan, “san taigh mhòr,” ors’ esan, “agus dh’fhiadhaich mise a-nuas a-nochd iad,” ors’ esan, “agus freagraidh tè dhiubh,” ors’ esan, “eagalach math air do shon-sa,” ors’ esan. “Nì i oidhche mhath co-dhiù,” ors’ esan, “agus an tè eile a th’ ann freagraidh i an gille sin,” ors’ esan.

“O! Dhia,” orsa mi fhìn, “dòch’ gum bheil chicks aca sin mar-thà.”

“O! ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “cha chreid mi gum bheil.”

“Dè an t-ainm,” orsa mi fhin, “a th’ air an tè mhòir.”

“Tha Màiri,” ors’ esan, “agus ’s e Seònag,” ors’ esan “an t-ainm a th’ air an tè bhig,” ors’ esan.”

“Very well,” orsa mise, “gabha’ mise an tè mhòr.”

Chaidh sinn a-staigh co-dhiù agus O! fhuair sinn biadh sa mhionaid is chuireadh sìos an rum sinn. Thug sinn dramannan seachad dhan bhotal agus ’s ann am beul na h-oidhche a bha iad seo a’ dol a thighinn agus:

“Well,” ors’ esan, “cha ghluais sibh,” ors’ esan, “às an rum seo,” ors’ esan. “Tha mi cinnteach gum bi na daoine a’ tighinn a-staigh an seo,” ors’ esan, “agus chan eil sibh-se a’ dol a ghluasad às an rum-sa. Bi mi fhìn air an watch,” ors’ esan, “agus cuiridh mi a-nuas na h-ingheannan,” ors’ esan, “nuair a thig iad.”

Seo mar a bha co-dhiù. Cha do ghluais sinne às an rum. Bha dramannan againn dhen bhotal, a bheil thu a’ faicinn agus bha an gamekeeper a’ coimhead a-mach is thug e a seo an aire dhaibh a’ tighinn. Thàinig iad agus:

“A! well,” ors’ esan, “tha mi glè thoilichte gum bheil sibh air tighinn.”

“A bheil,” ors’ à-san, “duine a-muigh an siud?”

“O! cha tàinig duine fhathast, ach dithist à Uibhist is tha iad san rum agus ghabha’ sibh sìos dhan rum. Thèid mi fhìn sìos romhaibh.”

Chan fhaca sinn riamh iad ach dh’èirich mi fhìn agus rug mi air làimh air an tè mhòir agus dh’ainmich mi air a h-ainm i agus sheall i orm.

“O! ’s àithnte dhomh thu, math gu leòr,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus mura h-àithnte, bi mi eòlach gu leòr ort mun tig an latha a-màireach.”

Agus rug am fear eile, Murchadh, rug e air làimh orra a-rithist agus bha ainm na tè ’ile aige-san.

“Cha chreid mi,” ors’ an tè mhòr; ’s i b’ aghaiche na ’n tè ’ile, “gum faca mi riamh thu. Tha amharas agam gum faca mi aon uair thu.”

“O! chunnaic,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus grunn,” orsa mise.

Ach, co-dhiù, chuireadh dram mun cuairt agus chuireadh tì mun cuairt agus ghabh sinn an tì agus tha sinn còmhla ris na h-ingheannan ann a shineach. Bha esan, chaidh e sìos bodily.

“Bithe sibh-se a’ cur eòlais air a chèile cho math sa ghabhas dèanamh,” ors’ esan. “Thèid mise sìos far a bheil na fir a tha seo.”

Bha sinne còmhla ris na boireannaich ann a sheo ach rinn iad a seo airson falbh.

“Tha mi cinnteach,” orsa mise, “nach eil math dhuinne falbh.”

“Cha tuirt sinn sin idir,” ors’ an tè mhòr.

Ach dh’fhalbh sinn còmhla ris na h-ingheannan agus sin agad sàbhaladh bu mhotha a chaidh riamh orm. Bha sinn a’ dol a-staigh air uinneig agus sheall iad:

“Toga’ sinn an uinneag a th’ ann a sheo agus thèid sibh a-staigh orra. Tha mi cinnteach gum bheil na h-uaislean ud gun chadal fhathast agus nuair a thèid sibh-se a-staigh air an uinneig, bi an gnothach all right.”

Chuir sinn dhinn ar brògan agus dìreach neat ’s e Murchadh a bha a’ dol a-staigh an toiseach. Bha an uinneag car àrd agus dh’fheumainn lift a thoir’ dhà-san, a thogail suas, agus gheibhinn fhìn a-staigh on a bha mi mòr, a bheil thu a’ faicinn. Cha robh agam ach jumpadh agus gheibhinn a-staigh na bu luaithe na esan. Sheall mi gu lucky agus bha duine a-nuas ’ugam.

“A! Dhia, a Mhurchaidh,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha duine ann a sheo,” orsa mi fhìn, “a-nuas ’ugainn,” ors’ esan, “agus fiach an slip sinn air falbh cho luath is a ghabhas dèanamh,” orsa mise.

Dh’ fhàgadh na brògan an siud is dh’ fhàgadh an uinneag togailte agus tharrainn sinn suas agus fhuair sinn shed sam biodh grothaichean agus chaidh sinn a-staigh dhan t-shed. Thàinig an duine ceum air cheum a-nuas. Ghabh e seachad air an t-shed agus chunnaic e sinne math gu leòr a’ dol a-staigh dhan t-shed, tha mi a’ smaointinn, agus ghabh e seachad. Cha do dh’aunaig e sìon. Thill sinne an ceann treiseadh agus ’s ann a’ dol a dh’ iarraidh nam brògan a bha sinn agus bha an nighean aig an uinneig:

“Dè,” ors’ ise, “is coireach,” ors’ ise, “nach tàine sibh a-staigh?”

“O! a Dhia,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach do theab bugair de dhuine ar glacadh ann a shin agus mura biodh gun do sheall mise,” orsa mise, “bha e air mise a ghlacadh sure. Bha esan a-staigh ach bha e air mise a ghlacadh agus chanadh iad gur h-e robairean a bh’ annainn.”

“O!” ors’ ise, “cha ruigea’ tu a leas eagal sam bith a bhith agad a sin. Shràc am fear sin a chadal sa mhionaid,” ors’ ise. “Tha e a’ dèanamh an walk a tha sibh a h-uile h-oidhche,” ors’ ise, “agus a’ falbh dhan leabaidh sa mhionaid uarach an uair sin,” ors’ ise, “nuair a thigeadh e a-staigh. Thigibh a-staigh.”

Thàinig sinn a-staigh, mi fhìn agus an gille eile. Sin far an robh an t-àite. Bha bòrd air a sheatadh ann a shin agus uisge-beatha gu leòr. Bha botal air a chuir air a’ bhòrd agus b’ e sin an t-uisge-beatha. Theann sinn air a’ chuilm ann a shineach agus, a Shiorrachd, cha robh mi dà uair riamh cho toilichte. Agus bha sinn deagh threis ann a shin. Thàinig an tè mhòr a-nuas an uair sin agus botal eile aice.

“Nuair a theirgeas am fear-sa,” ors’ ise, “gabha’ sibh am fear-sa agus biodh am bad còmhla riut.

Bha mise agus an tè mhòr ann a shin agus bha sinn glè thoilichte còmhladh agus, a Dhia, ’s sinne a bh’ ann an sin, agus deoch gu leòr. Cha mhòr nach do chaill mi a’ stimear, an dithist againn, an làr-na-mhàireach agus Moire! bha mi a’ sgrìobhadh ’uice sin uine mhòr, mhòr, nuair a dh’fhalbh mi an làr-na-mhàireach fhuair mi botal uisge-bheatha bhuaithe agus:

“Chì mi thu nuair a thilleas sibh.”

“Ciamar,” orsa mi fhìn, “a chì mi thu?”

“Feumaidh tu,” ors’ mise, “a dhol pìos air adhart a-mach,” ors’ ise, “agus feuch,” ors’ mise, “ri faighinn air an toiseach. Feuch am faigh thu air an toiseach dhachaigh,” ors’ ise, “agus feucha’ sinn ri d’ choinneachadh.”

Cha robh, a ghràidhean, ach nuair a ràine sinn taigh a’ ghamekeeper, bha e gar feitheamh riamh.

“Tha sibh air tighinn,” ors’ esan.

“O! tha gu dearbha,” orsa mise “agus gu dearbha, a Dhia,” orsa mise, “tha eagal orm.” “Bha an latha a-nist ann. Ciamar a gheibh sinn a Loch nam Madadh mun tig an stimear is tha an stimear gus a bhith ann air a leithid seo a dh’uair?”

“Na gabhaibh eagal,” ors’ esan.

Bha pònaidh aig an fhear sin agus machine agus bheairtich e i gu luath.

Dh’fhaighneachd e an gabhamaid biadh is cha ghabhadh. Bheairtich e i gu luath agus chaidh sinn an triùir againn na broinn. Agus fhuair an t-each e gu dubh gus an do ràinig sinn dìreach cha mhòr a’ dol a-staigh a Loch nam Madadh. Cha robh againn ach mu mhìle eile ri dhèanamh.

“Tha sibh a-nist all right,” ors’ esan. “Tha sibh tràth gu leòr.”

“Gu dearbha, tha,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus tha botal an seo,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus, leòra, cha tèid aon drop a-null na a-nall dheth,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach nad chorp-sa agus, a Dhia! is tu a b’ àiridh air.”

Dh’Sfhosgladh am botal agus fhuair an gamekeeper a dhiol.

“Tha botal eile agaibhse, a Mhurchaidh, ann a shin,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus an còrr a tha sa bhotal-sa,” orsa mi fhìn, “cuiridh sinn corc ann,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus cumaidh an gamekeeper e.”

“O! ma-thà,” orsa Murchadh, ors’ esan, “chan òl sinn sìon dheth seo,” ors’ esan, “ach an rud a nì sinn,” ors’ esan, “gheibh an gamekeeper,” ors’ esan, “am botal a tha seo slàn agus nì na bheil sa bhotal eile an gnothach dhuinne,” ors’ esan, “gus an ruig sinn Inbhir Nis.”

Sin an rud a rinneadh. Fhuair an gamekeeper am botal slàn agus thill e agus bha sinne tràth gu leòr aig a’ chìdhe. Nuair a fhuair sinn dhan stimear, chaidil siud agus ’s ann air èigin a dhùisg iad sinn nuair a ràine sinn Caol Acainn airson a dhol dhan trèan. Ràine sinn an uair sin a-rithist Inbhir Nis. Bha sinn a’ sgrìobhadh gu na nigheannan O! gu diùlaidh, diùlaidh litir a h-uile seachdain agus cheannaich sinn presents dhaibh cuideachd agus choinnich iad sinn air an rathad. Agus thill sinn a thaigh a’ ghamekeeper còmhl’ riutha gus an robh an oidhche ann agus bha sinn còmhla riutha tuilleadh gon an làr-na-mhàireach air an sin a thàinig Aonghas dhachaigh. Bha Aonghas air tighinn dachaigh agus bha botal mòr aige a fhuair e bhuaithe, botal mòr, mòr.

Bhithinn a’ falbh às an taigh, mi fhìn is an gille ud an dèidh tighinn dachaigh gu h-àraid nuair a bhiodh conntraigh ann agus e moch is anmoch. Bhitheamaid a’ falbh air an tràigh fheasgair. Bhitheamaid còmhla riutha fad na h-oidhche agus a’ tighinn air an tràigh mhaidne – cunntais mhòr, mhòr bhlianaichenan a bha sinn ris an obair sin. Fhuair m’ athair is mo mhàthair a-mach ma dheidhinn agus bha fhios aca gun robh sinn ann an àite damaite air choireigin gach darnalach a seachdain ach nuair a bhiodh reothart ann, cha bhitheamaid idir ann. Bhiodh an uair sin an tràigh cho mì-fhreagarrach, tràigh mheadhain-latha is tràigh mheadhain-oidhche. Ach nuair a bhiodh a’ chonntraigh ann bha sinn study a h-uile trip riamh. Agus chan e sin a-mhàin, nuair a bha sinn a’ ruighinn Chàirnais, bha sinn a’ crossadh na beinneadh agus bha sin a’ cuir trì na ceithir a mhìltean a-staigh ruinn. Ach bha sinn ùine mhòr, mhòr a’ trade riutha. ’S ann a’ coiseachd a bha sinn, a’ coiseachd a bha sinn a h-uile trip dheth siud, a h-uile ceum.

Bha sinn an siud latha, chan ann air parade a bha sinn idir. Bha am parade seachad againn agus chaidh sinn suas dhan chanteen agus bha an canteen pìos on champa againn. Chaidh sinn suas co-dhiù is bha sinn ag òl leann ann a shin. Ach thàinig dithis bhana-cheàrdan a-staigh dhan chanteeen agus theann iad air òl. Theann iad air òl is air òl an leann. Cha robh duine a gabhail gnothach riutha. Bha pàisde aig tè dhiubh air a muin agus bha an tè ’ile, cha robh pàisde idir aice. Bha peile aice co-dhiù, aig tè dhiubh agus lìon iad am peile le leann. Bha iad ag òl. Bha iad a’ bruidhinn gu trang riutha fhèin. Ach gu dè ach brith dè thàinig eatorra, theann trod. Theann iad air trod ’s air trod a-staigh sa chanteen. Well, chuir fear a’ chanteen a-mach às an taigh iad, às a’ chanteen.

Agus ma tha trod a dhìth oirbh, dèanaibh air a’ chnoc e.

Well, chàirich e a-mach iad às an taigh agus cha robh iad idir deich slatan o dhoras a’ chanteen nuair a chaidh iad am bad a chèile. Bha am peile gu mì-lucky aig an tè nach robh am pàisde idir aice agus thàinig i mun cuairt leis a’ pheile air an tè aig an robh am pàisde agus bhuail i am peile oirre dìreach ann am mullach a’ chinn agus leag i sìos i. A-mach a bha sinne as an deadhaigh uile gu lèir gus am faiceamaid an sport. Ach dh’èirich tè a’ phàisde co-dhiù agus am bad na tè ’ile a ghabh i agus bha tè a’ phàisde a’ toir an aire dhan phàisde cho math is a b’ urrainn di. Bha i a’ faighinn a’ chuid bu mhiosa dheth ach san aon àm, bha i a’ fuasgladh na pleid a bh’ oirre, a bha a’ ceangal a’ phàisde air a muin. Agus dh’fhuasgail i agus leum i a-mach on tè eile. Rinn i cnap cruinn air an rud a bh’ ann timcheall air a’ phàisde agus shrad i bhuaithe e. Am bad a chèile a ghabh na boireannaich. Chan fhaca mise ’s na chunna mi fhathast is chan fhaic a leithid sin a shabaid sgràthail. Theann tè a’ phàisde air an tè eile agus bha i a’ faighinn am better air an tè ’ile air a h-uile buille, mu dheireadh chan fhaice’ sibh aodann idir. Bha iad loma-làn faladh agus ’s ann a thàinig an gèard mun cuairt san àm. Chuireadh airson a’ ghèard agus chuireadh a-mach air taobh a-muigh na rèil iad buileach. Ach gu dè a mathas sin! Nuair a chuireadh a-mach iad is a bha an rout seachad, dh’fhalbh iad gu rèidh còmhladh dhan choillidh. An làr-na-mhàireach thàinig poileasman mun cuairt a cheasnachadh mu dheidhinn gnothach nam bana-cheàrdan. Cha do ghabh duine ris sìon mu dheidhinn, gum facas sìon sam bith ceàrr na gum facas bana-cheàrd riamh. Ach chunna sinn a’ bhana-cheàrd aig an robh am pàisde an ceann beagan ùine. Cha robh aodann idir innte ach làn sgròbaidhean is eile. Ach cha do nochd an tè ’ile riamh idir, idir fad an t-seasain agus tha e coltach leam gun d’fhuair an tè ’ile fada, fada na bu mhiosa na tè a’ phàisde. ’S ann air a’ Bhlàr Dubh ’s ann a bha siud.

Dhealaich mise ris an stoiridh a bha siud cha robh san tent a bha seo ach Tuathaich uile gu lèir ach mi fhìn agus gille eile. Bha sinn a’ tighinn às a’ chanteen an oidhche a bh’ ann a sheoach agus bha aon bhodach Tearrach còmh’ ruinn agus cha robh sinn idir, idir air a shon, airson a’ bhodaich a bha seo. Bha e cho fìor bheannaichte air ar son agus bog na cruaidh cha robh sinn air a shon. Ach, co-dhiù, an oidhche a bh’ ann a sheoach bha sinn a’ tighinn an dròbh againn còmhladh agus gu dè an duine bochd a bha seoach ach bha e a’ leughadh, ag obair air leabhraichean, ag adhradh agus a’ leughadh a’ Bhìobla. Bha e aig ceann shuas an tenta agus a’ choinneal aige air bocsa air choireigin is e a’ leughadh a’ Bhìobla gu dìcheallach. Thuirt fear a bha san dròbh againn.

“Tha am bugair a bha seo ach aig obair. Chan eil reusan sam bith dhuinn a dhol a-staigh gus a stad e, ach leigidh mise fhaicinn dhan chreutair gu stad e gu h-aithghearr. Agus leum e a dh’ ionnsaigh doras an tent agus bha plocan ann a shineach leis am bitheamaid a’ bualach nam pigs sìos, agus rug e air a’ phlocan agus thàinig e far an robh sinn.

“Cà’ a-nist,” ors’ esan, “siud an ceann aige. ’S e th’ ann gun teagamh,” ors’ esan, “agus nì mi deagh aim air.”

Dh’fhalbh e agus rinn e aim mhath air ceann a’ bhodaich bhochd a bh’ ann a shin agus fhuair e tamar. Ach ma fhuair chaidil esan. Chaidh a’ choinneal às leis a’ spreadhadh a thug am bodach às. Chaidh a’ choinneal às. Tharraing sinne a h-uile duine riamh againn agus thug sinn ceann na laineadh oirnn agus chaidh fear an siud ’s an seo. Cha robh sinn idir còmhladh. Thàine sinn a dh’ ionnsaigh an tent co-dhiù agus bha am bodach a’ falbh nuair a thàine sinn a dh’ ionnsaigh an tent.

“Dè tha ceàrr?”

“O! tha dìreach chan eil fhios co-dhiù a tha e beò na marbh. Fhuair e buille brith dè a’ bhuille a fhuair e mar gum biodh breab is chan eil diog aige.”

Thugadh dhan ospadal e agus thàinig e mun cuairt gu leòr, ach nuair a thàinig e gon an tent againne chan fhanadh e tuilleadh ann.

Dh’fhalbh am bodach sin agus cha do thill e riamh tuilleadh dhan tent againne agus nuair a dh’fhalbh e bha a h-uile duine riamh glè thoilichte gun do dh’fhalbh e. Cha robh fois air ach ag adhradh is a’ deasbad mu dheidhinn nan creideamhan agus an creaideamh ùr a thàinig a-mach, chan e a bh’ aige-san idir ach an seann Eaglais Shaor agus ’s e sin an eaglais a bha e a’ creidsinn innte agus dhealaich mise rithe.

Bha mi trip eile sa Mhailisidh agus dh’fhalbh sinn an latha a bh’ ann a sheo a-mach, gnothach ris an can iad a’ sgeirmsigeadh dhan chonas agus bha buidheann an siud is an seo a’ falbh air feadh a’ chonais. Agus cò bha a’ gabhail charge san tent sin san robh mi fhìn ach a’ Sergeant-Major a bh’ ann. Agus ’s e Leòdhasach a bha na Shergeant-Major a bhliadhna a bh’ ann a sheo. Chaidh a leòn san arm agus fhuair e a bhith na Shergeant-Major air an rèisimeid againne. Chaidh sinn pìos math a-mach sa chonas. ’S ann am Fort George a bha sinn a’ bhliadhna-sa agus:

“Well, fhearaibh,” ors’ esan, “chan eil dùil ’m gun tèid sinn seach seo,” ors’ esan. Biodh à-san a’ tarraing,” ors’ esan. “Bidh sinne,” ors’ esan, “ceart gu leòr. A bheil duine sam bith agaibh,” ors’ esan, “aig a bheil pìob,” ors’ esan, “sa chompany a bha seo?”

Cha robh pìob aig duine ach bha piob agam fhìn.

“Tha piob agam-sa,” orsa mise.

“A bheil tombaca agad?” ors’ esan.

“Tha cuideachd,” orsa mise.

“Well, lìon i, ma-thà agus bheir thu dhomh-sa smoc.”

Lìon mi a’ phìob agus nuair a las mi i, thug mi dha smoc.

“A bheil a-nist stoiridh sam bith aig duine dheth na bheil ann a sheo?” ors’ esan.

Cha tuirt duine guth.

“Tha,” orsa gille Tuathach, “am fear a thug dhuibh a’ phìob,” ors’ esan, “tha de naidheachdan aige,” ors’ esan, “a’ Chrìosdachd,” ors’ esan.

“O! glè mhath,” ors’ esan, “teanna’ a-nall faisg orm,” ors’ esan, “agus innis dhomh naidheachd bheag, laghach,” ors’ esan. ”Tha mi a’ smaointinn gur h-e an dithis choirnealan a ghabh mi agus ghabh mi dhan duine uasal, uarramach a tha seo mar tha i. Cha ruig mi a leas a gabhail an-dràsta. Theann mi air an sgeulachd agus bha an sgeulachd a’ còrdadh ris an t-Sergeant-Major eagalach fhèin math agus bha i a’ còrdadh ris ro-mhath cuideachd agus sheall e air an uair agus A! Shiorrachd, bha còir aige a bhith air a’ pharade. ’S ann a bha sinn air parade an uair ud agus bha còir againn a bhith air fall in a dhèanamh air a’ pharade nuair a sheall e air an uaireadair.

“O! well,” ors’ esan, “cha bhi fhios aca-san dè tha gar cumail-ne ach stada’ tu ann a shin agus gheibh mi an còrr a-nochd bhuat,” ors’ esan, “a thaobh,” ors’ esan, “tha i a’ còrdadh rium anabarrach fhèin math,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “feuma’ mi,” ors’ esan, “a’ chuid mu dheireadh dh’ fhaighinn bhuat.”

“Gheibh sibh sin,” orsa mise, “ach càite,” orsa mi fhìn, “an toir mi dhuibh i?”

“Bheir,” ors’ esan, “san tent agam fhìn,” ors’ esan, “agus thig thu,” ors’ esan, “dhan tent,” ors’ esan, “aig a leithid seo a dh’uair agus bi mise romhad ann. Bi mi an uair sin,” ors’ esan, “air mo shuipear a ghabhail,” ors’ esan. “Bi sinn ceart gu leòr.”

“Ach,” orsa mi fhìn, “ma bhios agam-sa ri bhith aig duty,” orsa mi fhìn, “ciamar a dh’ èireas dha sin?”

“Cha bhi,” ors’ esan, “cha bhi duty idir ort,” ors’ esan, “ma bhios sibh ann,” ors’ esan, “cuiridh mise dheth e,” ors’ esan.

Seo mar a bha co-dhiù.

“Ach bi thusa air an uair seo ann,” ors’ esan, “agus ma bhios an duty ann,” ors’ esan, “thig thu nas tràithe,” ors’ esan, “agus cuiridh mise dheth thu,” ors’ esan, “dhan duty.” Cha robh an duty ann agus ràine mise air an uair tent a’ Sergeant-Major agus nuair a ràine mi ghnog mi e.

“Thig a-staigh,” ors’ esan.

Thàine mi a-staigh:

“O!” ors’ esan, “tha thu dìreach air tighinn,” ors’ esan. Bha mi dìreach a’ studaigeadh,” ors’ esan, “gum bithea’ tu romham,” ors’ esan. “Ach,” ors’ esan, “cha robh thu air duty,” ors’ esan.

“Cha robh.”

“O! mura robh, cha bhi,” ors’ esan. “Suidh sìos,” ars’ esan, “as an t-sèithir sin a-niste,” ors’ esan, “agus gabh smoc,” ors’ esan, “agus innse tu an còrr dhen sgeulachd.”

Shuidh mi sìos agus chuir e a làmh ri thaobh agus thug e a-mach botal mòr uisge-bheatha.

“An gabh thu dram?” ors’ esan.

“Gabhaidh,” orsa mi fhìn. “Gabhaidh mi dram.”

“Is fheàirrde dhuibh-sa e cuideachd, mun teann thu air an sgeulachd,” ors’ esan.

Ach fhuair mi deagh dhram bhuaithe agus theann mi air an sgeulachd agus bha a’ sgeulachd a’ còrdadh ris eagalach math. Ach bha e a-nist uair sa mhadainn. Bha dìreach an sgeulachd gus bhith ullamh.

“Dè,” ors’ esan, “fhad ’s a th’ agad fhathast dhìth?”

“O! chan eil mòran sam bith,” ors’ mise.

“Ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “gabha’ sinn dram eile.”

Fhuaradh an dram agus cha b’ e sin an dram a bha beag idir ach tè mhòr.”

Agus theann mise air an sgeulachd agus bha mi ullamh dhìth.

“Tha i dìreach ullamh,” orsa mi fhìn.

“A bheil aonan tuilleadh agad?”

“Tha gu leòr,” orsa mi fhìn.

“O! ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “thig thu an ath-oidhch’ fhathast,” ors’ esan “as a’ cheart àm mun tàine tu a-nochd,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “tha mi cinnteach,” ors’ esan, “gur h-fheàirrde dhut dram eile,” orsa esan, “mun tèid thu a chadal.”

“Well, tha deagh theans,” orsa mi fhìn, “gum bi mise absent a-nochd.”

“Hù,” ors’ esan, “cha bhi thu absent idir,” ors’ esan. “Is tu nach bi,” ors’ esan. “Ma thachras sin,” ors’ esan, “thig thu,” ors’ esan, “far a bheil mise tràth, sa mhadainn agus,” ors’ esan, “cuiridh mise ceart e.”

Ach, co-dhiù, ghabh e fhèin deagh dhram agus bhuail e an corc às a’ bhotal agus shìn e dhomh-sa e. Well, bha mise glè mhath dheth agus bha deagh chuid às a’ bhotal. Nuair a thàine mi dhachaigh ’s e an t-Orderly Sergeant a bh’ ann chum a bh’ agam fhìn agus bha mi fhìn is e fhèin glè mhòr aig a chèile.

“Cà robh thusa?” ors’ esan “o thàinig oidhche.”

“Bha,” orsa mi fhìn, “còmh’ ris an t-Sergeant-Mhajor.”

“Huh, gu dearbha, chan ann,” ors’ esan. “Bha thu còmh’ ri rascal boireannaich an àite air choreigin.”

“An-dà, chan ann,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach bha mi còmh’ ris an t-Sergeant-Mhajor ag innseadh nan sgeulachd.”

“Seadh! An-dà, ma-thà, tha thu air do mharcadh absent an seo,” ors’ esan.

“Chan eil e gu diofar,” orsa mise. “Am fear a chum mi cho fada seo gun tighinn dachaigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “bheir e às mi,” orsa esan, “a cheart cho glan,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus a tha thusa.”

Ach cha robh esan ach mar aon obair:

“O!” ors’ esan, tha thu glè lucky,” orsa easn. “Bha fhios agam-sa taghta math cà’ robh thu,” ors’ esan,” agus,” ors’ esan, “chan eil thu air do mharcadh absent idir. Ach,” ors’ esan, “nam biodh fear eile ann,” ors’ esan, “tha deagh theansa gun robh thu air do mharcadh absent idir,” ors’ esan. Ach,” ors’ esan nam biodh fear eile ann,” ors’ esan, “tha deagh theansa gun robh thu air do mharcadh absent.”

“Ach, chan eil e a’ cuir heit orm,” orsa mise. “Tha agam ri dhol ann an ath-oidhch’ cuideachd,” orsa mise, “agus bi mi nas fhaide an ath-oidhch’ a-rithist,” orsa mise, “na bha mi a-nochd. Tha mi ullamh dhen sgeulachd a-nochd,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach tha mi cinnteach gun cuir mi crìoch air an sgeulachd an ath-oidhch’,” orsa mi fhìn, “mun till mi. Ach fhuair mi dram,” orsa mi fhìn, “a leighiseadh a-maireach mi,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus tha mi coma ged a bheirinn dha’-sa steall dheth.”

Agus fhuair esan dram agus O! fhuair iad dram beag mun cuairt uile gu lèir dhe na bha san tent, gun robh beagan agam fhìn airson an là-na-màireach airson na leigheas. Ach an làr-na-mhàireach nuair a dh’èirich sinn, tha againn ri drill a dhèanamh mum faigheamaid aon ghreim bithidh. Chaidh sinn a-mach gu parade agus nuair a bhathar gar passaigeadh thàinig an Sergeant-Major, e fhèin agus an adjutant mun cuairt.

“Ciamar a tha thu an-dugh?”

“Chan eil ach glè mheadhanach,” orsa mi fhìn.

“Dè th’ ort?”

“Tha mo cheann sgràthail goirt.”

“Cuiridh mi geall gum bheil,” ors’ esan. “Tha mo cheann-sa sgràthail goirt cuideachd,” ors’ esan, “ach mura biodh gun do leighis mi mi fhìn,” ors’ esan. “Ghabh sinn dileag bheag a bharrachd,” ors’ esan. “A bheil deur agad?” ors’ esan, “dè na thug mi dhut a-raoir.”

“O! glè bheag,” orsa mi fhìn. “Nuair a thàine mi dhachaigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “bha iad nan dùsgadh uile gu lèir,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus chunnaic iad am botal,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus cha robh rathad agam air a chumail bhuatha. B’ fheudar dhomh a riarachadh orra uile.”

“Well,” ors’ esan, “thèid thu dhachaigh,” ors’ esan, “agus gabha tu a mhess nan oifigeach,” ors’ esan, “agus sgrìobha’ mise note dhut,” ors’ esan, “agus bheir thu dhan duine sin e agus gheibh thu,” ors’ esan, “botal eile. Agus as dheaghaidh seo,” ors’ esan, “cha tèid thu gu drill mhaidne tuilleadh,” ors’ esan, “fhad ’s a mhaireas na sgeulachdan.”

Cha robh mise riamh ann an taigh mo sheanar ’uige sin. Bha biadh is ceòl is deoch agam fhad ’s a bha mi còmhla ris an fhear sin fad mhìos ag innseadh sgeulachdan. Dh’innis mi de sgeulachdan dha rud a bha eagalach. Cha robh riamh air an t-saoghal – bha e ag ràdha nach do chuir e seachad a shaoghal riamh cho toilichte is a chuir e fhad ’s a bha mi còmhla ris. Ach chan fhaca mi an duine bochd sin tuilleadh. Nuair a bha an samhradh sin seachad chan fhaca mi riamh tuilleadh e brith cà ’n deachaidh e. Bha mi a’ faighneachd air a shon agus bha e air an rèisimeid fhàgail is e air retireadh, air a dhol dhachaigh gu ruige Leòdhas. Fhuair mi extra pàigheadh bhuaithe airson na sgeulachdan a bha mi ag innseadh dhà. Bha mise gu math dheth a’ dol dhachaigh as t-samhradh sin. Bha mi cho math is gun robh na pàigheadh agam suas cho math ris na sergeants a bh’ ann.

Thogadh an seo sinn aig àm Cogadh Africa agus ’s ann gu ruige Aldershot a chuireadh sinn. Bha sinn ann a shin ùine mhòr, mhòr gar drilleadh gu math cruaidh cuideachd agus ’s ann an àm a’ gheamhraidh a bh’ ann agus bha sneachdannan mòra, mòra ann a shin. Thugadh an seo a-mach sinn airson gu volunteeraigeamaid airson Africa agus an rèisimeid againn. Well, bha sinne, a chuid bu mhotha a bh’ againn, bha sinn as an Reserve. Cha robh reusan sam bith dhuinn ag ràdha nach rachamaid ann.

Dh’fheumamaid a dhol ann ach bha à-san, na commandairean airson fhaighinn a-mach cò a dh’aontaicheadh airson a dhol a dh’ Africa. Chaidh an Reserve a-mach gu beagraich uile mar do dh’ fhan aon fhichead dhiubh air ais. Agus chunntadh an uair sin na chaidh a-mach agus shealladh air na leabhraichean agus bha iad seo a dhìth orra. Dhfhaighneachadh an uair sin leth fo leth dhiubh an robh duine aca sa Reserve. Bha.

“Dè bu choireach nach deach thusa a-mach?”

Cha tuirt iad guth. Ach, co-dhiù, chuireadh iad sin air leth agus dè ach chaidh gu leòr a-mach a bharrachd air an sin nach robh as a Reserve idir. Fhuair iad sineach clear is an drill uile gu lèir, a h-uile duine a volunteer, ach am beagan a dh’fhan gun a dhol a-mach dhan Reserve agus seann-bhodaich a bha nan còcairean is aig obair nach robh iad aig drill idir. Chuireadh iad sin gu drill agus an fheadhainn nach do volunteer dhan Reserve. Agus abair sibh-se gun d’fhuair iad sin drilleadh a bha sgràthail. Ach, co-dhiù, bha Sergeant air a’ chompany againn fhìn, company 5 ’s ann a bha sinn, a bha anabarrach fhèin gasda. ’S e Dunbar a chainte ris, O! duine anabarrach fhèin gasda, agus bha mi fhìn is e fhèin eagalach mòr aig a chèile. Is mi a bha a’ cuir air dòigh an tent aige agus a’ glanadh a chuid aodaich. Bha am fear a’ falbh air thoiseach air a rèisimeid agus thuirt e rium fhèin:

“Well,” ors’ esan, “falbha’ tusa còmh’ rium-sa, Aonghais, agus,” ors’ esan, “far am bi mise,” ors’ esan, “bi thusa.”

Bha seo ceart gu leòr. Bha mi deiseil airson falbh. Gu mì-lucky bhuail a’ ghriùirach mi agus b’ fheudar dhomh a dhol dhan ospadal, ach bha mi air an aodach fhaighinn uile gu lèir mun deach mi dhan ospadal, ’s e sin kaki. Nuair a chaidh mi dhan ospadal thàinig an Sergeant a dh’fhàgail beannachd agam agus O! bha mise glè bhochd as an àm. Bha a’ ghriùirach air tighinn a-mach romham gu dubh.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “tha mi glè dhuilich,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil mi gad fhàgail,” ors’ esan, “ach dè a-niste,” ors’ esan, “a bheir thu dhomh,” ors’ esan, “airson cuimhneachdan?”

“Well,” orsa mise, “chan eil sìon agam-sa,” orsa mise, “a bheir mi dhuibh,” orsa mise, “as a cheart àm a tha seo,” orsa mise, “nam biodh e agam, bheirinn dhuibh e gu toilichte, ach is dòcha,” orsa mi fhìn, “ma gheibh sinn seo seachad, gum faic mi sibh fhathast thall.”

“Well, is math sin fhèin dhomh,” ors’ esan. “Tha toileachadh an sin fhèin dhomh,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil thu as an dùrachd sin.”

“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “chan eil sìon dhan t-saoghal agam-s’ ann a sheo ach nam bithinn,” orsa mi fhìn, “as na barracks,” ors’ mi fhìn, “is dòcha gum faighinn rud a bheirinn dhuibh mar chuimhneachan.”

Thug e an aire do chìr an stand ri taobh na leabadh agam.

“An ann leat, “ ors’ ean, “a tha a’ chìr a th’ ann a sheo?”

“’S ann.”

“Well,” ors’ esan, “bheir mi leam i sin,” ors’ esan, “mar chuimneachan.”

“O! ’s e làn-dì-’ur-beatha,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus tha mi ann an dòchas,” orsa mi fhìn, “gum faic mi sibh fhèin fhathast,” orsa mi fhìn, “thall. Is dòcha,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach bi an anshocair a tha seo fada orm-sa ann,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus gum bi mi all right,” orsa mi fhìn, “airson an ath-dhraft.”

Agus dh’fhàg e beannachd agam agus thug e not chòig punnd Shasannach, chuir e nam dhòrn e mar chuimhneachan.

“Seo,” ors’ esan, “agus tha mi ann an dòchas nach e sin am fear mu dheireadh,” ors’ esan, “a bheir mi dhut,” ors’ esan.

Agus dhealaich an duine sin rium-sa agus bha mi glè, glè dhuilich as a dheaghaidh. Ach thàinig Sergeant eile air a’ chompany againn agus ’s e aon duine bu mhotha a bha a ghràin agam air riamh air an t-saoghal-sa fhathast. Agus nuair a bha sin seachad is a h-uile cogadh riamh, fhuair mise dhachaigh an uair sin air sick leave à Alsershot agus fhuair mi sia seachdainean dhachaigh agus nuair a bha na sia seachdainean sin a-mach, smaointich mi gum fanainn seachdain eile aig an taigh airson gum faighinn a’ mhoine aig m’ athair a thoir’ dhachaigh. Dh’fhan mi seachdain eile aig an taigh agus bha mi ag obair air toir’ dhachaigh na mònadh. Ach air na luchdan mu dheireadh a bh’ agam, thàinig am poileasman nam choinneamh is mi a’ dol seachad air an taigh aige agus dh’iarr e orm stad.

“Cùine,” ors’ esan, “a tha thu a’ falbh?” ors’ esan.

“Tha dùil ’m,” orsa mi fhìn, “falbh a-màireach.”

“O! seadh,” ors’ esan, “glè mhath,” ors’ esan.

“Tha mi air litir fhaighinn air do shon,” ors’ esan, “nam bithea’ tu aig an taigh,” ors’ esan, “greim a dhèanamh ort, ach cana’ mi,” ors’ esan,” gum bheil thu air falbh.”

“O! tha mi a’ falbh a-màireach.”

“Well,” ors’ esan, “tha thu,” ors’ esan, “nad dheserter.”

“Moire! chan eil,” orsa mi fhìn. “Sgrìobh mise,” orsa mi fhìn, “a dh’ ionnsaigh a’ chommandair,” orsa mi fhìn, “airson gum faighainn seachdain eile agus cha d’ fhuair mi brath idir agus,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha mi a’ smaointinn gum bheil mi ceart gu leòr.”

“O! tha,” ors’ esan, “tha thu nad dheserter,” ors’ esan, “ach cana’ mise,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil thu a’ falbh a-màireach. “A bheil thu,” ors’ esan, “gus bhith ullamh dhan mhòinidh?”

“Tha dìreach mu dhà thrip eile agam,” ors’ mise, “agus bha dùil ’m crìoch a chur air a’ mhòinidh,” orsa mi fhìn, “ma falbhainn.”

“Welld, nì thu sin,” ors’ esan, “agus bi thu a’ falbh a-màireach.”

Chuir mi crìoch air moine m’ athar cò-dhiù agus dh’fhalbh mi leis a’ stimear an làr-na-mhàireach agus ràine mi Glaschu. Bha mi seachdain eile an sin ann an Glaschu agus feadhainn a-staigh air fòrladh agus cha bhiodh an tide suas aca gu ceann seachdain is dh’fhan mi seachdain eile an sin. Thàinig an uair sin iad sineach agus dh’fhalbh mise agus ’s ann gu ruige Èirinn a chaidh mi an uair sin agus fhuair mi clear. Bha mi air cùirt na dhà ann a shiud gus an d’ fhuair mi clear, nach do rinneadh sìon orm. Chuir mi an uair sin m’ ainm air sick gun robh mi bochd agus fhuair mi clear is an sin gun robh mi dìreach all right.

Bhitheamaid an uair sin, theann sgoil dhannsa againn agus bha mòran de ghillean agus de nigheannan laghach cuideachd a’ dol dhan sgoil dhannsa aig Mullingar. Fhuair sinn a-mach ann a shineach agus nuair a bhitheamaid a’ dol dhan bhaile sìos, gu dè an t-àm dhan bhliadhna a bh’ ann ach bha iad a’ buain mhònadh agus ’s ann a rinn dròbh againn deiseil airson gum faiceamaid iad a’ buain na mònadh. Dh’fhalbh sinn an latha a bh’ ann a sheoach far an robh iad a’ buain na mònadh agus ’s e sluic mhòra, square a bha iad a’ dèanamh. Cha robh iad idir a’ freagairt air an obair a bhiodh againne a’ buain mhònadh. Sheall sinn dhaibh mar a bhitheamaide a’ buain na mònadh. Bha à-san a’ falbh le bara ga sgaoileadh a-mach agus an dòigh a rinn sinne – bha sinn ann a’ Chrìosdachd mhòr a ghillean, dh’fhalbh sinn agus bha duine a’ gearradh ’s ann a shineach cho trang is a b’ urrainn dà agus ga chaitheamh a dh’ ionnsaigh an dala duine agus o dhuine gu duine gus an robhar ga chaitheamh a-mach hand over hand is cha robh feum air baraichean ann, gun deach grunn aca a ghearradh na mònadh agus gun robh sinn ullamh ann an ùine bheag dhen mhòinidh.

Rinneadh cuilm mhòr dhuinn ann a shineach agus ’s ann a bhuain sinn dà mhòinidh ann an ùine glè aithghearr. Agus fhuair sinn air adhart anabarrach fhèin math ann a shineach. Cha robh sinn ach mar gum biodh daoine dhaibh fhèin fhad ’s a bha sinn ann agus sinn glè, glè thoilichte ann: daoine cho laghach is a chunna sinn riamh mar coinneamh. Bha an sgoil dhannsa a bha seo a’ dol air adhart ùine mhòr fad sia na seachd a sheachdainean. Bha na gillean is na h-ingheannan a’ faighinn a-staigh dhan sgoil dhannsa agus dannsa Gàidhealach a bh’ againne ga ionnsachadh dhaibh. Bha gille òg a mhuinntir Uibhist – tha e beò fhathast, ’s e bha a’ dèanamh na sgoil dhannsa a bha seo, Pàdraig às an Ìochdar. Sin am fear a bha a’ cumail na sgoil dhannsa. Cha do chuir e aon sìon orra, air muinntir a’ bhaile ach gun do dh’ionnsaich e dannsa dhaibh ach bha crùn air a h-uile duine againne.

Thàine sinn dhachaigh às an sin an uair sin. Mo phiuthar-sa cheannaich i gun fhiosda às an arm mi agus bha mi a’ gabhail fadachd nach robh mi a’ faighinn notice as an àm as an robh na daoine a’ dol suas, a’ mhìos:

“A Dhia,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha e neònach,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach d’fhuair mi notice,” orsa mi fhìn, “airson tilleadh dhan Mhailisidh.”

“Chan fhaigh thu notice ri d’ mhaireann cuideachd,” orsa mo phiuthar. “Cheannaich mise às an arm thu.”

“Carson a rinn thu sin,” orsa mi fhìn, “gun m’ òrdan?”

“Airson siud fhèin,” ors’ ise. “Tha t’ athair a’ fàs lapach,” ors’ ise, “agus a bheil dùil agad,” ors’ ise, “gum bheil mise gus a bhith ag obair an fhearainn.”

“Well,” orsa mise, “cha chuireadh e call sam bith an t-àm a thathar a’ dol gar togail-ne air an fhearann. Bi a’ mhòine air a buain,” orsa mi fhìn. “Bu shuarach an rud dhuibh ged a thogadh sibh i fhad ’s a bhitheamaid ann as a’ Mhailisi. Cruachaidh sinn fhìn i,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus bheir sinn dachaigh i.”

An ath-bhliadhna a-rithist bha Sergeant agus Oifigeach a’ dol mun cuairt air an liostaigeadh agus chaidh mi fhìn an rathad a bha iad agus liostaig mi as ùr. Agus bha mi ann a shin deagh threis as a dheaghaidh sin. Chan eil dùil ’m nach robh mi còig bliadhn’ deug innte uile gu lèir nuair a stad mi. Bhithinn ma dheich bliadhna fichead nuair a stad mi dhan Mhaiisidh.

In the Militia

I spent a good while at home as I was quite right to have been attended by the doctor until my fingers healed and by that time I was all right. I worked along with my father and I had to go back to the army at the end of a year or two. I was eventually called back to the army during the Boer War. That was going on at this time.

We were there for more than a year. At the start we were in Aldershot and then we were shifted over to Ireland. Indeed, Ireland is a very good place. I by far enjoyed being there than in England as it had been terribly cold with frost and snow there and I caught the measles there and I took it very badly. I had no option but to return home on leave and we were off to Ireland by the time I returned.

I was only sixteen years of age when I enlisted but I was very big although I was only slender at the time. And I said to the sergeant that I wanted to enlist.

“Very good,” he said, “what age are you?”

“Seventeen years of age.”

“Ah, well, laddie,” he said, “look this is what’ll you do. No one in the world would not know you to be eighteen years of age and you’ll say that you are eighteen years of age and then you’ll get full pay, but if you say,” he said, “that you’re only seventeen years of age you’ll only get half-pay.”

“Very well,” I said, “will you not say that I’m eighteen years of age then?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll put down that you’re eighteen years of age.”

And the sergeant was very good to me and the sergeant was of Uist stock, his people were from North Uist.”

“You have until tomorrow night then you’ll have to make your way to the hotel in Creagorry and you’ll take the oath then.”

“Very good,” I said.

And mind, neither my father or my mother knew about it. I set off that evening as I stopped work fairly early and I was busy getting ready, cleaning my face and dressing in the best clothes that I owned. They had no idea where I was. I arrived in Creagorry and the sergeant had arrived before me and:

“You’ve arrived,” he said.

“Yes, I have,” I said.

“None of the rest have, it appears. Are you in a hurry?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I’m not in any hurry.”

“You may as well come in,” he said.

“I was stripped off and he examined my skin to see if I had any marks. There were none. Well, he gave me a pass. Getting a pass was wasn’t so difficult as it is nowadays.”

“That’s just fine and you’ll be all right now,” he said.

And he then gave me a shilling.

“What now are you going to do with that shilling?” he asked.

I had begun smoking by then.

“I’m sure,” he said, “you’ll take a dram with all that’s here.”

“Well, no,” I said, “I’ll not take a dram at all as I smoke the pipe and I’ll get a good lot of tobacco for myself.”

“Indeed,” he said, “my blessings on you. You’re sure that you’ll not take a dram?”

“Yes.”

“By the books,” he said, “I’ll get a dram for you.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” I said, “but I’d much prefer to do without.”

And he gave me another six shillings for I spoke so well. Well, I set off:

“Well,” he said, “you’ll get notice when you’ve to leave. Does your father and mother know?”

“No,” I said, “they’ve no idea.”

“Do you think they’ll be happy that you’ll be leaving?”

“Oh, I think that they’ll be happy enough,” I said.

Well, I went and left the man, the sergeant was called MacKay and he was very kind. No one knew at all that I had enlisted apart from a family in the township that stayed nearest to me. These were MacKays and I was related to them and I asked them not to say a word until my parents found out that I had enlisted. There was a lad in this household who was also leaving and he was even younger than me and he was in the same situation as myself and he had said that he was eighteen years of age as well. No one found out that I had enlisted until I was given notice to leave. No one in the world knew what the big, long letter was but I knew fine well what the letter was. And who came by the way but a neighbour when I was at the shore gathering seaweed with a cart and horse and he said that the notice was to take me as far as Inverness and that I had enlisted in the Militia. My mother was all worried and anxious by the time I got home:

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s wrong, a lot’s wrong and you’re about to leave at the end of the week to join the army and we’ll probably never see you again.”

“Tut,” I said, “you’ll see me and you can be sure that I’ll have a present or two for you which I’ll send. Anyway, you’ll get a half a pound of snuff,” I said, “and my father will get a pound of tobacco and if I stayed here then I wouldn’t be able to give you anything.”

But my mother went and got some things prepared so that I could take some clothes with me. I had no need of any clothes as we were going to get everything in the Militia. For socks we got two pairs and also two shirts, trousers, jackets and a kilt. That did not cost anything. I was only going to take with me the pair of socks I was wearing. But she got the peat harvested and everything else and the day now arrived for us to leave. We departed. Not one of us had gone as far over as the North Ford before apart from maybe one or two of us. We set off and we walked from Carninish to Lochmaddy which was a walk of over eleven miles. We stayed there for the night in a wee house where the Militia recruits would go always. We stayed there until the steamer arrived the next day. It would have been around eight o’clock in the morning when she arrived.

We went on board and we left the place in the steamer until we reached a place called Kyle of Lochalsh. Well, the sergeants took responsibility and so we had nothing to do. We got the train from there and it did not stop at all until we reached the barracks in Inverness. We stayed overnight in the barracks and the following day between seven and eight o’clock in the morning we set out for a place called Fort George. And that is the place where we would spend the next ten weeks. And it felt as if the first week took ten years to pass. But after the first week we all then became far happier. All the men who drilled us were very kind and if we took their advice they were even kinder to us for as they say: ‘No’ is never said in the army as you have to be fit and ready to do anything if we were ordered to do so and you’ll get on better for doing so.

We got on far better after that. And when it came to the end of five weeks we were old hands by then. It was a month that we spent getting trained up. And to tell you: before the ten weeks had passed we were all homesick as we had to leave the place. If I didn’t take a dram before, then I drank plenty then and my ‘bord’ taste[?] was getting fond of it. And good came out of it: everything that I promised my father and mother I got for them. I got a pound of tobacco for my father and half a pound of snuff for my mother and I also gave a pair of slippers to my mother as well, and they were very pleased when I got returned home. I also had a bottle of whisky. My father was quite fond of a dram and he got some from the bottle and I gave the rest of it to my mother. I wasn’t so taken with it then but I would still take some. And so this is how things turned out for me the first time that I enlisted in the Militia. I joined up for fifteen years and every year after that I grew more happy and no one at all held any spite against me. I was in the company of men who could not have been any better. The men from my own place were fine enough but it was the ones from North Uist that I spent most time with and I would take the grain from the earth to those few and I warmed to them just and they did likewise with me. I can’t say much about them but they were big, sturdy men and there was none at that time as strong as any of them. There was one man from Heisker, North Uist, and if he had been trained and been given some practice then I think he would have been the strongest man that I had ever seen. He made a bet with us, and he was the biggest man of all of them put together, that he would throw off, if sixteen men were on top of him, that he could throw them off. And the bet was made and if we managed to keep him down then he would have to give us two gallons of beer and if he managed to throw us off then we would have to give him two gallons of beer. Beer wasn’t so expensive then and so the bet was put down and sixteen men went on top of him all over his hands, legs and face. He shouted if we were ready and we said that we were completely ready if he was.

He made a jerking move and this is not one word of a lie. He threw one man over here and there and he nearly brained the lot of us as he was the fastest one to get on his feet. And to tell you how strong he was for everyone one of them was strong, we had a tug o’ war at the time we about to leave for home during the last week. Many, many would have a go with us. But not one of them ever managed to beat us. We would pull them as if we were pulling a child for the lads had both the strength and stamina.

When we would go home then we would take the boat. I and this man would always go together. On this particular night we went to the cabin.

“Well,” he said, “wait here until we’re very close to Lochmaddy.”

“It’s just as well,” I said, “without having to shout up above there.”

But in any case we heard a noise above and it was loud as well as if there was a fight going on. A man came down to the cabin and opened the door.

“Were you here all along,” he said, “when you should be standing up for your country [i.e. island]?”

“What’s up?” asked Donald Ewen.

“Plenty, that’s what,” he said, “come out here.”

“Well,” said Donald Ewen, “it’s something that you should do for standing up for your country and so come out of there and if I see you at the door I’ll show you what’s for.”

That man went away and it wasn’t long before he came back again.

“Are you going to come out at all?” he asked.

“Yes,” he said, “and you’ll be the first woman that’ll put on its side if you don’t quickly move off.”

He made a move to grab him but didn’t get a hold of him at all and he shut the door. He never appeared again and the fight was between the North Uist men, the Skyemen and the Harrismen. But the poor men were put to the back. The hot water sprayed over them by the deckhands scattered them and if hadn’t been for that there would have been a terrible fight.

On another occasion that were making our way home and the boat would always go to Tarbert first before it went to Lochmaddy. On this particular journey we made our minds up – those from Uist – that we would make the skipper go to Lochmaddy first otherwise it would have been morning after that we would get the steamer and if it went straight to the train and then strait to Lochmaddy we would get home that very night.

And anyway when we had boarded the North Uist men went up to where the skipper was and they asked:

“Where do you intend to go first tonight – to Tarbert or Lochmaddy?” he asked.

“No, we’ll go to Tarbert.”

“But no,” said the man, “you’ll go to Lochmaddy.”

“Are you in charge of the boat?” he asked.

“Yes,” he said, “if you don’t heed our advice. But do heed our advice,” he said, “and make straight for Lochmaddy. Tarbert gets preference every journey that we’re on. It would be fairer,” he said, “if the route was changed alternately.”

Out at eleven o’ clock the heroes went and all of Uist (could be seen) at the North Uist men’s backs as they linked up in rank at the back of one another. The skipper was so stubborn that he would not forgo at all. He was caught hold of and tied up around his wrists and ankles. The North Uist men were just as good at sailing as he was and they took over piloting the boat. But a row started and a terrible row began and it was a row that had never been seen between the Skyemen, the Harrismen and the Lewismen. And if it did start it was a terrible slaughter. But at last they (the North Uist men) managed to get the upper hand. But the skipper was not set free at all. The skipper was tied up and a North Uist man piloted the boat until it came just within sight of Lochmaddy. They then went up to where the skipper was.

“If you ever take this case (criminal case) up,” he said, “that will be the very last minute you’ll see of this world. We’re now just coming in and you’ll be allowed to go over to the bridge or we’ll take it in just as well as you could. But if you take this case up there is no one in Lochmaddy that’ll save you.”

He swore that he wouldn’t do this.

“Well, we’ll set you free,” he said, “and you’ll get to go to the bridge.”

That is the most dangerous night which I had ever experienced. I threw a few punches that night. I threw a good few as well and some big hitters. I hammered down some. I gave as good as I got. I got hit as well. I got a black eye and plenty else but we didn’t say a thing. But we managed to beat the rest, the North Uist men and the Uistmen since we left from Lochmaddy until you reach Pollacharra and the rest poured in.

But on this particular journey when I left for the Militia, a gamekeeper from Langais and I would always go there when I would leave for the Militia. He was a MacCuish and he was very nice and he would always write to me then. And on the occasion he wrote to me as before.

“When you come over the ford I’m sure that you’ll go to Carinish. You would leave from there and you’ll not stop until you reach Langais and you’ll then join me there until you have to leave the next morning. But in any case I and the lad, the policeman’s son, and I told the lad.

“And we’ll not keep company with any others but ourselves together.”

We reached Carninish and who took with us a bottle of whisky and we went on our way. We reached Clachan a’ Ghluip. We kept on going until we reached Langais and the gamekeeper was at the gable end of the house and he noticed us coming:

“Oh! well,” he said, “you’ve arrived.”

“Yes,” I said, “we’ve arrived.”

“Who’s the man that’s along with you?”

“O, yes,” I said, “a great friend of mine.”

I said that he was the policeman’s son.

“Oh! very good,” he said.

“What now,” I asked, “has anyone else arrived?”

“No,” he said.

“What now is the treasure,” I asked, “that we are going to get tonight?”

“Take it easy,” he said, “there are a couple of nice serving girls in the big house and I’ve invited them down tonight and one of them will be a terrific match for you. She’ll do for a good night anyway and the other one will be a good match for that lad,” he said.

“Oh, God,” I said, “they probably have chicks (boyfriends) already.”

“Oh, well,” he said, “I don’t believe they do.”

“What’s the name of the big lassie,” I asked.

“Mary,” he replied, “and Joan is the name of the wee lassie.”

“Very well,” I said, “I’ll take the big lassie.”

We went in and oh! we were served food immediately and then we were shown down to a room. We gave them drams from the bottle and they were going to come over as night fell:

“Well,” he said, “you won’t move out of this room. I’m sure that the men will be coming to this room and you’ll not move out of this room. I myself will be on watch and I’ll take down the lassies when they arrive.”

This was how it turned out in any case. We didn’t move out of the room. We had drams from the bottle, you see, and the gamekeeper was keeping watch so that he would notice them coming. They arrived and:

“Ah! well,” he said, “I’m very pleased that you’ve arrived.”

“Are there,” they asked, “men out over there?”

“Oh! no men have arrived apart from two from Uist and there in the room and I’ll take you down there. I’ll go ahead of you.”

We had never seen them before and I got up and I grasped the hand of the big lassie and I asked her name and she looked at me.

“Oh! I recognise you well enough,” I said, “and if I don’t recognise you, I’ll know you well enough before tomorrow.”

And the other man, Murdo, caught hold of the other’s hand and he had the lassie’s name.

“I don’t believe,” the big lassie said, who was more fun than the other, “that I’ve ever seen you before. I suspect that I have seen you once before.”

“Oh! yes,” I said, “and many times.”

But in any case drams and tea were put around and we took some tea and we were in the lassies’ company. He went down bodily.

“You’ll get to know one another as well as can be,” he said. “I’ll go down where the other men are.”

We were together with the women and they then made to go.

“I’m sure,” I said, “that it wouldn’t be good for us to leave.”

“We didn’t say that at all,” said the big lassie.

But we left with the lassies and that was the greatest thing that ever saved me. We were going through the window and they looked:

“We’ll lift the window here and we’ll go in. I’m sure those gentlemen have not slept yet and when we go through the window and things will turn out all right.”

We took off our shoes and quite neatly Murdo was the first to go in. The window was quite high up and I had to give him a lift up and I could go in myself as I was tall enough, you see. I only had to jump up so I could get in quicker then he could. Luckily I took a look and saw there was a man down below me.

“Oh, God, Murdo,” I said, “there’s a man down and we’ll try to give him the slip to get away as fast as we possibly can.”

We left the shoes there and the window was left open and we pulled up and we found a shed where things were stored and we entered the shed. The man came down step by step. He went passed the shed even though, I thought, he had seen us well enough entering the shed. He went by. He hadn’t noticed anything. We returned after a while and we went to fetch the shoes and the lassie was at the window.

“Why,” she asked, “haven’t you come in?”

“Oh, God,” I said, “didn’t some bugger of a man nearly catch us and if I hadn’t spotted him he would have got hold us for sure. He was inside but if he had caught me they would’ve said we were robbers.”

“Oh,” she said, “you needn’t be afraid of that. That man will fall asleep in a minute. He does the same walk as you do every night,” she said, “and he’ll go to his bed this very minute and when he goes you’ll then come in.”

We entered, myself and the other lad. That was the place. A table was set up there and there was plenty of whisky. We started on the feast, oh Heavens, and I have never been so happy as that. And we were a good while there. The big lassie came down then and she had another bottle.

“When you finish that one,” she said, “you can start on this on and let that lot be along with you.”

I and the big lassie were very happy together and, Oh God, we were both together and there was plenty of drink. I almost didn’t catch the steamer, the both of us, the next day and Oh, Mary! I wrote to her for a long, long time and when I left the next day I got a bottle of whisky from her:

“I’ll see you when you get back.”

“How,” I asked, “will I see you?”

“You have to,” I said, “go a piece a bit forward out,” she said, “and try,” I said, “to get it from the start. Try so that you make it home first,” she said, “And we’ll try and meet up with you.”

It was not, dear, but when we returned to the gamekeeper’s house, and he was waiting for us all the time.

“You’ve arrived,” he said.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” I said, “and, indeed, oh, God I’m afraid to say.”

“It was day by now. How will we get to Lochmaddy before the steamer gets in and the steamer is going to be at such and such at time?”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

The man had a pony and a cart and he quickly got it ready.

He asked us if we would take some food but we refused. He quickly got it ready and the three of us got in. And the horse got it badly until we were just about reached Lochmaddy. We only had about a mile to go.

“You’re all right,” he said. “You’re early enough.”

“Indeed, yes,” I said, “and this bottle is here and, by the books, not one drop of it hither or thither will not go down your gullet, oh God, for you deserve it.”

The bottle was opened and gamekeeper got his fill.

“You’ve another bottle, Murdo, there,” I said, “and there rest is in that bottle and we’ll put a cork in it and the gamekeeper can keep it.”

“Oh, then,” said Murdo, “we’ll not a drink a drop of it, “but here’s the thing we’ll do,” he said, “the gamekeeper will get this full bottle and whatever’s left in the other bottle will do for us until we reach Inverness.”

That was done: the gamekeeper got the full bottle and he went back and we arrived early enough at the quay. When we got the steamer we slept and it was only with difficulty that they managed to wake us when we reached Kyleakin to get the train. We then arrived in Inverness. We wrote to the lassies, Oh, for sure, for sure, a letter each week and we bought presents for them as well and they would meet us on the road. And we returned to the gamekeeper’s house along with them until night fell and we stayed with them until the next day until Angus came home. Angus had arrived home and he had a big bottle that he got from her, a huge, big bottle.

I used to leave the house, myself and the lad after coming home especially when there would be a springtide and that would occur either early or late. We used to leave by way of the tide during the evening. We used to be stay with them all night and came back by way of the tide during the morning – and we spent many, many years at that. My father and mother found about it and they knew fine well we were in such and such a damnable place or another every second week when there was a neeptide and the tides occurred around midday and midnight. Around that time the tide was so unsuitable, either a tide at midday or one at midnight. But when a springtide occurred were we always took note of it every trip. Not only that, when we reached Carninish we crossed over the mountain and we put to three or four miles behind us. But we spent a great deal of time at this trade.

We used to walk, we walked this every trip, every step of the way.

We were there one day, and we were not on parade at all. The parade has passed us by and we went up to the canteen and the canteen was a bit of a way from our camp. We went up in any case and we were drinking beer there. But two tinker women came into the canteen and they started drinking. They kept on drinking and they were drinking beer. Nobody was taking any heed of them. One of them had an infant on her back but the other one did not have an infant at all. She had a pail in any case, one of them had this and they filled the pail full of beer. They were drinking. They were busily conversing with one another. But whatever happened between them, they started to row. They kept on scolding and rowing inside the canteen. Well, one of the men in the canteen threw them out of the place, out of the canteen.

And if you wish to have a row, then have it out on the knoll.

Well, he chucked them out of the place and they were no more than ten yards from the canteen door when they started fighting. Unfortunately, the woman who had the pail rather than the one who had the infant went round her, the one with the pail, round the woman who had the infant and she cracked the pail right on top of the other woman’s head and she dropped her. Out we went, everyone of us, after them so that we could see the sport. But the woman who had the child got up in any case and she went for the other woman and the woman with the infant was trying to look after the infant as best she could. She was getting by far the worst of it but at the same time she was opening her plaid and tying her infant to her back. And she opened it and she jumped on the other woman. She made a large lump on the thing she had around the infant and she yanked it from her. The woman fought tooth and nail. I have never seen nor have I seen yet and I will never see such a terrible fight. The woman carrying the infant went for the other woman and she was getting the better of the other one on every blow, and eventually you couldn’t see their faces at all. They were covered with blood and then the guard came round at that time. The guard had been sent for and they were put outside the other side of the rail completely. But what good did that do! When they were put out the rout was over, and they left on good terms together to the wood. The next day a policeman came round asking about the business of the tinker women. Not one man admitted anything about it, that they had seen anything wrong or that they had even seen any tinker women. But we saw the tinker woman carrying the infant after a little while. Her face was full of scratches and other injuries. But the other woman never appeared at all during that season and it appears likely to me that the other one was far, far worse off than the woman with the infant. That happened at the Muir of Ord. I then parted from the story.

I was on another trip in the Militia and it was quite late in the summer when this trip was. We needed to have a light. Well, there were only North Uist men in the tent all together except myself and this other lad. We were coming out of the canteen on this particular night and there was one old Harrisman along with us and we really didn’t want this old man in our company. He was far too religious for us and so either way we didn’t like him. But anyway this night there was a drove of us together and what did this poor man do but read, he was working on books, praying and reading the Bible. He was at the other end of the tent and he had a candle on a box or something and he was reading the Bible fervently. One of the men in our drove said:

“That bugger does nothing but work. There is no point in any of us going in until he stops, but I’ll let that creature know when he should stop soon. And he jumped towards the tent opening and there were mallets with which we would strike the tent pegs down, and he grabbed a mallet and he came in to where we were.

“Where now,” he said, “is his head? It is indeed,” he said, “and I’ll make a good aim for him.”

He left and he made a good aim at the poor old man’s head and he got a hit. But if he did he knocked him out. The candle went out with the explosion that the old man made. The candle went out. Everyone of us scarpered and we made for the end of the line and each man made for himself here and there. We were not hanging around together at all. We came towards the tent in any case and the old man was leaving by then when we came towards the tent.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, just that no one knows if he is dead or alive. He was hit, whatever hit him it could have been kick and he would have been totally knocked out.”

He was taken to hospital and he eventually came round but when he returned to our tent he didn’t stay at all.

The old man left and he never ever returned to our tent and when he left everyone of us was very happy that the old man had left. He wouldn’t take it easy unless he was worshipping or arguing about religion or the new faith that had come in, he had no thought at all but for the old Free Church and that was the church which he believed in and that is when my story about him comes to an end.

I was on another trip in the Militia and we left on this particular day on an exercise that they call skirmishing in preparation for fighting and there was a group here and there leaving for the exercise. And who was taking charge of the tent where I was but the Sergeant-Major. This particular year the Sergeant-Major was a Lewisman. He was wounded in the arm and he reached the rank of Sergeant-Major in our regiment. We went a good out during the fighting. In that year we were in Fort George and:

“Well, men,” he said, “I don’t expect that we’ll go any further. Let them go,” he said, “we’ll be all right. Does any one of you have a pipe in this company.”

No one had a pipe but myself.

“I have a pipe,” I said.

“Do you have tobacco?” he asked.

“Yes, that as well,” I said.

“Well, fill it up then and you’ll give me a smoke.”

I filled the pipe and after I lit it I then gave him a smoke.

“Well, now, does anyone tell any stories that we have here?” he asked.

No one said a word.

“Yes,” said a lad from North Uist, “the man who gave you the pipe,” he said, “he has a Christendom of stories.”

“Oh, very good,” he said, “come over here nearer me and tell me a nice wee story,” he asked.

I think it was the two colonels that I recited which I told to the honorable gentleman as it was. I need not to tell it just now. I started to tell the story and the Sergeant-Major enjoyed it terribly well and it he enjoyed it only too well and he looked at the time and Oh, Heavens, he should’ve been on parade. We were on parade at that time and we should’ve been doing our fall in for the parade when he looked at the watch.

“Oh, well,” he said, “they’ll not know what’s keeping us back and you’ll have to stop and I’ll get the rest of it from you tonight for I’m enjoying it terribly well and I must get to hear the end part from you.”

“You’ll get that,” I said, “but where will I tell it to you?”

“In my own tent,” he said, “and you’ll come to the tent and such and such a time and I’ll be there before you. I’ll have taken my supper by then,” he said. “We’ll be all right.”

“But,” I asked, “if I have to be on duty then how’s that going to happen?”

“No,” he said, “you’ll not be on duty at all. If you are down for that,” he explained, “I’ll see that you’ll be excused.”

That’s what happened.

“But you’ll be there at this time,” he said, “and if there is any duty on then come early and I’ll see that you’ll be excused from duty. There was no duty and so I reached the Sergeant-Major’t tent and when I did I knocked.

“Come in,” he said

I entered:

“Oh,” he said, “you’ve just arrived. I was thinking you’d be here before me but you were not on duty.”

“No.”

“Oh, even if you were, you wouldn’t have been,” he said. “Sit down in that chair now,” he said, “and take a smoke and tell me the rest of the story.”

I sat down and he put down his hand by his side and he took out a big bottle of whisky.

“Will you take a dram?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I’ll take a dram.”

“You’ll be better off for it as well, before you start telling your story,” he said.

But I got a good dram from him and I started telling the story, the very same story that he had very much enjoyed. But it was now one o’clock in the morning. The story was almost finished.

“How,” he asked, “long have you got to go?”

“Oh, not far at all,” I said.

“Then,” he said, “we’ll have another dram.”

Another dram was poured and it was not a small one at all but a large one.

And I continued telling the story until it was finished.

“That’s it finished,” I said.

“Have you got any more?”

“Lots,” I said.

“Oh, then,” he said, “you’ll come tomorrow night at the same time as you came tonight and I’m sure you’d be better off with another dram before you go to sleep.”

“Well, there’s a good chance,” I said, “that I’ll be absent tonight.”

“Ooh,” he said, “you’ll not be absent at all. You’ll certainly not be. If that happens you’ll come early tomorrow morning and I’ll put you right.”

But in any case he took a dram and he struck the cork back in the bottle and he offered it to me. Well, I was very well off as there was a good bit left in the bottle. When I got back home the Orderly Sergeant was there and both he and I got on very well.

“Where were you since nightfall?” he asked.

“I was,” I said, “in the company of the Sergeant-Major.”

“Huh, indeed, you were not,” he said. “You were in the company of a rascally woman in some place or another.”

“Well, no I wasn’t,” I replied, “but in the company of the Sergeant-Major telling him stories.”

“Aye! Well, then, you’ve been marked down absent here,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, “the man who kept me back for so long from coming home he’ll get me out of it just as cleanly as you would yourself.”

But he was only doing the same sort of work.

“Oh,” he said, “you’re very lucky,” he said, “I know fine well where you were,” he said, “and you’re not marked absent at all. But if you had been anyone else then there’s a good chance that you would have been marked absent.”

“But you’ll not put the heat on me,” I said, “I’ve to go there tomorrow night as well and I’ll be longer tomorrow night than I was tonight. I finished the story tonight but I’m sure that’ll finish the story tomorrow before I get back. But if I got a hair of the dog that will set me up for tomorrow and I don’t care whether I would take a good dram of it.”

And he got a good dram and Oh! everyone in the tent got a good dram and I had some left for myself for the next day as hair of the dog. But the next day when we got up we had to do a drill before we would get some food. We went out for parade and when we were getting passed the Sergeant-Major came round, himself and the adjutant.

“How are you today?”

“I’m only middling,” I said.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“My head is terribly sore.”

“I bet it is,” he said, “my own head is terribly sore as well but I didn’t have a hair of the dog. We took a dram too many. Have you got a drop left of what I gave you last night?”

“Oh, very little,” I said. “when I came home they were all awake and they saw the bottle and there was no way I could keep it from them so I had to share it with all of them.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ll go home and you’ll take yourself to the officers’ mess and I’ll write a note for you and you’ll give it to that man and you’ll get another bottle. And after that you’ll not go on morning drill,” he said, “as long as the stories last.”

I had never been in my grandfather’s house until then. There I had food, music and drink as long as I was in the company of this man for a whole month as long as I told stories. I told such stories to him a thing that was terrible [amount]. There was never such like in the world – he said that he had never been so happy in his life as the time he spent in my company. But I never saw this poor man every again. When that summer was passed I never saw him again or know whatever became of him. I asked after him but he had left the regiment and had retired and had gone back to Lewis. I got extra pay from him for telling the stories to him. I was well off going back home that summer. I was as well off in terms of pay just as much as what the sergeants got.

This takes us up to the time of the Boer War and we had reached Aldershot where we were stationed. We were there for a long, long time they were drilling us quite hard as well and it was during the winter and there were heavy snowfalls. They took us out in order to see who would volunteer for Africa from our regiment. Well, we were, at least the majority of us, in the Reserve. None of us had any reason to say that we wouldn’t go.

We would have to go but they – the commanders – wanted to find out who had agreed to go to Africa. The Reserve went out all together happily if only twenty-one of them stayed behind. All those who went out were accounted for as they looked at the books and that was the difference in number. It was asked then one by one of them if these men were in the Reserve.

They were.

“What’s the reason why you didn’t go out?”

They didn’t say a word. But, in any event, they were put to one side and what happened was that more went out in addition to the others that weren’t in the Reserve at all. They got clear of the drill all together, every man who had volunteered, but the few who stayed without going out the reserves and old men who were cooks and they didn’t have to work at drill at all. They were sent to drill and also the few who didn’t volunteer for the Reserve. And I’ll tell you that they got a drilling that was terrible. But in any event our own company Sergeant, company 5 in which we were, was very kind. He was called Dunbar, oh! a very nice man and myself and himself were terribly friendly. I arranged his tent for him and cleaned his clothes. The man who left at the head of the regiment said to me:

“Well,” he said, “you’ll come along with me, Angus, and where you’ll be I’ll be.”

This was all right. I was ready to go. Unfortunately, I was struck down with measles and I had to go to hospital but I had got all my clothes ready before I went to hospital; they were kakis. When I went to the hospital the Sergeant came to say his farewell and oh! I was very ill at the time. The measles had come out on me very badly.

“Well,” he said, “I’m very sorry that I’m taking my leave of you but what now can I give you to remember me by?”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t have anything to give you but at the same time if I did have something then I’d happily give it you and it may well be if I get passed this then I’ll see you yet over by.”

“Well, that’s very good of you,” he said, “that pleases me no end that you’re so sincere.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve nothing in the world here but if I was in the barracks then perhaps I could get something that I’d give you as a memento.”

He spotted a comb on the stand beside my bed.

“Do you own,” he asked, “this comb?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ll take it as a memento.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome,” I said, “and I hope that I’ll see you yet over by. Perhaps,” I said, “I’ll be over this quickly enough and that I’ll be all right for the next draft.”

And he left leaving his benedictions and he also left a five pound English note in my hand as a memento.”

“Here,” he said, “and I hope that’s not the last one I’ll give you.”

And that man parted from me and I was very, very sorry after that. But another sergeant came to join our company and that was the one man that I have ever hated so much of anyone yet in the world. And when that was passed and all the wars finished, I got home then on sick leave from Aldershot and I was six weeks at home and when the six weeks were over, I thought I’d stay another week at home so that I’d get my father’s peat to take home. I stayed another week at home and I was working at taking the peat home. But at the last load I had, the policeman came opposite me as I was passing by his house and he asked me to stop.

“When,” he asked, “are you leaving?”

“I expect,” I said, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh, aye,” he said, “very good.”

“I have received a letter for you,” he said, “that if you were at home I was to get a hold of you but I’ll say that you are away.”

“Oh, I’ll be away tomorrow.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ re a deserter.”

“Holy Mary! I’m not,” I said. “I wrote to the commander,” I said, “so that I’d get another week and I didn’t receive an answer and I thought that I was all right.”

“Oh! yes,” he said, “you’re a deserter,” he said, “but I’ll say that you’re leaving tomorrow. Are you going to be finished with the peat?”

“I have just about couple of other trips to make,” I said, “and I expect then to be finished with the peat before I leave.”

“Well, you’ll do that,” he said, “and you’ll leave tomorrow.”

I finished taking in my father’s peat and in any event I left on the steamer the next day and I reached Glasgow. I was another week in Glasgow and there were others on leave and their time would not be up until the end of the week and so I stayed another week there. Then they came and I went over to Ireland then and I got clear. I was one or two trips there before I got clear, and nothing was done to me. I then put my name down on the sick as I was poorly and I got clear and I was just all right.

At that time we had a dance school and many lads and fine lassies also would go to Mullingar’s dance school. We got out there and then we would go down to the township, and what time of year was it but harvesting the peat and a drove of us got ready so that we would go and see them harvesting the peat. On that particular day to where they were harvesting the peat it was a big square hollow that they were making. They were not suited for our type of harvesting the peat. We showed them how we would harvest the peat – they were leaving with a barrow to spread it out and the way in which we did it – they were a large Christendom of lads, we left and there was a man cutting there as busily as he could and throwing it to the second man and going from man to man as it was thrown hand over hand and they was no need for barrows and a great number of peats were cut and we were ready and in a short while cutting the peat.

A great feast was made for us there and we harvested two peat banks in a very short time. And we got on terribly well there. We were only, as it were, ourselves while we there and we were very, very happy as the people were as nice as any I had ever seen. The dance school went on for a long time for six or seven weeks. The lads and lassies got the school and we were teaching them Highland dancing. There was a young lad from Uist – he’s still alive, and he was doing this dance school – Patrick from Eochar. That’s the one who kept the dance school. He didn’t bother them, the township folk, but he taught dancing to them and everyone had to pay a crown.

We came home after that. My sister without my knowing bought me out of the army and I was getting impatient that I didn’t get notice at the time when the men were being called up that month:

“Oh, God,” I said, “it’s strange that I didn’t get notice to return to the Militia.”

“You’d never get notice as long as you live,” my sister said, “as I bought you out of the army.”

“Why did you do that,” I asked, “without my permission?”

“Because,” she said, “your father is getting weak and do you think that I will be working the land?”

“Well,” I said, “it would be no loss at this time to help us on the land. The peat needs bringing in,” I said, “and it would be a bad thing for you to lift the peats while we would be in the Militia. We’ll build the peat stack and we’ll bring it home.”

The next year a sergeant and an officer were going around enlisting and I went by their way and I enlisted again. And I was in for quite a while after that. I believe I was in for fifteen years all tolled by the time I finished. I would’ve been around thirty years of age by the time I had finished with the Militia.

Reference:

NFC 1180, pp. 301–548

Image:

Angus MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s

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[1] According to Calum Maclean, this sergeant was called Alasdair MacKay.