Wrecking and Salvaging: The Weaver of the Stack

For many years the topic of piracy (as well as the interrelated subject of smuggling) in a Scottish context has been a fruitful area of research as witnessed by such books and studies given in the bibliography below. Nevertheless, there has not been a great deal of research regarding the rather fascinating and related subject of wrecking, at least in relation to the Hebrides.

The following historical legend was taken down by Calum Maclean on 23 June 1958 from the recitation of Captain Donald Joseph MacKinnon, known as An Eòsag, a man who knew a thing or two about sailing boats. Although more renowned as a fantastic singer with a distinctive style, MacKinnon clearly knew a great deal of stories and possibly one which intrigued him more than others concerns the Weaver of the Stack.

BREABADAIR AN STAC

Well, a nist, mar a chuala mise naidheachd air Creag a’ Bhreabadair, ’s ann mar seo a bha i. ’S e breabadair, ’s e fear do Chlann Nèill a bha sa Bhreabadair, agus mar a chuala mise is coltach gun robh e car…car…fuasgailte sa cheann mar a chanas sinn, air neo, cha robh e cho inbhich ri duin’ eile sa cheann, agus bha iad a’ faighinn a leithid a thrioblaid sa chaisteal aig an àm sin agus gun tuirt na còrr dha bhràthairean gum b’ fheàrr a’ chlìreadh a-mach às a’ chaisteal air fad, gun e bhith cuir nàire sam bith air MacNèill fhèin, a chionn nuair a bhiodh iad an uair ud a’ suidh aig bòrd mòr ’s uaislean à tìr mòr còmh’ riutha, bhiodh esan a’ dèanamh a leithid a ghnothaichean mun bhòrd, agus nach robh e freagairt idir ann, agus bha air fàs suas na dhuine mòr calma agus ’s esan a Dhia bh’ ann an sin calm’ tha chance – agus ’s ann a smaoinicheadh gun cuireadh, gun cuir a Chreag a’ Bhreabadair e, agus gu toirte dhà beairt ann a shin fhèin agus e bheò-shlàin’ a dhèanamh ann a shin fhèin. Well, ’s e sin a rinneadh: chuireadh sìos a Chreag a’ Bhreabadair e, agus ’s e chiad rud a rinn e, ’s taigh a thogail dha fhèin agus dhen bheairt. Fhuair e sin a dhèanamh co-dhiù, agus nuair a dh’fhàs e eòlach air na caolais, ’s ann ’iodh a dol a-null dha na h-eileanan eile, dh’Èirisgeidh, ’s bhiodh cho fad ri GilleBhrìghde. Agus aig an àm sin, bha nighean bhrèagh’ aig fear GhilleBhrìghde, no fear Bhaghasdail, ’s e fear a bh’ ann, cha ’reid mi; agus, ’s ann a thuit mo laochan na tacsa dha na trì dh’uaireannan, agus dh’fhàs is’ i fhein gu math miadhoil air, agus ’s ann ag obair air fheadh na h-oidhcheadh a bhiodh iad the chance. Bhiodh esan a’ dol ga coimhead air fheadh na h-oidhcheadh, ’s cha bhiodh fhios aig duin’ air, agus bhiodh e tilleadh air n-ais dhan chaisteal a bh’ aige. Well, a-nist, bha feadhainn eile far tìr mòr uamhasach man, bha iad uamhasach mun nighean a bha seo cuideachd – tha chance gur h-e nighean bhrèagha bh’ innte. Agus ’s ann mar a rinn mo laochan, scheme an oidhche bha seo gun goideadh e nighean a bha seo agus rinn e sin ’s thug e dhan chaisteal i. Agus cò smaointicheadh gun robh i ann a shiud, an nighean?

Ach, co-dhiù, air rèir choltais gun do rinn iad pòsadh air choreigin an sin, agus ’s ann a bha teaghlach math aca – bha ceathrar mhac aca. Agus tha chance gun robh na mic na bu chalma na ’n athair fhèin, chionn mar a chuala mise ’s mar a chunna mi sgor neo sgeilp as am biodh e glèidheadh a’ bhàta, feuma’ gur h-iad a bha calma, nuair a thogadh iad am bàt’ às an uisge, agus a chuireadh iad ann a shin i airson na h-oidhcheadh.

Well, a-nist, aig an àm a bha sin, bhiodh, bhiodh soithichean a’ tighinn a dh’ionnsaigh na h-àltracha mòradh, agus bhiodh iad ag acrachadh ann a shin, airson an seòl sruth a chuir seachad, air neo an seòl sìde chuir seachad. Agus, air fheadh na h-oidhche bhiodh mo laochan a’ falbh leis na mic, agus bhiodh iad a’ geàrradh a’ chàpl’ aice – mar tha fhios agaibh fhèin, ’s e càpla bh’ aca nuair sin ’s e ròpa, chan e seinneachan a bh’ aca nuair sin mar a th’ aca ’n-diugh idir ach ròpa.

Bha iad a’ cumail na sgothadh as an fhalaidh, bha iad ga togail beò slàn dìreach dhan fhalaidh, agus chì sibh, mar a chanas sinn an-duigh an sgeilp ann a shiud san fhalaidh fhathast aig duine sam bith ri dhol – ri faicinn. Agus, a shiorrachd, nach iad a bha làidir!

Well, an latha bha seo, bha iad a-muigh air an Oitir Mhòr, eadar iasgach ’s brith gu dè còrr a bhiodh aca, agus thill iad, a dh’ionnsaigh an àit’ aca fhèin gu a dh’ionnsaigh an stac. Agus nuair a ràinig iad an staca, nach robh criudh bàta cogaidh romp’ ann a shin, well pàirt dhan chriudh ’s e bu chòir dhomh ràdha. Agus, air choltas armachd orra. Well, cha robh armachd sam bith aig a’ bhreabadair na aig na mic, ach thuirt e ris na mic gu rachadh esan go tìr – esan a chur gu tìr co-dhiù. Agus ’s e fear – Captain MacKenzie, shuas a Loch…Loch Dubhaich ann a shin, ’s e bha ceannard Mair…air a’ bhuidhinn a bh’ air tìr. Agus air rèir choltais gun robh e as deaghaidh na, na mnathadh aig a’ bhreabadair e fhèin, uaireigin dhan t-saoghal, agus thachair iad air a chèile air an laimrig dìreach fo thaigh a’ bhreabadair. Sheas na gillean aige ann a sheo, dìreach air an laimrig, agus brith gu dè, chan urrainn mise ag ràdh, an e ’n claidheamh a bh’ aig’ a bh’ aig’ a’…criudh’ an t-soithich, neo na mosgaidean, ach cha d’fhuair iad chance a thàine riamh air an ùsaideachadh. Thàinig ise a dh’ionnsaigh a’ [blank] shuas taigh, ’s chuir i bodha ri sùil, ’s rinn i brac do Chaptein MacKenzie air an laimrig. Bha batail ullamh. Cha robh ach dh’fhalbh iad le corp – thug iad leotha a corp aig MacCoinnich, dhan bhàta ’s chaidh am breabadair ’s a chlann dhachaigh mar a b’ àbhaist.

Agus air rèir choltais, cha robh breabadair ullamh dhan obair a bh’ aige, mar a bha, mar tha fhios agaibh, robaigeadh soithichean ’s gnothaichean dhan t-seòrsa sin, cha robh e ullamh dhan obair idir ged a thachair seo, agus cha do sguir e dheth idir, agus leis an sin, bliadhna na dhà an deaghaidh sin, chuir iad bàt’ eile a-mach a dh’ionnsaigh a’ chaisteil; agus mar a b’ àbhaist, bha esan air falbh nuair a thàinig am bàta. Ach an triop-sa, bha cruidh na bu làidire roimh air an laimrig nuair a ràing e. Agus tha chance nach dèanadh an saighead aice-se mòran cuideachadh. Agus ràinig e e cheart àit’ as do ràinig a’ chiad thriop, agus bha iad roimhe. ’S mar a b’ àbhaist cha robh armachd aig an duine thruagh sa bhàt’ ann – cha robh ach breith air. ’S cheangail iad e, e fhèin ’s e ’s na mic, ’s thug iad leotha dhan bhàt’ iad, bhàta-chogaidh. Am feasgar air tighinn agus an oidhche teannadh – tharraing iad sìos gu cladach Uibhist – go tuath, ’s chaidh iad a-staigh a Loch Sgiobhart. Agus dh’acraich iad ann a shin airson na h-oidhcheadh, agus bha esan shìos, as an...as an rùm iarrainn, e fhèin ’s na mic, air an ùrlar, air an ceangal cas as làmh. Agus chaidh am bàta gu tàmh an sin. Ach, air rèir choltais, cha robh mo laochan na thàmh. Thòisich e air ithe ròpa bh’ air, cheann eadar a chasan, agus dh’ith e an ròpa bh’ air a chasan an toiseach, ’s nuair a fhuair a chasan ma rèir, dh’ith e nuair sin an ròpa bh’ air a làmhan, agus nuair a fhuair e làmhan ma rèir, dh’fhuasgail a nuair sin na gillean aige fhein. ’S choimhead iad ma cuairt an uair sin feuch de ghabhadh deanamh, na dè ghabhadh bristeadh. Agus, dè thachair dha na gillean eile – gillean a’ bhàta ach sgealb mhòr, mhòr iarrainn, fhios agaibh, mar a chì sibh dol tarsaing na doraist, fhàgail gun a chuir air an dorast. Agus, bha, bha t-iarrann a bha seo mòr, trom uamhasach, agus thuirt e ris na gillean gu feumadh iad a bhith grad, agus aon bhuille, an dorast a chuir a-mach, air neo gun robh iad deiseil air fad. Dh’fhalbh clann m’ eudallach ’s thog iad an t-iarrann, agus ri aon bhuille, chuir iad a-mach an dorast, agus cha robh fuireach ann ach dìreach far na cliathaich, ’s shnàmh iad gu tìr. Shnàmh iad go tìr is choisich iad à Loch Sgiobart, ro Uibhist, agus ann an èirigh na grèine bha breabadair ’s a chlann air n-ais anns a’ chaisteal san stac. Ach tha, as deaghaidh sin, air rèir mar a chuala mise, sguir a’ mhèirl’ aig a’ bhreabadair, ’s bha e math gu leòr dheth, e fhèin ’s a mhic.

THE WEAVER OF THE STACK

Well, now, I heard the story about the weaver’s stack which goes like this. He was a weaver and he was one of the MacNeils, and as I heard it he wasn’t quite right in the head as we say, or, he wasn’t quite mature and they were facing so many problems in the castle at the time and it would be best to clear the rest of the querns[?] out the castle, that he shouldn’t be able to embarrass MacNeil himself for when they were sitting around the great table with the nobles from the mainland together, he’d be doing things around the table that wasn’t at all acceptable and he grew up to be a big, strong man and by God, he was a strong man – and he then thought that he’d exile him to the weaver’s stack and that he’d be given a loom so that he could make a living for himself there. Well, that was done: he was lowered onto the weaver’s stack and the very first thing he did was to build a house for himself and his loom. He managed to do that and once he got to know the narrows around he’d travel over to the other islands such as Eriskay and he’d go far as Kilbride (South Uist). And at that time there was a bonnie lass, a daughter of the Tacksman of Kilbride or Boisdale, I believe, and my little hero fell in with her two or three times and she grew very fond of him and this happened at night whenever they got the opportunity. He’d go to see her at night-time and no-one else knew about it and then he’d return to his castle. Well, now, there were a few others from the mainland who were very fond of this lass too – it so happened she was very bonnie. And so my little hero thought up a scheme this night that he would kidnap the lass and so he did and took her to the castle. And who’d ever think that you’d be here, lass?

Apparently they were married by some method or another, and they had a big family of four sons. And it so happened that the sons were even stronger than their own father for, as I heard it, there was a gap of a shelf on which they’d tie the boat and they’d have to be very strong in order to lift the boat out of the water and to keep it there overnight. Well, now, at that time, the vessels used to make their way towards the big rocks and they would anchor there to wait for the strong currents going by or until they could wait for favourable weather. And throughout the night, my little hero left with his sons and they’d cut the cables – as you know, the cables then were made of rope as they didn’t have chains back then as they do today.

They kept the vessel in the hidden crevice[?], and so they kept themselves going just from that, and you can still see, as we say ourselves, the shelf there in the hidden crevice[?] for anyone who cares to take a look. And by Heavens, weren’t they strong! Well, this day, they were out on the Oitir Mhòr, fishing and whatever else they were up to and afterwards they were making their way home to their own place on the stack. And when they arrived at the stack, they was a crew from a warship before them, well, a part of the crew I should say. And they looked as if they were well armed. Well, neither the weaver nor his sons had any armour, but he said to them that he’d go ashore – he at least would go ashore. And there was a Captain MacKenzie from Lochduich overbuy who was in command of the crew on shore. And it appears that he had been after the weaver’s wife, at some point, and they met one another at the jetty just below the weaver’s house. And the lads stood there just at the jetty, and whatever happened I cannot say whether the crew of the vessel had swords or muskets but if they did then they never had the chance to use them. She came to towards the house and she took aim with the bow and left Captain MacKenzie for dead on the jetty. The battle was over. So they then took the corpses, including that of Captain MacKenzie and placed them in the boat and with that the weaver and his children then went home.

And apparently the weaver had not quite quit his work, such as it was, and as you know, from robbing vessels and other such things, and he had not quite finished with this sort of work although it had all happened and he never stopped and because of that, a year or two later, they sent another boat to the castle; and, as usual, he happened to be away when the boat arrived. But on this occasion, there was a far stronger crew set before him when he reached the jetty. And it so happened that an arrow from his wife wasn’t going to be of much help. And he arrived at the very place as had the first time round and they were before him. And as usual this poor man in the boat wasn’t armed – they only had to catch him. And so they tied him and his sons up and they stowed them away in the warship. It was evening and night was drawing near – they made their way northwards to the shores of Uist and they went in at Loch Skipport. And they weighed anchor for the night, and he and his sons were down below in the iron-clad brig shackled to the floor by their legs and hands. And the boat was at rest there but, apparently my little hero wasn’t himself at rest. He began to chew the rope between his legs and then he began to chew on the first rope and he got his leg free, and then he chewed through the rope on his hands and got them free, and then he let his sons free. And then they all looked around to see what could be done or what could be broken. And look what happened to the other lads – the crew but they had had left the huge iron bolt, you know, that you see going across the door, from it. And this piece of iron was very heavy, and they said to him that if they struck the door with one strike at great force then they could get out or else they’d be done for. The lads lifted up the iron and with one great strike they broke down the door and they jumped over the side of the deck and swam ashore. They got ashore and walked from Loch Skipport through Uist until at sunrise the Weaver and his sons arrived back home at the castle on the stack. But after that, as I heard, the Weaver ceased plundering and he and his sons were fairly well off.

Another good source of local historal tales and legends was, of course, The Coddie (or The Coddy), who was extensively recorded by both Calum Maclean and John Lorne Campbell. The following account is exceprted from his book entitled Tales from Barra Told by the Coddie:

The weaver of the castle

The Weaver was banished from Barra to the Stack islands. He took with him a small boat and an ancient cas chrom and other implements for cultivating the island. The first thing he did was to go across to Eriskay and get hold of a fair pony, or làir bhàn as it was called. He then started to build the castle, with stones collected from the shore at the foot of the cliff. He then started to carry the stones by every means he could use, including his back, up the cliff. And to this day you can see where be tipped the pack of stones with the white pony. It took him a long time carrying the stones and building the castle, living on fishing and fowling and what he could produce from the island. And when that failed, he went ashore and helped himself –raiding was common enough in those days.

Now it came to the end of the tether – the castle was finished and the Weaver decided to take a wife to himself. This was in the month of July, when it was the custom in those days of the crofters in South Uist to go to the hills, taking with them the various kinds of cattle, from the milking cows to the small calves. During this period most of the butter and cheese was made for the winter use. The wives and daughters who acted as dairymaids followed them to the shielings, and when the Weaver had a conference to himself where to look for a wife, he decided to go to the nearest shieling to him – which was Loch Eynort, South Uist. At sunrise, maybe before, the Weaver left the Stack Islands, and was at the shieling among a gay crowd of good-looking ladies, with their wooden buckets, getting ready to start the milking. The Weaver made a quick decision for a choice and without much debating he flung this young lady on his shoulders and made a bee-line for the boat, which carried them both safely to the castle.

We now leave the Weaver in the castle with his wife, whom he trained to be equal to himself in raiding. She used to go fishing and raiding with him. In those days it was all cable and hawsers that were used instead of chains, and the Weaver and his wife used to cut the hawsers and let the ships drift to the shore, and themselves getting the benefit of the wreckage. This was the routine until the boys [were born and] grew up one by one and helped him with the piracy, which was now getting to a dangerous point.

Now an order was passed to destroy the Weaver, or apprehend him. One day the Weaver was fishing with his three sons from the castle. The mother was at home with her youngest boy. They both could see the boat fishing. Later on in the day she saw a sailing ship off the Island of Gigha. The ship was a cutter, manned by oarsmen. At first she thought they were making for the castle and she got ready to go to the top of the cliff where there was always a cairn of stones ready for anybody attempting to climb the cliff.

Unfortunately they made for the boat that was fishing. As soon the Weaver picked up the cutter he made a bee-line for Eriskay. The Weaver and the boys pulled well and hard to make for a point land on Eriskay. If they could manage to land there he could hide safety. He did manage to land, but the cutter was there immediately. The commander landed without delay and with his sword slew the Weaver and his three sons, and ordered that the blood of the Weaver should remain on the sword to dry, as proof that was the sword with which he killed the Weaver. To this day that landing-place is called ‘The Cove of Disaster’ (Sloc na Creiche).

The news circulated from the Island that the Weaver and his three sons were killed on the Island of Eriskay by the commander of the ship. Little did the mother know of the sad event at the time, though she did see the cutter passing out. The next stage was the funeral of the Weaver and the sons. When all was completed, her father went to the castle to take his daughter home and the little grandson. That day and since, the castle has not been occupied. It stands on an island, commands a magnificent view of the Minch, Barra, South Uist and Eriskay.

The life story of the little weaver

His grandfather, with whom the boy was living, dearly loved the boy, and his activity at an early age much interested the old man. At early age of twelve he used to be wonderful in attending with his grandfather on the croft, about the sheep, cattle and horses. When he grew to the age of fourteen he often wondered why his mother used to cry every day. He became so interested that he inisisted on his mother telling him the reason why. His poor mother told him the story about the sad end of his father and three brothers. Pausing for a bit, and taking a long and deep breath, he said, ‘I am going to sea, and I shall never stop until I meet the man who killed my father and my three brothers.’ His mother at this stage broke down worse than ever.

However, the time was moving along and John was daily making up his mind to go. One day he decided to have a meeting with his mother and grandfather, and told them he was going. This was a very sad parting.

In those days there were no conveyances. John had to walk all the way from mid-Uist to Lochmaddy, over two fords, The only connection to the southern isles was a ferrybaot from Lochmaddy to Dunvegan. However, he assisted the boatman, and in return the ferryman was very kind to him and give him his food and passage charge free. The passage across to Dunvegan was quite good and, landing there, he was must interested in the number of trees he saw, whereas there were none in the land he left behind him.

John stayed with a crofter, working in the croft, and the crofter assisting him a lot as to the right road to Kyle. On his departure he charged him nothing and give him a little money of the very small amount he had himself.

John was moving across Skye. Until one day he landed in Kyle and got the ferry across to the mainland. John stayed a week in Kyle, working with an old carpenter who was once upon a time a ship’s carpenter. John MacNeil overstayed his time, listening to the carpenter’s stories. John was keen to find out from the carpenter where was Greenock, as it was at Greenock he intended to get a ship. The carpenter told John he did sail several times from Greenock,and encouraged him by saying he would have no difficulty in getting a ship from there. From the time John left Dunvegan till he arrived at Greenock he covered a full year, walking and working, just as he found convenient. However, the day he arrived at Greenock he was thrilled with the sight of the ships, with their high masts, yards, sails, et cetera. He walked straight down to the harbour and nobody even spoke to him. Having saved a few shillings, he was able to take a night’s lodging. Next day he got up early and went down to the harbour. He was not long there when the captain came on deck. Having seen John MacNeil there yesterday, he hailed in English, ‘Do you want to go to sea?’

John could not speak but very little English, and did not reply. Immediately then the captain spoke in Gaelic and John replied immediately, ‘Yes, I want to go to sea.’

‘Come on board,’ the captain replied.

The captain was a very good Gaelic speaker, and into the bargain a native of Arran. He asked John what part did he come from and he replied that his father came from the Island of Barra but that he was born on the Stack Islands. The captain then asked his name. He replied: ‘My name is John MacNeil.’ Then both MacNeils shook hands and ever since that they were the best of friends.

This voyage was to be from Scotland to Vancouver Island, round Cape Horn – quite a long voyage in the sailing-ships of those days. The ship was taken to the Tail of the Bank and the cargo was sugar. She anchored on the Tail of the Bank and the boys got ready to go aloft to bend the sail and get ready for sailing, whenever everything was ready.

John was the youngest on board. Never mind, the material was in him and he was not long picking up. The captain patted him on the shoulder when he came down on deck and told him to take care of himself. ‘One day you shall be master of a ship yourself.’

At this stage it took them a few days to get ready. When all was in order, with wind and weather favourable, the order came to stand by and heave the anchor. This was, and used to be, a great time in the old sailing ship, heaving the anchor: no definite time where or when they would hear again the order ‘Let go the anchor?’

*           *           *

As time was getting on, the captain was getting fonder of MacNeil. He used to watch him with pride and admiration – how very handsomely he would walk the plank, or in other words, walk the decks. Watching him daily he could see how handsomely and skillfully he could run up the shrouds. Before MacNeil was very long in the ship, the captain used to send him up the rigging right to the royals, where he would stand on the yard and put his hand on the the top mast and wave to them all on deck.

The whole voyage out Captain and John MacNeil became great friends, so much that latterly the captain took in hand to teach him the alphabet. Not a long period passed before John could read and write. The captain’s ambition was to teach John all the schooling he could. As for the seamanship part of it, John had it all on his finger-ends already. When the ship returned on this voyage the captain sent him to school and left him behind the next one. On the ship’s return, John sat the exam and passed straight out. He was pleased to be sailing the next voyage as second mate along with his good friend Captain MacNeil. John very much enjoyed his first job as an officer, and I could vouch with safety that nothing was left undone. A few voyages after that John sat another examination and got First Officer’s. One day the captain said: ‘Now be getting ready, John. I shall soon be retiring, and you shall be taking over full command. But I am not going to take this step until we both agree that all is in order.’ The day, alas, arrived and Captain John took over command of the ship and the faithful friends went out and sailed together for the last time. After the voyage was completed the captain and John parted. The good captain went on his knees and kissed John’s hands and wished every good wish in his new career – that is how two most dutiful friends and good sailors parted.

*           *           *

Now that is the little Weaver in full command of a full-rigged ship after completing his time. Captain MacNeil was now sailing in me same company for several years but did not seem to meet or bear any news of the man who killed his father and three brothers. Coming home on this voyage he wondered a lot if ever he was going to meet him.

On arriving in London he went to a club. There he found a lot of old veterans telling stories and drinking whisky. It suddenly grasped on him that among this crowd he might meet the man who he was rally looking for – the man who so brutally killed his father and three brothers.

Suddenly one veteran stood up and told the story of how be destroyed a very destructive raider and his three sons on one of the western islands off the west coast of Scotland. One could imagine the thrill Captain John got when the sad story was renewed to him.

The veteran got a lot of cheering. Captain MacNeil went over to him and specially thanked him for his great bravery. In turn the old man cordially thanked him, and invited him to tea next evening at 5 p.m. and told him that the bloodstains were still on the sword with which he slew the raider and his three sons. John left the club and returned to his ship and trying to decide how he would destroy the commander without the use of arms. So he finally decided that with one good blow of his fist he would do the job.

The appointed time arrived. Captain John arrived. The veteran answered the bell and both entered the house. Plenty of food and drink was prepared. Captain MacNeil said he would not eat drink until he would see the sword with which he destroyed the dangerous man in the Western Isles of Scotland. The old man immediately invited him to his parlour. He opened the cupboard and took out the sword, and bloodstains were still on it as he described. Captain John gave him time to return the sword, at same time he decided not to kill him with the sword with which his father and three brothers had been slain. As the old man was stretching himself, Captain John struck him right in the ear and the old man never breathed another.

This put an end to Captain John’s ambition. Now there nothing for it but to face the return journey home to Uist. Off he set and left the ship and cargo there. The return journey did not take him so long and one day he found himself landing in Lochmaddy. It happened to be a fine summer day when he arrived home. Sitting outside the door was an old lady who he took to be his mother – and he was right. When she saw the boy dressed in blue approaching the house she rose to meet him and when she came within speaking range she asked him: ‘Are you a sailor? Or did you ever meet my boy?’ At this stage John jumped to and kissed his mother, who was speechless for a time.

Captain John stayed with his mother in Uist for over two years – until times calmed down; then sailed out of Liverpool, where his descendants still flourish.

[There is a long and circumstantial version of this story in the papers of the late Fr. Allan McDonald of Eriskay. It was probably taken down in 1893. The name of the reciter is not given and the story is told in Fr. Allan’s own words.

In this version the Weaver is said to have come from the mainland and to have acquired his nickname from having married a weaveress from Kildonan in South Uist. It describes how he took the white mare to Stack to carry the stones to build the ‘castle’ and how the mare fell dead from exhaustion with the last load, the contents of the panniers remaining as two cairns, as can still be seen. In this version the Weaver had three sons, and the only stranger who ever visited the castle was the midwife who was brought to deliver them. In consequence of the Weaver’s depredtions the king sent a boat to capture him. He and his two eldest sons were caught by a ruse and put to death.

When the youngest son, John, grew up, he resolved to avenge his father. He made his way to Dunvegan via Lochmaddy, and there learnt that the man who had killed his father was captain of a ship sailing between Dunvegan and Tobermory. He waited until this ship entered Dunvegan harbour, boarded it, found the captain in possession of the bloodstained sword with which the deed had been done, and killed him.

At this point the story takes a fantastic turn and becomes mixed up with events which belong purely to the folklore of the old Gaelic stories. John took a job with an inn-keeper, was told to guard the garden against deer, aimed his gun one night at a deer which turned into a woman, who told him she had been be-spelled by the inn-keeper. An assignation was made, but three times frustrated by a sleeping-apple which John was persuaded to eat when smitten by thirst. At the last encounter the lady left John a ring and a knotted handkerchief, and wrote with her fingernail on the stock of his gun that her name was on the ring and that whenever he unloosed a knot in the handkerchief he could get a wish.

After waking, John set out in search of her, and eventually learnt she was in the Kingdom of the Great World (Rìoghachd an Domhain Mhóir of folk-tales). He arranged to get carried there in an oxskin by a griffin. He escaped from the griffin’s net by unloosing a knot in the handkerchief, and, learning there was to be a celebration at the palace that night, attended it, was recognised by the lady (who was the King’s daughter) through the ring, married her and lived splendidly ever after.

There is an inferior version of this second part of the story printed in More West Highland Tales, p. 394, the annotator of which has been handikapped by ignorance of Uist traditions, dialect and topography. This was taken down from Patrick Smith of South Boisdale in 1859. It is difficult, indeed, to believe that Patrick Smith, who was a famous tradition bearer, did not really know this story in full.

As regards the main part of the tale, it is very probably founded on fact.

The Stack Island, which I visited with the Rev. John MacCormick in 1951, is shaped like the figure 8. The isthmus which joins the two halves is very narrow and on the south side is faced by a cliff up which there is only one path, easily defended. There is good grazing on the island. At the top of this path are the two small cairns said in the story to be the last load of the white mare. On top of the Stack, commanding a magnificent view north and south up and down the Minch, and over Barra Sound out to the Atlantic, are the ruins of a small stronghold and of a small house wall. The ‘castle’ is made of very strongly mortared stone and its appearance suggests that it was destroyed by gunpowder.

Ships used to anchor in Barra Sound in the lee of the small islands of Hellisey and Gigha, and it was these of which the cables were cut by the Weaver and his sons rowing out under cover of darkness. When the ships were driven ashore, they would be plundered.

That this kind of thing did occur in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries is proved by various references in the register of the Privy Council of Scotland. In 1611 the Barramen were in trouble over the pirating of a ship, laden with Bordeaux wines, belonging to one Abell Dynes. In 1636 there was similar trouble over an English ship, the Susanna, which had been bound for Limerick with a cargo of wines, fruit, coin, etc. Gales had driven her out of her course into the waters of an island (not named). She had lost mast and small boat, so she signalled to the islanders who came out to her armed to the teeth. They agreed to tow the Susanna into safe harbour in consideration of a butt of ‘seck’ (?sack) and a barrel of raisins; but it was alleged that, after they had cut the anchor cable and brought her into harbour, Clanranald and about three hundred others took casks and barrels down to the shore and daily drew of the cargo of wine, and took all else besides, robbing the crew even of their clothes, and that then they made some ship’s lad sign a document to say that he was owner of the cargo which he thereby sold at a certain price (which amount he did not in any case receive), and under threat of handing the whole company over to the ‘savages that dwells in the mayne,’ the captain was forced to sell for £8 the barque worth £150 sterling.

So that the activities of the Weaver and his sons, his death and the revenge exacted by his youngest son, are perfectly probable. The folkloric elements are likely to have been tacked on to the story of young John by later storytellers in order to entertain their audiences. They are found in quite a number of tales.]

As the above indicates, that in addition to oral accounts there are a number of historical documents that mentions wrecking and piratical activites taking place in the Southern Outer Hebrides. In contrast to wrecking or salvaging, piracy did and continues to have many romantic connotations as anyone familiar with Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel Treasure Island knows and there are quite a few Scottish pirates who became world famous, with perhaps Captain Kidd being the most notorious of them all. Nevertheless, the Hebrides also had a fair number of unsavoury characters who saw nothing wrong in taking raiding and stealing from ships or aother vessles that crossed the Minch. Of Hebridean pirates, the most famous is probably Ruairidh Òg or Ruairidh an Tartair, chief of the MacNeils of Barra, who was active at the end of the sixteenth century. The MacNeil chief was cunning and frecious and even raided as far as the west coast of Ireland and also ranged into the broad Atlantic. Spanish and French treasure galleons seemed to have been a favourite target as well as English ships. In short the MacNeil chief became a thorn in the side of the authorities who were determined to put a stop to his activities and he was repeatedly ‘put to the horn’. The remoteness of Kisimul Castle, his strongold that gives Castlebay its name, was such that he could flout goverment directives with near impunity. Pressurised by Queen Elizabeth I, King James VI was forced into action and through subterfuge with the connivance of MacKenzie of Kintail the MacNeil was eventurally captured. Far from being totally repentent, when the MacNeil chief was brought into the king’s presence his charm and conviviality brought him his freedom. Although his estates made forfeit no one seems to have carried through the action. Other Hebridean pirates of note were Neil MacLeod of Bresary, Isle of Lewis, and also Ailean nan Sop, both of whom where active in the early seventeenth and early sixteenth centuries respectively. Although wrecking is no longer practiced in Scotland as it once was there was certainly an air of salvaging going on when the SS Politician famously struck the rocks near Eriskay, within clear sight of the Weaver’s Stack, in 1941. Bad weather and lack of an expertese of navigating through unfamiliar waters―two factors favoured by wreckers or salvagers―both combined to offer what islanders saw as a God-given gift that eventually gave rise to Compton Mackenzie’s wonderfully comedic novel Whisky Galore! and, of course, the Ealing comedy classic of the same name.

References:

Bella Bathurst, The Wreckers: A Story of Killings Seas, False Lights and Plundered Ships (London: HarperCollins, 2006)

James D. G. Davidson, Scots and the Sea: A Nation’s Lifeblood (Edinburgh: Mainstream Publishing, 2003) 
J. F. Campbell, More West Highland Tales, vol. 1, ed. John G. MacKay, W. J. Watson & H. J. Rose (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1994), pp. 394–409

David Ditchburn, ‘Piracy and War at Sea in Late Medieval Scotland’, in T. C. Smout (ed.), Scotland and the Sea (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1992), pp. 35–53

Eric J. Graham, Seawolves: Pirates and the Scots (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2007)

Jim Hewitson, Skull and Saltire: Stories of Scottish Piracy, Ancient and Modern (Edinburgh: Black and White Publishing, 2005)

Captain Donald Joseph MacKinnon, ‘Breabadair an Stac’, CIM I.I.23: pp. 1766–71; SA1958/31/B3

John MacPherson, Tales from Barra Told by the Coddie, ed. John Lorne Campbell (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1992), pp. 59–66

Steve Murdoch, The Terror of the Seas?: Scottish Maritime Warfare, 1513–1713 (Leidin: Brill, 2010)

Richard Platt, Smuggling in the British Isles: A History (Stroud: History Press, new. ed., 2011)

Gavin D. Smith, The Scottish Smuggler (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2003)

Image:

Captain Donald Joseph MacKinnon, known as An Eòsag

Weaver’s Stack / Stac a’ Bhreabadair, Eriskay

Reminscenses of ‘The Coddie’: John MacPherson of Northbay, Barra

In his book of 1967, focusing yet again upon the Western Isles, Alasdair Alpin MacGregor (1899–1970) devotes two chapters to the “Uncrowned King of Barra.” These are vignettes collected by the author over many visits and over several years when on various trips to the Isle of Barra. The following vignettes and anecdotes recited by ‘The Coddie’, and noted down by the author, reflect the storyteller’s art of which he had in great abundance and also his personality shines through. It does little to dispel the fact that ‘The Coddie’ when the mood would take him could hold on to any audience in the palm of his hand:

NEVER THROUGHOUT the length and breadth of the Hebrides was there anybody more widely known than was the Coddie. For everyone who could distinguish him as John MacPherson (the name one was obliged to use when referring to him officially), hundreds recognised him only by his nickname. Indeed, his baptismal name would have conveyed nothing to most people. As the Coddie, however, or simply as Coddie, he was renowned far beyond the confines even of Scotland. All his days, except for the few he spent each year somewhere or other on the Scottish mainland, were lived at Northbay, in the Isle of Barra.

Of his nickname the Coddie was proud. He once told me how he came by it. “I got that title in school when, one day―I remember the day well―I was seen sitting forlorn, with my mouth gaping like a cod-fish. A lot of us received by-names the day I got mine; and every one of them has stuck. I soon recognised the aptness of my own, and that, if ever I went into business, it would stand me in good stead. And, indeed, it has! You can see that for yourself!”

It was the Coddie’s appreciation of this, quite early in life, that gave him his unbounded self-confidence, his imperturbable self-assurance. He sometimes confided to the more intimate of his friends just where and how he acquired these qualities. The historic spot―assuredly a historic one in the Coddie’s crowded life―lies by a burn bisecting the road between Northbay and Castlebay, rather than between Castlebay and Northbay, as might seem the more usual. The Coddie was travelling on foot from Northbay to Castlebay the day he made the first serious resolution of his life. “Says I to myself, ‘Coddie, you can sell fish as good as anyone. There’s no reason whatever why you should be shy about it’. So I went on my way to Castlebay on my bare feet with my fish, feeling that I was as good as any body else on the island, and a bittie better than many a one I knew. I never felt awkward with my fish-basket after that, nor about anything else for that matter. Nowadays, when I go to Castlebay, it’s not on my bare feet, but in my cash―in my two cars. And, when I come to the historic burn, I says to myself, ‘Coddie, do you mind the day you sat there with your fish, awful worried, wondering if anybody in Castlebay would be wanting to buy them? Well, Coddie, you’ve never looked back since that day. You’ve gone from strength to strength, Coddie; and now you’re crossing the burn on rubber cushions with the best o’ them.’”

*           *           *

It was indicative of the Coddie’s importance to society that nobody ever needed to memorise his telephone number. This he found very gratifying. Anyone picking up a receiver anywhere in the Hebrides, and asking the exchange for the Coddie, was put through in a gliff. To this day, several years after his death, every telephonist in the Isles, and possibly also in centres like Oban and Mallaig, Inverness and Fort William, has his number by heart―his numbers, I ought to say, since Coddie indulged in JUST one little extravagance: he had two telephone numbers. When one of these was not immediately available, the telephonist rang the other. These numbers his son, Angus, has inherited. Angus Coddie now reigns prosperously at Northbay in his father’s stead.

“Telegraphic or telephonic address the very soul of brevity!” the Coddie used to declare. “Two words―Coddie/Barra―will find me from any part of the world!”

The extent to which this interesting and unusual mortal put his nickname to capital account may be judged from the sheet of his headed notepaper lying before me. On this sheet he penned for me, shortly before his death in 1955, at the age of 79, some fragments of Hebridean lore, a field in which he was well versed. It is headed:

TIGH A’ CHODDIE

NORTHBAY

ISLE OF BARRA

The top line signifies House of the Coddie. The last word of that line is duly aspirated in accordance with Gaelic orthographical requirements to denote the genitive or possessive case.

*           *           *

Who was the Coddie? you may ask. What did he do? What office or offices did he fill? What functions did he perform? The answers to these questions necessitate a catalogue of at least a dozen of his interests and activities. Among much else a little difficult to tabulate, he was―

(1)  Merchant

(2)  Postmaster at Northbay, in his native Isle of Barra

(3)  General Storekeeper there

(4)  Member of lnverness-shire County Council

(5)  Boarding-housekeeper

(6)  Life and Soul of the northern half of his native Isle, where he reigned omnipotent and omniscient for more than fifty years

(7)  Unrivalled raconteur

(8)  Repository of ancient legends and traditions

(9)  Deplorer of the way in which the printed word and wireless had displaced the seannachie’s oral art of storytelling

(10)               Staunch upholder of the Roman Catholic Church in the more southerly of the Outer Hebrides (the remaining population being almost exclusively Protestant―Presbyterian)

(11)               Sweet Singer of traditional Gaelic Songs

(12)               Perfervid Jacobite who believed he had a special mission to acclaim the excellence of the Old and the Young Chevalier, and to foster an interest in all that pertained to them.

Let us make a baker’s dozen by recalling how resourceful he was as representative in Barra of British European Airways. With the Coddie you could have booked your flight “from Barra’s Cockle Shore to America―-or to Australia―if you like,” as he himself was swift to impress upon any who appeared to be dubious as to how important a personage he was in the sphere of civil aviation, particularly in its pioneering days under the auspices of the original Scottish Airways. His car, usually driven by his son, Angus, awaited all aircraft alighting on the sands of the famed Cockle Shore, ready to transport passengers to any corner of his native isle served by a road or even a cart-track. In response to a telephone call, and in payment of twenty good shillings, Angus will still pick you up at Castlebay, motor you past his late father’s doorstep at Northbay, and deposit you a few minutes later on the fringe of the Great Cockle Shore as the drone of the approaching plane is heard in the heavens. Angus times his transport to a nicety.

*           *           *

I mentioned the Coddie’s having been, inter alia, a boarding-housekeeper. His enterprise in this capacity seen gained favour with guests from the mainland, who, accustomed to laid-on water, hot and cold, were attracted to accommodation in the Hebrides where even a modicum of it might be guaranteed. In this connection the Coddie was, indeed, far-seeing. This brings to mind the hostility generated in my own very conservative Hebridean cousins when, some years ago, I suggested our installing a bath in the family home, situated within a couple of miles of Stornoway―a home to which I had hoped to return each summer. “Your grandfather never had a bath in his life!” said Mairi MacDonald, scornfully, before proceeding to extol our MacDonald and MacGregor lineages with a view to showing how contemporary and pre-contemporary relatives had lived to great ages without any nonsense of that kind! A bath, forsooth! What next? I could not have suggested anything less necessary, anything more effeminate.

*           *           *

The Coddie was the person every traveller in those parts realised he must meet sooner or later―the man to whom every author and journalist encountering him, if for but the matter of a few seconds, felt constrained to assign some space. No writer ever met the Coddie without making something of him. He was “copy” at all times, proof whereof is seen in the number of books and magazine articles written during the last forty years or so, containing references to him. Barra and the Coddie were as inseparable as Hamlet and the Prince of Denmark. So integral a part of his native isle did he become that one had―and, in fact, still has―difficulty in visualising it without him. By the same token one finds it hard to imagine the Coddie divorced from Barra, for so seldom did he leave it for any length of time during his eight decades of earthly existence that things seemed to be completely in abeyance there when he was absent even for a day or two.

The Coddie never had any desire to quit his native isle. He was all too satisfactorily and remuneratively engrossed there to be attracted to pastures new. “Barra is my Paradise until I attain the Heavenly One,” was his reply to the suggestion made to him more than once that he should transfer himself and his family to the mainland, where material prospects were so much greater for anyone of his shrewdness and intelligence. ‘As provider of accommodation for visitors at Northbay in his small boarding-house, the Coddie brought himself into amiable contact with all manner of travellers among the Isles. In his capacity as merchant, he dealt in every marketable commodity under the sun. “Everything from a handful o’ haddies to a ton o’ coal. Anything from a needle to a haystack,” were his own picturesque ways of describing the range of things in which he specialised. When you saw a puffer unloading coal by the jetty at Northbay, you knew that such a cargo had come all the way from some Firth of Clyde port, consigned to the Coddie. “Coal galore for Barra, to the Coddie’s orders!” as he himself might have been heard saying when the puffer’s siren announced her arrival in Northbay waters.

*           *           *

In all the Isle of Barra there existed not a pie in which the Coddie did not have a finger or two. He had an eye to the very minutest of pics, and could make his finger feel at home in any one of them. There never was a pie too small and unpromising in its beginnings to be unworthy of his detailed direction and supervision, until at length he became the whole, big pie himself. The Coddie’s performances in the field of local transport were always matters of satisfaction to him. He was the first person in Barra to avail himself of the thrilling advantages of internal combustion. When it came to the hiring of his cars, it was all the same to him whether he placed them at the disposal of those arriving at Castlebay by the mail-boat, or of those descending from the skies upon the Cockle Strand. Given a few minutes in which to turn situations over in his mind, he could arrange water transport too. Anyone desirous of crossing the Sound of Barra to Eriskay or to South Uist were wise to apply to him in the first instance. Likewise with geologists, botanists, zoologists, ornithologists, and archaeologists bent on exploring Fuday or Fiary, Gighay or Hellisay, Fuiary or Flodday, or any of the other fifty uninhabited isles and islets lying off Northbay. All persons intent upon setting foot on any of these knew how necessary it was to enlist the help of the resourceful Coddie. Otherwise, the prospect of their achieving any such objective remained slender.

“There’s on the island, too, an old Norse fort called the Dunan Ruadh,” he once remarked as we discussed Fuday, one of the more interesting of the lesser isles off the north-east of Barra. “I ferried a―What do you call you chaps who go about the country looking at old ruins and the like?”

“Archaeologists?” I asked.

“Yes! Archaeologists! Well, I ferried a famous archaeologist from Edinburgh to Fuday in 1914. He made a bee-line for the Dunan Ruadh with a small shovel; and he counted himself very fortunate, for he struck the midden of the dun; and after a whilie he came back to myself with two bone needles of which he was very proud. He remarked that he would have got more, only for the hurried orders I gave him to return quickly to the boat to catch the tide. A rowing-boat we had. No motor-boats in the Isles in those days, my boy! I was on my way to Pollachar at the time, and sailed by way of Fuday to please him. He was very keen to land there. At Pollachar he became very interested in the standing-stone yonder, a few yards from the beach. And this is what he said to myself: ‘Admiral Jellicoe,’ says he, ‘and Admiral Beatty are famous men today in the British Navy; but below this stone lies the remain [sic] of a more famous man in his day than either of them.’ That’s what he said to myself, whatever.”

“Who was he?” I enquired.

“That he didn’t tell me. But, by the way he spoke, he seemed to know that he was a great seaman of long ago. I think he knew his name too, though he didn’t divulge it to myself.”

*           *           *

When pedalling quietly past the post-office door at Northbay one autumn day some years ago, I observed the Coddie seated on a box well inside, but not so far removed as to render him unable to see whomsoever went by, and to catch any snatch of conversation in which passers-by might be engaged. Hardly anyone fared this way who hadn’t business of some kind or other to transact with the Coddie at one time or other; and no one travelled through Northbay unnoticed by this lynx-eyed islander.

“Will you be looking for myself?” he asked from his doorstep, having by this time quitted his perch to come into the daylight as would a sentry charged with seeing that no unauthorised person slipped unchallenged through Northbay. Alighting from my bicycle, I retreated but a few steps in order to satisfy his ardent curiosity, as well as to amplify my own.

“Have I seen you here before? Yes, I think I must have! Let me see now! You’ll be Alasdair Alpin MacGregor, searching the islands the way you were doing when last I saw you here at Northbay, twenty year ago. You were staying with old William MacGillivray at the time, over at Eoligarry yonder. I heard you were in the place right enough. You were seen crossing the Cockle Strand on a bicycle the other day there, going over to see Donald Campbell, the schoolmaster. And did Donald make music for you?”

I replied, in the brief moment allowed me, that Donald did.

“Man! but Donald’s the boy for the music! The Barramen have a lot of music in them, as yourself knows; but Donald, och! he’s full o’ music. Ay, full to overflowing. They tell me that, when he was teaching in Eriskay over, they never heard such fine singing. No, not even in Father Allan’s time.

“Yes,” proceeded the Coddie in a change of vein, “I see you’re eyeing the casks.”

By his doorstep stood three casks of cured herrings―three full half-casks, I should say. From their lids I saw that they had come from Fraserburgh.

“Ay, I know fine what’s in your mind,” Coddie continued.

“Twenty year ago, as yourself will remember, Castlebay was still a centre of the herring-fishing industry; and we did much curing ourselves. Och, ay! We were sending our barrelled herrings away by the ten-thousand every year, all over the world, even to the great New York. And now devil a herring gets cured in our midst. We have to import them now, just like yourself in London, even for our own consumption. The fishermen and their boats is all gone from Castlebay, and from Northbay too. But the rings is in the rocks yet, and will be there for many a day. A sad reminder of more prosperous times.”

In the Coddie’s view the decay of Castlebay as a fishing-port was due to mismanagement and―But here intervened another theme, as he cocked his ear to the heavens. I thought at first he had detected the drone of a plane about to land on the Great Cockle Shore. But it wasn’t a plane. I was thinking that I was hearing the first of the barnacles―the barnacle geese-on their way to winter with us,” he remarked. “But no! It’s a bittie early for them yet. They don’t arrive usually in these parts until October; and they will be staying among us until April or May. Then a fine day comes, and all the barnacles assemble on Fuday over. At a given signal from their commandos, up they rise in the sky in one tremendous flock, and off they go, Arctic-wards, in wedge-shaped formation, their commandos leading them. Man! but it’s a grand sight. Surely, a grand sight. Well, now, we’ll be expecting the barnacles back before long? Will yourself be with us when they come? You’ve seen them before. I know that fine. But stay a whilie longer with us in Barra this time; and maybe myself and Alasdair Alpin MacGregor will be doing a trip to Fuday when the barnacles are congregating there.”

Here the Coddie interrupted his discourse to offer me a pinch of snuff from his mull. “I know you don’t touch it [alcohol] yourself in any shape or form; and I know you don’t smoke either. But a wee grain or two of the Coddie’s snuff never did a man like yourself any harm

In October the barnacle geese come to all the uninhabited isles lying to the north and northeast of Barra―to Hellisay and Gighay, to Flodday, Fuiary, and Fuday, particularly to the last mentioned because of the richness of its pasture. “There’s splendid grazing for the barnacles on Fuday,” the Coddie added. “It carries eighty to ninety head o’ cattle all the year round; and they don’t get one straw of wintering, for so good is the grass there.”

Fuday is remarkable for the variety of its wild flowers as well as for its barnacles. The Coddie seldom missed an opportunity of reminding one of the professor of botany, in whose company he once landed on this island. As they reclined on the grass, “the professor says to myself, says he, that, ‘though I’ve been round and round the world, I’ve never seen such a variety of wild flowers in so small a space as that lying about us this day”.

At this juncture he paused to inform me in muted tones that his box wasn’t working too well. “Sometimes my box works better than at other times,” he proceeded, indicating his head as being his box. “You’ll be knowing that yourself, I’m sure. So let me think a minute What else I should be telling you.’”

It soon became apparent that his mind was still on Fuday. “Well, I’ll tell you another one about Fuday. About seventy year ago―roughly about that time, anyway―a great gale came which swept some of the sand-dunes on the island, and exposed five stone chambers, and the skeleton of a corpse in each of them. He was a herd on the island, the man who made the discovery. Using a spade, he filled in the sand, and closed the graves, the same as what they were before the storm. He told me all this, the man himself-the man who saw them in their stone-lined tombs. Seventy years ago, boy, since that happened!

This by no means exhausted all the Coddie had to say about Fuday. He was always anxious to include in any survey of this island his account of how, in the olden time, the MacNeil of Barra and the Norsemen came to blows there, and fought until the latter were vanquished―indeed, until they became extinct, as the Coddie put it with some emphasis. The heads of the vanquished were cast into the well on Fuday, which to this day is known as the Tobar nan Ceann, the Well of the Heads.

*           *           *

Fuday, according to the omniscient Coddie, has its ghost. A few years ago, while some crofters were arranging in bundles the rushes they had cut on the island, this ghost made himself known to one of them, and in so doing passed on to him a traditional secret concerning the family to which they both belonged. The person to whom the ghost communicated this secret was one of the Coddie’s schoolmates.

There are others in Barra, the Coddie assured me, who know all about this strange visitation; and among them is Miss Annie Johnstone, the folklorist and collector of Gaelic folk-music, who lives at Castlebay. To Annie, whom I have known throughout the greater part of my life, Marjory Kennedy-Fraser acknowledged much material that went into The Songs of the Hebrides.

While Fuday has its ghost, the neighbouring isle of Fuiary has its faery washerwoman, the only one of her kind to have been seen in this locality in recent years. When last she made her appearance, according to the Coddie, she was wringing somebody’s death-shroud in the burn descending to the shore from the island’s highest part.

“There now!” the Coddie observed with a degree of self-animation. “That’s a ghost and a faery washerwoman for you! Both on Iand, my boy! Both on land! You must make a note of that now. And there’s another one I could mention while we’re ashore meanwhile―the each-uisge, the dreaded water-horse. But yourself will be knowing all about him, as myself saw in one of your books. So we’ll leave the each-uisge in the loch, and proceed to sea. Let me get my box to work about a terrific creature in the sea that my father saw when fishing for lobsters on the west side of Barra. The men that was in the boat with him saw it too. It was a sea-monster; and they were all greatly troubled. They were saying their prayers all right that day, my boy!

“Well, my father―he was a young man at the time―was fishing lobsters off Borve Point, with three other men. Lo and behold! What did they see coming near the boat but a very strange thing? ‘Och,’ they said to themselves, ‘that’s nothing but a heap of herring nets drifting with the tide.’ They could tell, the way they were lying in the water, with the glass floats keeping them from sinking out of sight. So they waited to see. Maybe, they would be able to take them aboard when they got close.

“Then they saw two humps going up and down, like the Loch Ness monster. And they said to themselves, ‘We must make our own conclusions about this, and the dangerous situation we’re in, if it turns out to be a sea-monster’.

“To be sure, a sea-monster it was for certain! Not nets and bobbing boats at all. A real monster it was, of tremendous dimensions! They couldn’t wait to take his measurements in the small boat they were in; and so they rowed for the shore before he would be capsizing hem into the sea.

“There they were, rowing for dear life, muttering their prayers for Holy Mother Mary to intercede for them, afraid all the time to look up in case it would tell them how short a space of time they had on this earth before being devoured. As they got to land, they had a look; and all they could see was a bit of the monster. Down he went to the bottom while they were looking at him. And that’s the last time a sea-monster put fear and trembling on the lobster-men of Barra.”

When the Coddie had finished, I noticed that he had been through some little inward disturbance. Beads of perspiration covered his cheeks and forehead. These had been generated by his reciting all this rather too subjectively. One felt that the monster of his story, like that described by Virgil in The Aeneid, was fearful and hideous, vast and ageless.

*           *           *

“What can you tell me, Coddie, about any of the other islands out there, in the Sound of Barra, between us and South Uist?” I asked him some years ago, after we had discussed Fuday and the barnacles.

“As much as you can find time to listen to,” came the prompt reply. “I can tell you about a ghost over at Hellisay too, if you like. I got it from a schoolmate of my own. So I know it’s in every respect reliable. You were yourself in Hellisay; and I should have told you to look for the ghost when you were there. She’s a fine specimen of a lady, the ghost. Only my schoolmate ever saw her―him and an Eriskay woman long dead. But I’ll tell you about that the next time you visit the Coddie. You’ll be staying a whilie on the island yet, I’m sure. The one I’ll mention to you now was also in Hellisay. Another ghost, my boy! The Devil Himself it was! And he terrifying the people that landed there and wanted to remove a plank to make a coffin. You would be wondering what took the Devil to Hellisay when there wasn’t a living soul staying any more on the island.”

The faeries dwelling on Hellisay were yet another of the Coddie’s interests. He first came to hear of them from a man born in 1840 on that isle. “It was at the time of the Potato Famine, as Angus MacNeil would be telling.”

Hellisay, according to the Coddie, was infested with faeries in olden days. So much was this the case that the crofters then residing there had to be very careful not to offend them in any way. They therefore made a habit of placing on a particular stone a bowl of milk to propitiate them. Omission to do so, as the crofters implicitly believed, involved them in all kinds of awkward and irksome situations. They would find their livestock loose among the corn, for instance, or driven off to some corner of the island., from which it was sometimes difficult to retrieve them.

Angus MacNeil, the Coddie added, had actually witnessed a faery wedding on his native Hellisay. Standing at the gable-end of his cottage one evening, he observed a multitude of The Little People emerge in pairs from an adjacent knoll. So exquisitely attired were they that he hadn’t the slightest doubt about their being guests at a faery wedding. “And the music the faeries were playing, boy!” the Coddie added. "Angus himself told me that he never heard the likes of it all the years he remained on the late of this world, although, he said. the whole ceremony was over in the time it would take a passing whiff of wind to put a wave through the corn.”

*           *           *

The Coddie, when storytelling, liked to have in his hand the long, bamboo stick still occupying a place of prominence and privilege in his home at Northbay. Often he would interrupt his narration to fetch this magic wand, as he called it, believing that his holding it bestowed upon him clarity of mind and fluency of tongue. It mattered not whether he was delivering himself in English or in Gaelic, so long as he held in his hand this inspiring heirloom. It functioned equally well in either case, he declared. He used to tell one how eloquent it would be if ever it acquired the power of speech. In the days of the Highland Clearances it belonged to the landlord occupying Eoligarry and the lands impinging upon it, at the north end of Barra. The landlord, wheresoe’er he went, carried it as an emblem of his authority. To the Coddie, therefore, it was the emblem of past injustices. The photograph facing page 193 of my book, The Western Isles (one of the volumes I contributed to Robert Hale’s County Books Series) shows the Coddie with his magic wand, which he insisted should be photographed with him.

“Tell me something really intimate about yourself!” I said to him one day as we chatted by his doorstep. “Something you might like posterity to know about you.”

Wait a minute till I get my magic wand!” he responded. “The likes of the Coddie didn’t grow on every tree, Alasdair Alpin! You know that yourself! The likes of yourself, my boy, didn’t grow on every tree either.”

Such were the words with which he resumed conversation when, a few seconds later, he again took up a position by his doorstep with his wand, now inspired by it, as he declared, to discuss unreservedly his many unusual qualities. “I can spin a yarn or two about myself whenever my magic wand dictates,” he continued; “but I’m not fond of doing it. Anyhow, I’ve nothing in view concerning myself at the moment. But I know you’re very fond of Eoligarry; and so I must tell you a story about it before you go.” Here, then, follows that story, precisely as the Coddie related it with the aid of his magic wand:

“One time there was a village over at Kilbar, or Eoligarry, as it is today. It was the most prosperous township in all Barra. At the time of the Clearances, Colonel Gordon of Cluny, his factor, and his ground-officers made a clearance of it. After the poor crofters had gone, the ruins became an eyesore to the Colonel and his staff. So they decided to put all the stones of the old houses into the sea. There was a prophet who lived in Barra many years prior to this; and he predicted that the day would come when all the stones of the houses at Kilbar would be cast into the sea, and that years and years later they would be retrieved. At the time of the prophesying, that was a very unlikely thing to happen. He also predicted that the famous Kisimul Castle would become the home of the sea-otter and the sea-birds. For this prediction MacNeil of Barra banished him to the island of Muldoanich, supplying him solely with a creel and a spade to provide for himself. I’m sure, Alasdair Alpin, it would be a blunt spade too! That yourself can believe. To this very day, you can see a great patch on the west side of Muldoanich called the Goirtean mhic a’ Chreachadair [the Arable Patch of the Raider’s Son]. MacNeiI removed him from Muldoanich after a while, taking him ashore again because his father was MacNeil’s principal raider. MacNeil, you understand, couldn’t do without a good raider to be bringing him what he wanted. Kisimul Castle is a ruin, as yourself well knows; and it’s the home of the sea-otter and the sea-birds.

“Now, the old Board of Agriculture bought the farm and lands of Eoligarry, and divided the place into smallholdings. An energetic crofter―he would likely be about the first of the new settlers to build a proper house there―who knew nothing at all, at all, about the prophecy, started to carry the stones ashore and build a comfortable house for himself. Hence the prophecy of Mac a’ Chreachadair―the prophecy of the Raider’s Son―-came true.”

*           *           *

When settled with the Coddie round his ample peatfire at Northbay, one often had difficulty in keeping him to the matter in hand. On the flimsiest of pretexts he would turn the conversation in the direction of Bonnie Prince Charlie, or of Flora MacDonald, or of Malcolm MacNeil, the Prince’s pilot, a native of Gigha, in Argyll. It was Malcolm who brought La Doutelle into the bay at Eriskay, but a few miles from the Coddie’s own threshold, and got Charlie ashore at the Prince’s Strand.

“Let us now get on to the Prince!” was one of the Coddie’s welll-known opening gambits when his interest in the matter under discussion flagged. The Prince and his attendants, he proceeded to tell one, celebrated their landing at Eriskay with a big spread. 0n the very spot where they had their spread, the Drambuie, the famous drink of The Forty-five, was consumed for the first time on Scottish soil, while Malcolm MacNeil stood by, playing the pipes. The secret of the Drambuie, the Coddie declared, came with the Prince from France; and this secret was left in the Isle of Skye by one of his followers. According to the inexhaustible Coddie, the descendants of those to whom the secret was confided still carry on the Drambuie business in Edinburgh. The Coddie, a few years before his death, as he was proud to relate, wrote to tell them what they had not known hitherto about their historic Drambuie.

“Let me hear a little more about the Prince’s pilot, Malcolm MacNeil,” I interposed, remembering that the Coddie’s mother was a MacNeil, and that he himself bore a striking resemblance to old General MacNeil, “the second-best looking man on the battlefield of Waterloo,” as the Coddie seldom failed to add. The General, born in 1788, died in 1863. He was the last of the MacNeils of Barra to reside in the island of his ancestors. He lived in old Eoligarry House, set down amid rounded pastures at the northern end of Barra.

“Several years after the Prince landed in Eriskay,” the Coddie continued, “Malcolm MacNeil fought alongside MacNeil of Barra on the Heights of Abraham. Barra was wounded; and Malcolm stood by him for the long period of seven weeks, acting as piper and butler until he recovered. After the war was over, they both came home to Barra. Malcolm had seven sons, and decided to emigrate to Cape Breton Island. He settled down at a place called Beavers’ Cove, where his successors are today very numerous.”

If anywhere one could have learnt of Prince Charles Edward as though he had landed in the Hebrides but yesterday, it was assuredly round the Coddie’s peatfire of an evening, when he liked to lay aside the distractions of his manifold enterprises. One might have imagined, indeed, that the Prince, under cover of darkness, had knocked at the Coddie’s door the night before, seeking food and shelter, confidence and fidelity. The Coddie always spoke of Prince Charlie as though the two of them had been intimate contemporaries.

A second chapter devoted to ‘The Coddie’ emphasis his storyteller already alluded to in the previous chapter:

WE HAVE strayed a little from the Coddie, though not entirely irrelevantly. Here one should record that, even during his busiest moments, he permitted no consideration of cash and commerce to take precedence of the Jacobites’ claim to be remembered and revered. Little wonder, then, that old William MacGillivray, the last to farm Eoligarry before it was divided up into smallholdings in the nineteen-twenties, entrusted to him the solemn duty of conveying to safe custody, on the mainland of Scotland, that ancient set of bagpipes said to have been played at Culloden!

“William sent for myself when he decided to part with them,” the Coddie wrote me in response to my enquiring of him how these pipes found their way from Eoligarry to the West Highland Museum three years before the donor’s death. “‘I better send them, Coddie, to people who can look after them, though I admit that I very much will forever miss them.’”

The Coddie, acting upon William MacGillivray’s instruction, took the precious pipes across the Minch to Roy Bridge. There he handed them over to Mrs. Ryan, daughter of the late D. P. MacDonald, of Long John Whisky fame. At that time Mrs. Ryan was the sole survivor of those who had helped the late Victor Hodgson to found at Fort William, in 1926, the West Highland Museum. She had a unique knowledge of Celtic Scotland. Nobody had a greater store of Highland lore and tradition than she; and in matters of Highland history her memory was astonishing. It was seemly, therefore, that the donor should have wished that the pipes be handed over personally by her to the West Highland Museum.

On the last occasion upon which I had a ceilidh with the Coddie, I persuaded him to relate to me in detail just how it came about that he should have been instrumental in conveying the MacGillivray Pipes from Eoligarry to their new home―from the Hebrides to Lochaber. I realised, of course, that his own verbal account of the part he had played in this transaction would amplify in a picturesque manner what he already had written me.

“Well, as yourself knows,” he began, “William MacGillivray was the last of the MacGillivray boys; and he says to myself’ ‘Coddie, I am worried greatly what will happen to the pipes when myself fades away. I want you to take them to Mistress Ryan, for the West Highland Museum, the next time you’ll be going over to a county council meeting. I’m giving them to Mistress Ryan; and she will see that they get safe and sound to Fort William―to the West Highland Museum there. You’ll have to go to Glen Roy first, you understand,’ he says, ‘because Mistress Ryan lives there; and she will see that the old pipes gets proper care and attention, the way they got here, at Eoligarry, all these years.’

“And that’s the way myself was introduced into the picture. Well, the day before I next left for Inverness―that’s where the county council meets, as you know. Yourself went to school there once upon a time. So I went over to Eoligarry House. ‘There’s the pipes for you, Coddie! ’ William says. Man, you never set eyes on such a parcel. William had packed the pipes most beautiful, and sealed the strings all over. ‘Take them! ’ says he; and I could see the tears were falling from his eyes. ‘Take them, Coddie; and tell them, over, that they must cherish them the way myself and my family did for a good century and more.’

“Well, Alasdair Alpin, I did my best for the pipes, anyhow. I was afraid to leave them in my cabin in the mailboat the night I went over. So I took the parcel to Captain Robertson; and I said to him: ‘Captain Robertson, it’s myself that would like a favour of you. I’ve something here, in this fine parcel, that’s very precious and sacred. It mustn’t be left anywhere about the boat, even in my own cabin. It must spend the night in your cabin. I’ll come for it myself when we reach port in the morning.’ During the night I visited him in his cabin to make sure the pipes was all right.

“‘What’s in the grand parcel, Coddie?’ he says. ‘What’s making you so particular?’

“‘It’s not whisky, whatever, Captain Robertson!’ I said.

“‘Let us have a look at it, then!’ he said. By this time he had his knife out to cut the string.

“‘No, Captain! You mustn’t be doing such a thing!’ I told him. ‘That parcel contains something more sacred than all the whisky in Scotland.’

“And so I got to Roy Bridge; and I handed over the pipes to Mistress Ryan with tears in my own eyes the way William had when he handed me the parcel.”

Some time later, when the Coddie was on his way to attend another county council meeting he interrupted his journey at. Fort William to ascertain whether the MacGillivray Pipes were being shown the respect and prominence they deserved. “And there I met a namesake of your own―a Miss MacGregor―Miss Edith MacGregor. The famed pipes was hanging on the wall. I said to her: ‘It’s myself that brought those pipes to Lochaber, all the way from Barra, from the man who looked after them in his own house for a hundred years and more. What would he be thinking if he saw them disrespected like that in Lochaber? They are worthy of a better place than that! In a proper glass case they should be!’

“A whilie after―maybe a couple of months after―I called again and found them there, beautiful, in a glass case. But that’s nor yet the end of my story, Alasdair Alpin. I must be telling you a bittie more. When the Exhibition was on in Glasgow in 1938, William MacGillivray got word that the celebrated pipes was to be played on the wireless by a certain Angus Campbell on a certain day. William sent for myself; and I had to go to Eoligarry immediately, at William’s command, boy! so that I could be listening with him. Well, Angus was getting right into the soul of the pibroch he was playing; and I saw poor William’s eyes getting very wet with the tune Angus was playing. I knew myself what was going on inside William. He was leaning on his stick when Angus finished, his eyes full of moisture. But not a word came out of him for a whilie, not for quite a whilie. Then he said to myself: ‘Coddie, the old pipes was never in better hands than tonight; and we must send our heartfelt thanks in the morning to Angus Campbell by telegram.’”

The day the Coddie was entrusted with the transference of the MacGillivray Pipes was the proudest of his life. He had felt himself under sacred obligation, committed to discharge a duty he believed he had been chosen to perform in virtue of his lifelong devotion to all that concerned Bonnie Prince Charlie.

And how insistent he was that those pipes had been played at Culloden! I once had the temerity to hint in his hearing that experts thought them to be of a date more recent than 1746. The Coddie looked at me scornfully, as though I were giving currency to a dangerous heresy which might spread like an epidemic throughout the Isles if I were foolish enough―nay, disloyal enough―to repeat it.

*           *           *

During one of the evenings I spent on Eriskay in 1947 in company with Father Iain MacCarmaig, then the island’s priest, the conversation turned inevitably to the Coddie, of whom I had seen a good deal some days previously. “Did ever it occur to you,” asked Father Iain, “that there’s something very unusual―something very exceptional―about the Coddie? Have you ever noticed how interesting are his eyes? Nobody can be long in the Coddie’s presence without noticing those eyes of his, those very blue eyes. They have a quality I’ve never been able to account for. They look at you, and even through you, in a remarkable way, not in any unpleasant way, you must understand. There’s something truly remarkable about those eyes of his.”

Father lain, reaching for a book on Barra published some months earlier, turned to the reproduction from a well-known portrait of old General MacNeil of Barra. Covering with a sheet of notepaper the lower part of the General’s face, he handed me the volume, without comment. I must say I was instantly surprised, if not actually startled. The resemblance between the forehead, eyes, and nose of the General and those of the Coddie was quite astonishing.

On my return to London a few weeks later, I had occasion to write the Coddie for verification of a date I was certain he knew. To my letter I appended a postscript asking him, in a casual way (though not forgetting that his own maternal grandmother was a MacNeil), whether he had ever horn told how much he resembled old General MacNeil. My question was hardly one which the Coddie would fail to answer. “Regarding my resemblance to the good-looking General,” he replied, “often the remark has been passed that there is a striking likeness in features, though not in size. The famous General stood six feet three. The Coddie‘s only live feet and a bittie. He was five feet five when in his prime. The best looking man at Waterloo, as myself reminded you the other day there, was a Cameron.”

I see from my notebooks that I could go on writing indefinitely upon the scenes, themes, personages, and ordinary folk the Coddie and I discussed together. It was he who told me that, when Compton Mackenzie built at Vaslan, on the fringe of the Great Cockle Shore of Barra, that eyesore of a house which he named Suidheachan, by mason of the faery mounds at that very spot, he wanted to Christen it Vaslan. But he confided to the Coddie that he feared his English visitors might dub it Vaseline! It is now many a year since Compton Mackenzie shook from his sandals the sand-grains of the Cockle Shore, and listened, enthralled, to the Coddie’s intimate recollections of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

*           *           *

Coddie readily grasped any pretext whatsoever for reminding one of his own ancestral connections with Eoligarry in its spacious and splendorous days. Ann MacLachlan, his mother, “born on Armistice Day, just a hundred years after Prince Charles Edward arrived in Eriskay over,” as he liked to inform one, was the daughter of Robert MacLachlan. Robert, who had been a gardener at Aros Castle, in the Isle of Mull, came to Eoligarry to serve General MacNeil in that capacity. It was he―the Coddie’s maternal grandfather―who laid out at Eoligarry the garden which the MacGillivrays, in their heyday, were to improve so considerably, but which, today, is a woody and withered place, a place of sadness and neglect.

“When would that have been?” I asked the Coddie, anxious to get from him what chronology I could. “When did Robert MacLachlan come to Barra?”

“Man, but I cannot tell you that. Not precisely, anyhow,” he answered. “It would be some time after the defeat of Boney at Waterloo. Let me see now! That was in 1815. Robert was a Protestant when he reached Barra, of course. But he soon gave up that sort of thing when he married my Catholic granny, Flora MacPhee. That, my boy, was in 1834! A long, long time ago! They were married over there at Eoligarry.”

The Coddie was never slow to recite his family tree to anybody showing genuine interest in him and in his lineage. This he usually did from the generation of his great-great-grandfather, Iain MacPherson, who tenanted a holding at Vaslan, but a mile or two from the Coddie’s own doorstep at Northbay. His MacNeil affiliations, of which he was so proud, derived from his paternal grandfather’s marriage to Mary MacNeil, a native of the crofting township of Greian, situated near Barra’s western extremity.

“But that’s just four generations back I’ve given you. I can go back another ten or twelve, or maybe more, if you like,” the Coddie assured me, relying upon that branch of folk-memory in which the Hebrideans, certainly up to the time of his generation, specialised.

*           *           *

The Coddie’s inexhaustible fund of stories relating to the Hebrides, particularly to his own Isle of Barra and its numerous satellites, included several which had some bearing upon Robert MacLachlan, his maternal grandfather. That which he recited most frequently pertained to Robert’s early days as gardener at Eoligarry. “At that time, as myself heard my mother tell, the old General was keeping up a great style. He had a footman and a groom, beside [sic] a headgardener―my grandfather.” Bent on enjoying some of the General’s whisky unbeknown to him, during his absence from home, all three conspired to enter one night the old house by the cellar window. As this window looked out on to the garden, and the garden had to be kept locked at night, the gardener’s collusion was indispensable if anyone were to ‘taste’ at all. Robert therefore provided his accomplices with the garden key. He also supplied the ladder enabling them to reach down to the cellar window. Thrice up the ladder in the dead of night went the footman, carrying a bucket provided by the groom―a bucket brimful of The MacNeil’s whisky.

After the ensuing carousel, a great fear took possession of these evildoers lest their employer, on his return, sought an explanation for the depleted state of his cellar. But the fear wore off before the General got back. So footman and groom thought that another bucketful or two wouldn’t do them any harm. But the Coddie’s grandfather, truly repentant of his participation in the previous night’s raid upon the cellar, refused them the garden key.

The Coddie always concluded his account of this escapade by adding that his mother used to say that her father “was all his life ashamed of the dirty trick he played old General MacNeil that night”

*           *           *

Of the innumerable traditional tales the Coddie recounted over the years he assumed the role of seannachie or raconteur, be rendered with an especial zest those relating to the doughty MacNeils of Barra. Though he could relate tales of his own ancestors over a period of at least two and a half centuries, those appertaining to his great-grandfather, Neil MacNeil, were in a category quite by themselves, They always had a foreign flavour about them, since Neil, taken prisoner during the Napoleonic Wars, managed to escape from captivity in a manner the Coddie was never weary of describing.

“Well, it was this way, you see!” the Coddie would begin his narration of Neil’s exploits. Let me now quote from notes I took down some years ago from his own lips:

“In Napoleonic days men from Barra and Uist went to the wars, just as yourself did when you went young to the Trenches. That’s the way the Barramen and the Uisteachs got themselves taken prisoner in France―the way yourself might have got taken prisoner. Neil MacNeil, my great-grandfather, was one of them, along with his mate, Iain Campbell, from South Boisdale. I heard you were there yourself the other day at South Boisdale. While they were under lock and key in France, they were having a poor time. They wouldn’t be enjoying themselves at all, at all. The grub was terrible. Not enough to keep body and soul alive together. Many’s a time they would be discussing their escape―speaking to one another in the Gaelic, of course. Only themselves had the Gaelic in the prison-camp. So they could discuss what they liked in their mother-tongue. Not a soul among the other prisoners would be understanding a word they spoke; and so they could express their minds freely to one another. They were thinking that, whatever. Well, now, one day they were performing a task of some sort in the prison yard, and talking away as usual. This day they were saying uncomplimentary things about the grub the prisoners got. Believe it or not, the guard heard and understood every word they were saying. The ration that day was sawdust mixed with linseed oil. No wonder they would be complaining!

“Well, the guard went up to them; and says he to my great-grandfather and his mate, ‘Now, boys, I was hearing every word of your conversation about the bad grub. I have the Gaelic myself; and I must admit that what you were saying about it is true’.

“‘What’s your name?’ says the guard, turning to my great-grandfather.

“‘Neil MacNeil,’ says my great-grandfather.

“‘Agus co as a thainig sibh? And where do you come from?’

“‘The Island of Barra,’ says Neil.

“’It’s myself that should have known you were a Barraman, with a name like Neil MacNeil!’ says the guard.

“Then he turned round to ask my great-grandfather’s mate when he came from. ‘From Boisdale,’ says Iain Campbell.

“‘Well, now, boys, isn’t that the remarkable thing?” says he, ‘My own ancestors came from the very same place. They left it during the Rising to put the Old Chevalier―Prince Charlie’s father―back on the throne. We keep up the Gaelic in the family, just the some old way; and that’s how I knew what you were saying about the food. It’s myself that’s very pleased, indeed, to meet you both. If you‘re wanting to escape, I’ll help you all I can. This very night you’ll get the prison gate open for you; and I’ll direct you to the shore myself. If you’re caught, you’re done, you will understand. If you‘re not, maybe you’ll manage to get back to the Isles in the long run. If you accept my offer, you’ll have to fend for yourself once you reach the shore. Get out of France somehow,‘ says he, ‘even if you have to swim the English Channel.’

“So MacNeil and Campbell went into a conference; and they decided to take the risk, even at the expense of death if they were recaptured. ‘Better to perish in the attempt,’ says Neil, ‘than die of our misery and starvation in the prisoner-of-war place we're in!’ And so they went to the guard and told him they would be pleased to accept his offer.

“That night, when all was quiet in the prison, my great-grandfather and his mate made their escape. The gate was left open for them right enough; and the guard himself met them outside in the dark, and took them a shortcut to the shore. There they hid themselves, not knowing how to proceed. At dawn they began creeping along the best way they could. But good fortune, my boy, was on their side. They saw a port ahead of them, and an English frigate lying alongside. I don’t mind for the moment the name of the port they were at, for the Coddie’s box isn’t always working as well as it should. But it’ll come back to me. Anyhow, they leapt aboard, and began to help the sailors to spread her sails to the wind, for they were so thankful to find her, and she preparing to sail away for England that very minute.

“Now, when the captain saw two strange men working with the sails, he called out to them. MacNeil and Campbell, you see, had to be questioned and cross-examined to his satisfaction, before he would allow them touch a thing on the frigate. So they told the captain just where and when they had been taken prisoner, and just where they were imprisoned, and for how long. And they told him about the bad grub too, and about their escape, without letting on a word about the guard that had the Gaelic like themselves.

“When General MacNeil got home to Barra in 1820, he soon heard all about my great-grandfather’s escapades. So he sent for him, because he wanted to tell him that himself had done his bit at the Battle of Waterloo. They had a dram together, and exchanged their view on the wars. The General was so pleased with my great-grandfather’s behaviour that he gave him a croft over at Greian―one of the best in Barra, it was. There he remained until the poor Chief had to sell the land to Colonel Gordon of Cluny. The new landlord wanted the croft for his sheep; and many a dispossessed islander had to emigrate as a dire consequence of that. But my great-grandfather stayed on in Barra throughout all this disturbance. He had a family of two sons and six daughters. One of them was Mary MacNeil, my own granny. She’s buried over at Eoligarry―at Kilbar, yonder, under one of the stones that came from Iona. I’m sure yourself saw it more than once when you would be looking at the old gravestones there.”

If space allowed, I would relate more of the Coddie’s traditional tales, none of them inferior to that which I have just related in his own words.

*           *           *

In 1948, at the age of 72, the Coddie, in a truly literal sense, was very much in the limelight. “From Ealing Studios,” as he wrote me in the autumn of that year, “we had lately in Barra 80 or 90, including film stars and actors. They were with us for twelve weeks, filming the world-famous Politician. See now that you don’t laugh too heartily when you see the Coddie in the film, himself distributing the whisky at the reiteach, standing by a big and brimming earthen-ware jar with a crate on it! Look up the issue of The Sphere, and Father MacMillan and myself in it.”

The reiteach, I should explain, is the name applied in Celtic Scotland to the espousals―to the conviviality preceding a wedding, often lasting for several consecutive days. Refreshments, particularly in the form of “whisky galore”, are always a prominent feature of any properly conducted reiteach!

The film to which the Coddie referred was, of course, Whisky Galore, based on Compton Mackenzie’s novel of the same name, founded upon what followed when, in 1944, the Politician, a British merchantman of some 12,000 tons, on her way to America with a cargo of the Best Scotch, went ashore on Calvay, an islet in the Sound of Eriskay, but a few sea-miles from the Coddie’s threshold.

Even when in his early seventies, the Coddie with his unusualities could have had Hollywood at his feet, had he sought the ephemeral and largely meretricious fame of the film star.

*           *           *

One of the things for which the Coddie will be remembered in his native isle was his devotion to the Church of St. Barr, at Northbay. He saw this place of Roman Catholic worship erected in the midst of the community he had served so vigorously and variously throughout his life. With St. Barr’s affairs be interested himself right up to the end, even though cardiac trouble confined him to the house during his last twelvemonth here on earth.

The summer of 1944 brought him his first truly deep sorrow. Neil, his second son (the little boy I had known in those halcyon days when I used to pass by his home on my way to the Great Cockle Shore, and to William MacGillivray’s, beyond), lost his life while serving with the Royal Air Force. Eleven years later, after Requiem Mass at St. Barr’s, the Coddie’s remains were conveyed to Eoligarry, and laid to rest there, in the ancient sepulchre of Kilbar.

St. Barr, according to legend, arrived in Barra to find its inhabitants not only pagans, but also cannibals. “They had just eaten the missionary who preceded him,” the Coddie once told me; “and they would have made a good meal of St. Barr too, but they didn’t! Maybe they thought he might be too tough! He was a disciple of Columba, as yourself will be knowing; and he walked the whole island, looking for a place to build a church, but found none till he got over as far a the Traigh Mhor [Great Shore]. Casting an eye over the cockle-beds, he saw the spot where the new Eoligarry school stands―a spot you yourself know, when you’ll be visiting the schoolmaster yonder. The day came when the saint’s work in Barra was completed, and he had to leave us. So be assembled all the inhabitants of the island, and all their beasts too; and he blessed every one of them separately. Everybody got a blessing that day. Every cow, every stirkie, every sheep and lamb. And he blessed the rocks-ay, and the sea too, so that it would always be giving plenty good fish. After he was away a whilie, they put a statue of him on the altar over at Kilbar’s chapel, with a white shirt on him. One day it disappeared; and no one ever knew where it went to.”

Just when this statue vanished, the Coddie wasn’t quite sure. “A great many centuries ago,” was the nearest he could say. This was not entirely accurate, of course, since he probably was referring to the object Martin Martin had hoped to see there at the close of the seventeenth century, and possibly remove. “The natives,” wrote Martin, “have St Barr’s wooden image standing on the altar, covered with linen in the form of a shirt; all their greatest asseverations are by this saint. I came very early in the morning with an intention to see this image, but was disappointed; for the natives prevented me from carrying it away, lest I might take occasion to ridicule their superstition, as some Protestants have done formerly; and when I was gone, it was again exposed on the altar.”

To this very day a native of Barra embarking on a long journey, or perhaps someone of this island’s lineage returning to a distance part of the world after a visit to his homeland, sometimes takes away with him a matchboxful of Kilbar’s consecrated soil. Observing the centuries-old custom of his ancestors, he will scatter this broadcast upon the ocean in order to allay any terrifying storm in which his ship may become involved. In time of danger St. Barr is believed to give, in this wise, the sort of protection St. Maolrubha affords those journeying from Applecross with a little quantity of sanctified earth from the precincts of his ancient chapel there. This they hide among their belongings, or sew into a corner of their apparel. During my Infancy at Applecross this was certainly a common practice; and I have known of instances of it even since the Second World War.

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For his stories the Coddie long will be remembered. The manner of his telling was unique, due largely to his colourful choice of words and his literal application of them, and to his introduction here and there of a well-known Gaelic word when there existed no other capable of giving just that delicate flavour his narration required. His phrasing also was unique; and nobody ever excelled him in adjusting to his own purpose popular sayings and figures of speech. Moreover, he brought to his storytelling, and with an innate sense of its poetic value, “apt Alliteration’s artful aid”. Whether consciously or accidentally, one never quite knew.

The stories he related best, and best liked relating, were those he prefaced with an Il y avait une fois atmosphere. “Once upon a time,” he would begin. Thus he instantly evoked a nostalgia, sometimes almost unbearable, as when he took one into his confidence about Prince Charles Edward and his misfortunes. No storyteller ever endued his listeners with a deeper sense of reverence for things past than did the Coddie. In the oral and traditional fashion of his ancestors, he related, alike, the past and the present, as though the written or the printed word didn’t really count for very much. He may well have been the last of our Hebridean seannachies.

The last statement is open to conjecture as not only in Barra itself but also in neighbouring South Uist as well as beyond, there were still those who could and did recite many of the old tales and songs, many of whom were collected by Calum Maclean as well as his contemporaries.

References:

Alasdair Alpin MacGregor, The Enchanted Isles: Hebridean Portraits & Memories (London: Michael Joseph, 1967)

Alasdair Alpin MacGregor, The Western Isles (London: Robert Hale, 1949)

John MacPherson, Tales of Barra: Told by the Coddy, ed. by John Lorne Campbell (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1992)

John Marshall, ‘Meet the Coddie’, The Scots Magazine, vol. LIV, no. 6 (1951), pp. 73–77

Images:

Portrait of ‘The Coddie’ by Alasdair Alpin MacGregor, 1950, seated on the foreshore by his premises at Northbay, Isle of Barra

Portrait of ‘The Coddy’, at Northbay, Isle of Barra, c. 1949

MacGillvray Pipes