Angus MacMillan’s Life Story – V [Isle of Rum]

A previous blog offered a summary of Angus MacMillan’s life story. It may be divided into eleven sections of varying lengths. Here is offered the fifth part (NFC 1180, pp. 323–43) where MacMillan relates to Maclean his year-long stay on the Isle of Rum and what he got up to during this period. The opportunity has been taken to modernise the Gaelic orthography and also to offer a translation. A summary of this section may be given as follows:

5. Isle of Rum

An Aberdonian by the name of Bain owned Creagorry Inn in Benbecula and asked Angus MacMillan’s father for permission to see if he would work on building roads in the Isle of Rum. Bain had won a contract for the work. MacMillan’s father gave his permission and Angus set out in a fishing boat from Creagorry to the Isle of Rum. MacMillan along with the rest of the workmen worked on the roads for two schillings a day. A year passed at this work and his father asked him to return home. MacMillan also complained that all the hard labour had made his hands sore. The foreman persuaded him to stay by offering him light work as a post man. MacMillan only had to work three hours a day. For the next period MacMillan worked at delivering goods on horseback from Kinloch to where the work worked. MacMillan carried out this work for some time and his hand by now had completely healed. For entertainment the men used to drink whisky (delivered by MacMillan) and they also used to hold roups [auctions]. MacMillan interestingly mentions that the workforce consisted of Lowlanders and Gaels and they kept their own company and never really mixed.

5. Ag obair ann an Rum

Bha fear ris an canadh iad Bain, Obar Dheadhaineach a bh’ ann, ’s ann aige a bha an taigh-seinnse ann am Beinne na Faoghla [Creagorry Inn] agus ghabh e contract ann an Rum air rathaidean mòra.  Agus dh’fhaighneachd mi fhìn dha m’ athair a’ faighinn cead a dhol ann.

“Well, a ghràidhean, faoda’ tu falbh,” ors’ esan, ach ors’ esan, “ma thig an obair trom orm-sa,” ors’ esan, “thig thu nuair a chuireas mi gad iarraidh.”

“Glè mhath.

Chaidh sinn gu ruige Rum agus dh’fhalbh sinn le bàta-iasgaich ann. Dh’fhalbh sinn à Creag Ghoiridh. Dh’fhalbh sinn leis a’ bhàta-iasgaich air Didòmhnaich. Bha sinn a’ falbh fad an latha Didòmhnaich gus an d’ràine sinn faisg air Rum ann am beul na h-oidhcheadh. ’S e latha anabarrach fhèin brèagha a bh’ ann agus mun a ràine Canaigh, theann i air sèideadh. Agus theann i air sèideadh gu h-eagalach agus fhuair sinn air èigin a-staigh dhan loch a’ tionndadh mun cuairt an rudha a bh’ ann a shineach aig Canaigh. Agus mura biodh gun d’fhuair sinn tionndadh ann an àm, bha sinn air na creagan agus cinnteach gu leòr gum biodh a h-uile duine a bh’ air bòrd bàidhte. Ach cha robh. Dh’fhan sinn ann a shin fad na h-oidhcheadh gu madainn an làr-na-mhàireach agus bha i na fèath sa mhadainn agus cha robh againn ach caolas beag a dhol a-null gu ruige Rum. Chaidh sinn gu ruige Rum an uair sin agus fhuair sinn air tìr agus bha sinn an oidhche sin ann an taigh cìobair as cionn a’ chladaich. Bha sinn an ath-oidhche ann an taigh a’ chìobair agus am beagan a bha sa bhàta chuir sinn air tìr e gu na creagan. Ach thàinig an Hebrides le luchd agus b’e sin an lochd, fiodh, iarann a h-uile seòrsa a ghabhadh a bhith. Theannadh air cuir air tìr air na creagan agus abra’ sìbh-se gun robh am beagan sgiobaidh a bha sin gu math searbh agus sgìth ann am beul na h-oidhcheadh. ’S e duine anabarrach fhèin gasda a bh’ ann am Bain. Leth-uair an uaireadair a bhiodh iad trang ag obair agus bhiodh iad sin cho trang is a b’ urrainn daibh, nuair a bheireadh e orra stad agus bheireadh e orra glaine uisge-bheatha òl. Cha robh mi fhìn eòlach air an dram an uair sin ann am faisg cho eòlach ’s a tha mi an-diugh agus bha mi a’ cuir na aghaidh. Ach mun a dh’fhalbh mise a Rum, cha chuirinn an aghaidh aon deur dheth. Bha mi a cheart cho math ri càch mun do dh’fhalbh mi às. Bha sinn ag obair ann a shineach airson dà thasdan san latha air rathaidean mòra. Mun do theann na rathaidean mòra bha againn ri hutaichean a chuir suas ann am piosan bho chèile ma thuairmse agus dà mhìle bho chèile agus bha grunn mòr hutaichean gan cuir suas a rèir far am biodh am rathad a’ dol. Bha sinn a’ falbh on chladach, àite ris an canadh iad Cille Mhoire agus trì plancannan air gach gualainn aig dithis againn. Bha sin sia plancannan agus rùisgeadh air na guaillean againn. Cha robh aon leòba craicinn orra a’ dèanamh obair an eich, na daoine bochda a’ dèanamh obair an eich. Nuair a thug na daoine fairis, ghabh iad an uair sin ha h-eich agus bha sinne glè lucky. Thug mi fad bliadhna ann a shiud gun chonachadh gus an robh sinn mu dheireadh coma ga nach fhalbhmaid idir às. Dh’iarr m’ athair dhachaigh mi an uair sin. ’S ann a dh’fhàs mo làmh goirt agus dh’fhàs i anabarrach fhèin goirt cuideachd thuirt mi ris an timekeeper a bh’ air an obair gun robh mi a’ dol a dh’ fhalbh dhachaigh:

“Chan fhaigh thu idir dhachaigh,” ors’ an timekeeper. “Bheir mi dhut obair agus bi i gum math aotrom,” ors’ esan.

Agus b’ e sin an obair a fhuair mi a bhith nam phosta eadar far am biodh a’ stuimear a’ tighinn agus na hutaichean. “Bi thu nad phosta ann a shin,” ors’ esan, “agus bi do thuarastal agad,” ors’ esan. “Faoda’ tu,” ors’ esan, “an obair a tha thu air fhaighinn,” ors’ esan, “a dhèanamh ann an trì uairean an uaireadair an car is fhaide,” ors’ esan. “Bi an còrr dhan latha agad fhèin”, ors’ esan, “agus bi do thuarastal agad.”

Well, ged a bha cràdh às an làimh agam dh’aontaich mi gun gabhainn an obair. Fhuair mi an obair agus:

“Nam b’ aithnte dhut,” ors’ esan, “tarsaing na beinneadh a ghabhail,” ors’ esan, ors’ an timekeeper, “chuireadh e,” ors’ esan, “ceithir mile a-staigh dhut.”

“An-dà, chan aithnte dhomh sin,” ors’ mise. “Theirg thusa sìos,” ors’ esan, “gu ruige Cille Mhoire, far a bheil an cìobair agus is dòcha,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil an cìobair,” ors’ esan, “a’ dol,” ors’ esan, “a-nall,” ors’ esan, “far am bi an stimear a’ tighinn agus falbhaidh tu còmh’ ris agus nì thu fhèin an rathad tuilleadh gu Ceann Loch.

Ach, co-dhiù, dh’fhalbh mi sìos far an robh an cìobair agus bha mi gu math eòlach air a’ chìobair. Dh’fhaighneachd mi dheth a robh e a’ dol a Chinn Loch an-diugh:

“Chan eil,” ors’ esan. “Bha mi an-dè ann.”

“A! well,” orsa mi fhìn, “is bochd sin.”

“A bheil thu fhèin a’ dol ann?”

“Tha,” orsa mise, “agus dh’iarr” orsa mi fhìn an timekeeper orm,” orsa mise “a dhol far a robh sìbh-se, ma bha sibh a’ dol ann gun ionnsaiche sibh an rathad tarsaing na beinneadh dhomh.”

“Cha bhi thu idir air do bheatadh, Aonghais,” ors’ esan, “bheir thu leat an t-each bàn agus cuiridh mise a-null air an abhainn e,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “bi fhios aig an each bhàn an uair sin cà ’il e a’ dol,” ors’ esan. “Chan eil agad,” ors’ esan gun aon dìog a ràdha ris an each bhàn, ruigidh e,” ors’ esan, “Ceann Loch.”

Seo mar a bha. Chuireadh srian ris an each bhàn agus chuireadh pòca air a dhruim agus stiorap. Fhuair e greim air an each agus chuir e an t-srian ris:

“Thiugainn a-nist, Aonghais,” ors’ esan, “tha an t-each bàn a-niste a’ falbh,” ors’ esan, “gu ruige Ceann Loch.”

Dh’fhalbh e a-null leis an each air an abhainn:

“Thalbh a-nisd air a mhuin,” ors’ esan, “agus cha ruig thu a leas aon cheum coiseachd a dhèanamh,” ors’ esan, “cuiridh tu a staigh an t-each bàn,” ors’ esan, “air no bi e ann an àite a gheibh e a h-uile h-àite is fheàrr na chèile a bhios ann an Ceann Loch. Bi e ann gus an till thu.”

Seo mar a bha co-dhiù. Dh’fhalbh mise leis an each. Cha do tharrainn mi srian a-null na a-nall ach mar a bha i. Dh’fhalbh an t-each bàn ceum air cheam air a shocair tarsainn na beinneadh gus an d’ ràinig e Ceann Loch. Ràine sinn Ceann Loch. Agus an rud a b’ fheàrr na sin, nuair a raine sinn Ceann Loch is a thàinig e gon a’ rathaid bha geata air an rathad ann a shineach agus e dùinte. Nuair a ràinig e an geata, dh’ fhosgail e an geata le bheul agus phut e a-staigh e. Cha dèanadh duine an rud a bha an t-each sin a’ dèanamh. Ràinig e an uair sin doras an stàbla agus sheas e aig an doras ann a shin. Bha bolt air an doras ann a shineach agus chan eil mi ag innseadh aon fhacal brèigeadh. Thàine mise far muin an eich agus ma robh mi ach mo chasan air an làr, bha e air an doras fhosgladh. Rug e air an dorus, am bolt, na fhiaclan agus chuir e car dheth agus phut e a-staigh e agus ghabh e fhèin do stall ann a shin:

“Well, a ghràidhean,” orsa mi fhìn “’s ann annad a tha an deagh charaid.”

Agus chaidh mi dhan t-sabhal agus gu dearbha chan e topalan feòir a thug mi dha idir ach deagh raoite agus fhuair e feed sìl cuideachd. Thàine mi a-mach agus bha fear a’ treabhadh shìos ann am pàirce ann a shin agus ghabh mi sìos far a robh e. Agus b’ aithnte dhomh am fear sin math gu leòr, am fear a bha a’ treabhadh. ’S e fear a mhuinntir Eige a bh’ ann, fear ris an canadh iad Eòghain, Eòghain an t-ainm a bh’ air agus ’s ann ris a bha mo ghrothach. Shìn mi dha a litir a bh’ agam ’uige agus leugh e i. 
“O! seadh,” ors’ esan “’s ann gam iarraidh sìos a tha an timekeeper,” ors’ esan, “airson,” ors’ esan, “gun cuir mi cruidhean air each agus,” ors’ esan, “chan urrainn domh a dhol ann an-diugh,” ors’ esan, “ach faoda’ mi na cruidean a dhèanamh,” ors’ esan “agus bheir thu fhèin leat iad.” 
“Glè mhath,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha sin ceart gu leòr. Bheir mise liom iad,” orsa mise, “agus carraigidh,” orsa mi fhìn, “an t-each bàn iad.”
“An-dà, chunna mi e a’ tighinn,” ors’ esan, “agus na cheangail thu e,” ors’ esan, “as an stàlla.” 
“Cheangail,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus thug mi dha raoite arbhair.” Ach cha do dh’innis mi idir gun d’fhuair e feed sìl.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “sin agad each,” ors’ esan, “is glice,” ors’ esan, “a tha mi a’ smaointinn a tha air an t-saoghal uile,” ors’ esan.

“An-dà, a Shiorrachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “’s esan a tha sin glic,” orsa esan mise. “Nach do dh’ fhosgail e an geata,” orsa mise, “agus chaidh e a-staigh air,” orsa mise, “is fhad ’s a bha mise a’ tighinn far a mhuin,” orsa mise, “aig doras a’ stàbla dh’ fhosgail e doras an stàbla le bheul.”

“Ha, fosglaidh,” ors’ esan, “agus doras na granary,” ors’ esan, “Sin” ors’ esan, “an t-àite,” ors’ esan, “a’ gharnary, àite a bhios a’ sìol againn,” ors’ esan. “Cha bhi ann ach sìol,” ors’ esan, “agus grothaichean eile,” ors’ esan. “Thèid e suas an staighre, staighre chloicheadh ann a shin,” ors’ esan, “aon deach steapannan,” ors’ esan. “Thèid e suas an staighre ann a shin,” ors’ esan, “agus fosglaidh e an doras agus dùinidh e an doras às a dheaghaidh,” ors’ esan, “agus chaidh e a dhìol is a theannachadh dhan t-sìol,” ors’ esan. Cha bhi sgeul air an each bhàn,” ors’ esan, “ach,” ors’ esan, “ma dhùineas an doras,” ors’ esan, “chan fhosgail e idir e,” ors’ esan, “on taobh a-staigh,” ors’ esan.

Ach co-dhiù bha mise a’ dol mar sineach. Nuair a fhuair mi na cruidhean a dhèanamh, thàine mi dhachaigh feasgar agus bha na ceithir chruidhean agam a’ tighinn a dh’ ionnsaigh an timekeeper agus:

“Seadh,” ors’ esan, “gu diamar a chaidh dhut?”

“Cha deach,” orsa mi fhìn, “cho math,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus ged a bhiodh an duine a b’ fheàrr a thàinig riamh còmhla rium, cha dèanadh e an rathad na b’ fheàrr.”

“An robh an cìobair comhla riut?”

“Cha robh, ach mura robh,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha deagh charaide còmhla rium. Bha an t-each bàn còmhla rium agus,” orsa mi fhìn, “cha do rinn mi aon cheum coiseachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “o dh’fhalbh mi a thaigh a’ chìobair,” orsa mi fhìn, “gus an do thill mi air ais, ach na rinn mi a choiseachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “o thaigh a’ chìobair sìos don a’ hut.”

“Seadh,” ors’ esan, “a bheil Eòghain a’ dol a thighinn a-nuas?”

“Cha tig e gon a-màireach,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach rinn e na cruidhean,” orsa mi fhìn, “dhan each,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus tha na cruidhean agam ann a sheo,” ors’ mise, “agus thuirt e gun tigeadh e a-màireach, a’ chiad char.”

“O! glè mhath,” ors’ esan.

Bha mise a-niste ann a shineach agus bha mi nam phosta ùine mhòr, mhòr eadar Ceann Loch agus na hutaichean. Leighis mo làmh agus cha robh criod oirre. Bha i glè ghoirt agam ach cha do chaill mi sgillinn riamh dhe m’ thuarastal. Gu h-àraidh nuair a bhiodh stimear a’ tighinn sin agad nuair a bhiodh na bagaichean trom agam-s’ a’ tighinn. Bhiodh galan de dh’ uisge-beatha agam a’ tighinn air mo mhuin agus an oidhche a bhiodh a sineach ’s e oidhche pàighidh a bhiodh ann. Agus cha robh sìon dhen t-saoghal a bhiodh agad nach roupa tu an oidhche sin e agus an ath-oidhche pàighidh bhiodh tu a’ ceannach mar a b’ fheàrr a b’ urrainn dut. Cheannaich mi fhìn uaireadair airgid agus ’s e crùn a bha e orm. Bha e agam deagh threis. Cha robh diog aige. Cha robh sìon ceàrr air an uaireadair ach gun robh e salach:

“Falbh,” orsa mi fhìn, “cha bhi mise a’ cumail an uaireadair seo nas fhaide. Chan eil diog aige shuas na shìos. Cuiridh mi air a’ roup a-nochd e.”

Bha uisge-beatha gu leòr ann. A h-uile duine a cheannaicheadh rud, dh’ fheumadh e dram fhaighinn. Bha an dram a’ dol. Chuir mi fhìn an t-uaireadair a tha seoach air an roup. Fhuair mi aon deich air fhichead air an uaireadair:

“Dhia thu profaid mhath an seo.”

Bha ciste laghach, laghach agam a rinn soar ris an canadh iad Gilleasbui’ mac Chaluim, athair Shunndachain (i. e. Dòmhnall Mac a’ Phì, Baile nan Cailleach.) Agus ’s ann a chàirich mi air an roup i cuideachd. Cha robh i orm, a’ chiste orm ach còig tasdain deug agus rinn i dà phunnd is a deich an sin agus cò a cheannaich i ach am timekeeper a bh’ againn:

“Well,” ors’ esan, “nach i tha freagarrach air mo shon-sa,” ors’ esan. “Tha glas is iuchair oirre,” ors’ esan, “agus chan eil i mòr idir,” ors’ esan.

“Tha i cho math ri baga agus nas fheàrr. Bha i gu math daor oribh,” orsa mise.

“Bha,” ors’ esan, “ach ’s e soar,” ors’ esan “a bha ga daoradh orm ach tha mi glè thoilichte,” ors’ esan, “gun d’ fhuair mi i.”

“Well,” ors’ mise, “nam paigheadh e h-uile sìon mise cho math agus a phaigh a’ chiste agus an uaireadair is gann,” orsa mise,  “nach creicinn an t-aodach a tha mun dhruim,” ors’ esan.

“Dè,” ors’ esan, “a bha a’ chiste ort,” ors’ esan.

“Well ’s ann ùr a tha mi,” ors’ mi fhìn. “Cha d’ rinn mi ach a’ faighinn,” ors’ mi fhìn, “nuair a bha dùil ’m tighinn an seo,” ors’ mi fhìn, “gun cumadh e beagan aodaich dhomh,” orsa mise agus orsa mi fhìn, “’s e còig tasdain deug a bha i orm-sa,” orsa mise, “ach rinn i,” orsa mi fhìn, “còrr mòr is dùbladh.”

“O! sin mar a tha.”

“Agus uaireadair a fhuair mi air crùn,” orsa mi fhìn, “fhuair mi profaid sgoinneil às,” orsa mise. “Cha robh sìon ceàrr air an uaireadair,” ors’ esan. “Nam biodh tu air a shealltainn dhomh-sa,” orsa esan, “bha mi air an uaireadair a chuir air dòigh ann am mionaid dhut.”

“An e,” orsa mi fhìn, “gun cuire’ sibh air dòigh e.”

“Chuireadh,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “cha bhiodh e aon sìon ort,” ors’ esan.  “Cha robh sìon ceàrr air an uaireadair,” ars’ esan, “ach gun robh e salach,” ars’ esan, “is cuiridh mise geall riut,” ors’ esan, “gum bi an t-uaireadair […] am fear a cheannaich e,” ors’ esan, “o chionn seachdain,” ors’ esan, “cha toireadh e seachad e,” ors’ esan, “air còig notaichean.”

“Falbh,” orsa mi fhìn. “Phaigh e mise glè mhath.”

Ach co-dhiù thàinig traveller mun cuairt agus aodaichean aige às an Òban. O! cha robh e a’ faigheann creic air na h-aodaichean idir. Ach chaidh mi fhìn na lùib agus thuirt mi ris:

“B’ fheàrr dhut,” orsa mi fhìn, “sale a dhèanamh agus is dòcha an rud a bheir thusa seachad gu math saor,” orsa mi fhìn, “gum faigh thu trì-fillte orra agus cha bhi thu ann an call greim.”

“Cò,” orsa esan “a nì an sale.”

“Nì,” orsa mi fhìn, “nì sinne sale dhut,” orsa mise, “ann an tiotan. Mura còrd a’ phrìs riut,” orsa mi fhìn, “chan eil agad ach a thilleadh a-staigh. Tha mise,” orsa mi fhìn, “a’ dol a Cheann Loch an-diugh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus bi deoch gu leòr a’ tighinn,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus,” orsa mi fhìn, “thèid mise an urras gum paigh do thrip thu.”

“Ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “’s ann is fheàrr dhomh-sa,” ors’ esan, “dà bhotal na trì fhaighinn mi fhìn.”

“O! bi botail gu leòr againn fhìn,” orsa mise.

“O! cha dèan sin an gnothach dhomhsa idir,” ors’ esan. “Cuma mi deoch ris na daoine,” ors’ ean, “agus bi an gnothach nas fheàrr.”

“Glè mhath,” orsa mi fhìn, “fhad ’s is urrainn domh-sa carraigeadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “bheir mi leam.”

Ach dh’fhalbh mise làr-na-mhàireach agus bha deagh theansa gum biodh eallach trom orm a’ tighinn agus chaidh mi gu ruige Cille Mhoire agus dh’ fhaidhneachd mi dhan chìobair:

“Am faigh mi,” orsa mi fhìn, “an t-each bàn bhuat an-diugh?”

“Am bi eallach trom agad a’ tighinn?” [ors’ esan.]

“Bi,” arsa mi fhìn, “eallach trom agam a’ tighinn agus,” orsa mi fhìn, “nam faighinn an t-each bàn,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus gun carraigeadh e roinn dhe na parcelan.”

“O!” ors’ esan, “carraigidh e a h-uile parcel a bhios ann. Gheibh, a leòra,” ors’ esan, “is tusa gheibh sin,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “’s ann is fheàrr dhomh dà chliabh a chuir air.”

“Glè mhath,” orsa mi fhìn, “dèana sin. Bi e nas fheàrr dhomh-sa,” ors’ mi fhìn “mar sin.”

“Bi,” ors’ esan.

Chuireadh acfhainn chleibh air an each bhàn agus chuireadh cliabh air gach cliathaich dheth agus dh’fhalbh mi.

“Thèid thu fhèin air a mhuin,” ors’ esan, “còmhla ris na clèibh.”

“A! cha tèid,” orsa mise, “an t-each bochd,” orsa mise, “nì e an gnothach mar a tha e,” ors’ mise, “agus bi an t-eallach air a’ tighinn,” orsa mi fhìn, “bi mise a’ coiseachd.”

Fhuair mi an t-each bàn co-dhiù agus bha mi ann a shineach fad an latha cha mhòr gus an tàinig an stimear a’ dol mun cuairt. Daoine anabarrach fhèin laghach a bh’ ann an Ceann Loch agus am portair a bh’ aig am stimear bha e eagalach laghach. Bha mise ann a shineach a’ cur seachad an latha cho math is a b’ urrainn domh gus an tàinig an stimear. Nuair a thàinig an stimear bha litrichean is parcelan gu leòr ann a’ dol gon na h-obrach agus dh’ iarr mi an t-uisge-beatha agus fhuair mi e. Nuair a thàine sinn air tìr.

“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha an t-àm agam-sa a-nist,” orsa mi fhìn, “dèanamh airson an rathaid,” ors’ mise. “Bi an oidhche ann,” orsa mi fhìn, “ma ruig mi,” orsa mise.

“Dhia!” ors’ am portair, “cha dèan tha an gnothach leis na bheòl agad de pharcelan. Feuma’ tu rud fhàgail,” ors’ esan, “gon a-màireach.”

“Hò!” orsa mise, “tha deagh phosta agam each bàn a’ chìobair agam,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus dà chliabh air.”

“O! ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “sin posta is fheàrr,” ors’ esan, “a th’ ann an Rum. Chan eil leithid an eich sin air an t-saoghal ach e fhèin.”

Ach co-dhiù charraigeadh suas gon a’ stàbla na parcelan.

“Dè,” ors’ esan, “a tha sibh a’ dèanamh leis na bheoil a sin an deoch?”

“Tha, leòra,” arsa mi fhìn, “bi oidhche mhòr a-nochd againn agus b’ fheuch dhaibh,” orsa mi fhin, “a dhol sìos ’uice. A h-uile sìon riamh bi e air a roup a-nochd a-mach agus daoine ga cheannach. Bi iad falamh fad na seachdain sin agus ma dh’ fhaodte seachdain eile às a dheaghaidh sin gus an tig an turn air an fheadhainn a cheannaich e agus feumaidh iad a chreic. Ach tha packman,” orsa mi fhìn, “againn a-nochd agus tha paca mòr na dhà aige airson an reic agus chan eil aon teagamh agam nach fhaigheadh duine bargan aig a’ phackman. Tha roup gus bhith aige-san cuideachd. Tha deoch nas mutha mun sineach agaibh-sa ga charraigeadh a-nochd.”

“Dè,” ors’ esan, “an stuff a th’ aige?”

“Tha lèintean aige. Tha colairean aige. Tha briogaisean is deiseachan is a h-uile seòrsa riamh a smaointicheadh sin air agus bidhear ga sèileadh a-mach a-nochd.”

“Ga damniti,” ors’ esan, “bu shuarach orm a dhol ann,” ors’ esan.

“Dearbha nam bithinn nur n-àite,” orsa mise, “rachainn ann gun teagamh.”

“Nam faighinn duine a dh’fhalbhadh còmhla rium,” ors’ esan, “rachainn ann gun teagamh,” ors’ esan.

Ach, co-dhiù, thug mi fhìn brath do dh’ Eoghain Eigeach gun robh sale mhòr gus bhith againn a-nochd agus gum bu chòir dha a dhol ’uige:

“Chan e sale a th’ againn fhìn idir ach tha packman – tha mi cinnteach gum faca sibh mun cuairt ann a sheo e, agus,” orsa mi fhìn.

“Tha sale gus a bhith aig an fhear sin, e fhèin, agus chan eil aon teagamh agam,” ors’ e fhèin “nach fhaigh daoine bargan air.”

“Dòcha gum bi rudan ann a bhios daor gu leòr, “ orsa mi fhìn, “ach bi rudan matha ann cuideachd a bhios gu math saor.”

“A! well,” ors’ Eoghain, ors’ esan, “thèid mise ann gun teagamh,” ors’ esan.

“Ma thèid,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha am portair a’ falbh cuideachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “nam faigheadh e duine còmhla ris.

“O, ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “’s ann is fheàrr dhomh an brath a thoirt dhà. Dè ’n uair a bhios e a’ teannadh?”

“Tha mi cinnteach,” orsa mi fhìn, “nuair a ghabhas sinn ar biadh,” ors’ mise, “is a thig iad dhachaigh o obair,” orsa mise, “is a ghlanas iad iad fhèin. Bi an sale a’ teannadh an uair sin.”

“Càite am bi e?”

Dh’ innis mi an hut sam biodh e daonnan. Ach co-dhiù thug mi brath dhan chìobair nuair a ràine mi gun robh sale gus bhith ann agus bha an cìobair e fhèin ann. Agus fhuair an cìobair clitearn matha bhuam fhìn às a’ bhotul a thug mi às an stimear. Agus bha an cìobair agus Eoghain Eigeach agus an luchd-obrach uile gu lèir agus am packman a bh’ ann a sheoach bha iad san hall agus theann an roup. Agus ’s e fear Mac Rath san t-auctioneer.

“Ach a-nist, feuch am buail thu sìos gnothach cho luath sa ghabhas dèanamh nuair a chuireas mise bid ann, ’s e sin,” orsa mi fhìn “an rud a chòrdas rium fhìn is riut fhèin, gum faigh faigh sinn e nas saoire na gheibh càch agus roinnidh sinn eadrainn an uair sin e nuair a bhios an t-sale seachad.

“Siuthad thusa,” ors’ esan, “ceannaich,” ors’ esan, “agus gheibh thu,” ors’ esan, “gu math saor e.”

Ach theann an sale co-dhiù agus a’ chuid rud a chaidh a-mach ’s e bogsa cholairean, colairean cruaidhe air an tarnachadh cho cruaidh ri creig. O! aon sgillin cha robh a’ dol sna bocsaichean.”

“Falbh,” orsa mi fhìn, “buail sìos sin.”

Buaileadh sìos sin is cha robh diog ann.

“A!” ors’ esan, “aon uair, da uair, trì uairean.”

Fhuair mise na bocsaichean cholairean a bha sineach agus bha a dhà dheug a cholairean ann airson sia sgillin. Cha robh e am bocsa cholairean sin orm ach bonna-sia am fear. Thàinig an sin lèine mhòr fhireannaich a-mach agus ochd sgillin deug a bha i sin agus cheannaich mi i. Thàinig an sin tè ’ile a-mach agus ’s e ochd sgillin deug a bha i fhèin agus cheannaich mi i. Agus thàinig an sin blouse a-mach agus bha nigheann a’ phortair bha i eagalach laghach rium agus nach do cheannaich mi am blouse a bh’ ann a shin cuideachd de dh’ fhear fancy agus ’s e tasdan agus trì sgillinn a bha e. Ach cheannaich mi sluch a bh’ ann a shineach. Cheannaich mi briogais, a dhà, tè dhomh fhin is do Chrìsdean agus bha iad gu math saor cuideachd. Agus bha roinn gu math daor nuair a theann an deoch air teòdhadh air na fearaibh, bha roinn gu math daor dheth. Ach bha am packman ullamh co-dhiù ann an ùine aithghearr. Cheannaich Eoghain Eigeach, cheannaich e dà lèinidh. Cheannaich am portair dà bhriogais agus bha iad fhèin gu math saor. Agus chreic am packman a h-uile sìon riamh. Nuair a fhuair e an t-airgead eadar na bha saor agus daor bha e glè thoilite.

“Tha mi an dòchas,” orsa mise, “gu bheil an gnothach, gun do chòrd e riut.”

“Well,” ors’ esan “chan eil call sam bith agam dheth agus,” ors’ esan, “cha bhi mi fada gun tighinn fhathast,” ors’ esan, “an seo,” ors’ esan,” agus siud an dòigh a nì mi tuilleadh,” ors’ esan. “Ma bha,” ors’ esan “call agam dhan dala rud,” ors’ esan, “bha mi a’ glèidheadh air an rud eile,” ors’ esan, “nach b’ fheuch mòran agus,” ors’ esan, “chan eil sam bith agam dheth agus ’s e is saoire dhomh-sa. Fhuair mi mo chuid airgid còmhladh,” ors’ esan, “ann an aon àite,” ors’ esan, “seach a bhith a’ travelladh. Chan eil agam a-nist,” ors’ esan, “ach a bhith a’ watchadh na stimear,” ors’ esan, “gus an till i air ais à Uibhst,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “thig mi fhathast,” ors’ esan, “agus nì sinn an aon rud agus a rinn sinn a-nochd.”

Bha na botail gun a bhith ullamh aige ach ma bha riaraich e air na daoine uile gu lèir e. ’S e duine anabarrach fhèin laghach a bh’ ann agus an làr-na-mhàireach dh’fhalbh mise gu ruige Cille Mhoire agus dh’fhalbh mi às an sin agus chaidh mi a Cheann Loch agus bha mi ann a shin fad an latha gu beul na h-oidhche agus thill mi à sin dhachaigh. Bhithinn air ais ’s air adhart a h-uile latha ris an t-saoghal agus air an oidhche chan airigheamaid an oidhche a’ dol seachad. Mura bite a’ gabhail sgeulachd, bhìte a’ gabhail òrain agus bha an oidhche a’ dol seachad mar sin. Mura biodh a leithid sin ann, bhìte a’ dannsa. Bhithinn fhìn a’ gabhail sgeulachd. Bhiodh agus gu leòr eile a bharrachd orm. Bha feadhainn a mhuinntir an Eilein Sgitheanaich bha iad anabarrach fhèin math airson sgeulachdan agus òrain. Agus bha an oidhche a’ dol seachad agus an saoghal againn, mu dheireadh gus an do chruinnich mòran, mòran sluaigh. Ach bha feadhainn Ghallda ann ach ma bha cha robh sinne a’ joindeadh riutha idir. Bha na Gàidheil a’ cumail còmhla. Bha sinn a’ cumail suas an t-seann-chleachdaidh. Ach ged a bha fhèin, bha feadhainn acasan a’ tighinn a-staigh an gnothach a’ còrdadh riuthu cho math gus mu dheireadh gun a theann iad air cuir sìos air an Gàidheil agus nach b’ fheuch iad. Ach fhuair iad gabhail aca glè chlever a’ sabaid agus fhuaradh an cartadh a-mach às an Eilean buileach air neo cha bhiodh fad saoghail ann. Agus sin agaibh a-nist mo stoiridh-sa air Rum. Thug mi fad bliadhna ann agus cha do dh’ airich mi e ach mar aon latha. Thàine mi dhachaigh an uair sin is bha mi beagan ùine aig an taigh.

5. Working on the Isle of Rum

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An Aberdonian named Bain had an inn in Benbecula and he took out a contract to build roads on the Isle of Rum. I asked my father’s permission if I could go.

“Well, laddie, you can go,” he said, “but if the work gets too hard for me then you’ll have to come back if I need you.”

“Very well.”

We went to the Isle of Rum in a fishing boat. We left Creagorry in the fishing boat on Sunday. We spent all Sunday sailing and we nearly reached the Isle of Rum at nightfall. It was very beautiful day but before we reached the Isle of Canna the wind got up. It started to blow very hard and it was only with difficulty that we entered the loch by turning around a promotory at the Isle of Canna. If we had not turned around at that time, we would surely have struck rocks and everyone on board would have drowned. But this didn’t happen. We stayed there all night long until the next day and by morning it was calm. We only needed to cross a small channel to go over to the Isle of Rum. So we then went over to the Isle of Rum and we landed and we stayed in a shepherd’s house above the shore. The next night we also stayed in the shepherd’s house and the little we had in the boat we landed on the rocks. The Hebrides came with a cargo of wood, iron and much else besides. It was unloaded onto the rocks and the crew were very grumpy and tired by nightfall. Bain was a very fine man: for half an hour they’d work very hard and work as busily as they could and he would then ask them to stop and he would give them a glass of whisky to drink. I, myself, was not used to drinking drams as I am nowadays and I was quite against it then. But before I left the Isle of Rum, I wasn’t against one drop of the stuff. I was just as good as the next man at drinking before I left. We were working on the big roads for two shillings a day. Before we got near to building the big roads we had to build huts from pieces of wood rather higgedly piggedly two miles apart from one another. They were a good number of huts built along the way that the road was going. We went from the shore at a place called Kilmore with three planks on each of the shoulders of the two of us. There were six planks whi chaffed our shoulders. There was not one bit of skin left them that would do the work of a horse, or other poor souls who would do donkey work. When the men gave in, they used the horses and we were very fortunate. I spent a whole year there without quarrelling until we didn’t give a damn whether we left or not. My father asked me return home then. My hand began to get sore and when it got extremely painful I said to the timekeeper that I was going to go home:

“You’re not going home at all,” said the timekeeper. “I’ll give you some light work.”

I got light work by taking on the duty of a postman between the steamer and the huts. “You’ll work as a postman,” he said, “and you’ll get your pay.” “You may,” he said, “do the work you’ll get in three hours at most,” he said, “and the rest of the day will be yours and you’ll get your pay.”

Though my hand was still sore I agreed to take on the work. I got the work and:

“If I knew,” he said, “how to cross the mountain,” said the timekeeper, “that you’d be four miles in there.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said.

“Go down,” he said, “as far as Kilmore, where the shepherd is and maybe he’ll go over where the steamer comes in and you can go along with him and you can make your own way back to Kinloch.”

At any rate I went down to where the shepherd was who I knew well. I asked him if he was going to Kinloch today.

“No,” he said, “I was there only yesterday.”

“Oh, well,“ I said, “that’s too bad.”

“Are you going there?”

“Yes,” I said, “for the timekeeper asked me to go to where you were, and that if you were going then you’d teach me the way over the hill.”

“Angus, you can’t be beatean,” he said, “take the white horse with you and I’ll send her over the burn and it’ll know where it’s going. And you needn’t say one word to it as it will reach Kinloch.”

That is how it happened. The white horse was reined and a pack put on its back along with a stirrup. He got a hold of the horse and put the rein on: “Come on now, Angus,” he said, “the white horse is ready to go to Kinloch.”

He then went with the horse over the burn.

“Get on her back now,” he said, “and you needn’t walk one step of the way. The white horse will take you there or he’ll get you to all the best places in Kinloch. He’ll be there until you return.”

That is what happened in any case. I left with the horse. I had no need to pull the rein one way or other but left it as it was. The white horse trotted on taking its time going over the hill until we reached Kinloch. The best thing was that when we reached Kinloch and when the horse came to the road there was a gate in the way which was shut. When we reached the gate, he opened the gate with his mouth and he pushed it in. No man could have done what the horse had done. He then reached the stable door and he stood by the stable. There was a bolt on the door and I tell not one word of a lie. I alighted from the horse and before my feet had touched the ground, he had opened the stable door. He caught hold of the door-bolt in its teeth and he turned and pushed it in and then went into his own stall:

“Well, dear,” I said to myself, “you are a good friend indeed.”

And I went to the stable and indeed I didn’t give him a bag of grass but a good deal more as well as some seed too. I came out and a man was ploughing down in the field so I went down to where he was. I knew the ploughman very well. He was from Eigg and his name was Ewen and my business was with him. I handed a letter to him and he read it:

“Oh, aye,” he said, “the timkeeper wants me to go and shoe the horse but I can’t go down today but I can make the horseshores and give them to you.”

“Very well,” I said, “that’s fine. I’ll take them away with me and they’ll fix the white horse.”

“Well, I saw him coming,” he said, “and didn’t you tie him up in the stall?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I gave him a feed of barley.”

I didn’t mention the fact that I gave him a feed of seed.

“Well,” he said, “that’s the cleverest horse in all the world.”

“Well, Heavens,” I said, “yes, he’s clever – didn’t he open the gate and go in while I was still on his back he opened the stable door and he went in while I climbed off his back beside the stable door and he opened the stable door with his mouth.”

“Oh, he would,” he said, “as well as the granary door. The place where we keep our store of seed and that’s one of the only things kept there. He’ll then go up the stone steps there – there are eleven of them – and he’ll go up them and he’ll open and close the door.

He said, “but if he closes the door he’ll not open it from the inside.”

But anyway I was going in. When I got the horseshoes I went home that evening and I was carrying the four horseshoes for the timekeeper.

“Aye,” he said, “how did it go with you?”

“It couldn’t have been –,” I said, “even though the best man had been along with me he wouldn’t have made it any better.”

“Did the shepherd accompany you?”

“No, but even if he did,” I said, “I had a good friend that accompanied me for I had the white horse along with me,” I said, “and I didn’t need to walk a step,” I said, “since I left the shepherd’s house until I came back, I didn’t need to do any walking from the shepherd’s house to the hut.”

“Aye,” I said, “is Ewen going to make his way up?”

“He’ll not come until tomorrow,” I said, “but he did make the horsehshoes,” I said, “for the horse and have them with me here,” I said, “and he said that he’d be here first thing tomorrow.”

“Oh, very good,” he said.

I was now there and I was a postman for a very long time between Kinloch and the huts. My hand healed, leaving no scar. It was very sore but I did not lose one penny of my wages. Especially when the steamer came in and that’s when all I had to carry all the heavy bags. I used carry a gallon of whisky on my back and that night was pay night. And on such nights there would be a roup and and the next pay night you’d try to buy the best that you could get. I bought a silver watch and I paid a crown for it. I owned it for quite a while until it stopped working. There was nothing wrong with it other than it had became dirty.

“Away with you,” I said, “I’ll not keep this watch any longer as it not ticking at all. I’ll put it up for sale at the roup tonight.”

We had plenty of whisky. Anybody who bought anything would have to drink a dram. There was plenty dramming going on. I placed the watch on sale at the roup. I got 31 shillings for the watch:

“Oh, God, you made a good profit there.”

I owned a very beautiful chest made by a joiner they called Gilleasbuig, son of Calum, the father of Sunndachain (Donald MacPhee, from Nunton). And I put this up for sale at the roup as well. The chest had only cost me 15 schillings and it realised £2 and 10 pence and who bought it but our very own timekeeper:

“Well,” he said, “isn’t this just the ticket for me,” he said, “it has a lock and key,” he said, “and it’s not too big at all.”

“It’s just as good as a big one if not even better but you paid quite dearly for it,” I said.

“Yes, but it’s the joiner’s fine craftmanhip that made me pay over the odds and I’m very happy that I bought it.”

“Well,” I said, “if everyone paid me as well for the chest or for the watch then scarely would I sell the shirt off my back,” I said.

“How much did the chest cost you?” he asked.

“Well, it was brand new and I only just got it when I expected to come here so that I could keep some of my clothes in it and it cost me fifteen shillings but I more than doubled what it cost me,” I said.

“Oh, that’s how it is.”

“And I got a crown for the watch and I made an excellent profit,” I said. “There was nothing wrong with the watch and if you had showed me I’d have set up the watch for you in a minute.”

“Would you have set it up?”

“Yes, I would and it wouldn’t have cost you thing as there was nothing wrong with it only that it was dirty and I bet you that the man who bought wouldn’t pass it on for less than five pounds.”

“Away with you,” I said, “he paid me very well.”

But in any event a travellering salesman came round and he had clothing from Oban. Oh, but he didn’t sell any of his clothes at all. And so I went over to him and said:

“You’d be better off organsing a sale and maybe the things you sell will be quite cheap but you’ll get three times the amount [you paid for it] and you’ll not make a loss.”

“Who will make the sale?” he asked.

“We’ll organise a sale on your behalf in a second and if you don’t like the prices you only need to go back inside,” I said. “I’m going to Kinloch and there’ll be plenty of drink and,” I said, “I’ll wager that this will pay for your trip.”

“Well,” he said, “I’d better get two or three bottles for myself.”

“Oh, we’ll have plenty bottles,” I said.

“Oh, that’ll not do for me,” he said. “I’ll keep the men on drink and that’ll be for the best.”

“Very well,” I said, “as long as I can carry it,” I said, “I’ll take it with me.”

I left the next day and there was a good chance that I would have to carry a heavy load and so I went to Kilmore and I asked the shepherd:

“Can I get,” I asked, “a loan of the white horse today?”

“Will you have to carry a heavy load?” he asked.

“I’ll,” I said, “have a heavy load and if I get the white horse he would carry a load of the parcels.”

“Oh!” he said, “he’ll carry all the parcels. You’ll indeed get the horse and it’ll be best for me to put a couple of panniers on it.”

“Very well,” I said, “do that as it’ll be better for me like that.”

“Yes, it will,” he said.

Two panniers were put on the white horse, one on each side of it and I went on my way.

“You’ll go on top along with the panniers,” he said.

“No, the poor horse will manage just as it is and when the load is put on I’ll walk,” I said.

I got the white horse in any case and was there nearly all day until the steamer came round. The men of Kinloch were very kind and the porter on the steamer was also very kind. I spent most of the day as best I could until the steamer arrived. When the steamer came in there were plenty of letters and parcels that were needed for work and I also requested whisky which I got. When we landed:

“Well,” I said, “it’s now high time to make for the road. It’ll be night before I reach my destination.”

“Oh, God,” said the porter, “you’ll never manage with that amount of parcels you have. You’ll have to leave some of these things until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I said, “the shepherd’s white horse is a good carrier and it has two panniers.”

“Oh, then,” he said, “you’ve the best carrier in Rum for he is the only horse of his kind in the whole wide world.”

But in any case all the parcels were carried up to the stable.

“What are you going to do with that amount of drink?” he asked.

“Well, by the books,” I said, “we’ll have a big night and it’ll be well worth going to. If there is anything to sell it will be at the roup tonight and the men will be buying. They had been empty all week and perhaps for a week longer until it comes to the few who are going to buy then they’ll have to sell. But the packman we have tonight has a big pack or two of stuff to sell and I have no doubt at all that the men will get a bargain from the packman. He’ll also have a roup tonight. There is more drink than you can carry there tonight.”

“What sort of stuff does he have?”

“He has shirts, collars, trousers and suits and everthing else that you can think of and there’ll be plenty of beer being poured tonight.”

“Damn it, I really don’t want to,” he said.

“Indeed, if I were in your boots I’d definitely go,” I said.

“If I could get someone else to come along with me I would definitely go,” he said.

But, in any case, I gave a message to Ewen the Eiggman that we were going to have a big sale tonight and that he should go.

“We’re not having a sale but the packman is – I’m sure that I saw him around here,” I said.

“That man is going to have a sale and I have no doubt at all,” he said, “that evey man will get himself a bargain.”

“Perhaps there might be some dear things but there’ll be also be good things that’ll be reasonably cheap.”

“Ah, well,” said Ewen, “no doubt I’ll go.”

“If you do,” I said, “there is a porter going as well but only if he gets someone to go along with him.”

“Oh, then,” he said, “I’d better give him the message. What time will it be on?”

“I’m sure,” I said, “when we have our dinner,” I said, “when they come home after work and then they’ll have a wash and then the sale will be on.”

“Where will it be?”

I said it’ll be in the hut where it always was. But, anyway, I gave the message to the shepherd when the sale was going to be on and I found the shepherd by himself. And the shepherd had a good dram from me out of the bottle I got from the steamer. And the shepherd, Ewen the Eiggman, and all the workmen as well as the packman, were all together in the hall and then the roup began. A man called MacRae was the auctioneer.

“And, now, try to get the business done as quickly as possible and when I put a bid in for something that both you and I like so that we can get something cheaper than the rest and we can divide it between us when the sale has finished.”

“Go on now,” he said, “buy and you’ll get something that is reasonably cheap.”

The sale started and the first thing to come out was a box of collars, stiff collars pinned together as hard as rock. Oh, no one would pay a shilling for the boxes.”

“Go now,” I said, “put a bid down.”

A bid was placed and nothing else happened.

“Ah,” he said, “going for one, two, three.”

I got the boxes of collars and there was a dozen for six shillings. So a box of collars cost me six pence for each one. Then a large shirt came out for eighteen shillings and I bought that. Another one came out too for eighteen shillings and I also bought it. Then a blouse was brought forth and because the porter’s daughter was very nice so didn’t I buy the blouse also and it was a fancy one and it cost a schilling and three pennies.

But I bought a [shirt?] and also two pairs of trousers, one for myself and a pair for Christopher and they were pretty cheap. There were some very dear ones that came out especially when the drink had taken its hold on the men. But, in any case, the packman was soon finished. Ewen the Eiggman purchased two shirts, the porter purchased two pairs of trousers and they were pretty cheap. The packman sold everything that he had. When he had counted up his money between everything that was cheap and dear he was very pleased.

“I hope,” I said, “that you enjoyed the sale.”

“Well,” he said, “I didn’t make a loss on anything that I had and it will not be long before I’m back here and that’s what I intend to do. If I had made a loss on some things then I would have made it up on the rest that wasn’t really worth that much and I have nothing left of it and it has been cheap for me. I got my money all together in the one place rather than travelling around for it. I only have to watch out for the steamer arriving as she is returning back from Uist but I’ll be back and we’ll do the same thing as we did tonight.

He had not quite finished the bottles but he offered them to all the men. He was an awfully nice man and the next day I left for Kilmore and then left there and I went to Kinloch and I was there all day until nightfall when I then went back home. I used to go there and back each and everyday and I never felt the nights go by at all. If stories were not being told, then songs were sung and the nights were passed like that. And if there was none of that then there would be dancing. Yes, there would be as well as many other things to occupy me. A few of the men from the Isle of Skye were excellent storytellers and singers. And the night passed by and that was the world we lived in, and there were great crowds who gathered around. There were a few men from the Lowlands but they never joined us at all. The Gaels kept to themselves and we kept up the old customs. But even at that a few of them came in and they enjoyed themselves by putting down the Gaels and they weren’t worth it. But they were most welcome to have a fight and they were all thrown off the island or they wouldn’t have lived much longer. And there you have it: the story of my time in Rum. I spent a whole year there and it felt as if it had been just one day. I returned home then and so I spent some time at home.

Reference:

NFC 1180, pp. 301–548

Image:
Angus MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s.