Angus MacMillan’s Life Story – VI [Mallaig]

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 sixth part (NFC 1180, pp. 345–68) where MacMillan relates to Maclean his time working on the West Highland Line, between Fort William and Mallaig and was eventually opened in 1901. 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:

6. Mallaig

MacMillan’s next period of employment was working on the West Highland railway line between Fort William and Mallaig. MacMillan spent three years working on the line. Various men from the islands such as Skye and Harris worked along with the locals and Irish. There was tension between the groups of workmen especially when drink was involved. MacMillan gives a graphic description of a fight that took place one night when the islanders and the Irish fought one another. A while afterwards MacMillan got a job as a carter on the railway line and describes this in a fair amount of detail. After breaking his fingers in an accident, MacMillan left the job after receiving compensation.

6. Obair am Malaig

Dh’fhalbh mi an uair sin a-rithist agus chaidh mi gu line Mhalaig agus bha mi aig toiseach na laineadh ann a shineach an àite ris an canadh iad Malaig gus na chum sinn romhainn sìos fad an t-siubhail gus an d’ràine sinn àite ris an canadh iad Ceann Loch Aoineart. Bha sinn ann a shin agus chaidh dà mheòir agam-sa a bhristeadh ann a shin. Agus b’ fheudar dhomh tilleadh dhachaigh.

A’ chiad oidhche a chaidh sinn ann bha sinn a’ siubhal feuch am faigheamaid loidseadh agus ràine sinn an seo hut, hut ùr a bh’ air an togail. Stiùireadh orra sinn agus ràine sinn i agus dh’fhaighneachd sinn am faigheamaid loidseadh an seo agus thuirt an tè a bha a’ frithealadh dha na daoine.

“Gheibh,” ors’ ise. “Gheibh sibh loidseadh,” ors’ ise. “Tha,” ors’ ise. “còig leapannan eile falamh an seo,” ors’ ise, “agus,” ors’ ise, “tha sibh glè lucky.”

Fhuair sinn a-staigh ann a shin agus cò a nochd a-nuas ach fear Moireasanach à rum eile a bh’ ann shiud. Agus thàinig e a-nuas agus ghabh e dìreach straight far a robh mi fhìn:

“Well, Aonghais,” ors’ esan, “thàine tu gon an ànraidh ma deireadh.”

“Thàinig,” ors’ mi fhìn. “Thàine mi gon an ànraidh ceart gu leòr,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach is dòcha nach bi ànradh ann.”

“Tha mi a’ tuigsinn,” orsa a’ bhean-taighe. a bha seoach, “gura h-aithnte dhuibh-se an gille òg, a Sheonaidh.”

“O! ’s aithnte,” ors’ esan. “Bha mise,” ors’ esan, “trì bliadhna,” ors’ esan, “san àite as a bheil an gille agus cha robh oidhche ris an t-saoghal,” ors’ esan, “fad nan trì bliadhna sin nach robh mi an taigh athar air chèilidh agus chan eil iongnadh,” ors’ esan, “ged a bhithinn eòlach air agus nì sibh-se biadh,” ors’ esan.

Dh’fhaighneachd e, Seonaidh Moireasdanach a bha seo, cò an fheadhainn a bha còmhla rium:

“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “an companach a bh’ agam,” orsa mi fhìn, “Ailean Dòmhnallach,” orsa mise, “sin a bhràthair,” orsa mi fhìn,” agus,” orsa mise, “sin agad cousin eile dha – fear eile a bh’ ann, agus ’s e cousin dhomh fhìn a tha às an fhear-sa,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus bha sibh gu math eòlach air.”

“Dè,” ors’ esan, “a chanas iad ris?”

“Aonghas mac Uilleim.”

“Ho,” ors’ esan, “s iomadh facal a gheàrr e orm agus ’s tu th’ ann gun teagamh.”

Fhuair sinne gabhail againn co-dhiù agus dh’òrdaich Seonaidh Moireasdan ar dinnear a thoir’ dhuinn uileadh:

“Well,” ors’ esan, Dòmhnall, bràthair Ailein, “cha leig sinn ’ugad idir ar biadh,” ors’ esan, “Pàighidh sinn fhìn e,” ors’ esan.

“O! an-dà,” ors’ esan, “tha sibh a’ faighinn seo,” ors’ esan “airson ’s iomadh biadh a fhuair mise aig a h-uile h-aon agaibh,” ors’ esan, “gu h-àraidh,” ors’ esan, “an taigh agaibh-se agus taigh Aonghais,” ors’ esan, “agus gheibh sibh ur dinnear uileag bhuam-sa,” ors’ esan. “Cha phàigh sibh sgillin dheth.”

Fhuair sinn ar deagh dhinnear agus bha esan ga dhressaigeadh fhèin is ga chuir fhèin an òrdan:

“Well,” ors’ esan “thèid sinn ceart sìos a-nist,” ors’ esan, “rathad na hotel,” ors’ esan, “feuch cò chì sinn. Is dòcha,” ors’ esan, “gum faic sinn luch-eòlais gu leòr.”

Dh’fhalbh sinn. Bha againn ri mìle a choiseachd agus ràine sinn an hotel a bha seoach agus a Shiorrachd Naomh! sheas sinne aig gàrradh ann a shineach is theann à-san air cruinneachadh. Theann sluagh air tighinn is theann sluagh air tighinn. Ach thàinig aon fhear mòr, mòr de dh’Èireannach, de dh’fhear mòr ruadh. B’ aithnte dha Seonaidh:

“Well,” ors’ esan, “tha mi glè thoilichte gum faca mi thu,” ors’ esan. “Cò an fheadhainn a tha còmhla riut an sin?” ors’ esan.

“Tha,” orsa Seonaidh, “friends dhomh fhìn,” ors’ esan, “a thàinig an-diugh gon na h-obrach.”

“O! glè mhath,” ors’ esan, “gabhaibh a-staigh mar seo,” ors’ esan. “Tha oidhche mhòr chunnartach,” ors’ esan, “gus a bhith an seo a-nochd.”

“Dè,” ors’ esan, Seonaidh, “an oidhche a tha sin?”

“Innisdh mi sin dhut,” ors’ esan, “nuair a thèid sinn a-staigh.”

Ghabhadh a-staigh an rum ann a shin agus:

“Well,” ors’ esan, “tha na h-Èireannaich againne,” ors’ esan, “tha iad shuas,” ors’ esan, “an Àrasaig,” ors’ esan, “agus dhochainn na Sgitheanaich,” ors’ esan, “gu dubh iad agus chuir iad iar falbh à Àrasaig iad,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “ tha body math,” ors’ esan, “aig na h-Èireannaich a-nochd,” ors’ esan. “Tha na Sgitheanaich,” ors’ esan, “agus na Tearraich a’ tighinn a-nuas,” ors’ esan, “agus tha sinn,” ors’ esan, “airson an cartadh air falbh,” ors’ esan, “far na laine (line) buileach.”

Ring e am bell, an duine mòr a bha sineach agus thàinig nighean a-nuas:

“Bheir ’ugam-sa,” ors’ esan, “dà ghalan leann agus botal uisge-bheatha a-nuas ann a sheo.”

Chaidh an nighean sìos agus thàinig an dà ghalan leann agus am botal uisge-bheatha. Dh’fhalbh e agus dh’fhosgail e am botal agus fhuair e glaineachan mar coinneamh uile. Chuir e deagh ghlaine sa h-uile tumalair agus an tumalair a bh’ aige fhèin chuir e pailt dà ghlaine ann.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “air ur deagh luck, air ur deagh shlàinte,” ors’ esan. “Tha mi an dòchas,” ors’ esan, “gum bi deagh luck a-nochd ann.”

“Bidh slàtaradh an seo,” ors’ esan, “a bhios sgràthail agus air ur bàs,” ors’ esan, “na teirg sibh-se a-mach air an seo,” ors’ esan, “gus an tig mise gur n-iarraidh gun ach tighinn a-nochd air neo,” ors’ esan, “bi droch theans agaibh,” ors’ esan, “nach fhaigh sibh ach an droch làimhseachadh. Agus cuimhnich a-nist, a Sheonaidh,” ors’ esan, “tha mi ag earbsa riut,” ors’ esan, “gun aonan dhe na gillean a ligeil a-mach air toll an dorais ud gus an tig mise a seo gur n-iarraidh. Òla’ sibh an deoch seo air mo shlàinte-sa,” ors’ esan, “agus tha e cinnteach,” ors’ esan, “gur h-e oidhche chruaidh a bhios ann.”

Agus dh’fhàg e slàn againn agus b’ e sin an oidhche sgràthail. Theann an row agus theann an row agus theann e gu sgràthail cuideachd. Chuireadh shutters ris na h-uinneagan. Bha na botail is na clachan is a h-uile sìon a’ fireadh cho trang is ged a bhithea’ tu aig uchd teine ann am batal. Bha an oidhche sgràthail. Cha cluinnea’ tu ach murt a-muigh. Well, cha do bhean sinne riamh dhan dram. Dh’òl sinn pàirt dhe na glaineachan gu dearbha, ach cha do bheanadh riamh tuilleadh dhan dram. Cha robh dìog mu dheireadh ann. Bha an oidhche air dorcharachadh. Chuireadh solas a-nuas ’ugainne agus bha sinn ann a shin. Bha sinn a’ faighneachd dhen fheadhainn a bha a’ tighinn a-nuas gu dìomhair a bha an gnothach a’ dol a-muigh.

“Chan eil,” ors’ à-san, “ach murt is marbhadh, gnothach sgràthail,” ors’ à-san, “a’ dol a-muigh ann a shiud. Tha na dorsan glaiste againn,” ors’ esan, “agus chan eil rathad again air faighinn a-mach. Tha mi cinnteach gum bheil a’ chuid is mutha dhiubh marbh air an rathad.”

Ach co-dhiù dh’ fhàs an gnothach balbh mu dheireadh. Cha robh dìog ann. Thàinig am fear ruadh ann an ceann treis mhath nuair a bha am balbhadh air tighinn air gnothach agus chuireadh an òrdag aige far an uilt. Bha i na clibean a’ slaodadh ris.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “chan eil saighdear sam bith,” ors’ esan, “nach d’fheuch e an t-saothair,” ors’ esan, “mura bi leòn air,” ors’ esan. “Tha leòn orm-sa, “is tha an òrdag agam briste air neo far an uilt.” Theannadh air a slaodadh co-dhiù, a’ slaodadh na h-òrdaig, na làimhe aige. ’S ann a bha an duine calma. Rinn i a seo brag:

“Tha,” ors’ esan, “amhras,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil i air a dhol air an alt,” ors’ esan.

Bha nèiprig nam phoca fhìn agus staibigeadh gu teann cruaidh air e. Cha robh aige ri a toir às an sin gu ceann cunntais lathaichean air eagal is gum falbhadh i a-rithist. Sheall e air a’ bhòrd:

“Cha ’reid mi fhìn,” ors’ esan, “gun a dh’òl sibh deur,” ors’ esan, “o dh’fhalbh mi às an seo.”

“Cha do dh’òl, gu dearbha,” orsa Seònaidh, ors’ esan, “cha ligeadh an sgrath leinn òl,” ors’ esan.

“Nam biodh tu a-muigh,” ors’ esan “’s ann a bha a’ chulaidh sgrath. Tha iad marbh,” ors’ esan, “air an rathad. Chan eil Sgitheanach na Tearrach ri fhaichinn agus fhuair na h-Èireannaich fhèin,” ors’ esan, “a làimhseachadh gu dubh,” ors’ esan, “on fheadhainn eile cuideachd ach ged a fhuair,” ors’ esan, “tha am better aca. Rinn na h-Èireannaich an gnothach orra.”

Ach dh’òladh am botal sin co-dhiù agus ring e am bell a-rithist. Bha mi fhìn glè bhàidheil ris na h-Èireannaich agus bha iad bàidheil rium cuideachd. Ach co-dhiù dh’iarr e an ath-òrdan, botal uisge-bheatha agus an leann:

“A!” ors’ Seonaidh, ors’ esan, “tha an leann gun bheantail riamh dhà agus pàighidh mi fhìn,” ors’ esan, “am botal uisge-bheatha.”

“Is tu nach pàigh,” ors’ esan. “Pàighidh mi fhìn e,” ors’ esan.

Ach cha do dh’òrdaicheadh an leann idir. Bha gu leòr de leann ann:

“Gheibh sinn tuilleadh cuideachd,” ors’ esan. “Tha mi coma,” ors’ esan, “on a chaidh an latha leinn,” ors’ esan.

Agus sa gaffer a bha seo às an fhear mhòr seo agus ’s ann aige a bha belt air làidireachd is treasad, ’s ann aige a bha belt na laineadh air fad. Cha robh duine ri suathadh idir ris. Bha e cho làidir sin. Ach, co-dhiù, chuir sinn seachad an còrr oidhche ann a shineach agus rinn sinn an seo airson an rathaid. Chan e an aon rathad a bh’ aig Seonaidh Moireasdan agus aig an fhear-sa idir. ’S ann a bha e a’ fuireach air an taobh a deas dhan hotel a bha seo agus ’s ann a bha sinne a’ dol gon an ear.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “chì mi a-màireach sibh,” ors’ esan, “a Sheonaidh,” ors’ esan, “agus chì mi càch cuideachd,” ors’ esan. “Ma thig iad rathad a’ c(h)utting agam-sa,” ors’ esan, “mura h-eil obair aca,” ors’ esan, “gheibh iad e.”

Ach co-dhiù:

“O!” orsa Seonaidh, ors’ esan, “tha obair aig a h-uile h-aonan aca,” ors’ esan. “Fhuair iad obair,” ors’ esan, “cho luath is a thàinig iad.”

Ach a leithid sin a sgràthalachd chan fhaca riamh. O dh’fhalbhadh o dhoras na hotel a bha sin, bha staca de dhaoine ann a shin marbh nan cuid faladh fad an t-siubhail suas gus an robh e mu thuairmse agus mu dhà cheud slat on hut as an robh sinne a’ fuireach. ’S ann a stad na cuirp a bha sin. Cha robh an rathad mòr ach a’ flodadh le fuil san ùine sin suas ri mìle a dh’ astar. Ach, co-dhiù, chaidh an oidhche sin seachad agus ’n uair a ràine sinn a’ hut:

“Ach, a Dhia nan Gràsan,” ors’ a’ landlady, “gu diamar a fhuair sìbh-se cho sàbhailte seo dhachaigh. Chan fhaca sinne is tha mi an dòchas nach fhaic a leithid de sgràthalachd is a mhurt air an rathad is a bh’ ann a-nochd agus an-diugh.”

“O! cha do dh’èirich sìon dhuinne,” orsa Seonaidh, ors’ esan. “Bha sinn ann an rum a-staigh glaiste ann a shiud,” ors’ esan, “agus bha sinn ann riamh,” ors’ esan, “gus an deach a’ row seachad. Sin,” ors’ esan, “nuair a fhuair sinn mar sgaoil.”

Ach, co-dhiù, chaidh an oidhche sin seachad is an làr-na-mhàireach an fheadhainn a dh’\èirich is a fhuair eàladh air falbh dh’fhalbh iad, ach an fheadhainn a bha rag-mharbh bha iad a shiud. Thàinig poilisman. Theann ceasnachadh fad buan na seachdainn cò bu choireach air a’ row a bha seo a thogail. Cha d’fhuair iad answer riamh is cha d’fhuair iad a-mach riamh cò thog a row na a leag e ach gun robh beagan dhe na Sgitheanaich ag innseadh gur h-e na h-Èireannaich a bha ag obair orra. Cha b’ urrainn daibh a dhèanamh a-mach cò bha ag obair orra. Bha iad ag obair ùine mhòr, mhòr a’ ceansachadh mu dheidhinn. Agus bhathar gam cheasnachadh-sa mar a ceanda ach chan fhaca mise sìon na duine a bha còmhla rium agus cha b’ urrainn dhuinn sìon a ràdha. Cha chuala sinn dad ach nuair a bha sinn a’ dol dachaigh gun robh na cuirp a’ tachairt ruinn nam cuid faladh. Cha robh fhios againn on t-saoghal gu dè an gnothach a bh’ ann.
Ach bha aon Èireannach ann a shin agus bha e anabarrach fhèin beannaichte agus a h-uile Didòmhnaich ris an t-saoghal – bha e ag obair sa chutting comhla rium-sa, is a h-uile Didòmhnaich ris an t-saoghal bha e a’ tighinn a dh’ ionnsaigh doras an hut againn an latha nach biodh pears-eaglais againn fhìn. Bha sinn a’ dol suas dhan choillidh ann a shin is dh’fheumamaid ruith air ar n-ùrnaigh a ceithir na còig a thaipichean ma faigheamaid clear aig an Èireannach.

Sin agad aon Èireannach a b’ fheàrr leam-sa a chunna mi riamh agus nan tigeadh e rathad mo thaighe b’e làn-dì-a-bheatha fantail còmhla rium fhad ’s bu bheò e. Chan fhaca mi aonan riamh a chuirinn air thoiseach air agus sin mar a bha. Tim an t-ainm a bh’ air. ’S e Tim a bhathar ag èigheach dhà. Chan eil sìon a dh’fhios ’m an e sin an t-ainm-baistidh aige ach ’s e Tim a bhathar ag èigheach dhà. Nuair a bhristeadh na corragan agam-sa chuir am fear sin dheth an lèine a bha ma chroit a dhèanamh bandage air dha na corragan agam-sa gus an d’ fhuair mi an cuir air dòigh. Agus dhealaich mise bhon duine sin. B’ fheàrr leam gu faicinn fhathast e agus b’e a bheatha còmhla rium. 
Treis as a dheaghaidh sin a-rithist fhuair mi nam chairtear aig an lainidh agus ’s e aon luchd sa latha a bha mi a’ toir’ air falbh às an àite is an dòigh a bh’ aca ann a shineach, nuair a thigeadh bruthach mòr cas orra, cus na a chaochladh bha iad a’ dalladh air an each bhochd a bha as a’ chairt agus tuna air a dhruim le maide. Bha an t-each sin a’ falbh mar a’ ghaoth suas an aghaidh a’ bhruthaich. Bha e a’ toir’ fairis a’ call analach faisg air an dala leth dhen bhruthach. Mar a bithea’ tu clever bhiodh a’ chairt agus an t-each a dhìth. Dh’fheuma’ tu an uair sin maide a chur eadar na spògan a dhèanamh spraic. Well, cha robh mi deònach idir a dhol nam chairtear leis an dìol a bh’ air na brùidean ach b’ fheudar dhomh a dhol ann. Fhuair mi each mòr dubh as an stable ann a shineach a sheall an timekeeper dhomh agus dh’ iarr e orm feed sìl a thoirt’ dhà.

“Agus,” ors’ esan, “cha bhi agad ach aon luchd ri thoir’ air falbh agus,” ors’ esan, “’s e luchd cement a tha an-dràsta a’ dol suas,” ors’ esan, “a dh’ ionnsaigh nan clachairean gu a leithid seo a dhrochaid agus,” ors’ esan, “nuair a ruigeas tu shuas,” ors’ esan, “resta tu leis an each,” ors’ esan, “agus mun till thu,” ors’ esan, “bi an t-àm,” ors’ esan, “ann. Cha dèan thu an gnothach air dà thrip idir,” ors’ esan. “Tha an t-astar,” ors’ esan, “tuilleadh is fada. Ach nuair a bhios astar goirid ann,” ors’ easn, “nì thu dà luchd dheth.”

Well, fhuair an t-each feed sìl agus thug mise leam mo bhiadh fhìn mar a thug mi leam biadh an eich. Thug mi leam sìol agus feur agus chaidh mi a dh’ ionnsaigh an àite as a robhar a’ faighinn an t-cement agus chuir mi tuna air.

Chan e gun do chuir mise spagal air ach bha feadhainn an siud airson a bhith a’ lìonadh. Chuireadh an tuna air an each le cairt mhòir, mhòir. Cha robh agad ri ceum coiseachd a dhèanamh. Dh’fhaoda’ tu a bhith air mullach an luchd còmh’ ris an tuna. A’ chiad leathad leig mi rest leis aig bonn an leathaid. Fhuair mi nosebag agus chuir mi suas mun treas cuid de dh’fheed as an nosebag. Bha mi ga bhoineach ann a shin is ga shuathadh. Theann an t-teach air ithe agus dh’ith e uileag e. Thug mi an nosebag dheth agus chuir mi air na siollachan e agus thug mi òrdan an ceann treiseadh dhà tarraing. Cha do bhuail mi sràc na eile air ach bha e glè thoilichte airson a dhol na ruith. Rinn mi an sin a chumail agus dhìrich an t-each còir am brùthach gun strì gus an do ràinig e am mullach aige. Agus ràinig e barr a’ bhruthaich gun stad. Thug mi air stad a-rithist nuair a chaidh e seachad air a’ bhruthach. Chuir mi stad air agus fhuair e beagan de shìol an uair sin a-rithist bhuam agus nuair a dh’ ith e sin thug mi òrdan tarraing dha agus dh’fhalbh e. Cha do halt e riamh tuilleadh gus an do ràinig e an drochaid. Thionndaidh mi aig an drochaid an uair sin agus thugadh às a’ cement uile gu lèir às a’ chairt. Leigeadh às an t-each an uair sin agus chuireadh cofar air a mhuin agus fhuair e deagh fheed ann a shin. Chan e dà uair a fhuair e e ach a trì. Cha robh agam ri bruidhinn tuilleadh. Bha mi ceart-a-coma ach a bhith a-staigh ron uair aig an stàbla. Ràine mi a sin an stàbla agus chuir mi air dòigh an t-each. Cò thàinig mun cuairt ach an timekeeper.

“Ciamar a chòrd an trip riut?” ors’ esan.

“A! glè mhath,” orsa mise.

“Na chòrd an t-each riut?”

“Each math,” orsa mi fhìn, “each math, math a th’ ann ach a dhòigh fhèin a chumail ris. Dearbha,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha mi a’ smaointinn gum bheil e air each cho math is a th’ air an lainidh.”

“Very well,” ors’ esan, “ma chòrdas an gnothach riut, bi thu a seo tuilleadh, ach tha an stable glè fhada bhuat,” ors’ esan, “ach an rud a nì sinn, an fheadhainn a tha a’ glanadh a’ stable,” ors’ esan, “bheir iad biadh dhan each,” ors’ esan, “air neo,” ors’ esan, “thig thusa a-nuas faisg air an stable,” ors’ esan, “agus bi fhios agad gu diamar a bhios an t-each ga fheedadh.”

“Chan eil mi airson dealachadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “ris an àite loidsidh as a bheil mi,” orsa mise. “Tha mi eòlach air a h-uile duine a tha innte, as a’ hut,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus a-muigh na a-mach,” orsa mise, “chan eil mi airson dealachadh rithe.”

“O! glè mhath, ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “cha ruig thu a leas,” ors’ esan, “a bhith aig an uair ann,” ors’ esan. “Tha a’ thaip fhèin aig a h-uile cairtear a tha seo ri dhèanamh,” ors’ esan, “agus bi thusa a’ dèanamh do thrip fhèin,” ors’ esan, “mar a nì iad fhèin.”

Bha mi a’ cumail air a sineach aon seachd na ochd a sheachdainean agus bha an gnothach a’ còrdadh rium glè mhath ach gun robh e car dall. Cha robh e idir a’ còrdadh rium cho math is a bhith sa chompany. Ach latha dhe na lathaichean agus mi a’ falbh air an aon rathad is a bha mi a’ chiad latha dh’fhaighneachd an gaffer dhen timekeeper:

“Ciamar,” ors’ esan, “a tha an gille òg a dh’fhalbh às an seo a’ còrdadh riut?”

“O!” ors’ esan, “’s e gille each a th’ ann. Tha e glè mhath,” ors’ esan. “Gu dearbh, gu dearbha is toigh leis an t-each a bhios aige,” ors’ esan, “a bhith gu math glan. Tha e a’ còrdadh rium glè mhath,” or’ esan.

“Socair ort,” ors’ esan, “tha e,” ors’ esan, “seachad ann a shin,” ors’ esan, “agus garbh-luchd aige,” ors’ esan. “Dìridh an t-each sin,” ors’ esan, “le aon sweep,” ors’ esan, “an-diugh,” ors’ esan, “an leathad mòr. Chan fhaca mise each riamh fhathast air an lainidh,” ors’ esan, “ga dhèanamh ach e fhèin,” ors’ esan.

“Dìridh gu dearbha!” ors’ esan.

“Dìridh, ach ’s e an gille is coireach.”

Nuair a ràine mise bonn an leathaid stad mi mar a stad mi roimhe agus thug mi rud beag de shìol dhà.

“Dè tha e ris ann a shiud?” ors’ esan.

“Tha e a’ toir’ rest dhan each,” ors’ an gaffer, ors’ esan, “gus am bi aige ris an leathad a dhìreadh.”

“Tha e a’ toir’ rudeigin dha,” ors’ esan, “Tha mi a’ smaointinn gur h-e rud beag sìl a tha e a’ toir’ dhà.”

Ach, co-dhiù, dh’fhan an timekeeper riamh às a’ chutting. Cha robh mise ga fhaicinn idir gus an do dh’fhalbh mi agus thug mi òrdan dhan each falbh. Dh’fhalbh an t-each gu sùnndach suas gun strì gus an do ràinig e an ceann shuas aig an leathad gun stad agus nuair a chaidh e pìos seachad air an leathad thug mi air stad.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “sin mar bu chòir dhaibh. Sin mar a tha mise a’ call nan each,” ors’ esan. Cha seas eich ann a sheoach mionaid,” ors’ esan, “air sàilliu,” ors’ esan, “nach eil draibhairean cearta aca.”

Ach oidhche sin bha an timekeeper romham as an stable.

“Tha thu air tighinn, ’ille,” ors’ esan.

“Tha,” orsa mise.

“Ciamar a tha an t-each dubh a’ còrdadh riut?”

“Tha e glè mhath a-nist,” ors’ mi fhìn, “ach cha robh e cho math,” orsa mi fhìn, “nuair a fhuair mi e,” ors’ esan.

“O!” ors’ esan, “tha thusa a’ còrdadh ris an each dhubh,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “cha do thachair do leithid riamh ris. Chan fhaca mise beothach riamh,” ors’ esan, “a’ dìreadh an leathaid sin nach stadadh e sa mheadhan, ach an t-each dubh,” ors’ esan, “ach tha dòigh agad,” ors’ esan, “nach eil aig na cairtearan eile idir. Chan eil thu gan dochann idir,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “agus tha na h-eich,” ors’ esan, “a’ dèanamh fada nas fheàrr na bhith gan dochann.”

“O! tha,” ors’ mi fhìn, “tha an t-each-sa a’ dèanamh math co-dhiù,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus dhèanadh a h-uile h-each mar a tha an t-each dubh a’ dèanamh,” orsa mi fhìn, “nan gabhadh iad ealla riutha.”

Ach, co-dhiù, bha mi ag obair ann a shineach deagh threis agus nuair a fhuair mi mo phàigheadh an trip a bha seo, thuirt mi ris an timekeeper nach robh mi a’ dol a dh’ fhantail a seo idir.

“Dè thuirt thu?” ors’ ean.

“Chan eil mi a’ dol a dh’ fhantail idir ann.”

“Dè tha gad chuir às?”

“Tha e tuilleadh is dall. B’ fheàrr leam cus, cus a bhith ann an company,” ors’ mise. “Bi bruidhinn a-null is a-nall againn,” orsa mi fhin, “is cha bhi mi a’ faireachdainn na h-ùine cho fada.”

“Well,” ors’ esan, “chan fhalbh thu idir. Gheibh thu àrdachadh tuarastail.”

“Tha mi coma cò aca mun tuarastal,” ors’ mi fhìn. “Is fheàrr leam na daoine.”

Gun doubt air an t-saoghal cha robh overtime idir ann ach gheibhinn overtime as a’ chutting as an robh mi cha mhòr a h-uile h-oidhche agus b’ fheàrr leam overtime na mo thuarastal agus bha sinn a’ togail tuarastal math. Ach dh’fhalbh mi às an sin cò-dhiù agus thill mi gon a’ ghaffer againn fhìn air ais, a’ chiad fhear agus ghabh e a-staigh mi.

“An ann air fàs coma,” ors’ esan, “a tha thu dhen chairtearachd?”

“’S ann,” orsa mi fhìn. “Chan eil a’ chompany cho math. B’ fheàrr leam-sa a’ chompany,” orsa mi fhin, “na gad a gheibhinn fichead not as t-seachdain.”

“O! well,” ors’ esan, “leanadh a’ chairtearachd agus idir, idir chan eil an obair trom,” ors’ esan.

“O! chan eil e gu diofar,” orsa mise.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “tha gu leòr a-staigh ann a sheo,” ars’ esan, “agus tha bodach a-muigh aig tail a’ bhanca a’ cumail air dòigh na railichean agus thèid thu a-mach còmhla ris. Tha e ag iarraidh helper.

“Glè mhath,” orsa mise, “thèid mi ann a shin.”

Bha mise còmh’ ri bodach Sgitheanach ann a shineach agus chan fhaca mi a leithid riamh. Bha de naidheachdan aige a’ Chriosdachd mhòr. Agus bha each ann a shin cuideachd a’ falbh le bogey a’ tarrainn chlachan a’ cumail na leineadh air dòigh agus each bu chleabhara a chunna mi riamh. Bhiodh sia is a seachd a bhogeys às a dheaghaidh agus nuair a ruigeadh e aon stèidse ann a shin stadadh e agus bheirte bhuaithe na bogeys uile ach aon fhear. Dh’fhalbhadh e an uair sin cho luath ris a’ ghaoith agus nuair a ruigeadh e aon àite àraidh bha e a’ gearradh leum a-mach far à rail agus bha an driver aig a huic agus bha e a’ caitheamh an dà huic dheth le maide. Bha an t-each clear is bha am bogey a’ falbh. Bha am bogey a’ còpadh leis fhèin aig ceann a’ bhanc’ is bha e a’ tilleadh air ais. Bha an t-each ceanda sin a’ tarraing a’ bhogey suas gus a ruitheadh a h-uile h-aonan dhiubh, gun còpadh e a h-uile h-aonan dhiubh agus bha mi ann a shineach aon mhios na sia seachdainnean. Gu dearbha, gu dearbha cha do rinn mi mòran na am bodach. Cha robh againn ach an rail a chumail air aghaidh mar a bha a’ laine a’ dol agus ma bha cnap de chlachan ga leagadh le pinseanna. Cha robh sinn a’ dèanadh feuch sia sgillinn san latha. Bha sinn ann a shin ùine mhòr, mhòr. Thill mise a-staigh dhan chutting air ais agus sin an trip air an do bhristeadh mo chorragan. Bhristeadh mo chorragan ann a shin agus mi a’ putadh a-staigh claicheach dhan bhogey. Agus bha a’ chlach briste gu nàdarra co-dhiù ach cha robh fhios againn air agus nuair a laigh i air beul a’ bhogey chaidh i na dà leith agus rug a leith air na corragan agam-sa agus bhrist mi an dà mheòir agam. Am fear a bha shuas aig a’ chrann, Tim bochd, an t-Èireannach, thàinig e a-nuas agus chuir e dheth a lèine a bha ma dhruim a’ dèanamh staileadh dhomh-sa gus an d’ fhuair mi dhan ospadal. Is dh’fhalbh an gille Èireannach còmhla rium agus chaidh sinn dhan ospadal agus chuireadh suas na làmhan agam ann a shin agus tha iad glè mhath an ceartuair, ach chan eil dà chorraig orm is làidire na iad, ged a bha iad glè thruagh an uair sin. Thàine mise dhachaigh an uair sin agus cha robh mi air faighinn dhachaigh idir mura biodh gun robh an dotair, nach robh e fad sam bith bhuam is gu faodainn fhaicinn fichead uair sin latha nan tograinn. Agus ’s e an dotair a fhuair dhomh deagh chuid airgid far na company. Fhuair mi còrr is deich nota fichead a dh’airgead agus ’s e dotair a’ pharaisde againn fhìn ’s e thug a-mach dhomh e agus nuair a fhuair mi sin bha mi deònach deich notaichean dhe sin a thoir’ dhan dotair is cha ghabhadh e aon sgillinn agus rinn e glè mhath rium-sa.

Employment in Mallaig

I set off again and I went to work on the Mallaig line and I was at the beginning of the line at the place called Mallaig and until we kept on all the time until were reached a place they called Kinlochaileort. We were there and two of my fingers were broken and so I had to return home.

The first night we were there we had to travel around so that we could find lodgings and we reached this newly-built hut. We went towards it and when we reached it we asked if there was any lodgings to be had and the woman who was attending the workmen said:

“Yes, you’ll get lodgings,” she said.

“There are five empty beds here and therefore you’re very lucky.”

We went in and who came down but from one of the other rooms but a man called Morrison. And he came down and made straight for me:

“Well, Angus,” he said, “you have come to this place of misfortune at last.”

“Yes,” I said, “I came to this place of misfortune all right but perhaps there’ll be no occurrence of misfortune here.”

“I see,” said the housewife, “that you recognise this you man, Johnnie.”

“O, yes,” he said, “I spent three years in the same place as this lad and there wasn’t a night that went by when I didn’t visit his father’s house and it’s little wonder that I wouldn’t know him and now you’ll prepare some food.”

He asked – this Johnnie Morrison – who was along with me.

“Well,” I said, “my companion’s brother is called Allan MacDonald and then you’ll have another cousin and he is a cousin of mine and you know him yourself very well.”

“What is he called?” he asked.

“Angus son of William”

“Oh, he said, “there’s many a word we’ve had and it’s yourself right enough.”

We were made very welcome and Johnnie Morrision ordered our dinner for all of us.

“Well,” he said, Donald, Allan’s brother, “you needn’t pay for our food at all as I’ll get it.”

“O, well,” he said, “I’m getting it now for all the the food that I got from everyone of you especially in your house and Angus’s house and you’ll get your dinner paid by me and you needn’t pay a penny.”

We got a good dinner and he had dressed himself and put himself in order.

“Well,” he said, “we’ll go down now to the hotel to see who’ll we see and perhaps we’ll see lots of people we know.”

Off we went. We had a mile to walk and when we reached the hotel, ah Heavenly Lord, we stood by the wall there and they all started to gather. Lots and lots of folk began to gather round. But one big, big Irish man came along – he was a big red-haired fellow and he knew Johnnie.

“Well,” he said, “I’m very glad that I saw you and who are the other fellows along with you?

“There’re friends of mine,” said Johnnie, “and they came today to work.”

“O, very good,” he said, “we’ll go in here – there’s going to be a big, dangerous night here tonight.”

“What kind of night is that?” Johnnie asked.

“I’ll tell you when we go inside,” he said.

We went into a room there:

“Well,” he said, “there are Irish who are up in Arisaig and they fought and badly hurt the Skyemen and they were thrown out of Arisaig; there’s a good crowd of the Irish here tonight. The Skyemen and the Harrismen are coming down and,” he said, “we want them to be carted away from the railway all together.”

The big man rang the bell and a lassie came down:

“Give me two gallons of beer and a bottle of whisky.”

The lassie went down and two gallons of beer and a bottle of whisky came. He went and opened the bottle and he set glasses in front of all of us. He put a good glass in every tumbler and in his own tumbler he filled it up with two glasses.

“Well,” he said, “for our good luck and for our good health. I hope that we have good luck tonight.”

“There’ll be a slaughter tonight,” he said, “that’ll be terrible, and you must not on your life go out of here till I come and fetch you for those that are coming here tonight there’s a good chance that you will be mishandled. And mind now, Johnnie, I’m placing my trust in you that not one of the lads will be let out of the hole in that door until I come and fetch you. All of you drink this to my health,” he said, “and for sure this is going to be a hard night ahead of us.”

And he bade us farewell and that was a terrible night. The row started and it was very terrible indeed. The shutters were closed against the windows. Bottles and stones and everything else were being fired as if it was in the very heat of battle. It was a terrible night. The only thing to be heard was murder outside. Well, we hardly touched the drams. We drank some of the glasses, but we never had any other drams. Then, at last, there was no sound at all. The night had darkened. A light was shone on us and we asked furtively to those that were coming down how things were going on outside.

“Only death and murder, a terrible business, they said, “that’s what is going on outside. All the doors are locked and there’s no way we can get outside. I’m pretty sure that many of them are lying dead on the road.”

But in any case everything became quiet at last. There was not a sound. The big red-haired man came in after a good while when everything had quietened down. and he put his thumb from his joint. The joint had been drawn from it.

“Well,” he said, “no soldier is worth his salt if he doesn’t sustain an injury. I’ve an injury and my thumb is either broken or staved badly.” He started to pull it, to pull his thumb in his hand. He was a brave man. And it made a noise:

“I suspect,” he said, “that it has gone back into its joint.”

I had a hankerchief in my pocket and he used it as a bandage and tied it tightly round. He had to keep it like that for a few days or else it would come out of its joint again. He looked at the table:

“I don’t believe,” he said, “that you have touched a drop since I left.”

“No, indeed,” said Johnnie, “the fear wouldn’t allow us to drink.”

“If you had been oustide,” he said, “it would have been pure fear. They’re lying dead on the road. There’s not a Skyeman or Harrisman to be seen and the Irish got a good thumping from the others and ever though they got the better of them the Irish did the business and won.”

But in any event we drank the bottle and the bell rang again. I was very friendly with the Irish and they in turn were kind to me. But in any case he asked for another round including a bottle of whisky and more beer:

“Ah,” said Johnnie, “the beer had not been touched by him and I’ll pay for the whisky.”

“You’ll not pay at all as I’ll pay for it,” he said.

But there was no need to order any more beer as there was plently left over:

“We’ll get some more anyway. I don’t care as we won the day,” he said.

And this big man was the gaffer and he had a belt for strength and stamina, he had belt of the whole railway line. No one could touch him at all. He was as strong as that. But in any case we spent the rest of the night there and then we were ready for the way back. Johnnie Morrison and the big man had to go a different way. He was staying on the south side of the hotel and were were going eastwards.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Johnnie and I’ll see the others as well. If some cutting work comes my way and they don’t have any work then they’ll get it.”

But anyway:

“Oh!” said Johnnie, “everyone of them has work and they got it as soon as they arrived.”

But such a stooshie has never been witnessed. As we left the hotel door there were a stack of men and they were dead and the blood ran all the way for around two hundred feet from the hut in which we were staying. That’s were the corpses stopped. The highway was covered with blood for all they time that it took to go a mile in distance. And in any case the night had passed and when we reached the hut:

“But by the Grace of God,” said the landlady, “how did you reach home in safety. We have never seen and I hope that I we’ll never see the like of this terribleness and murder on the road as there was tonight and today.”

“Oh, nothing untoward happened to us,” said Johnnie. “We were locked in a room, and we stayed there until the row was over and that’s when we were let out.”

But in any event the night passed and the next day the ones who managed to get up sneaked away and left, but there were a few left who were dead stiffs there. The police came. There were questions all week of who caused the row. They never got an answer and they never found out who started the row or who ended it apart from a few of the Skyemen who said that the Irish has been working on them. They couldn’t work out who was working on them (the police). They spent a long time interrogating them about it. And they questioned me likewise but I did not see a thing or the men in my company and we couldn’t say a thing. We didn’t hear a thing and when we were on our way home we saw the corpses along with the blood. We had no idea in the world what had happened.

But there was one Irishman and he was very religious and every Sunday without fail – he was working along with me at the cutting, and every Sunday without fail he came to the door of the hut when we didn’t have a clergyman attending. We would go up to the wood and we would have to run through the prayers four or five times before we could clear of the Irishman.

That was the one Irishman who I had a preference for that I had ever seen and if he made his way to my home he would be most welcome to stay with me as long as he lived. He was called Tim. Tim was the name that they called him but I have no idea whether this was his baptismal name. When I broke my fingers this man took off his shirt and made a bandage for me until I got them fixed. And he and I went our separate paths. I would still like to see him and for us still to be friends.

A while after that I got a job as a carter on the railway line and I only had one load of goods to take away each day from the place. This is how they did it. When I reached a very steep brae, far steeper than usual, the poor horse couldn’t manage with the cartload and also with a ton on his back tied with a stick. The horse went at it like the wind up the facing slope of the brae. He was near to collapsing huffing up the upper part of the brae. If you had been clever you wouldn’t need the cart and horse. You would have to put a stick between the spokes to give it a bit of voom. Well, I wasn’t willing at all to be a carter with the burden that the brutes had to carry but I had to go with it. I got a big, black horse from the stable that the timekeeper showed me and he asked me to feed it.

“And,” he said, “you’ll only have one load to carry away and there is a load of cement to go up to the masons to such and such a bridge and when you reach up there you’ll give the horse a rest and by the time you return your shift will be finshed as you wont be able to make two trips at all. The distance is too far. But when there is a shorter distance you can split the load.”

Well, I fed the horse and I took my own food just as I taken food for the horse. I took some seed and hay and I went over to the place where the cement was and I loaded a ton of it on.

I didn’t attach a claw[?]s on but there was a few to be loaded on. I then loaded the ton on the horse with a very big cart. You needn’t walk at all as you could go on top of the load along with the ton. After the first slope I let the horse rest at the bottom. I got the nosebag and I put some of the seed into the nosebag. I petted and stroked him. The horse started to eat and he ate it all up. I took the nosebag off and I put the harness on and I gave him the order to pull. I didn’t strike him and he was very happy to go at it at a run. I kept on with it and the good horse climbed the slope effortlessly and he reached the top of it. And he reached the top of the slope without halting. I made him stop when he went by the brae. I made him halt and he again got some more seed from me and after he had eaten that I gave him an order to pull and he left. He did not halt at all until he reached the bridge. I turned at the bridge and then all the cement was loaded off the cart. I unharnassed the horse and then put a cover over him and he good a good feed then. He was not fed two times but three. I had no need to talk any more. I didn’t care about anything but only to be back in time at the stables. I reached the stable and I arranged the horse. Who appeared but the timekeeper.

“How did you enjoy the trip?” he asked.

“Ah! very well,” I said.

“Did you enjoy the horse?”

“He’s a good horse,” I said, “a very, very good horse but he has his own individual way. Indeed, I think he’s the best horse on the line.”

“Very well,” he said, “if you enjoyed it so much, you’ll be here for a while, but the stables are far from you,” he said, “but the thing we’ll do, the ones who clean the stables they’ll feed the horse or else if you come up near the stables then you’ll know how to feed the horse.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I said, “the lodgings where I stay for I know every man who stays in the hut and I don’t want to leave it.”

“Oh, very well, then,” he said, “you don’t need to be here at the same time as every one of the carters has a job to do and you’ll make you own trip as they do as well.”

I kept at that work for seven or eight weeks and I enjoyed it very well but it was bit boring. I didn’t enjoy it as was much as being in some company. But one of the days when I was leaving on the road and on the first day the gaffer asked the timekeeper:

“How,” he said, “does the young lad leaving from here suite you?”

“Oh!” he said, “he’s a horse lad. He is very good,” he said. “Indeed, indeed, he likes the horses to be clean. And I like him very well.”

“Easy now,” he said, “he’s over there and he has a rough load. That horse will climb up in one sweep up that big slope today. I’ve never seen any other horse doing that except for that one.”

“He’ll climb it indeed!” he said.

“He will, and it’s to do with that lad’s doing.”

When I reached the foot of the brae I stopped as I had one before and I feed him some seed.

“What’s he doing there?” he asked.

“He’s giving the horse a rest,” said the gaffer, “until he’s ready to climb the brae.”

“He’s giving him something,” he said,

“I think that it’s some seed he’s giving him.”

But in any case the timekeeper always kept to the cutting. I didn’t see him at all until I left and I gave the order for the horse to go. The horse happily set off up effortlessly until it reached up the brae without halting and when he had passed the brae I made him halt.

“Well,” he said, “that’s how they should be done. That’s how I lose these horses for they will not stop for a minute because they don’t have the right drivers.”

That night the timekeeper was before me in the stables.

“You’ve arrived then, laddie,” he said.

“Yes, I have,” I said.

“How does the black horse suit you?”

“He’s very good now,” I said, “but he’s not as good as when I first got him.”

“Oh,” he said, “the black horse suits you and this has never happened before.

I’ve never seen a horse climb that brae without stopping half way up except for the black one. You’ve a way about you that the other carters don’t have. You don’t hurt them,” he said, “and the horses are far better off without being hurt.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “that horse is doing very well and all the other horses would do just as well if they were only attended to.”

But, in any event, I worked there a good while and when I got my pay packet this time round I said to the timekeeper that I wasn’t going to stay any longer.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I’m not going to stay any longer.”

“What’s putting you out?”

“It’s far too boring. I much, much prefer to be in some company,” I said, “to be conversing back and forth,” I said, “and I’ll not feel the time going by so slowly.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ll not leave. You’ll get increased wages.”

“I don’t care at all about the wages,” I said, “I much pefer to be in company.”

Without any doubt in the world there was no overtime but I knew I would get overtime at the cutting in which I was every night and I would prefer to get overtime than increased wages and we were payed well. But I left there in any event I returned to see our own gaffer and he took me in:

“Are you getting tired of carting?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “the company isn’t so good and I would prefer to have company even if I got twenty pounds a week.”

“Oh! well,” he said, “keep on with the carting for it’s not ardous work at all.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Well, then,” he said, “there’s lots to do here, and there’s an old man at the end of the bank keeping the railway tracks in order and you’ll go out along with him as he needs a helper.”

“Very well,” I said, “I’ll go.”

I was along with an old Skyeman there and I have never seen the like. He had so many stories – a great Christendom of them. And there was a horse there as well which was left in a bogey to go get boulders so that the line could be kept in order and it was the most clever horse that I had ever set my sights on. There’d be six or seven bogeys led by him and when he reached a station he would stop and all the bogeys would be unharnessed apart from one. He went then shoot off like the wind and when he reached a designated area he would jump from the railway line and the driver had a hook and he used to carry two hooks he had on a stick. The horse was clear and the bogey then left. And the bogey went by itself to the end of the bank and he returned back. The very same horse then pulled a bogey up until he had ran every one of them, without couping any of them over and I spent around a month or six weeks there. Indeed, I didn’t really do much and neither did the old man. All we had to do was to keep up with the rails as the line was going along as well as a load of stones to get over with pins. We were only making around six schillings a day. And we were there for a long, long time. I returned back to the cutting and that was when I broke my fingers. I broke my fingers when a was putting in a boulder into the bogey. And the boulder was naturally broken in any case but we didn’t know about it and when it was laid at the edge of the bogey it went into two halves and it caught my fingers and it broke two of them. And the man who was up in the crane, poor Tim, the Irishman, he came down and he took the shirt off his back and he made a bandage for me and he took me to hospital. And this Irish lad went with to the hospital and my hands up were put up there and they’re very well now, and those two fingers are the strongest I have, although they were in bad shape then. I went back home then and I woudn’t have got home at all if the doctor hadn’t been so far away from me so that I could see him twenty times a day if I had wanted to. And the doctor got a good bit of compensation from the company. I received more than thirty pounds and it was our own local doctor who did this on my behalf and I was willing to give him ten pounds but he wouldn’t take one penny and he did very well by me.

Reference:

NFC 1180, pp. 301–548

Image: 
Angus MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s.