8.
Stories of Poaching and Other
Things
MacMillan
used to poach salmon using a net on a river near Griminish and relates an
episode when he was nearly caught by the bailiff. On another occasion,
MacMillan tells of a time he was poaching wild-fowl (geese) by using traps.
This was one of his most successful poaching expeditions. He came under
suspicion from the local gamekeeper and they fell out over this despite having
previously been on good terms. On another poaching expedition, MacMillan caught
many wild-ducks. MacMillan also relates an occasion when he went out to the
loch to get some nets and found swan eggs. When meeting his sister who was
coming home, MacMillan went to Lochmaddy, North Uist. MacMillan borrowed a gig
from the priest in order to travel to Lochmaddy. He was entrusted by a
policeman to take a letter to the Fiscal in Lochmaddy. Whilst in the company of
the Fiscal, MacMillan relates a poaching tale. MacMillan then relates the
events of travelling back down to Benbecula and then to South Uist. MacMillan
then relates an anecdote of a missing wild duck that he found but hid from the
gamekeeper.
Eachdraidhean
mu Phoitseadh agus Eile
Bha
mi trip air an abhainn-sa shìos, i.e. an Grìminis, glè fhaisg air an taigh agam
agus dh’fhalbh mi am beul na h-oidhche an dèidh a bhith ag obair fad buan an
latha gu trang agus thug mi leam tàbh, ’s e sin gnothach airson bric a
ghlacadh. Chaidh mi gon na h-aibhneadh agus chuir mi an tàbh aig an drochaid a
b’ fhaide a-bhos aig an rathad mhòr a bh’ ann agus nuair a chuir mi an tàbh ann
a shin ghabh mi suas gon an locha agus dhùin mi an abhainn. Nuair a bha an
abhainn deiseil agam is i air a dùnadh agus mi a’ dìreadh suas dè, a
Shiorrachd, ach thug mi an aire do dhuine air a shocair a-nuas air bruaich na
h-aibhneadh. Agus sheall mi agus bha mi a’ coimhead air agus cha robh mi a’
tuigsinn cò an duine a bh’ ann idir. Chan e poitsear a th’ ann. Ach tha teansa gun
tug esan an aire dhomh-sa mun tug mise an aire dhà-san agus rinn mi airson
tarraing. Ach bha drochaid air an abhainn a bh’ ann an sin shios pìos agus ’s
ann gon an taobh a deas dhen abhainn ’s ann a tharraing mise. Ach sa mhionaid
uarach thionndaidh esan mun cuairt a dh’ ionnsaigh na drochaid’ agus rinn mi
a-mach an uair sin gur h-e am poileasman a bh’ ann. Cho clever is gun robh esan bha mise a cheart cho clever ris agus tharraing mi agus dhive mi a-mach air an abhainn agus thug mi an taobh a tuath orm
agus tharraing mi cho luath is a b’ urrainn domh feuch an toirinn a-mach
clachan a bh’ air an loch agus bhithinn an uair sin ann am monadh. Nuair a
ràinig esan faisg air bun na h-aibheadh thug e an aire dhomh-sa a-null tarsaing
agus thionndaidh e mun cuairt sa mhionaid agus O! bha e eagalach luath. Bha e
na bu luaithe na mise. Sheall mise as mo dheadhaigh agus bha e a’ tighinn cho
luath ris a’ ghaoith as mo dheadhaigh agus bha mi a’ dèanamh mar a dh’fhaodadh
mi feuch an toirinn a-mach an clachan. Ach thuig mi taghta math nach dèanainn
an clachan idir dheth. Bha esan na bu luaithe na mi.
“A! well, cha bhi ann ach do or die.” Agus chrom mi sìos a bhòrd
an locha agus a-mach air an loch a ghabh mi.
Theann
mi air a dhol fodha. Thàinig esan is cha mhòr nach robh e agam mun d’ràine mi
ach bha mi air pìos math a dhol a-mach. Dh’iarr e orm tilleadh. Cha nochdainn
m’ aghaidh idir ris ach bha mi a sìor choiseachd. Bha mi sìor dhol fodha. Bha
mi sìor dhol fodha agus o! bha mi air a dhol a-mach pìos math air an loch, dhan
amhaich a bh’ ann an seo. Chaidh mi co-dhiù fodha gu m’ ghuaillean. Bha an
t-uisge cothrom ris an smig agam agus rinn mi a-mach gur h-ann a’ dìreadh a bha
mi agus stad mi.
“Tha
e a cheart cho math dhut tilleadh mum bi thu bàidhte. Chan eil thu idir faisg
as an doimhneachd.”
Well, leig mi m’ anail
ann a shin agus dhìrich mi suas air mo shocair. Chan fhaigheadh esan a-nall na
faisg. Cha robh e faisg uibhir rium-sa. Ach, co-dhiù, dhìrich mi agus choisich
mi suas air mo shocair gu imeall an locha. Chum mi romham co-dhiù ann a shin
sìos gus an do ràine mi pìos math sìos. Chan fhaigheadh esan as a’ mhònadh mise
tuilleadh gus an deach mi aon mhìle na còrr a dh’astar agus chuir mi dhìom a
h-uile sràithe a bh’ orm an uair sin. Shuidh mi air creig agus chuir mi dhìom a
h-uile snàithle a bh’ orm agus dh’fhàisg mi e agus chàirich mi suas mar a bha e
roimhe e. Bha mi fliuch ach an currachd a bha mum cheann. Bha an tàbh a’ cur
dragh orm gum faigheadh e an tàbh agus dh’fhalbh mi agus ghabh mi a-mach air mo
shocair an rathad. Ach dìreach pìos math bhon abhainn air an rathad thug mi an
aire do dhuine a-staigh nam choinneamh. Choisich mi agus, a Dhia nan Gràsan, cò
bh’ ann ach am poileasman. Thuirt mi gun robh oidhche mhath ann.
“Tha,”
ors’ esan. “An tu tha siud, Aonghais?”
“Is
mi a th’ ann a sheo,” orsa mise.
“Càil
thu a’ dol?”
“Tha
mi,” orsa mi fhìn, “a’ dol dhan bhùthaidh a-mach,” orsa mi fhìn, “a dh’
iarraidh thombaca,” orsa mi fhìn, “Chan eil tombaca aig m’ athair idir,” orsa
mi fhìn, “agus cha bhi e ach glè mheadhanach às aonais agus tha mi a’ dol a dh’
iarraidh thombaca. Dhèanainn fhìn an gnothach gu madainn,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach
cha bhi esan ach glè mheadhanach às aonais.”
“Chan
eil dùil ’m nach till mi fhìn còmhla riut,” ors’ esan.
“Glè
mhath.”
Ach
nuair a ràine sinn mu choinneamh na h-aibhneadh a bha seo.
“Chan
’il ’ios ’m,” ors’ esan, “bha rascal,”
ors’ esan, “air an abhainn,” ors’ esan, “agus gu dearbha,” ors’ esan, “nam
bithinn-sa air greim fhaighinn air a’ chroit aige,” ors’ esan, “bha e air
fàsgadh math fhaighinn.”
“Cò
bh’ ann?” orsa mise.
“Leòra,
bha,” ors’ esan, “Mac Iain Ruaidh ’ic Iain Bhàin,” ors’ esan, “agus sin an criminal a bh’ ann,” ors’ esan. “Ach cho
fad is gun robh e,” ors’ esan, “cha mhòr nach do bhàdhadh e,” ors’ esan, “san
loch.”
“Agus
cha do rug sibh idir air.”
“A!
cha do rug. Bha e a’ dèanamh,” ors’ esan, “gun dèanadh e an clachan dheth, ach
cha do rinn,” ors’ esan. “Bha e pìos mòr, mòr bhuaithe,” ors’ esan. “Well,” ors’ esan, “tha an abhainn
dùinte,” ors’ esan, “agus cha fhreagradh dhomh-sa,” ors’ esan, “fliuchadh,”
ors’ esan, “agus na fosgla’ tusa an abhainn,” ors’ esan, “bhithinn glè
thoilichte.”
“An-dà,”
orsa mise, “is mise a nì sin.”
Ràine
sinn an abhainn, co-dhiù, agus bha mi air mo chlisgeadh gun cuireadh a làmh nam
aodach agus nan cuireadh, dhèanadh e a-mach gur h-e mi fhìn a bh’ ann ach rinn mi
airson a dhol sìos sa mhionaid nuair a ràine sinn an dùnadh.
“O!”
ors’ esan, “cha tèid thu sìos idir,” ors’ esan, “ma faigh thu fuachd,” ors’
esan, “gheibh thu,” ors’ esan, “dram beag a th’ agam ann a sheo,” ors’ esan.
Agus
thug e a-mach flask agus thug e dhomh
am flask agus thug e orm dà dheagh
dheoch òl às. Agus leum mise sìos agus dh’fhosgail mi an abhainn.
“Well, a-nist,” ors’ esan, “tha mise,”
ors’ esan, “gus bhith air an abhainn a-nochd,” ors’ esan, “agus bi mi trì
oidhche as t-seachdain orra,” ors’ esan, “agus tha mi cinnteach gum bi thu
fhèin a’ poitseadh cuideachd air aibhnichean,” ors’ esan, “ach air do bhàs,”
ors’ esan, “na bi air an abhainn air na h-oidhcheannan-sa agus bheir thu brath
dhan fheadhainn eile,” ors’ esan, “a tha thu a’ smaointinn a tha tàibh aca,”
ors’ esan, “chan e peacadh idir a th’ ann,” ors’ esan, “am breac a thoir’ far
na h-aibhneadh,” ors’ esan, “ach feuma’ mise,” ors’ esan, “mo dhuty a dhèanamh agus,” ors’ esan, “mura
bi duine oirre,” ors’ esan, “na h-oidhcheannan a bhios mise oirre,” ors’ esan,
“nì mi breugach ud,” ors’ esan, “a thaobh,” ors’ esan, “fhuair Bain,” ors’
esan, “gearain na a dhà na trì a ghearainean,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil
poitsearan,” ors’ esan, “air na h-aibhnichean agus feuma’ mise,” ors’ esan,
“nuair a thugadh brath dhomh,” ors’ esan, “na h-aibhnichean a watchadh, gu h-àraid an tè is a,” ors’
esan, “tha agam ri a watchadh na
h-oidhcheannan seo agus bheir thusa brath dha na daoine,” ors’ esan, “agus mura
tig duine air an t-seachdain-sa,” ors’ esan, “nì mise breugach ud,” ors’ esan,
“nach eil duine idir air an abhainn.”
Dh’fhalbh
sinn co-dhiù agus nuair a bha sinn gus bhith aig a’ bhùthaidh.
“Cha
tèid thu,” ors’ esan, “a-staigh dhan bhùthaidh sin idir,” ors’ esan, “gun
fhios,” ors’ esan, “nach eil duine innte,” ors’ esan, “is dòcha,” ors’ esan,
“gum bi dearbhadh is gnothach ann,” ors’ esan, “agus gum buail am fear sin t’
aodach,” ors’ esan, “agus bi mi fon talamh,” ors’ esan, “ach,” ors’ esan,
“falbha’ tu a-mach còmh’ rium,” ors’ esan, “agus gheibh thu de thombaca,” ors’
esan, “na nì an gnothach dhut a-nochd is a-màireach,” ors’ esan, “bhuam fhìn.”
Dh’fhalbh
mise còmh’ ris a’ phoileasman agus ’s e fear MacArtair a bha sin, sa
phoileasman. Ràine mi a’ chruach mhòna agus dh’iarr e orm stad aig a’ chruaich
mhòna gus on tigeadh e a-mach agus thàinig e agus bha mu chairteal thombaca
aige ’ugam agus dh’òl mi an còrr dhan fhlask
a bha sineach aige.
“Stràca’
tu a-nist dhachaigh,” ors’ esan, “fhad ’s a bhios sin blàth air do shiubhal,”
ors’ esan, “air eagal is gum faigh thu droch fhuachd.”
Agus
dhealaich mise ris a’ phoileasman.
Bha
mi trip eile a’ poitseadh. Bha na gamekeepers
an uair ud eagalach cruaidh. Nan cluinneadh iad urchair, bha iad a’ falbh as a
deaghaidh agus gheibheadh iad feadhainn aca cuideachd. Ach, co-dhiù, an trip a
bha seo, bha mòran de gheòidh a’ laighe an àite ìseal. Cha robh e fad sam bith
bhon taigh againn fhìn. Agus ’s ann a studaig mi gun toirinn leam raoite
arbhair agus gum faighinn còig na sia de strapaichean, strapaichean airson
rodain, strapaichean iarainn agus gun cuirinn an siud is an seo iad air feadh
an àite ìseal a bh’ ann an seo agus gum biodh an t-arbhar agam timcheall orra
is gum faighinn feadhainn gun teagamh. Dh’fhalbh mi agus fhuair mi sia na
seachd a strapaichean agus dh’fhalbh mi a-null feasgar tràth gus nach saoileadh
mòran gu dè bh’ agam. Dh’fhalbh mi an sin a-null gon an àite a bh’ ann an seo
agus bha slash mhath dhe na geòidh sa
cheart bhad a bha mise a’ dol a chuir na strapaichean. Chuir mi na strapaichean
agus chuir mi bad beag de dh’arbhar aig a h-uile strap, timcheall air.
Thill
mi dhachaigh co-dhiù agus bha mi a’ doidseadh mun taigh ann a shineach ag
obair. Bhiodh mo shùil air an àite iseal a bh’ ann a sheo ach daonnan. Ach thug
mi an aire do dhròbh mòr, mòr dhe na geòidh is iad a’ flyeadh mun cuairt is a’ flyeadh
mun cuairt agus laigh iad an seo mu dheireadh.
“Dhia,”
orsa mi fhìn, “chan eil aon teagamh agam nach bi fear agam.”
Ach,
co-dhiu, dh’èirich iad seo an ceann treiseadh agus theann gogadaich mun cuairt
agus laigh iad a-rithist.
“A
Shiorrachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “is dòch’ gun tàinig am bugair gamekeeper a tha siud mun cuairt agus gur h-e a chuir air a’ chois
iad ach sealla’ mi a-null co-dhiù.
Cha
robh mòran agam ga dhèanamh am feasgar a bh’ ann a shin agus gu dè th’ agam
dhaibh nuair a-nochd mi ris an àite a h-uile strap riamh a bha sin bha giadh
ann agus b’ e sin an toileachadh gan toir’ às mharbh mi iad agus chuir mi
a-rithist iad. Ach sin poitseadh a b’ fheàrr a fhuair mise riamh agus le lugha
deagh. Bha mi a’ cur na strapaichean a bha sineach ùine mhòr sa cheart bhad.
Tha fhios agad nuair a bha na geòidh a’ faighinn biadh bha iad na bu tithiche
air a dhol dhan àite a bh’ ann a sheo. Bha mi a’ cumail sitheann ris an taigh
agus ri mòran de thaighean eile a bharrachd. Ach tha sin a-nist seachad. Ach
brith ciamar a fhuair an gamekeeper
a-mach gun robh mise a’ cur strapaichean, thàinig e far an robh mi.
“A
bheil thu a’ poitseadh an-dràsta, Aonghais?” ors’ esan.
“Cha
robh mise a’ poitseadh riamh.”
“An-dà
is tusa a th’ ann a sin a’ poitseadh,” ors’ esan. “Cha ruig thu a leas,” ors’ esan
“a bhith a’ dol as àitheachadh. Tha fhios agam-sa,” ors’ esan, “air a h-uile
sìon. Chan ann le gunna a tha thu a’ poitseadh idir,” ors’ esan, “ach ’s ann a
tha thu a’ poitseadh,” ors’ esan, “le strapaichean.”
“Gu
dearbha fhèine,” orsa mise, “chan eil mi a’ poitseadh le gunna na le strapaichean.”
“Tha
fhios agam-s’ air,” ors’ esan, “agus tha fhios agam glè mhath air cuideachd,
duine a chunna tu,” ors’ esan, “agus bha còig na sia a gheòidh air do mhuin,”
ors’ esan, “a’ dol dhachaigh,” ors’ esan.
Bhithinn
a’ faighinn lachain cuideachd as na strapaichean a bh’ ann a shin agus a Dhia!
cha do ghlac e riamh mi.
“A!
cuimhnichibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “an duine a dh’innis sin dhui’-se, tha mi
cinnteach,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach robh e fhèin falamh,” orsa mise. “Brith cò bha
ris an obair sin cha robh mise ris. Ach gu diamar, a Shiorrachd,” orsa mise, “a
bhithinn-sa ris agus mi ag obair gu trang fad buan an latha,” orsa mise, “nuair
a thighinn dhachaigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “is beag for a bhiodh agam,” orsa mi fhìn,
“air poitseadh. Dh’fheumainn gabhail dhan t-sabhal,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus
fodradh nam brùidean a dhèanamh,” orsa mi fhìn, “airson na h-oidhche agus
airson roinn mhath dhen latha a-màireach. Ach a Shiorrachd,” orsa mi fhìn,
“nach beag sunnd a bhiodh agam air poitseadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “nuair a bhithinn
ullamh dhe sin gun duine beò ach mi fhìn.”
“Well,” ors’ an gamekeeper, “gu nach biodh sunnd idir agad air,” ors’ esan, “tha
thu ris.”
“Agus
rud eile dheth,” orsa mi fhìn, “nam bithinn ris,” orsa mi fhìn, “chan eil an
giadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “sa gheam idir. Bheiribh an aire dha sin,” orsa mi fhìn,
“ged a tha sibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “a’ ruith nan daoine bochda an seo,” orsa mi
fhìn, “airson an glacadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “is an cumail sìos, an duine bochd a
chumail sìos is an duine beairteach a bhith shuas,” orsa mi fhìn, “an duine
bochd,” orsa mise, “a bhith fo ’r casan. Nam biodh gunna agam-sa,” orsa mi
fhìn, “rud nach eil, dh’fhalbhainn ri d’ ghualainn,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus
mharbhainn an giadh,” orsa mi fhìn,” a dh’olc na mhath leat,” ors’ mi fhìn.
“Well,” ors’ esan “tha mi a’ creidisnn,”
ors’ esan, “chan eil an giadh sa gheam idir,” ors’ esan, “ach mura h-eil,” ors’
esan, “chan fhada gum bi.”
“A!
nach fhaod sibh sin,” orsa mise, “an rud a thogras sibh fhèin a dhèanamh air an
duine bhochd,” orsa mi fhìn. “Ach cuimhnichibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “’s e an duine
bochd a thu gur cumail, gad chumail-sa agus a’ cumail a h-uile h-aonar dhe d’
sheòrsa,” orsa mise, “san dreuchd as a bheil sibh.”
Chaidh
mi fhìn is an gamekeeper a-mach air a
chèile gu dubh ach mun do dh’fhalbh sinn a chèile bha sinn gu math pally. Ach bha fhios agaibh taghta math
dè dh’fhàg cho pally sin mi feuch am
faigheadh a timcheall orm is am faigheadh e a-mach sìon mum dheidhinn. Ach cha
d’fhuair. Cha d’fhuair fhathast. Agus dh’fhalbh an gamekeeper às an àite agus bha Aonghas
a’ poisteadh mar a bha e riamh agus cha d’fhuair gamekeeper na game-keeper
a-mach mum dheidhinn ach aon trip. Agus ’s e mo ghlacach dìreach aig an obair a
rinn e.
“Tha
thu,” ors’ esan, “Aonghais,” ors’ esan, “air do ghlacach.”
“Tha
deagh theansa gum bheil,” orsa mise. “Tha mi dìreach as a’ yoke a-niste, ach chan urrainn dhut aon sìon a dhèanamh orm. Tha mi
dìreach fit air do shon air dòigh sam
bith a thig thu mun cuairt orm. Ach,” orsa mi fhin, “ma dh’fheuchas tu urchair
orm,” orsa mi fhìn, “chan eil teagamh agam,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach fhaigh thusa
a’ chuid is miosa dheth. Chan urrainn dut mo mharbhadh,” orsa mise. “air neo
chrochar thu.”
Ach
co-dhiù, ’ille:
“Falbh,”
ors’ esan, “tha thu a’ dèanamh glè mhath,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “mura
bi thu,” ors’ esan, “ach a’ poitseadh,” ors’ esan, “air na geòidh,” ors’ esan,
“’s e làn-di-do-bheatha an uair sin,” orsa esan, “a bhith a’ dalladh orra. Agus
ged a gheibhea’ tu,” ors’ esan, “corra lacha,” ors’ esan, “na lùib cuideachd,”
ors’ esan, “cha chan mise diog.”
Bha
mi fhìn is am fear sin a’ dol gu pally
le chèile agus sinn glè thoilichte. Bhithinn-sa ag innseadh dha taghta math far
am biodh na lachain, far am bu phailte a bhiodh iad, mura robh fhios aige fhèin
air. Bha mi trip eile a’ poitseadh agus ’s ann air eòin lachan a bhithinn a’
poitseadh.
Bhithinn
ag èirigh sa mhadainn suas mu thria uairean sa mhaduinn as t-samhradh, a-null
deireadh an t-samhraidh nuair a bhiodh na h-eòin agus an iteag an toiseach a
bhith aca. Bha lacha mòr, mòr an taobh shìos an taighe againn agus O! bhiodh a’
Chriosdachd mhòr de dh’eòin lachan agus do lachain fhèin a dol dhan locha a bh’
ann an seo. Bha mòran de rafagaich is de ghnothach air an loch agus bhiodh iad
an lùib na rafagaich a bh’ ann an seo agus mar bu trice ann an èirigh na grèine
bhiodh iad a’ dol gu tìr a dh’ionailte gon an fheòir. Bha aon àite ann co-dhiù
a chìthinn fhìn am fianais an locha air an taobh-sa dheth. O! nuair a chìthinn
an sgaoth a bh’ ann an sin thall is a-bhos as deaghaidh na lachain.
“Dhia,”
orsa mi fhìn, “bi sealg mhath an-diugh ann.”
Dh’fhalbhainn
agus rachainn eadar iad is an locha. Tha mi a’ creidsinn gu falbhainn air mo
ghlùinean suas ri leth-mhìle gus am faighinn dìreach fasig orra. Bha mi an uair
sin ag èirigh nam sheasamh agus bha mi a’ coiseachd gu trang ’uca. Bha baidean
thall is a-bhos dhiubh. Bha na creutairean beaga, bochda a bh’ ann a shineach
a’ dèanamh mar a dh’fhadaodh iad airson an locha a thoirt a-mach. Cha robh mise
ach a’ slàtaradh is a’ slàtaradh le bata. O! bha mi gam marbhadh gu diabhaidh.
Ach bha mi aon latha co-dhiù air an locha agus thug mi leam pòca bolla. Chan
eil mi ag innseadh aon fhacal brèige. Lìon mi am pòca bolla mun tàine mi
dhachaigh agus bha mi a-staigh fada mun do dh’èirich iad. Abra’ sibh-se gun
robh sitheann gu leòr againn fhad ’s a mhair sin agus gu leòr ga thoir’
seachad. Cha mhòr gun do dh’fhàg mi aon lachan air an locha a’ bhliadhna a bh’
ann a shin agus cha robh an t-sealg cho math aig na taurais nuair a thàinig iad
as t-fhoghar ga shealgaireachd, glè bheag a fhuair iad. Agus sin agaibh tè
’ile. Bhithinn an sineach tripichean eile a’ falbh sìos gon an locha a bh’ ann
a shin agus bhiodh fhios ’m taghta math far am biodh na lachain is na h-eòin.
Dh’fhalbhainn a-mach agus nuair a gheibhinn ann an cùil iad, dh’fhalbhainn gu
trang agus cuimhnichibh gum biodh mi fodha san locha gu math seachad air na
cruachain. Dh’fheuchainn ri ruith cho math is a b’ urrainn domh agus bha na
h-eòin a’ falbh. Ach bha mi airson an doimhneachd a thoir’ dhiubh daonnan,
daonnan, iad a chumail ris an tanalachd. Nuair a thighinn faisg orra, bhoidh
dròbh de chlachan agam. Chaithinn clach an siud is clach an seo glè fhaisg orra
agus sa mhionaid a bhuaileadh a’ chlach san uisge, bha à-san fodha. Chìthinn a’
falbh iad air an rafagaich. Bha an rafagaich a’ dol a-null is a-nall mar siudach
is nuair a stadadh an rafagaich, bha an t-eun an sin. Rachainn glè fhàilidh a
dh’ ionnsaigh a’ bhad a bh’ ann a shin is stopainn sìos mo làmh. Bheirinn
a-nuas an t-eun. Bha mi ris an obair sin ùine mhòr, mhòr agus bha mi ris cho
fada agus gun robh mi uibhir is a tha mi an-diugh. Agus cha chuirinn ri m’
shùil fhathast e cuideachd na maireadh an anail dhomh. Tha fhios ’m taghta math
gu diamar a rachainn mun cuairt orra.
Chaidh
mi a sin trip eile, ’s ann ag iarraidh neadan a bha mi an latha a bh’ ann an
seo, thug mi an aire do nead mhòr, mhòr a-muigh air locha. Cha robh sìon a dh’fhios
’m gu dè an doimhneachd a bh’ ann agus gu dè bh’ ann ach nead eala. Chan fhaca
mi uibhean eala riamh. Dh’fhalbh mi agus dh’fheuch mi a-mach an lùib an àite a
bh’ ann a shineach agus bha an àite sgràthail fhèin bog le dughagain. Bha mi a’
sìor fhalbh a-mach air mo shocair ach rinn mi seo a-mach nach dèanainn an gnothach
idir. Thill mi a-staigh gu tìr agus fhuair mi dà bhòrd mhòra agus thug mi toll
air na bùird a bha sin le sgian a bh’ agam. Daonnan, daonnan an uair iad,
bhiodh sgriubha agad san sgian agus ’s e an reusan a bh’ air an sgriubha na
racha’ tu an lùib deoch is uisge-bheatha – bha an t-uisge-beatha gu math saor
an uair sin bha sgriubha agad airson an corc a tharraing Agus ’s ann leis an sgriubha sin a thug mi an
toll air na bùird agus nuair a thug mi an toll air, thug mi mun cuairt an uair
sin le gob na sgeineadh gus gum faighinn sreang ro na tuill a bh’ ann a shin
agus dh’fheuch mi a-mach. Well, tha
na bùird gam chumail am bàrr. Cha robh mi idir a’ dol fodha cho fad is a bha mi
roimhe. Ach, co-dhiù, ràine mi nead na h-eala. Ach ma ràinig, a Dhia! tha
cuimhne ’m air an sin an-diugh a cheart cho math agus an latha a rinn mi e.
Thionndaidh an eala orm agus cha mhòr dìreach nach do bhàth i mi. Ach uair dhe
na h-uaireannan fhuair mi greim oirre agus ’s ann air cheann a rug mi oirre:
“Chan
fhaigh thusa às an sin agus gu dearbha, Dhia, chan fhaigh thu sin.”
Thug
mi na fàsgaidhean oirre agus O! dìreach na bha a dh’aodach orm-sa, bha e a
cheart cho fluich leis an uisge a bha san loch mun d’fhuair mi dealachadh ris
an eala. Agus chuir mi crìoch air an ealaidh mu dheireadh. Agus cha robh aig an
eala ach aon ugh ach gu dearbha, a Shiorrachd, fhuair mise damaiste mun tug mi
a-mach an turas sin. Ach cha deach mi riamh ann an càs cho cunnatarach ris a’
chàs is a chaidh mi air an trip-sa. Ach, co-dhiù, fhuair an gamekeeper a-mach mu dheidhinn agus
thàinig e far an robh mi:
“Na
chreach thu,” ors’ esan, “nead a bh’ air a leithid seo a locha, nead eala?”
“An
dà, a Dhia, rinn mi sin,” orsa mise, “agus a Dhia nan Gràsan is mi shàbhail,”
orsa mise, “nach do bhàth am bugair beothaich a bha sin mi. Chan eil ’ios ’m
co-dhiù an coileach na cearc,” orsa mi fhìn, “a bha i boireann na fireann. Tha
amharas agam gur h-e an coileach aig an ealaidh a bh’ ann ach,” orsa mi fhìn,
“dhall i orm,” orsa mi fhìn, “le sgiathan agus cha robh sgailc a bha i a’ toir
dhomh,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach robh e a’ ruighinn a’ chridhe agam. Ach chuir mi
ceal oirre-sa co-dhiù. Aon ugh a bh’ aice agus an dèidh dhomh a thoir
dhachaigh, chan itheadh duine e agus cha d’rinn mi ach fhàgail ann a shineach.
Tha e a-muigh an siud fhathast na ornament.
Tha iad ag ràdha nach b’ fhiach ugh eala ithe agus tha mise a’ smaointinn gum
bheil ugh na h-eala cho math ri ugh eile.
Bha
mi trip eile a’ falbh an coinneamh peathar a bh’ agam gu ruige Loch nam Madadh,
air an route a bha seo. Cha robh an
stimear an uair sin ach a’ tighinn gu ruige Loch nam Madadh agus a Loch
Baghasdail corra thè a thigheadh le cargo
dha na lochannan. Ach, co-dhiù, an trip a bh’ ann an seo ach bha mo phiuthar a’
tighinn dachaigh agus fhuair mi fhìn brath airson a dhol na coinneamh.
Dh’fhalbh mi nuair a fhuair mi am brath. Dh’innis i an latha a bha i a’ dol a
thighinn agus rinn mi airson falbh. Dh’fhalbh mi le beothach eich agus ’s e machine bh’ agam ach ’s ann an iasad a
bha i. Sagart a bha san àite agus bha gig
aige agus chaidh mi far an robh e feuch am faighinn an gig airson a dhol an coinneamh mo pheathar, a thaobh bha mi fhìn
fritheilteach dhà-san agus bha mi a’ smaointinn nach diùltadh e mi co-dhiù.
Chaidh mi far an robh an sagart is dh’fhaighneachd e dhìom gu dè bha suas
an-diugh.
“O!
chan eil mòran sam bith,” orsa mi fhìn,
“suas. Tha dùil ’m,” orsa mi fhìn, “a dhol gu ruige Loch nam Madadh,
falbh an-diugh.”
“Dè
tha sin?” ors’ esan.
“Tha
mi a’ dol an coinneamh peathar dhomh,” orsa mise, “a tha a’ tighinn leis a’
bhàta. Sin na bheil suas an-diugh,” orsa mi fhìn, “brith ciamar a dh’èireas
dhuinn.”
“A
bheil duine a’ falbh còmh’ riut?”
“O!
chan eil, chan eil duine a’ falbh còmh’ rium,” ors’ mi fhìn. “Chan eil
feum agam air. Thàine mi far an robh sibh-se,” orsa mi fhìn, “feuch an toirea’
sibh dhomh an gig,” orsa mi fhìn,”
gus an dèanainn an route.”
“A!
leòra, gheibh,” ors’ esan. “Chan eil agad,” ors’ esan, “ach cuir ola ann is a
h-uile sion. Nuair a bhios tu airson falbh, beairtich an t-each,” ors’ esan,
“agus chan eil agad ach falbh às an seo.”
Well, bha seo glè mhath.
Bha mi niste all right. Chaidh mi a-null
dhachaigh is dh’innis mi gun d’fhuair mi a’ mhachine.
Ach ’s e cairt a bha dùil ’m falbh leis. Cha robh gig a’ dol an uair sin. Ach, co-dhiù, bha mi a’ dèanamh deiseil is
nuair a bha mi deiseil dh’fhalbh mi is thug mi an t-each às an stàbla agus chaidh
mi suas gon a’ mhanse far a robh an
sagart. Bha e fhèin air an acfhainn a chur a-mach ann a shin uile agus:
“Well,” orsa mise, “tha mi cinnteach ma
thrèigeas dad,” orsa mise, “gum b’ fheàirrde dhuinn bìdeag de ròpa a bhith
againn.”
“Cha
do dh’fhalbh mi riamh,” ors’ esan, “on taigh,” ors’ esan, “gun ròpa agam agus
tha ròpa an seo,” ors’ esan, “cuideachd,” ors’ esan. “Chan eil e a’ gluasad,”
ors’ esan, “às a’ mhachine,” ors’
esan.
“Ach
tha mi an dòchas,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach èirich sìon a-mach,” orsa mise.
“Well, co-dhiù a dh’èireas gus nach
èirigh,” ors’ esan, “cha chuir an ròpa a tha sin cudtrom sam bith ort,” ors’
esan.
Bheartich
mi an t-each co-dhiù agus chaidh esan a-staigh agus thàinig e a-mach agus mu
shiola aige ann am flask beag:
“Seo,”
ors’ esan, “gabhaidh tu dram dhe sin,” ors’ esan. “Tha mi cinnteach,” ors’ esan
“nach tèid thu seachad air Càirinnis co-dhiù,” ors’ esan, “gun dram a
ghabhail.”
“O!”
orsa mi fhìn, “bha dùil ’m restadh
ann an Càirinnis. Resta’ mi ann an
Càirinnis,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus bheir mi uair an uaireadair dhan each an dèidh
tighinn far na Fadhlach,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus cha tàinig leis an uair sin,”
orsa mi fhìn, “a dhol gu ruige Loch nam Madadh.”
“Feuch
nach gabh thu an deoch.”
“Gu
dearbha, cha ghabh. Cha ghabh mi an deoch idir.”
“An-dà,
ma thachras company riut,” ors’ esan,
“is dòcha nach ruig thu ach sin fhèin.”
“An-dà,
is mi a ruigeas,” orsa mise.
Ach,
co-dhiù, dh’fhalbh Aonghas agus thug e taing mhòr dhan t-sagart, gu h-àraid
airson a’ flask bheag a thug e dhà.
Bhiodh dìreach na shiola ann. Chum mi romham co-dhiù agus. a Dhia. cò thachair
rium ach am polieasman air pìos math dhan astar mun d’ràine mi an Fhadhail agus
e a’ tighinn dachaigh.
“Càil
thu a’ dol, Aonghais?”
“Leòra,
tha mi a’ falbh gu ruige Loch nam Madadh an coinneamh peathar dhomh fhìn a tha
a’ tighinn leis an stimear a-màireach. Feuma’ mi falbh an-diugh,” orsa mi fhìn,
“airson gum bi mi an Loch nam Madadh a-nochd agus bi sinn a’ tighinn
a-màireach,” orsa mise, “agus bi sinn a-staigh an oidhche sin. Tha an t-astar
fada.”
“A! well,” ors’ esan, “nach bochd nach robh
fhios agam,” ors’ easn, “gun robh thu a’ dol a-null,” ors’ esan. “Tha gnothach
agam fhìn an Loch nam Madadh,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “na Dia,” ors’
esan, “chan eil mi ag ràdha idir,” ors’ esan, “nach dèana’ tu an gnothach,”
ors’ esan
Cha
robh a m’ eudail ach:
“Fan
mionaid bheag ann a shin gus a sgrìobh mi litir,” ors’ esan, “agus bheir mi
dhut e,” ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “mura faic thu fhèin am Fiscal,” ors’ esan, “chì thu cuideigin
eile dhan toir thu an litir dhan Fhiscal.”
“An-dà
nì mi sin,” orsa mi fhìn. “Is dòcha nach eil am Fiscal a-staigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach thèid mise a thaigh an Fhiscal,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus fàga’ mi
an litir ann an taigh an Fhiscal.”
“Sin
e dìreach,” ors’ esan.
Sgrìobh
e sìos an litir agus dhùin e i agus chuir e stamp oirre.
“Agus,”
orsa mi fhìn,” an gabh sibh dram?”
“An-dà,
a Dhia,” ors’ esan, “is mise a nì sin.”
Thugadh
a-mach am flask beag agus fhuair am
polieasman, fhuair e dram.
“Well,” ors’ esan, “chan eil e ach glè
bheag.”
“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “nuair a ruigeas
mise Càirinnis,” orsa mi fhìn, “gabhaidh a dèanamh mòr agus gabhaidh sibh-se ur
dram fhèin.”
Ach
thràghadh am flask dìreach san
t-seasamh bonn ann a shin fhèin agus:
“Dhia,”
ors’ esan, “a bheil airgead gu leòr agad?”
“Tha
mi a’ smaointinn,” orsa mi fhìn, “gum bheil agam na nì an gnothach dhomh,” orsa
mi fhìn, “gus a ruig mi Loch nam Madadh, agus tha dòchas agam gum faigh mi
beagan o m’ phiuthar nuair a ruigeas mi sin.”
“O!”
ors’ esan, “na bi a’ dependadh air a’
bhoireannaich idir,” ors’ esan. “Cha toir iad dhut,” ors’ esan, “ach cho beag
’s is urrainn daibh.”
Agus
thug e dhomh deich tasdain:
“O!
a Shiorrachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “chan eil mi airson sin a ghabhail idir.”
“O!
gabhaibh tu e,” ors’ esan.
“Ma
ghabhas mi e,” orsa mi fhin, “pàighidh mi a-rithist thu.”
“Thala
thusa,” ors’ esan, “chan e a h-uile fear a bheireadh dhut a h-uile deur riamh a
bh’ aige seachad. ’S e duine ainneamh a bhiodh ann,” ors’ esan “gun am flask ach beag.”
“Tha
sibh a-nist,” orsa mi fhìn, “a’ tàlaich.”
“O!
is mi nach eil,” ors’ esan. “Chan eil mi a’ tàlaich idir.”
Ach,
co-dhiù, dh’fhàg mise slàn aig a’ phoileasman ann a shineach agus ghabh mi an
litir agus ràinig mi Càirinnis is leig mi às an t-each. Fhuair an t-each biadh
is deoch. Agus ghabh mi fhìn biadh cuideachd agus ghabh mi dram agus thug mi
leam leth-bhotail nuair a bha mi a’ falbh. Ach gu dearbha mar thuirt an sagart
thachair company rium agus bha iad a’
smaointinn gun cuireadh iad an deoch orm gun teagamh ach bha mi glè fhit air a son. Cha do chuir iad idir
orm i. Ach bheairtich mi an t-each co-dhiù agus chum mi romham riamh gus an d’ràine
mi Loch nam Madadh agus nuair a ràine mi Loch nam Madadh bha an oidhche an
toiseach dìreach às a’ co-thràth. Well,
a-nist chaidh mi gu taigh ann a shin caraid dhomh agus dh’fhaighneachd mi
dheth:
“Saoil,”
orsa mi fhìn, “am faigh mi àite dhan each,” orsa mi fhìn, “gon a-màireach ann a
sheo?”
“Leòra,
gheibh,” ors’ esan, “agus ’s tusa, a Dhia, a gheibh sin agus ’s mi tha
taingeil,” ors’ esan, “gun tàine tu a choimhead orm.”
“Well, thàine mi a choimhead ort gun
teagamh,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach ’s ann an coinneamh peathar a tha mi,” orsa mi
fhìn, “air tighinn an seo,” orsa mise, “is chan eil i a’ tighinn ach gon
a-màireach agus bi mi airson fantail ann a sheo,” orsa mi fhìn, “gus an tig an
stimear a-màireach.”
“O!
’s e làn-dì-do-bheatha. Leig às a’ mhachine.”
“Tha
taigh ann a sheo,” ors’ esan, “agus na rachadh an t-each a-staigh ann ’s e a b’
fheàrr leam.”
Ach,
co-dhiù, dh’fheuchadh air an each a chas cha rachadh a-staigh na taing air a
shon.”
“Od!”
orsa mi fhìn, “tha an doras ro ìseal.”
“Dhèanadh
e an gnothach math gu leòr,” orsa mi fhìn, “nam faigheadh e a-staigh ach
dh’fheumaid,” orsa mi fhìn, “pìos dhan taigh a leagadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “am
faigh e a-staigh. Is handya an cnoc,”
orsa mi fhìn. “Cuiridh sinn deagh ròpa air,” orsa mise, “agus chaidh e all right,” orsa mise.
Fhuaradh
ròpa is rinneadh teadhair mun cana tu Dia leat! agus chuireadh cipean mòr, mòr
air.
“A-nist,”
orsa mi fhin, “bi e O.K. ann a shin. Tha a dhìol bithidh aige de dh’fheur. Bi e
ceart gu leòr.”
Chaidh
sinn a-staigh co-dhiù agus neo-ar-thaing nach robh toileachadh rium-sa ann a
shin. Ghabh sinn ar biadh is ghabh sinn drama:
“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha litir agam ann
a sheo,” orsa mi fhìn. “Feuma’ mi fhìn, fhìn,” orsa mi fhìn,” a’ toir’ dhan Fhiscal agus falbhaidh thusa còmhla rium
a thaobh,” orsa mi fhìn, “’s e poileasam Bheinne na Faoghla a thug dhomh i,”
orsa mi fhìn. “Dh’earb e rium,” orsa mi fhìn, “a toir’ dha agus mun dìochuimhnich
mi buileach i,” orsa mi fhìn, “feumaidh sinn tarraing. Chan ’ios ’m fhìn a
bheil e aig taigh.”
“Tha,”
ors’ esan. “Chunna mi a chionn treiseadh e. Bha mise aig a’ chìdhe,” ors’ esan,
“mun tàine sibh,” ors’ esan, “agus thachair e rium dìreach e nuas on chìdhe is
mise a’ dol sìos.”
“O!
glè mhath,” orsa mi fhìn, “thèid mi fhìn is tu fhèin,” ors’ esan, “suas.”
“O!
thèid,” ors’ a’ bhean aig an fhear sin. “Tha sibh ceart-a-coma ged a racha’
sibh suas. Tha Cearsabhadh,” – sin an hotel
a tha an Loch nam Madadh, “tha Cearsabhagh às an rathad oirbh,” ors’ ise.
“O!
thèid sinn an sin cuideachd,” orsa mise, “ach” orsa mi fhìn, “mura h-eil sibh
gam chreidsinn-sa, sealla’ mise dhuibh an litir.”
“Chan
eil mi gad chreidsinn idir.”
“Very well, mura h-eil,” orsa mise a’ cur
mo làmh nam phòca, “sealla’ air an sin.”
“O!
tha an litir agad gun teagamh,” ors’ ise, “ach,” ors’ ise, “cuimhnichibh na
bithibh fada air falbh.”
“Cha
bhi gu dearbha,” orsa mise.
“Agus
bi bhur suipear deiseil,” orsa ise, “nuair a thig sibh. Dè ’n uair,” ors’ ise,
“a bhios sibh a-staigh?”
“O!”
orsa mi fhìn, “bi sinn a-staigh eadar a naoidh is a deich a dh’uairean.”
“Glè
mhath, ma-thà,” ors’ ise. “Bithear a’ dùnadh na hotel mun àm sin,” ors’ ise. “Tha mi cinnteach,” ors’ ise, “nach
tig sibh gus an dùnar an hotel.”
“O!
thig gu dearbha,” orsa mise. “Is dòcha,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach tèid sinn na còir
idir agus is docha gun tèid.”
Ach
dh’fhalbh sinn co-dhiù agus ghabhadh straight
gu taigh an Fhiscal agus chaidh mi
a-staigh dhan chidsin. Moire! B’ aithnte dhomh iad sin cuideachd. Bhithinn
daonnan ’s ann bhithinn a’ fuireach nuair a bhithinn a’ falbh còmh’ ris an
t-sagart. Bhiodh e uair is uair a’ dol a Loch nam Madadh agus ’s mise a bhiodh
a’ falbh còmhla ris. O! m’ eudail do chridhe, rinn iad toileachadh mòr, mòr
rium ann a shin agus bha mi treis còmhla ris na searbhantan ann a shin agus am
fear eile còmha ruim:
“Seo,”
orsa mi fhìn, “siud litir a chuireadh leam-sa a dh’ ionnsaigh an Fhiscal.”
Shìn
mi an litir seachad do thè dhe na searbhantan agus dh’fhalbh i suas. Ach nuair
a thill i a-nuas.”
“Dh’
iarr,” ors’ ise, “am Fiscal ort,”
ors’ ise, “fantail gus an tigeadh e a-nuas far an robh thu.”
“An-dà,
nach fhaod mi sin,” orsa mise.
Thàinig
esan a-nuas ann am mionaid nuair a leugh e an litir:
“’S
e posta math a th’ annad, Aonghais.”
“O! well, uaireannan,” orsa mi fhìn, “a
bhios mi glè mhath is uaireannan eile nach bi mi math idir,” orsa mise.
“Ciamar?”
ors’ esan.
“Innsidh
mi sin dhuibh,” orsa mise. “Bha mise trip ann an Creag Ghoiridh. Tha sibh
eòlach gu leòr ann, as a’ Phost Office
an Creag Ghoiridh agus thadhaill mi a-staigh feuch an robh aon litir a
bhuineadh dhan bhaile ann an Creag Ghoiridh. Cha robh am posta ann an uair sin
a’ deliverigeadh litrichean ann. B’
aithnte dhuibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “an t-auctioneers
a bh’ ann am Beinne na Faoghla math gu leòr, an Dòmhnallach.”
“Is
aithnte,” ors’ esan.
“Bha
còig na sia litrichean aig an fhear sin de litrichean. Bha còig na sia de
litrichean aig an t-sagart,” orsa mise, “is bha litir an siud is an seo,” orsa
mi fhìn, “a-nuas fad an t-siubhail. Agus thug mi leam a h-uile h-aonan riamh
dhiubh. Dh’fhalbh Aonghas dhachaigh is cha do chuimhnich e riamh air litir
seach litir. Chuir mi dhìom mo sheacaid is chuir mi air stob i anns an trannsa
agus bha na litrichean am pòca na seachaid. Ann an ceann mhìos na còig
seachdainnean,” orsa mi fhìn, “bha mi a’ falbh gu ruige fang a rùsgadh chaorach
agus chaidh mi a dh’ iarraidh seacaid,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus thachair i seo
rium.”
“Falbh,”
orsa mi fhìn, “tha i seo math gu leòr.”
Chairich
mi orm an t-seachaid is dh’fheuch mi mo phòcaid is bha a h-uile litir riamh ris
an t-saoghal,” orsa mise, “a thug mi às a’ Phost
Office, bha iad ann am broinn na pòca. Cha d’rinn mi an uair sin ach turn about,” ors’ mi fhìn, “agus a
h-uile litir a bha leis an t-sagart ann a thoir’ dhà. Thug mi dhan bhean-taighe
iad agus thill mi. Bha litrichean an auction
an sin agus thachair an t-auctioneer rium
aig ceann an rathaid a tha a’ tighinn a-nuas on taigh is e fhèin a’ dol a dh’
fhang.”
“Leòra,
a bhobaig,” ors’ esan, “tha mi glè thoilichte gun do thachair sinn.”
“An-dà,
a Shiorrachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “’s ann a tha toilichte mise agus mì-thoilichte
air dòigh. Tha mi glè mhì-thoilichte,” orsa mi fhìn, “air an dala dòigh is tha
mi toilichte air an dòigh eile.”
“Innsidh
mi sin duibh. O chionn mhìos,” orsa mi fhìn, “bha mi a’ tighinn à Creag
Ghoiridh,” orsa mi fhìn, “a-nuas on chidhe agus thadhaill mi as a’ Phost Office feuch an robh litir ann.
Bha sin ann,” orsa mi fhìn. “Bha ceithir na còig a litrichean leibh-se ann agus
bha dròbh litrichean leis an t-sagart ann. Bha litir thall is a-bhos air feadh
a’ bhaile ann. Thug mi leam a h-uile h-aonan riamh diubh agus,” orsa mi fhìn,
“ghabh mi seachad oraibh-se. Thachair sibh rium ann a sheo cuideachd. Bha a
leithid agaibh ri ràdha,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus gun do dhìochuimhnich mi na
litrichean. Ach cha do chuimhnich Aonghas riamh air na litrichean gus an do
chuir mi orm an t-seachaid an-diugh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus a dh’fheuch mi mar
seo ach agus fhuair mi rud cruaidh ann. Dh’fheuch mi an uair sin agus bha
litrichean an aution an siud agus a
h-uile litir a thug mi às a’ Phost Office.
Bha iad ann:
“Brith
dè tha sibh-se a’ dol a dhèanamh,” orsa mi fhìn, “siud na litrichean agus tha
mi gan toir seo dhuibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus chan fhaic duine eile ged a
bhithinn-sa ceud bliadhna a dh’ aois mi a’ toir litrichean dhen t-seòrsa às a’ Phost Office ach mo litir fhìn.”
“An-dà,
a bhobaig,” ors’ esan, “’s iomadh uair a thachair a leithid dhomh-sa,” ors’
esan, “gu h-àraid,” ors’ esan, “nam bithinn an lùib drama,” orsa esan, “tha an
dìochuimhn’ as an duine.”
“Tha
mi a’ creidsinn gum bheil,” orsa mi fhìn. “Bha mise an lùib dram,” orsa mi
fhìn, “mun tàine mi dhan Phost Office
agus gur h-e sin an rud a dhìochuimhnich na litrichean, gun an deliverigeadh seachad dhan a h-uile
duine. Ach cha tachair e gu bràth tuilleadh dhomh-sa. Cha ghabh mi litir duine
sam bith ach mo litir fhìn tuilleadh as a dheaghaidh seo agus sin mar a dh’èirich
dhomh-sa.”
Ach,
co-dhiù, bha mi treise an taigh an Fhiscal
agus fhuair mi mo dheagh dhramannan an sin. Agus chòrd an naidheachd a thuirt
mi ris mu dheidhinn na litrichean anabarrach math:
“Ach
cha do dh èirich sin dhuibh-se idir,” orsa mi fhìn. “Bha sibh glè lucky,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach deach mise
gu ruige Cearsabhagh mun tàine mi an seo,” orsa mi fhìn. “Ach chuir mi romham,”
orsa mi fhìn, “gu rachainn an seo an toiseach,” orsa mi fhìn “agus gun deliveriginn dhuibh-se,” orsa mi fhìn,
“an litir a thug an duine uasal dhomh.”
“Ciamar,”
ors’ esan, “a tha an duine uasal sin, a’ còrdadh ruibh.”
“Duine
math a th’ ann,” orsa mise. “Tha e cruaidh, ceart,” orsa mise, “agus tha mi a’
smaointinn nach cuireadh e fodha duine sam bith,” orsa mi fhìn, “nan gabhadh e
dèanamh.”
’S e
Leòdhasach a bh’ ann cuideachd. Fhuair mise gabhail agam, mi fhìn agus am fear
a bha còmhla rium anabarrachd fhèin math agus:
“Tha
thu a’ dol a dh’fhuireach a-nochd?” orsa esan.
“Tha,”
orsa mi fhìn. “Fuirichidh mi a-nochd.”
“Well,” ors’ esan, “tha mi cinnteach nach
tèid thu a sheifteadh t’ àite
loidsidh.”
Seo
an t-àite às am bithinn daonnan, daonnan:
“O!
tapadh leibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha mi còmh’ ris an fhear-sa,” orsa mi fhìn.
“Ghlac e mi,” orsa mi fhìn, “mun d’ ràinig mi sibh-se, agus chan eil rathad
agam air a dhiùltadh agus tha mi a’ toir’ mòran taing dhuibh-se,” orsa mi fhìn.
“Cha bhi mi a’ dol a choimhead oraibh-se,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach nuair a bhios
daoine mòra, uaisle còmhla rium,” orsa mi fhìn. “Bi an uair sin respect mhath agam,” orsa mi fhìn,
“còmhla riutha sin.”
’S
ann a bhiodh an sagart a’ fuireach fhad ’s a bhiodh e ann a Loch nam Madadh.
Agus bhithinn-sa còmhla ris. Ach, co-dhiù, chaidh sinn gu ruige Cearsabhagh an
uair sin agus fhuair sin dramannan ann a shin agus thug sinn leinn drama agus
thill sinn dachaigh agus tha sinn dìreach a-staigh mun uair a thuirt sinn.
“Leòra,”
ors’ ise, “tha sibh air tighinn gun teagamh,” orsa ise, “agus cha robh dùil na
dòchas agam riubh cho tràth.”
“Tha,”
ors’ esan. “A bheil am biadh deiseil?”
“Tha
e gus a bhith,” ors’ ise.
“Very well,” orsa mi fhìn, “Fhuair sinn
gabhail againn glè mhath,” orsa mi fhìn, “as a h-uile h-àite as an robh sinn.
Cha robh sinn ann am mòran thaighean idir ach gu dearbh bha iad gu math
coibhneil ruinn.”
“Cò
ris a bhiodh iad coibhneil mura biodh iad coibhneil riubh-se,” orsa ise.
Ach,
co-dhiù, bha am biadh an seo deiseil agus thugadh an uair sin sìos sinn a rum.
Agus chuireadh trinnsear mòr de dh’fheòl air mo bheulaibh fhìn.
“An
dèan thu,” orsa an duine aice, “an dèan thu a-mach,” ors’ esan, “gu dè an fheòl
a tha sin?”
“Socair,”
orsa mise. “Tha e glè neònach leam nach dèan.”
Dh’fheuch
mi i:
“Tha
feòl an eich gu math briste agus ’s ann dubh a tha i.”
“A! well,” orsa mi fhìn, “mura meall mo
bharail mi, tha mi a’ smaointinn gum bheil fhios agam gu dè an fheòl a th’
ann.”
“Dè
’n fheòl a th’ ann?”
“Tha,”
orsa mi fhìn, “feòl fèidh.”Ach chan e feòl fèidh a chanas sinne idir ris, ach
sitheann a bheirear ris, sitheann fèidh. Well,
cha d’rinn mi ach siud a ràdha riut,” orsa mise, “air eagal ’s gum biodh duine
gar n-èisdeachd.”
“’S
e sin a th’ ann,” ors’ esan, “ach gu diamar a dh’aithnich thu e?”
“Od,
a Shiorrachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha mise eòlach gu leòr air.”
“Càite?”
orsa esan.
“Tha
ann am Beinne na Faoghla,” orsa fhìn. “Cha mhòr,” orsa mi fhìn, “a-null
tuilleadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “a h-uile seachdain nach ith mise feòl, sitheann an
fhèidh.”
“Càite?”
“An
taigh an t-sagairt,” orsa mi fhìn. “Bi iad a’ faighinn legs cha mhòr a h-uile seachdain.”
“Am
bi gu dearbha?” ors’ esan.
“Bi.”
“Coma
leat,” orsa esan, “falbhaidh sinne a-nochd agus bi legs agad fhèin,” ors’ esan, “a’ falbh a-màireach. Thug mi an aire
dhaibh,” ors’ esan, “feasgar a-nochd agus bha mi ag ràdha rium fhìn nam biodh
duine còmhla rium. Bha dùil ’m an gille a thoir’ leam,” ors’ esan, “ach is tusa
is fheàrr. Bi fear na dhà againn,” ors’ esan, “a-nochd, ach fana’ sinn aig an
teine,” ors’ esan, “gus an gabh mi an t-àite mu thàmh uile gu lèir agus
falbhaidh sinn an uair sin. Tha mi a’ smaointinn nach eil sìon a dh’fhios aig
an fheadhainn eile far a bheil na fèidh. Tha iad ann an àite glè fhàbharach.”
Ach,
co-dhiù, ghabh sinn ar biadh gu math ann a shineach agus dramannan:
“Dè
a-niste,” orsa mi fhìn, “a ni sinn?”
“Nì
sinn,” ors’ esan, “nuair a bhios sinn treis ann a sheo,” ors’ esan, “leigidh
sinn oirnn gum bheil sinn a’ dol a chadal,” ors’ esan. “Gabha’ sinn suas,” ors’
esan, “dhan rum,” ors’ esan, “agus cuiridh sinn às an solas,” ors’ esan, “is gu
leig sinn rum dhan fheadhainn a bhios a’ dol seachad. Tha iad seo air a dhol a
chadal. Thèid an làmh às agus cha tig duine sam bith gon an taighe tuilleadh,
nuair a thèid an lampa às. Cha las sinn an lampa tuilleadh. Bi an latha a-niste
air tighinn,” ors’ esan, “agus cha las sinn an lampa tuilleadh agus nuair a
bhios an t-àm freagarrach againn airson falbh, falbhaidh sinn bog, balbh,” ors’
esan, “ach chan fheum aon fhacal bruidhneadh a bhith againn.”
“Glè
mhath,” orsa mise, “falbhaidh mise còmh riut.”
Dh’fhalbh
sinn le chèile suas mu mheadhan-oidhche, eadar meadhan-oidhche is uair sa
mhadainn. Nuair a ràine sinn àite a bh’ ann a sheo:
“A
bheil thu,” ors’ esan, “a’ faicinn a’ chnuic a th’ ann a shin?”
“Tha,”
orsa mi fhìn.
“Well, tha na fèidh,” ors’ esan, “air a’
chnoc sin agus ghabha’ tusa mar sin agus,” ors’ esan, “falbhaidh tu cho fàilidh
’s is urrainn dut,” ors’ esan. “Air na chunna tu riamh,” ors’ esan, “na èirich
nad sheasamh air neo,” ors’ esan, “caillidh sin an t-sealg. Bi a’ falbh air a
chrògan,” ors’ esan, “gus an tèid thu air an cùl,” ors’ esan. “Faigh cho faisg
’s is urrainn dut orra mun èirich thu nad sheasamh,” ors’ esan, “agus èirich tu
nad sheasamh,” ors’ esan, “agus cana’ tu Haoi. Agus èiridh na fèidh,” ors’
esan. “Tha, a rèir is mar a bha iad,” ors’ esan, “tha an aghaidh mar seo. Cha
dèan na fèidh ach tarraing,” ors’ esan, “agus bi mise rompa ann a sheo. Bi aon
fhear agam co-dhiù,” ors’ esan, “mura bi a dhà agaibh-se. Cuma’ tu as an
deaghaidh,” ors’ esan, “rotach mhath,” ors’ esan, “gus an cuir thu à-san gu
siubhal,” ors’ esan. “Ach cha chan thu diog tuilleadh,” ors’ esa, “ach cuma’ tu
a-nuas air do shocair.”
Seo
mar a bha. Chaidh mise air cùl nam fiadh agus fhuair mi gu math, math faisg
orra mun do dh’fhairich iad mi. Ach nuair a dh’èirich mi is dh’èibh mi, O! m’
eudail do chridhe dh’èirich iad agus cha d’ fhuair iad ùine sealltainn air an
cùlaibh, tha mi a’ smaointinn, nuair a tharraing sin. Agus tharraing iad gu
sgoinneil cuideachd agus thug mise rotach as an deaghaidh mar a dh’iarr an
duine orm. Ach tha iad, m’ eudail, a sealladh mun cana’ tu Dia leat! a’ dèanamh
a rèir an fhir a bha shìos. Choisich mise sìos air mo shocair. Bha mi dheagh
phìos bhuaithe ach cha b’ fhada gus an cuala mi an urchair. Chuala mi a sin an
ath-tè:
“Dhia,”
orsa mi fhìn, “tha beothach agad gun teagamh.”
Chum
mi sìos air mo shocair agus nuair a ràine mi, bha dhà mhòra, mhòra ann a shin
rag, marbh agus e air an fhuil a leigeil asda mun do ràine mise. Nuair a leig e
às an fhuil asda, theann e air a feannadh.
“A
bheil thu math air feannadh?” ors’ esan.
“Dearbh
fhèin e, chan eil,” orsa mi fhìn. “Cha d’rinn mi riamh e.”
“Nach
d rinn riamh?” ors’ e fhèin.
“Cha
d’rinn.”
“O!
mur d’rinn,” ors’ esan, “chan eil agad ach cum na casan mar a dh’iarras mise.”
Theann
e air feannadh agus a Dhia! ’s e bha glan air am feannadh cuideachd. Bha dà phòca
againn. Ach d’ fheann e a’ chiad fhear ann an tiotan.
“Seo,”
ors’ esan, “ma tha,” ors’ esan, “sgoilt e,” ors’ esan, “agus tha an t-àm
agam-sa teannadh air an fhear eile,” ors’ esan, “ma fuaraich e. Nì thu sgoltadh
co-dhiù.”
“Feucha’
mi ris,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach chan eil mi fìor mhath idir orra.”
A!
bha sgian aige fhèin cho geur ris an ràsar fhèin agus sgoilt mi e.
“Cà
a-nist,” orsa mi fhìn, “an cuirear am meanach a tha seo?”
“O!”
ors’ esan, “fàg cruinn, cothrom, còmhladh ann a shin e,” ors’ esan. “Chan fheum
sìon dheth fhaicinn,” ors’ esan. “Tha sinn ann am fior dheagh àite,” orsa mise,
“airson a h-uile sìon a chuir am falach.”
Thugadh
às an cridhe agus an grùthan agus chuireadh sin air leth. Ghlanadh co-dhiù e
cho math is a ghabhadh dèanamh agus:
“Feuch
a-nist,” ors’ esan, “ri pìosan a dhèanamh air.”
Thug
mi dheth an ceann co-dhiù. Theann mi air dèanamh phìosan air na ceithir cheathramhnan
sin. Bha esan deiseil an uair sin dhan fhear aige fhèin agus:
“Bheiribh,”
orsa mi fhìn, “leat an grùdhan agus an cridhe.”
“An-dà
is mi a bheir,” ors’ esan. “Chan fhàg mi sìon dhen t-seòrsa sin. ’S e an grùthan
is an cridhe is fhaid is fheàrr e na a’ cholann.”
Thugadh
an ceann dheth. Agus rinneadh dà chnap mhòr air agus chuireadh clach mhath mhòr
an lùib a h-uile cnap agus theann swingeadh
eadar an dithis againn:
“A-nist,”
ors’ esan, “cana’ mise, “one, two, three
agus leige’ tusa às e nuair a stadas am parcel
a’ dol a-mach,” ors’ esan. “Chan fheum sìon dhe seo a bhith ri fhaicinn,”
ors’ esan, “mum faic an gamekeeper
e,” ors’ esan, “agus bheir a’ chlach a tha seo, bheir i gon a’ ghunna e agus
tha an loch a tha seo,” ors’ esan, “tha e cho domhainn,” ors’ esan, “agus nuair
a thèid e fodha,” ors’ esan, “nach fhaicear gu siorraidh tuilleadh e,” ors’
esan.
Seo
mar a bha co-dhiù. Chaitheadh a-mach a h-uile sìon a bh’ ann am broinn an
fhèidh. Agus rinn e sineach ceathramhnan air an fhear eile. Is suarach cho mòr
is a bha iad air an glanadh.
“Cha
chuir sinn,” ors’ esan, “air do mhuin-sa idir e,” ors’ esan, “air eagal,” ors’
esan, “agus gum fàg e marc sam bith
air do chuid aodaich,” ors’ esan. “Is iomadh duine a chì a-màireach thu.”
Dh’fhalbhadh
co-dhiù agus ràine sinn an taigh leis an dà fhiadh. Ghlanadh is chuireadh air
dòigh iad agus fhuair mise na ceithir cheathramhnan a bh’ aig na fèidh agus
abair thusa gun robh feed agam.
“Well,” ors’ esan, “bi seo agad a’ falbh
a-màireach,” ors’ esan, “agus gheibh sinn,” ors’ esan, “feed mhath an-diugh,” ors’ esan, “ma falbh thu sìos gon a’ chìdhe.
Agus thig thu,” ors’ esan, “gon an taighe,” ors’ esan, “nuair a chì thu do
phiuthar,” ors’ esan. “Chan eil seo ri falbh,” ors’ esan, “gus am bi thu
dìreach air an rathad a’ falbh dhachaigh,” ors’ esan. “Bi am parcel deiseil romhad,” ors’ esan,
“nuair a thig thu a Loch nam Madadh on stimear.”
Chaidh
sinn a chadal co-dhiù. Ghabh sinn dramachan is ghabh sinn tì is chaidh sinn a
chadal. Agus chaidil mise gus an robh an t-àm agam falbh an làr-na-mhàireach
sìos gon a’ chidhe. Dh’èirich mi agus ghabh sinn dramannan an uair sin
a-rithist agus dh’fhalbh e fhèin sìos còmhla rium. Ràine sinn Cearsabhagh agus
ghabh sinn dramannan ann a shin. Bha an stimear gun tighinn. Agus leig mi às an
t-each ann a shineach gus an tigeadh an stimear is chuir mi dhan stàbla e.
Fhuair e feed ann a shineach agus bha
e dìreach fit airson an rathaid. Ach
nuair a thàinig an seo an stimear, bha mo phiuthar às a’ bhàta.
“O!
dh’aithnich i mi math gu leòr air a’ chidhe is am bàta a’ tighinn a-staigh agus
nuair a chuireadh a-mach an gangway,
chaidh mi fhìn agus an duine air bòrd. Bha bagaichean aice-se a’ tighinn. Ach, co-dhiù,
rinn i toileachadh gu leòr ruinn:
“A
bheil fada o thàine tu?” ors’ ise.
“O!”
orsa mise, “cha d’rinn mi sìon ach tighinn ach gun do thadhaill mi a-staigh san
taigh aig an duine-sa,” orsa mise.
“Cha
do leig mi às a’ mhachine idir,” orsa
mi fhìn.
“Bha
thu a’ dol,” ors’ ise, “fad na h-oidhche.”
“Bha,
gu dearbha,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus tha mi glè chaca cuideachd,” orsa mise. “Tha
mi gam fhaighinn fhìn cho fancy,”
orsa mise, “le cion a chadail co-dhiù.”
Ach,
co-dhiù, thugadh a-mach na bagaichean agus thàinig i fhèin a-mach. Dh’fhalbh
sinn ceum air cheum suas air ar socair.
“Tha
mi cinnteach,” ors’ ise, “gun robh sibh a-staigh an seo,” ors’ ise, “air ur
tighinn a-nuas.”
“Cha
robh,” orsa mi fhìn, “bha dìreach am bàta a-staigh gon a’ chìdhe,” orsa mi
fhìn, “agus ged a rachamaid a-staigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus is dòcha,” orsa
mise, “ma nach fhaiceadh sibh-se sinn air a’ chidhe, chan ’il ’ios gu dè a dh’èireadh.”
“Falbh,
ma-tha,” ors’ ise, “agus bheir dram dhan duine,” ors’ ise, “agus gabha’ tu
fhèin dram.”
“Nach
gabh sibh fhèin dram cuideachd?” ors’ mise.
Thèid
sinn a-staigh nar triùir.
“O!
chan eil e freagarrach dhomh-sa a dhol a-staigh ann. Fana’ mise aig na
bagaichean,” ors’ ise, “gus an tig sibh a-mach.”
Agus
thug i dhomh not:
“Bheir
thu,” ors’ ise, “dram dhan duine,” ors’ ise, “agus gabha’ tu fhèin dram.”
“O!
glè mhath,” orsa mi fhìn. “Tha mi cinnteach,” orsa mi fhìn, “gun toir mi leam
dram cuideachd,” orsa mi fhìn. “Bi sinn a’ dol dhan taigh aig an duine-sa,”
orsa mi fhìn, “gus am bi an fhadhail an ìre mhath a bhith ann,” orsa mise,
“agus chan eil change ri tilleadh
idir.”
“O!
bheir thu ’ugam a’ change,” ors’ ise.
“O!
dearbha,” orsa mise, “nuair a thig fear square
dhen t-seòrsa-sa,” orsa mi fhìn, “chan eil change
ri bhith ann.”
Agus
ghabh sinn a-staigh agus ghabh sinn dramannan agus thug mi leam botal agus
thàinig sinn a-mach:
“Tha
sibh air tighinn,” ors’ ise. “Dearbha, cha robh dùil ’m riubh cho cleabhar.”
“O!
cha robh toil againn,” orsa mi fhìn, “an còrr a ghabhail,” orsa mi fhìn. “Thug
mi leam rud,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus gabhaidh sinn,” orsa mi fhìn, “aig an taigh
e. Ach,” orsa mi fhìn, “theirg a’ change.”
“O!
bha mi a’ smaointinn sin,” ors’ ise, “ach tha an gnothach ceart gu leòr.”
Dh’fhalbh
sinn suas is chum sinn suas romhainn is bha againn ri suas ri mìle gu leth a
dhèanamh a choiseachd mu ruigeamaid an taigh agus b’ shuarach oirnn an
uair sin e. Cha saoileamaid sìon dheth ach mu fhichead slat. Chum sinn romhainn
suas gus an do ràine sinn an taigh. Is ràine sinn an taigh neo-ar-thaing nach
d’rinneadh toileachadh an uair sin ruinn, ri m’ piuthar-sa, agus bha am biadh
deiseil aig a’ bhoireannach a bh’ ann a shin air a’ bhòrd. Thugadh sìos dhan
rum sinn agus bha an t-sitheann fèidh a mharbh sinn a-raoir, bha i air a’
bhòrd:
“O!
chan eil an seo,” ors’ an duine, ors’ esan, “ach bòrd lom,” ors’ esan, ors’
esan, “uan beag,” ors’ esan, “a mharbh sinn an-dè,” ors’ esan. “Gu dearbha, gu
dearbha, bha mi fhìn glè thoilichte,” ors’ esan, “gun do mharbhadh e,” ors’
esan. “Is beag for a bh’ againn gun tigeadh friends
dìleas ’ugainn.”
Bha
ise a’ blasadaich is a’ blasadaich agus bha i gu math eòlach air sitheann
fèidh.
“Gu
dearbh,” ors’ ise, “chan e feòil-uain a tha seo idir,” ors’ ise.
“O!
’s e gu dearbha,” ors’ an duine.
“O!
chan e,” ors’ ise. “’S ann a th’ ann,” ors’ ise, “sitheann fèidh.”
“A! well, a nighean,” ors’ esan, “tha thu
dìreach glan,” ors’ esan. “Tha thu a cheart cho math ri Aonghas,” ors’ esan.
“Chuireadh air a bheulaibh-san a-raoir i,” ors’ esan, “agus dh’aithnich e i,”
ors’ esan, “mar a dh’aithnich thusa i.”
“A
Dhia, a nighean,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha sinn ann,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus gu leòr
dhith agus gu dearbha leam-sa,” orsa mi fhìn, “gum bithinn mios an seo agus
bhiodh sitheann gu leòr againn.”
Bha parcel mòr air a dhèanamh suas aig a’
bhean aig an duine agus:
“Well,” ors’ ise, “bha iad sin a’
sealgaireachd a-raoir,” ors’ ise, “a’ sealgaireachd na fèidh,” ors’ ise, “agus
mharbh iad a dhà,” ors’ ise, “agus bheir sibh-se leibh,” ors’ ise, “a’ chuid is
fheàrr. Gheibh sinne iad uair sam bith,” ors’ ise. Gu dearbh, gu dearbh,” ors’
ise, “rinn iad sealg mhath a-raoir,” ors’ ise. “Na dhà a mharbh iad,” ors’ ise,
“a bha cho math riutha.”
Agus
bha am parcel air a dhèanamh suas
agus bha baga mòr, mòr aice-se.
“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “an rud a nì sinn:
cuiridh sinn am parcel a tha seo,”
orsa mi fhìn, “as a’ bhaga mhòr agaibh-sa, agus a Shiorrachd,” orsa mi fhìn,
“tha e eagalach freagarrach agus nì sinn parcel,”
orsa mi fhìn, “air an stuff,” orsa
mise, “a tha as a’ bhaga agaibh-sa.”
“Dhia,”
ors’ ise, “nach eil e math gu leòr às a’ pharcel.”
“O!
chan eil,” orsa mise. “Is iomadh cù,” orsa mi fhìn, “a thig an rathad,” orsa mi
fhìn, “agus a bhios a’ smelladh suas.
Dhia! tha rud math air choireigin as a’ mhachine
a tha siud agus is dòcha,” orsa mi fhìn, “gun tadhaill sinn an Càirinnis,” orsa
mi fhìn, “agus gum bi am parcel air
falbh,” orsa mi fhìn, “ma faighear a-mach às agus cuiridh sinn dhan bhaga e.”
Thugadh
na h-aodaichean às a’ bhaga co-dhiù aice-se agus chuireadh na ceithir
cheathramhnan dhan bhaga agus chuireadh paipearan gu leòr timcheall orra agus
chuireadh parcel dhan aodach aice-se
as a’ bhaga cuideachd agus rinneadh parcel
air a’ chòrr dhen aodach:
“Tha
e a-nist,” orsa mi fhin, “O.K.” orsa mi fhìn. “Chan eil duine air an t-saoghal
a chanas nach ann à Baile Ghlaschu a thàinig am baga a tha seo.”
Ghabhadh
dramannan gu leòr an sineach is bha sinn ann a shin deagh threis agus bha mi
fhìn is an duine glè royal agus òl is
ceòl is aighear againn. Rinneadh an seo airson falbh agus bha esan a’ smaointinn
gun toirinn leam na bha as a’ bhotal.
“An-dà,
is mi nach toir,” orsa mise, “is suarach am beatha dhut fhèin, a ghràidhean, na
bheil as a’ bhotal sin,” orsa mise. “Seall am feum a nì e dhut,” orsa mise. “Is
cinnteach gu leòr gu falbhaidh thu air an t-seachdain-sa fhathast,” orsa mi
fhìn, “a phoitseadh, am feum a nì e dhut,” orsa mi fhìn, “nuair a thig sibh
dhachaigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus bi thu ceart gu leòr fhad ’s a mhaireas sin,”
orsa fhìn. “’S ann a tha aireachas orm,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach tug mi leam
tuilleadh,” orsa mi fhìn.
Ach,
co-dhiù, dhfhalbh mi fhìn is Sìne agus ràine sinn Càirinnis. Cha do dh’aithnich
sinn air duine sìon:
“A
bheil thu,” ors’ ise, “a’ dol a-staigh ann a sheo?” “Tha mi cinnteach gum bheil,”
orsa mise. “Tha mi coma ged a ghabhainn tumalair leann,” orsa mi fhìn.
Chaidh
mi a-staigh:
“An
gabh thu fhèin sìon?”
“Cha
ghabh. Tha rud agam-s’ as a’ bhaga.”
“Na
toir leat sìon,” ors’ ise, “tha rud agam-s’ as a’ bhaga-sa”
“Ceart
gu leòr,” orsa mise.
Ach
cha do ghabh Aonghas a comhairle. Chaidh Aonghas a-staigh agus ghabh e deagh
ghloine uisge-bheatha. Cha do ghabh mi leann idir agus thug mi leam flask. Chàirich mi am flask nam phòca agus thàine mi a-mach.
“Dhia,”
ors’ ise, “cha robh thu fada a-staigh idir.”
“Cha
robh, gu dearbha,” orsa mise. “Cha robh mi fad sam bith.”
Well, bha an t-each gun a
bhith ullamh de dh’fheed sìl a thug
mi dhà. Cha robh sinn ach a’ coimhead timcheall. Thàinig an seo searbhanta
a-mach. Bha mi fhìn eagalach eòlach ann an Càirinnis:
“Tha
bean an taigh-sheinnse gur n-iarraidh,” ors’ ise, “a-staigh.”
Sheall
mi fhin is bha bocsa sìl aig an each agus cha robh:
“Falbh
thusa a-staigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus fana’ mise a-muigh.”
Bha
e dìreach gus bhith ullamh dhen t-sìol ithe.
“Agus
chuimhnich na bi fada a-staigh,” orsa mise. “Tha mise a’ dol a bheairteachadh.
Tha an Fhadhail dìreach complete.”
Dh’èigheadh
orm fhìn a-rìthist airson tighinn a-staigh a ghabhail cupa tì.
Well, chaidh mi a-staigh
agus fhuair mi cupa tì agus gloine uisge-bheatha agus fhuair ise cupa tì agus
gloine fhìona. Agus cha do phàigh sinn sìon. Cha robh a chridhe againn iad
fhèin a thug duinne e. Agus nuair a bha a h-uile sìon seachad, gu dearbha bha
nòisean agam-sa gun toirinn ceathramh do bhean an taigh-sheinnse ach cha b’
urrainn domh leis na bha de dhaoine a-mach is a-staigh. Dh’fhalbh sinn co-dhiù
is chum sinn a-null an Fhadhail uile gu lèir. Tha trì mile mhòr, mhòr às an
Fhadhail a tha sin. Thàine sinn a-null air a h-uile fadhail riamh a bh’ ann gus
an d’ràine sinn an taobh a-bhos. Ach air an Fhadhail mu dheireadh:
“An
gabh thu dram?” ors’ ise.
“An-dà,
a Dhia, is mi a ghabhas,” orsa mise.
Thug
i a-mach botal:
“Seo,”
ors’ ise, “gabh dram dheth sin agus gabh de dhram dheth,” ors’ ise, “chan
fhaigh thu tuilleadh gus a ruig thu an taigh.”
“Ceart
gu leòr,” orsa mise.
A!
nuair a chunna mi sineach, Dhia! leig mise ’ugam i gu tight. Chuir mi am botal air mo cheann air a shocair agus O! leig
mi sìos co-dhiù dà dheagh làn mun tànaig e bho mo bheul.
“A
Dhia,” ors’ ise, “nach tu a thug an dram mòr às.”
“Well, mura robh mi a’ dol a dh’fhaighinn
dram,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach gu ruiginn an taigh,” orsa mi fhìn, “nach robh e a
cheart cho math,” orsa mi fhìn, “dìreach deagh oiteag a thoir’ às.”
Chuir
i am botal dhan bhaga far an robh e roimhe. Cha do dh’òl i fhèin deur. Bha sinn
a’ cumail romhainn gus an do ràine sinn an rathad mòr. Bha mi fhìn an uair sin,
bha dìreach toiseach agam as dheaghaidh na mnathadh a th’ agam an-diugh. Bha
sinn a’ cumail suas agus bha sinn an seo à fianais an taighe:
“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “bha boireannach
bochd ann a sheo,” orsa mi fhìn.
Cha
robh sìon a dh’fhios aig duine sam bith gun robh mi as a deaghaidh.
Cha
robh innte ach nighean òg, òg an uair sin.
“Tha
boireannach bochd ann a sheo,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus, gu dearbha, a Shiorrachd,
bha i gu math bochd nuair a bha mise a’ tighinn an-dè agus cha tèid sinn
seachad,” orsa mi fhìn, “gus am faigh sinn a-mach,” orsa mi fhìn, “ciamar a tha
i.”
“O!
a Shiorrachd, cha bu mhath leam sin,” ors’ ise. “Thèid sinn a dh’fhaighneachd
mu dheidhinn co-dhiù.”
“Thèid,”
orsa mise.
Bha
iad a-mach is a-staigh mun taigh:
“An-dà,”
ors’ ise, “tha eagal orm gum bheil i glè bhochd,” ors’ ise.
“Tha
fìor eagal orm,” orsa mise.
Ach,
co-dhiù, ràine sinn an taigh agus thionndaidh mise a-staigh a dh’ ionnsaigh an
taighe. Cò thàinig a-mach ach bràthair a’ bhoireannaich a bh’ agam fhìn is dh’fhaighneachd
mi gu diamar a bha a mhàthair.
“O!
chan eil i ach meadhanach,” ors’ esan.
“Nach
eil gu dearbha,” orsa mise.
“Chan
eil. Cò às a thàine sibh. An e seo do thighinn?” ors’ esan.
“’S
e dìreach, seo mo thighinn,” orsa mise, “straight
à Loch nam Madadh an-dràsta.”
“A!
a Shiorrachd,” ors’ esan, “bha sibh gu math feumach air tì.”
“An-dà
chan eil sinn feumach air tì idir,” orsa mi fhìn. “Ghabh sinn tì an Càirinnis.”
“An
Càirinnis!” ors’ esan. “Dòch’ gun do rinn sibh còrr is ceithir mìle às an sin
agus thigeadh do phiuthar a-nuas co-dhiù airson gun gabh i tì. Chan eil math
dhith falbh,” ors’ esan, “gus an gabh i an tì.”
B’ fheudar
do Shìne tighinn a-nuas agus dh’fheumadh i tighinn a-staigh. Thugadh an t-each
co-dhiù gu ceann an taighe agus ’s ann a dh’fheumte arbhar a thoirt dhà. O!
fhuair e raoite arbhair ann am mionaid dhà agus chuireadh siud air a bheulaibh
agus, a Dhia, fhuair Alasdair deagh phleaghag. Ghabhadh tì ann a shineach is
ghabhadh dram agus dè th’ agam dhut ach dh’fhàgadh fear dhe na ceathramhnan
fèidh an taigh na lass agam-sa agus
bha sinn all right. Bha sinn deagh
threis ann a shineach is thug mi am flask
dhan lass agam fhìn, a’ bhean a tha
agam an-diugh:
“Ghèidhe’
tu siud,” orsa mi fhìn, “gus an tig mise a-nuas. Chan eil sìon a dh fhios
aice-se,” orsa mi fhìn, “gum bheil e agam,” orsa mise. “Cuma’ tusa siud gus an
tig mi a-nuas. Dòch’ gun tig mi a-nuas an ath-oidhche na an treas tè. Tha astar
mòr, tha fhios agad eadar an taigh againn fhìn agus an taigh-sa ach brith cùine
thig mi,” orsa mi fhìn, “bi seo ann romham.”
Chaidh
sin a ghlèidheadh gu cùramach agus ’s esan a rinn sibh, a ghlèidheadh. Agus
dh’fhalbh sinne agus chaidh sinn dhachaigh. Agus sin agaibh a-nist mar a chaidh
dhomh-sa mu dheidhinn na fèidh a bha sineach.
Fhuair
mi dhachaigh gu sàbhailte gun sìon a dh’fhios an t-saoghail mhòir gun robh sìon
agam. Agus nuair a chaidh mi dhachaigh leis a’ mhachine an dhèidh dhomh an taigh a ruighinn, thug mi ceathramh gon
an t-sagairt dheth agus bha dà cheathramh agam fhìn agus thug mi ceathramh dhan
lass dheth agus fhuair iad riarachadh
mun cuairt cho math is a b’ urrainn domh.
Cha
do ghlacadh riamh mi fhathast. Agus dhealaich mise ris an stòiridh a bha
sineach agus bha i glè mhath.
Bha
mi an siud trip a’ dol a Loch Baghasdal agus ’s ann an coinneamh duine a bha mi
a’ dol suas a bha a’ tighinn air a’ mhail.
Bhithinn an uair ad suas mu fhichead bliadhna, bha mi a’ smaointinn, eadar am
fichead is a h-aon air fhichead de bhliadhnaichean. Dh’fhalbh mi – ’s e tràigh
mheadhan-oidhche a bh’ ann agus ’s ann a studaig mi gu falbhainn air an tràigh
oidhche agus gum bithinn a’ dol fad na h-oidhche suas agus gum bithinn fad an
latha, làr-na-mhàireach ann an Loch Baghasdal is gum biodh an t-each gu math fit agam nuair a thigeadh a’ mhail. ’S ann air an oidhche a bha a’ mhail a’ tighinn, eadar a seachd is a
h-ochd a dh’uaireannan as t-oidhche, nuair a thigeadh a’ mhail a-staigh nach robh agam ach stràcadh dhachaigh a-rithist. Seo
an rud a rinn mi. Dh’fhalbh mi air an tràigh mheadhan-oidhche. Ràine mi an Fhadhail.
Cha robh aon deur idir, idir innte. Bha i cho tioram ri ùrlar an taighe, ach
chanadh sibh gun robh flodradh bheag as an Fhadhail. Chum mi suas air mo
shocair uile gu lèir. Cha robh mi ach a’ dol air mo shocair. Cha robh reusan dhomh
rus sam bith a dhèanamh leis an each. ’S e machine
a bh’ agam. Bhiodh an uair sin, nuair a bha e an dèidh mheadhan-oidhche bhiodh
an latha a’ sìor thighinn ort. Ach nuair a bha mi suas seachad is bha mi air
aon ochd mile na naoidh a dhèanamh, bha madainn ann cho brèagha is a chunna mi
riamh, bha mi a’ dol seachad air àite ann a shineach is chunna mi sealladh
gheòidh nach fhaca mi riamh a leithid air tighinn a-nuas far mullach cnuic a
bha os cionn locha. Cha robh duine air èirigh, duine idir, idir.
Bhiodh
e an uair ad suas mu thrì uairean sa mhadainn, beagan an dèidh trì. Bhiodh e mu
thrì uairean sa mhadainn. O! chan fhaca mi a leithid eile a shealladh gheòidh
riamh. O! well, a Dhia, bha mi a’
smaointinn gun robh mi na meadhan is gun rathad agam air an each fhàgail bhuam
na a’ mhachine. Cha robh mi a’
faighinn àite freagarrach as an ceangailinn an t-each agus bha an gnothach na
bu mhiosa nach robh mi a’ faighinn dh’
ionnsaigh nan eun. ’S e geòidh a bha seo. Ach thàine mi an seo air pòla telegraph a bha ri taobh aibhneadh, sìos
bìdeag bho abhainn a bh’ ann agus Dhia! ’s ann a studaig mi gun ceangailinn an
t-each gu teann, cruaidh ris a’ phòla agus gun toirinn leam a’ chuip agus gum
biodh a dhà na trì agam a’ tighinn gun teagamh. Thug mi an t-each a dh’
ionnsaigh a’ phòla agus cheangail mi gu teann cruaidh e gus nach fhaigheadh e
obrachadh sam bith a dhèanamh air fhèin na sìon a dhèanamh air a’ mhachine.
Agus
tharraing mi air mo chrògan suas ri taobh na h-aibhneadh a bha sineach agus a’
chuip agam, cuip an eich, gus an d’fhuair mi eadar na geòidh agus an locha.
Nuair a fhuair mi eadar na geòidh is an locha, dhìrich mi air mo chrògan suas
gu barr a’ chnuic agus sheall mi ’ugam is bhuam agus chan fhaicinn duine, na
ceò na rud sam bith. Dh’fhalbh mi cho luath ’s a b’ urrainn mi sìos ris a’
chnoc. Ach a Shiorrachd! chunnaic na geòidh mi agus an àite teicheadh bhuam ’s
ann a thàinig iad cho luath ris a’ ghaoith ’ugam. Cha robh mi ach gan sgailceadh
is gan sgailceadh. Cha d’fhuair mi riamh gluasad às an aon bhad gus an robh mi
a’ smaointinn dìreach nach robh rathad agam air an còrr a thoir’ leam às a’ mhachine.
“Falbh,”
orsa mise, “tha gu leòr agam.”
Mharbh
mi feadhainn dhiubh gun sgriod ceart gu leòr dhe na geòidh. Bha iad sin marbh
agus bha feadhainn eile ann is bha mi gan cur ann am paiseanadh is bha iad a’
dùsgadh. Ach bha mi gam marbhabh. Ach bha ceithir ann a bha a’ plaparsaich
dìreach, fit air an tarraing. Rug mi
orra sin.
“A
Shiorrachd!” orsa mi fhìn, “mura toir mi leam ud seo agus bheir mi leam iad gun
teagamh.”
Agus
cheangaileadh na casan aca agus na sgiathan gus nach biodh iad a’ plaparsaich.
Theann mi air cruinneachadh agus a Dhia nan Gràsan! bha deagh chuid agam. Bha
mi gu math làidir, sgairteil an uair sin agus thug mi leam na ceithir gheòidh
is iad beò agus thug mi leam suas ri deich na dusan dhe na h-inseinean a bha
seo. Ach bha mi airson chabhag a dhèanamh a thaobh an eich agus na machine, gum faodadh cuideigin a
thighinn, duine ò deas na òn tuath, “Dè ’n t-each a tha seo?” Ach fhuair mi gon
na machine co-dhiù gun duine gam
fhaicinn. Agus cha robh fhios ’m on t-saoghal an uair sin gu diamar a chuirinn
am falach iad. Ach am rud a rinn mi: chuir mi na geòidh a bha marbh agus na
h-iseinein, chuir mi dhan bhocsa iad agus chuir mi an fheadhainn eile an lùib
an fheadhainn mharbh agus a’ rug a bh’ air mo bheula’ chàirich mi sin air a
muin agus rinn mi airson an rathaid. Dh’fhalbh mi is bha mi a’ cumail romham is
a’ cumail romham is bha mi a’ tighinn a seo an lùib nan taighean. Cha robh
taigh agam idir gus a ruiginn Tò Beag, pios mòr, mòr, mòr, agus nuair a dh’fhàgainn
an t-àite sin cha robh taigh agam tuilleadh ri fhaicinn gus a ruiginn Staoinibric
agus bha taigh poileasmain ann a shineach ri taobh an rathaid mhòir. Cha robh
mi a’ faighinn seachad air taigh a’ phoileasmain uair sam bith gun am
poileasman a thighinn a-mach agus cheasnaicheadh e gu mo bhrògan mi agus ’s
iomadh breug mhòr a dh’innis mi dhà. Well,
fhuair mi seachad air h-uile h-àite riamh ach taigh a’ phoileasmain gun duine
gam fhaicinn. Bha mi a-niste a’ studaigeadh
is a’ studaigeadh ciamar a gheibhinn
seachad air taigh a’ phoileasmain. Thug mi an aire do cheò às na simileirein:
“Hà,
tha e air a chois. Cha bhi e ach a’ watchadh
tuilleadh agus tha e air a chois gun teagamh agus bha làn mo shop agam-sa ri dhèanamh nach dean e an
gnothach orm.”
Ach
nuair a bha mi sìos ma thuairmse agus dà cheud na trì ceud slat o thaigh a’
phoileasmain, leobhara bhuail rud as an inntinn agam:
“An
rud a nì mi: bheir mi air an each dhonn, gheibh e a seachd na a h-ochd na naoidh
a shlaisean dhan chuip cho math ’s is urrainn mac mo mhàthar a thoir’ dhà agus
falbhaidh e aig full gallop, cho
cruaidh is a nì e seachad air taigh a’ phoileasmain, gus nach eil rathad aig
neach sam bith,” orsa mise, “air a dhol na lùib. Gheibh mi seachad air mar
sin.”
Bha
seo as an inntinn agam agus dìreach ma thuairmse agus trì cheud slat na mun
tuairmse sin, O! fhuair an t-each donn siud, seachd na h-ochd dìreach cho tight is a gheibheadh e mun chorp.
Dh’fhalbh siud mar ghaoth. Bha e cho luatha ris a’ ghaoith cuideachd. Ach thug
am poileasman an aire dhà. Tha mi cinnteach gun tug a bhean an aire dhà
cuideachd, am beothach a bha a’ tighinn. Cha d’fhuair am poileasman riamh ach dhan
doras. Bha mise seachad:
“A!
ghràidh,” ors’ esan, “feuch,” ors’ esan, “an cum thu studaidh e,” ors’ esan,
“mun tèid e,” ors’ esan, “leis na bearraidh a tha seo. Tha thu ann an cunnart
bhàis.”
Sin
na chuala mise. Bha mise seachad:
“Falbh,”
orsa mise. “Taigh na galadh dhu-’sa,” orsa mi fhìn. “Siud an t-aon chunnart bu
mhutha a bh’ agam-sa.”
Chuir
mi stad air an each co-dhiù nuair a bha e suas ri mìle seachad air taigh a’
phoileasmain agus cha d’fhuair e stràc tuilleadh. ’S e Àisgearnais agus àite
ris an canadh iad Gearraidh na h-Eilghe agus Dalabrog, sin na bailtean bu
ghiorra dhomh tuilleadh. Ach nam faicinn duine a’ tighinn nam choinneamh, bha slash aig an each dhonn ga fhaighinn; Goodbye seachad! Bha a h-uile duine
eòlach orm-sa, ach cha robh iad a’ faighinn tighinn idir. Bha mi an seo, ’ille,
a’ tighinn a-nuas cho fad ri Gearraidh na h-Eilghe agus dìreach ’s e Dalabrog
an ath bhaile. Bha a h-uile duine air èirigh an uair sin agus an sagart a bh’
ann an Dalabrog, ’s e Dùghallach a bh’ ann, an fhineadh aige, Alasdair
Dùghallach. Agus bha e ag èirigh às a’ bhedroom
agus thachair dhà a bhith a’ coimhead air an rathad feuch gu dè a chìtheadh e
agus thug e an aire dhan mhachine a
bha seo a-nuas Gearraidh na h-Eilghe, gus a bhith clear is dìreach Gearraidh na h-Eilghe. Bha an sagart a bha sin
anabarrach fhèin beannaichte agus ’s ann à Beinne na Faoghla a dh’fhalbh e gu
Dalabrog. Agus thuirt e na inntinne fhèin:
“Ma
tha thu air an t-saoghal ’s e an t-each agam-sa a bh’ ann. Agus choimhead e an
sin a-rithist an ceann treiseadh agus bha dìreach, bha mise gus a bhith aig a’
chrois:
“A!
is tu th’ ann gun teagamh.”
Thàinig
e a-nuas gu cabhagach. Bha mìle agam ri dhèanamh an uair sin ma ruiginn
Dalabrog agus ’s ann gu Dalabrog a bha mi a’ dol. Thàinig e a-nuas:
“Well,” ors’ esan, “tha Aonghas Barrach,”
ors’ esan, “agus tha e air tighinn à Beinne na Faoghla. A Shiorrachd is fhada o
dh’fhalbh e. Tha e dìreach a’ tionnadh a-staigh aig a’ chrois,” ors’ esan,
“agus feuch an dèan thu greim bithidh dhà,” ris a bhean-taighe. “Foslga’ mi
fhìn an geata dha.” Ghabh e a-mach agus bha mise a-nuas. Bha duine is duine a’
tachairt rium an uair sin, a bheil thu a’ faicinn. Bha iad ag èigheach hallo is bha an t-each agam-sa na ruith,
“Nothing doing.” Ach bha mi aig a’
gheata còmhla ris an t-sagart.
“Ha!
nach tu a dh’fhalbh tràth, Aonghais,” ors’ esan.
“Dh’fhalbh
mi glè thràth,” orsa mise.
Dh’fhosgail
e an geata co-dhiù agus chaidh mise a-staigh agus dhùin e as mo dheaghaidh e.
Ràine sinn an sin an t-àite bu chòir dhuinn e ligeil na machine às.
“Bha dùil ’m…” orsa mi fhìn. “Tha
rud beag agam ri thoir’ seachad,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus thèid mi a-staigh dhan chlobhsa
a th’ ann a sheo,” orsa mise, “is chan fhaic duine mi.”
“Dè
th’ agad?”
“Bi
fhios agaibh an ceartuair.”
Ghabhadh
a-staigh co-dhiù dhan chlobhsa agus thionnaidh mi a’ mhachine ri doras a’ chidsin ann a shin. Dh’fhosgail mi an cùl aige
agus:
“Well,” orsa mi fhìn, “bha mi a’
sealgaireachd,” orsa mi fhìn, “air mo thighinn,” orsa mise, “agus chan eil toil
sam bith agam,” orsa mise, “duine sam bith fhaicinn dè an t-sealg a th’ ann.”
“Dè
an t-sealg a th’ agad?”
Theanndadh
air toir’ a-mach iseinean gheòidh agus gan cuir a-staigh dhan scullery.
“Ach
a Shiorrachd,” orsa Maighstir Alasdair, “cà ’n d’fhuair thu seo?”
“Innsidh
mi sin dhuibh,” orsa mi fhìn, “nuair a bhios mi ullamh.”
Bhathar
a’ sìor-shìneadh dhà is a’ sìor-shìneadh dhà. Bha iad an seo ullamh ach an
fheadhainn a bha beò:
“Well,” orsa mi fhin, “tha ceithir ann a
sheo,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus bha iad beò,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus on a bha iad beò,”
orsa mi fhìn, “studaig mi oirbh,” orsa mi fhìn, “mura robh geòidh agaibh gun
toirinn ’ugaibh iad còmhla ris a’ chòrr agus tha iad seo beò,” orsa mi fhìn.
“Tha na casan ceangailte aca agus tha na sgiathan ceangailte aca gus nach dèan
iad plab sam bith. Is gu dearbha, cha d’rinn iad sin,” orsa mi fhìn. Cha d’rinn
iad uiread agus dìog riamh,” orsa mi fhin, “a chuir mi dhan mhachine iad,” orsa mi fhìn, “gus an tug
mi às iad.”
Agus
thug mi dhà iad sin mar an ceanda:
“O! well, well,” ors’ esan, “Aonghais,” ors’ esan, “nach mi tha toilichte.
Ach feumta’ tu,” ors’ esan, “feadhainn dhiubh sin,” ors’ esan, “a thoir’ dhachaigh.”
“A!
gu dearbha, cha toir,” orsa mise. “Cha toir mi idir leam feadhainn dhiubh seo
dhachaigh gun fhios cò thachradh rium. Ach far a bheil iad,” orsa mi fhìn,
“gus an tig mise.”
Ach,
co-dhiù, leigeadh às a’ mhachine is
chuireadh dhan stàbla am beothach eich agus fhuair e dheagh fheed sìl agus ghabhail aige gu snog.
Dh’innis mi dhà cò an coinneamh a bha mi a’ dol agus:
“Dìreach,
bi thu ceart gu leòr an seo,” ors’ esan, “gus am bi an t-àm,” ors’ esan, “a
dhol a-mach co-dhiù,” ors’ esan, “agus chan eil dùil ’m nach tèid mi fhìn
a-mach còmhla riut.”
Fhuaireadh
na h-eòin gheòidh is bha dà ghiadh eile aige-san a fhuair e agus chuireadh dhan
ghàrradh mhòr iad, gàrradh mòr, mòr àrd. Agus bha pond aige as an teis-meadhan aige as am biodh na geòidh a’ snàmh.
Chuireadh na ceithir ann a shin agus chuimhnichibh nach e a bha lucky! ’S e ceithir bhoireann a bh’ ann.
Agus cha tugadh a dh’ainm riamh orra ach geòidh Aonghais Bharraich. Bhathar glè
mhath dhaibh agus cha robh trip a bha mi fhìn a’ dol suas nach robh fios mu na
geòidh. Agus bha mi a’ sìor-iarraidh air a bhith gam bearradh daonnan air eagal
’s gum faodadh iad falbh nuair a chluinneadh iad an geòidh eile a’ passaigeadh seachad os an cionn. Bha e
a’ dèanamh sin. Ach, co-dhiù, chaidh na geòidh seach a làmh, nach robhar gam
bearradh agus latha dhe na lathaichean is e fhèin air a dhol dhan ghàrradh a
choimhead orra, theann fear dhe na geòidh air gogadaich agus bha e a’
smaointinn ceart gu leòr gur h-ann leis fhèin a bha e airson bhiodh e a’ toir’
daonnan rud ’uca.
“Ach
a ghog-gog-gog,” ors’ esan, “dh’èirich an giadh glas,” ors’ esan, “agus
dh’èirich am fear eile as a dheaghaidh. Dh’èirich iad uile gu lèir nan ceithir
as deaghaidh a chèile. Chuir iad cuairt,” ors’ esan. “Bha mi a’ smaointinn,”
ors’ esan, “nach tilleadh iad gu bràth tuilleadh. Chuir iad làn-chuairt,” ors’
esan, “a’ flyadh thall is a-bhos,”
ors’ esan, “ach uair dhe na h-uaireannan, thàinig iad mun cuairt,” ors’ esan,
“is laigh iad as a’ ghàrradh:
“A
Dhia,” ors’ esan, “ma dh’fhalbhas sibh a-rithist, dòcha nach till sibh.”
Agus
ghabh e sìos, e fhèin is an nighean. “Thèid sinn,” ors’ esan, “dhan ghàrradh,”
ors’ esan, “agus feucha’ sinn na geòidh a thoir’ a-staigh,” ors’ esan, “a shed nan cearc.”
Bha
bothag aca, taigh beag aca:
“An
toir a-staigh dhan taigh,” ors’ esan, “agus gum bearradh sinn iad. Ma
dh’fhalbhas iad a-rithist, is dòcha nach till iad.”
Bhearradh
iad an uair sin agus bhathar eagalach fhèin math dhaibh. Bha ceithir gheòidh
Aonghais Bharraich a’ breith agus cha tugadh riamh orra ach uibhean Aonghais
Bharraich: na ceithir gheòidh bha iad a’ breith. Bha na geòidh sin uine mhòr,
mhòr, mhòr aig Maighstir Alasdair gus am b’ fheudar dhaibh mu dheireadh leis
cho sean is bha iad – cha robh iad a’ breith ach fear na dha às a h-uile linn:
bha iad air dùnadh suas le calaich agus le blionaig, b’ fheudar dhaibh mu
dheireadh am marbhadh, ach bha iad ùine mhòr, mhòr aige.
Bha
mi an siud bliadhna a’ treabhadh air a’ mhachaire agus daonnan, daonnan bhiodh
an gunna a’ falbh nam chois. Bhiodh lachain a’ tighinn mun cuairt agus nuair a
bhithinn a’ faighinn teans orra, Dhia bhiodh deàrrsachd riutha. Bhithinn a’
faighinn beothach is cha bhithinn latha sam bith gun tighinn dhachaigh gun
paidhir na trì na ceithir agam. Ach an latha a bh’ ann a sheo co-dhiù O!
thàinig dròbh mòr, mòr de gheòidh an rathad agam. Cha do leig mi riamh dad orm
ach bha an gunna agam agus chàirich mi dà chatraids ann. Agus bha iad a’
seòladh gu math ìseal co-dhiù. Dh’fhalbh mi an sin agus thog mi an gunna agus
leig mi air falbh an deàrrsachd ud agus thuit a trì na a ceithir dhiubh. Tha mi
làn chinnteach gun a leòn mi gu leòr dhiubh, ach thuit iad sin solid gon na talamhaine. Dhia! bha deagh
fheed ann a sheo agus bha eich a’
treabhadh thall is a-bhos is theann sitir. Cha robh fhios on t-saoghal cò às a
thàinig an deàrrsachd. Bha na h-eich a bh’ agam-sa cho eòlach air na
h-urchraichean nach toireadh iad fiù agus crith fhèin asta agus bha feum agam air
an sin iomadach latha. Ach, co-dhiù, bha leath sheann-duine faisg orm agus mura
biodh gun robh mi faisg air bha na h-eich air a dhol air feadh an t-saoghail
agus e fhèin leotha. Chaidh mi na lùib agus chuir mi stad orra agus na h-eich
agam fhìn shuas nan seasamh gu solta, toilichte. B’ fheudar dhomh a dhà na trì
chuairtean a chur leis na h-eich sin mun d’fhuair mi a seatlaigeadh agus air
eagal ’s gu reportadh e mi, thug mi
dha fear dhe na geòidh a mharbh mi agus bha e toilichte gu leòr a’ falbh
dhachaigh.
Bha
mi siud trip eile agus ’s ann a bha mi a’ buain an latha a bh’ ann a sheo. Bha
mi a’ buain gu socair is bha locha mòr an taobh shìos dhìom agus bha iad a’
losgadh gu laidir na sealgairean air an loch a bh’ ann a sheo. Ach uair dhe na
h-uaireannan thuit an closdar ad air mo bheulaibh agus sheall mi feuch gu dè an
rud a bh’ ann agus gu dè bh’ ann an sin ach coileach mòr lachain agus e air a
leòn.
Dh’fhalbh
mi agus chàirich mi fo adaig e. Ach ’s ann a studaig mi gum faodadh iad tighinn
mun cuairt agus chuir mi pìos mòr a-staigh as an arbhar e gus gun tachradh e
rium uair sam bith a ruiginn e. Thill mi suas a dh’ ionnsaigh na speal air ais
agus theann mi air spealadh. Cha robh mi fad sam bith air teannadh air spealadh
nuair a chuala mi aonach a’ tighinn air mo chùlaibh. Sheas mi is sheall mi. Cò
bha sin ach an geamair. Chuir mi fàilte air:
“Tha
mi a’ tuigsinn,” orsa mise, “gum bheil sibh gu math trang an-diugh.”
“Tha,”
ors’ esan, “Dh’fhalbh,” ors’ esan, “coileach lachain oirnn agus ’s ann air
fheadh seo a thuit e. Am faca tu e?”
“O!
chan fhaca mi sealladh air,” orsa mise. “Cha tug mi an aire do dh’aonan dhiubh.
Ma thuit e, cha do thuit e an taobh-sa co-dhiù.”
“Well, seo an direction aig an tuirt iad rium-sa,” ors’ esan, “a thàinig e
a-nuas.”
“O!
ma-thà,” orsa mi fhìn, “chaidh e seachad air an àite-sa co-dhiù.”
“Ach,”
ors’ esan, “chan eil aca ach dèanadh iad cuimis cheart air. Cha bhi mise a’
siubhal air a shon nas fhaide.”
“O!
cha ruig thu a leas teannadh ri siubhal air a shon ann an seo,” orsa mise. “Cha
do laigh e an seo co-dhiù. Na laigheadh,” orsa mi fhìn, “shaoilinn gum
fairighinn-sa srann air choreigin.”
“A! well, ma thachras e riut,” ors’ esan,
“nì e deagh phoit dhut,” ors’ esan. “Is fheàirrde dhut e a thaobh na spealadh.”
“Dhia!
ma thachras e rium-sa,” orsa mise, “chan fhaigh sibh-se na duine eile e.”
“An-dà,
tha thu ceart gu leòr,” ors’ esan.
“Suidhidh
sinn,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus gabhaidh sinn smoc.”
Shuidh
sinn agus ghabh sinn smoc ann an sin, m’ eudail, thàinig fear eile agus laigh e
pìos an taobh shìos dhuinn:
“A
Dhiauchd,” ors’ esan, “tha fear eile an siud,” ors’ esan.
Agus
bha mi an uair sin air mo chlisgeadh gum faigheadh e am fear a chuir mi fhìn am
falach.
“Dad
thusa ort,” orsa mise. “Feucha’ mise ris an fhear ud fhaighinn. Tha dìreach
marc agam,” orsa mi fhìn, “far an do thuit e.”
“O!
mura h-eil air ach leòn beag,” ors’ esan, “ruithidh e deagh phìos as an
arbhar.”
“Ruithidh,”
orsa mi fhìn, “agus millidh sin an t-arbhar,” orsa mi fhìn, “ri linn a bhith a’
siubhail air a shon. Ach nì aon duine an gnothach.”
Fhuair
mi am fear sin agus bha an uair sin na dhà agam:
“Dè,”
orsa mi fhìn, “a tha thu a’ dol a dhèanamh ris an fhear-sa?”
“A!
cana’ mi,” ors’ esan, “nach fhaca mi sealladh air aonan riamh dhiubh,” ors’
esan. “Cum agad e,” ors’ esan.
Agus
bha na dhà agam a’ dol dhachaigh agus sin agad mar a dh’ èirich dhomh-sa.
Stories of Poaching and Other Things
I
was at one time down by a river in Griminish very close to the house and I left
just as night was falling after having a busy day working and I took a fish-net
in order to catch some trout. I went to the river and placed the fish-net at
the longest part of the bridge at the highway and once I had placed the fish-net
there I went up to the loch and I dammed the river. After the river had been dammed
and as I was climbing up what, oh Heavens, who did I see but a man ambling by
up on the riverbank. I looked and I didn’t know who this man was at all. He’s not
a poacher. And there’s a chance that he probably spotted me before I had
spotted him and I went to leave. But the bridge over the river was down a bit
and it was on the south side of the river that I went to leave. But at that
very minute he turned around to go towards the bridge and then I knew then that
it was the policeman. As clever as he was I was just as clever and I went and
dived into the river and I went northwards and I swam as quickly as I could to
try and reach the stones by the lochside so that I would then make it onto the
moor. When he reached the river mouth he spotted me over by and he turned round
in a minute and Oh! he was terribly quick. He was faster than me. I looked
behind me and he was catching up as fast as the wind after me and I was doing
the best I could to make for the stones. But I knew fine well that I would not
make it to the stones for he was quicker than me.
“Ah,
well, it’s either do or die.” And so I crouched down on the lochside and I went
into the loch and I went under. He came along and he had nearly reached me
before I returned but I had gone a good way out. He asked me to return. But I
wouldn’t show my face at all to him but I was walking hard. I had gone down and
I kept going down far and oh! I had gone a good piece out into the loch to my neck.
I went in any event down to my shoulders and the water was at the level of my
chin and I made it out without having to climb back and there I stopped.
“You
may as well come back before you drown. You’re not at all near the deep part.”
Well,
I let my breath out and I climbed out at my leisure. He couldn’t get over near
me. He was nowhere near to me. But in any event I climbed out and walked up at
my leisure to the lochside. I kept on in any event down until I reached a good
piece down. He couldn’t get out over the moor to me until I got one mile or
more of a distance and I took off every stitch of clothing then. I sat on a
rock and I took off every stitch of clothing that I had on and I strained them
and folded them up just as they had been before. I was soaked through but I
still had my bonnet on my head. I was worried about the fish-net that he would
find it and I left and I took to the road at my leisure. But a good piece away
from the river on the road I noted a man opposite me. I walked over and, oh God
of Graces, who was it but the policeman. I said that it was good night.
“Yes,
it is,” he said. “is that you there, Angus?”
“It’s
me here,” I said,
“Where
are you going?”
“I’m,”
I said, “going to the shop to get tobacco. My father doesn’t have any tobacco
and he will only be very middling without it and I’m going to fetch tobacco. I
could hold off until the morning but he’ll only be very middling without it.”
“I
expect that I will return along with you,” he said.
“Very
well.”
But
when we reached the river:
“I
don’t know,” he said, “the rascal who was on the river and indeed if I had got
a hold of him he would have got a good hiding.”
“Who
was it?”
“By
the books,” he said, “it was the son of red-haired John the son of fair-haired
John and it was he who was the criminal. But as long as he was there he was
nearly drowned in the loch.”
“And
you never got hold of him at all?”
“Ah,
no. He was making his way,” he said, “over to reach the shore but he never did.
He was a long way from it. Well, the river was dammed and I didn’t want to get
wet and if you undammed the river I would be very pleased.”
“Well,”
I said, “I’ll do that.”
We
reached the river, in any case, and I was very scared that if he had put his
hand on my clothes, and if he had done that, then he would have found out that
it had been me but I made off that very minute and when we reached the dammed
part:
“Oh,”
he said, “you’ll not get down at all and before you catch a cold then you’ll
get a wee dram from this flask that I have.”
And
he took out a flask and he gave it to me and he gave me two good drams out of
it. I leapt down and undammed the river.
“Well,
now,” he said, “I’m going to be on the river tonight and I’ll be three nights
here this week and I’m sure you’ll be poaching as well on the river but on your
life do not be on this river on those nights and give this message to the
others who you know that have a fish-net. It’s no sin to take a trout form the
river but I have to do my duty and,” he said, “if no one will be present on
those nights I’ll be there I’ll tell a lie for Bain got a complaint or two if
not three complaints that poachers have been on the river and I have to, when I
get word to do so, watch the rivers especially the one which I have to watch on
these particular nights and you’ll give word to the other men and if no one
goes near it this week I’ll tell a lie that no one has been on the river.”
We
set off in any event and just as we were about to reach the shop:
“You’ll
not go,” he said, “into the shop at all just in case there’s someone inside and
maybe they’ll have some evidence about this business and thon man will notice
your clothes and I’ll be dead and buried but you’ll leave along with me,” he
said, “and you’ll get enough tobacco from me to do you until tomorrow.”
I set
off with the policeman and he was called MacArthur. We reached the peat stack
and he asked me to stop and wait at the peat stack until he came back. He came
back and he had a quarter ounce of tobacco for me and I drank the rest of the
flask that he had with him.
“You’ll
strike home now,” he said, “while you’ll still warm enough to walk just in case
you might catch a really bad cold.”
And
I parted with the policeman.
I
was poaching on another occasion. The gamekeepers then were terribly harsh. If
they heard a report of fire, they would go after it and they would catch a few
people at it as well. But in any event on this occasion there were a lot of
geese lying in a low place. There were not far away from our own house. And
then I thought I would take a good lot of grain with me so that I’d get five or
six traps, traps for rats that were made of iron and I’d place them hither and
thither around the low-lying place there and I would have the grain that I had
around them and that without doubt I would get a few of them. I set off and I
got six or seven traps and I went over in the early evening so that not many
would know what I was up to. I went over to the place and there were a good
number of geese in the very spot in which I was going to set the traps. I set
the traps and placed a bit of grain in every trap, surrounding it. I went back
home in any event and was dodging around the house working. My eye was on the
low-lying place all the time. And I saw lots and lots of geese flying around
and around and they then at last lay down in this place.
“Oh,
God,” I said, “there’s not a shadow of doubt that’ll get one.”
But
in any event they rose up after a little while and started falling around and
they then lay down again.
“Oh,
Heavens,” I said, “maybe that bugger of a gamekeeper will be around and he was
the one who caused them to fly up but I’ll take a look over in any case.”
I
didn’t have much to do on that particular evening and what did I have before me
when I appeared in the place but every single trap had a goose and it was a joy
to take them out and I killed them and set the traps up again. That was the
best poaching I ever had and with the least effort. I set up the traps there
for a good long while in the very same place. As you know, when the geese were
getting feed they were more likely to go to the same place. I was stocking the
house with meat and many of the other households as well. But that is over now.
The gamekeeper found out that I was setting the traps and he came to see me.
“Are
you poaching at the moment, Angus?” he asked.
“I’ve
never been poaching.”
“Ah,
but you were poaching,” he said, “you needn’t deny it. I know about it all. You
weren’t poaching with a gun at all but you were using traps.”
“Indeed,”
I said, “I’ve not poached with either a gun or traps.”
“I
know you were,” he said, “and I know that only too well, a man saw you and you
had five or six geese on your back on your way home.”
I
used to get wild ducks as well from the traps there and, Oh God, he never
caught me.
“Ah,
mind,” I said, “the man that told you then I’m sure that he was not empty
handed. Whoever was doing it I was not involved. But how, oh Heavens, would I
be at that work when I’m busy all day and then I would come home I’d have
little thought of poaching. I’d have to go to the barn in order to feed the
catte,” I said, “for the night and for most of the day on the following days.
But, oh Heavens, I would have little appetite to then go poaching when I’d be
ready with that without nobody else awake but myself.”
“Well,”
said the gamekeeper, “whether you had an appetite for it or not you were still
poaching.”
“And
another thing,” I said, “even if I had been at it the goose is not considered
game. I’d take account of that although you are running down the poor people
here in order to catch them and to keep them down, keeping the poor man down
and the rich man up, trampling the poor man under your feet. If I had a gun,” I
said, “something which I don’t have I would go poaching and use your shoulder
(as a rest). I’d kill a goose whether you liked or not.”
“Well,”
he said, “I believe that the goose is not considered game at all but even if it
isn’t then it will not be long before it is.”
“Ah,
you may say,” I said, “anything you wish to do to put down the poor man. But
mind it’s the poor man that’s your upkeep and keeps every honour for your kind
in the occupation which you’re employed.”
I
and the gamekeeper fell out very badly over this and before we fell out we had
been quite pally. But you know fine well why we had been so pally before as he
had been trying to get around me in order to find out anything about me. But he
never did. And the gamekeeper left this place and Angus went on poaching as he
had always been and neither that gamekeeper nor any other gamekeeper found out
about me apart from on one occasion. And I was caught red-handed poaching.
“Angus,
you’ve been caught red-handed,” he said.
“There’s
a good chance I have been,” I said, “I was just in the yoke now, but you can’t
do one thing to me. I’m just fit for you in any way if you come around me.
But,” I said, “if you try to shoot me I have no doubt at all that you’ll be by
far the worst off for it. You can’t kill me for you’d hang for it.”
But
anyway, laddie:
“Go
away,” he said, “you’re doing very well and if you only poach the geese then
you’re welcome to them and you can have as many as you could wish for. And if
you get a wild duck among them as well then I’ll not say a word.”
I
and that man were getting quite pally with one another and we were very happy.
I’d tell him where exactly how he would get the wild ducks – where they were
the most numerous if he didn’t already know himself.
I
was on one other occasion poaching and I used to poach wild ducks.
I
used to get up at three o’ clock in the morning during the summer, around about
the end of the summer, when the birds would begin to fledge. There was a huge, big wild ducks down by our
house and Oh, there would be a large Christendom of wild ducks and the ducks
themselves would go down to the loch there. There were a lot of rushes and such
like on the loch and they would be mixed up with the pondweed there and quite
often at sunrise they would go to land and graze the hay. There was one place
in any case where I would see this from one side of the loch. Oh, then I would
see the flock hither and thither going after the wild ducks.
“Oh,
God,” I said, “there’ll be good hunting today.”
I’d
leave and go in between them and the loch. I believe that I would go on my
knees for up to half a mile so I could get near them. I was then rising up
standing and I would walk quickly towards them. There was a batch of them here
and there. The poor wee creatures there were doing the best they could in order
to get to the loch. I was just slaughtering and slaughtering them with a stick.
Oh, I was killing them for sure. But anyway I was one day on the loch and I
took a sack of oatmeal with me. I’m not telling one word of a lie. I had filled
up the oatmeal sack before I got home and I was back in before anyone was up.
And say you that we had a lot of meat while this lasted and enough of it was
given away. I nearly did not leave one wild duck alive on the loch that year
and the fowling was not as good for the tourists when they came in the autumn
to hunt as they got very few. And there’s another story for you, laddie. On
other occasions I’d leave to go to the loch and I knew fine well where the wild
ducks and birds would be. I’d go out and when I would get to the back of them,
I’d go busily and mind I would be in the loch quite far past the hips. I’d try
to run as fast as I could as the birds were flying off. But I wanted them to go
deeper into the water always but they kept to the shallow water. When I’d get
close to them, I’d have a handful of pebbles. I’d throw a pebble here and a
pebble there very close to them and the minute a pebble hit the water they
would submerge. I would see them judging by the pondweed. The pondweed would go
back and forth and when the pondweed stopped that’s where the birds were. I’d
then go very carefully towards that particular area and then I’d put down my
hand. I’d then take up the bird. I was at that work for a good long while and I
was at it for as long as I am to this very day. I’d yet keep my eye on it if my
breathing would still last. I knew fine well how I could get by them.
I
went there on another occasion and I was out getting nets on this particular day
when I spotted a huge, big net out on the loch. I had no idea how deep the
water was but it was a swan’s nest. I had never seen swan’s eggs before. I went
and tried to get to the place there but it was very soft with moss[?]. I was
going further and further out and I was taking it easy but I figured out that I
wouldn’t make it at all. I returned to land and I got two large tables and I made
a hole in them with a knife that I had to hand. Always, always then you had a
screw in the knife and the reason why the screw was there if you had a drink of
whisky – the whisky was quite cheap then and you had a screw in order to pull
out the cork. And with this screw I made a hole in the tables and when I had done
that I took it around then with the knifepoint so I would get a string through
the holes there and I tried it out. Well, the tables kept afloat I didn’t go
down at all as much as I had done before. But in any event I reached the swan’s
nest. And if I did reach it, Oh God! I remember it was well just as if I it was
this very day that it had happened. The swan turned on me and it nearly drowned
me. But one of the times I got a hold of it and I grapped it by the head.
“You’ll
not get out of that indeed, God, you’ll not get out of that.”
I
got hold of her wings and Oh! and the clothes I had on was just as wet as the
water in the loch before I could get away from the swan. But I finished the stalk
at last. And the swan only had one egg and indeed, oh Heavens, I nearly had a
comeuppance before I finished that trip. And I was never in such a situation as
dangerous as on that occasion. But in any event the gamekeeper found out about
it and he came over to see me.
“Did
you ransack,” he asked, “a nest in such and such a loch, a swan’s nest?”
“Well,
Oh God, I did,” I said, “and, Oh the God of Graces save me, didn’t I drown the
bugger of a beast. I don’t know whether it was a cob or a pen; whether it was a
female or a male. I suspect that it was a cob during that stalk but it went for
me with its wings and it didn’t give slap that didn’t hit me right to the very
heart. But I got her in any case. She had one egg and after I had taken it home
no one would eat it and I just left it there. It’s still there as an ornament.
They say that a swan’s egg is not worth eating but I think that a swan’s egg is
just as good as any other egg.
I
was on another occasion meeting my sister at Lochmaddy on a journey. The steamer
then only went to Lochmaddy and to Lochboisdale on a few occasions with cargo
to the lochs. But in any case on this occasion my sister was coming home and I
got a message to go and meet her. I went as soon as I got the message. She
noted the day that she would arrive and I made to leave. I went with a horse
and cart that I had which had been loaned to me. A local priest had a gig and
went over to see him to try and get the
gig in order to go and meet my sister for I was attending him and I thought he
wouldn’t refuse me in any case. I went to see the priest was and he asked me what
I was up today.
“Oh,
not much. I expect to go to Lochmaddy, leaving today.”
“What’s
that?” he asked.
“I’m
going to meet my sister as she’s arriving on the boat. That’s what’s up today
whatever else happens to us.”
“Is anybody
going along with you?”
“Oh!
no one, no one is accompanying me,” I said, “I don’t need anyone. I came to see
you to see if you would give me the gig so that I would make my way.”
“Ah,
by the books, you’ll get that,” he said, “You’ll only need to put some oil on
everything. When you are ready to leave just harness the horse and all you need
to do then is to leave from here.”
Well,
that was very good. I was now all right. I went back home and I said that I got
the machine. But I had expected to leave with a cart. The gig wasn’t around
then. But in any case I made to get ready and when I was ready I set off and I
took the horse out of the stable and I went up to manse where the priest was.
He had put out all the equipment there and:
“Well,”
I said, “I’m sure that if anything goes wrong that we’d be better off with a
bit of rope.”
“I
have never left the house,” he said, “without having a rope and here’s a rope
too. It doesn’t move,” he said, “out of the machine.”
“But
I hope,” I said, “nothing will come out.”
“Well,
in any case even if it does,” he said, “the rope will not weigh much and it’ll
not be any weight at all.”
I
harnessed the horse and in any case and I went in and he came back and he had a
gill in a small flask.”
“Here,”
he said, “take a dram of that. I’m sure that you’ll not go past Carinish
without taking a dram.”
“Oh!”
I said, “I had expected to take a rest in the Carinish and I’ll take a rest in
Carinish and I’ll allow the horse an hour to rest after going over the Ford as
he’ll not then go over to Lochmaddy.”
“Try
to make sure you’ll not take the drink.”
“Indeed,
no. I’ll not take the drink at all.”
“But
if you have company with you,” he said, “then perhaps you’ll not reach there.”
“Well,
I will reach there,” I said.
But
in any case Angus left and he gave a big thank you to the priest, especially
for the small flask that he gave them. That was a gill. I went on my way in any
event and, Oh God, who should I meet but the policeman a good bit of the
distance before I reached the Ford as he was on his way home.
“Where
are you going, Angus?”
“By
the books, I’m going as far as Lochmaddy to meet my own sister who is arriving
on the steamer tomorrow. I’ve to leave today,” I said, “so that I’ll be in
Lochmaddy tonight and we’ll be coming tomorrow and we’ll be back tomorrow
night. It’s a long way.”
“Ah,
well,” he said, “it’s a pity that I didn’t know that you were going over,” he
said. “I’ve some business in Lochmaddy and I’m not saying at all you won’t make
it,” he said.
It
wasn’t, my treasure, but:
“Wait
a wee minute until I write a letter,” he said, “and I’ll give it to you,” he
said, “and if you don’t see the Fiscal you’ll see someone else who’ll give the
letter to the Fiscal.”
“Well
I’ll do that,” I said, “but perhaps the Fiscal will not be in but I’ll go to
the Fiscal’s house and I’ll leave the letter there.”
“That’s
just it,” he said.
He
wrote down the letter, sealed it and put a stamp on it.
“And,”
I said, “will you take a dram?”
“Oh,
God,” he said, “indeed, I will.”
The
wee flask was taken out and the policeman got a dram.
“Well,”
he said, “it’s only a small one.”
“Well,”
I said, “when I reach Carinish it can be made larger and you can have your own
dram.”
But
the the flask was empty then as we stood there:
“God,”
he said, “have you enough money?”
“I
think,” I said, “I’ve enough that will do me until I reach Lochnamaddy, and I
hope that I will get a little from my sister when I arrive there.”
“Oh!”
he said, “don’t depend on a woman at all. She’ll not give it to you but as
little as they possibly can.”
And
he gave me ten shillings:
“Oh!
Heavens,” I said, “I don’t want to take that at all.”
“Oh!
take it,” he said.
“If
I take it,” I said, “I’ll pay you back again.”
“Away
you go,” he said, “it’s not every man who would give every last drop of what he
had. It would be a rare man indeed even though the flask was only wee.”
“You
are now being disgruntled.”
“Oh,
I’m not at all,” he said, “I’m not at all disgruntled.”
But
in any case I bade farewell to the policeman there and I took the letter and
when I reached Carinish I let the horse out. The horse got food and water. And
I also took food as well and I had a dram and I took a half bottle with me as I
left. But indeed, as the priest said, I met some company and they thought that
they’d doubtless get me drunk but I was very fit for it. They didn’t put me up
nor down at all. But I harnessed the horse in any case and I kept going until I
reached Lochmaddy and on reaching Lochmaddy night was just beginning to fall.
Well, now, I went to house of my friend and I asked him:
“Do
you think,” I said, “that I’ll get a place for the horse here until tomorrow?”
“By
the books, yes,” he said, “and you’ll get that, by God, and I’m grateful that
you came to see me.”
“Well,
I came indeed to see you,” I said, “but I’m here to meet my sister who’s coming
here but she’ll not arrive until tomorrow and I want to wait here until the
steamer comes in tomorrow.”
“Oh!
you’re most welcome. Let go of the machine.”
“The
house is here,” he said, “and if the horse comes in then I’d prefer that.”
But
in any case I tried to make the horse put its leg in but it wouldn’t go in or
thank me for it.”
“Od,”
I said, “the door’s too low.”
“It
would do the business good enough,” I said, “if he could get in but we would
have to let the house down for him to get in. The knoll over by is handier and
we’ll put a good rope on him and everything will be all right.”
A
rope was got and a tether made and before you could say God be with you! and a
big pin was put down.
“Now,”
I said, “he’ll be O.K. there. He’s got a good bit of hay and he’ll be all
right.”
He
entered in any case and thankfully I was pleased about that. We took our food
and we had a dram:
“Well,”
I said, “I’ve a letter here and I’ve to give it myself to the Fiscal and you’ll
accompany me,” he said, “a policeman from Benbecula gave it to me. He entrusted
me to give it to him and before I completely forget we’ll have to set off. I
don’t know myself if he’s in.”
“Yes,
he is,” he said, “I saw him a while ago when he was at the quay just before you
arrived and I met him just as he was coming up from the quay and just as I was
going down.”
“Oh!
very good,” I said, “you and I’ll go up.”
“Oh!
yes,” said the man’s wife. “You don’t give a damn at all that you’ll go up. The
Cearsabhadh – the hotel in Lochmaddy – is on your way.”
“Oh!
we’ll go there too,” I said, “but if you don’t believe me I’ll show you the
letter.”
“I
don’t believe you at all.”
“Very
well, if you don’t,” I said and I put my hand in my pocket, “then have a look
at that.”
“Oh!
you’ve letter right enough,” she said, “but remember don’t be too long away.”
“Indeed
not,” I said.
“And
you’ll supper will be ready,” she said, “when you get back. What time will you
be in?”
“Oh!”
I said, “we’ll be between nine and ten o’ clock.”
“Very
well, then,” she said, “the hotel will close up about then, and I’m certain
that you won’t be back until closing time at the hotel.”
“Oh!
we’ll be back,” I said, “and maybe we’ll not go near it and perhaps we might.”
But
we set off in any event and went straight to the Fiscal’s house and I went into
the kitchen. By Mary! I knew them as well. I used to always stay there when I
used to leave with the priest. He used to go to Lochmaddy time after time and I
used to go along with him. Oh! treasure of my heart, I was very pleased to see
them and I was a while in the company of the servants there and another man
accompanied me:
“Here,”
I said, “is a letter that I’ve brought with me for the Fiscal.”
I
handed over the letter to one of the servants and she went up. But when she
came back down:
“The
Fiscal has asked to see you,” she said, “and wait here until he comes down to
where you are.”
“Then
I may as well,” I said.
He
came down in a minute when he had read the letter:
“You’re
a good postman, Angus.”
“Oh!
well, sometimes,” I said, “I’m very good but at other times I’m not good at
all.”
“How?”
he asked.
“I’ll
tell you,” I said, “I was on one occasion in Creagorry and you’ll know the Post
Office in Creagorry well enough and I paid a visit to see if there was one
letter for the township in Creagorry. The post at that time didn’t deliver
letters then. You’ll know the auctioneers in Benbecula well enough, a
MacDonald.”
“Yes,
I do,” he said.
“There
were five or six letters that this man had. There were five or six letters
addressed to the priest,” I said, “and there were other letters here or there
going down all the time. And I took them all with me. Angus went home and he
didn’t remember anything about the letters. I took off my jacket and I hung it
on peg in the hallway and the letters were still in the jacket pocket. A
month’s time or five weeks after I was leaving to go to the fank to shear sheep
and I went get a jacket and it so happened that I picked up this jacket.”
“Away
with you,” I said, “this will be good enough.”
I
put on the jacket and I tried my pocket and I found all the letters there that
I taken from the Post Office, as they were still in the inside pocket. I just
turned around then and I gave all the letters to the priest. I gave them to his
housekeeper and I then went back. The letters for the auction were there and I
so happened to meet the auctioneer at the road end as he was coming down from
the house as he was going to the fank.
“By
the books, my favourite,” he said, “I’m very pleased that we met.”
“Well,
oh Heavens above,” I said, “I’m both happy and not so unhappy in a way. Well,
I’m very unhappy in one way and I’m happy in quite another way.”
“I’ll
tell you for why. A month ago,” I said, “I was returning from Creagorry down
from the quay and I visited the Post Office to see if there were any letters.
There were: four or five letters for you and loads of letters for the priest.
There was letter here and there for the whole township. I took every one of
them and I passed by you. You met me here also. You had so much to say,” I
said, “that I forgot about the letters. But Angus did not forget about it until
hes put on the jacket today,” I said, “and I tried it like this and I found a
hard thing in it. I tried it then and found the letters for the auction and all
the letters that I took from the Post Office. There were all there:
“What
are you going to do,” I said, “with the letters that I’m going to give you and
no one else would have seen them although I would be a hundred years of age and
it was I who took the letters from the Post Office but my very own letter.”
“Well,
my favourite,” he said, “many a time that has happened to me especially if I’ve
had a dram which makes people forgetful.”
“I
believe so,” I said. “I had a dram before I went to the Post Office and that’s
what made me forget about delivering the letters to everyone. But it’ll never
happen to me again. I will not take any other letters but my own after this and
that’s what happened to me.”
But
in any event I spent a while in the Fiscal’s house and I got good few drams
there. And he greatly enjoyed the story I told him about the letters.”
“But
that didn’t happen to you at all,” I said, “you’re very lucky that I didn’t go
to Cearsabhagh before I got here for I decided that I’d come here at first so
that I could give you the letter that the gentleman gave me.”
“Do
you like that gentleman?”
“He’s
a good man. He’s very hard and fair and I think that he wouldn’t put down
anyone if he could help it.”
He’s
a Lewisman as well. I was made very welcome and the man who accompanied me and:
“You’re
going to stay tonight?” he asked.
“Yes,”
I said, “I’ll stay tonight.”
“Well,”
he said, “I’m sure that you’ll not be shifted to your lodgings.”
This
is place where I’d always be:s
“Oh!
thank you,” I said, “I’m along with this man. He caught me before I arrived
with you, and I have no way of refusing and I would like to give you many
thanks. I’ll not be going to look at them but when I go along with the
gentlemen. I’ll then have a good respect for them.”
That’s
where the priest stayed whilst he’d be in Lochmaddy. And I would be along with
him. But in any event we went to Cearsabhagh then and we got drams there and we
took drams along with us and we returned home and we were just in about the
time we had said.
“By
the books,” he said, “you’ve arrived without doubt, “and I neither expected or
hoped that you’d be so early.”
“Yes,”
he said, “is the food ready?”
“It’s
nearly ready,” she said.
“Very
well,” I said, “we were made very welcome in every place we went. We weren’t in
many houses at all but, indeed, they were quite kind to us.”
“Who
would be kind if they couldn’t be kind to you?” she said.
But
in any case the food was ready and it was taken down to the room and a big
plate of meat was placed before me.
“Can
you make out,” her man said, “can you make out what type of meat that is?”
“Easy,”
I said. “it’d be strange if I couldn’t.”
I
tasted it.
“Horse
meat is quite stringy and it’s quite black.”
“Ah!
well,” I said, “if I’m not mistaken in my opinion then I think I know what type
of meat it is.”
“What
type of meat is it?”
“It’s,”
I said, “deer meat.”
But
we don’t call it deer meat at all as we call it venison, the venison of deer.
“Well, I only said that to you,” I said, “just in case anyone was listening to
us.”
“That’s
what it is,” he said, “but how did you recognise it?”
“Ud,
oh Heavens above,” I said, “I know it well enough.”
“Where?”
he asked.
“In Benbecula,”
I said. “Nearly every week didn’t we eat meat, deer venison.”
“Where?”
“At
the priest’s house,” I said, “they get shanks nearly every week.”
“Do
they indeed?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Never
mind,” he said, “we’ll go tonight and you’ll get some shanks for leaving
tomorrow. I noticed them this evening and I said to myself if someone had else
been along with me. I had expected to take the lad with me but you’re better.
We’ll get one or two tonight but we’ll stay by the fire,” he said, “until I
think this place is all asleep and we’ll go then. I think that the others have
no idea where the deer are. They are in a very favourable location.”
But
in any case we took out food and we had a few drams:
“What
now,” I asked, “what will we do?”
“We’ll,”
he said, “after we’ve been here a while here, let on we’re going to sleep and
we’ll go to the room and we’ll put the light off and we’ll let those know who
are going by that we’ve gone to sleep. After the light has gone out no one will
come to the house once the light is off. We’ll not light the lamp again. The
day will now be coming and so we’ll not light the lamp and when it’s the right
time to go we’ll move off silently and softly and they’ll be no need to speak
one word between us.”
“Very
well,” I said, “I’ll set off with you.”
We
both left around midnight, between midnight and one in the morning. When we
reached this place:
“Do
you see,” he asked, “the knoll over there?”
“Yes,
I do,” I said.
“Well,
the deer,” he said, “are on the knoll and you’ll make you way over as carefully
as you can. And whatever you do don’t stand up or else we’ll lose the chance of
the hunt. You’ll have to crawl on your hands until you get to the back of them.
Get as close as you can before you get to your feet and then when you rise up
on your feet you’ll say Hoy! And the deer will rise up. And, as they are,
they’ll face up here. The deer will run and I’ll be before there here. I’ll get
one of them anyway if I don’t get a couple. You’ll keep after them with a good
spurt until you make them run. And you’ll not say a word again and you’ll keep
going down taking your time.
That’s
how it was. I went behind the deer and I got quite, quite close to them before
they sensed me. But when I rose up I shouted, Oh! my treasure of your heart,
they got up and they didn’t have time to look to their backs, I think, when
they ran off. And they ran off as quickly as well and I took a leap after them
as the man had asked me. But they were, my treasure, out of sight before you
could say God bless me! making towards the man who was down below. I walked
down leisurely. I was a good piece from them but it was not long before I heard
a shot. I then heard the next report:
“Oh,
God,” I said, “you’ve got a beast.”
I
kept on going down at my leisure and when I reached the place there were two
big stags stiff dead and he had let the blood out of them before I reached him.
After he had extracted the blood, he began to flay them.
“Are
you good at flaying?” he asked.
“Indeed,
not,” I said, “I’ve never done it before.”
“Have
you never done it?” he asked.
“No.”
“Oh,
if you haven’t,” he said, “you only have to hold the legs as I tell you.”
He
started to flay them and oh, God! he was very good at flaying as well. We had
two sacks. But he flayed the first one in a jiffy.”
“Here,”
he said, “then, break it and it’s time for me to start on the other one before
it congeals. You can cut it anyway.
“I’ll
try,” I said, “but I’m not very got at it at all.”
Ah!
he had a knife as sharp as a razor and I spilt it.”
“Where
now,” I asked, “shall I put these guts here?”
“Oh,”
he said, “leave them neatly together over there. There’s no need to see it.
We’re in a very good place to keep everything hidden.”
The
heart and the liver was removed and put to one side. They were cleaned in any
case as best as they could and:
“Try
now,” he said, “to make pieces out of it.”
I
took the head off in any case. I started to make pieces out of the four
haunches. He was finished with his one and:
“Take
hold,” I said, “of the liver and the heart.”
“Well,
I’ll do that,” he said, “and I’ll not leave anything of that sort. The liver
and the heart are the best parts of the carcass.”
The
head was taken off and two big lumps were made and a good, large stone was put
over every lump and we started swinging it between the two of us:
“Now,”
he said, “I’ll say one, two, three and you’ll let it go when the parcel stops
going out. Nothing of this needs to be seen before a gamekeeper does and this
stone will take it to the bottom and the loch there and it’s very deep and when
it goes down we’ll never see it ever again.”
That’s
how it was in any event.
Everything
was thrown out of the deer’s inners. And he made four haunches of the other
one. It’s terrible how large they are once they’re cleaned up.
“We’ll
not put it,” he said, “on top of you at all in case it leaves a mark on your
clothes. Many people will see you tomorrow.”
We
left in any case and we reached the house with the two deer. They were cleaned
and prepared and I got the four haunches of the deer and I’ll tell you what: I
had a feed.
“Well,”
he said, “you’ll have this when you leave tomorrow and you’ll get a good feed
today before you go down to the quay. And come back to the house when you see
your sister. This is not to go until you are just about on your way to go home.
The parcel will be ready for you when you come back from Lochmaddy from the
steamer.”
We
went to sleep in any event. We had a few drams and some tea and then we went to
sleep. And I slept until it was time to leave the next day down to the quay. I
got up and we had some more drams and he came along with me. We reached
Cearsabhagh and we had a few drams there. The steamer had not come in. And I
let the horse out until such time as the steamer came and I put it in the
stable. He got a feed and he was just fit for the road when the steamer arrived
and my sister was on board.
“Oh!
she recognised me well enough on the quay as the boat came in and when the
gangway was put down I and the other man went on board. She had luggage with
her. And in any event she was pleased to see us:
“It
is long since you arrived?” she asked.
“Oh!”
I said, “the only thing I have done since I arrived was to visit this man’s
house.”
“I’ve
not let out the machine at all,” I said.
“You
were going,” she said, “all night.”
“Yes,
indeed,” I said,” and I’m feeling very shitty as well as I think I’m getting so
fancy with the lack of sleep anyway.”
Buy
anyway the bags were taken off and she came out. We left step by step up the
way, taking our time.
“I’m
sure,” he said, “that your were here on your way down.”
“No,”
I said, “the boat was just in to the quay and though we could have gone in but
maybe if we did they wouldn’t have seen us at the quay, and who knows what
would have happened.”
“Away,
then,” she said, “and bring us a dram and you’ll have a dram yourself.”
“Won’t
you have a dram too?” I asked.
We
went in, the three of us together.
“Oh!
it’s not appropriate for me to go in there. I’ll wait by the bags,” she said,
“until you come out.”
And
she gave me a pound:
“You’ll
get,” she said, “a dram for the man,” she said, “and you’ll take a dram.”
“Oh,
very good,” I said. “I’m sure that I’ll take a dram too. We’ll be going to that
man’s house to wait until the Ford will be passable and there’ll be no change
at all.”
“Oh!
you’ll give me change,” she said.
“Oh!
indeed,” I said, “when a square one of this type [i.e. the note] comes long
they’ll be no change.”
And
in we went and we had a few drams and I took a bottle and we went back out:
“You’ve
came,” she said, “indeed, I didn’t expect you to be so quick.”
“Oh!
we didn’t wish,” I said, “to take any more. I took something with me and we’ll
take it at the house. But there’s no change.”
“Oh!
I thought that,” she said, “but everything is all right.”
We
set off and went up and we kept going up as we had a mile and a half to walk
before we reached the house and that was terrible for us then. We wouldn’t have
thought anything of it as it was only twenty yards. We kept on going up until
we reached the house. And thankfully we reached the house and we were made most
welcome then, especially my sister, and the woman there had food ready for us
on the table. We were taken down to a room and the venison from the deer we
killed the night before was on the table.
“Oh!
this is only,” said the man, “a bare table with a little bird that we killed
yesterday, and indeed, indeed, I’m very pleased that it was killed and we had
little expectation that our dear friends would visit us.”
She
kept tasting and tasting and she well knew deer venison.
“Indeed,”
she said, “this is not fowl meat at all.”
“Oh!
it is indeed,” said the man.
“Oh!
it isn’t,” she said, “this is deer venison.”
“Ah!
well, lassie,” he said, “You’re just right. You’re just as good as Angus. It
was placed before him last night and he recognised it just as you’ve recognised
it.”
“Oh,
God, lassie,” I said, “we’re here and there’s enough of it and indeed I’d be
here a month and we’d have enough venison.”
A
big parcel was made up by the man’s wife and:
“Well,”
she said, “they were hunting last night, hunting the deer and they killed two
of them you you’ll take the best parts. You’ll get them any time. Indeed,
indeed, they had a good hunt last night they killed two and it was just as well
for them.”
And
the parcel was made up and she had a huge, big bag.
“Well,”
I said, “the thing we’ll do, we’ll put this parcel in the big bag and, oh
Heavens, it’s very suitable and we’ll make parcel of this stuff and put that in
your bag.”
“Oh,
God,” she said, “isn’t it good enough in the parcel.”
“Oh!
no,” I said, “there’s many a dog that’ll be on the road and they’ll smell it.
Oh, God that’s something good or another in yon machine and maybe we’ll visit
Carinish and the parcel will be gone before we leave and we’ll put it in the
bag.”
The
clothes were taken out of the bag and the four haunches were put into the bag
and enough papers were put around them and the parcel of her clothes were put
in the bag too and a parcel was made of the rest of the clothes:
“It’s
now,” I said, “O.K. No one in the world will not say that this bag came from
Glasgow.”
Enough
drams were then taken there and we were there for a while and I and the man
were getting very royal what with the drink, music and cheer. We made ready to
go and he thought that he’d give me that which was left out of the bottle.
“Well,
I’ll not take it,” I said, “your life is bad enough, oh beloved, without taking
that which is left in that bottle. See the use it will do you and sure enough
you’ll leave this week yet to go poaching it’ll do you good when you come back
home and you’ll be all right as long as it lasts. I’m regretting that I didn’t
take more with me.”
But
in any event I and Jean left and we reached Carinish. We didn’t notice anyone
suspecttng anything:
“Are
you,” she said, “going to go in here?”
“I’m
sure I will,” I said. “I won’t mind if I have a tumbler of beer.”
I
went in:
“Will
you have anything?”
“No.
I’ve something in the bag.”
“Don’t
take anything,” she said, “I’ve something in the bag.”
“All
right,” I said.
But
Angus didn’t heed her advice. Angus went in and he had a good glass of whisky.
I didn’t have beer at all and I took a flask with me. I put the flask in my
pocket and I came out.
“Oh,
God,” she said, “you didn’t stay long at all.”
“No,
indeed,” I said, “I wasn’t any time.”
Well,
the horse wasn’t quite ready for the feed I gave it. We were just looking
around. Then a servant came out. I was well known in Carinish.
“The
landlady wants you to come in,” she said.
I
looked and the horse had a box of seed so it was:
“You
go inside,” I said, “and I’ll stay outside.”
He
was nearly finished eating the seed.
“And
mind don’t be long in,” I said, “I’m going to harness the horse. And the Fsord
is nearly ready.”
Give
me a shout again to come in to take a cup of tea.
Well,
I went in and I got a cup of tea and a glass of whisky and she got a cup of tea
and a glass of wine. And we didn’t pay for a thing. We didn’t have the heart to
as they had given it to us for nothing. And when everything was done, indeed I
had a fancy to give haunch to the landlady but I couldn’t with the amount
people coming and going. We left in any event and we kept going over the Ford
all together. The Ford has the length of three long, long miles. We came over
every ford there was until we reached the other side. But at the last ford:
“Will
you take a dram,” she said.
“Well,
oh God, I’ll do that,” I said.
She
took a bottle out:
“Here,”
she said, “take a dram out of that and take a good dram of it for you’ll not
get any more until you reach the house.”
“All
right,” I said.
Ah!
when I saw that, God! I let it down tightly. I put an end to the bottle and Oh!
I let down in any case two good mouthfuls before I let it go from my lips.
“Oh
God,” she said, “didn’t you take a big dram.”
“Well,
if I wasn’t going to get a dram,” I said, “until I reached the house it was
just as well to take a good blast out of it.”
She
put the bottle into the bag where it had previously been. She didn’t touch a
drop. We kept on going until with reached the highway. I was then just starting
to court the woman that is my wife today. We were going and we were now within
sight of the house:
“Well,”
I said, “there’s a poorly woman here.”
No
one knew a thing that I was after her.
She
was only a young, young girl then.
“There’s
a poorly woman here,” I said, “and indeed, oh Heavens, she was quite poorly
when I was going past yesterday and we can’t go by until we find out how she
is.”
“Oh,
Heavens, I wouldn’t like to do that (go by without going in). We’ll go and ask
about her in any case.”
“Yes,”
I said.
They
were out and in around the house.
“Well,”
she said, “I’m afraid that she is very poorly.”
“I’m
truly sorry,” I said.
But in any case, we reached the house and, as
I turned in towards the house, who should come out but my wife’s brother and I
asked him how his mother was.
“Oh,
she’s only middling,” he said.
“Is
she, indeed?” I said.
“Yes.
Where have you come from? Is it here you have come?” he asked.
“Yes,
just now, I’ve come,” I said, “straight from Lochmaddy just now.”
“Ah!
oh Heavens,” he said, “you’ll be in quite a need for some tea.”
“Well,
we don’t need tea at all,” I said. “we had tea in Carinish.”
“In
Carinish!” he said, “Perhaps you have done more than four miles from there and
you’ll sister will come down in any case to take tea. It’s not good for her to
leave without having tea.”
Jean
had to come down and she had to come in. The horse was taken in anyway to the gable
end of the house and grain had to be given to him. Oh! he got a good feed of
grain within a minute and it was put in front of him and, oh God, Alasdair got
a good feed[?]. Tea was then taken and a dram and what do I have for you but
only one of the haunches of deer which was left in my lassie’s house and we
were all right. We spent a good while there and I gave the flask to my lassie,
the wife which I have today:
“You’ll
keep that,” I said, “until I come down. She had no idea at all,” I said, “that
I had it. You’ll keep that until I come down. Maybe I’ll come down tomorrow
night or on the third night. There’s a long distance, you know, between our
house and this house but whenever I come this will be before me.”
That
was kept carefully and it was he who kept it for you. And we left and we went
home. And there you have it now of how it went with me regarding the deer.
I
got home safely without the wider world knowing anything that I had something.
And when I went home with the machine after I reached the house, I gave a haunch
to the priest and I had two haunches to myself and I gave a haunch to the
lassie and they got a fair share around as best I could do.
I’ve
not been caught yet. And I parted form that story and it was very good.
I
was once on a journey to Lochboisdale and I was meeting a man who was going up
and coming back with the mail. I would’ve been at that time around twenty years
of age, I think, between twenty and twenty one of years. I left – it was a
midnight tide and I thought that I would leave at the night tide and I would be
going all night and so I would have all day, the next day, in Lochboisdale and
that the horse would be quite fit when the mail arrived. The mail arrived at
night, between seven and eight o’clock at night and when the mail would arrive
all I had to do was to strike home again. This was the very thing I did. I left
on the midnight tide. I reached the Ford and there was not one drop at all
there. It was as dry as the floor of a house, and you could say that there was
a little flounder in the Ford. I kept going on taking my time all together. I
was taking my time. There was no reason for me to make rush with the horse. I
had the machine. Then, when it was after midnight, the day would start to
appear fast. But when I was up and I had done eight or nine miles, the morning
was as beautiful as I had ever seen. I was going by a place there and I saw a
sight of geese that I had never seen the like before coming down from a hilltop
that was above a loch. No one had got up, not one person at all, at all.
It
would have been around three o’clock in the morning, a little after three. It
would have been about three o’clock in the morning. Oh, I have never seen the
like of such a sight of geese before. Oh, well, oh God, I thought that I was in
middle and I had no way of leaving the horse or the machine. I had no suitable
place to tie the horse and the business was by far the worse as I wasn’t going
towards the birds. It was geese. But I came upon a telegraph pole besides a
river, it was little down from the river and God! I thought I would tie the
horse tightly to the pole and I would take the whip with me so that I would
have two or three coming without doubt. I took the horse towards the pole and I tied it tightly to it so that he could not
work it loose or could do anything with the machine. And I crawled along on my
hands up beside the river there and I had the whip, the horse whip, so I could
get between the geese and the loch. When I got between the geese and the loch,
I climbed up on my hands up to the top of the knoll and I looked to me and from
me and I could not see anyone, or mist or anything. I left as quickly as I could
make it down by the knoll. But oh Heavens! the geese saw me and instead of
fleeing before me they came as quickly as the wind towards me. I had only to
strike them and strike them. I didn’t move at all from the same spot until I
thought there was no way I could get any more to take with me into the machine.
“Away,” I said, “I’ve enough.”
I killed a few of them, with a few strokes all
right, of the geese. They were dead and there were a few others and I
had knocked them out and they were coming round and I was killing them. But
there were four that were fluttering just and fit to pull I caught hold of
them.
“Yuch!”
I said, “if I don’t take this and I’ll take them without doubt.”
And
their legs and wings were tied so that they wouldn’t flap around. I then began
to gather them in and Oh God of Graces! I got a good few. I was quite strong
and tough then and I took the four geese that were still alive and I took up to
ten or a dozen of these chicks. But I was in a rush because of the horse and
the machine especially if someone came from the south or north and said: “Whose
horse is this?” But I got to the machine in any event without anyone seeing me.
I had no idea in the world then how I could hide them. But the thing I did was
that I put the dead geese and the chicks into a box and I put the other ones
with the ones that were dead and gripped it with my mouth and put them on its
back and I made for the road. I set off and kept on going and going until I
came to the houses. I didn’t see a house until I reached Howbeg, a good, good,
good, distance away and when I left that place I didn’t see a house until I’d
reach Stoneybridge and where there was a policeman’s house by the side of the
highway. I would never got past the policeman’s house without him coming out
and questioning me down to my very shoes and there’s many a big lie I told him.
Well, I got past every single place but the policeman’s house without anyone
seeing me. I was now thinking and thinking how I would get past the policeman’s
house. I noticed smoke coming out of the chimney:
“Hah,
he’s up. He’ll only be watching out and he is without doubt up and about and
I’ve a full job to do so that he doesn’t get the better of me.”
But
when I was down around two or three hundred yards from the policeman’s house,
and by the books! something struck my mind:
“The
thing I’ll do it this: I’ll make the brown horse, I’ll give him eight or nine
strokes of the whip as good as my own mother’s son could give him and I’ll go
by at full gallop, as hard as he can right past the policeman’s house so that
no one will have any way of getting in the way. I’ll get by like that.”
This
was in my mind and just about three hundred yards or or so, Oh! the brown horse
got it, seven or eight just so tight as he would get round his body. He went
like the wind and he was as quick as the wind as well. But the policemen
noticed this. I’m sure that his wife noticed this as well, the beast that was
coming. The policeman only got to the door when I was past:
“Ah,
love,” he said, “try and keep an eye on him to see where he goes with this
stunt[?]. You’re in danger of your life.”
That’s
what I heard. I was past.
“Away,”
I said, “to hell with you. That was the greatest danger I was ever in.”
I
put a stop to the horse in any case when he was upwards of a mile past the
policeman’s house and he never got another stroke of the whip. Askernish and a
place they called Garryhellie and Daliburgh, that’s the towns that were the
shortest distance from me. But if anyone was coming my way towards me, a slash
would have been given to the brown horse: Goodbye going by! Everyone knew me,
but they never got near at all. I was here, laddie, coming down as far as Garryhellie
and it was just Daliburgh that was the next township. Everyone was up then and
the priest in Daliburgh, he was a MacDougall, that was his surname, Alasdair
MacDougall. And he was getting up in his bedroom and it so happened that he was
looking out on the road to try to see what he could see and he noticed the
machine down from Garryhellie and it was almost clear just of Garryhellie. The
priest was very blessed and he came from Benbecula to go to Daliburgh. And he
said in his own mind:
“If
you’re of this world then that is my horse. And he looked again after a while
and I was just about to reach the crossroad.”
“Ah!
it’s definitely you.”
He
came down quickly. I had a mile to go then before I reached Daliburgh and I was
making for Daliburgh. He came down.
“Well,”
he said to his house-wife, “that’s Angus Barrach MacMillan and he has come down
from Benbecula. Oh! Heavens it’s long time since he left. He’s just turning in
at the crossroads and see if you can prepare some food for him. I’ll open the
gate for him.” He went out just as I coming down. Many people were meeting me
then, do you see. They were shouting hello and my horse was running, “Nothing
doing.” But I was at the gate along with the priest.
“Hah!
didn’t you leave early, Angus?” he asked.
“I
left very early,” I said.
He
opened the gate in any case and I went in and he closed it after me. We reached
the place and we should let the machine out.
“I
expected…” I said, “that I’ve a small thing to give you and we’ll go into the close
here so that no-one can see me.”
“What
do you have?”
“You’ll
know soon enough.”
We
went in anyway to the close and I turned the machine around to the kitchen door
there. I opened the back of it and:
“Well,”
I said, “I did some hunting on my way here and I didn’t want anyone to see what
the quarry was.”
“What
quarry do you have?”
I
turned out the geese chicks and I put them into the scullery.
“But
oh! Heavens,” exclaimed Father Alasdair, “where did you get this?”
“I’ll
tell you that,” I said, “when we’re finished.”
I
was handing and handing it to him. There were all ready apart from the few were
still alive.
“Well,”
I said, “there’s four of them here and they’re alive and since they’re alive I
studied you if you don’t have any geese I would give them to you all along with
the rest and the ones here that are alive. They’ve their legs tied and their
wings so that they can’t flap. And indeed, they didn’t do that. They’ve never
made so much as a squeak since I put them into the machine until I took them
out.”
And
I gave them to him likewise:
“Oh!
well, well,” he said, “Angus, I’m pleased but you’ll have to take some of them
to take home.”
“Ah,
indeed, no,” I said, “I’ll not take any of these with me here home without
knowing who might meet me but here they’ll stay,” I said, “until I come back.”
But
in any event the machine was released and the horse was taken to the stable and
he got a good feed of seed which will do nicely. I told him who I was going to
meet and:
“Just
that, you’ll be right enough here,” he said, “until it’s time to go out anyway
and I expect that I’ll go out along with you.”
The
geese were received and the two other geese he received were put in the big
garden with a big, large, high fence. And there was pond right in the middle in
which the geese could swim. Four of them were put there and minding that they
were lucky. These four were females. And he never gave them any other name but
Angus Barrach MacMillan’s geese. He was good to them and there wasn’t a time
when I didn’t go up that I didn’t ask about the geese. And I had always wished
that they had their wings cut so that they wouldn’t fly over when they’d hear
the other geese passing by above them. It was doing that. But in any case the
geese got out of hand, they weren’t been cut and one of these days he had gone
to the garden to see them, one of the geese started gaggling and he thought
right enough that it wanted him to give him something.
“But
gog-gog-gog,” it said, “the grey goose flew up and the other one flew up after
it. All four of them flew up one after another. They went round. I thought that
they would never return. They went right round flying here and there and one of
the times they came around and they then lay down in the garden.”
“Oh,
God,” he said, “if you ever leave again maybe you’ll not return.”
And
he went down, himself and the lassie. “We’ll go,” he said, “to the garden and
we’ll see if we can take the geese into the hen hut.”
They
had a little hut – a wee house:
“And
if taken into the house,” he said, “then we’ll cut them. If they leave again
maybe they’ll never return.”
They
were cut then and it was terribly good for them. All four of Angus Barrach
MacMillan’s geese had hatched and they were never called anything else other
than Angus Barrach MacMillan’s eggs: the four geese that had hatched. Father Alasdair
had these geese for a long, long, long time but at last as they were so old –
they were only hatching once or twice every generation: they were closed up
with [calaich?] and fat[?], and they had to killed at last, but he had them for
a long, long time.
That
year there was ploughing on the machair and always, always reports of gunfire
could be heard. Wild ducks would be coming around and when I’d get a chance, Oh
God, there’d be a report [of fire]. I’d get a bird and I wouldn’t be a day
coming home without a brace, or three or four of them. But on this day, in any
event Oh! a big, big drove of geese came my way. I didn’t pretend to do
anything else but to take a gun and to load it with two cartridges. And they
were flying fairly low in any event. I went over and I aimed the gun and let
them have it with a blast and three or four of them fell. I’m very sure that I
wounded enough of them but they fell dead to the ground. God! I’ve a good feed
here and horses were ploughing here and there and then neighing started. No one
in the world knew where the shot had come from. The horses I had were used to gun
fire and they wouldn’t even flinch and I was in need of that for many a day.
But in any case there was a fairly old man near to me and if I had not been
near the horses they would have fled to the four corners of the world and he
would have gone along with them. I went over to them and stopped them, the
horses I had were standing up solidly and happily. I had to give them two or
three walks along with the horses before I could them settled down and in case
he would have reported me if I had not given him one of the geese that I killed
and he was happy enough when he left for home.
I
was on another occasion harvesting on this day. I was taking my time harvesting
and there was a big loch down by the side of me and the hunters were firing
fiercely at this loch. But one of the times a carcass fell in front of me and I
looked to see what it was and it was a big wild duck had been injured.
I
went to fetch it and placed it under a haystack. And I thought that they might
come round and I so I put it further into the grain so that I would find it any
time I would reach it. I went back to the scythe and began scything. I had not
been long at all scything when I heard someone behind me. I stood and looked.
Who was it but the gamekeeper. I welcomed him:
“I
understand,” I said, “that you are quite busy today.”
“Yes,”
he said, “we’ve missed a wild duck, a cockerel, and it landed around here. Have
you seen it?”
“Oh,
I’ve not seen it,” I said, “I didn’t pay any attention to any of them. If it
did land here, it didn’t fall on this side in any case.”
“Well,
this is the direction they told me,” he said, “that it came down.”
“Oh!
then,” I said, “it went by this place in any case.”
“But,”
he said, “they only have to make out the right direction. I’ll not be going any
further for it.”
“Oh!
you don’t need to go any further here.” I said. “It didn’t land here in any
case. If it did land I would think that I would notice a noise or something.”
“Ah!
well, if you happen upon it,” he said, “it’ll make a good pot for you. That
would be better for you than scything.”
“Oh
God! if I do happen upon it,” I said, “you’ll not get it or anyone else.”
“Well,
you’re right enough,” he said.
“We’ll
sit,” he said, “and have a smoke.”
So
we sat and we had a smoke there, my treasure, another one came and it landed a
piece away down from us:
“Yuch,”
he said, “there’s another one.”
And
I was then afraid that he would find the one that I had hidden away.
“Just
stop there,” I said. “I’ll try and get that one. I’ve marked out where it
landed.”
“Oh,
if he’s only slightly injured,” he said, “he’ll run a good piece into the grain.”
“It
will,” I said, “and that will damage the grain as I chase after it. But one man
can do the business.”
I
got that one and so then I had two:
“What
are you going to do with this one?” I asked.
“Ah,
I’ll say,” he said, “that I didn’t see any one of them.”
“Keep
it,” he said.
And
I had two of them going home and that’s what happened to me.
Reference:
NFC
1180, pp. 301–548
Image:
Angus MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s.
Image:
Angus MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s.
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