Wrecking and Salvaging: The Weaver of the Stack

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

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

BREABADAIR AN STAC

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE WEAVER OF THE STACK

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

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

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

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

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

The weaver of the castle

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

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

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

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

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

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

The life story of the little weaver

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Come on board,’ the captain replied.

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

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

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

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

*           *           *

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

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

*           *           *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

References:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image:

Captain Donald Joseph MacKinnon, known as An Eòsag

Weaver’s Stack / Stac a’ Bhreabadair, Eriskay

Local Hero: Big Young Donald MacMartin-Cameron

Almost everywhere in the Highlands and Islands there used to be what may be termed a local hero or, perhaps more precisely, local heroes. These were celebrities of their day who won renown through their various talents, or brave deeds and, on the reverse side of the coin, there were also anti-heroes who gained notoriety for vile or cowardly behaviour. Various heroes of different cultures can be identified throughout human history and literature and one such study, which remains a classic, is Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces, first published to critical acclaim in 1949, which uses comparative methodology to closely analyse the archetypal hero found throughout world mythology.

Keeping with a Gaelic perspective, in many ways an heroic ideal chimes with one aspect of a binary division which runs in parallel with the so-called panegyric code. It is a a deeply held perception (or conviction) of how, in many respects, the Gaelic world was (and still is to some extent) perceived or viewed, perhaps through its (seemingly all) pervasive use by poets, song-writers and storytellers. In simplistic terms it may be split between praise (moladh) and dispraise (di-moladh) and it seems that not many people or objects were not beneath the attention of a skilled (or even an unskilled) bard. Witness, for example, many people or things that have attracted disproportionate praise or stinging satire. These include but are not limited to such subject-matter as bagpipes, whisky, wine, tobacco, hunters, tea, women, horses, rats, mice, cows, sheep, sexual parts, ships, mountains, islands, clergymen, poets, factors, chieftains and the list goes on and on. Indeed it would be far easier to produce a list based on one of exclusion rather than inclusion. Such creative output could be scathing, witty, scatological, biting, beautiful or moving. Clearly such productions were aimed to get an audience to react emotively whether that be in a positive or a negative manner. It was and is powerful stuff.

One such local hero from Brae Lochaber was evidently a man known as Dòmhnall Mòr Òg (‘Big Young Donald’), a MacMartin-Cameron from Leac Ruaidh, Glenroy, right in the heart of MacDonald territory. Many stories were related about him; some of which may be true but others would seem to have been attached to his personality. John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochabrer, alone had nearly a dozen anecdotes about him. During the tenureship of the Gordons over Brae Lochaber, Big Young Donald was a factor for the estate. This indicates that he had some formal education and, that being the case, was literate in English and perhaps even in Gaelic. He flourished during the first half of the eighteenth century and was considered to be a great hunter, far superior to his contemporaries. A dialogue song between him and a deer is also said to have been composed by him. He was clearly a popular personality for, on his death, an elegy was composed for him and ascribed (probably incorrectly) to Alasdair MacKinnon by the Rev. Alexander Maclean Sinclair (1840–1924). The elegy has been printed on a number of occasions for which see Anon., 1895, p. 8; Broadwood et al. 1931, pp. 280–303, where the air is given and a translation provided by Frances Tolmie; Carmichael (1928–71), v, pp. 174–77; Ailean Dughalach (1829), pp. 127–31; Sinclair (1890), pp. 37–39; and Mac-an-Tuairneir (1813), pp. 372–74. It also continued in oral tradition and was recorded from John MacDonald of Highbridge, wnho may be heard relating a similar anecdote and singing the elegy: http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/22888/1; as well as http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/51616/1.

Indeed, such a figure clearly made an impression on Maclean for he wrote in The Highlands (1959) about him most of which was gleaned from John MacDonald, previously mentioned:

About the most noted of Lochaber’s local heroes was Donald Cameron who was factor to the Huntly and Gordon estates in Lochaber during the early part of last century. In tradition he is known as Dòmhnall Mòr Òg (Big Young Donald). He was a powerful figure and an unsurpassed marksman. Many stories are told about him, some of them quite remarkable. A very fine elegy was composed on his death. It ran into sixteen stanzas, and was very popular with old Lochaber singers. One man came into possession of a copy of several stanzas of the song, which were written down in Cape Breton from a descendant of Lochaber stock and mailed across the Atlantic. He was extremely proud of his acquisition and showed the copy of the song to everyone he met. Then one day he met John MacDonald of Highbridge. They met half-way across the bridge at Spean. The copy of the song was produced and the old man read through the five or six stanzas. The other listened with interest and patience. When he finished, John was asked if he knew the song. He did.

“Sing it then,” said the other.

John put his back to the parapet and went through sixteen verses. The other crumpled the paper he held into a ball and threw it into the Spean.

“To the house of the bitch with it!” said he. “That is only half the song.”

The old man was illiterate according to modern standards, yet one song meant as much to him as a herd of prize cattle. So much for the barbarism of the Highlanders!

A story goes that a spirit used to meet Dòmhnall Mòr Òg and it told him when he would die.

“The wife will tell you,” said the spirit. “She will let you know when you are going to die, for you will ask for something and will not get it.”

“In that case, I shall take good note of it,” said Donald. “The wife never refused me anything, but was always good and kind to me.”

“Oh!” said the spirit, “put not your trust in a broken sword. Do you not know that it was the woman who was fanning the fire with her apron when Christ was being crucified so that the smith should make the nails to go in His hands and feet?” The smith said:

“I am afraid that we have not enough fire for four nails.”

“Oh!” said she, “what need have we of four nails?”

“Yes,” said he, “we need four.”

“Put one foot on top of the other and drive the nail through the two and that will secure them,” said she. “You need no more than three nails.”

“Oh! woman,” said he, “in every difficulty in which you ever were there was always a tongue in your mouth to get you out of it. It will be so. There will be only three nails.”

And to this day women are forbidden to fan the fire with their aprons, and they will on no account do it. They all know about this.

The legend about the nails in the Cross is known in many European countries, but the number of nails varies. In Gaelic tradition the woman is invariably master of every situation. “Why is a woman like an echo?” asks the Gaelic riddle. “She will have the last word in spite of you.”

It appears that Dòmhnall Mòr Òg was very fond of the fair sex and his reputation lived long after him. Fifty years after his death and burial in the churchyard of Mucomer, a crofter in the neighbourhood had a very troublesome ram which always chased women, never men. The ram’s behaviour seemed inexplicable until one of the local characters ventured a serious and plausible suggestion.

“Perhaps,” said he, “the ram is really Dòmhnall Mòr Òg.”

The belief that spirits of the dead return in animal form is widespread; it is by no means Highland or Lochaber superstition. Actually there is surprisingly little of what may be termed as superstition in Lochaber. There is very much more among the fishing communities on the east coast of Scotland.

I regret that lamentably little of the fine traditions of Lochaber are being passed on to the younger generations. Men like John MacDonald of Highbridge, Archie Maclnnes of Achaluachrach and the late Allan MacDonell of Inverlochy could stand anywhere on the highway between Fort William and Roy Bridge and name every valley, every stream, every copse and every peak in an absolute sea of mountains as far as the human eye could reach. Their knowledge did not, however, stop at mere names. They knew the why and wherefore of them all.

Apart from updating the orthography, these anecdotes about Dòmhnall Mòr Òg can be given in the transcribed original, followed by translations:

DÒMHNALL MÒR ÒG

Bha fear ann am Bràigh Inbhir Ruaidh gu h-àrd agus ’s e Dòmhnall Mòr Òg Mac Mhàrtainn a bh’ air. Agus bha an corp aige tighinn a-staigh Gleann na Fionntaig. Dh’òrdaich e a’ cheathrar bu treusa a bhith fon ghiùlan aig Allt nan Reithe. Chaidh a thìodhlacadh ann am Magh Comair, an Geàrr Lòchaidh. ’S e Camshronach a bh’ ann.

BIG YOUNG DONALD

There was a man in up in Brae Inveroy called Big Young Donald MacMartin [Cameron]. His corpse was taken from Glenfintag. He requested that the four strongest men should carry him over Allt nan Reithe [Rams’ Burn]. He was buried at Mucomir, Gairlochy. He was a Cameron.

DÒMHNALL MÒR ÒG AGUS AN SAGART

Bha duine anns an dùthaich seo ris an abradh iad Dòmhnall Mòr Òg de dhuine làidir, comasach. Bha e a’ fuireach san Leac Ruaidh gu h-àrd am Bràigh Ghleann Ruaidh anns a’ chrìoch eadar Bàideanach agus Gleann Ruaidh. Agus cò thachair tighinn don àite ach duine foghainteach, sagart anabharrach foghainteach. Agus bha iad airson gu feuchadh Dòmhnall Mòr Òg an deaghaidh dhà a bhith gràinne bhliadhnaichean an sin, gu feuchadh e fhèin agus an sagart car gleachd. Chan fheuchadh Dòmhnall Mòr Òg e, agus bhiodh e ga fheuchainn. Dh’fhalbh an sagart. Dar a dh’fhalbh an sagart, thuirt iad ri Dòmhnall Mòr Òg, carson nach d’fheuch thu car gleachd seo?”

“An-dà,” thuirt e, “bha an t-eagal orm gum biodh e gu h-àrd agus bha dìreach den olc annam nach b’ urrainn domh bràthair mo sheanar a chumail bhuaidh.”

B’ e sin a’ bhiodag. Ach cha d’fheuch iad car gleachd riamh. Agus a dh’innseadh gun robh an sagart foghainteach: bha gille a’ falbh leis agus nam biodh aige ris an abhainn a dhol seachad air Ruaidh an àite cumhang, freagarrach dha fhèin, bheireadh e roid bheag às agus dh’iarradh e air a’ ghille nan dèanadh e sin fuireach aig taobh na h-abhna. Agus anns an roid san dol seachad bheireadh e air a’ ghille na achlais agus leumadh e a-nunn air taobh thall an uisge agus an gille aige na achlais. Tha mi a’ smaoineachdainn an t-ainm a bh’ air an t-sagart a bha sin gur h-e Burns a bh’ air. Agus bhiodh e a’ fuireachd an Gleann Turraid. Agus tha mi a’ creidsinn gu faod sibh a’ dol air ais dà cheud bhon àm sin.

BIG YOUNG DONALD AND THE PRIEST

There was a man in this country called Big Young Donald Cameron, who was a strong capable man. He stayed in Lecroy up in the Braes of Glenroy in the borders between in Badenoch and Glenroy. And who happened to come to this place but a strong man, a priest who was extremely strong. They wanted him to challenged Big Young Donald after he had been there many years, that he and the priest should have a wrestling match. But Big Young Donald wouldn’t challenge him although the priest was willing to try. The priest set off and as he did, they asked Big Young Donald why he didn’t challenge him to wrestle?”

“Well,” he replied, “I’m afraid that if he got the upper hand then and that I’d have such a bad wont then even my brother’s grandfather couldn’t be kept away.”

That was the name of the dagger. They never challenged one another to a wrestling match again. And to say how strong the priest was: a lad would travel with him and if he had to cross a river such as the River Roy at a narrow place that would be suitable he’d take a small run and he’d get the lad to stay beside the river. And when he took a run as he went by he’d grab the lad and put him under his armpit and he’d jump over the water with the lad still held in his armpit. I think that the priest’s name was Burns. And he stayed in Glen Turret. I believe it’s around two hundred years ago when this is said to have happened.

DAOINE A’ TROD LE BATAICHEAN

Nuair a chaochail Dòmhnall Mòr Òg, duine ainmeil a bha gu h-àrd an Gleann Ruaidh, chaidh fear de na gillean aige fhàgail na àite na rùnair’ aig a’ Ghòrdanach. Agus bha gamhlas aig càch ris gun d’fhuair e an t-àite seo agus ’s ann a chaidh ceathrar an àirde feuch an gabhaidh iad air, agus nam b’ urrainn daibh, a mharbhadh agus gum faigheadh iad fhèin an t-àite aige. Ach bha an duine foghainteach agus dh’aithnich e gur h-e a’ chomhstrì agus an aimhreit a bh’ ann. Agus chaidh iad an grèim ri chèile. Agus chuir e a chùlaibh ris an tallan aige agus ghabh e orra agus chuir e creachdan air an cinn a bha truagh. Thàinig iad a-nuas agus rinn iad a’ chasaid ris a’ mhinistear a bha san àite, duine còir, am ministear Ross. Chaochail e ann an 1822. Ach, co-dhiù:

“Feumaidh mise dà thaobh na naidheachd fhaotainn,” thuirt e.

Chaidh e an àirde a dh’fhaicinn an duine a bha an Gleann Ruaidh. Agus dh’innis e dhà mar a thachair, gun deach iad an àirde ga fhògairt agus a’ feuchainn ri mhilleadh agus an t-àite aige fhaotainn dhaibh fhèin.

“Rinn thu uamhasach math orra,” thuirt e, “is uair sam bith a thèid iad an àirde agus iad ann an coltas comhstrì na aimhreit, na caon am bata orra, ged a dh’fhàgadh tu nan laighe ann an sin iad le ’n cuid fala.”

MEN FIGHTING WITH STICKS

When Big Young Donald MacMartin-Cameron died, a famous man up in Glenroy, one of his lads took his place as the Gordon’s secretary. The rest were envious of him for getting this position and so four went up to threaten him, and if they could, to murder him so that they could get his position. But he was a powerful man and he knew that there was going to be a struggle and fight. And so they grappled with one another. And he put his back to the wall and he attacked them and gave them head wounds that were most wretched. They came down and complained to the local minister, a kind man called Minister Ross. He died in 1822. But anyway:

“I’ll have to hear both sides of the story,” he said.

He went up to see the other man in Glenroy. He told him what had happened – that they had gone up to evict him and to try and destroy him in order to get his place for themselves.

“You did terribly well with them,” he said, “and anytime they go up and it appears there’s going to be a fight or struggle, then don’t spare the stick, even if you leave them lying there bleeding.”

DÒMHNALL MÒR ÒG AGUS AN REITHE

Bha reithe shìos air Magh Comair air an tuathanas. Agus bha an reithe a bha seo crosda agus bhiodh e as deaghaidh duine sam bith a rachadh ron raon thar an robh e. Dh’fheumadh iad a dhol air taobh na fence, mòran dhiubh. Agus bha e tur dona as deaghaidh nam boireannach. Chan fhaodadh boireannach a dhol mar astar dhan raon air neo bhiodh e as an deaghaidh. Tha e coltach gun robh Dòmhnall Mòr Òg car mar sin nuair a bha e òg cuideachd. Bha sinn ag innseadh na naidheachd, is sinn nar suidhe aig taobh an teine mun dol air adhart a bh’ aig an reithe.

“Ma-tà,” thuirt am bodach a bha a-staigh san oisinn – seann duine. Bhiodh e an uair sin a’ dol suas ri ceithir fichead – “tha mise a’ tuigsinn glè mhath cò fear a th’ ann na dè th’ ann. Chan e reithe ceart a th’ ann idir. ’S e th’ ann Dòmhnall Mòr Òg, am fear a bha gu h-àrd an Gleann Ruaidh. Bha am fasan sin aige riamh. Cha do sguir e dheth fhathast. Is tha e air a thìodhlaiceadh am Magh Comair,” thuirt e, “bho chionn ceud bliadhna ach tha an t-àm aige stad dheth a-nise.”

BIG YOUNG DONALD CAMERON-MACMARTIN AND THE RAM

There was a ram over by Mucomir on a farm. And this ram was hot-tempered and it would chase after anyone who went into the field where it was. They would have to keep to the other side of the fence, many of them. And he was especially terrible for chasing after women. No woman could go anywhere near the field or else he he’d chase them. It would appear that Big Young Donald Cameron-MacMartin was quite like that when he was young. We were listening to the story sitting by the fireside and hearing about the ram’s behaviour.

“Well,” said the old man sitting in the corner who would’ve been up to eighty years of age – “I understand very well who that man is or what it is. He’s not a proper ram at all but rather Big Young Donald Cameron-MacMartin, the man who was upon in Glenroy. He always had that habit. He hasn’t stopped yet. And he was buried in Mucomir,” he said, “a hundred years ago but it’s high time that he stopped it now.”

The elegy or lament mentioned above as well as some background information may now be given:

DÒMHNALL MÒR ÒG

Bha duine a’ fuireach ann an Gleann Ruaidh ris an abradh iad Dòmhnall Mòr Òg. Agus mar a fhuair e an t-ainm aige, Dòmhnall Mòr Òg, bha dà Dhòmhnall san teaghlach. ’S e seo am fear a b’ òige bha dà Dhòmhnall san teaghlach. ’S e seo am fear a b’ òige agus ’s e Dòmhnall Ruadh Beag a theireadh iad ris an fhear bu shine. Bha Dòmhnall Mòr Òg na dhuine gu math làidir foghainteach, cho làidir ’s a bha an Loch Abar. Bha e a’ fuireach am Bràigh Ruaidh, àite ris an abradh iad Leac Ruaidh. Air turas dhà a’ dol suas rathad Bhàideanach, e fhèi’ agus coimhearsnach dhà, thadhail iad a-staigh aig àite ris an abair iad Siorra Mòr agus chuir iad seachad an oidhche ann an sin. Na bu dè an deasbad a thàinig eatarra anns a’ mhadainn, na feadh na h-oidhche, bha an fheadhainn a bha a-staigh san taigh a’ gabhail iongantas nach tàinig iad a-nuas a ghabhail an biadh-maidne. Chaidh iad an àirde. Fhuair iad a’ chompach mharbh anns an leabaidh agus an uinneag fosgailte agus Dòmhnall Mòr Òg air adhart. Cha robh iad cinnteach ciamar a bha cùisean a’ dol is cha robh cùisean a’ dol ro-mhath do Dhòmhnall Mòr Òg an deaghaidh sin. Tha iad a’ smaoineach’ gun do thachair an spiorad aig an duine seo air bliadhnaichean an deaghaidh sin agus dh’innis e dhà cùine a chaochaileadh e, agus nuair a thigeadh deireadh a lathainnean. Is suarach a bha e ga chreidsinn. Ach thuirt e ris:

“Ceithir uaire fichead mun caochail thu, iarra’ tu rud air a’ mhnaoi is cha toir i dhut e. ’S e sin crioman ìm,” thuirt e agus:

“O, bha a bhean agam-sa math riamh. Cha dhiùltadh i idir mi.”

“Na cuir thusa earbadh uair sam bith an claidheamh brist na am boireannach. Mar a tha fhios agad, is diugha den teine feàrna ùr, is diugha den digh fìon sean is diugha den domhain an droch-bhean.”

Mar sin dh’aithnich e gun robh na lathainnean aige a’ tighinn gu deireadh. Chuir e fios air coimhearsnach agus thuirt e ris agus thug e làn-earail dha iad a bhith furachail nuair a bhiodh iad ga ghiùlan à Bràigh Ruaidh sìos gu cladh a tha shìos aig Magh Comair ris an abair iad Achadh nan Aibhnichean, iad a bhith furachail a’ dol seachad aig Gleann na Fionntaig air Eas nan Cuilean, gun tigeadh aon spionadh air a’ chiste is air a’ charbad, na daoine bu treasa an Loch Abar a bhith fon ghiùlan. Agus ’s ann mar seo a bha. Dh’fhalbh iad leis. Agus bha e fhèin gu math cinnteach as a’ ghnothach. Bha fiodh, carbad na ciste agus a h-uile dad dhe seo aige air an fharaidh fad seachd bliadhna. Mar a thuirt b’ fhìor. Dar a bha iad a’ dol seachad air an àite a bha seo, thàinig aon spionadh air a’ chiste. Is leig a h-uile nì a bha an ceangal rithe sgreuch mhòr às. Shaoil leotha gun robh e air adhart anns an eas. Chaidh daoine eile gan cuideachadh. Mar sin fhuair iad dhachaigh sàbhailte e chun a’ chill. Agus tha e na laighe ann an sin gus an latha an-diugh. Agus chaochail e ann an 1775. Chaidh marbhrann a dhèanadh dhà agus bheir mi dhuibh facal na dhà dheth agus ’s ann mar seo a tha e a’ dol:

Is goirt an naidheachd a chualas à Bràigh Uisge Ruaidh:

Chaill sliochd Iain ’ic Mhàrtainn guala làidir nam buadh.

’S lìonmhor h-aon a tha cràiteach ri linn do chàradh san uaigh:

’S beag an t-iongnadh do chàirdean bhith an dràsta fo ghruaim.

’S e bhith gad iargain, a Dhòmhnaill, a dh’fhàg brònach an sluagh:

Is lìonmhor maighdeann is bean òg a chìt’ le deòir ’ruith len gruaidh,

Bhon a chaidh do chòmhdach fon fhòd anns an uaigh,

An ciste ghiuthais nam bòrd nach duisg ceòl gu Latha Luain.

Làmh a losgadh an fhùdair an àird nan stùc-bheanna fuar,

’S e bhith gad thogail air ghiùlan dh’fhàg do mhuinntir fo ghruaim.

Is lèir am blàr ann an dùthaich an deachaidh an ùir ort cho luath,

Gum b’ e fear comhairle is rùn thu, a bh’ aig an Diùc san Taobh Tuath.

Is bha thu iriseil, càirdeil, dèirceach, pàirteach ri bochd,

Uasal companta, bràithreil, ge b’ e càs thigeadh ort:

Bu trom torradh do làimhe an uair a thàrradh tu ’n trod –

Bhiodh mòr-fheum aig do nàmhaid air lighich gu càradh an lot.

Is ro-mhath a laigheadh an armachd air slios dealbhaidh an laoich:

Paidhir dhag nam ball airgid ’s iad gun chearb air do thaobh,

Biodag ghlas nan cas charraigneach, bannach, airgeadach, daor –

An àm an ceannach bhon mhargadh cha bhiodh tairgse dhiubh saor.

Thig fèileadh is sàr-bhreacan ort am pleatadh gu dlùth,

Boineid ghorm anns an fhasan air chùl bachlach nan lùb,

Osan geàrr an deagh chadaidh, paidhir ghartan bhon bhùth

Air do chalapannan gasda siubhal ghlac agus chùirn.

Sàr-bhiataiche rathaid air an tathaicheadh sluagh,

Gheibhte saor bho do làmhan gach aon latha a’ toirt bhuat:

Nuair a shuidheadh tu ’d chathair, a ghnùis bu fhlathaile snuadh,

Gheibhte sùgradh is aighear an cùirt do thaighe gun ghruaim.

Sàr-bhiadhtaiche dighe ’n àm suidhe ’s taigh-òsd’,

Leat bu shuarach am botal bhith ga chosd aig a’ bhòrd:

Chan fhòghnadh an seipean, leat bu bheag e ri òl,

Ach na tungaichean lìonte air an dìoladh tu ’n t-òr.

Teanga mhaith-chainnteach, chinnteach, tha blasd’ gu innseadh gach sgeòil;

Deud shnaighte mar ìobhraidh sa bheul is sìobhalta glòir;

Sùil ghorm is glan lìonte, mar dhriùichd sa mhìn mhadainn cheò,

D’ fhuil mhòrdhalach phrìseil nad ghruaidh air sìoladh mar ròs.

Fear cuirp a b’ fheàrr cumadh bho chrùn do mhullaich gu d’ bhonn,

A’ phreasa ghasda, dheas, dhìreach a dh’fhàs gu mìleant’ trom:

’N àm an creachan a dhìreadh am fear a b’ inntinnich a nì fonn –

Cò bhuinnigeadh gèill strì ort a’ siubhal frìth nan damh donn?

Is tric a laigh thu air d’ uilinn am Munadh Dhruiminn san fhraoch,

Cuilean seang aig do chasan ’s do chuilbhir snaidhte ri d’ thaobh,

A’ gabhail beachd air an adhar ciod b’ e an rathad bha a’ ghaoth,

Ag iarraidh fàth air na daimh ’s do shùil is d’ amharc glè chaol.

Cò an sealgair a thug bàrr ort am bun na ’m bràighe nan gleann,

Eadar crìoch Earra-Ghàidheal agus Bàideanach thall?

B’ e do roghainn is d’ àbhachd bhith siubhal fàsach nan gleann,

’S ann an deaghaidh do làimhe gheibhte an cnàimh nach biodh gann.

Nuair a sgaoileadh tu an fhaghaid air madainn foghair is dealt’,

Bhiodh do mhial-choin gan taghadh co-meud is do raghainn thoirt leat:

Nuair a leagadh tu an làn-damh ann am fàsach na ’n glaic,

Bhiodh a sgòrnan ga riasladh ann am beul do choin ghlais.

Bu tu nàmhaid a’ choilich is moiche ghoireas air chraobh,

Agus gìomanach eala ’s am faoillinn earraich ri gaoth:

Nuair a thàirneadh tu an acfhainn bhiodh luaidh Shasannach ri taobh,

Is i gun chomas gun astar gu dol dachaigh thar chaol.

’S ann na laighe am Magh Comair a tha an laoch bu shomalta dreach,

A dh’fhàs gu dìreach, deas, loinneil ’s an taobh bha soilleir na bheachd.

Fear a sheasadh am pàirt nam biodh do chàirdean an glais;

Bu tu an cuireach neò-sgàthach gan toirt sàbhailte a-mach.

Ceist nam ban bhon tìr Abrach bho Dhoch an Fhasaidh an fheòir,

Leitir Fhionnlaigh nam badan far an stadadh an slògh,

Bho thaobh Lòchaidh nam bradan ’s bho thaobh Loch Airceig nam bò,

Slàn-ghaisgeach Chloinn Chamshroin laoch dam ainm Dòmhnall Òg.

BIG YOUNG DONALD CAMERON

A man called Dòmhnall Mòr Òg [Big Young Donald] stayed in Glenroy. And this is how he got his name Dòmhnall Mòr Òg: there were two Donalds in the family and he was the youngest; the eldest was Dòmhnall Ruadh Beag [Wee Red-haired Donald]. Dòmhnall Mòr Òg was a man who was quite strong, and hardy, as strong as any in Lochaber. He stayed in place in Braeroy, a place they called Leac Ruaidh [Lecroy]. One time, he and a compantion travelled over to Badenoch and visited place called Siorra Mòr and they spent the night there. Whatever argument that came between them either that morning or during the night those in the house were wondering why they hadn’t made an appearance for their breakfast. They went up to take a look and his companion was found dead in the bed and the window was open but Dòmhnall Mòr Òg had gone. They weren’t quite sure what to make of this but things weren’t going too well for Dòmhnall Mòr Òg after that. They reckon that he met his companion’s spirit many years later who told him when he was going to die, and when he was nearing the end of his days. It was with difficuly that he believed but he said to him:

“Twenty-four hours before you die, you will ask your wife for something and she’ll refuse to give it to you. It’ll be a bit of butter,” and he replied:

“Oh, my wife was always good to me and she’d not refuse me anything.”

“Don’t put your trust at any time in a broken sword or a woman. As you know, a fire is worse off with new alder, good wine is worse off when mixed with old and worse than the devil is a bad wife.”

And thus he knew that he days were coming to an end. He sent for a neighbour and spoke with him and gave him a stern warning that they had to be careful when they were carrying him from Braeroy down to the cemetry down at Mucomer at a place they called Achadh nan Aibhnichean, as they had to be careful going by Gleann na Fionntaig at Eas nan Cuilean, that there would be one pull on the coffin bier and so the strongest men in Lochaber would have to carry it. And this is how things turned out. They set off with him. And he himself was quite sure about these matters. The wood, the bier of the coffin and everything else had been ready for the wake for the past seven years. It was true that which was said. When they were going by this place, there was a pull on the coffin and all the things that tied it together gave out a great screech. They thought that he was ahead of them in the waterfall. Other men went over to help them. And so they got him home safe to the churchyard. And he lies there to this very day. He died in 1775. An elegy was composed for him and I’ll give you one or two words of it and it goes like this:

Sore is the news that has come upon us from the head of the River Roy:

The line of Iain MacMartin has lost a strong and oustanding support.

Many a one is grief-stricken since you were laid in the grave:

Small wonder that your friends should be mourning at this time.

It is grief for you, Donald, that has left the folk all sorrowful:

Many a maiden and young woman have tears running down their cheeks

Since the day you were covered by the turf of your grave

In the coffin of pine boards which music will not rouse till Doomsday.

Expert hand at firing powder on the cold craggy mountain peaks,

Raising you on the bier has left your kin all wretched:

There’s an obvious gap in our country since the earth closed so soon over you.

Counsellor and confidant to the Duke [of Gordon] in the North.

You were modest and kindly, charitable and generous to the needy,

Noble, friendly and brotherly in every trouble you faced:

Heavy the harvest of your band when you joined the fray –

Your enemy would have a great need of a surgeon to treat his wounds.

Well would the weapons suit the warrior’s shapely flank:

A pair of pistols trimmed with silver in good order by your side,

A steely dirk with gnarled haft, banded, silver-cast, costly –

Buying these at market their price would not be cheap.

Well would you carry the kilt of a fine plaid closely pleated,

A fashionable blue bonnet on your curling wavy locks,

Short-hose of fine cloth, a pair of shop-bought garters,

On your shapely calves, ranging over hollows and cairns.

Most generous of hosts to wayfarers, to whom the crowds flocked,

Gladly given from your hand your daily largesse:

When you sat in your high seat, most princely of countenance,

Joy and merriment would fill the courts of your happy house.

Most generous with drink, when sitting in the tavern,

You would think it mean to put down a bottle on the board:

The quart would not do, you could call it short measure,

You would rather full turns that you paid for in gold.

A gentle assured tongue to give grace to every tale,

Shapely teeth like ivory in the most elegantly-spoken mouth,

A blue eye full and sparkling like a dewdrop on a fine misty morning,

Your proud high-born blood blooming on your cheeks like a rose.

Man of the most perfect form from the hair of your head to the sole of your foot,

A fine, handsome, straight body, soldierly and mighty:

When climbing the steep slopes most keen-spirited –

Who would outplace you ranging the haunts of the red deer?

Many a time you lay on your elbow among the heather on Drummond Moor,

A lithe young hound at your feet, your graven culiver by your side,

Studying the sky for the direction of the wind,

Taking note of the stags, your eye watching them closely.

Where was there a hunter to beat you, high or low in the glens,

Between the bounds of Argyll and Badenoch yonder?

It was your wish and your delight to roam the wild hills:

When you shot was fired the spoils would be rich.

When you set out for the hunt on a dewy Autumn morning

You would pick as many of your hounds as you chose to bring:

When you brought down the great stag in the wilds of the hollows,

Its throat would be mauled by your greyhound’s jaws.

You were the foe of the moorcock that calls earliest from a branch,

And the stalker of the swan on a raised beach in spring:

When you pulled the trigger English lead would pierce her side,

Leaving her feeble and powerless to go home over the narrows.

In Mucomir lies the warrior of shapeliest form,

Who grew upright, fine, comely, a hero whose views were clear,

One who would stand up for your friends if they were in distress:

You were the fearless hero to bring them out safe.

Darling of the women of Lochaber, from Dochanassie of the meadows,

From Letterfinlay of the thickets where many would call,

From the banks of the Lochy of the salmon to the side of Loch Arkaig of the cattle,

Perfect hero of Clan Cameron, a warrior whose name was Young Donald.

And for the sake of comparision, the version as printed in Ailean Dugalach’s book may be reprinted as given from that source:

Cumha do Dhomhnull Camshron, a dh’eug ann an Lichd-ruaidh, an Lochabar, do’n gairmte gu cumanata Domhnull mor òg.

AIR FONN― “’S tearc an diugh mo chuis ghaìre,”

’S GOIRT an naidheachd so thainig

Oirnn bho bhraigh uisge Ruaidh,

Chaill sliochd Iein-ic-Mhartuinn

Guala laidir nam buadh:

’S lionmhor neach a bha craiteach

Ri linn do chàradh ’s an uaigh,

’S beag an t-ioghnadh do chairdean

A bhi ’n drasda fo ghruaim.

’S e bhi t-iarguinn a Dhomhnuill,

A dh’fhag brònach an sluagh,

’S lionmhor maighdean, ’s bean òg,

A chite deoir air an gruaidh,

An latha chàireadh fo ’n fhod

An t-saoidh mhor bha ’n Lichd-ruaidh,

An ciste ghiubhais nam bord,

’S nach duisg le ceol gu la-luain.

Lamh a losgadh an fhùdair

’N ard na’n stuchd-bheannaibh fuar,

’S e do thogail air ghiulan

A dh’ fhag do mhuinntir cho truagh;

’S lear a bhlà air do dhuthaich

Gu ’n deach’ an ùir ort co luath,

’S gu ’m b’ fhear comhairle ’s rùin thu,

Aig an Diuchd ’s an taobh-tuath.

Bha thu iriosail, cairdeil,

Déirceach, puirteach, ri bochd,

Uasal, combanda, braithreil,

Nam b’e sid càs an d’thigt’ ort;

’S bu trom toradh do laimhe,

’N uair a tharladh tu ’n trod,

’S bhiodh mor fheum aig do namhaid

Air leigh gu càradh a lot.

’S ro mhath laidheadh an armachd

Air slios dealbhach an laoich,

Paidhir dhag nam ball airgid;

’S iad gun chearb air do thaobh,

Biodag ghlas a’s cas chairgneach,

Bhannach, airgiodach, dhaor,

’S an àm an ceannach bho ’n mhargadh,

Cha bhiodh tairgse dhiubh saor.

Thigeadh féileadh sàr-bhreachdain

Ort am pleatadh gu dlù,

Boineid ghorm ann san fhasan,

Air chul-bachlach nan lùb,

’S osain ghearr an deagh-chadaidh,

’S paidhir ghartan bho ’n bhùth,

Air do chalpanan gasda,

Shiubhladh glachdan a’s cuirnn.

Sàr bhiatach an rathaid

Air an tadhaicheadh sluagh,

Gheibhte sonas a d’ lamhaibh,

’S gach aon latha toirt uait’;

’N uair a shuidheadh tu d’ chathair,

A ghnuis bu fhlathala snuadh,

Gheibhte sùgradh a’s aidhear,

An cuirt do thighe gun ghruaim.

Sàr bhiatach na dìbhe

An àm suidhe ’s tigh-òsd’,

Ort bu shuarach ani botull,

A bhi ga chosd air a’ bhord;

Cha ’n fhoghnadh a’ seipean,

Leat bu bheag e ri òl,

Ach na tunnachan lionta

Air an diòladh tu an t-òr.

Teanga mhacanta chinnteach,

Bu bhlasd’ dh’innseadh gach sgeòil,

Do dheud shnaighte mar ibhri’,

’S a bheul bu shiobhalta gloir;

Suil ghorm bu ghlan lionadh,

Mar dhriuchd ’sa mhin mhaduinn cheo;

’S an fhuil mhoralachd, phriseil,

Na d’ ghruaidh air sioghladh mat ros.

Fhir a chuirp a b’ fhearr cuma',

Bho chrun do mhullaich gu d’ bhonn,

Pearsa ghasda dheas dhireach,

Dh’ fhas gu mìleanta, trom,

’N àm an creachunn a dhireadh,

Fhir a b’ inntinneach fonn,

Co bhuidhneadh geall stri ort,

A’ siubhal frith na ’n damh-donn.

Co sealgair thug bàr ort,

Am bun, no ’m braigh na’n gleann,

Eadar crioch Arraghaidheal,

Agus Baideanach thall?

B’e do roghuinn a’s t-ailgheas

Bhi ’siubhal fasaich a’s bheann,

’S ann an deoighidh do laimhe,

Gheibhte ’n cnaimh nach biodh gann.

Nuair a sgaoileadh tu ’n fhaoghaid

’S a mhaduinn fhoghair ri dealt,

Bhiodh do mhiol-choin ’g an taghadh

Gu d’ mhiann ’s do roighinn thoirt leat:

Nuair a leagadh tu ’n lan-damh,

Am fasach na ’n glachd,

Bhiodh a scornan ’g a riosladh

Ann am bial do choin ghlais.

’S tric a laidh thu air t-uilinn,

A’ monadh Dhrumainn ’s an fhraoch,

Cuilein seang aig do chasaibh,

’S do chuilbheir snaighte ri d’ thaobh,

Aig gabhail beachd air an adhar,

Ciod e bu rathad do ’n ghaoith’,

Ag iarraidh fàth air na damhaibh,

’S do shuil ’san amharc gu caol.

Bu tu namhaidh a’ choilich

Is moch a ghoireadh ’s a chraoidh,

Agus giomanach, eala,

’S an Fhaoileach earraich ri gaoith’;

Nuair a thairneadh tu ’n acfhuinn

Bhiodh luaidhe Shas’nach na taobh,

’S i gun chomas, gun astar,

Gu dol dhachaìdh thair caol.

’S ann na laidhe ’m Muccomair,

Tha ’n laoch bu shomalta dreach,

Dh’ fhas gu h-aillidh deas foinnidh,

’S an t-saoidh bha soilleir na bheachd;

Fhìr a sheasadh am pairt,

Nam biodh do chairdean an glais,

’S bu tu ’n curaidh neo-sgathach,

Gu ’n toirt sabhailte mach.

Ceisd nam ban bho ’n tir Abraich,

Bho Dhoch-an-asaich an fheoir,

Bho Leitir Fhionlaidh na ’m badan,

Far a stadadh na sloigh,

Bho Lòdhchaidh na’m bradan,

’S bho Loch-airceig na’m bo,

Làn-ghaisgeach chloinn-Chamshroin,

An laoch da ’m b’ ainm Domhnull òg.

So there we have some interesting traditions about a local hero and also an extremely good exmaple of an elegy woven together with skill and apposite imagery that had been the stock in trade for Gaelic bards over the centuries.

References:

Anon., “Sealgair agus am Fiadh”, Mac-Talla vol. III, no. 30 (26 January 1895), p. 8

Lucy E. Broadwood, Frank Howes, A. G. Gilchrist and A. Martin Freeman, “Twenty Gaelic Songs”, Journal of the Folk-Song Society, vol. 8, no. 35 (December 1931), pp. 280–303 [where the air is given and a translation provided by Frances Tolmie]

Alexander Carmichael (coll.) (1928–71). Carmina Gadelica [Ortha nan Gàidheal]: Hymns and Cantations, James Carmichael Watson and Angus Matheson (eds.). 6 vols. (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd (vols. 1–5); Scottish Academic Press (vol. 6), 2nd ed.), vol. 5 (1958), pp. 174–77

Ailean Dughalach, Orain, Marbhannan agus Duanagan Ghaidhealach (Inbheirnis: Alastair Mac-an-Toisich, 1829), pp. 127–131

John MacDonald (Highbridge, Brae Lochaber), “Dòmhnall Mór Òg”, Tocher, no. 39 (Spring 1985), pp. 162–68

Paruig Mac-an-Tuairneir, Comhchruinneacha do dh’òrain taghta Ghàidhealach (Duneidionn: T. Stiubhard, 1813), pp. 372–74].

Calum I. Maclean, The Highlands (Inbhirnis: Club Leabhar, 1975), pp. 35–36

Alasdair Maclean Sinclair (ed.), Comhchruinneachadh Ghlinn-a-Bhaird: The Glenbard Collection of Gaelic Poetry (Charlottetown, P. E. Island: G. Herbert Haszard; Montreal: William Drysale & Co.; Edinburgh: James Thin, 1890), pp. 37–39

NB SSS 1, pp. 1–2

NB SSS 3, pp. 271–79

NB SSS 4, pp. 271–79

NB SSS 4, pp. 473–74

NB SSS 8, pp. 709–10

Image:

Glenroy, Brae Lochaber