Chapter III: Part 3

In about three hours the tramping of a horse announced the arrival of the doctor, who had galloped in from the manse, while Eachainn ran and panted all the way at his horse’s side. And while the doctor was making for the inn, Eachainn ran to his mother’s, and told her to get her herbs ready, for perhaps she would be able to do more good than the doctor, after all their hastening back. He was in the sick-room as soon as the doctor, who, having examined his patient in silence for a few minutes, began the following harangue with a pompous voice and manner—‘You see, sir, you are labouring under what is commonly called a quinsey, but which, professionally, we denominate _Cynanche_, to which may be added in your case the adjective noun _maligna_. I regret to say that your case is exceedingly desperate. Had I been able to have seen you earlier, I should have followed Celsus’ excellent advice in these cases, but I am sorry to say that the Celsian treatment is now entirely out of the question. There can be no doubt that the opening into the trachea is very nearly closed up by the phlegmon or inflammation, when death by asphyxia must ensue. There is here, then, but one course. Here,’ taking a small case of instruments out of his pocket, ‘here, you see, is a fine sharp-pointed knife or scalpel, with which an incision being made into your trachea, I shall insert a small tube so as to keep up the communication between the atmosphere and the lungs, to obviate what would otherwise be the fatal closing of the glottis.’ With that the doctor arranged his instruments at the bedside, and was preparing to operate at once, when a dim sense of his intentions began to break in upon the minds of the spectators.

‘And where do you mean to cut, sir?’ asked Somhairle Dubh, first breaking silence.

‘Here, exactly here,’ replied the doctor, placing his finger on Mr Gillespie’s throat a little below the chin.

‘And have you no other cure but that, doctor?’

‘None whatever,’ answered he, shaking his head, and taking up the scalpel, at the sight of which the sick man shrank to the other side of the bed with a look of pitiable despair.

‘No other cure than to cut the duine-uasal’s throat,’ screamed Eachainn, coming forward, with a face blanched with horror; ‘No, no, sir,’ he continued, ‘you’ll shust have to cut my throat first. If you’ll no be doing better than that, I could be doing as good myself with the corran yonder, and not to trouble you to be coming with them awful knives, shust enough to frighten a body.’

On hearing this, the poor gauger smiled gratefully on Eachainn, and pressed his hand between both his own.

‘Sir!’ exclaimed the doctor, hoarse with passion, ‘what is the meaning of this? Am I to perform the operation or not?’

‘No, sir,’ replied the sick man in a scarcely articulate voice. ‘I throw myself upon the mercy of God. I can but die.’

‘Then die, sir,’ said the enraged doctor, ‘and your blood be upon your own head;’ and hastily packing up his instruments, he turned to leave the room just as Eachainn’s mother (a descendant of Fearchair Lighiche) entered. She gave him a respectful greeting, which, however, was very ungraciously received, and soon the sound of his horse’s hoofs was heard as he galloped away, Eachainn muttering something to himself about the Diabhul going along with him.

Eachainn’s mother now took up the case, and having tenderly examined the throat, called for a pot and boiling water, into which she cast some herbs and boiled them over the fire. This decoction she ordered to be applied on flannels, as hot as he could bear it, to the sick man’s throat, while he inhaled the hot steam of the same from the spout of a kettle. The good woman then called for a skellet, into which she measured two or three cups of water; she then threw into the water some dried herbs and fresh roots. When the mixture was hot it threw up a green scum, which she skimmed off. She then poured some of the potion into a tumbler, and approaching the patient, said in Gaelic, ‘Try, my dear, and swallow this; I know it is very painful for you to do it, but life is precious, and for your mother’s sake, if you have one, make the attempt.’

On her wishes being explained to Gillespie, he grasped the tumbler, and with a great effort slowly but painfully drained it. In about half-an-hour after he had taken it, his face became of a ghastly green shade; he stretched himself out at full length; his pulse seemed to fail; he heaved deep sighs; and at length began to retch violently. It now appeared as if a struggle between life and death, but at length the imposthume burst, and the poor man swooned away. The spectators now thought all was over with the poor gauger, but Eachainn’s mother knew better. She held his head with one hand, while with the other she chafed his temples, calling to her son to throw some water in the patient’s face, and telling the landlord to bring some red wine, if he had any in the house. Her orders being promptly carried out, the sick man soon opened his eyes, and in a little while was able to speak, expressing his gratitude to the worthy woman for the great relief she had afforded him.

From this time Gillespie mended fast, but was necessarily obliged to keep his bed for several days, and, finding the time hanging heavy, he would keep Eachainn by him for hours together, as he had taken a great liking to the lad, besides being under such an obligation to his mother, of whose skill and the wonderful cures she had effected, her son was never tired of talking about.

‘But how did your mother gain all this knowledge?’ asked the gauger.

‘Well, sir, you must know my mother is descended from the famous man, Fearchair Lighiche.’

‘And who may he be?’ inquired Gillespie.

‘Ah, sir, it was him that was the clever man. He could cure every disease in the shutting of a taibhshear’s eye, and knew every herb and plant, every tree and root, every bird and beast. And there’s something more wonderful yet,’ continued Eachainn in an awe-struck tone.

‘And what is that?’ asked Gillespie.

‘Well, sir, maybe you’ll no be believing it, but it’s true all the same, that Fearchair Lighiche had the gift to know what the birds would be saying to each other.’

The gauger threw a quick glance at his companion, thinking he was trying to gull him, but seeing that Eachainn spoke in all sincerity, and even with a certain amount of awe in his manner, Gillespie did not interrupt him, merely remarking, ‘That was a gift indeed, if he made good use of it.’

‘That he did, sir, for he was a real good man, and a blessing was on all he did.’

‘Well,’ said the gauger, with an air of incredulity, ‘tell me now of some instance where this gift was shown by your wonderful relative, Farquhar Lick, or whatever his name was?’

‘By your leave, sir, his name is not Lick, but Lighiche, and that means “Healer.” The people will be calling him that because of the cures he did. But his own right name was Beaton, and I could be telling you lots of stories about him. One time, on a beautiful summer morning, he was walking by the sea-side, and he met old Colin Macrae and his two sons going to their boat to go to Skerry-Rona to cut sea-ware, when they spoke to the seer. He looked to the north and to the south, with a face full of trouble, and shust then a raven flew over their heads, and gave a hollow croaking kind of sound.’

‘So do all ravens, man,’ interrupted the gauger.

Without noticing the interruption, Eachainn continued, ‘And then, sir, when Fearchair Lighiche heard the raven, he turned to the old man and commanded him and his sons not to enter the boat or put to sea that day, for, said he, “I have it from them that never deceive that evil will come to a boat from Harlosh coast this day.”’

‘And did they take notice of the warning?’

‘The old man, sir, was minded to stay, but the young lads laughed, and said they did not care for all the ravens between the Point of Uishinish and the Coolin Hills, so they set off. But the wise man stood looking after them with a sad face, and then the raven flew past again; and when Fearchair heard the croak of the bird, he clasped his hands, and looking up he cried out, “Lost! lost! lost!”’

‘And what became of the men?’ inquired Gillespie, interested, in spite of his unbelief.

‘I’ll shust tell you, sir. About the middle of the day there was a thick fog, which covered the sea and the land, and when the night came on there was a dreadful storm, so that no boat could live. The people will be blaming old Meg Mackintosh, the witch of Glen Dubh, for it, for she met the men that very morning, shust after they’ll be finding a dead door-mouse, and that is shust always a sign of death. Well, when the night was come, the house of John Mac John Mac Kenneth was all cheerless and dark, for they that went out in the morning never come back; and the poor wife sat all her lone, on a three-legged stool, by the side of the fire, crying bitterly for her man and her sons, whose three stools stood empty opposite her on the other side. Her dog lied at her feet, and the poor brute kept licking her hand, for he knew she was in trouble; and when her sobs became more convulsively audible, he would raise a low whine in sympathy. Well, sir, it’ll shust be about the middle of the night, when in a distracted state the woman exclaimed, “Oh, this fearful suspense! it is worse than the worst reality. Would to heaven I were certain whether they are dead or alive.” She had scarcely left off speaking, when she’ll hear a queer-like sound, and the dog she’ll hear it too, for she’ll growl and go close to the wife’s side, and then she’ll see three shivering figures sitting before her on the stools that were empty before, all wet, pale, and with the death-look on them. You may be sure she was awful frightened. She daren’t speak; but she shust held out her arms to embrace them, but she could not lay hold of them, for with a soundless tread they glided away and vanished, while she heard pronounced these words, “Cha till, cha till, cha till sinn tuille” (We return, return, return no more). Then she gave a great skirl and fell down, and she was found in the morning shust quite senseless, with the poor beastie of a dog watching her.’

‘That is certainly a very strange story, Eachainn.’

‘Yes, sir; and there’s plenty more I could be telling, if you like. Once the laird was taken ill all of a sudden with a bad pain in his chest, when he was walking near some rocks where the fairies lived. Some say he was struck by an elf-bolt, as one was picked up near the spot the next day. So he sent to Fearchair Lighiche to come to heal him. It was a long way to go, and when Fearchair and the man that was fetching him got to about five miles from the laird’s house a gobhar-athair flew over them, and when Fearchair heard the cry of the bird he stopped, and told the man it was no use to go any further, for his master was dead, and so he turned back. When the man got home, he found that his master had died just at the very time they heard the gobhar-athair. Sometimes he would fall into a trance, when he would be seeing most beautiful things. One day he was travelling with his nephew and his foster-brother, who always carried his herb-box and his Hebrew Bible, and they came to a place where a great battle was fought long ago. And there’s a big cairn there over the bones of the men who were killed, and people will be seeing the spirits of them if they go that way at night. Fearchair said to his nephew that he was going to lie down and sleep, and that they were to be sure not to wake him, nor even touch him. Well, sir, he went to sleep, and at first he was breathing very hard, and his face was full of trouble, but after a little he did not breathe at all, and his face got as white as snow, and he looked shust as if he was dead. His nephew got so frightened when he saw him, that he jumped up to wake him, but the other held him back and whispered, “For your life, move not, speak not, touch not;” and they then saw coming out of the mouth of the sleeping man a tiny, tiny, wee thing like a beautiful butterfly. When the nephew saw it, he made as if he would catch it, but the other man called out, “For any sake, don’t touch it, for there’s something awful in it,” so they looked and saw it go into the cairn. The night had well nigh fallen before they saw the beautiful wee creature coming out of the cairn and going back into the mouth of Fearchair. Then he woke up and sneezed three times, and said, “’Tis well; let’s on, let’s on.” He didn’t speak again for a long time, but once they heard him say, like to himself, in Gaelic, “Eternal! eternal! eternal!”’

‘And what did the people think of all this?’ asked Gillespie.

‘Oh, sir, they say that when he’ll be in a trance his spirit would come from his body, and go to the spiritual worlds, or anywhere he liked. There was only three men on earth to whom he told what it was that he’ll be seeing at such times, and they dared only each tell it to one another, their nearest relatives when they arrived at the age of twenty-nine.’

When Eachainn had finished the last story, he left Gillespie to himself, who was now fast recovering under the kind treatment of Somhairle Dubh and his excellent wife. The host was in the gauger’s room as often as he could, relating such stories as he knew; and thus enabled the patient to pass away the time more agreeably. I heard several of them, but the one about the

EACH UISG, OR WATER HORSE,

is the only one I can at present remember. Somhairle Dubh related it thus:—

When I was a little boy, I would sit for hours by the kitchen fire, listening to my grandfather, who used to while away the long winter evenings by telling us stories about witches and warlocks, ghosts and fairies, of which he had an inexhaustible stock. A very favourite one with me was the tale of the each uisg, or the water horse, a fearful demon in the likeness of a big, black horse, who inhabited Loch-Dorch, and woe to any one who ventured near the loch after nightfall; for the each uisg was always on the watch, and would rise out of the water, seize any intruders, and drag them to the bottom, to be devoured by him at his leisure. Sometimes he would assume other shapes, and try to lure people away to the water. One Hallowe’en night there was a party of young people gathered round the fire in the house of Duncan the weaver, burning nuts and ducking for apples, when Duncan’s daughter, bonnie Catriana, proposed to go and dip her sleeve in the burn, to try if her sweetheart was true. None of her companions would go, for fear of the each uisg, and tried in vain to dissuade Catriana from her venturesome purpose, but laughing at their fears, she threw her plaid over her head, and ran off to the burn.

In a little they were startled by hearing a loud wailing shriek, and fearing some accident had happened to their favourite Catriana, rushed out of the house to look after her, but no trace could they find of the poor, wilful lassie. Her father and the lads were searching the whole night, and at the dawn of day they found her plaid at the side of the dreaded Loch-Dorch, and near it, in the clay, the mark of an unearthly hoof, which proved, beyond doubt, that she had fallen a victim to the monster water-horse.

Then there was young Allan Mac Sheumais, who, coming home in the dusk, after spending the day hunting the deer, heard a tramping sound which he soon found to proceed from the water-horse, which he could see rapidly galloping up to him. Poor Allan, though in a dreadful fright, did not lose his presence of mind, and knowing full well that ordinary shot would have no effect upon the demon, he rapidly loaded his gun with a small, crooked silver sixpence—the blessed metal from a cup of which the Saviour drank his last draught on earth—and exclaiming, “The cross be betwixt me and thee,” fired with a steady aim, while the cold sweat stood on his brow.

The each uisg gave one yelling neigh, so shrill, so dismal, and unearthly, that the cattle which had lain down to rest on the heath started up in terror; the dogs of the hamlet heard it, and, ceasing their gambols, ran cowering and trembling to the fireside; the roosted cock heard it, and essayed to crow, but could only scream. Never will those who heard that terrific cry forget it; but it had scarcely ceased ere the demon steed had sprung into the midst of Loch-Dorch, and as the water closed over him, a sound, as of a sarcastic, unearthly laugh, was heard from the middle of the loch, and then all was silent.

Yet notwithstanding all this, Lachlan Buachaille, the cow-herd, who was a wild, reckless fellow, would never believe the stories he heard about this dreadful being, and laughingly suggested that Allan had only been frightened by Rorie Mor’s gearran broken loose from his tether; and bragged that _he_ had never seen the each uisg, although he had lived for some years near the Raven’s Peak, close to the haunted loch.

‘And would ye wish to see him?’ asked old Janet, as he sat by her fireside one evening; ‘would ye really wish to see that fearsome thing, Lachlan?’

‘May I never taste oatcake or whisky again!’ said Lachlan impetuously, ‘but I wish to see the beast, if there’s one in it, and the sooner the better.’

It was a gusty, rainy autumn night. Lachlan sat alone in his bothie, busily employed in twisting his oat straw siaman, humming to himself, and listening to the sound of the torrent as it dashed over the rocks, the pattering of the heavy rain, and the sheughs of the north-west wind, moaning as it passed along, all of which only served to increase his sense of comfort as he drew his three-legged stool nearer to the bright peat fire.

He was just thinking of retiring for the night, when he heard a gentle knocking at the door, ‘Who is there at this time of night?’ asked he, to which a feeble voice replied, ‘I am a poor old woman who lost my way this wild night; pray let me in, or I shall perish with cold and fatigue.’ Lachlan muttered anything but blessings on the old body’s head for thus disturbing him, for he had a particular objection to old women. ‘Bad luck to her; were it a young one, or even an old man, I should not care,’ he grumbled; ‘but an old hag to come sorning on me, as I was about to step into my quiet bed.’ Then raising his voice, he said, ‘Wait, wait, carlin, I’ll be with you directly, let me wind up my siaman first; the diabhul take you, have more patience, and don’t keep croaking there with your ill-omened voice;’ and, unfastening the latch, he continued, ‘There, enter now, and curses on you.’ However, with all his roughness, Lachlan was not a bad-natured fellow, and regretted his inhospitality, when he saw stepping in a poor, wretched, little, old woman, bent double with age and misery. She wore a dun cloak drawn tightly round her figure, with a kind of red hood attached to it, marked with strange characters, which quite covered her head, and shaded her face. She gave no salutation, good or bad, and as she crawled rather than walked up to the fire, it emitted a vivid spark, which hissed as it fell on the dripping clothes of the old hag; a hen on the roost crowed discordantly, and a little mouse poked its head out of a hole and squeaked loudly. The old woman, noticing this, gave a queer kind of laugh, so grating in its sound that Lachlan turned quickly round and stared at her; but she met his gaze sharply, and with a peculiarity of expression which Lachlan felt, without knowing why, to be very unpleasant.

‘Old grannie,’ said he, ‘will you take something?’

‘No,’ she gruffly replied.

‘There’s a little left of the bread and fish I had for supper,’ said Lachlan.

‘I always have plenty of fish,’ answered she, sharply.

‘Perhaps you like flesh better, then?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, in the same uncivil manner, while a strange, sneering smile flickered round her lips.

‘Will you have anything to drink, then?’ continued Lachlan.

‘No,’ abruptly answered the carlin.

‘What! woman; nothing to eat or drink! Then I suppose you have had your supper; but it must have been with the fairies, for I warrant you could have got none elsewhere between this and Beinnard, and that is a good many miles off.’

‘Perhaps,’ muttered the old hag.

‘Perhaps what, cailleach?’ questioned Lachlan; and, after a pause, finding she gave no answer, ‘Perhaps! I am afraid, you will catch cold, unless you throw off those wet clothes; and though I have no woman’s gear, you can have my greatcoat, and I can spare you a blanket besides.’

‘I need none of your coats or blankets,’ answered the crone, in the same ungracious tones as before, ‘for water can never hurt me.’

‘Leeze me on the hag,’ muttered Lachlan to himself, ‘but she is easily maintained at any rate, and yet I would rather have a more expensive and social guest.’

The fire burned down, and Lachlan, as he occasionally glanced at the old cailleach, sitting on the opposite side of the hearth, could not help thinking that there was something altogether repulsive, if not uncanny, about her. There was a strange restlessness in her manner; her hard, dark eyes seemed to look everywhere and nowhere at the same time; while she sat rocking backwards and forwards over the ashes, and her long, crooked fingers twitched about her dun cloak in an odd and unpleasant manner. Lachlan threw another peat on the fire, and, by the reviving light, he thought the carlin’s eye had acquired a wilder and sterner expression, while a grim smile played round the corners of her ugly mouth. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, she seemed to have really grown larger in stature and more erect since he first saw her. Rousing himself, he kicked off his boots, lay down on his bed, which was only a few steps from the fire, and settled himself down to repose for the night.

Lachlan, however, could not sleep, and turned from one side to another, courting in vain the drowsy god. Glancing at his unwelcome visitor, he saw, with a feeling akin to dread, the old creature sitting more and more erect; and, rubbing his eyes, as if he felt that he was under the influence of a dream, he was exceedingly startled to find that it was no delusion, but that she was really growing, as it were, rapidly larger and sterner, under his very eyes. ‘Hout! carlin,’ he exclaimed, raising himself on his elbow, ‘you are waxing large.’

To which she replied in a hollow voice, ‘Umph, umph; omhagraich, ’s mi ’g eiridh ris a bhlath’s (Itomies and atomies—expanding to the warmth!)

Getting very drowsy, Lachlan again lay down to sleep, but presently was disturbed by a mouse coming out of a hole in the wall, and running squeaking into and across his bed, almost touching his chin. He again raised himself on his elbow, was struck with the increased proportions of the strange hag, and again exclaimed, ‘Hout, carlin! you are getting larger!’

She again replied, but in a louder and harsher tone than before, ‘Umph, umph; omhagraich, ’s mi ’g eiridh ris a bhlath’s (Itomies and atomies—expanding to the warmth!)

The fire was now nearly out, the light growing gradually less, and Lachlan became more and more sleepy. At length he began to snore gently, when all at once a spark flew out of the fire and alighted smartingly on his face. Irritated by the stinging sensation, he started, opened his eyes, and became thoroughly roused by again hearing the old hen on the cross beam above him giving a most discordant crow, though the cock uttered not a sound. He sat upright in his bed, and, in the gloom, dimly saw the strange figure extended to fearfully gigantic proportions, while her eyes no longer retained a trace of human expression, but glared upon him with preternatural brilliance and malignity.

It was now with a feeling as if his blood were ice, as if his flesh had been turned into creeping and crawling things, and as if his hair all stood on end, that Lachlan, in a tone which fear rendered nearly inaudible, said for the third time, ‘Indeed and indeed, carlin, but you have waxed very large!’

‘Umph, umph; omhagraich, ’s mi ’g eiridh ris a bhlath’s (Itomies and atomies—expanding to the warmth!) shrieked the demon in a voice so terrible that it actually frightened the very ravens in the neighbouring rocks, who flew croaking away. ‘Umph, umph; omhagraich ’s mi ’g eiridh ris a bhlath’s’ (Itomies and atomies—expanding to the warmth); and the fearful creature stood erect. She gave a horrible laugh, a snort, and a neigh of terrific sound, while her features underwent a still more appalling change. The dark-grey locks that had peeped from under her red hood, now waved a snaky mane. On the forehead of the monster was a star-like mark of bright scarlet, quivering like burning fire; the nostrils breathed, as it were, flame, whilst the eyes flashed on poor Lachlan like lightning.

His knees smote together with terror, he saw that his hour was come, and that the fearful creature, the idea of whose existence he had laughed to scorn, now stood before him. He felt that at last he did indeed behold the each uisg.

Quicker than thought Lachlan had found himself snatched up in the jaws of the monster. The door flew open of itself, and at one bound the steed of Ifrinn was on the top of the dizzy precipice—the Raven’s Peak. At another he dashed down the torrent fall of Rowan Linn. The cold spray of the cascade falling on his face, now for the first time recalled Lachlan to consciousness; and as the demon gave one gigantic rear, previous to that spring which would have engulphed him and his victim in the unfathomable depths of Loch-Dorch, Lachlan remembered and pronounced aloud the Name of names that was engraved on the breast-plate of the High Priest of Israel. The shrill clarion of the cock was now heard, the demon lost all further power over his victim, and letting him drop with a mighty shudder and a neighing yell, instantly plunged into the loch, the waters of which, for a long time after, boiled and bubbled as if it were a gigantic huntsman’s kettle of the kind in which he dresseth the haunch of the red-deer in the corrie.

Some people passing that way early in the morning, found Lachlan, bruised and insensible, on a shelf of the rock, at the bottom of the Raven’s Peak, at the very edge of the water. They tried to rouse him, and after a short time he opened his eyes, sat up, and said, ‘Where am I?’ and recollecting everything that had passed, he at once exclaimed, in broken accents, ‘Blessed be _His_ name, safe, safe!’

They carried him to Clachan-nan-cno, where he lived for many years, a wiser and a better man, but he never again heard the each uisg mentioned without devoutly expressing the Name that saved him, and no wonder that neither he, nor any one else, has ventured ever since to sleep a night in the cottage near Rowan Linn.

The gauger, in his weakly state, heard the story throughout without expressing any doubt as to its truthfulness, and felt much relieved to find that poor Lachlan had escaped from the fearful each uisg. In spite of himself, he began to be less sceptical. Indeed, the simple manner in which the stories were related to him, the genuine warmth of heart and kind treatment bestowed upon him by the simple Highlanders, who themselves thoroughly believed in them, induced him to think that there must be some foundation after all for these extraordinary things. The continued attentions of Somhairle Dubh and his kind wife brought the gauger rapidly round. We soon find him attending to his duties, but making no great attempts to discover the local still that supplied his kind host with the excellent Mac-na-Braiche which helped not a little to invigorate and bring Gillespie himself additional strength and vigour during the latter weeks of his illness. Somhairle Dubh, the gauger, and Hector became fast friends, nor was there ever any of his cloth who was less capable of doing a mean thing in procuring a conviction against his neighbours. He did his duty to his King, without being unnecessarily harsh with those against whom he was obliged to enforce the law. Beannachd leis.

THE RAID OF CILLIECHRIOST.

The ancient Chapel of Cilliechriost, in the parish of Urray, in Ross-shire, was the scene of one of the bloodiest acts of ferocity and revenge that history has recorded. The original building has long since disappeared, but the lonely and beautifully situated burying-ground is still in use. The tragedy originated in the many quarrels which arose between two great chiefs of the North Highlands—Mackenzie of Kintail and Macdonell of Glengarry. As usual, the dispute was regarding land, but it is difficult to arrive at the degree of blame to which each party was entitled; enough that there was bad blood between these two paladins of the North. Of course, the quarrel was not allowed to go to sleep for lack of action on the part of their friends and clansmen. The Macdonells having made several raids on the Mackenzie country, the Mackenzies retaliated by the spoiling of Morar with a large, overwhelming force. The Macdonells, taking advantage of Kenneth Mackenzie’s visit to Mull with the view to influence Maclean to induce the former to peace, once more committed great devastation in the Mackenzie country, under the leadership of Glengarry’s son, Angus. From Kintail and Lochalsh the clan Mackenzie gathered fast, but too late to prevent Macdonell from escaping to sea with his boats loaded with the foray. A portion of the Mackenzies ran to Eileandonan, while another portion sped to the narrow strait of the Kyle between Skye and the mainland, through which the Macdonells, on their return, of necessity must pass. At Eileandonan Lady Mackenzie furnished them with two boats, one ten-oared and one four-oared, also with arrows and ammunition. Though without their chief, the MacKenzies sallied forth, and rowing towards Kyleakin, lay in wait for the approach of the Macdonells. The first of the Glengarry boats they allowed to pass unchallenged, but the second, which was the thirty-two-oared galley of the chief, was furiously attacked. The unprepared Macdonells, rushing to the side of the heavily loaded boat, swamped the craft, and were all thrown into the sea, where they were dispatched in large numbers, and those who escaped to the land were destroyed “by the Kintail men, who killed them like sealchies.”

Time passed on, Donald Gruamach, the old chief, died ere he could mature matters for adequate retaliation of the Kyle tragedy and the loss of his son Angus. The chief of the clan was an infant in whom the feelings of revenge could not be worked out by action; but there was one, his cousin, who was the captain or leader, in whom the bitterest thoughts exercised their fullest sway. It seems now impossible that such acts could have occurred, and it gives one a startling idea of the state of the country, when such a terrible instance of private vengeance could have been carried out so recently as the beginning of the seventeenth century, without any notice being taken of it, even in those days of general blood and rapine. Notwithstanding the hideousness of sacrilege and murder, which in magnitude of atrocity was scarcely ever equalled, there are many living, even in the immediate neighbourhood, who are ignorant of the cause of the act

Macranuil of Lundi, captain of the clan, whose personal prowess was only equalled by his intense ferocity, made many incursions into the Mackenzie country, sweeping away their cattle and otherwise doing them serious injury; but these were but preludes to that sanguinary act on which his soul gloated, and by which he hoped effectually to avenge the loss of influence and property of which his clan was deprived by the Mackenzies, and more particularly to wash out the records of the death of his chief and clansman at Kyleakin. In order to form his plans more effectually, he wandered for some time as a mendicant among the Mackenzies, in order the more successfully to fix on the best means and place for his revenge. A solitary life offered up to expiate the manes of his relatives was not sufficient in his estimation, but the life’s blood of such a number of his bitterest foemen, and an act at which the country should stand aghast was absolutely necessary.

Returning home, he gathered together a number of the most desperate of his clan, and by a forced march across the hills arrived at the Church of Cilliechriost on a Sunday forenoon, when it was filled by a crowd of worshippers of the clan Mackenzie. Without a moment’s delay, without a single pang of remorse, and while the song of praise ascended to heaven from fathers, mothers, and children, he surrounded the church with his band, and with lighted torches set fire to the roof. The building was thatched, and while a gentle breeze from the east fanned the fire, the song of praise mingled with the crackling of the flames, until the imprisoned congregation, becoming conscious of their situation, rushed to the doors and windows, where they were met by a double row of bristling swords. Now, indeed, arose the wild wail of despair, the shrieks of women, the infuriated cries of men, and the helpless screaming of children; these mingled with the roaring of the flames appalled even the Macdonells, but not so Allan Dubh. ‘Thrust them back into the flames,’ cried he, ‘for he that suffers aught to escape alive from Cilliechriost shall be branded as a traitor to his clan;’ and they were thrust back or mercilessly hewn down within the narrow porch, until the dead bodies, piled upon each other, opposed an unsurmountable barrier to the living. Anxious for the preservation of their young children, the scorching mothers threw them from the windows in the vain hope that the feelings of parents awakened in the breasts of the Macdonells would induce them to spare them, but not so. At the command of Allan of Lundi they were received on the points of the broadswords of men in whose breasts mercy had no place. It was a wild and fearful sight, only witnessed by a wild and fearful race. During the tragedy they listened with delight to the piper of the band, who, marching round the burning pile, played, to drown the screams of the victims, an extempore pibroch, which has ever since been distinguished as the war tune of Glengarry, under the title of ‘Cilliechriost.’ The flaming roof fell upon the burning victims; soon the screams ceased to be heard, a column of smoke and flame leapt into the air, the pibroch ceased, the last smothering groan of existence ascended into the still sky of that Sabbath morning, whispering as it died away that the agonies of the congregation were over.

East, west, north, and south looked Allan Dubh Macranuil. Not a living soul met his eye. The fire he kindled had destroyed, like the spirit of desolation. Not a sound met his ear, and his own tiger soul sunk within him in dismay. The parish of Cilliechriost seemed swept of every living thing. The fearful silence that prevailed, in a quarter lately so thickly peopled, struck his followers with dread: for they had given in one hour the inhabitants of a whole parish one terrible grave. The desert which they had created filled them with dismay, heightened into terror by the howls of the masterless sheep dogs, and they turned to fly. Worn out with the suddenness of their long march from Glengarry, and with their late fiendish exertions, on their return they sat down to rest on the green face of Glenconvinth, which route they took in order to reach Lundi through the centre of Glenmoriston by Urquhart. Before they fled from Cilliechriost, Allan divided his party into two, one passing by Inverness and the other as already mentioned.

The Macdonells, however, were not allowed to escape, for the terrible deed had roused the Mackenzies as effectually as if the fiery cross had been sent through their territories. A youthful leader, a cadet of the family of Seaforth, in an incredibly short time, found himself surrounded by a determined band of Mackenzies eager for the fray; these were also divided into two bodies, one commanded by Murdoch Mackenzie of Redcastle, proceeded by Inverness, to follow the pursuit along the southern side of Loch-Ness. Another, headed by Alexander Mackenzie of Coul, struck across the country from Beauly, to follow the party of the Macdonells who fled along the northern side of Loch-Ness under their leader Allan Dubh Macranuil.

The party that fled by Inverness were surprised by Redcastle in a public-house at Torbreck, three miles to the west of the town, where they stopped to refresh themselves. The house was set on fire, and they all—thirty-seven in number—suffered the death which, in the earlier part of the day, they had so wantonly inflicted.

The Mackenzies, under Coul, after a few hours hard running, came up with the Macdonells as they sought a brief repose on the hills towards the burn of Aultsigh. There the Macdonells maintained an unequal conflict; but as guilt only brings faint hearts to its unfortunate votaries, they turned and again fled precipitately to the burn. Many, however, missed the ford, and the channel being rough and rocky several fell under the swords of the victorious Mackenzies. The remainder, with all the speed they could make, held on for miles, lighted by a splendid and cloudless moon, and when the rays of the morning burst upon them, Allan Dubh Macranuil and his party were seen ascending the southern ridge of Glen-Urquhart, with the Mackenzies close in their rear. Allan, casting an eye behind him and observing the superior numbers and determination of his pursuers, called upon his band to disperse, in order to confuse his pursuers, and so divert the chase from himself. This being done, he again set forward at the height of his speed, and after a long run, drew breath to reconnoitre, when, to his dismay, he found that the avenging Mackenzies were still on his track in one unbroken mass. Again he divided his men and bent his flight towards the shore of Loch-Ness, but still he saw the foe bearing down upon him with redoubled vigour. Becoming fearfully alive to his position, he cried to his few remaining companions again to disperse, until they left him, one by one, and he was alone. Allan, who as a mark of superiority and as Captain of the Glengarry Macdonells, always wore a red jacket, was thus easily distinguished from the rest of his clansmen, and the Mackenzies, being anxious for his capture, easily singled him out as the object of their joint and undivided pursuit. Perceiving the sword of vengeance ready to descend on his head, he took a resolution as desperate in its conception as it was unequalled in its accomplishment. Taking a short course towards the fearful ravine of Aultsigh, he divested himself of his plaid and buckler, and turning to the leader of the Mackenzies, who had nearly come up to him, beckoned him to follow, then, with a few yards of a run, he sprang over the yawning chasm, never before contemplated without a shudder. The agitation of his mind at the moment completely overshadowed the danger of the attempt, and being of an athletic frame, he succeeded in clearing the desperate leap. The young and reckless Mackenzie, full of ardour and determined at all hazards to capture the murderer, followed; but, being a stranger to the real width of the chasm, perhaps of less nerve than his adversary, and certainly not stimulated with the same feelings, he only touched the opposite brink with his toes, and slipping downwards, he clung by a slender shoot of hazel which grew over the tremendous abyss. Allan Dubh, looking round on his pursuer and observing the agitation of the hazel bush, immediately guessed the cause, and returning with the ferocity of a demon who had succeeded in getting his victim into his fangs, hoarsely whispered, ‘I have given much to your race this day, I shall give them this also; surely now the debt is paid;’ then cutting the hazel twig with his sword, the intrepid youth was dashed from crag to crag until he reached the stream below, a bloody and misshapen mass.

Macranuil again commenced his flight, but one of the Mackenzies, who by this time had come up, sent a musket shot after him, by which he was wounded, and obliged to slacken his pace. None of his pursuers, however, on coming up to Aultsigh, dared or dreamt of taking a leap which had been so fatal to their youthful leader, and were therefore under the necessity of taking a circuitous route to gain the other side. This circumstance enabled Macranuil to increase the distance between him and his pursuers, but the loss of blood, occasioned by his wound, so weakened him that very soon he found his determined enemies were fast gaining on him. Like an infuriated wolf he hesitated whether to await the undivided attack of the Mackenzies or plunge into Loch-Ness and attempt to swim across its waters. The shouts of his approaching enemies soon decided him, and he sprung into its deep and dark wave. Refreshed by its invigorating coolness he soon swam beyond the reach of their muskets; but in his weak and wounded state it is more than probable he would have sunk ere he had crossed half the breadth had not the firing and the shouts of his enemies proved the means of saving his life. Fraser of Foyers seeing a numerous band of armed men standing on the opposite bank of Loch-Ness, and observing a single swimmer struggling in the water, ordered his boat to be launched, and pulling hard to the individual, discovered him to be his friend Allan Dubh, with whose family Fraser was on terms of friendship. Macranuil, thus rescued, remained at the house of Foyers until he was cured of his wound. The influence and the Clan of the Macdonells subsequently declined, while that of the Mackenzies surely and steadily increased.

The heavy ridge between the vale of Urquhart and Aultsigh, where Allan Dubh Macranuil so often divided his men, is to this day called Monadh-an-leumanaich, or ‘the Moor of the Leaper.’

LACHLAN OG MACKINNON AND THE SKYE FACTOR.

It is happy for the present age that the ancient manners and customs, which were practised in the Highlands and Islands under the feudal system, have long since fallen into oblivion. It would fill volumes to relate the numerous practices which were then resorted to by the feudal lords, many of which were cruel in themselves, and entailed great hardships on their submissive vassals, who were bound to obey. As the chiefs had full power over the life and death of their retainers, such of them as betrayed any disobedience or opposition to the stern demands of their superiors, rendered themselves liable to the severest punishment, and frequently to nothing less than the penalty of death. The national laws of Kings and Queens had then but little influence in checking or counteracting the peremptory enactments of feudalism.

The following striking instance of the remarkable practices alluded to will furnish a specimen to the reader of what took place in Skye, not much more than a century and a-half ago.

No sooner did the death of a tenant take place than the event was announced to the laird of the soil. The land-steward, or ground-officer, incurred the displeasure of his master unless that announcement were made no later than three days after it had occurred. Immediately after the deceased farmer had been consigned to the grave, the disconsolate widow, if he had left one, was waited upon by a messenger from the landlord, to deliver up to him the best horse on the farm, such being reckoned then the legal property of the owner of the soil. This rule was as unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians. On large and extensive farms the demand was submitted to without much complaint, by the widow, children, or heirs of the deceased, but it pressed hard upon the occupiers of small tenements of land, and particularly so on helpless widows. But whoever refused, or attempted to evade this heartless enactment, forfeited every right to their farms in future, and became liable to have all their goods and chattels confiscated to the laird. It frequently happened that a poor farmer had but one horse, yet even this circumstance did not mitigate the cruelty of the practice; for the solitary animal was taken away, and frequently so to the great distress of the younger branches of the orphan family, who mourned bitterly, and often shed tears for the loss of their favourite animal.

A circumstance took place in the parish of Strath, which was, it is said, the means of abolishing this abominable rule. About the beginning of the seventeenth century a farmer of the name of Mackinnon was gathered to his fathers in the parish, and after his interment the laird’s messenger visited the afflicted widow, and, as usual, demanded the best horse on her little farm. Her husband having been a kinsman of the laird, and expecting, in her distress, to receive some sympathy from her chief, and at all events some relaxation of that rule which had been all along so resistlessly put in force, she showed much reluctance to part with the animal. Seeing this, the officer became more and more determined to have it. The widow, in the same manner, became more and more determined in her refusal, and appealed to him in vain to submit the case to the decision of her chief. The officer was inexorable, and becoming incensed at the woman’s pertinacity he turned from words to blows, and inflicted some severe wounds on the helpless female to the effusion of blood. She, however, retaliated, and through desperation, assuming more courage, addressed her little son, a boy of four, that stood weeping by her side, and said to him in her own emphatic vernacular:—

“Cha mhac mar an t-athair thu, a’ Lachlainn Oig,
Mar diol thu le fuil droch caithreamh do mhàthar;
’S mar smàil thu gu bàs, le diòghaltas air chòir,
Am borb-fhear fiadhaich so, am mòrtair gu’n nàr!”

_Literally translated_:—

“Thou art not a son like the father, my young Lachlan,
Unless thou requite with blood the ill-treatment of thy mother;
And unless thou dash to death, with due revenge,
This fierce and savage fellow—this barefaced murderer!”

The mother’s charge to her boy cannot be said to be tempered with much Christian feeling or principle, yet it was according to the generally cherished practices of the system under which she lived. Then it was that might was right, and revenge bravery. But to return to the subject—the widow’s cries and tears, excitement and eloquence, were all in vain. The officer made off with the horse, and delivered it to his chief.

Matters went on in this way, in various quarters, for a considerable time, until at length, and about twenty years thereafter, the same officer appeared on the same errand at a neighbouring widow’s door, and deprived her as usual of her best horse. The circumstance was brought under the notice of Lachlan Og, and having been, no doubt, frequently reminded of the cruelty inflicted by that official on his mother, he determined to embrace the present befitting occasion for displaying his dire revenge. It may be stated that young Lachlan was noted in the district for his great agility and muscular strength. He made no delay in pursuing the officer, and having come up to him at a distance of some miles, he seized him by the neck and sternly demanded the widow’s horse, reminding him, at the same time, of the treatment inflicted by him on his mother twenty years before. The officer stood petrified with fear, seeing fierceness and revenge depicted so very unmistakably in young Mackinnon’s face. Yet still he grasped the animal by the halter, and would not permit his youthful assailant to intermeddle with it. The strife commenced, and that in right earnest, but in a few moments the officer fell lifeless on the ground. Mackinnon, seizing his dirk, dissevered the head from the body, and washed it in a fountain by the wayside, which is still pointed out to the traveller as ‘Tobar a’ chinn,’ or ‘The Well of the Head.’ He then, at once, mounted the horse, and galloped off to the residence of his chief, carrying the bloody head in his left hand on the point of his dirk. His appearance at the main entrance, with the ghastly trophy still bleeding in his hand, greatly alarmed the menials of the mansion. Without dismounting, he inquired if Mackinnon was at home, and being told that he was, he said, ‘Go and tell my chief that I have arrived to present him with the head of his officer “Donnachadh Mor,” in case that he might wish to embalm it and hang it up in his baronial hall as a trophy of heartlessness and cruelty.’ The message was instantly delivered to the laird, who could not believe that such a diabolical deed could be perpetrated by any of his clan, but still he came out to see. On his appearance in the court, Lachlan Og dismounted, did obeisance to his chief, and prominently exhibited the dripping head by lifting it up on his dirk. ‘What is this, Lachlan; what murder is this?’ asked the excited chief. Lachlan explained the whole in full detail, and related the circumstances of the present transaction, as well as of the inhuman treatment which his mother had received when he was a child. The chieftain pondered, paused, and declared that these cruelties had been practised unknown to him. He granted a free pardon to Lachlan Og, appointed him his officer in room of Donnachadh Mor, and issued an edict over all his estate that thereafter neither widow nor orphan, heir, nor kindred, would ever be deprived by him of their horse, or of any other part of their property.

JAMES GRANT OF CARRON.

Seumas-an-Tuim, _alias_ James Grant of Carron, in Strathspey, is one of those Highland notabilities who have made themselves famous for deeds of lawlessness and rapine. Seumas is the subject of the well-known song:—

A mhnathan a ghlinne, │ Ye women of the glen,
A mhnathan a ghlinne, │ Ye women of the glen,
A mhnathan a ghlinne, │ Ye women of the glen,
Nach mithich dhuibh eiridh, │ Is it not time for you to rise,
’Seumas-an-Tuim ’ag iomain │ And James-an-Tuim driving
na spréidhe, │ away your cattle.

The melody of this song is a beautiful one, and has been adapted to the great Highland bagpipe, in the shape of a well-known pibroch—‘The Breadalbane Gathering,’ or ‘Bodaich na’m briogais,’ and associated with a victory, which John Glas, first Earl of Breadalbane, gained over the Sinclairs of Caithness, at Allt-nam-mearlach. This was towards the close of the seventeenth century. But the air belongs to an earlier period. Seumas-an-Tuim flourished at the beginning of that century.