Chapter VII: Part 7

That evening, when Kenneth and Hector returned from their day’s fishing, they found no fire on the hearth, no supper ready, no voice to welcome them. Kenneth, from the hint he had received, was somewhat prepared for this unusual state of matters, but at the same time he echoed his companion’s exclamations of astonishment; he tried to account for it to the satisfaction of his companion by suggesting that the women were out milking the goats, but, as if to contradict him, they heard a bleating outside the cottage, and, going out to ascertain the cause, they found the goats, tired of waiting, had actually come to the door themselves to be relieved of their milky treasure. Kenneth said nothing, but his quick eye at once detected the absence of the dun-coloured favourite which had nursed the boy. Hector, terribly chagrined and annoyed at finding himself thus outwitted, questioned and cross-questioned poor Kenneth until they both lost their temper, but failed to obtain any satisfactory information. They both passed a sleepless night, and at dawn of day Hector started, accompanied by Kenneth, in pursuit of the fugitives, feeling sure they could not have gone far in such a wild and rocky country. He kept a strict watch on Kenneth, who, notwithstanding, managed in the course of the day to get near the cave, and unseen by his companion gave a signal, which he was delighted to see answered. He now knew that his friends were safely lodged, and had no fear of their discovery by Hector, but how to communicate with them he could not imagine, for Hector kept the most jealous eye on his slightest movements.

The day was nearly spent; the men, fagged and wearied with their long and toilsome search among the mountains, lay down on the heather. Hector, sulky, and deeply mortified at the trick played upon him, lay thinking of what excuse he could make to his chief, and how that high-spirited gentleman was likely to receive the news of Flora’s escape. One thing was certain, he must at once acquaint his lord with the circumstances, whatever the consequences might be to himself; but the difficulty was, how to do so. He first thought of securing Kenneth, and taking him a prisoner along with him, but glancing at the well-knit hardy figure and determined eyes of the young Highlander, he concluded it would be no easy task to secure him single-handed; and Hector, who, though brave, was also very prudent, saw no benefit likely to accrue from a combat between himself and Kenneth, which would probably end in the death of one, perhaps of both of them. At last he decided that the best plan for him would be to go off quickly and quietly, give information to his chief, and return with a sufficient number to trace and secure Kenneth and the runaways. The idea was no sooner conceived than executed. Seeing that Kenneth lay with his face covered, buried in thought, Hector rose and ran through the hills with the fleetness of a deer.

Kenneth lay for some time, revolving scheme after scheme, when, wondering at his companion’s unwonted silence, he raised his head, and was astonished to find him gone. He jumped to his feet and looked eagerly around; at last he espied him at a distance, running as if for his life. This conduct somewhat puzzled him, and for a moment he was tempted to send an arrow after him, but recollecting he was now too far away, he dismissed the idea from his mind, and began to reflect how best to turn Hector’s absence to his own benefit. The first thing he did was to hasten to the cave to inform its inmates of the strange and abrupt departure. Flora, with her usual intelligence, soon defined the reason, and a consultation was at once held as to what they had better do in the perplexing situation in which they now found themselves.

They could not stay in the cave for any length of time for want of provisions; the small stock they had brought with them would soon be exhausted; the goat’s milk would not even be sufficient for little MacGabhar himself, and it would be unsafe for Kenneth to venture out to procure food for fear of their retreat being discovered, and they dreaded this might be the case even as it was, for if their enemies brought their slot hounds they would soon be tracked. Under all these circumstances, in about a week they concluded upon going down to the sea-shore, trusting fortune might favour them by sending a boat or vessel that way, in which they might make good their escape. This they did, taking the goat (which would not part from the boy) and their baggage along with them. As if in answer to their wishes, they no sooner arrived at the shore than they saw a large ship sailing towards them, and casting anchor at Poolewe. Shortly after they saw one of the ship’s boats, with five or six men, rowing in their direction. Kenneth and Flora hastened forward to hail it, and see if the men would take them on board. In their eagerness, they were nearly at the water’s edge before they discovered that the principal figure in the boat was none other than Hector Dubh himself. With a scream of terror the affrighted Flora turned and fled, followed by Kenneth, back towards the child, for whose safety she had undergone so many hardships; but, alas, she was destined never to reach him, for in her haste she stumbled and fell. Kenneth stopped to raise her, the next moment they were surrounded, taken prisoners, and hurried to the boat.

Flora’s anguish of mind at being thus cruelly separated from the boy was painful to witness. She prayed and entreated the men to return for him, promising that she would go quietly along with them if she only had the child. But all in vain, the men turned a deaf ear to her most vehement and impressive appeals, Hector saying, ‘No, no, my pretty madam, you have cheated me once already; I’ll take care you shan’t do it a second time. We can easily return for the boy if our lord desires us to do so, but we will make sure of you and Kenneth at any rate.’ So, in spite of Flora’s tears and sobs, and the more violent expressions of Kenneth’s anger (who was deeply grieved at leaving his mother in such a critical situation), the boat speedily bore them from the shore, and shortly after Hector had the satisfaction of handing them over to the custody of his chief.

The Lord of Castle Donain was very much put out at losing the boy, whose fate he felt was strangely interwoven with his own, and in proportion to his dread of what that fate might be was his anxiety to gain possession of MacGabhar. Many a long and fruitless search he caused to be made for him, many a sleepless night he passed in endeavouring to unravel the mystic meaning of the prophecy, and many an hour he spent in consulting his aged bard, who possessed the gift of second sight; but they could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion, save that MacGabhar should surely in the end become the possessor of the vast estates of Castle Donain, but whether it would be accomplished by victory in war, or by more peaceful means, whether in the lifetime of the present lord, or in that of his successors, was at present hidden from their vision.

Flora, who was kept in a kind of honourable captivity, would not afford him the slightest clue to her own identity, or the parentage of the boy, for whose loss she never ceased to grieve. On being perfectly satisfied that Kenneth was as ignorant as himself regarding Flora’s antecedents, and being assured by her of Kenneth’s absolute innocence of any design against him, the chief allowed the young man to go free.

Kenneth, however, was too devoted to the fair Flora to leave the place, while she was unwillingly detained there. He accordingly lingered about at a safe distance until a favourable opportunity occurred which enabled him to effect her escape, and of safely conducting her to another part of the country, out of the reach of the Lord of Castle Donain. Flora, finding herself alone and desolate, afraid of returning to her own country, and being deeply touched by Kenneth’s unfailing devotion, at length consented to become his wife, a decision she never had cause to rue, but realized more every day the fact that

The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man’s the gold for a’ that.

After this they wandered about in many places, where it is unnecessary to follow them, searching for the widow and the boy; but at length gave up their efforts as useless. They then went south, and Kenneth joined the army of the king, in which he speedily found favour, rose step by step, until the summit of his youthful ambition was attained, being knighted by the king for his distinguished gallantry on the battle-field.

When the poor widow saw her son and Flora so suddenly torn from her side, and herself and the child left desolate on the shore, she knew not what to do, nor where to turn for shelter. It was no use returning to the cave, for how could they subsist there? her cottage was not better now that Kenneth was gone. She, alone, would be totally unable to provide a livelihood. She had now only the one supreme idea of discovering and, if possible, rejoining her beloved and only son.

The kind and hospitable people of Poolewe supported her and her charge for several days, till at last they secured a passage for her on board a ship, the crew of which promised to take her to Castle Donain. The widow, like most old women, was rather garrulous; she told the captain all her troubles, and the strange story of the boy she found among the rocks of Loch-Maree sucking her favourite goat, showing him at the same time the velvet mantle and sword of state which belonged to little MacGabhar’s father, to corroborate her statements. The captain, interested in the touching narrative, listened patiently, and condoled with the poor woman in her misfortunes; but, at the same time, feeling sure that the boy belonged to some family of note, he determined, instead of carrying them to the desired destination, taking his passengers to his own chief, Colin Gillespick, or Colin More, as he was generally called, a noted, brave, though rather unscrupulous chieftain.

Gillespick, on their arrival, was very glad to obtain possession of the boy, and on hearing the whole story, he decided on taking MacGabhar into his own family and bringing him up as one of his own sons. He also provided the widow with a small cottage near his castle, and allowed her enough to live upon very comfortably. She had liberty to see MacGabhar as often as she wished, and as she was very much attached to him, she would have been quite happy but for her grief at the loss of her son, which almost obliterated every other feeling. The boy was never tired of listening to her while she told and retold him all the incidents of his discovery in the cave with Flora, of their subsequent happy days at the cottage, and of their sad and sudden termination. As MacGabhar grew up, he became intensely anxious respecting his parentage, and many a pleasant converse he had with the old widow, who always maintained and taught him to believe that he came of noble blood. He would gaze on the mantle and sword by the hour together, trying to imagine what his father had been. The time thus spent was not altogether wasted, for these reveries made him feel that, if he was well born, it was necessary for him to conduct himself like a nobleman, which he accordingly strove to do, and soon excelled all his companions, as much by his skill and dexterity in the warlike games and manly accomplishments of the times, as in his fine athletic figure, handsome features, and dignified bearing.

When MacGabhar was about eighteen, his adopted father told him that he would now give him an opportunity of showing his prowess on the battle-field, as he had resolved to gather all his clan and retainers, and make a grand raid into a neighbouring territory, of which the people were at the time in a state of anarchy and confusion, which circumstance he had no doubt would greatly aid him in his intended project of subjugation. This was welcome news to the fiery youth, longing ‘to flesh his maiden sword,’ and he exerted himself with right good will in making the necessary preparations for the forthcoming foray.

When Flora married Kenneth, she, like a true wife, concealed no secret from him, but told him all her history—a strange and romantic one. She was of high birth, but, being an orphan, lived with her only sister, who had married and become the queen of the chief or king of a powerful neighbouring kingdom. They had an only child, a boy, named Ewen, to whom Flora was devotedly attached, being his companion and nurse by day and by night. When the child was about a year old, a revolt broke out in his domains, led by a natural brother of the king, who, being the elder, thought he had a better right. The rebels seized and murdered Ewen’s father, their lawful sovereign, and took the queen prisoner.

Kenneth’s blood ran cold as his wife continued, in graphic terms, to relate the horrors of that period; how the rebels, not satisfied with the death of their king, plotted to murder herself and the young heir during the night. Even in this trying emergency she did not lose her presence of mind, but courageously determined to defeat their wicked purpose by a counter-plot. She accordingly concealed her agitation during the day, and on some pretext persuaded the wife and child of one of the conspirators to change bedrooms with her; the latter were slain, while she made good her escape with her darling Ewen, but in such haste that she could make no preparations for her flight beyond carrying away the sword and mantle of the murdered king, as evidence, if ever opportunity occurred, to prove Ewen’s high lineage and birth. After days of painful travel, she at last reached Loch-Maree, where she was happily found in the cave, succoured by the goat, by Kenneth and his devoted mother.

After Kenneth had been made a knight, and stood high in favour at court, his wife accidentally heard from a wandering minstrel that great changes had taken place in her native country. The usurper was dead, leaving no successor, and the people were divided and in a state of discord, some wishing to have the queen of the late rightful king restored, while others wished for a male ruler. Flora, on hearing this, at once expressed her desire once more to visit her sister, of whom she had heard nothing for so many years, and suggested to her husband that he might possibly help the queen to resume her rightful position. Sir Kenneth, ever ready for adventure, consented, provided he could get the king’s consent for a time to withdraw from his service.

The kingdom being now at peace, the king readily granted him leave of absence, and also permission to take his immediate retainers along with him. They all started in high spirits, and arrived at their journey’s end in safety, when Flora was overjoyed to find her sister alive and well. The queen, on meeting her, was no less delighted to find her long lost sister, and to hear of the wonderful preservation of her beloved son, though their joy was damped by the uncertainty of his fate since Flora was separated from him. With the valuable assistance of Sir Kenneth and his brave men-at-arms, the queen was soon reinstated in her proper position. But no sooner was this accomplished than she was threatened with an immediate attack from the formidable and dreaded Colin More. Her subjects, however, rallied round her, and, forgetting their mutual quarrels, stood well together, and led on by the brave Sir Kenneth, they rushed to meet the advancing foe with irresistible force, and gained a complete victory over him, taking several important prisoners, among whom were three of Gillespick’s sons, and his adopted son Ewen MacGabhar.

Colin More’s raid being so unjust, for there was no reason for it but the desire for plunder, it was decided that his punishment should be severe, consequently all the prisoners of any pretension to rank were ordered the morning after the battle to be publicly executed, beginning with the youngest. This happened to be Ewen MacGabhar, who determined to meet his fate without flinching, and as befitted his birth, which he always felt was of noble origin. He accordingly dressed himself with care, and threw over all the scarlet velvet mantle he had preserved for so many years, and girded on the sword, with a sigh to think that he should never know the secret of his birth.

At the time appointed, the prisoners were brought out for execution before the queen and her court, according to the barbarous custom of the time. MacGabhar walked at their head with a stately step, his fine figure as erect, his fair head held as lofty, and his bright blue eye as fearless, as if he were a conqueror and not a captive. As he approached nearer where the queen sat, surrounded by her ladies, her sister Flora started violently, and seizing her husband by the arm, exclaimed, ‘Oh Kenneth, see! see! that mantle, that sword; look at his fair hair, his blue eyes—it must, it must be he.’ Then rushing toward Ewen, she cried out, ‘Your name, your name, young man; where did you get that sword and mantle? Speak, speak—I adjure you by all you hold sacred to tell the truth.’ Young Ewen, considerably surprised by this impassioned appeal, drew himself up, and answered firmly and respectfully, ‘Madam, these articles belong to my father, whom I never knew, and the name I am known by is Ewen MacGabhar, but I know not whether it is my right name or not.’ This answer, far from allaying the lady’s agitation, only served to increase it, and, with an hysterical laugh, she screamed out, ‘MacGabhar! yes, yes, I was sure of it. Sister! husband! see, see, our lost darling—my own dear MacGabhar.’ Then, in the excess of her emotion, she threw her arms around him, and swooned away.

All was now confusion and perplexity. Sir Kenneth hastened to his wife’s assistance. The queen rose and stood with an agitated face and out-stretched hands, looking earnestly at Ewen. The older chieftains who remembered his father, began to remark the extraordinary likeness Ewen bore to the late king; clansmen caught up the excitement and began to shout ‘A MacCoinnich Mòr! A MacCoinnich Mòr!’

After a while, when the Lady Flora had regained consciousness, and some degree of order was restored, the queen began to closely question her sister as to the identity of Ewen; ‘For,’ she sagely remarked, ‘although that mantle and sword did indeed belong to my husband, that does not prove its present possessor to be his heir, and further, though I admit I perceive a great resemblance in that young man to the late king, yet he might be his son without being mine, and until I am persuaded that he is indeed my own lawful son, I will not yield up this honoured seat to him.’ This spirited speech was received with approval by the nobles, but still the common people kept up the cry of ‘A MacCoinnich Mòr! A MacCoinnich Mòr!’

‘Stay, stay,’ exclaimed Kenneth, ‘I think I shall be able to decide if he is indeed MacGabhar; do you remember, Flora, the day when little Ewen was playing with my hunting knife and inflicted a severe cut on his arm? Now, if this young man has the mark of that wound, it will be conclusive. Approach then, and bare your left arm, MacGabhar.’

Ewen stood forward, and amid the anxious, breathless attention of all, bared his muscular arm, when there plainly appeared a large cicatrice, evidently of many years standing.

All doubt was now removed; the queen embraced him and owned him her son. The chieftains crowded round to offer their congratulations, and the clansmen shouted loud and long.

MacGabhar bore himself throughout this strange and exciting scene with a dignity and composure of manner which greatly raised him in the estimation of his new found friends. His first act was to beg the lives and liberty of his late fellow-prisoners, which was readily granted; and when he had explained to his mother how indebted he was to Gillespick for his kindness in bringing him up, and had also told Sir Kenneth how well treated his mother had been, their indignant feelings towards Gillespick gave way to more kindly emotions, and a firm and lasting peace was concluded between the two clans. Sir Kenneth hastened to fetch his mother, whose joy at being thus re-united to her beloved son, after so many years of separation and anxiety, was almost overpowering to the now aged woman. Sir Kenneth took up his abode in his wife’s native country, and by his wise and sagacious council greatly assisted Ewen in the management of his kingdom, the queen, his mother, resigning all her authority in his favour. He ruled his people firmly and well, and by his courage in the field and wisdom in the council, he so raised the strength and increased the dimensions of his kingdom that it became the most prosperous and powerful in the Highlands. He married the only daughter of the Lord of Castle Donain, and by her inherited all that vast estate, in this way fulfilling the old prophecy which had caused so much uneasiness for years to his future father-in-law.

ALLAN DONN AND ANNIE CAMPBELL.

Donald Campbell of Scalpay, Harris—whose name is on record in connection with Prince Charles, when a refugee in the Western Isles after his defeat at Culloden—had a very beautiful daughter, who was so modest, pleasant, and affectionate, that she had few equals in the Isles. The charming Annie was for some considerable time, previous to the year 1768, loved by Allan Morrison, son of Roderick Morrison, of Stornoway, a ship captain. Being a gallant, and withal a comely young man, his affection was reciprocated by the fair Annie. Captain Allan—he was seldom called Morrison—traded with his vessel principally between Stornoway and the Isle of Man, but he frequently went to Spain. Like many other lovers, Captain Allan, when he returned from abroad, presented the object of his affections with small presents of silk and linen—rare articles in the Highlands in those days. The more Allan saw of his Annie, the more he loved her, and he ardently longed for the day when they should be united in wedlock. This day was at length fixed; but before the happy event could take place, a voyage to the Isle of Man and back had to be accomplished. It was arranged, however, that the preliminary ceremony—the ‘contract’—should be gone through prior to setting out on the voyage, on the evening before setting sail. For this purpose, one afternoon in the spring of 1768, Captain Allan left Stornoway for Scalpay with his vessel. Besides having a select number of relatives on board, who were to be present at the ceremony, he was accompanied by another ship, commanded by his brother, Captain Roderick. It was a fine day, with a nice breeze of fair wind, when they set sail. They did not proceed far, however, when the wind, which veered round to the south, rose suddenly to a perfect hurricane. To make matters worse, a blinding sleet shortly afterwards set in. Nobly, but in vain, did both the ships strive to bear up against the furious onsets of the rolling Minch; but notwithstanding their brave efforts to reach Scalpay before nightfall, they had barely got as far as the Shiant Isles when it was pitch dark, and thus their already dangerous situation became more perilous still. That each vessel might know the position of the other, a red light, in addition to the usual white one, was exhibited on the masts of both, and the brothers, being determined to arrive at their destination that night, if possible, continued to battle against the mighty billows, which now dashed themselves with fearful force against the creaking planks of the vessels, and anon broke over them with a deafening noise. This did not continue long when it became apparent that they could not possibly hold out much longer together. This was at least part of Captain Roderick’s surmises, when he suddenly heard loud cries proceeding from his brother’s ship. Being slightly in advance of Captain Allan at the time, and supposing that the shouts were intended as a sign for him to keep up his courage, he paid very little attention to the matter, for under the circumstances there was no possibility of rendering the least aid, should such be required. Above the sound of the raging tempest, the shouts from Allan’s ship continued to be distinctly heard for a few seconds, when lo! all of a sudden, the screaming ceased, and the lights on the mast suddenly disappeared. It was then, and only then, that Captain Roderick understood the real meaning of the shouts which came from his brother’s crew, whose ship had been sinking, and had now evidently gone to the bottom. Although there was but little hope of his being able much longer to keep his own ship afloat, Captain Roderick, like a brave sailor and an affectionate brother, directly made for the spot where the lights of his brother’s ship were last observed, but nothing, alas! was seen or heard of the ship or crew. The deep wail which now rose from Captain Roderick’s crew was truly heart-rending. From that day till now nothing has been seen of Captain Allan’s crew or his ship.

Soon after the foundering of the gallant ship the gale moderated so much that Captain Roderick was able to reach the north harbour of Scalpay early next morning. Being expected there the previous night, none of the Campbells—who were, as might be supposed, greatly concerned for Captain Allan’s safety, knowing, as they did, that his non-arrival arose from the furious tempest—went to bed that night. They were, therefore, by early dawn on the top of the hill which flanked their house, which is still standing, and from which they secured a view of the Minch in all directions. From this position they early descried Captain Roderick’s ship making for the island. As the brave vessel passed up through the narrow Sound of Scalpay, the Campbells, and chief among them the fair Annie, some relatives and friends, stood on the north-east point of the island, and, thinking it was Captain Allan’s ship, welcomed her with waving handkerchiefs. But their gay signs of joy were but of short duration, for presently a small flag was observed half-mast-high, and the next moment a sharp scream burst from the lovely Annie, exclaiming that Allan Donn was gone! Captain Roderick’s ship soon cast anchor; in a few minutes he landed, and conveyed the sad tidings of his brother’s and relatives’ untimely end, as above described.

We will not attempt to describe the effect which this melancholy intelligence had upon the fair Annie, whose grief at that moment knew no bounds—her heart broke for him whom she would never see again. Refusing to be comforted, she might be seen at early dawn, mid-day, and twilight, wandering sorrowfully on the shore, looking for her ‘dear Allan’s body,’ and crying ‘Allain Duinn Shiubhlainn leat.’ She continued thus while she lived, which was only a few days, her heart having, it is said, literally burst. It is even asserted that her pure white breast wasted to that extent that an aperture was formed opposite her heart. She composed a song or lament for her devoted lover each day afterwards while she lived.

The song composed by Annie Campbell on the day she received the tidings of her beloved’s death, is entitled, ‘Allain Duinn, Shiubhlainn leat.’ It has a peculiarly touching air, and is still sung by many people on the Island of Harris, and it is now published in Part II. of Mr Sinclair’s “Oranaiche.”

It was an oft expressed wish of the broken-hearted maiden that her body should be buried in the sea, that she might share her ‘dear Allan’s grave.’ But whether her friends promised compliance with her request is not said. It is worthy of note, however, that his name was the last word she uttered. Surrounded by a crowded chamber of weeping friends, her gentle spirit took its flight to that brighter region which lies beyond the grave; and, though grief had wasted her body to a mere shadow, the same pleasant features which graced her in life continued to adorn her even when embraced in the cold arms of death. Her demise excited universal regret in the whole Outer Hebrides.

The respect and admiration in which Annie Campbell was held by her acquaintances in life were fully demonstrated at her death, for during the week in which her body lay in state at Scalpay, scores of people who could not, on account of the throng, obtain admission to the house of mourning, although kept open day and night, might be seen, with sad countenances and sorrowful hearts, standing around it from morn to eve, and eve to morn, and the respectful silence which prevailed among them was such that ‘the fall of a pin might be heard.’ Some people may be disposed to say that to devote a whole week to the ceremony called the ‘leekwake,’ was a needless waste of time. But, considering the great preparations which had to be made for the deceased lady’s funeral, it must be confessed that it was short enough. Fifteen gallons of whisky, two or three large creelfuls of beef, mutton, and fowl, and a corresponding supply of newly-baked oaten cake, and cheese, were generally required at the interment of a common person in the Highlands in the olden times; and although they had neither pastry nor confections from Edinburgh, nor brandy from Cognac, at Annie’s funeral, the expenditure was, nevertheless, most profuse. There was gin from Schiedam, wine from Oporto, and whisky from Berneray, in unlimited quantities; and as to the supply of oat and barley meal cakes, cheese, beef, mutton, and fowl, it was simply enormous.

Rodel, the place of interment, was only twelve miles from the island of Scalpay, but, on account of the large number of people which was to take part in the proceedings at Cille Chliaran (Rodel churchyard), which is supposed to have been built in the tenth century, and was dedicated to St Clement, three large galleys, or boats, were required for the funeral procession. One of the boats, which was manned by a select crew, was intended for the coffin and chief mourners; another was for the deceased’s kinsfolk and friends, and the third for carrying the provisions. The day fixed for the funeral arrived—it was a Saturday in the year 1768—a day which will be remembered in Harris while a Highlander breathes on its soil. On the morning of that day, the three boats left Scalpay for Rodel. In the foremost boat, Am Bata Caol Cannach, was the coffin, and the chief mourners were Kenneth Campbell, deceased’s brother; Campbell of Marrig, Campbell of Strond, Macleod of Hushinish, Macleod of Luskintyre, and two or three other leading Harris-men. It also contained several casks of rum, gin, &c. The morning was so calm and pleasant, that the surface of the Minch seemed like a huge sheet of glass, so that the sails, which seamen depend so much upon, were useless; but, stripped to the shirts, the stalwart oarsmen pulled their respective galleys through the briny water with great speed. The little procession had hardly passed Rudha Reibinish when a smart head-wind began to blow. The horizon was soon afterwards darkened by a sheet of black clouds that betokened the approaching storm, which almost immediately set in. It soon blew a perfect hurricane, against which oars could make little headway. At the outset of the rising wind, the Bata Caol Cannach set sail, was thus carried far out to sea, and was in mid-channel when the tempest was at its height. The sails were torn to shreds, and the snow, which began to fall thick and fast, hid the land from view. They were now in a most critical position, for it was impossible for any boat to live long in such an awful sea, and the boat was half full of water. They gave up all hope of surviving many moments longer, and each began to pray earnestly for his soul’s salvation, when to their still greater horror, the form of a female—Annie’s phantom—was observed quite near them, following in the wake of their boat. This extraordinary circumstance was at once laid down as one of the direst omens. Nor need we wonder much if it did, when we consider the peculiar circumstances under which the figure appeared, and the superstitious beliefs which then, and to a certain extent still, prevail in the Highlands. Each time the phantom, which seemed to scowl angrily upon them, appeared, the Bata Caol Cannach shipped fearful seas. Life being sweet, the poor fellows used every means in their power to keep their vessel afloat. They used the wine and gin ankers, out of which they knocked the ends, spilling the liquor among the salt water, for bailing the boat. The phantom still followed, and was coming closer and closer to the boat’s stern, when they recalled to mind Annie’s oft expressed desire to be buried in the sea, that she might share Allan’s grave; and they at once concluded that her spirit followed them, first in the storm, and now in visible shape, to enforce compliance with her last request. Some of them, therefore, advised that the coffin should be immediately committed to the deep; but to this proposal Kenneth Campbell, the deceased’s brother, would not consent. He was sitting in the stern of the boat, and his late sister’s spirit drew so near to him that she could put her hand on his shoulder. He chanced to have a bunch of keys in his pocket, to which some fabulous charm was attached, and he threw them to the phantom to appease her, but without effect. By this time some of the crew lay helplessly in the bottom of the boat, when one of the most courageous proposed that, to lighten the craft, the ‘knocked up’ men should be thrown overboard. ‘Not one,’ replied an elderly man, ‘of the living shall be put out, till the dead is put out first.’ He had hardly finished speaking, when a huge sea rolled over the boat, which almost swamped her, and the coffin, which was then floating in the boat, striking Kenneth Campbell on the chest, had almost pitched him overboard. He, thereupon, immediately ordered it to be thrown out, an order which, we need hardly say, was directly obeyed; but another tremendous sea again threw it into the water-logged boat. They managed, however, with great difficulty to unship it again, and knocking one of the ends out of it with their oars, all that remained of the fair Annie sank in a twinkling to the bottom of the sea, and the angry spirit immediately disappeared.

Meanwhile, the other two boats, which had never raised their sails at all, went ashore at Manish. Having landed, the men proceeded at once by land to Rodel, where they communicated the manner of their parting with the Bata Caol Cannach, as above described. All agreed that she had foundered, ‘for it was impossible,’ they said, ‘for any open, or other boat, to live in the Minch that day.’ This was a terrible circumstance—a calamity which plunged the whole country into an overwhelming grief. The deaths of Annie Campbell and Allan Donn were wholly absorbed by this extraordinary affair—an affair which seemed, to all appearance, to be nothing less than a judgment from God; for the flower of all the Harris gentlemen shared in one hour the same watery grave. The sorrow caused by this sad occurrence was so universal that a dry eye could not be found that evening from one end of Harris to the other; and this general grief continued for days and nights together, for all sympathised with the bereaved.

But to return to the Bata Caol Cannach, which we left water-logged, and about to sink in the middle of the Minch. It was a remarkable coincidence, that as soon as the cold clay of the fair maiden sank in the sea, the furious storm immediately abated, and the raging billows ceased their wild commotion. The Bata Caol Cannach was then bailed as quickly as possible, and one of the men—Malcolm Macleod—happening to have his plaid along with him, it was hoisted before the wind instead of a sail. The boat’s stern was turned to the wind which drove it forward at a considerable rate, but, being pitch dark, none of them knew whither they were going. A new danger now began to alarm them—the danger of the boat being dashed to pieces on some shore. This fresh evil had only presented itself when the Bata Caol Cannach’s keel struck the ground. The gratitude to an all-ruling Providence that filled their hearts at that moment none but those similarly situated can tell. They immediately leaped ashore, leaving the boat in the spot where it struck; and after wandering about for some time, stumbled upon a house, where they were kindly received and cared for. On entering this house, they discovered that one of their number was amissing, and, hungry and exhausted though they were, they immediately went to search for him, and found him lying insensible in the bows of the boat. He was at once carried to the house which they had just left, and with much care and attention he soon recovered. The place where the Bata Caol Cannach went ashore, and where the men were so hospitably entertained, was Snizort, in the Isle of Skye. It was some time before the Harris-men had thoroughly recovered from the hardships they underwent; but, as soon as they were able to undertake the journey, they returned home.

Kenneth Campbell, Annie’s brother, was afterwards also drowned. He commanded a vessel, and being met by a French pirate, his ship, after being robbed, was sent to the bottom, every soul on board perishing. There are many other anecdotes connected with the men who composed the crew of the Bata Caol Cannach on the occasion referred to, but I must conclude, merely mentioning that the body of the unfortunate Allan Donn was found at the Shiant Isles shortly after the death of his sorrowing lover Annie, and was interred with befitting solemnities in the family sepulchre in Lewis. As an extraordinary coincidence, the body of the fair Annie Campbell was soon after Di-Sathairn an Fhuadaich also found at the Shiant Isle, and in the very spot where the body of her lover had been recovered. Whether it was placed in the same grave as Allan tradition does not record.

Malcolm Macleod, grandson of Malcolm Macleod, whose plaid was used as a sail in the Bata Caol Cannach, an elder in the Free Church at Tarbert, Harris, who only died about two years ago, repeatedly told me the above story. The Bata Caol Cannach was so called on account of having been purchased by the Campbells from a man in the island of Canna.

MARY MACLEOD AND HER LOVER.

Marrig House stands on a gentle declivity near the upper end of Loch-Seaforth, a bay some miles in length, in the Outer Hebrides. It was in olden times a structure of the most primitive description. Its walls, some six feet in thickness, and about four feet in height, were built of sods, earth, and mountain boulders; and its roof of pieces of wreckage found on the sea-shore, covered over with sods, ferns, and rushes. It had neither window or chimney, save a rude opening at the top of the wall, and an old creel stuck into the ridge, which served the double purpose of admitting light and emitting the dense volumes of smoke which invariably darkened the interior. The fire was in the centre of the clay-made floor. The cooking utensils were suspended from the rafters by a heather rope. The partitions, made of boards, pieces of wreckage, and old sails, did not extend higher than the level of the walls.

Being on a portion of the estate of Harris—which was from time immemorial possessed by the branch of the Macleods known as Siol Thormaid—Marrig House was occupied by a Macleod; and not unfrequently did it afford temporary shelter and entertainment to the Chief of Siol Thormaid himself, when following the chase in the adjoining forests. It was from this house that Sir Rory Mor Macleod of Dunvegan and Harris, while laid up with a bad leg, wrote, on the 2nd of September 1596, a letter to King James, acknowledging receipt of the King’s charge, of the 18th of August, commanding him to be at Islay with all his forces on the second day thereafter, under pain of treason, and explaining that it was impossible to comply with His Majesty’s orders, even ‘althocht my hail force haid beine togidder, and wund and widder serued one at eiverir airt.’ But the house which was then at Marrig has long since disappeared, and a more substantial and modern one now stands in its place. The tenant of Marrig was locally called ‘Fear Mharig,’ or the good man of Marrig, a term which was and still is applied in the Highlands to large tenants.

Marrig at the time of which we write was tenanted by a near relation of the Chief of Siol Thormaid, a brave, prudent, and upright man. He had an only daughter, his heiress, upon whom Nature had bestowed no small share of her favours; she was as modest and tender-hearted as she was beautiful. She was courted and sought after by all the young gentlemen of the island; but being devotedly attached to her father, whom she idolized, and on whose advice and counsel she invariably acted, their proffered suits were always rejected, until circumstances which took place in the neighbourhood of Glasgow at that time brought a new and more successful suitor on the scene.

It happened, while a son of the then Earl of Argyll was prosecuting his studies in the University of Glasgow, that a dispute arose between him and one of his fellow-students regarding the superiority of their respective clans. The quarrel ultimately assumed such proportions, that it was resolved to decide it by an appeal to arms. The weapons chosen were the broadsword and target, these being the common weapons of war in those days. At the proper time the combatants, with their seconds, appeared at the appointed place. A desperate combat immediately began, and continued with unabated fury for some time; and so well were the warriors matched that it became doubtful latterly which of them would carry the day. Campbell, however, ultimately made a clever and skilful stroke, which secured him the victory—having split his adversary’s head almost in two. Campbell was thus, according to law, guilty of manslaughter, and being ‘wanted’ for that offence, he and his second, a son of Macleod of Dunvegan and Harris, fled to the latter island for refuge.

Campbell was not long in the island when he became acquainted with Mary Macleod, the fair heiress of Marrig, and became deeply enamoured of her; and being a handsome man of prepossessing appearance, refined address, winning manners, and withal of an illustrious family, his love was soon warmly returned, and with the full concurrence of the young lady’s father the day of their marriage was fixed for an early date. But it happened soon afterwards that the old gentleman casually received a full account of the reason which brought his daughter’s affianced to Harris, and, his whole nature revolting at the idea of marrying his daughter to a man guilty of manslaughter, he at once resolved to break off the alliance. He well knew that this could not be accomplished without encountering some serious difficulty, possibly a bitter and deadly feud. Not that he apprehended any serious opposition on the part of his daughter, who, he was sure, would sacrifice almost anything to please him; but her suitor was a very different person. He was proud and easily irritated, and that he was of a violent disposition was sufficiently demonstrated from the fact that he had already fought a duel and had slain his opponent for the honour of his name. He belonged to a powerful family, whose chief might feign offence at his son’s proffered suit and engagement being thus summarily rejected and violated, and who might come to make reprisals, or, peradventure, declare open war with the Siol Thormaid, the result of which might be disastrous. Carefully considering all these questions which operated strongly on his feelings, the good man of Marrig called his daughter to his presence, and told her in an affectionate and feeling manner what he had discovered of the history of her lover, and then, in a tone sufficiently firm to manifest that he meant what he said, he made known his resolution. ‘You must not,’ he said, ‘have any further communication with Campbell. Sorry, indeed, am I to be under the necessity of thwarting my dear Mary’s affections, but ten times more would it pain me to see her wedded to a man whose past conduct my soul loathes. My darling Mary is still very young. Let her trust in Providence, and she will yet get a husband, in whom she may safely repose her trust, and whom her aged father can love as he loves his daughter.’

‘Never have I attempted to go against my father’s commands,’ answered she, weeping bitterly, ‘nor shall I do so now; but as my heart bleeds for my beloved, I trust you have authentic information before you can act so harshly. Shall I, Oh! shall I be permitted to see him once more?’

‘I have no reason to doubt the correctness of my information,’ replied he, ‘for I received it from young Macleod, who witnessed the duel. You may see Campbell once more, but once for all.’

A meeting had previously been arranged between the lovers for the very evening of the day on which the above conversation took place between Mary Macleod and her father; and with buoyant spirits, and a step so light that it scarcely bent the purple heather, Campbell walked from Rodel to Marrig that day—a distance of between twenty-five and thirty miles—to meet his affianced Mary. Little, alas! did he think, while performing his journey, that she would greet him with such heart-rending words to both as ‘My dear, I must see you no more.’ The lovers embraced each other when they met. ‘How happy am I to meet you and see you, my darling Mary, once more,’ said Campbell, who was the first to speak; ‘but, thank God, we shall soon meet to part no more while we live.’

‘Happy, thrice happy would I be,’ sobbed the maiden, ‘if that were so; but, alas! it cannot be.’ And in broken accents she recapitulated all that her father said to her, adding with a groan, ‘I must never see you again.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Campbell in great excitement, ‘must I never see my dear, my own Mary again? It cannot be. The very thought would kill me. I will not part with my own, my darling Mary.’

They both burst into tears, and continued to weep and sob for a time; but the young lady, who, on the whole, considering the trying nature of it, bore the ordeal with remarkable fortitude, remarked that as her father’s word was inexorable as the laws of the Medes and Persians which altered not, they must be reconciled to their fate.

‘If it must be so, then,’ Campbell replied, ‘I shall try to submit to it. But the island of Harris will henceforth have no attraction for me. I shall depart from it at once, and go to the seas, where I can muse in melancholy silence on the maid who first stole my heart and afterwards rejected me.’

‘Restrain thy plaint, my dear Archy,’ rejoined the maiden, as she proceeded to assure him that the step she had taken was entirely in obedience to the wishes of her father, without whose consent she would never marry while he lived; but she would faithfully promise that if he would wait for her until her father had paid the debt of nature she would be only too happy to fulfil her engagement and become his wife. ‘And,’ she continued, ‘I shall never marry another while you live.’

Campbell replied that since he found that her love to him was still unaltered, he would become more reconciled to his hard fate; that her kind and loving words had infused him with fresh hopes; that her father, in the natural course of things, before many years had passed away, would go to his fathers, and that till that event took place he would patiently wait for his loving Mary. He then handed her the ring which he intended to place on her finger on the day of her nuptials, saying, ‘Take this and keep it till we meet again.’

She took the ring with mingled feelings of joy and sorrow—of joy, because she could look at it as a memento of their engagement; of sorrow, because it would remind her of an absent lover. After looking intensely at it for some time she carefully placed it in her bosom, saying, ‘I, too, will give you a pledge of our betrothal, it was intended to be worn on your breast at our wedding,’ and she then handed him a knot of blue ribbon, made by herself, and having both their initials wrought in it with golden silk thread. Taking a parting embrace of each other, they wept long and bitterly, and with heavy hearts separated, it might be, for ever.

During this conversation they sat on the south side of an elevated spot overlooking Loch-Seaforth, and when they parted she went direct to Marrig House, while he went in the direction of Stornoway, with the view of procuring employment as a seaman on board some vessel. Many a look did he give towards Marrig, between Athline, at the head of Loch-Seaforth, and Araidh Bhruthaich, the Shealing of the Ascent, in Lochs, made famous in local tradition as the place where the Irish plunderers lifted Donald Cam Macaulay’s cattle in his absence while he was away on business at the Flannel Isles, and for which act they paid with their lives; for Donald overtook them at Loch-Seaforth, and slew every one of them.

Stornoway is twenty-six miles north of Marrig; and though the evening was far advanced ere Campbell left, he arrived at the capital of the Lews before many of the good citizens had retired for the night. One would have thought that, after travelling upwards of fifty miles that day, he would have slept pretty soundly; but such was not the case. The thought of what had occurred at Marrig disquieted his mind so much, that it almost became unhinged. Sleep, usually the sweet and refreshing balm to the weary traveller, left him to writhe on a sleepless pillow. No wonder, then, that the first peep of daylight found him in the neighbourhood of the old castle of Stornoway—then the seat and stronghold of the once famous Chief of Siol Thorcuil—sauntering on the sandy beach, and peering out into the placid blue water of the bay, in the hope of descrying some ship to take him away from the scene of his present sorrow. He did not long look in vain, for he soon noticed a vessel lying some distance off; and presently a small boat coming for a supply of water left her for the shore. The ship, which had shortened her cable before the boat had put off, he found, was bound for Holland.

‘Short of men?’ exclaimed Campbell, as the boat touched the beach.

‘Would ship one good hand,’ one of the sailors replied.

‘All right; here he is,’ responded Campbell, who, as soon as the casks were full, accompanied the sailors to the vessel. He was engaged at once; the ship weighed anchor, and proceeded to sea. Campbell having now left the Hebrides, we shall return to Harris and note affairs at Marrig.