LOCHBUIE’S TWO HERDSMEN.
This tale was written down as it was told by Donald Cameron, Rùdhaig, Tiree, more than twenty-five years ago, and to whose happy and retentive gift of memory it is a pleasure to recur. He had a most extensive stock of old lore, and along with it much readiness and willingness to communicate what he knew. In this the ludicrous element is natural, and the events seem to follow each other as a matter of course, so that the tale, so far as probability is concerned, may be true enough. It is one of the few tales to which a date is attached, and so far as history can be consulted the state of the country at that time makes it probable enough. Loch Buie is a district lying to the South of the Island of Mull, pleasantly situated. The tale runs as follows:—
In 1602 Lochbuie had two herdsmen, and the wife of one herdsman went to the house of the other herdsman. The housewife was in before her, and had a pot on the fire. “What have you in the pot?” said the one who came in. “Well there it is,” she said, “a drop of brochan which the goodman will have with his dinner.”
“What kind of brochan is it?” said the one who came in.
“It is dubh-bhrochan,”[10] said the one who was in.
“Isn’t he,” said she, “a poor man! Are you not giving him anything but that? I have been for so long a time under the Laird of Loch Buie, and I have not drank brochan without a grain of beef or something in it. Don’t you think it is but a small thing for the Laird of Loch Buie though we should get an ox every year. Little he would miss it. I will send over my husband to-night, and you will bring home one of the oxen.”
When night came she sent him over. The wife then sent the other away. The one said, “you will steal the ox from the fold, and you will bring it to me, and we will be free; I will swear that I did not take it from the fold, and you will swear that you did not take it home.”
The two herdsmen went away. In those days they hanged a man, when he did harm, without waiting for law or sentence, and at this time Lochbuie had hanged a man in the wood. The herdsmen went and kindled a fire near a tree in the wood as a signal to the one who went to steal. One sat at the fire, and the other went to steal the ox.
The same night a number of gentlemen were in the mansion[11] at Loch Buie. They began laying wagers with Lochbuie that there was not one in the house who would take the shoe off the man who had been hanged that day. Lochbuie laid a wager that there was. He called up his big lad MacFadyen,[12] and said to him was he going to let the wager go against him. The big lad asked what the wager was about. He said to him that they were maintaining that there was no one in his court who could take the shoe off the one who had been hanged that day. MacFadyen said he would take off him the shoe and bring it to them where they were.
MacFadyen went on his way. When he reached, he looked and saw the man who had been hanged warming himself at a fire. He did not go farther on, but returned in haste. When he came they asked him if he had the shoe. He told them he had not, for that yon one was with a withy basket of peats before him, warming himself. “We knew ourselves,” said the gentlemen, “that you had only cowards.”
The lameter, who was over, said, “It is a wrong thing you are doing in allowing him to lose the wager. If I had the use of my feet, I would go and take his leg off as well as his shoe before I would let Lochbuie lose the wager.”
“Come you here,” said the big lad, “and I will put a pair of feet that you never had the like of under you.” He put the lameter round his neck (lit. the bone of his neck), and off he went. When they came in sight of the man who was warming himself the lameter sought to return. MacFadyen said they would not return. They went nearer to the man who was warming himself. The one that was at the fire lifted his head and observed them coming. He thought it was his own companion, the one who had gone to steal the ox, who was come. He spoke and said, “Have you come?” “I have,” said MacFadyen. “And have you got it?” “Yes,” said MacFadyen. “And is it fat?”
“Whether he is fat or lean, there he is to you,” and he threw the lameter on to the fire.
MacFadyen took to his heels (lit. put on soles) and fled as fast as ever he did. Off went the lameter after him. He put the four oars on for making his escape. The one at the fire rose, thinking there were some who had come to pry upon himself, and that he was now caught. He went after the lameter to make his excuses to the Laird of Loch Buie. The lameter was observing him coming after him, feeling quite sure that it was the one who had been hanged.
MacFadyen reached, and they asked him if he had taken the shoe off the man. He said they did not; that he asked him if the lameter was fat, and that he was sure he had him eaten up before now. The lameter came, and that cry in his head for to let him in, for that yon one was coming. He was let in. The moment this was done, the one who had been on the gallows knocked at the door, to let him in. Lochbuie said he would not.
Editor’s Note:
The translation of lines 6 and 7 renders the Gaelic idiom exactly. Translated more freely into English it would run, “and the lameter came, and with yon terrified cry demanded admittance, saying that the hanged man was coming after him.”
“I am your own herdsman.” They now let him in. He then began to tell how he and the other herdsman went to steal the ox, and that he thought it was the other herdsman who had returned, and it was that made him ask if he was fat. Lochbuie and his guests had much sport and merriment over this all night. They kept the herdsman till it was late on in the night telling them how it happened to him.
The one who went to steal the ox now came back and reached the tree where he left the other herdsman, but found no one. He began to search up and down, and became aware of the one dangling from the tree.
“Oh,” said he, “you have been hanged since I went away, and I will be to-morrow in the same plight that you are in. It has been an ill-guided object, and the tempting of women that sent us on the journey.”
He then went over and took the man off the tree to take him home. He went away with him and never got the like, going through hill, and through mud and dirt, till he came to the house of the other woman. He knocked at the door. The wife rose and let him in.
“How have things happened with you?” “Never you mind, whatever; but, alas! he has been hanged since we went away.”
The wife took to roaring and crying.
“Do not say a word,” he said, “or else you and I will be hanged to-morrow. We will bury him in the garden, and no one will ever know about it. And now,” he said, “I will be returning to my own house.”
The one that was in Loch Buie thought it was time for him now to go home. He knocked at his own door. His wife did not say a word. He then called out to be let in.
“I will not,” said the wife, “for you have been hanged, and you will never get in here.”
“I have not yet been hanged,” he said.
“Be that as it may to you,” she said, “you will never come here.”
The advice he gave himself was to go to the house of the other herdsman. He called out at that one’s door to let him in.
“You will not come in here. I got enough carrying you home on my back, and you after being hanged.”
There was a large window at the end of the house. He went in at the window. “Get up,” he said, “and get a light, and you will see that I have not been hanged any more than yourself.” When he saw who he had, he kept him till morning, till day came. They then talked together, telling each other what had happened to them on both sides, and thought they would go to Lochbuie, and tell him all that occurred to them. When Lochbuie heard their story, there was not a year after that but he gave each of them an ox and a boll of meal.
LOCHABUIDHE ’S A DHA BHUACHAILLE.
Ann an 1602 bha dà bhuachaille aig Lochabuidhe, ’s thàinig bean an darna buachaille gu tigh a’ bhuachaille eile; agus bean-an-tighe stigh roimpe ’s poit aice air teine; “Dé th’ agaibh anns a’ phòit?” ars’ an té a thàinig a stigh. “Ma ta,” ars’ ise, “deur de bhrochan a bhios aig an duine le ’dhìnneir,” “’Dé,” ars’ an té a thàinig a stigh, “an seòrsa brochain a th’ ann?” “Tha,” ars’ an té a bha stigh, “dubh-bhrochan.”[10] “Nach esan,” ars’ ise, “an duine truagh? Nach ’eil thu ’toirt da dad ach sin? Tha mise an uiread so de ùine fuidh thighearna Lochabuidhe, ’s cha d’ òl mi brochan gun fhionnan-feòla no rud-eiginn ann. Saoil nach beag do thighearna Lochabuidhe, ged a gheibheamaide damh ’s a’ bhliadhna; nach beag a dh’ ionndrainneadh e e? Cuiridh mise an duine agam fhéin a nall an nochd ’s bheir sibh dhachaigh fear de na daimh.”
’N uair thàinig an oidhche chuir i nall e. Chuir a’ bhean an so air falbh an duin’ eile. Thuirt an darna fear, “Goididh tusa an damh thar na buaile, ’s bheir thu thugamsa e, agus bithidh sinn saor; mionnaichidh mise nach d’ thug mi thar na buaile e, ’s mionnaichidh tusa nach d’ thug thu dhachaigh e.”
Dh’ fhalbh an dà bhuachaille. ’S an àm sin chrochadh iad duine tra ’dheanadh e cron, gun fheitheamh ri lagh no binn; ach anns na lathan bha tighearna Lochabuidhe an déigh duine ’chrochadh stigh ’s a’ choille. Dh’ fhalbh iadsan ’s dh’ fhadaidh iad teine aig craoibh ’s a’ choille, mar chomharradh do ’n fhear a chaidh a ghoid. Shuidh fear aig an teine ’s chaidh am fear eile a ghoid an daimh. Air an oidhche fhéin bha mòran de dhaoin’-uaisle ’s a’ Mheigh[11] aig tighearna Lochabuidhe. Bhuail iad air cur gheall ri tighearna Lochabuidhe nach robh duine ’s an tigh aige a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an diugh. Chuir tighearna Lochabuidhe geall riù-san gu ’n robh. Ghlaodh e nuas air a ghille mhòr Mac Phaidean.[12] Thuirt e ris an robh e brath an geall a leigeadh air. Dh’ fharraid an gille mòr c’ ar son a bha ’n geall. Thuirt e ris, gu ’n robh iad ag ràdh nach robh duine ’n a chùirt a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an diugh. Thuirt Mac Phaidean gu ’n tugadh esan dheth a’ bhròg ’s gu ’n tugadh e thuga ann an sud i.
Dh’ fhalbh Mac Phaidean air a thurus. ’Nuair a ràinig e sheall e ’s chunnaic e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh ’deanamh a gharaidh. Cha deach e na b’ fhaid’ air aghaidh, ’s thill e le cabhaig. ’Nuair a ràinig e thuirt iad ris, an robh a’ bhròg aige. Thuirt e riu nach robh, gur h-ann a bha ’m fear ud ’s làn cléibh de mhòine air a bhialthaobh ’s e ’deanamh a gharaidh. “Dh’ aithnich sinn-fhéin,” ars’ na daoin’-uaisle, “nach robh agad ach an gealtair.” Thuirt an clàraineach[13] a bha thall, “Is ceàrr an rud a tha thu ’deanamh, an geall a leigeadh air; na ’m biodh comas nan cas agam-fhéin dh’ fhalbhainn ’s bheirinn a’ chas dheth co math ris a’ bhròig mu ’n leiginn an geall air tighearna Lochabuidhe!”
“Thig thusa so,” ars’ an gille mòr, “’s cuiridh mise dà chois nach deachaidh riamh ’n leithid ortsa fothad.” Chuir e ’n clàraineach mu chnàimh ’amhaich, ’s dh’ fhalbh e leis. ’Nuair thainig iad ’an sealladh an duine a bha ’deanamh a gharaidh, dh’ iarr an clàraineach tilleadh. Thuirt Mac Phaidean nach tilleadh. Dhlùthaich iad ris an fhear a bha ’deanamh a gharaidh. Thog am fear a bha aig an teine a cheann, ’s mhothaich e dhoibh-san a’ tighinn. Shaoil leis gur h-e a chompanach fhéin, am fear a chaidh a ghoid an daimh, a bha air tighinn. Labhair e ’s thuirt e, “An d’ thàinig tu?” “Thàinig,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S am bheil e agad?” “Tha,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S am bheil e reamhar?” “Biodh e reamhar no caol agad, sin agad e!” ’s e a’ tilgeadh a’ chlàraineich mu ’n teine.
Chuir Mac Phaidean na buinn air, ’s theich e co làidir ’s a rinn e riamh. Leum an clàraineach air falbh as a dhéighinn, chuir e na ceithir raimh[14] orra gu teicheadh. Dh’ éirich am fear a bh’ aig an teine, agus dùil aige gur h-e feadhainn a thainig a dh’ fharcluais air fhéin a bh’ ann, ’s gu ’n robh e nis a sàs. Dh’ fhalbh e as déighinn a’ chlàraineach, dhol a ghabhail a leithsgeul do thighearna Lochabuidhe. Bha an clàraineach ’g a fhaicinn a’ tighinn as a dhéighinn, ’s e làn-chinnteach gur h-e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh a bh’ ann.
Ràinig Mac Phaidean. Dh’ fharraid iad dheth an d’ thug iad bròg bharr an duine. Thuirt e nach d’ thug, gu ’n dubhairt e ris-san an robh an clàraineach reamhar, ’s gu ’n robh e cinnteach gu ’n robh e air ’itheadh aca roimhe so.
Ràinig an clàraineach ’s an glaodh ud ’n a cheann, esan a leigeadh a stigh, gu ’n robh am fear ud a’ tighinn. Leigeadh a stigh e. Am buileach a bha e stigh, bhuail am fear a bh’ air a’ chroich ’s an dorus, esan a leigeadh a stigh. Thuirt fear Lochabuidhe nach leigeadh. “Is ann a th’ annam,” ars’ esan, “am buachaille agaibh fhéin.” Leig iad ’an so a stigh e. Bhuail e so air innseadh dhoibh mar chaidh e-fhéin ’s am buachaille eile a ghoid an daimh; gu ’n do shaoil esan gur h-e ’m buachaille eile a bha air tilleadh leis an damh, gur h-e ’thug air a dh’ fheòraich an robh e reamhar. Bha spòrs is fearas-chuideachd anabarrach aig tighearna Lochabuidhe ’s aig ’uaislean air a so fad na h-oidhche. Chum iad aca am buachaille gus an robh e ro-fhada dh’ oidhche ’g innseadh naigheachd mar a dh’ éirich dha.
Thàinig so am fear a chaidh a ghoid an daimh. Ràinig e ’chraobh aig an d’ fhàg e ’m buachaille eile ’s cha d’ fhuair e duine. Bhuail e air siubhal sìos ’s suas; mhothaich e ’n slaod ud nuas ris a’ chraoibh. “O,” ars’ esan, “tha thusa air do chrochadh bho ’n a dh’ fhalbh mise, ’s bithidh mise am maireach air an ruith air am bheil thu fhéin. ’S e an turus mi-shealbhach, ’s buaireadh nam ban, a chuir sinne air an turus.”
Ghabh e null ’s thug e’ n duine bhàrr na croiche g’ a thoirt dachaigh. Dh’ fhalbh e ’s cha d’ fhuair e leithid dol roimh mhonadh ’s roimh pholl ’s roimh eabar riamh; mu dheireadh ràinig e tigh na mnatha bha ’n duine air a chrochadh aice. Bhuail e ’s an dorus; dh’ éirich a’ bhean ’s leig i stigh e. “Ciamar a dh’ éirich dhuibh?” ars’ a’ bhean. “Is coma leatsa co-dhiù, mo thruaighe! tha e air a chrochadh o ’n a dh’ fhalbh sinn.”
Chaidh a’ bhean gu glaodhaich agus gu caoineadh. “Na abair guth,” ars’ esan, “air neo bithidh tu fhéin ’s mise air ar crochadh am màireach. Tiodhlaicidh sinn anns a’ ghàradh e, ’s cha bhi fios aig duine am feasd air. Nis (ars’ esan), bithidh mise falbh dhachaigh thun mo thighe féin.”
Ach smaointich am fear a bha ’n Lochbuidhe gu ’n robh an t-àm aige tighinn dachaigh nis. Bhuail e ’s an dorus aige fhéin. Cha dubhairt a bhean guth. Ghlaodh e so a leigeadh a stigh. “Cha leig,” ars’ a bhean, “’s ann a tha thu air do chrochadh; cha tig thu so am feasd!”
“Cha ’n ’eil mi air mo chrochadh fhathast,” thuirt esan.
“Biodh sin mar a dh’ fheudas e dhuit,” ars’ ise, “cha ’n fhaigh thu stigh so am feasd.”
Is e ’chomhairle a smaointich e air, dol gu tigh a’ bhuachaille eile. Ghlaodh e ’s an dorus aig an fhear ud, a leigeil a stigh. Thuirt am fear ud, “Cha tig thu stigh an so; fhuair mise gu leòir ’g ad thoirt dachaigh air mo mhuin ’s tu air do chrochadh.” Bha uinneag mhòr air ceann an tighe ’s ghabh e dh’ ionnsuidh na h-uinneig. Thàinig e stigh air an uinneig. “Eirich,” ars’ esan, “’s las solus ’s gu ’m faic thu nach do chrochadh mise na ’s mò na ’chrochadh tu-fhéin.”
’Nuair chunnaic e gur e a bh’ aige, chum e aige e gu maduinn, gus an d’ thàinig an latha. Chuir iad an so an guth ri chéile a dh’ innseadh dhaibh mar a dh’ éirich dhaibh thall ’s a bhos; gu ’n rachadh iad gu tighearna Lochabuidhe ’s gu ’n innseadh iad dha na h-uile dad mar a dh’ éirich dhaibh. ’Nuair chuala tighearna Lochabuidhe mar a dh’ éirich doibh, cha robh bliadhna tuilleadh nach tugadh e damh do na h-uile fear dhiubh, ’s bolla mine.
NOTES:
[10] Dubh-bhrochan is a thin mixture of oatmeal and water, without meat or vegetables. This seems to have been a popular drink in olden times. When the Lord of the Isles kept state at Duntulm Castle in Skye, no one was admitted into the potentate’s body-guard unless he could take the vessel (diorcal), containing the liquid, with one hand from his companion, take his own mouthful, and pass it on to the next. In the Island of Mull, adjoining the Sound, and opposite Ardtornish, once the seat of the Lords of the Isles, there is a place, probably deriving its name from some fancied resemblance to this dish, called Loch Diorcal.
[11] Moy Castle is situated near the modern mansion-house of Lochbuie, and the reference appears to be to it in the Gaelic text. (Ed.)
[12] MacFadyens were said by one of the clan, of whose judgment and intelligence the writer has cause to think very highly, to have been the first possessors of Lochbuie, and when expelled, that they became a race of wandering artificers, (Sliochd nan òr-cheard—the race of goldsmiths), in Beinn-an-aoinidh and other suitable localities in Mull. The race is a very ancient one, but it has often been noticed that they are without a chief.
[13] Clàraineach means one on boards. A person losing the use of his limbs, and going on all fours, with boards or pieces of wood below his hands and knees, and with which he could more easily drag himself over the ground. When placed sitting, he could not move. In olden times the defects of humanity, which are now relieved by many means, were left entirely to chance or very simple aids, and were the objects of malevolent persecution, rather than of charitable or kindly consideration.
[14] Na ceithir ràimh (the four oars)—fled upon all fours. (Ed.)