Contemporary with John Dewar of Balemartin, Tiree, the Big Lad was living at Dervaig, Mull, with his father, Charles, son of Fair Neil of Dervaig. This lad, as he grew up to manhood, became noted for his great strength and prowess, as well as for his handsome person. At the same time he was reckless and foolish. Despising his father’s reproofs and heedless of his counsel, advice or admonitions, he went on in his mad career until at last he purloined money from him, with which he bought a ship and went sailing away, none of his friends knew whither. After some years he returned home, broken-down in appearance, empty-handed, and a complete “tatterdemalion,” having wrecked his ship on the coast of Ireland, and lost all the wealth he had accumulated to repay his father, who was now dead. The grieve (an t-aoirean) had the land, and he went where he was. The grieve told him about his father’s death, and advised him to go to his father’s brother, Donald, son of fair Neil, who had Hynish, Tiree, at that time, and whatever advice he would get from him, to follow it, and he (the grieve) would give him clothing and means to take him there, on condition of being repaid when he returned. As there was no other way open to him of redeeming his past errors, he agreed to the grieve’s conditions and went to Tiree to his uncle, by whom he was coldly received. “What business has brought you, and where are you going when you have come here?” “To ask advice from yourself,” he said. “Good was the advice your father had to give, and you did not take it; what I advise you to do is, to go and enlist in the Black Watch, and that will keep you out of harm. You will stay here to-night, and I will give you money to-morrow morning to take you to the regiment,” his uncle said. His uncle was married to a daughter of MacLean, Laird of Coll. Her husband did not tell her of his nephew’s arrival, as he was displeased at his coming. When the Big Lad was leaving the house next morning, she saw him passing the window and asked who the handsome-looking stranger was. On being told, she made him return to the house, gave him food, drink, and clothing, and on parting, money to take him on his way. He returned to Dervaig, paid the ploughman his due, and went off to the wars. At the first place he landed, said to be Greenock, a pressgang was waiting to seize whoever they could get to suit the king’s service, and on seeing this likely man they instantly surrounded him, to carry him off by force. He turned about and asked what they wanted with him. They said, “To take you with us in spite of you.” When he understood their intentions he opened his arms to their widest extent and drove all those before him, eighteen men, backwards into the sea, and left them there floating to get out the best way they could. He then made his way till he enlisted in the Black Watch, then on the eve of leaving for America, where it remained for seven years. During that time the Big Lad (an Gille mòr) won the esteem and commendation of his superiors in rank, by his exemplary conduct and good bearing, as well as the admiration and affection of his equals, to whom he was courteous and forbearing. When the regiment was returning to England, the officers frequently spent their leisure time, on board of the man-of-war that brought it home, playing dice. One day, when they were at their games, the Big Lad was looking on, and he saw a young man, one of the English officers, insolently, but more in jest than in earnest, striking on the ear the colonel of the regiment, who, the Big Lad knew, was a Highlander. When he saw the insult was not resented, he said in Gaelic to the Colonel, “Why did you let him strike you?” (C’ ar son a leig thu leis do bhualadh?). “You are, then, a Highlander,” the colonel said to him, “and you have been with me for seven years without telling me that you are.” “If you would do what I ask you, I will make you one that he will not do the same thing to you again,” he said to the colonel.
“What do you want me to do?” the colonel said. “That you will write out my discharge when we reach London,” he said. “But a soldier cannot get his discharge without an order (stamped) under the crown,” the colonel said. “Write what you can for me and I will not plead for more,” he said. “Anything I can write will not do you any good,” the colonel said. “Write that itself,” he said; and he got it written. Next time the play was going on, the Big Lad looked on, and when he saw the same one striking the colonel again, he went to him and asked why he did it. The reply he got was that soldiers were not allowed to question their officers. “This is my way of excusing myself,” the Big Lad said, giving him a blow he had cause to remember all his life, if he ever recovered from it. The soldier was sentenced to be severely punished, but on arriving in England, he deserted—though desertion of the army is not a custom of Highland soldiers—and became a fugitive. The great esteem in which he was held prevented any one from hindering his flight. He got ashore at night among the baggage, and harbour lights not being numerous in those days, he could not easily be seen making his escape. Whenever he got his foot on land he set off, and during the remainder of the night he ran on flying from pursuit. In the day-time he hid himself under hedges and haystacks, and next night fled on. On the following day he was becoming exhausted, and he ventured to ask food at a wayside house. As his appearance was that of a poor soldier he got scanty fare, but he asked with civility for better food, and it was given to him. While he was taking it two strangers came in to the same room with him, and seeing his table well supplied while their own was poorly furnished, one of them said, “It is strange to see a Highland soldier with good food, while we have next to nothing,” and he went over and swept away all the meat from the soldier’s table to his own. The soldier called the mistress of the house and asked her who the men were. She said they were travellers, and she asked them why they took the meat from the soldier’s table, and told them if they had in a civil manner asked better food for themselves they would have got it, instead of raising a quarrel. The soldier said he would settle the quarrel; and finding a large iron hoop (lùbach mhòr iaruinn) at hand, he straightened it (a fathom in length) and flung it round the head of the one nearest to him, then twisted it in a noose and put the other one’s head in the remainder. He then drew them both out after him, and left them on the high road. “Now,” he said to them at parting, “you can travel on, for you will not come out of that tie till you are put in a smithy fire (teallach gobhainn).” He returned to pay the hostess, who said to him, “You do not appear to have much money.” “I have seven day’s pay of a soldier left, to pay my way,” he said. “Good youth,” she said, “here is double the amount to you, to take you on your journey, and I am sufficiently repaid by your ridding my house of disagreeable guests.” He took the gift thankfully, and turned his face northwards, to come to Scotland (Albainn). The next evening, he saw a fine house, to which he went in the dusk, and asked permission to warm himself. He was allowed to enter, and while standing with his back to the fire, the daughter of the house saw the handsome stranger, and she told her father. He desired food to be given to him, and that he was to be sent where he was. When she went with this request, the soldier asked who her father was. She said he was a nobleman (àrd-dhuin’ uasal). “A soldier is a bad companion for a nobleman,” he said. He went with her and saw her father, a grey-haired man in a chair, looking about him. The soldier was asked to sit down. After conversing some time, the old man said, “Young man, I have a daughter here who gives me much trouble to keep her in company. If you can play cards (iomairt chairtean), take my place at the table; there is a money reward (duais airgid) for every game won.” “I have no money,” the soldier replied. “I will lend you some,” she said. The play went on till he won six games, one after another. He then wanted to stop playing, and offered her back all the winnings, but she would only take the sum she lent him, saying the rest was rightly his own. He was to remain there that night, and was not to go away in the morning without telling them. Being afraid of pursuit, he went away at daybreak. He had not gone far when he knew that a horseman was coming after him. He waited to see if he was sent to get back the money he had won at the card table; but it was a messenger with a request to him from the nobleman to return to the castle. When he appeared the nobleman chid him for leaving the castle unknown to him, and told him how his daughter had fallen in love with him, and had resolved never to marry any one else. The soldier said, “A soldier is a poor husband for her.” The nobleman was convinced that he was not a common soldier whatever circumstances had placed him in that position, and said he preferred his daughter’s happiness to wealth or rank. He remained with them and married the daughter; and when he laid aside the soldier’s dress, there was not his equal to be seen in the new dress provided for him. He was esteemed for the dignity of his demeanour as much as he was admired for his fine appearance, and he lived, without remembrance of his past misadventures, in the enjoyment of happiness and prosperity. In those days news travelled slowly, newspapers appearing only once or twice a year in populous villages, and they did not reach remote places. In one which came to the nobleman at this time, there was an account of two men tied in an iron rod (ann an slait iaruinn) who were being exhibited at a market town in England. He went with the nobleman and his friends to see this wonder, the two who were in the union (an dithis a bha ’s a’ chaigionn). Whenever the men saw the Highlander they said to him “If you were dressed in the kilt, we would say you were the man who put us in this noose.” “If you had been more civil,” he said to them, opening the coil, “when you met me, you would not to-day be fools going through England with an iron rod round your necks.” On this he was cheered by the people, and if he was held in esteem before, he was much more on his return home, where he remained and became a great man (duine mòr), beloved and esteemed to the end of his life.
STORY OF DONALD GORM OF SLEAT.
Donald Gorm was at one time in the Island of Skye with his galley and crew. When returning home to Uist, the day they set out happened to become very stormy, and stress of weather obliged them to return and make straight for Dunvegan, the nearest place of shelter they could reach, where Donald Gorm was not very willing to go if he could in any way avoid landing there, since he had killed MacLeod of Dunvegan in a quarrel[18] which had arisen between them; but there was no alternative. On observing the boat coming and in danger of being lost MacLeod and the men of Dunvegan went to the shore to meet them, and when they were safely landed gave them a kindly reception. MacLeod took them with him to his castle and provided hospitably for them. Donald Gorm was invited to MacLeod’s own table, but refused, saying, “When I am away from home, like this, with my men, I do not separate from them but sit with them.” MacLeod said, “Your men will get plenty of meat and drink by themselves, and come you with me.” “I will not take food but with my men,” he said. When MacLeod saw that Donald Gorm was resolved not to be separated from his own men, and being unwilling to let him sit with his, he asked in preference Donald Gorm’s men to his own company. When dinner was over, drinking commenced, and MacLeod becoming warm said to Donald Gorm by way of remembrance, “Was it not you who killed my father?” “It has been laid to my charge that I killed three contemptible Highland lairds (trì sgrogainich de thighearnan Gaidhealach), and I do not care though I should put the allegation on its fourth foot to-night;” Donald Gorm said, drawing his dirk: “There is the dirk that killed your father; it has a point, a haft (faillein), and is sharp edged, and is held in the second best hand at thrusting it in the west.”[19] MacLeod thought he was the second best hand himself, and he said, “Who is the other?” Donald Gorm shifted the dagger to his left hand, raised it, and said, “There it is.” MacLeod became afraid and did not revive any other remembrance. When Donald Gorm was offered a separate room at night, he said, “Whenever I am from home I never have a separate bed from my men but sleep in their very midst until I return to my own house again.” They told him that his men had a sleeping-place provided for them, and that he would be much better accommodated by himself in the room prepared for him. When they saw he could not be persuaded to alter his determination of passing the night with his men, they made beds for himself and men in the kiln (àth).[20] The men, being wearied, slept without care, but Donald Gorm did not close an eye. He had a friend, somehow, in his time of need (caraid éiginn air chor-eiginn), in the place, who came secretly to the kiln where he and his men lay, and called to him, “Is it a time to sleep, Donald?” (An cadal dhuit, a Dhòmhnuill?) “What if it is?” (’Dé na ’m b’ è?), he answered from within the kiln. “If it is, it will not be” (na ’m b’ è cha bhì), said the one outside. “Waken men, and rise quickly,” he said to his company. They got up at once and with all speed went out, shutting the door of the kiln behind them when they were all through to the outside. They fled straight to the shore and launched their boat; and fortunately for them the wind had calmed and they were able to put out oars and row the galley some distance from the shore before their flight was observed. They had not gone far to sea before they saw the kiln on fire. “In place of your father and grandfather you have left yourself without a house, and Donald Gorm is where you cannot reach him,” Donald Gorm said, and he got safely home to his own house without hurt or injury (gun bheud gun mhilleadh).
NOTES:
[18] The quarrel in which MacLeod was killed was caused, it is said, by Donald Gorm’s having repudiated his wife, who was a daughter of MacLeod, in order to marry MacKenzie of Kintail’s sister, and MacLeod resenting the insult attacked Donald Gorm, who killed him and his two sons by throwing them over precipices in the Coolin hills in Skye where the skirmish took place. A different version of this incident is given in an early account of the “Troubles in the isles betwixt the Clan Donald and the Seil Tormot, the year 1601,” and is to the effect that the feud was carried on by “Sir Rory MacLeod of the Herries,” brother-in-law of Donald Gorm MacDonald of Sleat, the reprisals being fierce and frequent until the MacLeods were beaten at “Binguillin,” where a brother of Sir Rory and other chief men of his party were taken prisoners by Donald Gorm, but on a reconciliation taking place they were set at liberty. (See Gregory’s History of the Western Highlands and Isles, p. 295).
[19] In regard to the story and incident of the dagger, there was a song made, of which the writer has only been able to get the following verse:—
This is the dirk that killed your father,
And it has not refused you yet,
Farewell to you from the side of the channel.