Historical Tales and Legends of the Highlands

by Unknown

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.