Polly E-Book

Roger Hutchinson

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 245

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Early on a wartime winter's morning in 1941, the 8,000-ton cargo ship SS Politician ran aground in the beautiful but treacherous seas of Scotland's Outer Hebrides. Among its cargo were 260,000 bottles of whisky destined for the American market – a godsend to the local Eriskay islanders whose home-grown supply had dried up due to wartime rationing. News quickly spread and boats came from as far as Lewis, and before local excise officer Charles McColl could intervene, more than 24,000 bottles had been 'rescued'. Villages were raided as bottles of whisky were hidden in the most ingenious ways – or simply drunk to get rid of the evidence. Meanwhile, official salvage operations foundered, and in order to pre-vent what the islanders themselves regarded as legitimate salvage, the hull of the Politician was dynamited. The story is well known through Compton Mackenzie's bestselling book Whisky Galore and the famous 1949 Ealing comedy of the same name. In this book, acclaimed journalist and Hebridean expert Roger Hutchinson tells the true story of one of the most bizarre events ever to have happened in Scottish waters.

Leseprobe

Roger Hutchinson is an author and journalist. In 1977 he joined the West Highland Free Press, for which newspaper he is still a columnist. His book The Soap Man: Lewis, Harris and Lord Leverhulme was shortlisted for the Saltire Scottish Book of the Year in 2004 and his bestselling Calum’s Road was shortlisted for the Royal Society of Literature’s Ondaatje Prize in 2007.

Praise for Polly: The True Story behind ‘Whisky Galore’

‘Fascinating’

Sunday Post

‘A sparkling crystal glass of a book . . .

Heroic, hilarious and heartwarming’The Herald

‘Riveting . . . a legendary tale, full of humour’

West Highland Free Press

‘In this impressive and authoritative book, Roger

Hutchinson reveals the reality behind the romance

and comes as near to the truth as is possible’

Derek Cooper

This edition first published in 2024 by

Birlinn Limited

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.birlinn.co.uk

Copyright © Roger Hutchinson, 1990, 2024

First published in 1990 by Mainstream Publishing Company (Edinburgh) Ltd

ISBN 978 1 78885 689 8

The right of Roger Hutchinson to be identified as the author of this work has beenasserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record of this book is available on request from the British Library

Typeset by HewerText (UK) Ltd, Edinburgh

Papers used by Birlinn are from well-managed forests and other responsible sources

Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

To William Hutchinson, who fought in the Sea War

Contents

Introduction

1  The Backdrop

2  Islands at War

3  Sleek and Handsome Vessels

4  The King’s Ransom

5  Men at Work

6  Not Guilty

7  To the Bottom of the Sea

8  The Fillums

Postscript

Bibliography

Index

Introduction

‘It was the best year of my life.

We had so much fun out of her’

– Eriskay woman

I first crossed the Sound of Eriskay in the late 1970s. That was closer in time to 1941, the year of the SS Politician, than I am now to 1979. Much has changed in the Outer Hebrides since the crossings of 40 years ago. There was then no causeway between South Uist and Eriskay – it was not slung across the white sand seabed until the beginning of the 21st century – although its presence would not have astonished people: Uist was no stranger to causeways.

There were also no car ferries operating in the vicinity. Eriskay and Uist and Barra were connected by small passenger craft operated by independent local men. The nationalised services run by Caledonian MacBrayne only plied the longer deep-sea routes to and from mainland ports. So when, on a still and sunny Sunday afternoon in 1980, I travelled over the neighbouring Sound of Barra with a football team from South Uist – they to play a league fixture, me to spectate – it was aboard a clinker-built open boat with an inboard engine and a crew of one.

There is a gay abundance of stories, true and apocryphal, of the escapades which surrounded the affair of the Politician. I have reluctantly omitted, or at best only alluded to, those which have not been confirmed by at least one primary source. Fortunately, not many slipped through that net, but it does mean that I have left out of the main text a story I was told by a Uist footballer that day in 1980 which helped to persuade me of the possibility of writing this book.

The tale in question involved the footballer’s father and uncle. In the summer of 1941, they were keeping several boxes of Polly whisky company on a sailing smack which, when suddenly alarmed and pursued by a fast and vengeful motorised excise launch, took shelter behind an islet in the Sound of Barra. Before the excise launch came into view, they lowered their sail and mast and scuttled their own boat with its cargo in the high tide, hiding themselves in the long grass of the islet, and consequently disappearing like a sorcerer’s trick from the surface of the sea. Six hours later, when the tide turned and the bemused excise launch had gone, they refloated their boat and its cargo on the incoming water and set sail for home.

I particularly regret this story’s absence from the book, partly because it was the first original story recounted to me about the Polly, and partly because it was told by people from the islands who still communicated enormous pleasure in that lively and mischievous time out of war which was taken by their forebears in the otherwise gloomy months of 1941.

I do not regret giving as wide a berth as possible to apochrypha. Inevitably, in the peat fire glow of west Highland history, fantasy jostles with fact for living space, and fantasy often wins.

In 1990, when I was writing Polly, there were widespread rumours about the function of the Jamaican currency notes which were loaded on the ship at Liverpool. Their actual purpose was mundane. Like much of the rest of the world, and almost all of the British world, Jamaica’s banknotes were then prepared and printed by the established specialist company De La Rue of London. During the Second World War, Jamaica required ten-shilling, one-pound and five-pound notes as much as she had in peacetime. They were not a priority, however, so eight caseloads of them were loaded onto an unescorted cargo vessel which was then instructed to call into the Caribbean on its way to New Orleans with a quarter of a million bottles of best Scotch whisky. Most of them got no further than the Sound of Eriskay.

As news of the banknotes leaked out, before and after the first publication of this book, conspiracy theories blossomed. They were, broadly speaking, inspired by nothing but a desire for conspiracy theories. The most seductive, which has filled several newspaper feature pages in recent years, involve the payment of some sort of bribe or sweetener to the troublesome Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who had in 1940 been offl oaded from Europe to the governor’s mansion in the Bahamas.

It has never been satisfactorily explained why the British Government needed to give Wallis Simpson and the former King Edward VIII £3 million pounds in Jamaican ten-bob notes when there were perfectly discreet banks, which dealt in less obvious quantities of more suitable currencies, in Nassau and the United States. The answer is that the British Government did not need to do any such thing. In the absence of satisfactory explanations, let alone evidence, this theory is best left to gather dust.

In his characteristically generous Introduction to an earlier edition of this book, the late Derek Cooper wrote that the story of the SS Politician, “so elaborately handwoven in the Western Isles”, could not have “reached such legendary proportions anywhere else. If the ship had run aground off Dover or Hull it would have been towed away and forgotten within a week. But the Polly, a remarkable gift from God, lubricated the imagination of the islanders. It has become in the last half century an enduring myth.”

Derek was of course right. In fiction and non-fiction, this story represents a perfect blend of subject-matter and place. In his creation of Whisky Galore, Compton Mackenzie had to imagine very little. There was nonetheless an understory, a counterblast to the mythical narrative. It reminds us that even in the Scottish Hebrides, 1941 was a perilous, paranoid moment in the Second World War, and that legends are usually bright tapestries woven around grittier, darker, actual events. It also reminds us that the best examples of wit and hilarity are found as often in the real world as in the better comic novels.

As well as the people who are named in the book, I would like to thank Brian Montague, Allan McDonald, Cailean Maclean, Dr Alasdair Maclean, Graeme Cubbin, archivist at Th os. & Jas. Harrison Ltd, Liverpool, and Jim Jump of the National Union of Seamen. Without the libraries and filing systems of Sabhal Mor Ostaig, the Clan Donald Centre, the National Records Offices in Edinburgh and in London, the General Register and Record of Shipping and Seamen in Cardiff, South Uist Estates, the Customs & Excise, and the British Film Institute, this book could not have been researched.

In its first 34 years Polly has now been published by three different companies. It’s time to settle down, and I’m particularly grateful for this latest Birlinn edition to Hugh Andrew, Mark Stanton, Andrew Simmons and Abigail Salvesen. They know why.

Roger Hutchinson

Isle of Raasay

January 2024

MAPS

ONE

The Backdrop

Cha dànaig gaoth riamh nach robh an seòl feareigin.

A wind never blew that did not fill somebody’s sail.

– Hebridean saying

Shortly after daybreak on the damp, overcast morning of 5 February 1941, a teenaged boy left his home in the secluded South Uist village of South Glendale to walk, barefooted, eastward along the empty shore. A mile away to his right, plainly visible even in such mournful weather, stood the scattered stone cottages of Bunmhullin and Rosinish at the north end of the island of Eriskay. To his left the rock-strewn, brown heather hills of the Uists rolled quietly up into the mist. Between them lay a narrow sea-sound, scored and broken by numerous reefs and so shallow that the vaguest ray of sunlight turned its clear water into a startling shade of Arctic blue and glistened on its bed of pure white sand.

A strong wind had blown throughout the previous night and the boy was beachcombing. It was a routine expedition, which over the last 17 months of war had brought rewards uncommon to peacetime. Occasionally the youth had been obliged to spend several hours harvesting on the rocks and the gravel and the sandy coves, but on that morning his walk was quickly ended. Within a few minutes he had doubled back and was racing into the village. Banging on the unlocked doors of houses a croft’s width apart, he began to shout: “Bata mor air an sgeir! Th a bata mor air an sgeir!” (“Ship aground! There’s a big ship aground!”)

TWO

Islands at War

Nuair thig bàillidh ùr bidh lagh ùr ’na chois.

When a new factor comes he brings a new law with him.

– Hebridean saying

The southern islands of the Outer Hebrides archipelago are a file of gentle mounds sitting gracefully in 60 miles of sea between latitudes 56.57 N and 57.65 N. As the crow flies they are never less than 50 miles from the mainland of north-west Scotland, and two hours by ferry from the nearest of the islands of the Inner Hebrides. Across the Atlantic and on the eastern continental landmass such northerly points are haunted by icebergs and held in permafrost, but the Hebridean seaboard of Great Britain is kept, if not warm, at least habitable by the happy accident of the Gulf Stream, which brushes its promontories and its stretches of deserted sand with the remnants of warm Caribbean seas before finally foundering, spent and cold, in the waters of Scandinavia.

These are not particularly mountainous islands. From North Uist and Benbecula, down through South Uist, Eriskay, Barra, Vatersay and the string of depopulated islets which drift for 20 miles south of there like so many discarded lizards’ tails, there is not a hill which stands higher than 2,000 feet. The deranged volcanic peaks of Skye and of the Moidart and Arisaig mainland are almost always to be seen from the southern isles; while they themselves, when they are visible from the east, look to be no more than the domes of the heads of a distant crowd, shuffling modestly over the horizon.

The people who live between the rolling Atlantic machair and the granite coves which face the Minch, between adventurous fishing and subsistence agriculture, are the repository of one of the oldest cultures in Europe. They were among the first in Scotland to receive Christianity in place of druidism, to blend the Irish Gaelic language and culture with Pictish ritual and ceremony, and to this day they embrace both their Catholic faith and their ancient tongue with vigour and affection. These are idiosyncratic traits in the 20th century and they are, of course, partly the results of geographical isolation. A necessary autonomy of mind and spirit has been forged here, among wind and rock and sea, on islands which for the greatest part of their history have lived independent of the outside world. In some respects they are independent even of their Hebridean neighbours. Th anks largely to the apostolic efforts of three 17th-century Irish priests, Fathers Hegarty, Ward and Duggan, the people of the islands south of the North Ford which separates Benbecula from North Uist were reconciled to Catholicism rather than to Protestantism at that time of seismic religious upheaval, and they have remained among the most loyal adherents to the Church of Rome in Britain – sharing a culture, a local government and a ferry service with some of the staunchest Presbyterians. Had Father Dermit Duggan, his instruction to and baptism of the islands up to and including Benbecula completed, not contracted an illness and died in 1657, while he was planning his first missionary visit to North Uist, the theological history of the Hebrides may have been quite different. As it is, the dividing line between the two faiths – a line invisible to most outsiders – lies still where Father Duggan’s dreams fell, between Benbecula and North Uist.

But independence has not, in the southern isles at least, meant solitude. The Gaels of the Hebrides have always been seamen of outstanding quality. They have travelled the known world as free and willing sailors, in missionary curraghs, crusading galleys, medieval barques of trade and war, whaling and fishing fleets, cutters of the Empire, battleships, cruisers and destroyers of the Royal Navy and steamers of the merchant marines. Their seamanship, especially in small boats under sail, became legendary in the 19th and early 20th centuries; and the extent of their travels was awesome. You are more likely, a visitor would be told, to find a man from Barra or from South Uist who can draw you street maps of Shanghai and San Francisco, than one who has visited Lochmaddy. Writing of the seamen of his native island in 1941, the Barra doctor Donald Buchanan remembered how, “On boarding a Blue Funnel liner once, on the quarantine anchorage at Singapore, I found that six members of the crew were my neighbours in Barra: some of them still remind me of the meeting. A few weeks later I was spending a holiday on the cruising liner Warilda in Northern Queensland, when one of the first members of the crew I noticed was Roderick McDougall from Kentangval. Very shortly afterwards, while on board one of Burns Phillips’ mail-boats at Port Moresby in remote New Guinea, the first man to confront me was Jonathan McNeil, of Glen Castlebay . . .” Island doctors, it must be observed, also did their share of globe-trotting.

Hebrideans entertained their own motley band of visitors, before and since the apostolic Irish. The shoguns of Scandinavia held a tenuous sovereignty here until 1266, and the Norsemen left their blood, their place-names and family-names on the rocky shores of the east and the fertile grasslands of the west. The people of the islands have since received, with variable humour, the ambassadors of foreign religions, educationalists using an unwelcome language and representatives of the authority of distant governments. They have become accustomed to outside interference in their lives and have grown to tolerate it.

In 1941 that tolerance was severely strained. Given the perverse, chaotic events in the southern isles in the 101 years which preceded the outbreak of the Second World War in September 1939, it is a wonder that it did not snap.

In 1838 the islands from Benbecula to Barra Head were united under a brand new overlord. For centuries since the early Middle Ages, throughout the lamented Lordship of the Isles and into and after the Jacobite uprisings of the 18th century, the southern isles had been owned, if not entirely governed, by their hereditary clan chiefs. Barra and its southern satellites had been the fiefdom of the MacNeils by charter since 1427, and in Benbecula, South Uist and Eriskay the Clanranald sept of Clan Donald had held sway since the retreat of the Vikings. Two decades of vain folly finally put an end to centuries of familial continuity. In Barra in the 1830s Lieutenant-General Roderick MacNeil took to the unsoldierly world of business. In an attempt to maximise his profits from the kelp industry (the seaweed which was being gathered in great quantity from the shores of the islands) he built a large processing factory at Northbay. It failed and his creditors foreclosed and sequestrated the estate.

And in Uist, Ranald George MacDonald of Clanranald had long since decided, in common with many of his peers, that the life of a Regency buck was infinitely better fun than that of a Highland chieftain, and proceeded to throw good money after bad in the society life of Gothenburg and Park Lane. He had, to be fair, come of age with debts of £47,000 inherited from his father, John of Moidart, the 19th of Clanranald, but Ranald George did nothing to restore the family fortune, and by 1838 he, too, was obliged to sell his islands.

The lands of Clanranald and MacNeil found one buyer, a successful Aberdeenshire landowner, Lieutenant-Colonel John Gordon of Cluny Castle. Gordon was, in the jargon of his time, an “improver”, which is to say that he had no patience with “unprofitable” estates and that he recognised no claim to the land other than the bottom line of his accountant’s audit. In the southern isles he found, as MacNeil and Clanranald could have told him, tracts of land which were hugely unprofitable to their nominal owner and which were occupied by a race of people who showed an obdurate fondness for living there. Having laid out almost £120,000 for these distant parts, Gordon had a problem. Unlike lush Aberdeenshire estates the Hebrides were not tailored to make any profit at all from speculative landowners. It was as much as their native people could do, using the careful, thrifty agricultural and fishing practices of their forebears, to support themselves, let alone the unrequested ambitions of Lieutenant-Colonel John Gordon and his retinue. These were pre-crofting communities, townships which shared not only the same common grazings, but the same unfenced fields of barley, oats, rye and potatoes, and in doing so required the use of virtually all the islands’ arable land. It did not take John Gordon long to be convinced that the major obstacle to his “improvement” of the Uists and Barra was the indigenous population.

So he set about removing them. The clearances of the southern isles in the middle of the last century did not become a cause célèbre at the time, as did many on the mainland; the name of John Gordon was never as vilified as those of the Duke of Sutherland, Patrick Sellar and James Loch. But in the 1840s and the 1850s Lieutenant-Colonel John Gordon, anxious to establish a chain of sheep farms from Nunton in Benbecula to Vatersay, south of Barra, showed a wonderful appetite for eviction and forced emigration. All the familiar tableaux of the clearances were acted out in the southern isles: old women were harassed from their homes under threat of having the roof removed, young men were hunted down on their township lands and forced, struggling and shouting, to the piers at Lochboisdale and Castlebay and on to hulks such as the notorious Admiral, bound for Quebec and the uncharted wastes of Upper Canada. When it met 30 years later, the Napier Commission, set up by the Government to investigate the problems of the crofting areas, was told by one old man that 1,700 people “from the North Ford to Barra Head” had been transported in the early years of Colonel Gordon’s “improvements”.

His estimation was a modest one. The emigrants arrived in Canada without money, work or food. A letter in the Quebec Times in 1851 execrated the “savage cruelty” of Colonel Gordon and “the atrocity of the deed”. Seventy concerned Canadians put their signatures to this letter, which pointed out:

The 1,500 souls whom Colonel Gordon has sent to Quebec this season have all been supported for the past week at least, and conveyed to Upper Canada at the expense of the colony, and on their arrival in Toronto and Hamilton, the greater number have been dependent on the charity of the benevolent for a morsel of bread. Four hundred are in the river at present and will arrive in a day or two, making a total of nearly 2,000 of Colonel Gordon’s tenants and cottars whom the province will have to support. The winter is at hand . . . where are these people to find food?

In 1841 the combined population of Benbecula, South Uist and Eriskay was 7,333. By 1861 it was down to 5,358. During the same period the population of Barra and its southerly outposts – most of which were, at the time, inhabited – fell from 2,363 to 1,853. Some of these people may have gone to Nairn and the Moray Firth, and to Glasgow during the famine caused by the potato rot of the early 1840s, but they were a minority. Most of them sailed on the Admiral and her sisters, pausing only briefly at Stornoway to be joined by a contingent of Sir William Matheson’s evictees from Lewis before bidding goodbye to the islands for ever. Most of them, in fact, were removed by the factors and the ground officers of Lieutenant-Colonel John Gordon, supported by the full majesty of the law.

For the law was not only powerless to halt Gordon’s outrages, it was positively on his side. The law said that the land was his to “improve”. The law gave him the freedom and authority to set impossible rents and to evict when those rents were not paid. The law had no brief for an island community largely ignorant of the English language and entirely innocent of the caprices of the British legal system. To the people of the southern isles, the law was no friend.

Of the majority that remained in the islands, many entire families, even whole townships, found themselves moved from the fertile machair land up to the rough, heather-blanketed heath in the foothills of the eastern mountains, land which they had previously used only for shielings and summer grazings. But most found themselves to be increasingly dependent on the sea, for the munificent sea was always there, unfenced and free from enclosure. Some of its fruits, such as kelp and herring, were responsible for times of comparative affluence; its driftwood furnished houses; in times of hardship its more modest offerings, such as common shellfish, sustained life. The faithfully Catholic people of the southern isles named many of their natural treasures after the Virgin, and all of the produce of the sea was embraced in one term: cuile Mhoire, the treasure chest of Mary. Without the sea these people could not have defied the efforts of Lieutenant-Colonel John Gordon.

Gordon shortly found that even sheep-farming was a hazardous investment in the Uists and Barra, but before he died he made one final effort to settle his southern isles problem. He made a proposal to the Government which was, even for the time, so breathtakingly deranged that we would be inclined to doubt it now, if it had not been dutifully recorded by a member of the Napier Commission, Mr Charles Fraser Macintosh. Mindful of the great expense incurred in transporting convicts across the world to Australia, Gordon suggested to the Government of Queen Victoria that the islands of South Uist and Benbecula, if cleared of their native population, would serve equally well as a penal colony. Gordon was, wrote Fraser Macintosh later, “ready to dispose of it as such to Government, no doubt first clearing off the whole population”. The Government, after due consideration, declined the Colonel’s offer.

In 1878 the islands were inherited by Gordon’s daughter-inlaw, Lady Gordon Cathcart. She found a people who were no longer prepared to be silent about their grievances. Th is was a time of land hunger throughout the Highlands and nowhere were the pangs more acute than on the scattered islands which formed the more distant reaches of Lady Cathcart’s new estate. Articulate, radical spokesmen had come forth in every district. There was Michael Buchanan in Barra, who waited outside the church of Our Lady Star of the Sea in Castlebay every Sunday to follow the priest with “Michael’s sermon”. There was Father Donald McColl, the parish priest to the north end of South Uist. And there was Angus MacPhee, who had been born in Torlum, Benbecula, in the early years of the century and had lived through all of the “dislocations”; in his seventies he found himself on heather land where “it has become impossible for us to live”. These men testified to the Napier Commission when, in 1883, it arrived in the southern isles to inquire into the condition of the crofting communities. The Napier Commission’s reports resulted in the Crofting Act of 1886, which gave crofters security of tenure, but the Crofting Act did too little for the people of the Uists and Barra, for in order to enjoy security of tenure, a family had first to have a croft.

The congestion of landless families in the islands, which was brought about not only by the establishment of sheep farms, but also by the quite gratuitous clearing of such smaller islands as Mingulay, coincided with a decline in the treasury of cuile Mhoire. The kelp industry, whose profits had always been assiduously raked away by the estate but which, at its peak, had paid a quantity of exchangeable currency in return for hours of backbreaking work (as much as one pound a day for a whole family, working morning to night, at the end of the 19th century) was in decline. And the west coast herring fishing was under siege.

It is salutary to reflect now that as late as the last century the west coast fishermen of the islands and the deep inshore lochs were the aristocrats of the Scottish fishing industry. Using long-lines, made from imported hemp and deposited overnight on Atlantic banks, theirs was a conservative industry. The lines brought home only select numbers of the choicest fish. For quality, they were unbeatable. For indiscriminate quantity, they were driven from the water by the trawling nets of the east coast adventurers who were, by the turn of the 20th century, already arriving in numbers to exploit the waters of the west. The southern isles were not, at this time, a happy place. Ada Goodrich-Freer, an inquisitive and sympathetic visitor to the islands in 1900, wrote two years later that South Uist was

. . . as separate from all that is human, kindly, genial, as if it were a suburb of the North Pole. There is, thank Heaven, but one South Uist in the world, though in poverty, misery, and neglect, the island of Barra, sixteen miles south, runs it very close . . . South Uist is surely the most forsaken spot on God’s earth.

In spite of some concessions of land, wrenched, on behalf of the people, by the tardy action of the Crofters’ Commission, the greater part of the island is under sheep farms, a “farm” here signifying a tract of country once bright with happy homesteads, now laid bare and desolate. Heaps of grey stone scattered all over the island are all that remain of once thriving cottages; narrow strips of greener grass or more tender heather are all that is left to represent waving cornfields and plots of fertile ground handed on from generation to generation of home-loving agriculturalists. The more hardy and vigorous of the race which once flourished here are now scattered over the face of the earth; the old, the weak, the spiritless, for the most part, have alone remained, and their children, white-faced, anaemic, depressed, driven to the edge of the sea as one after another the scraps of land redeemed by their perilous industry were taken from them, are still fighting hand-to-hand with Nature, almost worn out with a hopeless struggle. They are the only Highlanders I ever met who were curt in manner, almost inhospitable, discourteous; but one soon learns to forgive what, after all, is but the result of long years of life “on the defensive” . . . The very existence of the island of South Uist is itself a tragedy which shames our civilisation. Nowhere in our proud Empire is there a spot more desolate, grim, hopelessly poverty-stricken.

Sixty-one years of the Gordon family had indeed bred in the naturally courteous people of the southern isles a fierce mistrust of interfering outsiders – a mistrust which could at times erupt into outright hostility. The outraged Mrs Goodrich-Freer may have been in the islands at the same time as a “sportsman” named C.V.A. Peel, who wrote from London in 1901: