Western Isles Folk Tales - Ian Stephen - E-Book

Western Isles Folk Tales E-Book

Ian Stephen

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Beschreibung

Western Isles Folk Tales is a representative collection of stories from the geographical span of the long chain of islands known as the Outer Hebrides. Some are well-known tales and others have been sought out by the author, but all are retold in the natural voice of a local man. You will find premonitions, accounts of uncanny events and mythical beings, such as the blue men of the stream who test mariners venturing into the tidal currents around the Shiant Islands. Also included are tales from islands now uninhabited, like the archipelago of St Kilda, in contrast to the witty yarns from bustling harbours. The author was the inaugural winner of the Robert Louis Stevenson Fellowship (1995) and his Acts of Trust collaboration with visual artist Christine Morrison won the multi-arts category in the first British Awards for Storytelling Excellence (2012). Both author and illustrator live in Stornoway, Isle of Lewis.

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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the continuing support of Creative Scotland, The Scottish Storytelling Centre, and the Highlands and Islands writers’ support body, Emergents.

An outline for this work was first developed during a Creative Futures Residency, with Western Isles Libraries, developed and administered by Shetland Arts.

Two other residencies, in Orkney and Shetland, were instrumental in developing a method of producing written versions of oral stories. Thanks to Orkney Islands Council, Shetland Arts and Book Trust Scotland.

Direct assistance from a Traditional Arts Grant from Enterprise Music Scotland enabled the author to devote the time to research and develop much of the detail of the contents of this book.

The resources of the School of Scottish Studies have also been invaluable. Particular thanks to archivist Cathlin MacAulay.

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1BARRA HEAD TO ERISKAY

The Secret of the Sailor

John’s Leap

The Two Caves

The Cattle of Pabbay

The Tale of the Three-Toed Pot

The Black Tangle

How the Down was Shared

Donald and the Skull

The Cask in the Foc’sle

The Point where English was Spoken

Words of Help

2SOUTH UIST

The Crop-Headed Freckled Lass

The Kingfish

Two Ravens

The Cooper’s Beautiful Daughter

Asking for the Wind

3BENBECULA TO GRIMSAY

Out the West Side

The Day of the Black Dog

A Way of Taking Herring

Threads of Three Colours

4ORTH UIST AND OUTLYING ISLANDS

The Beachcomber

An Elopement

Black John

A Boat Race

Holding Together

5HARRIS AND OUTLYING ISLANDS

The Cowhide

Matters of Justice

Anna Campbell

A Crossing to Scarp

6EWIS AND OUTLYING ISLANDS

WEST LEWIS

An Endless Voyage

Who Was Chasing Who?

A Father and a Son

The Tale of the Head of the Flounder

A Transaction

The Blind Woman of Barvas

EAST LEWIS

The Blue Men of the Stream

The Spoons of Horn

The Tooth of the Fairy Dog

An Apprentice Seaman

An Encounter

From Father and Mother

Smith’s Shoe Shop

Looking Where You’re Going

NORTH LEWIS

A Disappearance

The Two Brothers

A Fertile Island

A Note on the Sources

Appendix

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

The idea of the Western Isles means different things to different people. For this book, it is the region from Barra Head to Butt of Lewis – the long chain of islands that comprises the Outer Hebrides. Investigating the range of traditional stories linked to this geography, it became obvious that the many stories rooted in offlying islands must also be represented, though sadly many of these landmasses no longer hold resident populations.

Since 1979, the Outer Hebrides has also been an administrative entity under Comhairle nan Eilean Siar – the Western Isles Council. Before that, there was a dividing line between Lewis to the north, as a part of Ross and Cromarty and Harris and the Southern Isles, all linked to Inverness-shire. This led to the astonishing but true situation where one twin was born on the island of Scarp in Harris (in one county) and the other was born in the neighbouring county after the mother was taken by boat and ambulance to hospital in Stornoway.

Some of the islands that lost their populations (usually in the twentieth century) are close inshore, like Taransay and Scarp (off Harris), or the chain of islands south of Barra like Mingulay, Sandray and Pabbay. And some lie out in open ocean, like Hirta (Hiort), the island in the St Kilda archipelago, about 40 miles west of the Sound of Harris, inhabited until 1930. The culture of Heisker or the Monach Islands, west of North Uist, is less well known but this is a very prolific source of tales. There are also stories linked to annual gannet-hunting expeditions to the bare rock of Sula Sgeir, 40 miles north-north-east of the Butt of Lewis, and others set on North Rona, a further 11 miles north-east, once a fertile farm which supported a few families.

The author came to storytelling through family background and mentors at sea and by the harbour. In this part of the world a conversation often becomes a story, once the engine is shut down and lines are cast, on the drift or at anchor. There seems to be a particular name and a tradition for every species of fish caught and every stage of that fish’s growth.

What exactly is a story? The conclusion is surely that there is the finest of lines between a person’s memory of a recorded historical event and a story. Then there are the huge number of premonition accounts and strange sightings told as a person’s memory of an actual experience. There are also remembered twists of eloquent wit. Examples of all of these are included, as well as tales that could easily fit into a worldwide pattern of folk-tale types. Stories remembered from different ‘ceilidh-houses’ exemplify how the contemporary and the timeless bounce off each other at an informal gathering.

The selected stories are retold in the author’s voice. This has sometimes involved intuition, in navigating between different known versions of the same story, whether from oral or published sources. Place names and spellings of the names of people are in English versions throughout. The vast majority of these stories were originally told in the Gaelic language. Most of the oral recordings are in Gaelic and many of them can be heard at www.tobarandulchais.co.uk. Several generous friends have translated original sources and shared the cultural associations behind a phrase or tradition.

This book takes a mainly geographic rather than thematic approach, travelling south to north, as far as the outlying North Rona. However, the tradition of the mysteriously successful sailors who prospered on Berneray, south of Mingulay, implies a variation on a story also told in Homer’s Odyssey, common all through the Western Isles but also told in both Orkney and Shetland. Many of the tales reoccur in different settings, and certainly myths relating to fish and fowl are very similar to others told throughout the world. In contrast, many other tales relate to a named point of land.

Ian Stephen was born in Stornoway in 1955. He studied Education, English and Drama at Aberdeen. It was there that he began to perform stories and poems in public and met Stanley Robertson, the storyteller. At Keith Folk Festival he met both Hamish Henderson and David Campbell. Both became friends and both encouraged him to continue bringing the stories, from his own Hebridean background, to a wider audience.

After winning the much-coveted storytelling cup at Kinross Festival, Ian went on to meet many other storytellers, including Belle and Sheila Stewart and Betsy Whyte. At the Tales of Martinmas Festival, run by Bob Pegg (author of Highland Folk Tales, in this series) and the folklorist Marie MacArthur, Ian experienced kitchen ceilidhs with Duncan Williamson, Alec John Williamson and Essie Stewart. He has often performed with musicians and singers. At Tales of Martinmas, he alternated stories along a sea-route with Mary Smith’s Gaelic sea-songs. He also developed performances for the Harris Arts Festival with the late Ishbel MacAskill.

Ian still lives in Stornoway but travels widely to perform both poems and stories, and lead workshops. He is a regular guest at the Edinburgh International Storytelling Festival and the Without Borders Festival in Olomouc, Czech Republic. He has been a guest at Cape Clear Island Storytelling Festival as well as at several events in Northern Ireland. In 2014 he represented Scotland in Canada as part of the Scottish Poetry Library’s Commonwealth Poets United project.

Ian’s cross-arts collaboration with the visual artist Christine Morrison was a central part of the 2013–14 Voyage show commissioned by the Edinburgh International Storytelling Festival and performed at Rathlin Sound Maritime Festival and Settle Stories. The continuing work can be followed at www.stephenmorrison.org

1

BARRA HEADTO ERISKAY

THE SECRETOFTHE SAILOR

You could never keep a vessel moored there, through the winter. You come out of the tide-rips, off Barra Head, looking up to a strong, squat lighthouse. It grows from cropped grass that’s still rich and green. Then you enter the kyles to the north of Berneray, from east or west till you find some shelter, off the stone jetty. You need to clear out of there, though, if the wind blows from either east or west. In fact, when you look at it, I don’t know how any sailors managed to run a boat from Berneray, even in the better months of the year. I suppose they were only lying at anchor there when the weather was settled.

Shepherd Duncan married into a Barra family and was given land on Berneray because there was little enough left elsewhere. Their bairns, when they came, had to be sailed over to Mingulay to be schooled but they did well enough. Every bite that family took and every stitch they wore came from the land or the sea. They had no need of the merchant’s credit and so they prospered. The crops grew well on the land that had been fallow for long enough and the seas were still rich with cod and ling, which could be salted and dried for export. So it was not only a matter of feeding a strapping family. The Duncans were engaged in trade and their luck with the land was more than matched with their luck at sea.

The shepherd and his lads, in season, went from the line fishing to the herring. Soon they were talking about sailing up the west side of the Outer Hebrides as far as Heisker, where the lobsters are known to be at their best. As the years went on, the family moved from working small, open skiffs to running a proper trader, with a white topsail. They were daring and they’d sail that trader to Ireland or they’d sail her up to Lewis. Or anywhere there was a market for their produce or their catch. She moved with the seasonal fishing and she was never, to my knowledge, caught out. But I’ve heard they came close to it once.

That year there was an exceptionally good summer at Heisker. They’d caught more than their share of all the lobsters to be had and they’d done good trade, getting them over to Uist to market. But it was a better breeze to go north than to head south, for home. And the Heisker lads, who had given them a good help all summer, were very keen to see their relations on Lewis. It was the least they could do to give them a lift up the road in their fine, seaworthy craft.

The topsail was flying, white above the tan mainsail, and the wind was where every sailor wants it, there on your shoulder. Their stout vessel made good way, over the waves, with a following sea. And this time there was no work to be done on the way. The boat was going like a collie through heather and they were all wearing that daft grin sailors get. It was a soldier’s wind – the strength and direction that would get the voyage done fastest.

Soon they were moored in the lee of Mealasta island, off the south-west coast of Lewis. They could take their small punt ashore till they saw what was what. The Heisker boys had relations not so far away. ‘Boys’, by the way, is a flexible word. Some of them might have been well into their sixties. They were made welcome. Everyone was invited ashore, with one fellow left to watch the anchor. Conditions were ideal. Islavig and Brenish are fairly remote places and folk were very happy to see their relatives from the islands. The crew were in the fortunate position of being able to carry the stories from Heisker and from all the islands south of Barra.

Gallons of tea were consumed along with mountains of bannocks. As long as they didn’t run out of yarns and gossip, they were welcome for as long as they wanted. Their skipper was beginning to get twitchy, thinking that their luck with the fair weather couldn’t last forever. But one of the younger lads kept persuading him to stay for one more night. The very first day they were ashore, he’d set eyes on a dark-haired girl. He said something offhand to his relation, something like, ‘That’s a strange looking one.’ And the reply from his old aunt was, ‘Strange looking or no. You watch she doesn’t get a hold of you.’

Sure enough, the young fellow was drawn every night to the house where the dark-haired girl would take her place by the fire. It was the done thing to be going round the houses, sharing the news. But that crewman kept going to sit across from that girl.

At last the skipper put his foot down. ‘Come on now, lads. We’ve a long way home and we’ll need to get the boat into safe harbour in Barra before the gales set in. The breeze is favourable.’

So it was, when they carried their small skiff back down the beach. So it was, as they set sail and hauled the anchor. But the minute they were moving, clear of the island, the breeze turned on them. It was soon right on the nose and blowing strong. The lads looked to their skipper and weren’t surprised when he said, ‘We can’t fight this, boys. We’ll need to get her back into shelter.’

They managed that. And again, the boat was well secured. Most of them rowed ashore while they waited to see what the wind would do.

But they weren’t alone on the beach. An old woman was working away at her knitting. She walked while she did that but she was still watching them closely.

‘You’re having a bit of trouble getting home, boys.’

‘Aye, the wind’s turned half a circle. She’s blowing hard against us.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ says the woman, ‘seeing the company some of yous are keeping.’ And she gave that certain young lad a pretty withering look. ‘Which one of you is the skipper?’

He took a step forward.

‘You don’t sound like a Heisker man nor a Barra man neither,’ she said, ‘but maybe I can help you just the same. Now would you happen to have a bit of tobacco or snuff left from your travels?’

The skipper shared out the last of his pouch even though he was indeed running low after all that time away from Heisker. ‘How can you help us?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s not natural, the wind shifting as sudden as that. There’s someone here doesn’t want to see that fellow sail away from her clutches. That’s why the wind shifted.’

‘What can we do about that?’ the skipper asked.

‘That dark one isn’t the only woman who can do something about the wind,’ the old woman said, chewing away happily.

Now this is every sailor’s dream. You are at the mercy of the wind at sea and there’s no sailing boat ever invented that can head right into the teeth of a hard breeze. Even the lads fell silent.

‘How can you do that?’

‘I’ll give you something that will help you on your voyage if you use it the way I’ll tell you.’

She dug into her skirts and produced a short length of thin cordage. When they looked at it closely they could see the oily old cord had three knots in it. But none of them were knots any of the boys had seen before, from Barra Head to Heisker. They said so.

‘Well you’re seeing them now, skipper, and this is what you’ll do. I’ll tell you for sure, when you set out again, that breeze will shift back against you. When that happens you can let the first knot go.’ She pointed it out.

‘What will happen then?’

‘You’ll get a fair breeze, from over your shoulder. That fine boat of yours will eat up the miles, with no effort at all.’

‘Grand, but what do we need the second one for?’

‘You don’t need it at all but I know what you men are like. You’ll want her to go faster. If you think the boat and yourselves can take it you can let that second one go – that one in the middle.’

‘What about the third?’

‘No, no, you have to promise me right now, you won’t even look at that third knot. You have no need of that but the others won’t work without it.’

‘Well, why would we need it if the other two will work as you say?’

‘Oh, they’ll work all right.’

But some of the boys thought their skipper had been a bit generous with his tobacco, for an old bit of string.

When the breeze settled back, they launched their craft again and got a wave from the old woman, still chewing away. But they had only just hoisted the gaff when they felt, on the back of their necks, that change in the wind again. One of them only looked glad at the thought of returning to the beach. The others urged their skipper to let that first knot go.

It didn’t happen at once. But they could feel it on their cheekbones, the wind veering round till it was blowing from the north, but just a shade of east in it, coming off the land and not too strong. That would do them.

So it did and they were all, but one, very happy to be heading homeward now. Some had only to make it to Heisker and the other lads would help take her on to safe haven in Barra. They weren’t many minutes before someone said, ‘You know, I think she could take a bit more.’

‘Aye,’ the skipper said, ‘I believe she could.’ He fingered the cord in his hand, making sure he knew which end was which. Then he let go the second knot. If she was going well before, she was at the maximum now. It was absolutely to the limit of what she could carry under full cloth. Every rope was singing and every plank was creaking. The nails were shimmering but nothing gave way.

Soon there was a long straight wake behind them and spray coming over them. There was strong light too and that was catching the breaking spray. They were licking the salt off their lips and lost for words, for a change, as the miles flew by. One after the other, the islands were left behind, off to port, Scarp and Taransay and the outlying Glorigs. That couldn’t be Coppay already, but it was. None of them had sailed like that before and even the reluctant fellow was starting to smile.

So it wasn’t long before Heisker was in sight. The helmsman had his eye on his mark and they were almost in the lee of it when, of course, someone said, ‘What about that third one?’

‘No, boys,’ their skipper said, of course. ‘You heard me promise that old soul. We’re going just fine.’

Did they give up? One after another they had a go at their wise skipper.

One of the Heisker men said, ‘I thought we had a chief of Berneray, the skipper chosen by the Duncans of Barra Head, in charge. But he’s a man who’s scared of a poor old woman from Lewis.’

That did it. The skipper fingered the last knot. He took a glance. They were now coming into a lee. They’d gone the deep route, round Shillay, a small island to the west of the group. They were now sailing into more sheltered water. ‘It can do no harm now,’ he said, plucking at the cord with his fingers.

That was fine until the helmsman looked behind. You could see the shadow of fear cross his face. The first of three impossible waves took a grip of them and they were surfing out of control. The second one nearly had her over but the mast came down and the sail with it. There was water everywhere. When the third one hit, their fingers were all frozen to the gunnels. Just as well, because the force of the wind took the boat out clear of the water. They couldn’t see a thing for all the hail and sleet, driving at them. But they could feel it all right. She was hurtling back in the other direction.

When the storm-driven rain cleared for a moment, they made out the high shape of an island passing by. It was an island they’d seen not very long before. Their vessel came down with a shudder, grounding at the beach. It was a beach they knew all too well. And here too was a woman they’d met before. She was shouting at them, higher than the wind. But they all knew what she was saying, all right.

‘I told yous not to untie that third knot.’

I suppose that’s where the story ends. The boys got away with it by the skin of their teeth. They were all handy enough with their repairs. And just maybe their skipper sacrificed the very last of his tobacco to regain the favours of the woman who could tie the right knots. That would certainly suggest that the Heisker lads and the Barra lads all got home all right. It might also explain the continuing good fortunes and successful trade of the family who made such a good living on the Isle of Berneray.

References

This is a story told the length of the Long Island (Barra Head to Butt of Lewis) and beyond. It hints at how a sailor might get more than his fair share of favourable breeze. John MacPherson (Coddy) makes a link between Barra and Coll and the Clyde with a similar tale and here on Lewis our telling navigates a route down the Atlantic side of the chain of islands, to Heisker or Monachs. But in a recorded discussion with a John MacNeil, also of Barra, John MacPherson describes a line of respected mariners and crofters who made a good living for themselves on Berneray. That is the most southerly island in our chain, but trade with Heisker, which lies to the west of North Uist, is also mentioned. So it seemed a small step to splice these strands of story together.

My first memory of this tale is from conversations with both Norman Malcolm MacDonald and Francis (Frank) Thompson, part of the last days of Stornoway’s Italian café culture. I sadly miss both these gentlemen. Frank’s publications are too numerous to list in full but I’d recommend The Supernatural Highlands (first published in 1976 and reissued by Luath Press, Edinburgh,1997). Frank’s poems are less well-known but they are wide in scope and finely made. Norman is the author of many plays, as well as the innovative novel Calum Tod and a small number of minimalist poems. The lore of the sailing vessel is prominent in his later novel, Portrona (Birlinn, Edinburgh, 2000), which gathers many strands from his drama. His play Anna Caimbeul, broadcast on Radio 3 as well as widely performed, was described by himself as ‘the first Japanese Noh play in Gaelic.’

Notable versions of the tale are in John MacPherson’s Tales from Barra, edited by John Lorne Campbell (Birlinn, Edinburgh, 1992, p. 141). See also Donald MacLellan’s strong version, with some additional details, in A.J. Bruford and D.A. MacDonald, Scottish Traditional Tales (Polygon, Edinburgh, 1994, p. 391).

Traditions relating to Shepherd Duncan of Barra Head from transcriptions of John MacNeil and John MacPerson are in John Lorne Campbell, A Very Civil People (Birlinn, Edinburgh, 2000, p. 115). A Shetland version of the three knots is also included in Bruford and MacDonald’s Scottish Traditional Tales. John Gibson Lockhart describes a visit to Stromness, Orkney with Sir Walter Scott. The account includes details of a woman who sells the winds for a sixpence. Common Orcadian versions (heard from Tom Muir, author of Orkney Folk Tales, in this series) have coloured threads rather than knots and the boat arriving back where it departed from, unlike most Western Isles versions where it is wrecked or driven high on dry land.

The story invites comparison with book 10 of The Odyssey by Homer. I suggest the rugged translation of Robert Fagles.

JOHN’S LEAP

The west side of Barra is no place to be at sea in a gale. Once, a Spanish ship was caught out on this lee shore. They would come to these prolific seas to take cod and ling. The catch was split and salted and packed, to take home. It takes a long time to tack a vessel like that through the wind and her canvas was soon in tatters. There was no doubt she would be driven ashore. A line of folk was soon stretched along the rocks. They watched her ground. The wind was storm force and they knew that even a solid oak ship could not last long. It was heart-rending, watching the shadows of men clinging to the masts. No one could swim through that surf without assistance.

A strong rope ashore – that would be their only chance. The strongest and fittest man on the beach was one John MacNeil, a son of the chief. He coiled a long length of light line and weighted it with a securely tied stone. He chose his pebble with care, heavy enough to carry the line against the full force of the wind and light enough to fly far. The shoreward end was attached to fathoms and fathoms of heavier rope, all joined and coiled so it would run true.

It was an exceptional throw and John’s line was seen to pass over the decks. The men on the shore felt a weight come on it and sure enough their heavy line was pulled out to be secured round the stump of a mast of the stricken ship. Most of the sailors were dragged through the surf on that line. They came shivering and gasping to the care of the Barra folk. But the stone at the end of the light line had struck the temple of one of the men on deck – a youth, really. Who should that be but the son of the skipper.

That Spanish man looked for revenge for the loss of his son. He blamed their hard fate on the Barra folk, gathered at the shore. He thought they were waiting for plunder. It was a harsh law then and a death demanded another death. He tried to insist that MacNeil should condemn his own son John, as the man who had thrown the stone. At this, the Barra folk rallied round their own and refused any further hospitality to the shipwrecked sailors. The Spaniards took passage across the Sound to South Uist. This was the territory of Clanranald, hardly a friend to MacNeil. When the rival chief heard the story and the claim against young John, he saw it was in his own interests to take the Spanish captain’s side. He was seeking favour with the powers in Edinburgh. His neighbour, MacNeil, laird of Barra, had already lost that favour. There was a fair chance Clanranald would gain lands for his loyalty in pursuing a claim against any of that family.

John MacNeil knew that sooner or later the power of a navy could not be resisted, not even by the independent Barra people. He also wanted to spare his father’s folk a ruinous war. So he went into exile. He didn’t have to go far. The west side of Mingulay, the island to the south of theirs, is as rugged a territory as you can imagine. The cliffs fall away into boiling seas and skerries. Few would dare to navigate these waters. The only landing place was the steep shelving beach on the east side. If a ship anchored off that, you’d spot it easily, from the high ground of the island. There would be time to hide.

There’s a steep cliff called Biolacreag on the west side. Across from it, there’s a detached pinnacle. It was too steep for even a skilled fowler like John or the folk of Mingulay to descend and ascend on ropes. But John knew he could have a secure hiding place, if he could bring himself to make the leap.

He would have to make the short approach, then make sure his leading foot hit the edge at just the right place, when his run was at full power. There was a scattering of tufts of thrift and then he was in the air. His hands were out to grasp anything that could stop him from sliding back. They did find a hold and his feet were secure on the pinnacle. There was a shorter run, in making the leap back to Mingulay. But one thing made the return easier. If he did not leap he would starve.

Once he’d made that jump once, he knew he could do it again, both ways, if he had to. No one would think a man could be so desperate. In fact there is not another soul known to have made that jump before or since. Now there was a hiding place where a fugitive could evade his hunters.

So he did, but Clanranald did not give up easily in his attempts to deliver John to Edinburgh for the supposed crime. The MacNeils were seen as pirates and John was seen as the man with a claim on his head. As a lawyer will advise you, justice is for the next world. In this one, the law is all about probabilities and the way the evidence is presented.

There was another fugitive of a kind on Barra then. He was from Kintail, maybe an outcast from his own folk but he was given another chance. He was granted a piece of ground at Eoligary. Soon he was sent to Uist, to buy seed for the ground and seed potatoes to sow. Clanranald saw his chance. The Kintail man could have all the seed he could carry for nothing, and keep the silver, if he helped with one small matter.

Back in Mingulay, John, the exile, was a fine hand with a boat. He liked nothing better than to row to the rich fishing at the outlying reefs. He’d been chased once or twice by a heavy Clanranald boat but none could get near him nor navigate in the rocky shallows. John could thread his small craft through the tightest of gaps. The Kintail traitor stopped off at Mingulay, with a share of the seed. He said he wanted nothing more than to join John in his craft, to work the outlying reefs. John said that this was not the day for it. It was blowing hard from the north-west.

But he was a proud man. His seamanship was being challenged by the goading of the Kintail man, so he said he’d give it a try. The traitor had replaced the stout thole pins with weak ones of poor pine. They could not stand up to the strain. Sure enough, they were put to the test as the Clanranald vessel rounded an outlying point – it was known as the promontory of the thumb. The MacDonalds were rowing strongly. If they could capture this outlaw, the clan would be in favour with the king in Edinburgh.

‘They won’t get near us,’ John said as he put his back into it. One by one the pins snapped like carrots. They were soon overhauled.

So, because of grudges and alliances, John MacNeil was taken to Edinburgh and charged with piracy. Some said that the Spanish ship was not the first to be wrecked on that coast. The testimony of the ordinary Spanish sailors who owed their lives to the Barra folk might have saved him. But these men were back in their own land or else at sea. So it was inevitable that John was sentenced to die.

There are further twists and turns in different versions of the tale. Some say he was reprieved for a few days, at the request of an influential woman who admired this strong man, but only till she’d tired of him. And, of course, the accounts from other islands, particularly that of Morrison of Lewis, portray the same John as a ruthless adventurer. There is no mention of his role in the rescue of fellow mariners.

It seems clear that he met a gruesome end, in that city. But how can we say now if John was a martyr or a murderer?

References

John Lorne Campbell, A Very Civil People, p. 113. See also Donald Morrison, Traditions of the Western Isles (Stornoway Public Library, 1975, from now on referred to as the Morrison manuscript):

John MacNeil, brother to the then Proprietor of Barra, was a man of uncommon fortitude and, with his followers, he infested the seas of Barra for many years. So extensive were his piracies that he sometimes took trips with his galley to Ireland and sometimes to the Orkneys, plundering cattle and goods from both places. Notwithstanding the exertions of the surrounding clans MacNeil defied their efforts to arrest him for many years. His Majesty the King set a great reward upon his head and more than once sent a party of soldiers to apprehend him. But all these attempts were fruitless, so that many mariners ceased to navigate in Barra waters.

Many grievous complaints were made to the king, who was at last so incensed that he made it up with the Captain of Clanranald, who was a man of great power and he undertook to capture the pirate or to die in the attempt.

The quote is from ‘John MacNeil, the Pirate’ (Morrison manuscript, p. 99). The very different accounts agree on the terrible form of execution. After being reprieved from being burned at the stake, the ‘pirate’ was placed in a barrel with spikes driven through and trundled down the hill at the city’s edge. See also the Morrison manuscript, p. 62, ‘The Tutor of Kintail [this could be an error – other sources refer to the Traitor of Kintail] and MacNeil of Barra’.

There are other stories of great leaps in the Morrison manuscript: ‘The Leap of Allt’ (p. 45) and ‘Garry’s Leap in Mull’ (p. 335), which is similar to a Lewis story where a man humiliated by his chief takes a terrible revenge by leaping off a precipice holding the chief’s son.