‘This is a great glen,’ Lachlan shouted over his shoulder to the others. ‘It could be put to good use!’
‘Good use indeed!’ Mrs Ramsay muttered as she stepped into some cow dung. ‘I am certain no human could live here.’
‘There seems to be little means for that, indeed,’ Miss Thomson agreed.
‘Look at this good grass, how lush it is – this soil could yield a plentiful crop.’ Lachlan turned and walked backwards as he spoke to them.
‘It is green,’ Miss Thomson acknowledged.
‘And fresh enough,’ added Mrs Ramsay reluctantly.
‘You are most observant, madam,’ said Mr Buchanan gaily as he caught up with the ladies. ‘Allow me,’ he added, and caught Mrs Ramsay’s elbow from Miss Thomson’s grip.
‘If I had a farm here . . .’ Lachlan was still walking backwards, facing the ladies.
‘You would be doing more good than playing the fool like this,’ said Mrs Ramsay disapprovingly. She was panting harder now.
‘You could plant some tobacco and trade with the natives,’ Mr Buchanan suggested helpfully.
‘If I were the lord of this manor, how would I run it?’ His cheeks were flushed now.
‘You would talk your servants to death, that is for sure.’
‘Oh, Mrs Ramsay!’ Miss Thomson giggled.
‘There would be no classes; all would be equal, innocent and pure.’
‘And yet you would be the lord of the manor.’ Mrs Ramsay stopped to dab the sweat from her brow with a lace handkerchief which she kept tucked in her sleeve.
‘And there would be no parties and no weddings – how perfectly dull!’ Miss Thomson’s shrill voice protested for once.
‘A land where everything is held in common, where crime and war are unknown and where there is an abundance of food to feed my people and no one would have to work too hard.’ MacLean was beaming. His dream had carried him off and he was quite oblivious to his fellow ramblers.
‘And yet I doubt very much that there would be such peace, with you around.’
‘Come now, Mrs Ramsay, where is your sense of charity?’ Mr Buchanan said sternly, his eyes smiling.
‘I would be such a fair chief and lead my island world beyond the Golden Age!’
‘And long may he live!’ shouted Mr Buchanan, and threw his hat in the air.
‘Hail Caesar!’ snarled Mrs Ramsay, and sat down to rest on a boulder.
Fatigued by the steep climb, the group stopped and turned to look back towards the bay below. The sun was still high in the west, but the light was thickening and sent long shadows along the length of the green valley. A couple of streams cut through the face of the glen like scars lit on either side by flaming gorse. The grass itself seemed illuminated where millions of dandelions burst from within it and the sea beyond was impossibly blue.
‘Oh heavens! If I was not so hot and weary I would think I had reached the afterlife! Did you ever imagine paradise such as this?’ MacLean cried in exultation.
‘Here we go again,’ said Mrs Ramsay below her breath. ‘The emperor has died and gone to heaven – although it would rather resemble the other place, with him in it.’
The others, taken by the scenery, ignored her.
‘God is truly in this place,’ sighed Mr Buchanan, who could afford to be romantic.
‘Would it not be a splendid idea if we named this bay after Dr MacLeod, who showed himself to be such a great benefactor to this island and its inhabitants this morning?’ said MacLean excitedly.
‘Oh yes, in commemoration of his most humane visit to the island!’ shrieked Miss Thomson.
MacKinnon the maor, who was hovering a few yards away, trying to understand the gentlefolk’s conversation, suddenly spoke up: ‘But, sir, it has a name already. It was always Loch a’ Ghlinne. The ancestors named it when they first arrived.’
One or two looked up but took no particular notice of this remark.
‘Indeed . . . Indeed, what an excellent idea!’ they agreed and congratulated each other on being the first to discover and name MacLeod’s Bay.
As it happened it was only a matter of time before Dr Dickson got himself a bay too. It was the following morning, just after the communion service where Drs Dickson and MacLeod and the Rev. Mr MacKenzie interviewed the fifteen St Kildan men who had been chosen for – and seemed fit to receive – the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. The communicants were all rather elderly and they shuffled in eager anticipation; their matted hair was greying on their bent heads and their bare feet were worn and twisted like the roots of old trees. The examination, conducted by Dr Dickson himself, took some time as his questions concerning the Scripture had to be translated by Mr MacKenzie and then reinterpreted by Dr MacLeod. After many hours the learned gentlemen from the mainland had satisfied themselves that the men were all worthy of receiving into their hands the symbols of the love of their crucified Saviour. Dr Dickson, on behalf of the Society, had already presented the humble kirk with a silver communion cup, a salver and a font. Everything was decent and in order. The fifteen St Kildan men who had been chosen to enter the Church of God were moved to tears by the ceremony and kirk-session that followed, witnessed by their kin.
Cheered and encouraged by this blessed event, Dr Dickson decided to go back to the Vulcan to preach a sermon from the ship’s deck. The first mate offered to take him in the small boat, but on entering this dinghy a trick of nature was played on the portly Dr Dickson. The tired swell – which had been resting against the beach all night and all morning – yawned and a lazy ripple swept the dinghy away from under the feet of the Reverend Doctor. And so it happened that this man of God, as witnessed by a congregation of near savages, toppled over and somersaulted into the cold swell of Village Bay. Swiftly retrieved from those unconsecrated waters, Dr Dickson was hurried aboard the Vulcan to change out of his wet clothes. Unfortunately he had not brought an extra pair of breeches and so had to wear a pair of trousers belonging to the first mate. The officer was a tall and lean man and it was plain to all that the trousers were an unusually bad fit. They could not be pulled up properly and so left a gap of about six inches, which Dr Dickson tried to cover up by tugging down his waistcoat.
From the shore MacKenzie watched Dr Dickson’s fall with increasing dread. What was supposed to have been the most joyful day of his career had turned into a shambles. It must not develop into something unworthy and ridiculous. He had wanted it all to work out well. Would the great churchman’s tumble undermine his own authority? He had worked hard and diligently towards this day for years. The thought that one of the islanders might in some way put him to shame in front of the guests had crossed his mind and worried him, but he could never have imagined that the action of the Rev. Dr Dickson would threaten to spoil the day. Eight years! For eight years he had strived to alter and better the minds of his congregation in order to prepare a handful of them for entry into the Church. And had he not, simultaneously, worked alongside his parishioners until his hands bled and the shirt tore from his back? Had he not broken his body to change the land and reshape the island so that it might be presented to the Lord’s missionaries on this day? And what now? Was it all in vain? He heard a peal of laughter and froze. Who was laughing? He was starting to feel nauseous. Stay calm. No need to work yourself up about this. No need. I will not be held accountable. There was nothing I could do.
He looked around for his wife. He wanted her next to him; he needed her to reassure him and to tell him that it was all right. It is all right. He turned but could not see her anywhere. Where has she gone? She is supposed to be here when I need her! Eventually he saw her amongst a group of people on the shore. She was laughing and talking to Anna and Mrs MacCrimmon as if nothing had happened. Or were they talking about him? His own wife! He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand and looked again. She had done her
hair up in the St Kildan fashion; her frizzy locks scraped back from a centre parting straight as the flight of the solan geese, and gathered at the nape of her neck. And she had neglected to wear her bonnet. How had he not noticed it before, on the landing rock? When did she start wearing her hair like this? Why had he not been consulted? So she thinks she is one of them now! He felt a sudden rage rising inside him and strode towards the group of women. ‘Mrs MacKenzie, I need you to see to our guests and make sure they are comfortable,’ he said formally. His voice sounded strange and too loud and he faltered when people around looked up at him and stopped talking. He felt his face redden a bit. Ridiculous hair.
Lizzie looked up at her husband. She could sense the anxiety in him and studied his face for a moment or two, trying to work out what to make of it, how to react, before looking away. The hustle and bustle went on around them. She sighed.
‘Of course, dear,’ she said lightly, and walked up to him. She linked her arm through his and led him away from the group of women. She smiled at people around them and leant in to whisper in his ear, her lips brushing ever so lightly against his neck, ‘It is all right, darling. You are doing fine.’
‘No, Lizzie, I feel peculiar – dizzy.’ Perhaps there was fear in his voice. ‘My mind is not strong. I feel torn and I don’t know any more what matters.’ He was sweating in the hot day.
Lizzie stopped and turned to him. ‘Look at me, Neil.’ She knew how important this day was for him and she mustered all the strength inside her and made him see it there inside her eyes, which were the colour of blue steel. ‘You made all this happen; you must follow it through.’ He relaxed noticeably at the tone of her voice. ‘Do you hear me? You must not fail now.’
He straightened and gave a short laugh. ‘Ha, how foolish of me to get into such a state. It must be the long journey and the rough sea.’ He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring beyond her out to the bay.
She let go of his arm then and moved off towards Mrs Ramsay and Miss Thomson, who were busy handing out a donation of black silk scarves amongst the local girls. There was a great commotion as the St Kildans tried on the new scarves. They had been donated by one of the passengers who owned a textile factory in Paisley. The factory clerk had miscalculated the production of goods for the national mourning at the King’s funeral the year before and they needed to get rid of some of the stock to make place in the warehouse. The excitement amongst the girls, however, was undeniable and they carefully arranged the scarves so that the merchant marks which had been left on were exposed like ornaments. Miss Thomson was helping them to tie the shawls over their hair or muslin caps while Mrs Ramsay was smiling benevolently from behind a lace handkerchief which she kept pressed against her nose. She had donated some of her own old dresses. They were only slightly frayed and torn and could, with advantage, be worn by some of the more mature ladies of the community. ‘On special occasions, such as for a ball,’ she shouted at one of these ladies. ‘Ah, please, Mr MacLean, can you translate? I do not think they understand what I am saying.’ She turned to the writer, who was loitering nearby with an amused look on his face.
MacKenzie watched his wife as she walked through the crowd and stopped here and there to chat with the visitors. He could still feel the warmth of her body along his side and the dizzy spell had passed. He felt much better and straightened his back and drew a hand through his hair as he smiled at Miss Thomson’s sister, the pretty one, who was lingering nearby. Still, I must remember to tell my wife not to wear her hair like that – it really makes her look ridiculous. She is not one of them.
As the sun began to set and a crescent moon appeared above the ragged crenulations of Dùn, the visitors prepared to leave in order to meet the tide in the Sound of Harris. Mr MacKenzie walked with Dr MacLeod towards the boats.
‘I wish to thank you, sir, for your kindness and generosity. I am much obliged and very grateful, naturally.’ MacKenzie bowed slightly to the older man.
‘Not at all, not at all, my friend.’ Dr MacLeod patted MacKenzie’s arm absent-mindedly. ‘We should be thankful to you. You have done an excellent job here.’ He stopped and looked out over the clachan. ‘They are far, far behind in the more ordinary arts of life; their huts are still not better than those of the Kaffirs, but their moral and spiritual condition is the most marvellous feature in their history.’ Dr MacLeod smiled at MacKenzie. ‘I believe that there are not of their number more holy persons on earth. As to this Sabbath day, it was one to be had in remembrance. I thank God I was here on this day. I have not passed a sweeter day on earth. Poor people – farewell – God bless them; we have added much to their comfort, and I hope to add more!’ Tears were welling in the old man’s eyes at this point.
MacKenzie, suddenly overwhelmed, could think of nothing to say.
Dr Dickson, who seemed to have regained his dignity while spending the afternoon and early evening aboard the Vulcan, pulled out a deckchair and placed his bible on it like on a pulpit.
It was an incredibly beautiful summer evening. Village Bay was framed by the looming hills of deep green; the peaks and crags seemed rounded and softened in the slow light and sent their velvet shadows far out on to the mirrored sea. The staccato laughter of a lonely herring gull briefly punctured the air. In the glowing evening it seemed too brutal; like a stabbing at night. Then silence was restored once more, only to be disturbed every now and again by the light sighs of the resting sea. The ship’s steward raised the flags in the rigging and their gay colours opened like a rainbow as the last of the sun broke and fell over the ridge of Conachair.
With his back turned on the setting sun and facing the Atlantic, Dr Dickson beckoned to the voyagers to sing Psalm One Hundred as the Vulcan rocked gently on her anchor. At once the song rose through the air and the birds around the bay woke again to give their own concert. In this manner the voices of men and birds joined in a rare song of praise to God and nature. The sermon that followed started with the words ‘I have set the Lord always before me’.
That July evening in 1838 was the pinnacle of the Rev. Neil MacKenzie’s mission. For one brief moment it all seemed perfect. The arched stretch of the new village along a proper street smiled at its future inhabitants. The sea fowl exulted as fifteen of the islands’ brightest souls were welcomed into the Lord’s family. The waves at Village Bay lapped warm under the setting sun as Dr MacLeod told him that he had succeeded, that his work was indeed an important part of the Lord’s mission. The stars’ silver shone out of the summer firmament as the Vulcan weighed anchor and sailed off into the world. And on returning into that other world, to Buchanan Street and Queen Street, to Moray Place and Charlotte Square, the voyagers would dine with the great and the good at tables dressed in damask and silver and they would remember the handsome minister of St Kilda and his zeal and enthusiasm. For a little while they would remember him and his extraordinary predicament.
But what happened on the island when the ship had sailed, when the prominent guests had departed, when all the tables, chairs and teapots had been distributed and when the glass windows had been fitted, one into each new earthen house? What then?
What followed was a harsh winter when the St Kildans, whose hearts had been full to the brim of God’s warmth that summer, turned cold and unenthusiastic. The ancient community which had thought itself complete, perfect and self-sufficient suddenly realised that it was nothing of the sort. Faced with the prejudices of the outside world they understood they were lacking in something important, something that would make them human in the eyes of the world.
The gales were severe and started just after the harvest. The sea sprayed salt over the newly shifted fields, and sheep were blown off the cliffs like drifting snow. The minister’s elder son lost his hearing to a howling storm. His senses did not recover until the following spring, when the birds returned and reached into his consciousness with their calls that carried the red heat of t
he African savannah and the fragrant winds of the Atlas Mountains. The minister continued to instruct the communicants still more fully in the doctrines of the Gospel. He held communion every Friday in order to inspire greater piety. He tried to force faith into his people, and in this way, every other Friday, a newcomer was added to the number of communicants. The significance of the newly bequeathed communion vessels filled the dull kirk, and soon their shining surfaces misted over with the breath of the congregation. But in spite of the minister’s fervent prayers his communicants’ hearts remained closed to the Holy Ghost.
The bad weather continued through the summer, and a series of gales prevented the ship from the mainland setting out. When it did eventually try the hazardous journey the seas around the island were so wild it had to turn back and did not attempt another landing that year. That autumn supplies were scarcer than ever. Had it not been for the visit of a privateer seeking shelter in Village Bay during an autumn storm, the islanders would have been near starvation. The St Kildans were no strangers to pirates and happily offered to trade with the armed villains. The women washed battle-worn clothes and the men mended ropes in exchange for dried meat and ship’s biscuit. The minister watched in horror as his parishioners traded with Satan, but when the captain of the vessel presented him with a case of smuggled wine, the gift was reluctantly accepted. The wine, mixed with hot water, made a fair substitute for tea in the manse as the winter approached.
Island of Wings Page 23
