Reunion: A Search for Ancestors

by Littrell, Ryan

  Salmon and herring came to Loch Leven, especially in spring and summer, when they flipped about in our nets and came back for cleaning, and then hung above fires. Red deer lived all across the moor of Rannoch and up in the mountains. With luck, one of them fell to a good aim, a good stalk, while sheep and goats remained closer, chomping near our beds and giving clothes and milk. Away from their bleats and teeth, but close enough to our houses, the oats grew in long rows by barley and kale.

  For all that, we mostly depended upon our cattle, the long-haired and stocky ones, the ones who could feed so many. The seasons moved around them. All winter, they stayed close to us, near Carnoch, and on the field by Achnacon in the middle of the glen, and on the meadow beside the loch of Achtriachtan. Here we could give them what extra food we had, but we had little to spare. Sometimes, we, too, did not have enough, and it was then that we had to bleed them, to make the black sausages which we first gave to the children, and next to the old. Even when we had enough for ourselves, many of the cattle died in the barren of the cold.

  In spring, however, with the grasses growing, they gained their strength and began to fatten as April became May, as we celebrated the festival of Bealltainn. Soon after the festival, we herded them eastward, some to the grasses below Buachaille Etive Beag and some onto Am Monadh Dubh, the Black Mount, the plateau overlooking the moor of Rannoch. There they would graze for months.

  Everyone came along with them, adults and children, sleeping in temporary huts called shielings, as the cattle fattened more and the streams filled and dropped into the river below. The men hunted deer and boar, practised as archers, and looked after the cattle, because raiders could creep at any time. The women helped repair the huts at first, and then made butter and cheese and spun wool, and when autumn approached, we all returned with the cattle into the glen.

  By sunset of the last day of October, when we celebrated the festival of Samhuinn, most of the remaining cattle were killed and salted, and so they would help to bring us through the winter. We celebrated this Samhuinn, this harvest, as it always had been celebrated, as it had been celebrated even before the cross came.

  Yes, in the early 7th century, Fintan Mundus came to the glen from our cousins in Ireland and brought the Christian faith to us, and we have held fast to Christ. We are, still, unmatched in our devotion.

  But we have not let go of the old knowledge. We have not forgotten that our ancestors understood much. They knew that if An Duine Mor, a giant man, was seen walking at night, disaster would soon come. A water-bull, stronger and fiercer than any land bound one, lived within the loch of Achtriachtan, and fairies were in the woods. Rowan trees protected against witches. When a person was laid to rest in the burial isle, he had to stand watch over the graves until the next soul was buried there, and at night, from across the loch, people saw lights moving upon the isle. In the River Coe, foretelling sadness, the Bean Nighe would show herself, a phantom woman who washed her shrouds in the passing water. We also knew that a few people possessed the Darna Shealladh, the Second Sight, which gave them visions that told of the future.

  For those who did not have the Second Sight, the plain view could be enough. The plain view told all of our old stories.

  It was there, upon the burial isle, that Fintan Mundus once preached, lived, and built his church. Next to it lay Eilean a’ Chòmhraidh, the Isle of Discussion, where disputes had always been settled. On the field of Achnacon, Fionn MacCumhail and his giant warriors once defeated Viking invaders who had sailed into Loch Leven. When another band of Vikings sailed in, their ship sank at the entrance to that same loch, and although most of the men drowned, their leader survived by clinging to a boulder known as Clach Pharuig, which remains visible at low tide. Standing beneath Aonach Dubh, the leaning mountain, we could look up and see the cave where Fionn MacCumhail’s son Oisín composed his verses.

  When we speak of this glen, even now, we use a word that you do not quite have. When I say dùthchas, I hear something that your tongue divides into two. You say “home” and “heritage” as though they are two different things.

  But for us, dùthchas has always been both: My home is my heritage, and my heritage is my home. I am tied to this land because my parents and grandparents were here, and the ancestors as well, in this same glen, walking beside that same loch, walking up into those same hills. Too, I inherited their poems, their principles and allegiances, just as I inherited their land. I brought their convictions into myself just as I came to know the shapes of our peaks, and I have lived in their warnings just as I have lived in their house.

  So it is that we have always taken in strangers. Home is so abundant that we can share it with a newcomer, yet never run out. My home, this glen, belongs to me, but it is not a fortress, with a moat of darting eyes or wary questions.

  No, it is a place for meeting, for opening, because I have nothing to fear in my own house. I have nothing to hide. I have only welcomes to give, and good herring and venison, and a roof that will keep out every drop of the rain. I have only a good piper, I have only the clear water of the Coe. I have only the shields and swords of the greatest clan, the sons of Conn, who have won battle after battle, and still bow to no one. To close the door to a stranger is to show fear; to let him in is to share my strength.

  When we remember the Feinn, the giant warriors who once lived here, we speak of courage in battle and prowess in hunting, but also of generosity to newcomers, of feasts that fed any who came, hungry, into the glen. How could Fionn MacCumhail, or any great man, turn away a stranger in need? Imagine being a traveller coming into a far away place for the first time. Imagine being cut off from home, from all of its assurances, its protections. Imagine being away from all of your family, not knowing for certain whether they are alive or dead, not knowing for certain whether all of your children have kept their strength. Imagine not knowing whether you would have enough food.

  That is why all Highland people, all of the Gaels, remember Alasdair Ruadh MacGregor, the Chief of the MacGregors. One day, while Alasdair was at home in Glen Strae, his son went hunting with several other MacGregors. Soon they encountered the young chief of Clan Lamont, who happened to be travelling through MacGregor territory. Toward the end of the day, Lamont and the MacGregors decided to go to a local inn, where they drank and ate together. A dispute arose, however, and Lamont stabbed and killed Alasdair’s son. In the confusion, Lamont was able to escape, pursued by the MacGregors. Lamont eluded the MacGregors all night until, at break of day, he came upon Alasdair’s house.

  Not knowing who Alasdair was, Lamont asked for shelter and protection, and Alasdair agreed, taking Lamont in. Almost immediately, the MacGregors arrived and saw that Alasdair’s guest was the same man who had murdered his son. They told Alasdair the truth, and pleaded with him to hand over Lamont, so that they could avenge his son’s death.

  But Alasdair refused. To allow vengeance would be to betray his promise, and hospitality was sacrosanct. Along with twelve armed MacGregors, he escorted his son’s killer back to Lamont territory and let the man go.

  Throughout the Highlands, it has always been known that no one can best the MacDonalds of Glen Coe at hospitality, not even the MacGregors. If you were away from home, and came to us, you would see our welcome. You would have nothing to fear. For however many days you needed shelter and food, you would have them. You would have whisky, a fire and a good bed, and perhaps, soon, our home would come to seem a bit less strange to you.

  CHAPTER 11

  1816

  This nervous feeling came up in me as I looked around the yard. I started walking toward the house, reciting my speech: Hi, my name’s Ryan Littrell, and I’m sorry to bother you, but I was doing some Internet research, and it said there was a cemetery here, I think it might be on your land, and I think one of my ancestors might be buried there.

  But before I could get to the front door, a wo
man who looked to be in her forties opened the side door and stood without coming closer.

  “May I help you?”

  “Hi, my name’s Ryan Littrell, and I’m sorry to bother you, but I was doing some Internet research, and it said there was a cemetery here, I think it might be on your land, and I think one of my ancestors might be buried there.”

  She looked down and paused, like she was saying to herself, well, OK. “And who’s your ancestor?”

  “A woman named Elizabeth McDonald, but I’m not completely sure she’s my ancestor. I’m just pretty sure.”

  She nodded, as if the name rang a bell, and shut the door behind her. She walked toward me and smiled. “My name’s Judy Downing.”

  As we were shaking hands, I made the connection. “As in Ezekiel Downing?”

  “That’s right. Well, my married name is Collins, but Ezekiel Downing was my great-great-great-grandfather. He came here in 1816, and the land’s been in our family since.”

  She invited me in. Her husband Bob would be home in a bit, she said. It was dinnertime, so I offered to come back some other day, but she would have none of it, and we started exchanging family stories. She told me about Ezekiel’s days as a pioneer in Kentucky, how he died within a year of settling with his family here in Lincoln County, how her father had done a lot of research on the ancestry of Ezekiel and his wife Rachel Brown. Judy was descended from their son Ezekiel Downing, Jr., and her family had compiled a list of everyone buried in the cemetery, including Elizabeth McDonald.

  Bob came home just then. He was glad to meet me, and chatted with Judy and me about the search for Hiram’s ancestry. I told them why I suspected Elizabeth might be Hiram’s mother, and then mentioned my attempt to visit Hiram and Nancy’s grave down the road. “Oh, I know the man who owns that land,” Judy said. “If you wanted, I could give him a call and see whether we can get in there while you’re here.”

  The next thing I knew, she was dialing the phone. “Hello, Ron? This is Judy Collins, how are you doing? That’s good. Yes, we’re doing fine here, too. Listen, there’s a man here I’ve been talking to who has some family members buried in that old cemetery down the road from us. Do you think if he and I went down there, we’d be able to go in? That would be great. Oh, I see, OK, I’ll make sure to close the gate when I leave. Thanks a lot, talk to you later.” It turned out that the two ends of the lock could be pulled apart without a key or combination—it was only there to keep cows from getting through the gate.

  Yes, I was about as smart as your average cow.

  Because of the insects and the brush at the cemetery down the road, Judy would have to change clothes before taking me there, and Bob offered to go with me in the meantime to the cemetery behind their house. We went out the back door and made our way through the soybean field, row by row.

  The cemetery was only about half the size of a tennis court, and Judy’s list showed that only about fifty people were buried here. We went through the gate and looked around us: Old tombstones, covered with moss and dirt, some leaning over, some cracked to pieces. Weeds growing up over the stones. Judy’s list said that Elizabeth was buried in the first row, which was probably this row here, the one closest to the gate. The stones were mostly illegible, but on this one, a thin and plain rectangular slab, I thought I could make out the letters “McD.” We brushed off the moss and some of the soil, but the letters were faint from erosion.

  Bob had an idea, though—rub some dirt over the inscription. I’d heard of people doing the same thing with flour, so why not? We shoveled some earth into our hands and took turns spreading it over the letters and brushing away the little clods until only a layer of dust remained. With every handful of dirt, a few more letters showed, so that the inscription appeared gradually, as when a photo is developing in a darkroom, and you can make out an eye at first and then the curve of a smile, and then the details fill in and a person fades into view. Her tombstone read:

  IN

  memory of

  ELIZABETH

  Consort of

  Jno. McDONALD

  BORN

  Sep. 11, 1783

  DIED

  Nov. 16, 1853

  Aged 70 years

  2 mos. 5 days

  “Consort” was simply another word for spouse, and it usually referred to a wife rather than a husband. We looked nearby for John’s grave, but he wasn’t buried here. That wasn’t a surprise, though. Since Elizabeth was listed as the head of her household in Lincoln County in 1830, John probably died before then, somewhere. Still, why did Elizabeth move to Missouri after John’s death?

  As I was asking that question, Bob saw what looked like part of a tombstone sticking out from under a thin layer of soil next to Elizabeth’s grave. When he brushed off the dirt, we could see that some time ago the tombstone had broken off at the bottom and was lying on the ground with its inscription facing up. It read: “Ezekiel D. McDonald, BORN May 24, 1815, DIED Jan. 14, 1859.” He wasn’t in any of the online transcriptions, and he must have been Elizabeth’s son; not only was he buried next to her, but from the census records, I knew she was part of his household in 1850, toward the end of her life.

  And that middle initial jumped out at me: Ezekiel D. McDonald. Ezekiel Downing McDonald. Elizabeth’s son was named after the man who had owned this land—Ezekiel Downing, Sr., Judy’s ancestor. Notice one other thing: Ezekiel McDonald was born in 1815, a year before Ezekiel Downing, Sr. migrated with his children to Missouri from Kentucky. So Elizabeth must have been in Kentucky by 1815, because she knew Ezekiel Downing, Sr. by then, and she knew him well enough to name one of her children after him.

  There was one other grave I wanted to see. We found it not far from Elizabeth and Ezekiel. The carvings of angels on one of the four sides caught our eyes, but the stone had toppled over, breaking off from its base, and it was lying in weeds. Bob and I pulled it up from the ground, and brushed off the dirt and the insects until we saw her name: Eliza A. McDonald. Here was Eliza, daughter of Hiram and Liza Ann, and the opposite side of the same stone gave the name of Mary A. Tilford.

  Eliza Ann had been buried next to her aunt Mary, her mother Liza Ann’s sister, but no one else from the Tilford family was here, and I wondered why, out loud. Bob said he didn’t know, but anyway he thought he’d try to find a way to put this stone back up to where it was supposed to be. We tried to balance it on top of the base that it had been separated from, but it wouldn’t stay. So we had to settle for leaning it up against the base. We looked down at it, and Bob looked at me, and I looked at Bob, and we decided our quick fix was good enough for now.

  As we walked back to the house, Bob said he planned on taking the time to clear the weeds and refurbish the tombstones soon. I turned around to take one more look at the cemetery—the little circle of trees and moss covered tombstones out in the middle of the soybean field. Crickets were chirping now, and there was the humidity on my skin and the itch of new mosquito bites. The sun was back, and it had warmed up a bit even though evening was approaching.

  Back inside the house, Judy was ready for the Bryant Creek Cemetery: Thick overalls and heavy boots. As she and I walked toward her truck, she said all her siblings and cousins had moved away, so she was the only descendant of Ezekiel Downing, Sr. still living on the land that he bought back in 1816. Heading down the road, I told her about my moves, from my childhood in Chatham to college near Chicago to law school near Boston to my job in New York. I was about to tell her I sometimes wished I hadn’t moved around so much, but we were already there, pulling off to the side of the road in front of the gate.

  The lock opened easily, and it was only a few more steps to the cluster of old tombstones sitting in the tree shade. Judy said she’d always thought about visiting this cemetery, but never had. The undergrowth was thick, and where there was grass, it hadn’t been mowed for some time. As I looked up and around, the sun shimmered h
ere and there through the branches and leaves. I looked down and began scanning the tombstones, but then I didn’t have to, because I could see that familiar name. Their tombstone was under a tree, right at the cemetery entrance. A single flower was etched in the upper left corner, and the inscription read:

  H & N McDONALD

  BORN NOV. 12, 1806

  DIED OCT. 27, 1882

  BORN DEC. 16, 1818

  DIED JUNE 17, 1910

  The first set of dates was for Hiram, the second set for Nancy. Notice, Judy said, how new the tombstone is, compared to its base. The original tombstone had been replaced by a smooth, marble one. The thought occurred to us that some unknown cousin of my great-grandpa Lee, another descendant of Hiram and Nancy, must have had the new stone placed here, maybe because the old one had eroded or cracked.

  Judy walked off to look at other graves, and I turned my eyes from Hiram and Nancy’s gravestone to the ground in front of it. I reached down and touched the soil, and felt the grass growing up. There was quiet all around.

  On the drive back to the house, where my car was waiting, I figured that my visit was coming to a close, and thanked Judy for all her help. Sure, she said, but she was wondering about something.

  Elizabeth McDonald, Eliza Ann McDonald, and Mary A. Tilford had always stood out in her mind, she said, because she knew that everyone else who was buried in the cemetery was descended from Ezekiel Downing, Sr., or at least was a spouse or in-law of one of his descendants. She asked me whether I had time to come back in for a minute, and I took her up on the offer and followed her back in.

  After saying hello to Bob and giving him an overview of what we’d seen, Judy went back into her office and came back with a bundle of papers. We sat for a while, going through copies of old wills and family letters, but there was nothing about Elizabeth or Eliza to be found. After a while, we came across a bundle of documents that her father had put together, compiling the family’s records and setting out the results of his searches.