Reunion: A Search for Ancestors

by Littrell, Ryan

  “I’ve looked through this before,” Judy said as she flipped through it, almost like she was shuffling a deck of cards. But then I thought I saw that familiar name again. When she turned back to the page, we found a list of the known children of Ezekiel Downing, Sr. The fourth one down was Elizabeth Downing, “Died 1853, Consort of John McDonald.”

  It all came together. Ezekiel Downing McDonald, Elizabeth’s son, was named after Ezekiel Downing, Sr. because he was Elizabeth’s father, Ezekiel’s grandfather. It was no coincidence that after her husband John died, Elizabeth and her children came to Lincoln County out of hundreds of counties in the United States. This is where her family already was. And now it made perfect sense that Eliza Ann, Hiram’s daughter, had been buried here. As Judy had said, everyone who was buried in this cemetery was a descendant of Ezekiel Downing, Sr., or at least was a spouse or in-law of a descendant. Eliza Ann was here because she was a Downing—on her father Hiram’s side.

  That’s when Judy and I looked at each other and realized we were cousins.

  We sat for a while longer as the sunlight dimmed, and we talked about our family, about what their lives might have been like, about what we could do to uncover more. Those things weren’t on my mind, though, as Judy and Bob and I exchanged phone numbers and email addresses, as we said goodbye, as I got in the car and headed back to my hotel.

  Because I just wanted to go back, now that I knew. I wanted to go up to Elizabeth’s grave. I would brush away all the dirt and make sure it wasn’t going to fall down, and then I would look around for a flower to place there. I would say: I know you never met me, and I know you don’t know my name, but I am from you, and I just wish you could see me. I wish you could see that someone knows who you were and what you did, and I won’t let anybody forget you, not ever again.

  CHAPTER 12

  A’ GHÀIDHEALTACHD

  Tha fhios agam nach bi ’nur cinn ach am fèileadh agus a’ phìob-mhòr nuair a smaoinicheas sibh oirnn.

  I know that when you think of us, you only see kilts and bagpipes in your head.

  But it has always been the less performed ways, the nods and understandings from the cradle, that have fastened us together, and these have reached far beyond my own glen. When I speak, for instance, of how Glen Coe people always took in strangers, I am speaking of something that has dwelled in all of the Gaels, throughout all of the Highlands and all of the Western Isles, not just here beneath the Three Sisters.

  This you will hear in the old saying: Bheirinn cuid-oidhche dha ged a bhiodh ceann fir fo ’achlais. (I would give him food and lodging for the night even if he had a man’s head under his arm.) Our ancestors knew that giving begat giving, that care begat care, and thus they said: Gus an tràighear a’ mhuir le cliabh, cha bhi fear fial falamh. (Until the ocean is emptied with a basket, the generous man will never be empty-handed.)

  They knew that there was no shame in coming to your fellow clansmen and clanswomen for help, so long as it was needed. No, the only shame was for those who turned a blind eye, because any of us, even the strongest, would one day face struggle, and even the weakest could one day regain their force. Nearly everyone saw this truth, and passed it on to their children and to their grandchildren: Beathaich thusa mise an-diugh agus beathaichidh mise thusa a-màireach. (Feed me today and I’ll feed you tomorrow.)

  There were many times, even, when the hungry but strong ones gave themselves up to the past and the future, because they kept in mind what they knew: Dà rud nach còir a bhith falamh: goile an t-seann duine agus làmh an leanaibh bhig. (Two things that should not be empty: the stomach of the old and the hand of the child.)

  It was for this reason that the greatest of them were those who gave the most. All people expected their clan’s chief to provide for anyone who needed help, and he would be praised accordingly. The most honourable chief was the one who followed the ancient custom of bord follaiseach, inviting clanspeople in need to come into his home and eat at his table for a year and a day. For the chief was a father, not a despot. His people were not serfs or peasants, but fellow clansmen and clanswomen. Only because they fought for him, only because their fields and cattle gave him sustenance, could he hold any power at all.

  Thus they reminded him: Far nach bi nì, caillidh an rìgh a chòir. (A king will lose his rights where there is no wealth.) Women and men alike took pride in their chief only because he merited it, because he and his ancestors had stood, always, with a honed blade, and had defended them without backing down. All of them understood this: Is àirde tuathanach air a chasan na duine-uasal air a ghlùinean. (A common person standing on his feet is taller than a nobleman on his knees.)

  You might hear me speak of battle, and perhaps think my people bloodthirsty, but my ancestors did not fight for the sake of power or lands alone. They fought, too, because their chief, their clan, and their home were worthy of being made known. Their chief’s courage, his generosity, reflected upon them because he was one of them, who inherited the same bounded soil, and loved the same mountains against the sky.

  That is why every sword’s arc was also a speaking. Their sprinting charge told of what was in them. Conquering for the sake of conquering was unseemly; only those with cramped spirits could covet yet more fields of pigs and barley. A chief already had enough snow peaks and salmon-flecked rivers. No, it was far better to die for your people on the battlefield, and be remembered, than to live in fat splendour until you expired, sleeping as ever, in a bed. All Highlanders knew: Is buaine bladh na saoghal. (Fame is more lasting than life.)

  Fame, however, only came to those of great honour, and honour only came to those with the daring to defeat the powerful. The greatest shame came to those who preyed upon the powerless: Is mairg a chuireadh farran air fann. (Woe to him who bothers the weak.) A true man did not attack needlessly, but once a foe worthy of him appeared, he would relent only with his life. An inscription upon a sword read: Na tarraing mi gun adhbhar, is na pill mi gun chliù. (Do not draw me without a reason, and do not return me without honour.)

  The great man ensured, too, that his clanspeople would remain with their land, always. Under our Gaelic law, a family had the right to remain on their land once they had lived there for three generations, for here was their dùthchas. Here was their heritage, their inheritance. Their land could no more be taken from them than could their memories be plucked from their minds. Their homes could no more be stolen from them than could their ancestors’ blood be removed from their veins.

  Clanspeople lived by their bonds to their neighbours, who were always their cousins, because their shared ancestors had brought them together for the rest of their days: Cha nigh na tha de uisge anns a’ mhuir ar càirdeas. (All of the water in the ocean could not wash away our kinship.) In all things, they remembered: Cha duine, duine ’na aonar. (A person by himself is not a person.) They belonged together in one place, generation after generation, for home does not speak the fleeting language of money.

  This, above all, has always puzzled the English. I do not mean to say that Englishmen know little of manners or family, but we have often noticed something rather lurking behind their comportment. There may be a quick, studying glance at the silver, just as a witticism first brings laughter all about the table. There may be hints embedded within questions, helpfully suggesting that the conversation turn toward matters of business. If such matters are not raised directly, one might encounter certain pleasant subterfuges, as another’s wealth is obliquely referenced while everyone pretends, naturally, to be embarrassed by the mere thought of it.

  Our understanding of wealth is found in the story of my cousin Alasdair MacDonald, chief of the MacDonalds of Keppoch. Once, Alasdair was in London at an elegant dinner, attended by a number of titled gentlemen, surrounded by all of the blaring signals of muted opulence. The host, at one point, spoke of the silver candleholders sitting at his table, and gently remarked
upon their great value. Alasdair was loath to give even the slightest offence to his host, but soon heard one of his fellow guests speak insultingly of the Highlands, and of Highland people.

  He looked about the table and said to all of them, “I could show you a dozen candleholders in my home that are far more valuable than these.” The Englishmen were in disbelief, quite sure that the Highlands were barbarous and deprived, and so they bet Alasdair a large sum of money that his twelve candleholders could not measure up to those of their host. Alasdair invited the host up to Keppoch, where he could see the proof.

  Several weeks later, the host came with his friend, a fellow Englishman, to Alasdair’s home, and Alasdair greeted them at his door with much warmth. The Englishmen had expected a great castle, but they found a home that was modest, by their standards. To the table were brought the bounty of the clan’s lands; the guests were handed venison from the peak of Beinn a’ Bhric, salmon from the river of Orchy, the freshest fruits, and strong whisky. Although the visitors enjoyed the food and drink, Alasdair noticed that they were eyeing his possessions. At this, he made a motion, and twelve of his best men appeared. Each of them held a torch in his left hand, a sword in his right.

  Alasdair looked at his guests and said: “You now see the candleholders of Keppoch, and I would ask you without any hesitation if there is enough gold and silver in all of England that could possibly buy them.” The guests saw that they had lost the bet, but Alasdair refused to take their money. Instead, he offered a toast to their health, and offered them full hospitality in his home for as long as they wished. They stayed with him for another week, enjoying his family’s smiles and tales, his bard’s poetry, and his piper’s songs.

  Those guests, as well as many of the Lowlanders within our own country, would be surprised to learn one truth, as they have exerted so much effort in the forgetting of it. That truth is this: For many centuries, our Gaelic hearth was the heart of Scotland, and we were at home in this land long before English ways came to us.

  Yet, even to this day, the English and the Lowlanders have disdained us. We have had our centuries of poetry, our ancient and respected laws, our engraved intricacies, and the reaching of our music, but they have always indicted us as savages. Their customs alone, their beliefs and their language alone, are to be considered civilised.

  Our ancestors brought Christianity to Scotland, but we held to many of the old ways of the Church, and so they called us heathens. Their princes never wearied of warfare, of pillage, and yet they looked to our clan battles and pronounced us murderous. They made their people into serfs, but said that clanship was primitive. They took so much land through conquest, they grabbed so much land through lawyers, and now they have even colonised much of the world, but when they heard of a Highland foray, they called us thieves.

  One of them wrote that we are “a savage and untamed nation, rude and independent, given to rapine, easy living, of a docile and warm disposition, comely in person but unsightly in dress…and exceedingly cruel.” A Lowland, Scottish king charitably divided us into two classes: “I shortly comprehend them all in two sorts of people: the one that dwelleth in our mainland, that are barbarous for the most part, and yet mixed with some show of civility: the other, that dwelleth in the Isles and are all utterly barbarous, without any sort or show of civility.”

  Another one wrote of us: “The Highlanders of Scotland are a sort of wretches that have no other consideration of honour, friendship, obedience or government....” Helpful churchmen of Glasgow have ventured that we “might yet become a noble accession to the Commonwealth,” but only if we are “brought to Religion, Humanity, Industry, and the Low Country Language.” The MacDonalds of Glen Coe, in particular, are “at a distance from politeness, and like many other rebels, drowned in ignorance.”

  Lying behind this sneer, behind this contented derision, has always been the force we call Mi-run mor nan Gall.

  The Lowlanders’ Great Hatred.

  CHAPTER 13

  W.D. AND

  GEORGE ANNIE

  I reached into my bag for the one book I’d brought along to Missouri. It was called Glencoe, with a cover that said: “The terrible story of the Highland Massacre.” On the front were two men in kilts, their backs to me. Their kilts showed the same tartan, green and dark blue, and one of them was holding a sword and shield. Over their shoulders, I could see what they were seeing, off in the distance: Flames and rising smoke. They were looking out from behind a few large rocks, with snow on the ground all around them.

  Now I was one step closer. By discovering Hiram’s mother, I’d also discovered his father, and so my McDonald family tree had a new generation, there at the top:

  Judy and I had spent so much time talking last night that I’d had trouble finding a place still serving dinner. One decent night’s sleep later, I was sitting in the restaurant at my hotel, not far from the courthouse in Troy, and I finished up my cereal, refilled my cup of coffee.

  The book I was reading, along with a few Internet sites, told me that the MacDonalds of Glencoe were also known as MacIains, after their first chief. For generations, the Glencoe chiefs took the name, and the English version of Iain was John. So Hiram’s father John might have been named after his Glencoe ancestors.

  Then again, John might have gotten his name because his family had already been Americanized, Anglicized. Maybe his parents named him John just because it was a common name on this side of the ocean. Certainly by the time John and Elizabeth were having children, in the early 1800s, the family wasn’t interested in Gaelic names, and maybe was opposed to them. Just look at Hiram’s siblings: Cyrus, Betsy, Rebecca, Darius, Thomas, James, Patsy, Nancy, and Ezekiel.

  Glencoe had been lost, too. My great-grandpa Lee, who’d been with me for all those hours, had probably never heard the word. So where on the family tree had the knowing been cut? Was it John who decided that the story was no longer worth telling, or was it his children, or was it closer to me, people I knew? And whoever it was, what made them think the story deserved forgetting?

  Maybe these things would show themselves once I uncovered John and his family, his brothers and sisters and parents. But for now, this morning, they were a mystery. All I knew for sure was that, sometime before 1830, Elizabeth came here to Lincoln County, Missouri with her children. It seemed likely that John had died before Elizabeth and the children made this move, but I couldn’t forget the possibility that there was something more going on—maybe Elizabeth and the children left for Missouri even though John was alive and well. Either way, it was clear that Hiram and his siblings went to be with his mother Elizabeth’s family, rather than with his father John’s.

  If I were going to uncover what happened to John, if I were going to uncover his family’s history, I’d have to look beyond Missouri. I’d have to search for the state and county where he and Elizabeth lived before the move. It appeared that they’d been somewhere in Kentucky, but how could I find the exact place? Where was I supposed to look?

  In the weeks before my trip, I’d already started asking these questions. Online, I’d been fishing for facts about the men and women I suspected were Hiram’s siblings, because even though I hadn’t found any hints about Hiram’s pre-Missouri life, I’d been hoping there were records about one of his brothers or sisters. I’d looked, and looked some more, but hadn’t had luck with any of them. Except for one.

  Typing in Cyrus’ name at Ancestry.com, I’d found a family tree that had been contributed by one of his descendants. It listed his wife and then the place where they’d been married: Warren County, Kentucky. It made sense that Cyrus got married before the family came to Missouri, since the 1830 Lincoln County, Missouri census showed Cyrus and Elizabeth as the only heads of household with the McDonald name.

  I’d been keeping this Warren County, Kentucky allegation in the back of my mind, not wanting to get ahead of myself. But that
was before yesterday, before going to Judy’s house. Now that I knew Hiram was the son of Elizabeth and John, I could say, with near certainty, that he was the brother of Cyrus. And if they were brothers, and if this family tree at Ancestry.com were true, then Hiram must have been in or near Warren County at some time before 1830. Perhaps that’s where John’s family lived, and where John passed away.

  I could see my next step—searching for records in one wooded, hilly county in southern Kentucky.

  For now, though, I was finishing up breakfast at my hotel and glancing at newspaper headlines. Glancing, rather than reading, because my mind was on something else. I saw Elizabeth’s gravestone again, almost as I’d seen it yesterday afternoon, behind Judy’s house. The inscription on the gravestone had told me: Here lies Elizabeth Downing McDonald. The remains of her body were right there, just below where I was standing. This wasn’t about her; it was her. Against that concreteness, a record or a picture has the consistency of air.

  Among the chances never given to Elizabeth was this one chance to be next to John again. There couldn’t be a gravestone inscribed with the easy phrase “John and Elizabeth McDonald,” because his body was away. His name had to stand in for his body.

  And see how his name defined her: She was called “Elizabeth, Consort of Jno. McDonald.” In the tiny space allotted to her life story, her gravestone didn’t tell us what kind of mother or grandmother she was, or whether she was uncommonly devoted to God or whether she was admired for her integrity, and it said nothing about the toughness and courage she must have shown. Her identity as John’s wife seemed to take precedence over all of the other things that she was.

  But what I knew about Elizabeth didn’t suggest that she was submissive. She moved her family to Missouri without getting remarried, raised several children on her own, ran a working farm without a husband, and even bought land in her own name when she was in her sixties. Besides, it wasn’t as though she’d been compelled to have John’s name on her gravestone; in the two cemeteries I visited, there were several married women whose gravestones didn’t give their husbands’ names. No, the inscription probably read “Consort of Jno. McDonald” because Elizabeth wanted it to—or because her children knew that’s what she would have wanted.