by Ian Todd
“There was a time when we had three people working here…back in the good old days, that is. Now? There’s nothing. All the young people are leaving…there’s no work. Since Hamilton took over the fleet and expanded the sheds down at the harbour, he brought in Heckie MacLeod’s own people. It’s the same with the houses. He’s been buying everything up and turning them into holiday homes over the past six years. There’s no work for the young ones. Look at old Anchris’s daughter, Angelina? She’s been gone five years now.”
“Anchris…Angelina?”
“Angelina, who now owns Little Vestey’s Croft…or at least she did, the last time I spoke to her at her mother’s funeral.”
“Oh, that Angelina. Aye, she’s oor landlord, although Ah’ve never met her. Who’s Hamilton?”
“Robert Hamilton. Comes from your neck of the woods. Him and his family moved up here about ten years ago. Although his daughters go to school locally, he’s usually only here at the weekends. He’s some sort of big shot accountant back in Glesgie. Everyone calls him The Laird, but he’s no more a laird than I am Blackbeard The Pirate.”
“Oh, Ah widnae say that,” Johnboy said, no being able tae contain himsel, as they baith smiled. “So, he’s some sort ae a lord or something?”
“Anyone who owns land in Scotland can give themselves a title and call themselves a laird,” he spat dismissively, offering the bottle across tae Johnboy fur a refill before filling his glass up efter Johnboy shook his heid. “Why, even I can call myself Laird of Achmelvich if I wanted to. He bought Inver Estate, out on the Inverkirkaig Road, after old Grenville MacKenzie died and the family sold it to cover the death duties. None of the other members of the family have lived around here since the 1950s, preferring to live up in Bettyhill, where they own fifteen thousand acres. Not long after him and his family moved in, he started fencing the property off with barbed wire. The estate owns a two-mile beat of prime fishing rights on Elder’s Pool. The title of Laird of Lochinver appeared under his name on the ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ sign he had Heckie MacLeod put up. That was before anyone had heard of Assynt Development Holdings, his company. At the time, everyone thought it was amusing, apart from the fence, that is. The locals had been fishing at McKenzie’s Drop since the days when the old MacLeods owned forty thousand acres of land about here. As time went by and he started splashing his money, buying up properties and turning them into holiday lodges, people chust accepted his title. He’s a bad apple, make no mistake. People about here are either plain stupid or can’t see the wood for the money he throws about.”
“And this Heckie wan? Who’s he?”
“He’s Hamilton’s factor…or, should I say, hatchet-man. He’s the one that carries out all the dirty work. Hamilton’s been trying to get his hands on Little Vestey’s Croft for years. Old Anchris wouldn’t sell it…why would she? The MacLeod branch of her family have had it for generations. Gave her a hard time, so he did. That’s what finished her off in the end,” he assured him, as Johnboy’s ears pricked up. “It’s the same with me. When I refused to sell the few acres I have here, I’ve been targeted ever since.”
“Targeted?”
“I pushed the boat out yesterday morning. Bloody thing filled with water before I realised. The bottom of the hull had a hole in it the size of my bloody fist,” he spat, haudin up whit looked like a mallet. “Thankfully, it’s repairable. A couple of holiday makers helped me pull it out.”
“Aye well, ye’re no alone there,” Johnboy confessed, telling him aboot whit hid been happening across at the crofthoose. “The latest wan wis getting a trench dug across the track doon by The Road Tae Naewhere.”
“A crow nailed to your front door, you say?” Flintlock asked him, frowning.
“Aye, a big basturt, so it wis.”
Silence.
“I thought you were one of Heckie’s boys…that first day,” Flintlock admitted, changing the subject.
“So, why is he being allowed tae get away wae it? If Ah catch the basturt, he’ll know aw aboot it, so he will.”
“Who’s to stop him?”
“The bizzies…polis?”
“Phhfft!”
“Ye mentioned others?”
“Eh?”
“Who’re being targeted.”
“There’s three parcels of land that Hamilton’s after other than this place, all surrounding the car park at the Youth Hostel.”
“Is that the wee wooden building doon at the turn oan the road fae us?”
“Aye.”
“Ah wondered whit that wis. Ah thought that it wis maybe public toilets or something.”
“It’s a public beach with full access. Behind me, Findlay MacLeod has a long strip amounting to two hundred acres. His family has been scraping a living off it for generations. There are remnants of old buildings from the clearances, that can still be seen from the roadside, as you go down towards the Lochinver Road.”
“Aye, Ah think Ah clocked them when Ah wis walking doon tae the wee path at the end ae Loch Dubh that takes ye in tae Lochinver.”
“Aye, well, there’s others scattered about. In the early nineteenth century, the area about here was thriving…until The Clearances. The MacKenzies owned half of Assynt. The Sutherlands were always eyeing it up, waiting to take it over if the opportunity ever came up. Their chance came in 1757 without a shot being fired. They bought it from the MacKenzies, which allowed them to pay off their huge debts to the crown. Whilst the clan chiefs were happy, the clan members weren’t. There was a lot of bad blood…still is. Although the clan fell apart, a lot of the old family clan members who were left, refused the call to arms by the Sutherlands. The first clearances about here started in 1812. The Sutherlands decided to turn Assynt into three big sheep farms. The MacKenzies were a spent force long before that. Between 1812 and 1820, a hundred and sixty families, mostly MacKenzies, were thrown off the land. Some ended up down in Ullapool. God knows what became of them. Between the church and the Sutherlands, they made sure that the population of the area never recovered. They were desperate times. Brothers turned on brothers. Galbraith’s, the local land agency, who are still operating, hired Harry MacKenzie as the local land factor after most of the clan were evicted. People talk about Patrick Sellar, The Duke of Sutherland’s factor across on the east coast. He was brutal, but some say Harry MacKenzie was much worse. The difference between them was that Harry MacKenzie died before he was fully rewarded for his deeds whilst Patrick Sellar owned some of the biggest sheep farms in the Highlands after being rewarded by the Old Duke. The ghosts and the rubble from the crofts are still visible, scattered throughout the area.”
“Talking ae which, whit’s the score wae crows aboot here? Ma other hauf heard that people ur scared ae them…and that there’s a mega-scary wan. Your reaction when Ah mentioned a crow getting screwed oan tae ma front door, suggests there’s something in there aboot the story. Something tae dae wae a wee boy or something.”
“Now, where the blazes did you hear about that, laddie?”
“No long efter we moved in, this big thing suddenly turned up and sat oan oor shed roof fur a day. Ah never clocked it masel. It wis ma other hauf that saw it. She also seemed tae think that it wis following her. Some auld ex-nurse mentioned the story tae her, efter she came across the big basturt sitting oan a rock doon at Ledmore Junction, no long efter she started her job. Scared her witless, so it did. Fur some unknown reason, Senga believes it’s the same wan that wis up in Clachtoll the day she birthed a stillborn wean. Ah think the auld nurse is winding her up. She went aff in the huff and didnae finish telling me the full story aboot it…”
“Oh, that will be Miss…”
“Don’t tell me…another MacKenzie?” Johnboy asked, butting in, as they baith chortled.
“Aye, laddie, Miss MacKenzie,” he replied, smiling. “She knows all the old tales, legends and bad omens up here in Sutherland…whilst some may be true, there are others…well, let’s chust say that she has a lot of time
on her hands, does old Miss MacKenzie.”
“So, is the crow story a heap ae shite then? Ah’d furgoatten aw aboot it until this morning.”
“This morning? What’s so special about this morning?”
“When Ah goat up and went oot tae gie Senga’s car a wee wash doon wae the hose, the thing wis back. The instant Ah clocked it, Ah knew right away that the wan that hid been nailed tae ma front door wisnae Senga’s wan. It hid been far too small. It wis the spread ae the wings that hid fooled me intae believing it wis her wan. Apart fae the big eagle that passes o’er the crofthoose roof, this is the biggest bird Ah’ve ever clapped eyes oan in ma life. There it wis, staunin up oan the roof ae the shed staring doon at me…aye, and it didnae look too happy wae whit it wis looking at, either. Christ, Senga will hiv kittens when she comes hame and sees that thing up there, so she will.”
Silence.
“In 1821, after the MacKenzies were cleared, The Sutherlands turned their attention to what was left of the MacLeods,” Flintlock said, efter taking his time refilling his glass. “Like the MacKenzies before them, The Sutherlands were pretty successful and scattered the MacLeods to the four winds…that is, apart from your present landlord’s ancestors. The problem with Little Vestey’s Croft was that old Ailsa MacLeod, the matriarch of the family at the time, owned the land. The family had been given it for services rendered to the crown in the late seventeenth century by William of Orange. Ailsa’s great grandfather was Dutch and although unusual for the time, was allowed to marry one of the MacLeod maids…probably because all the men were already dead. His name was Don Majestik. Anyway, back to Ailsa. The Sutherlands tried to get her burned at the stake as a witch. If you think what the present Laird gets up to, then it was nothing to what went on in those dark days. Other than the present crofthouse sitting on the land, there was another building there. It was situated chust at the start of the path that leads up to the burn, where you get your water from currently. Your shed sits on top of where it was. The Sutherlands accused Ailsa’s brother, Brodie, of deliberately contaminating the water that not only supplied Little Vestey’s Croft, but one of the Sutherland’s tenants further down on the Clachtoll Road, near the turnoff to Achmelvich Beach. The burn was an underground one. Anyway, The Sutherlands sent the Army in and arrested Brodie, taking him off to Ullapool in chains. Now, Brodie’s wife, Mhairi, died giving birth to a boy ten years earlier. The boy was baptised Samuel Majestik MacLeod. On the day they arrested his father, Old Ailsa, along with everyone else across at yours, was already in custody either down in Lochinver or in Ullapool, where she was waiting to be tried as a witch. The boy had been left to fend for himself. In retaliation for arresting his father, the boy blocked the water supply off from the Sutherland tenant down on the Clachtoll Road. Galbraith’s, the land agents, sent up Harry Mackenzie to deal with the situation. When he arrived with a couple of redcoats, the boy stupidly loaded an old musket that Brodie had hidden in the rafters and fired through the door as they approached. After running for cover, MacKenzie shouted for whoever was in the house to come out with their hands up. After half an hour, with no sign of anyone surrendering, Harry MacKenzie ordered the redcoats to burn the house down. Like all the houses about here in those days, the roof was thatched. Ten year old Sam MacLeod perished in the fire. The heat had been that ferocious, no-one could find any remains afterwards. There was an enquiry of course. MacKenzie claimed he didn’t know that it was a boy that had fired at him and the soldiers. Mind you, the outcome, other than how he died, would have been the same. Anyone firing on a soldier in those days would have been hanged, including a ten year old boy. After being cleared of any responsibility, Harry MacKenzie celebrated in The Black Crow Inn, now called The Inver Hotel. No-one could remember him leaving to go home that night. Anyhow, he was discovered dead in his bed the next morning. When they found him, his eye sockets were empty. His eyes had been eaten by what everyone believed at the time to be a crow. There was only one witness…a seven year old child, Angelica Mackenzie. She claimed that she’d spotted a boy climbing out of Harry MacKenzie’s bedroom window. She said that the boy looked over at her before diving off the windowsill. She’d screamed and covered her face with her hands. When she’d looked through her fingers, the boy had disappeared. The only other living thing she saw that night was the biggest crow she’d ever seen in her life, flying down the middle of the main street towards the Culag smokehouse, now the Culag Hotel, and harbour. You can imagine the shock and horror. All the menfolk in the area spent the next month killing every crow they could find within a twenty-five mile radius. They tried to blame Old Ailsa at her trial for casting a curse on him. Whatever it was, the legend or black omen of An Dubh Majestik, The Black Majestic of Assynt, was born. Over the years, some crows slowly returned, making their way north from Ullapool or over from the coast in the east, but they were usually slaughtered on sight. It still happens to this day. The legend has persisted ever since.
“So, people reckon the crow is the wee boy that died in the fire across at oor place?” Johnboy asked, feeling sick and excited at the same time.
“Young Sam? He was the direct descendent of old Don Majestik. You mentioned Ledmore Junction. That was the last place that someone claimed to have sighted him. It was said that it stood five hands high…”
“Five hauns high?”
“About eighteen to twenty inches, laddie. It was also said…by who, I don’t really know…that anyone who came across it died within a month. Interestingly, three people who claimed to have seen it all died within a month.”
“Whit, they wur murdered?”
“No, but the fact that they died after claiming to have seen it was enough. No-one talks about it nowadays. It’s a bad omen that people try to ignore.”
“So, when wis the last official sighting ae it then?”
“On the first of July 1901, work had to be done on the burn, as the one leading down to the Clachtoll Road collapsed and was also flooding The Road To Nowhere. James and Jamesina MacLeod, Old Anchris’s parents, had to block the burn off up at the apex. While they were at it, they decided to clear the debris and rubble from the fire of 1821. During the work, they came across the burned bones of a child. It was obviously Sam. He’s now buried somewhere out the back of your crofthouse. Beside Sam, they also discovered the charred bones of what they believed was a large crow. Six weeks before Sam was discovered, Seoras Mackenzie was walking up from Vestey’s Bay and claimed to have come across An Dubh Majestik. Seemingly, he was in some state and headed straight to The Inver Hotel, where he held everyone captive with his story. Most people thought he’d had too much ale. He died four weeks later. Right up until last December, when Old Anchris died, any crow caught on Little Vestey’s Croft or any other croft in Sutherland for that matter, has always been shot. Old Anchris was pretty lethal with a shotgun, laddie,” Flintlock said, smiling.
“And dae you believe it…the story, Ah mean?”
“I was born here in the Highlands, laddie. I’m chust as superstitious as everyone else about here. As for crows? They’re supposed to be very clever creatures. I think they’re best left alone, that’s what I believe.”
“Aye, well, fae whit Ah kin gather, maist ae whit ye’ve said ties in oan whit the auld yin, the retired nurse, telt Senga. Your angle oan it sounds a bit mair gruesome than hers though,” Johnboy said, as the baith ae them smiled.
“It is strange though, when you think about it.”
“Whit is?”
“You…coming across a big crow this morning.”
“Why?”
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Thursday.”
“Aye, laddie. Thursday…the first of July…the same date as young Sam MacLeod was found and buried across on Little Vestey’s Croft back in 1901 by James and Jamesina MacLeod,” Grizzly Chops said, nodding across tae the hill oan the other side ae Achmelvich Beach, towards their crofthoose.
Silence.
“So, then,” Johnboy sa
id, quickly changing the subject. “Back tae the latest situation wae this laird wan. Whit’s the score there then?”
“Whilst Findlay and Arlene’s land would be attractive to Hamilton and his lackeys for rebuilding the cleared houses and turning them into holiday lodges, the land is too near the road…and prying eyes. Your nearest neighbour, Ewan and Iona MacLeod’s three hundred acres opposite your dirt track and the land surrounding Little Vestey’s Croft is what he’s really after.”
“Whit? There’s land attached tae oor place?” Johnboy asked, sounding surprised.
“Old Anchris owned and now Angelina owns a hundred and seventy acres from your gate on The Road To Nowhere, past the croft all the way down to Vestey’s Bay.”
“Dis that include the bay itsel?”
“No, laddie, the public can still access the bay, but they need to use the track beside you to get down there. Yes, it’s a fine beach, but why bother when there’s Achmelvich? Old Anchris never advertised the fact that the track was there. There were never any signs and anyway, after passing access to your croft, the road comes to a dead-end, two miles further up. The one the locals call The Road to Nowhere?”
“So, let me get this straight. If this Laird guy, or whitever he’s called, kin take o’er the land roond aboot oor place and the neighbours opposite us, then it means he kin dae whit he wants…like make as much noise as he wants when he’s affloading boxes ae fish oan tae the back ae Bedford trucks doon oan Vestey’s Bay?” Johnboy asked him, trying no tae laugh at the shocked expression oan Grizzly Chop’s face. “Aye, Ah wis doon there the other night. Ah saw everything…including you, skulking aboot the rocks oan the other side ae the beach fae where Ah wis sitting.”
