While the Navy gathered its ships to vanquish the unarmed crofters of Tiree, a Cumberland-based Irishman named Kennedy offered to draw up a statement of the islanders’ grievances. He suggested that Charles Parnell of the Irish Land League would present the document to Parliament. When the crofters heard that the Marines were coming, they used the time-honoured method of blowing a horn to gather the men together to decide on their response. They decided that fighting professional and well-armed Royal Marines with sticks and stones would be pointless but still sent sentries to the hills and vantage points to watch for their arrival. Instead, the crofters boycotted those people who supported the Duke, including the island’s single hotel. As the hotel was not licensed to sell drinks, this may not have been a major problem for residents or the hotel owner.
There were the usual rumours, such as the story that the blacksmiths’ forges on the island were busy with islanders making spears to fight the Navy head-on, that women planned to roll great rocks down the mountains onto the Marines, and that there was a stockpile of sufficient firearms to start a small war, but none of these were true. The islanders got on with their lives while they waited for the Navy to arrive.
On 31 July 1886 the turret ship – a ship with a revolving gun turret – HMS Ajax, and the troopship HMS Assistance with the police boat Nigel, landed fifty police and 250 Royal Marines on Tiree. Nigel had shipped a special large open boat as a landing craft for the police. About a dozen crofters stood at the landing place at Scarinish but said little as the red-jacketed Marines marched ashore. The crofters had driven their animals from Greenhill Farm but now returned a token score of them. Ajax left Tiree on 5 August, as there was a heavy mist and the sea rose into a dangerous swell; her anchorage was insecure. She waited in Tobermory Bay on Mull.
Having already decided not to resist the landings, the crofters did nothing as the Royal Marines plodded ashore. Colonel Heriot, who commanded the Marines, was a man of tact and sense. Where he could have used a heavy-handed approach that would have led to resentment and perhaps fostered retaliation, Heriot instead encouraged his Marines to fraternise with the islanders, who responded with hospitality and free refreshments. All the same, the Marines acted as military escort to the Messenger-at-Arms, as around twenty police toured the island serving eviction notices to those crofters who had dared stand against the Duke’s authority. Most of the men who were served reacted in a polite manner, but one named John Kennedy reacted with ‘cagair mhor’, or ‘great evil’, and the mother of one man summonsed threw the document back out of her house.
There was some trouble at Kilkenneth. The Scotsman had run a story against the crofters, claiming that stones had been thrown, shots fired and had named three women as witches. When a reporter from the Scotsman arrived at Kilkenneth, he was subject to verbal abuse and an old woman said, ‘My prayer is that when he dies he may open his eyes in hell’ and, ‘If you were hanging on the gallows I would stone you to death.’ The reporter was probably quite relieved to withdraw physically unscathed.
The Hebridean weather was on the sides of the landless cottars; pelting rain drenched the police who were serving writs. On their initial march to the township of Balemartin, the Messenger-at-Arms, the police and the Marines experienced the conditions in which the Tiree crofters had to live and work. When Mr McDiarmid, the factor, told McNeill that Greenhill Farm was empty, he moved in without a single protest; indeed, his neighbours provided horses and carts to help carry his household possessions into his new home. The Land League crofters said they would not disturb him as their action had already had the desired result of calling attention to their situation.
When the Marines first landed the crofters were friendly, supplying them with free milk and food, smiling and talking to them. The islanders had no quarrel with the redcoats. The Marines, 250-strong and with twenty rounds apiece, marched in quarter column to support the police, who arrested the unarmed crofters. The rain continued so that the redcoats were soon sodden. As the military marched, the crofters blew horns as a warning of their approach and people began to gather to watch. In all, eight crofters were arrested, with one, Alexander McLean, proving elusive. He was not hiding but had been working elsewhere on the island. The police and armed Marines searched his sweetheart’s house and when he was not found, ten Marines and four policemen were left there in case he should come. The colonel gave the Marines orders: ‘Any man can defend himself, but don’t fire.’ When Donald Sinclair, local head of the Land League, was arrested a body of women shouted, ‘God bless you, Donald.’ A crofter named Donald McKinnon protested at being arrested and showed some resistance. ‘May God help you, Donald,’ one old woman shouted. ‘You are going away very innocently.’ Handcuffed and dripping in the rain, the men were marched away under the escort of armed Marines.
After the arrests and the display of force, the attitudes of the islanders altered. The free milk and food was no longer available and the crofters even refused to sell the Marines or police anything.
The arrested crofters were tried at the High Court in Edinburgh. They were Alexander McLean, Colin Henderson, Hector McDonald, John Sinclair, John McFadyen, Gilbert McDonald, George Campbell and Donald McKinnon. Lord Mure presided over a court that was crowded with well-wishers and the press, while a Gaelic translator was there to ensure the men understood the proceedings. Five of the arrested men were given a hefty six months in Calton Jail, the others four months – that was a far longer sentence than was expected. When the crofters and the Highland Land League protested about the severity of the sentences on first offenders that had hurt nobody, Arthur Balfour, the Scottish Secretary, did not deign to reply until November, when he said it was not his duty to interfere.
In the meantime, the crofters’ cattle were removed from Greenhill Farm and a token force of an inspector and ten men left on the island. By the beginning of September the island appeared quiet. McNeill was back in Greenhill Farm and the police spent their time searching vainly for illicit whisky stills. The estimated thirty to fifty shebeeners of the island frustrated every attempt by the bored police to try and unearth their stock of peat reek. The crofters watched their efforts with a wry smile, knowing the whisky was buried together with the distilling equipment under sand banks. The islanders needed their shebeens as since 1855 a ground officer had banned the use of whisky to anybody on a croft whose lease was less than £30 a year. As crofters and police played hide-and-seek, the gentlemen of the island joined the Marines and Navy in nightly sing-alongs and displays of the sailor’s hornpipe. As would be expected of British redcoats, the Marines had no difficulty in locating the shebeens and often returned to camp slightly worse for wear from the islanders’ whisky.
When the Marines eventually returned south after their sodden weeks in Tiree some claimed that they had found the expedition very trying. As well as the rain that put many on the sick list, there were the midges, which had free play when they were camped out in their bell tents.
The Napier Commission of 1883 had made a tentative start on crofting reform, but in 1886 pressure from the Highland Land League paid off. Gladstone passed the Crofters Act that gave security of tenure to crofters and fairer rents, with crofts now allowed to be handed to a successor, rather than being disposed of at the landowner’s whim. A Crofter’s Commission oversaw the Act and in 1887 they cut the rents on Tiree. For the cottars, however, the landless and most impoverished people, nothing was done.
There were other troubles to come, but the first battles had been won and the groundwork laid.
9
Troubled Relationships
As in any age, nineteenth-century marriages and families faced difficulties. Most often the troubles would be resolved within the family, but sometimes there were less legal reactions. One such was bigamy.
Bigamy
Bigamy is rarely encountered today, but in the nineteenth century it was a crime that frequently came to the courts. Whether this was because of the problems of communication or, more li
kely, the difficulty of obtaining a divorce is hard to judge, but each case was its own tragedy. One case that occurred in Inverness in October 1814 is probably fairly typical.
The man in question was John McDonald, a tailor in Perth. In 1804 he married Grace Blair in a normal Church of Scotland ceremony. The pair lived together in seeming harmony for a number of years, but in February 1814 McDonald approached Mr Condie, a Writer to the Signet in Perth, and asked if it was legal for him to marry another woman. Mr Condie replied that it was illegal when his first wife was still alive, unless they got a divorce. It was then that the reality of McDonald’s marriage became apparent.
Rather than married bliss, the couple were trapped in their own form of hell. Arguments were as common as Highland rain and McDonald’s friend George Knox spent a great deal of time and energy attempting to reconcile the irreconcilable. Even so, when McDonald informed Knox that he intended to marry again, Knox was astonished, particularly when McDonald seemed to lack any conscience about the act.
McDonald’s next choice of wife was Barbara Leslie, but only two days after the Reverend Duncan McIntyre had performed the service, he discovered that McDonald was still married to Grace Blair. It was unfortunate that Barbara Leslie was already carrying McDonald’s child, but that could not influence the decision of the court in finding McDonald guilty. He was sentenced to six months in jail.
Sometimes the two wives of a bigamist could meet in the court, as happened in the spring Circuit court at Inverness in 1860. The bigamist was named Donald McMillan and both his wives were present at his trial. The older of the two women was a Borderer from Coldstream in Berwickshire, the younger was from Ross-shire. When McMillan admitted his guilt, the young woman broke down and was weeping in court. Immediately as she did, the Coldstream woman came over to her, patted her shoulder and offered a handkerchief and sympathy.
‘Are you Donald’s other wife?’
‘I believe I am,’ the Ross-shire woman said between sobs.
The Coldstream woman nodded. ‘How many bairns do you have to him?’ she asked.
When the Ross-shire woman said she had mothered two children, but one had died, her fellow wife gave her sixpence. ‘And I wish you luck of him,’ she added, ‘gin he kick you as aft as he has done me, I fear you’ll be tired enough of him.’
Military men had arguably more opportunities for bigamy than those who had more settled occupations. In 1890 Frederick Chadwick was a lance-sergeant in the Royal Irish Rifles, based in Fort George, a few miles along the coast of the Moray Firth from Inverness. Chadwick had not always been in the Royal Irish; he had originally enlisted in the Seaforth Highlanders but had deserted and then signed up for the Royal Irish. In November 1884 he married Amelia Grace Thomson, a domestic servant at the fort. Unfortunately, he neglected to tell Amelia that he was already married to Ann. The judge sent him to jail for a year to brood on his matrimonial misadventures.
However, women could also be guilty of bigamy, and in the Inverness Circuit Court in April 1836, Catherine Fraser, although married to Donald Grant of Culcabock, admitted she had a second husband tucked away for her spare time. The court sent her to prison for a year.
The final bigamist in this short depiction is another woman, Catherine Finlayson or Mactaggart, who came from Lochcarron. In January 1897 she was charged with bigamy at Inverness Sheriff Court. She got her second surname when she married Private Mactaggart in Edinburgh in 1885. Despite the initial romance, their relationship rapidly soured and they lived an unhappy life in Sheffield. Mrs Mactaggart left her soldier husband and returned to the north of Scotland, where she met a merchant called David Pollock.
Perhaps she genuinely believed that her first husband was dead when she married Pollock, but not long after Mactaggart turned up at the railway station at Kyleakin. He asked Pollock for money, with the threat that if he was refused he would tell the world about the bigamy. When Pollock refused to give in to the threats, Mactaggart informed the police and Catherine Mactaggart found herself in front of the court. Sheriff Blair gave her only fourteen days, as she had suffered a terrible marriage with what was obviously an obnoxious man. Other marriages, however, were even worse.
Assaulting the Wife
Murdoch Macdonald was not happy in his marriage. In 1881 he lived with his wife in Inverness, but their relationship was punctuated by quarrels and ill feeling and late that year they began to argue seriously. Macdonald lost his temper and thumped her, somebody called the police and Macdonald appeared before the police court. The magistrate bound him over to keep the peace and keep his hands to himself in future.
The warning seemed to be enough, and for the best part of a year Macdonald behaved himself, except for the odd grouse and grumble. Then in early December 1882 he fell out with his wife again. Perhaps he remembered the police warning for rather than assault her he stormed out of the house and moved in with his brother in Union Road, about a mile from his own house. He remained there for a couple of days, brooding over his situation, and in the early morning of the eleventh he decided to do something about it. At about half past two in the morning he left his brother’s house and walked across town to his own house and let himself in.
His wife heard him enter and knew by the sound of his footsteps that he was not in the best of moods. She got out of bed just as Macdonald entered the room. Mrs Macdonald was not alone, for there was a sixteen-year-old maidservant with her, and both noticed that Macdonald carried an open razor in his hand. Macdonald began to shout at his wife, she retaliated, and then Macdonald grabbed her by the hair of her head. She tried to fight back and push him away, but he drew the blade of the razor across her face, from the corner of her mouth to her ear. Both Mrs Macdonald and the maid screamed, and Macdonald fled from the house.
He did not go far but threw himself into the River Ness in an attempt to commit suicide, but either he thought better of it, the water was too cold or he lost his nerve, for he struggled back onto land. He tried again a second and a third time but failing each time he returned home to see if his wife was badly injured.
In the meantime, the women’s cries had woken the neighbours, who came in to see Mrs Macdonald with her face ripped open and the blood pouring down. They sent for the police and a doctor. Both arrived within the hour to find that Macdonald was sitting by the fire, sodden and shivering. Dr Macdonald stitched and bandaged Mrs Macdonald and the police arrested her husband, who was eventually jailed. Mrs Macdonald may have been unfortunate in her choice of a husband, but other husbands were equally unfortunate in their choice of a wife.
Assaulting the Husband
In the Inverness Burgh Police Court on 31 Aug 1895, Elizabeth Robertson was charged with assaulting her husband. James Robertson, known as ‘Glasgow Jamie’, was a labourer. He was sixty years old and worked on the bridge then being built over the Ness at Waterloo. Elizabeth was a good ten years younger than James and liked her drink. When the drink took over, she started an argument with James, smashed an earthenware plate and slashed him across the neck with the jagged edge. James fell down with the blood pulsing out. He was rushed to the infirmary and for a while there were thoughts Elizabeth may have been charged with murder.
Death of a Wife
When a man and a woman commit themselves to marriage, they enter a private world, the rules and workings of which are known only to themselves. A matrimonial curtain descends between the couple and the outside world. There are many benefits to this seclusion, but in the rough, rowdy and often violent world of the nineteenth century there were often spouses who abused both their position and their wives or husbands. Sometimes the violence was verbal, sometimes physical and far too often it ended in a sordid murder by somebody who should have supplied nothing but love and loyalty.
The Loch Nevis death of 1830 was one such. Archibald Maclellan was the tenant of Kylesmorar in the parish of Glenelg, on the wild west coast of Lochaber. He was married to Catherine Gillies, but their marriage was not the most traditional. The couple m
ust have had some serious disputes, for ever since 1828, Catherine had lived as a wanderer, roaming the land and occasionally returning to visit her husband at his farm. When they were together, Catherine revealed her poor state of mental health and Maclellan would slap her into obedience. In the long absences of his wife, Maclellan sought the company of another woman, who shared the name of Catherine.
In June 1830 both the Maclellans were on one of their sporadic times together. They had a number of arguments, which appears to have been their way of communicating, or at least passing the time. It was surprising that Catherine had arrived at Kylesmorar, for Maclellan had made a number of threats against her during the past year or so. They argued again on 22 June and Maclellan grabbed her and thrust her head into a nearby burn.
Even after that assault, Catherine remained with Maclellan. What exactly happened next is not certain, but the local people thought they knew. Their version of it ran like this: On the morning of 25 June Catherine Maclellan walked alone by the shores of Loch Nevis. Maclellan followed her, either to talk to her, to renew their argument or purely by coincidence. Either way, the couple seemed to have a dispute and Maclellan lifted one of the many sharp, heavy stones that littered the side of the loch and cracked her over the head, on the neck and on the body. When Catherine slumped to the ground, Maclellan jumped on her, grabbed her by the throat and strangled her. She was either dead or unconscious when he dragged her onto a rock that protruded into the loch and threw her into the water.
Whisky, Wars, Riots and Murder Page 16
