Entry Island (29 page)

‘People of Baile Mhanais. I am here to inform you that the notices to quit served upon you fourteen days since have now expired. I ask you for the sake of peace and good order to leave now, or I shall have no option but to sanction your forcible eviction.’ His words might not have been understood, but his tone is.

I feel anger well up inside me. ‘And if someone came, Mr Jamieson, and asked you to leave your home, how would you feel?’

He raises his head a little as if to see me more clearly. ‘If I were in arrears with my rent, young man, I would have no option but to comply. The law is the law.’

‘Aye, your fucking law!’ shouts someone with a good grasp of the English vernacular.

‘There’s no need for that kind of language!’ the factor says sharply.

‘How can we pay rent when we have no money and no means to earn it?’ I turn at the sound of Donald Dubh’s voice at my shoulder and see his face as grey as the ocean. I am surprised to hear him speak English.

Mr Jamieson sets his jaw against the tone of the debate. ‘I am not here to discuss the social issues involved. Only to enforce the law. I’m warning you that this is an illegal gathering, and that if you do not break it up and leave peacefully I will be forced to read you the Riot Act.’

I have no idea what the Riot Act is, or what the reading of it might entail, but the factor translates his words into
Gaelic and they return an uneasy silence to the crowd. No one moves, and the Sheriff-Depute reaches into an inside pocket to bring out a sheet of paper which he proceeds to unfold.

‘For God’s sake!’ the factor says. ‘If he reads you the Riot Act and you pay it no heed, they can hang you for it.’

Which sends a chill through the gathering. But still no one moves. Mr Jamieson clears his throat and his voice rings out. ‘Our Sovereign Lady the Queen chargeth and commandeth all persons being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves …’ A stone comes out of the crowd, striking him on the forehead. His hat spins away and he drops to one knee, his copy of the Riot Act fluttering into the mud. His hand goes to his head, and the blood that oozes through his fingers seems vividly red against the white of his skin.

Macaulay hooks a hand under his arm and pulls him to his feet. ‘You bloody fools,’ he shouts at us. ‘You’ve brought this on yourselves.’

He drags the Sheriff-Depute away, the man slightly stooped and still clutching his head. His hat lies in the mud where it fell, and I see how thin his hair is, greying and oiled back across his scalp, and he seems less a figure of authority now, than simply a man humiliated. If I did not know what was about to happen, I might even feel sorry for him.

The two men are halfway up the hill when Macaulay shouts to the men at the top of it, and there is the briefest lull before a great yell goes up and the charge begins.

Down the hill they come at a gallop, thirty, forty of them or more. The constables at the front, batons raised, shouting at the tops of their voices as they charge. It is a moment that chills the blood. And the crowd responds. A hail of stones flies through the air towards the advancing policemen. Their helmets offer some protection, arms and batons raised to fend off the missiles, but some are struck about the face or head. Several stumble and fall. But it does not stop the assault.

More stones are hurled, but they are almost upon us now and I hear the first crack of a skull as a baton descends upon a head. A man I know well. A crofter from the beach side. He goes down.

It is mayhem! The voices of men and women in one-sided combat rising up into the still morning air. A bloody cacophony. I see batons rising and falling before my eyes, like the shuttles that fly back and forth across the weave on a loom. I have kept back my stone, but I swing it now, held in my fist, and smash it into the face of a young constable before he can fell me with his baton. I can feel and hear his teeth break, and see the blood spurt from his mouth as he drops.

We are falling back under the onslaught, fending off blows with our arms and hands. I have no idea where my mother and sisters are. I am assailed by the sights and sounds of battle. Those first villagers to have fallen are now being mercilessly kicked and beaten. No matter if they are women or children. I see a teenage girl, who lives three
houses away from us, lying screaming on her back as two constables stamp repeatedly on her breasts.

And then I catch sight of the pitiful figure of old blind Calum staggering about, his Glengarry trampled in the mud, arms raised to shield himself from blows he cannot see. A man who once fought for Britain at the Battle of Waterloo. Struck down now by a vicious blow from a young man not even born when Calum was fighting for his freedom. His head divides almost in two and he falls, blood and grey matter oozing from his broken skull. Dead before he hits the ground.

I am so enraged I lose all control, charging at the bastards, screaming at the top of my voice, swinging my fists like a madman, catching one in the face, another in the throat, before there is a crippling blow to the side of my head and I feel my knees fold beneath me. The world goes black and silent.

*

I have no idea how long I have been unconscious. The first thing I am aware of is a terrible searing pain in my head. And then the light. Blood-red at first, and then dazzling white. And I have to screw up my eyes against it.

I can’t move, and for a moment I panic, thinking that I am paralysed. Before realising that a man lies on top of me. I manage to pull my legs from under him, dragging myself up into a half-sitting position against the wall of the blackhouse behind me. And I see that the man who lay on me is Donald
Dubh. He is looking at me, eyes staring. But he sees nothing. There are other bodies on the path. Men, women and children. Most still alive, but dreadfully injured. I hear the muted moans of semi-conscious villagers in pain. Somewhere in the distance a woman is wailing. I roll my head to one side and see her running away across the shore, feet sliding and slithering in the shingle. Two constables chase after her. They catch her near the jetty and beat her to the ground before starting to kick her mercilessly.

It is like my worst nightmare. But there is no waking from it. Further up the slope, between the first two blackhouses at the top of the village, estate workers led by the distinctive ginger head of George Guthrie are dragging an old woman from her house. Old Mrs Macritchie. Eighty if she is a day, and bedridden for months. I remember that she was one of the women who were there the day my mother gave birth to Murdag.

She is still lying on her mattress as they drag her from the house and tip her into the mud. Her nightdress rips open, and I see her pitifully pale wizened old body. Her cries of protest are trapped in her throat like a swallowed whisper. And they start to kick her, these men. I cannot believe I am witnessing such inhumanity, such total absence of compassion. I look away and feel tears searing my cheeks, bile rising in my throat.

I scan the village through my grief. Most of the villagers are gone, it seems, though I have no idea where. And I know
that I must get away before George and his crew find me. For then I would be as good as dead, too.

I manage to get to my knees and fall into the narrowest of alleys between two houses. It is damp and dark here and smells of human waste. I crawl along the space on my knees and elbows to where the barns behind the houses are built almost into the side of the hill. The ground rises steeply here, thick with heather and fern, rock breaking through thin topsoil. I get to my feet and pause to draw breath and steel myself. The moment I have climbed above the level of the houses I will be in plain view to anyone in the village. It will take a monumental effort to reach the top of the hill, for there is no path and it is almost vertical in places.

Someone is sure to give chase. But they will likely take the track up from the village, which is the long way round, and if I have the strength for the climb it will give me a good head start.

I reach above my head to grab handfuls of heather root and start pulling myself up the first few feet, searching for footholds. I am propelled by a mixture of both fear and anger, straining muscles in my shoulders and thighs, and I climb quickly. Up now above the roofs of the blackhouses. A quick glance to my left sees one going up in flames. Just as at Sgagarstaigh, the men from the estate are armed with flaming torches, setting fire to roofs and doors.

I hear a shout go up below. I have been spotted. At first I daren’t turn to look, and keep climbing, spurred on to even
greater effort. Clambering over an outcrop of rock now, before sprawling flat when I get to the top of it, and rolling over to look back down the hill. Flames leap up from more roofs. I see my own blackhouse on fire, and remember all the summers my father and I laboured to strip off the thatch for fertiliser before renewing it for the coming winter. The roof timbers send sparks showering up into the mist as they collapse.

A group of constables have detached themselves from the others and are running up the path to try to cut me off. But not twenty feet below me I see George Guthrie in direct pursuit. His face is upturned, contorted by effort and determination, and is almost as red as his hair.

I am on my feet in a moment, and throwing myself up the slope with renewed vigour, slithering and sliding as my hands and feet search for grip. Mostly I am having to pull myself up with my arms and aching shoulders. When finally I reach the top of the hill I stand up straight on shaking legs and look back down on the village that was once my home. The whole place is ablaze. A cheer going up as another roof collapses.

Away to my left I see a long line of villagers being led up over the rise towards Sgagarstaigh hill. Those who can’t walk are crammed on to carts with what few belongings they have salvaged. Many of the men are in irons, stooped and bloodied and struggling to stay on their feet, struck on the shoulders by batons if they stumble.

And there, among them, is my mother. Herself in irons. Her face streaked with blood, staggering, almost running to keep up. Small, rapid steps, limited by the chain that loops between her ankles. Annag and Murdag running at her side, catching her arms to stop her falling.

My sense of guilt is crushing. I have let them down. I have betrayed my father. And worse, I know there is nothing I can do about it.

I hear George’s breath now, hard and hollow and tearing itself from his chest. He is no more than ten or fifteen feet from the top. I stoop to pick up several rocks and throw them at him. One strikes him on the shoulder, and he lifts an arm to protect his head. In doing so he loses his grip and slithers back down to the rocks below. But I am distracted by the shouts of the constables on the path, who are heading off across the hilltop towards me.

Their shouts turn heads among the lines of villagers being forced away towards Loch Glas, and I see my mother and sisters look in my direction. But there is no time to dwell on my guilt. I turn and run for my life. Away across the crest of the hill, following a track worn by the hooves of countless deer, winding its way through the heather, circumventing great chunks of rock that lie at odd angles across the slope. Splashing now through a small stream in spate. Arms pumping, head back.

Away to my left, and far below, I see the arc of silver sand that is Traigh Mhor, and the stones that stand as silent witness to
the generations who have gone before me. They are a stark reminder that it is my relationship with Ciorstaidh that has brought this calamity upon us.

For the first time I glance back and see George in dogged pursuit. Several hundred yards behind him the constables are losing ground, weighed down by heavy boots and rain-soaked uniforms. But George is fast and fit, well-fed and fuelled by fury. I know that in the end he will catch me.

I grit my teeth and run on, arms and legs pumping air into screaming lungs. Away off to my right now, I catch a distant view of Ard Mor nestling between two hills, the flat leaden calm of the bay beyond almost completely lost in the rain. And I keep going, the slope of the land and the deer path pitching me back towards the coast, where thirty-foot cliffs of black rock have held back the relentless assault of the Atlantic ocean since time began.

I see distant islands through the mist, and in a rare break in the low cloud, a shaft of weak sunlight splashes silver on the surface of the sea.

The machair along the cliff tops is relatively flat, the grass well-grazed and short. Thistles catch my bare feet as I run, skipping over rocks and splashing through patches of bog. My spirit urges me to keep going, but my body is yelling at me to stop. I am almost blinded by sweat, and through it I see the machair fall away to a partially hidden cove where the silver of its tiny stretch of sand is almost phosphorescent in the froth of an incoming tide. I follow the track down to
the beach and I know that George is going to catch me there. No sense in expending more energy. As my feet sink into soft sand I realise it is time to stop and face him.

I stagger to a halt, leaning forward for a few moments, my arms taking my weight on my thighs, trying to catch my breath. Then I straighten up and turn around.

George is almost upon me. Just a few yards away when he slows to a stop, breathing hard. His ginger hair is darkened by the rain and his sweat, and falls in lank curls all around his forehead. He looks at me with such hatred and contempt that I very nearly wilt under the force of his gaze.

‘You little shit!’ he says. ‘Did you ever in your wildest dreams really believe you could be with my sister?’ He draws a long-bladed hunting knife from a sheath on his belt and extends his arm out to his right, the haft of it firmly grasped in his fist, the blade glinting in my direction. ‘I’m going to gut you like the animal you are.’ He glances over his shoulder back along the cliffs. There is no sign of the chasing constables. ‘And not a witness in sight to say it wasn’t self-defence.’

As he advances slowly on me, I plant my feet wide to brace myself for the assault, keeping my eyes fixed on his knife hand. He is so close to me now I can smell him. I feel that he wants me to meet his eye. But I won’t take mine off his knife, and decide on an impulse to take the initiative. I hurl myself forward, turning side-on so that my shoulder hits him full in the chest, and I grab his right hand with both of mine.