Fògradh, Fàisneachd, Filidheachd

by Duncan B. Blair

  When this fir dried from the smoke and heat of the fire it grew hard and combustible, flammable and incendiary as gunpowder, and in a moment the houses were ablaze. The men and strong boys were on the moor looking after the cattle. At home there were only the old frail men, the women and the little children. Although they tried their best to save as much as they could from the flames, the fire was so intense and rapid that, as well as the wood of the houses, much of the poor people’s furniture also burned. The screaming of these poor creatures, the terror and the despair which could be so clearly seen in their faces, along with the strange bellowing and pitiless shouts of the oppressors, cannot be told or described in speech. Patrick Sellar could be seen there, like a devil, directing, ordering and inciting those who were doing the work of destruction. Many of the poor victims died of fright, cold and distress. Old men took to the woods and went berserk. Pregnant women went into premature labour and many of the small young children died of cold and infirmity.

  Patrick Sellar went with ten men to the upper part of a place called Rossal to set fire to the houses. When they reached the house of William Chisholm, the smith, in Bad-an-losgainn they found Chisholm’s mother-in-law lying in bed with age and illness. The men were scared to set fire to the house, since the woman was close to 100 years old. They waited patiently until Sellar arrived and explained the situation to him. His answer was: “The old devil of a witch has lived too long; set fire to her and burn her.” He and his men then set fire to the house. The blankets, on which she was carried out by her own daughter, were scorched by the flames. When the old woman saw the house burning she shouted: “Oh, God! The fire, the fire.” They took her out and put her in a sheep’s bothy that was nearby. She never uttered another word and five days later she died.

  (17 Dùbhlachd 1892)

  Cataibh 4

  Ann am mìos a’ Mhàirt fhuair mòran ann an sgìreachd Farr agus Chill-donnain bàirlinn a chum falbh às an croitean aig a’ Chaingis a bha ann an dèidh sin. Gus a’ chùis a dhèanamh cinnteach, agus gu cabhag a chur riutha gu falbh leis an sprèidh, chuireadh falaisg ris an fhraoch far am b’ àbhaist do ’n sprèidh a bhi ag ionaltradh san earrach, nuair a bhiodh an t-innlinn gann. Rinneadh so le òrdugh Phàdraig Sellar, a ghabh am fearann aca son gabhail chaorach dha fhèin. Chaidh an duine mallaichte so an sin, agus chuir e teine ris na taighean aig an t-sluagh bhochd. Bha so furasta a dhèanamh, oir bha an ceann-fhiodh agus na cabair air an dèanamh de ghiuthais blàir, seann chraobhan giuthais a bha ’nan laighe anns a’ mhòintich bho chionn chiadan bliadhna.

  Nuair a thiormaich an giuthas so le smùid agus teas an teine, dh’fhàs e cruaidh lasarra, so-loisgeach, tein-abaich mar fhùdar gunna, agus ann an tiota chaidh na taighean ’nan smàl. Bha na daoine agus na gillean làidir anns a’ mhonadh a’ sealltainn an dèidh na sprèidhe. Cha robh aig an taigh ach na seann daoine breòite, na mnathan, agus a’ chlann bheag; agus ged a thug iad so oidhirp air na b’urrainn dhaibh a theàrnadh bho ’n lasair, gidheadh bha an teine cho dian bras, le tiormachd a’ ghiuthais, gun do loisg chan e mhàin fiodh nan taighean, ach mar an ciadna mòran de ’n àirneis aig na daoinibh bochda. Gaoir nan creutairean truagh sin, an t-uamhann, agus an t-an-dòchas a chìteadh cho soilleir riochdail nan gnùis, maille ri nuallanaich allmharra agus caithream ain-iochdmhor an luchd fòirneairt, cha ghabh so innseadh no a chur an cèill ann an cainnt. Chìteadh Padraig Sellar an sin, cosmhail ri deamhan a’ stiùireadh, ag àithne agus a’ stuigeadh nan daoine bha ri obair an lèirsgrios. Fhuair mòran de na creutairean bochda am bàs leis an eagal, le fuachd, agus le h-ànradh. Theich seann daoine do na coilltibh agus chaidh iad thar am beachd. Thàinig saothair roimh ’n mhithich air mnathaibh leth-tromach, agus bhàsaich mòran de’n chloinn bhig, òig, le fuachd agus droch càramh.

  Chaidh Pàdraig Sellar le deichnear dhaoine ’n àird gu bràigh àite d’am b’ainm Rossal a chur teine ris na taighibh. Nuair a ràinig iad taigh Uilleim Shiosail, an ceàrd, ann am Bad-an-losgainn, fhuair iad mathair-chèile an t-Siosalaich ’na laighe air leabaidh leis an aois agus leis an euslaint. Bha eagal air na daoinibh teine chur ris an taigh, oir bha a’ bhean faisg air ciad bliadhna dh’aois. Uime sin rinn iad foighidinn gus an d’thàinig Sellar, agus dh’innis iad da mar a bha a’ chùis. Se am freagradh a thug e: “Seann bhana-bhuidseach an diabhail, tha i tuilleadh us fada beò; cuiribh teine rithe agus loisgibh i.” Chuir e fhèin ’s a dhaoine an sin teine ris an taigh agus bha na plaideachan, air an tugadh a mach i le h-ighinn fhèin, air an dathadh leis an lasair. Nuair a chunnaic an t-seann bhean an taigh ’na theine ghlaodh i mach, “O, Dhia! An teine, an teine.” Thug iad a mach i agus chuir iad am bothan chaorach i a bha faisg air làimh. Cha do labhair i facal riamh tuilleadh agus an ceann chòig làithean fhuair i am bàs.

  (24 December 1892)

  Sutherland 5

  The work of disaster started by Patrick Sellar continued relentlessly, driving people out of their homes until the land was turned into a place of desolation without any inhabitants.

  There were three large sheep farms in Strathnaver, and one of them was twenty-five miles long and nine or ten miles wide. He had 26,000 sheep in these places, where two or three thousand people had previously lived. Two men from the north of England had another large farm with 100,000 acres of good grazing. A hundred families could have been supported on this land and each family could have had a thousand acres of grazing for their animals.

  Because the people had been removed from Strathnaver, the church was no longer needed and it was knocked to the ground. The wood was carried away to build an inn at Alldy-Charrish, and the minister’s manse was converted into a house for the fox-hunter.

  A certain woman went through the strath the year after it was depopulated and when she returned someone asked her: “What’s your story?” “Och!” she replied, “It’s a sad story! A sad story! I saw the wood of our church making a roof for the inn at Alldy-Charrish. I saw the cemetery where our friends are lying full of sheep smeared with tar. I saw the room where Mr. Sage used to prepare his sermons, as a dog-pen for Robert Gunn’s foxhounds; and I saw a crow’s nest on the top of James Gordon’s chimney!”

  Patrick Sellar set fire to the houses in the districts of Farr, Rogart, Golspie and Kildonan. Groups of men were sent with torches to set the poor people’s houses ablaze. About 250 houses were burned together one night. This conflagration lasted six days, until all the houses were an inferno of smoke and fire. The smoke was so thick going out to sea that a boat lost her bearings on the ocean. When night fell she managed to find her way to the harbour by the light from the fires and the flames rising from the burning houses.

  Two thousand people were living in the district of Kildonan, but they were all moved out and their houses incinerated. A man named Donald MacLeod came back years later to see his native land in Kildonan. On Sunday he went to the church, which was now the size of a dovecote. But, unfortunately, there were no doves there, only eight listless shepherds, about twenty or thirty dogs, and three of the minister’s family. That was the entire congregation.

  When the sermon was finished and they began to sing the 120th Psalm, which has the words “Woe is me that I sojourn in Mesech,” the four-footed congregation began to sing their own music. The dogs jumped on the seats and started horrible howling, barking and bawling. The shepherds set upon them, beating them with their crooks here and there. This made matters worse rather than better. The baying and whining lasted until the end of the service. What a sad change in the place where hundreds of people used to gather to worship God!

  (24 December 1892)

  Cataibh 5

  Obair na dunach air an do thòisich Pàdraig Sellar lean e air adhart gun stad, a’ cur an t-sluaigh a mach às na taighean, gus an robh an tìr air a tionndadh gu bhi na nochd-làraich luim gun duine a’ comhnaidh innte.

  Bha trì gabhalaichean mòra chaorach aige ann an Srath Namhair, agus bha aon diubh so còig mìle fichead air fad agus naoi no deich de mhìltean air le
ud. Bha sia mìle thar fhichead de chaoirich aige anns na h-àitibh sin, far an robh roimhe sin dà no trì de mhìltibh sluaigh a’ còmhnaidh. Bha gabhail mhòr eile aig dithis de mhuinntir taobh tuath Shasainn anns an robh ciad mìle acaire fearainn a bha math air son feuraich. Dh’fhaodadh ciad teaghlach a bhi air am beathachadh air an fhearann so, agus mìle acaire bhi aig gach teaghlach air son ionaltraidh an sprèidh.

  A chionn gun do dh’fhògradh an sluagh a mach à Srath Namhair cha robh feum air an eaglais na b’fhaide agus leagadh gu làr i. Chaidh am fiodh a bha innte a ghiùlan air falbh gu taigh-òsta a thogail an Alltan-a’-Charraigh, agus rinneadh taigh-tàimh a’ mhinisteir a thionndadh gu bhi na fhàrdaich aig a’ bhrocair a bhiodh a ruagadh nan sionnach.

  Chaidh boireannach àraid troimh an t-srath air a’ bhliadhna an dèidh an di-làrachaidh, agus nuair a thill i air a h-ais dh’fheòraich neach dhith, “Ciod an sgial a th’agad?” “Och!” arsa ise, “Tha sgiala brònach! Sgiala brònach! Chunnaic mi fiodh na h-eaglais againn ’na thughadh air an taigh-òsta aig Alltan-a’-Charraigh; chunnaic mi an cladh far am bheil ar càirdean ’nan laighe làn de chaoirich air an smeuradh le teàrr; agus chunnaic mi an seòmar far am b’àbhaist do Mhr Sage a bhi cnuasachadh a chuid searmoinean, ’na fhail chon aig tolairean Rob Ghuinne, am brocair; agus chunnaic mi nead na feannaig air mullach simileir Sheumais Ghòrdain!”

  Chuir Pàdraig Sellar teine ri taighibh an t-sluaigh ann an sgìreachdan Fàrr, Roghairt, Ghoillspidh agus Chill-Donnain. Chuireadh buidhnean dhaoine le leusan teine a mach a chur fadaidh ri ionadan còmhnaidh an t-sluaigh bhochd. Bha mu thimcheall dà chiad gu leth taigh a’ losgadh còmhla ann an aon oidhche. Mhair an comh-losgadh so sia làithean, gus an robh an t-iomlan de na taighean ’nan smùidrich agus ’nan smàl. Bha an deathach cho tiugh a’ dol a mach air a’ mhuir, as gun do chaill bàta a cùrsa air a’ chuan. Ach nuair a thuit an oidhche dh’amais i air a’ chala le soillsean nan teintean agus na lasraichean a bha ag èirigh bho na taighean a chuireadh ri theine.

  Ann an Sgìreachd Chill-Donnain bha dà mhìle sluaigh a’ còmhnaidh, ach chuireadh air falbh iad uile gu lèir agus loisgeadh an taighean. Thàinig fear d’am b’ainm Dòmhnall MacLeòid air ais a dh’fhaicinn tìr a dhùthchais an Cill-Donnain, an dèidh bhliadhnachan a dhol seachad. Chaidh e do’n eaglais air an t-Sàbaid a bha nise air fàs cho beag ri taigh chalman. Ach, mo thruaighe, chan e calmain a bha innte, ach ochdnar chìobairean slaodach, tuaiream fichead no deich thar fhichead cù, agus triùir de theaghlach a’ mhinisteir. B’iad sin uile an coithional.

  Nuair a sguir an searmon agus a thòisich iad a’ seinn an 120mh salm, far am bheil na briathran “Mo thruaighe mi gu bheil mo chuairt am Mesech” thòisich an coithional ceithir-chasach air an ceòl fhèin a chur suas. Leum na coin air na suidheachanaibh agus thòisich iad air burralaich, agus ulfhartaich agus donnalaich oillteil a dhèanamh. Dh’èirich na cìobairean orra, ’gan slachdadh leis na cromagan, thall sa bhos, ach cha do rinn so a’ chùis na b’fheàrr ach na bu mhiosa. Lean an tabhannaich agus an dèileann gu deireadh na seirbhis. Bu truagh an caochladh! Far am b’àbhaist na ciadan sluaigh bhi tional gu adhradh do Dhia.

  (31 December 1892)

  Sutherland 6

  Patrick Sellar was detested by the people for the awful work that he did. When he approached any village the people shook with fear and ran out of his way, like mice before a cat. The women went into hysteria and frenzy. One woman went so much out of her mind that she never regained her senses. When she saw someone whom she did not recognize she would yell with a fearful screech: “It’s Sellar! It’s Sellar!”

  A complaint against Sellar was eventually sent to the Duchess and he was brought to court in Inverness, before the Red Lords, in 1816. But he suffered no penalty. Not many more than a quarter of the witnesses were called and those who were had the least to say against him. The jury comprised sheep farmers, lawyers and landowners. The witnesses were questioned in Gaelic, but translated evidence is not as strong or as effective as direct evidence in the language of the court, especially if the interpreter is incompetent or dishonest, and if he doesn’t translate correctly or justly. The outcome was that Sellar was freed, because the jurors did not find him guilty.

  Although the court did not declare him guilty, he was guilty in the eyes and opinion of the people. To this day his name is putrid in Sutherland. Not only that, there are old people at Barney’s River who find his name loathsome and disgusting. There are old women at Barney’s River, who can dance with ardour and mirth, and who sing a humorous, satirical and vituperative ditty composed about Sellar in Sutherland. You would think their heads would hit the rafters or the ceiling as they leap and spring from the floor while singing like thrushes in the bushes on a May morning.

  Oh the black tinker! Oh the black tinker!

  Oh the black tinker who raised the price of the land.

  I saw a dream

  And I wouldn’t mind seeing it again;

  If I saw it while awake

  It would give me a day of mirth.

  A good fire burning

  With Roy in the middle of it;

  Young in prison

  And iron shackles around Sellar’s bones.

  The grandfather of these women was born in 1733, a decade before Culloden. He was a deer-forester for the old Duke of Sutherland, Duke William. He never put trousers on his thighs. His house was set on fire and his family had a skirmish with the bailiffs. His daughter, big Jane, ripped up the sheriff’s summons with her teeth. She had a daughter, little Jane, and when her mother’s brother, Alasdair the fiddler, saw a constable’s stick hitting the head of the 16-year-old girl, he jumped in and got a blow on the top of his own head. He had a lump on his skull for the rest of his life.

  After that the elderly man John Sutherland was imprisoned in Dornoch. The Duchess released him but he had to leave the country and go to America. He came to Barney’s River in Pictou where he lived until he reached the age of 105. In this country he was known as “The old man of the kilt” or “John Sutherland of the kilt.” He died in the year 1840.

  (31 Dùbhlachd 1892)

  Cataibh 6

  Bha Padruig Sellar ’na chulaidh-ghràin do’n t-sluagh leis an obair uamhasaich a bha e a’ dèanamh. Nuair a thigeadh e a dh’ionnsaidh baile sam bith, bhiodh an sluagh air chrith leis an eagal, agus a’ teicheadh às an rathad, mar na luchaidh roimh ’n chat ; bhiodh na mnathan a’ dol ’nam boile ’s ’nam breislich, agus chaill aon bhean a cialI cho mòr ’s nach d’ thàinig i gu toinisg an dèidh sin. Nuair a chitheadh i duine sam bith air nach robh i eòlach, ghlaodhadh i a mach le sgread eagallaich, “O! sin Sellar! sin Sellar!”

  Chuireadh mu dheireadh casaid air Sellar a dh’ionnsaidh na Ban-Iarla, agus thugadh gu cùirt e ann an Inbhir-Nis, air beulaibh nam Morairean Dearga air a’ bhliadhna 1816. Ach cha d’rinneadh nì air an rathad peanais. Cha deachaidh mòran ’s an ceathramh cuid de na fianaisibh a ghairm agus iad sin fhèin an fheadhainn aig am bu lugha bha ri ràdhainn ’na aghaidh. Bha an luchd deuchainn (the jury) air an dèanamh suas de thuathanaich mhòra chaorach, de luchd-lagha, agus de luchd-fearainn. Bha na fianaisean air an ceasnachadh ann an Gàidhlig; agus chan eil fianais eadar-theangaichte idir cho làidir, no cho èifeachdach, ri fianais dhìrich ann an cainnt na Cùirte, gu h-àraid ma bhitheas an t-eadar-theangair mì-thuigseach no mì-onarach, agus nach eadar-theangaich e gu ceart agus gu h-iomchaidh. B’e deireadh na cùise gun deachaidh Sellar a shaoradh, oir cha d’fhuair na deuchainnnearan ciontach e.

  Ach ged nach d’fhuair a’ chùirt ciontach e bha e ciontach ann am beachd agus ann an sùilibh an t-sluaigh. Oir gus an latha an diugh tha an t-ainm aige a’ lobhadh ann an Cataibh, agus chan e mhàin sin, ach tha seann mhuinntir ann an Abhainn Bhàrnaidh a thàinig à Cataibh d’am bheil an t-ainm aige fhathast ’na ghràin agus ’na uamhas. Tha seann bhoireannaich aig Abhainn Bhàrnaidh, a nì dannsadh le mire-chatha agus le cridhealas, a’ seinn luinneig-aigheir, aoiridh no òrain-càinidh a rinn
eadh air Sellar ann an Cataibh. Shaoileadh tu gum buaileadh na cinn aca na sparran, no cliath mhullaich an taighe, leis an leumartaich agus na sùrdagan a bhios iad a’ gearradh air an ùrlar; agus iad a’ seinn mar smeòraichean feadh nam preas air madainn Chèitein.

  Hò ’n ceàrd dubh! Hè ’n ceàrd dubh!

  Hò ’n ceàrd dubh dhaor am fearann.

  Chunnaic mise bruadar,

  ’S cha b’fhuathach leam fhaicinn fhathast;

  Nam faicinn e ’nam dhùsgadh

  Bu shùgradh dhomh e ri m’ latha.

  Hò ’n ceàrd &c.

  Teine mòr an òrdugh

  Us Roy ann ’na theis meadhain;

  Young bhi ann am prìosan

  ’S an t-iarann mu chnàimhean Shellar.

  Hò ’n ceàrd &c.

  Rugadh sean-athair nam boireannach so air a’ bhliadhna 1733, deich bliadhna roimh linn blàr Chùil-lodair. Bha e ’na fhorsair fhiadh aig an t-seann Iarla Chatach, Iarla Uilleam. Cha do chuir e briogais riamh air a shlèisdnibh. Chuireadh an taigh aige ri theine, agus bha tuasaid aig a theaghlach ris na maoir. Reub a nighean, Sìne mhòr, sumanadh an t-siorraimh le a fiaclan. Bha caileag aice d’am b’ainm Sine bheag agus nuair a chunnaic bràthair a màthar, Alastair am fìdhlear, bata chonstabaill a’ tuiteam air ceann na caileige, aois sia bliadhna diag, leum e staigh agus fhuair e am buille air mullach a chinn agus bha cnuachd air a’ chlaigeann riamh tuilleadh fad làithean a bheatha.