Ardnish Was Home

by Angus MacDonald

  Macdonald of Glenaladale went from Glenfinnan, and sent news back inviting people to join him. And almost all of them did. He came back once, and it rained for every second of his stay. He was heard later to say, ‘I can see why my people left.’

  *

  Sheena left one spring day. She heard a boat was due to go, and travelled to Fort William to buy a one-way ticket.

  Our parents were desperately sad but they knew she needed a change. Glasgow was rough with the dirt and the fighting, not to mention the cramped slums and danger of disease. Besides, we were never going to be city people. We had family in Cape Breton who would have her to stay. They spoke our language, they played the fiddle and the pipes, and they worked the land. Maybe, my parents hoped, there would be a good man for Sheena to marry.

  She knew a few of those going in the boat. There were Campbells from as far as Oban, MacNeils and Macleans from the islands of Barra and Tiree, and a good number of Macdonalds from Brae Roy and areas around Fort William. The boat would stop at South Uist to gather another fifty people.

  We went to the Fort to see her off. My God, how distraught people were at the quay. Many were men heading off to see how it was before they sent for their families; their wives would know a thing or two about hunger before things got better. Young families were saying farewell to aged parents who had decided to stay in the glens they were part of. The tickets were expensive, and most passengers had borrowed at an awful cost to buy them.

  ‘The promised land had better be bountiful,’ my mother said. She was determined to be brave, and we were all given a firm lecture before we headed off on the train.

  Sheena has sent letters since, of course, urging us to go out and promising us that she would come back. I couldn’t see either happening myself. She had a job working for a big family of nine children, helping the mother with the children and teaching them to read and write. Mother said she would be good at that. She lived on the shore, where Iain MacNeill, her employer, and a cousin of our grandmother, had a fishing boat. He was a terribly hard worker, she wrote. Away before dawn, and then with two other men he would be offshore for two nights before coming back. The catch was huge, but the prices were low. She liked the family a great deal. She spoke of the lovely hot summers, the glorious colours of the trees in the autumn, and winters so cold that a night outside would kill a man. Sometimes the sea froze so solid you could walk between islands, miles out to sea. She wrote of the ceilidhs in Glencoe Hall and the incredible musical tradition, how Gaelic was the language of everyone and Catholicism the only religion. It sounded just the same as our Lochaber. There were bear and moose, she wrote, and the land was covered in trees as far as you could see in every direction. Everyone was very poor, though, and feeding the family and the animals through the winter was as much as the people could achieve – and that only just.

  Mother was dying to hear if she had a man in her life – she always said Sheena would make a great wife to the right man – but to her frustration, we knew the last thing Sheena would do would be to mention this sort of thing in her letters. She had always been like that, discreet and not one to raise expectations.

  WAR

  We are heading to the town of Kesan and from there towards Greece and the allies. How we get back to Britain is something we’ll worry about later, but with Louise, Prissie and now Marc on my side I feel I have a chance.

  Marc is a Godsend. Placid and obliging, he ambles behind the women, snatching at any leafy branch or patch of grass that catches his eye. I can visualise the donkey by the crypt at the Polnish church at Christmas. Marc seems to know how fragile I am; he is undoubtedly my saviour now.

  Mr Skinner had told us that just before the war Bulgaria had seized a strip of land from Greece that bordered the Mediterranean, so technically we will be crossing from enemy country to enemy country. We wonder if the people still consider themselves Greek and if they have sided with the enemy Bulgars, but we don’t know. We shall have to tread carefully.

  The terrain is one of rolling hills in barren land with brush, like hawthorn, about six feet high. It is excellent cover, but we are aware that the first we might see of soldiers would be if we walk right into them. From time to time we walk through pine trees. The excellent path must be used by villagers moving along the coast, which is a concern, but we have no option. The undergrowth would be impossible to get through.

  The biggest physical obstacle is going to be the river Evros – the former boundary of Greece, now Bulgaria, and Turkey – and how to cross it. But before we reach it, and before Kesan, lies a narrow neck of land at the top of Gallipoli. The map shows the road running along the top of the peninsula and a big river. We might need to go along the road at this point. Between us and the border would be many troops, and as we get further from the battle there would be more civilians around, some of whom might be more than happy to turn us in.

  Prissie had gone off half an hour ahead of us to check that the way ahead was clear. If she doesn’t reappear soon, we are to turn around and meet back at the farm. She has the pistol so she can fire a warning shot if need be.

  At one stage, she came running back and we had to push the donkey into the brush and hide while a farmer with a laden mule passed by. Since then, we have made good progress and we are now well clear of the mountain. We must be twenty miles from the battle line. We know the people around here will have had little to do with the war, which has never really encroached inland, so we hope they will be less hostile towards us should we encounter them.

  My right eye is making a great recovery, still very sore in the morning with pus hardening to make a crust, but Louise bathes it and after a few minutes of blinking I can see tolerably well. Not good enough to read a book or discern colours, but I can see shapes and movement, and beautiful Louise. My left eye is a disaster; there seems to be no chance of recovery. We keep it bandaged.

  Today is Christmas Day. We agree to do a short day if we can find somewhere safe to hide, and our luck is in. We come upon a shepherd’s hut on the hillside, well protected by trees. Prissie ties the rope around the donkey’s feet to stop him straying. A small fire is lit, and we make ourselves comfortable for the night. We eat the very last of our meagre provisions; it’s not much of a Christmas feast.

  ‘What would your family be doing today?’ Prissie asks.

  ‘Go on, tell us,’ urges Louise . . .

  HOME

  Well, Christmas five years ago would be very special, as in those days Sheena and Angus were there. There would be Mass at the beautiful church of Polnish, so after an early breakfast we would set off on the two-hour walk, Father on his garron, us walking, with everyone from Ardnish going the same way. Maybe fifty in total. The folk from the other communities would appear as we got closer. ‘Mary Anne, how lovely to be seeing you, and, Colin, still alive are you? Is that old mare I gave you still with us?’

  Everyone would be dressed in their Sunday best, with frocks for the women and the odd man wearing his old army kilt. The children would be spoilt: ‘Here’s a penny for you, Donald Peter. Go and buy yourself some sweets when you get a chance. And Happy Christmas to you, you’re a fine young man now and no mistake about it.’

  Mass was said by Father Allan Campbell, and being Christmas Day and taking pity on the wee ones, it was over and done with in an hour and a half. The way back was a bit of a race; all the young were dying to get back to see what presents had been bought. Even though the adults would take much longer and have to put the dinner in the oven, there was no holding us back. I got a cromach that my father had made for me: a lovely straight shaft and a tup’s horn top, soaked and worked into the shape of an ‘N’, with ‘DP’ carved and blackened on one side and the Macdonald of Clanranald crest carved on the other. I could not have been more proud of it. My father got up very early for a month to work secretly on it. Angus got a bamboo fishing rod and Sheena a beautiful jumper knitted by our mother.

  Eilidh, the old lady from next door, came to join us, bri
nging a bottle of illegal whisky she had been hiding these last fifteen years as a present.

  After presents was lunch. Food was normally never plentiful at the house, but compared to those in the city it was bountiful. Baked eggs, followed by a fine haunch of venison that the laird had delivered to all those who had helped over the stalking season. Mother had grown turnips and potatoes, and we had rhubarb and gooseberry fool to finish with. All this was washed down with the whisky, even I as a fifteen-year-old boy was allowed some. A bit of fiddling and piping of Christmas carols, and the neighbours would come around to tell stories as we all sat around the fire. It was lovely.

  WAR

  Louise is silent.

  I look at her. ‘What about you, Louise? Tell me about your Christmas.’

  She doesn’t answer, and I can tell she is crying.

  Eventually she says, ‘We had nothing like that, DP. We didn’t look forward to Christmas at all.’ She pokes the fire a bit, and nothing more is said.

  Prissie doesn’t tell us about her Christmas in Liverpool, and we don’t ask.

  *

  There is hardly any food left, and nothing to be foraged. The ground is rock hard with frost. We need to find more, or we stand no chance of survival, so Louise and Prissie decide to go out the next day to see if they can beg some scraps from farmers in the area. And if that doesn’t work, Prissie swears she’ll use the pistol. One way or another, they will get something.

  They are in luck. Within half an hour’s foray from our base, they come across a farm that is occupied. Hens are scratching around outside, and it looks normal, even though there is a full-scale war on twenty miles or so away. Even with my poor vision, I can discern the red-tiled roofs and once white walls of the farmhouse and the outbuildings.

  We move back so Marc doesn’t raise the alarm, and Louise and Prissie leave me leaning against a tree while they creep forward. They are away for what seems a very long time.

  Later they tell me that they saw two older women going about their domestic duties, collecting wood for the fire and feeding a large dog that was tied outside.

  To avoid surprising the dog, they went back and around to the side of the house and then rushed the place – Prissie to the front and Louise to the back – to stop the old women escaping. I would love to have seen it. By then the dog was barking and straining at its rope. With Prissie waving the pistol at them, the women swiftly surrendered – they obviously had a higher opinion than I did of Prissie’s ability to actually use it. Within minutes, the two captives were trying to win their intruders over by offering tea, though Prissie didn’t drop her guard with her pistol.

  Louise came back to fetch me, recounting the adventure as she led me to the farmhouse. The minute the old women saw me with my injured eyes and struggling gait, they understood, though Louise pointing at me and saying ‘bang-bang’ definitely helped.

  We put the donkey in a shed with theirs and give it something to eat. Louise and one of the Turkish women make some food for us. I swear the chicken stew is the best food I’ve had since I’ve left my mother’s kitchen. Louise and Prissie take it in turns to hold the pistol at the ready while the other eats. There isn’t a word the two women say that we can understand and vice versa, but they seem to have decided that we won’t hurt them and that if they look after us we will soon be gone. We guess they are sisters. We never learn their names.

  *

  Almost everything tastes different from what I have grown up with; for instance I had never had coffee before we landed in Gallipoli. There are no chillies or olives at home; even pepper is new to me. Louise thought this was amusing. She loved watching me grimace as I drank my coffee, yet before long I was drinking as much as they can give me. The Turks add a lot of goats’ milk and a couple of spoons of honey; I like mine black and bitter. The bread is more like a hard pancake, which they have with honey in the morning. Olives are served with everything, though I get Louise to take these off my fork – they are not for me. In the stew, there are all sorts of herbs that are very tasty, and the wine is strong and sweet. I drink too much of it and try to explain to the sisters, in Gaelic, about my family and my home. Having been on army rations and having had almost no alcohol since Egypt, we are in a very strange sort of heaven.

  I even sing a song to the four of them, while hiccupping violently. I suspect the old women haven’t been entertained like this before.

  In our family we always say grace before we eat, and I am pleased that Louise has started saying this with me. Prissie thinks God is a lot of nonsense, but she doesn’t start eating until Louise and I have prayed. Our prayer seems to have an effect upon the cailleachs. Louise tells me they have crucifixes and statues of the Virgin Mary in the house. We wonder if they have heard of the massacres – maybe they have lost their families?

  My eyes are dry and itchy, although there is no longer any sign of infection. Louise boils water, washes the dressings and bathes my eyes. I am still very weak and under-weight. There is a lot of discussion about why this could be, and what could be done. I confess I enjoy the attention, fancying maybe that Louise takes longer than she needs to attend to me.

  I am shown to the only bedroom. Louise and Prissie take it in turns to sit in the kitchen with the sisters. There are two soft chairs and the sisters sleep fitfully in those, while Louise or Prissie perch uncomfortably on a stool against a wall, trying hard not to fall asleep.

  We stay for two days, eat as much food as they give us, and recover our strength. We feel a little guilty, but if anyone is as untouched by war as these two cailleachs in the whole of Europe, they would be hard to find. While one sister goes about the work of the farm, watched by Louise, the other is kept hostage in the kitchen by Prissie.

  By lunchtime of the second day we decide we trust them, the gun is put away, and that night everyone sleeps soundly. Snow falls overnight, and there is an inch on the ground when we awake. It is beautiful, with all the trees coated and glistening in the weak sunshine, and complete silence outside.

  There are about twenty goats and lots of hens, and there is an olive grove and some vines. Prior to our departure, Louise and Prissie cook up some extra food and, with the help of one of the sisters, make some bread. We pack some dried goat meat to keep us going for another three days. The dogs they use to herd the goats are twice the size of our collies at home, big, hairy and powerful. I can imagine them fighting off predators such as bears in the old days. Louise tells me that the goats are every colour under the sun: pure white, light brown and a combination of black, brown and white.

  As Christmases behind enemy lines go, we could scarcely have done better. We worry at first that the cailleachs will immediately rush off to tell the authorities about us and a search party will ensue, but despite our gun and our intrusion we feel they are on our side. They have no reason to be loyal to the Muslims.

  We say a strange stilted farewell, with Prissie trying to give them some of the money that Mr Skinner had given us. They refuse to take it. Instead, they take our hands in theirs and say what appears to be a heartfelt goodbye. Nevertheless, we head off in the wrong direction then make a big loop around the farm to take the correct direction. We can’t take any chances at this stage.

  Prissie thinks we are nearing the road. Hopefully, we’ll come across a sign telling us where we are and how far we have to go. Any village will do. The temperature is rising, the snow has melted, our donkey is most co-operative, and we are as cheerful as we can be. But, as we travel further from the farm, the brush gets more and more sparse and our anxiety grows. We realise we must be visible for miles around.

  We can see the sea in the distance on our left and the hills to the north on our right. The road is a real concern. We watch hundreds of horses pulling wagons and guns, and a stream of soldiers. We retreat into the cover of the brush a couple of miles from the road and head up the peninsula parallel to the road for the rest of the day. Prissie carries her pistol and moves ahead of us at all times.

  An
d then, we get the fright of our lives. Prissie is running back, shouting, ‘Quick, quick, hide!’

  Before we can get out of the way, a man appears in front of us with a rifle in his hands, pointing it and shouting at Prissie. They are just feet away from each other. Prissie has her pistol pointed at him, holding it with both hands, yet still he shouts and advances.

  Louise and I cower together, expecting him to shoot at any time. I can feel her shaking like a leaf beside me. We stare helplessly at the stranger.

  There is a huge bang of gunfire, followed by silence, and then a shriek.

  ‘Oh my God, my God!’ Prissie cries, the pistol dangling from her hand. ‘It went off by mistake, I was shaking so much. I didn’t mean to kill him!’

  We gather to look down at the man lying on his back. Blood is oozing from an open wound in his chest, his face registering the shock of the last moments of his life. Prissie’s accidental shot has hit him right through the heart. Underneath the tangle of his hair is an unlined youthful face.

  ‘He’s a boy, just a boy!’ sobs Prissie as she clings to me. ‘Oh God, how I hate this war!’

  Louise puts an arm around her and strokes her hair. ‘There was nothing else we could do,’ she soothes.

  We need to hide him. And so, without another word, we drag the dead man by his feet down the hill and out of sight. Finally, keen to get away, we move off quickly. Nobody talks for a good hour as we try to come to terms with what has just happened. My admiration for Prissie grows. Without her swift action, we would surely all be lying dead by now.

  Towards the end of the day we find ourselves on a rise, looking down onto a vast plain, absolutely flat, maybe five miles across: the neck of the Gallipoli peninsula. A large deep river divides it in two with a single bridge for the road. This will be our most dangerous time. We lie on a grassy knoll, watching the Turkish soldiers heading north towards Constantinople.