Ardnish Page 15

  I was glad that Morag continued to write to me, but the letters were deflating; like this one, they were always strictly factual and lacking in intimacy. The excitement of the early days of our marriage was long past. My days back at home had involved digging ditches out in the rain, then coming back to a woman who didn’t seem to need or want me any more. The war had definitely come along at the right time in many ways. The money was essential for my family’s very survival at Peanmeanach, but it was clear that my absence wasn’t making either of our hearts grow any fonder, and that saddened me.

  I thought guiltily about Linde. I found myself constantly drawn to her. She was so pretty and vivacious when she laughed, it was infectious. Anja and I couldn’t help but join in. I tried to put aside difficult thoughts of her going into a camp, and my wife, and my home, on those beautiful warm days. There was the distraction of sunshine, plenty of food, smiles and laughter, and knowing that there was still a week of trekking and chatting with this delightful woman. I admired her spirit, given what lay ahead. There was nothing that could be done to improve her situation anyhow, so I tried to make the best of it while it lasted.

  I was keen to talk to her about Africa – the farming, what it was like to have servants, and why there were no giraffes, lions or elephants in this part of the country. But Linde kept questioning me. She wanted to understand the reasoning behind the land clearances.

  ‘Do your generals not know what resentment this causes?’ she challenged. ‘The Boer will never give up the fight now! Their farms and livelihoods have been destroyed, their animals taken, their women and children imprisoned. They will fight to the death. If you gave fifty of your British pounds to every man you found at every farm instead, then the war would be over. Your men could return to their families and your country would be much richer.’

  I couldn’t fault her argument. I told her that land clearances had happened in the Scottish Highlands, and they, too, were unforgivable.

  ‘When my cousin was a young man at Arisaig, a day’s ride from my village, his family had the tenancy on a bit of land and a good number of cattle. His mother was a weaver. They were considered prosperous, but then Lord Cranstoun inherited the land from Clanranald’s wife. Cranstoun lived far away in Berwick, over the Scottish border, but he wanted money from the estate and a substantial sheep farm, so the rents were increased by a huge amount. More than a hundred people from the areas on good land such as Ardnafuaran were unable to pay, so they were cleared off to poorer land on Ardnish. My cousin lived with us for a while before emigrating to Nova Scotia.’

  I paused, knowing that some of these names would mean nothing to her. ‘Do you really want to hear more about the troubles of people from the other side of the world?’

  ‘Yes, Donald John,’ she replied. ‘I know so little of the rest of the world.’

  ‘Well, back when I was in my twenties my father was called to give witness to the Napier Commission and I went with him. The point of this commission was that the landowners were driving folk off the good land so they could put their sheep there, and families were forced to move onto already crowded land or to emigrate, sometimes against their will, like the cousin I just mentioned.

  ‘There were just too many people on poor land to survive. Smallpox killed many but the starvation was worse. On the Hebridean Islands, people stopped paying rent and began grazing their animals on the landowners’ lands without authority. An organisation was set up called the Highland Land League to stir up resistance; they even sent men to Ardnish and encouraged us not to pay rent. I was a young man at the time, and I remember everyone in the village sitting around listening to what the rebel rousers had to say. Our decision was to do nothing as our landowner, a new laird, was doing his best to help us. But there really was a sense of revolt in many other places. It was a time of real turmoil across the Highlands.’

  ‘So, do you rent your land?’ Linde asked.

  ‘We do. The families of Peanmeanach pay two pounds per annum and for that we can have three cows and twelve sheep per household, but we don’t have that many as the ground wouldn’t support it. Besides, we couldn’t afford to buy more beasts. In the old days, the men from Ardnish were highly sought-after cattle drovers. They went over to the islands of Uist or Skye, and then worked their way south. They’d be away for a couple of months. Ronald the Bard was said to take cattle as far south as Wetherby in England, a journey of three hundred and fifty miles. He would play the bagpipes there and get good money for doing so. My father used to drove, too. I went with him a few times when I was young, taking herds of cattle from Lochaber down to Falkirk. In a single trip we would make fifteen pounds, but since the railway has come, that has stopped. The sheep and cattle are put onto trains at Lochailort now.’

  ‘How else can you make money?’ asked Linde.

  ‘There’s whelk-picking. It used to be good money in the winter, but now there are too many doing it, and there are not enough whelks to go around. It’s horrible work, up to your knees in the sea in the depths of winter. You used to be able to earn a shilling and sixpence a day but now you’d be lucky to get a third of that. We get paid almost eighteen pounds a year in the army, so you can see what poor money whelk-picking is in comparison.’

  Linde is thoughtful. ‘And your landlord – you said he wasn’t a bad man?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I replied. ‘Astley-Nicholson hasn’t increased our rent, but it is such a lot to have to pay now that more families have moved over from Arisaig. We’re all trying to survive on the same amount of land. Sir Arthur – he’s the landowner – did have the idea at one time of starting a commercial business and giving regular work to men on the estate. He opened a peat works and eight men started on it. Peat was dug, dried out and bagged in hessian sacks before being put on a boat and sent to Glasgow. The laird was very pleased with his plan and the men were making a decent wage.’

  ‘That sounds sensible,’ Linde remarked.

  ‘Well, the problem was that the men didn’t want to be employed labourers. If it was a nice day they would take time off to go and cut hay, or thatch their houses. We Highlanders are an independent people. Everything needing done back at home was more important. One beautiful spring morning, Sir Arthur and Lady Gertrude took their infant son down to see how the men were doing, bringing bottles of cordial and cake, and they found not a single one of them there. The business lasted for less than a year before it was closed down.

  ‘Sadly, many locals don’t survive to old age. When I was born, there was a terrible blight on the potato crop and, at the same time, the herring numbers dropped. I remember my father telling me of visiting a house on the north side of Ardnish and finding a woman and her husband dead, skin and bone. They had died of starvation. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, there wasn’t enough milk for the children so there was a terrible occurrence of rickets on the peninsula. In fact, in my parents’ day, as many children died as lived.’

  Linde was aghast. ‘Why did your family stay, then? Did things improve after the Commission? Did you lose any children yourself?’

  Her questions came thick and fast, so fast that, mercifully, I didn’t have to answer them all. Yes, Morag and I had lost two babies. It hurt my heart to recall it. I always wondered if her intense grief had made Morag a harder woman; the pain of it seemed to have made her withdraw into herself. She never shared her pain with me. I wasn’t prepared to tell Linde any of this, though.

  I changed the subject. ‘Many of the people sailed from Arisaig to Antigonish and Mabou in Nova Scotia. The people there were our people; they spoke Gaelic and shared our way of life. Many also went to Australia, in search of an easier time, where a man could find work and food for his family, and the climate wasn’t so harsh.’

  Her face was a picture. ‘How can it be so bad that people have to leave to survive?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I smiled. ‘My family has always managed better than most. There’s a big mansion house, newly built across the bay, and every
few years, the owners, a fine family called Blackburn, build onto it. I was the head joiner there and the pay is good. Mind you, that work is coming to an end now, because the Blackburns are old and have stopped the building work.’

  I wanted Linde to know the reality of the West Highlands of Scotland as I saw it, and to make her understand why I would never leave. Yes, life was hard, but there was so much that was wonderful, too.

  ‘I seem to have told you the very worst of it all. There are many good things, too!’

  ‘It sounds like a struggle even to survive,’ Linde whispered.

  ‘Yes, it became that way. We desperately needed the army money.’

  ‘I think you should come and live in South Africa.’ Linde smiled shyly.

  I caught my breath. Was I just imagining that she nearly added ‘with me’? I continued. ‘Linde, I want you to stop for a moment, and shut your eyes and visualise what I see when I go outside just after dawn and sit and drink tea outside my house.’

  She did as I asked.

  ‘In the spring, we always catch the first of the sun. The turf down to the beach is what’s called machair, and the ground is ablaze with a multitude of tiny flowers. Beyond that, when the tide is out, acres of white coral sand squeaks and crunches when you walk on it. There is a pretty island in the foreground, covered with heather, and stunted trees that the deer haven’t been able to get to. Then, a mile out across the sea, is a stand of pine trees and to the left of that is Roshven House – the one I was telling you about. There are two big hills, Rois-Bheinn and An Stac, that will still have snow on the peaks from the winter, and there often won’t be a breath of wind after the gale of the previous day. The lambs will be calling to their mothers in the field behind the house and the hooded crows will croak as they soar above. I love the peace of that first waking hour,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve travelled a bit with the Camerons and Lovat Scouts, and I’ve yet to see anywhere that compares with my own country for beauty.’

  She leant over and put her arm around my neck. ‘It sounds special, Donald John . . . beautiful.’ Her eyes met mine, and I saw a tear on her cheek. I wiped it away with my thumb.

  Suddenly, we heard a child screaming. We leapt to our feet.

  ‘Anja!’ Linde shouted as the distraught girl ran towards her and threw herself into her mother’s arms. ‘What is it, darling? Are you all right? Tell me!’

  Anja was sobbing and gasping for breath, her words jumbled as she struggled to get them out. ‘Hondjie is dead! Aunt Betje killed her with a knife!’

  ‘No, Anja, that can’t be possible!’ Linde cried, her face flushed, blue eyes blazing in fury.

  ‘It is, I swear! She told me that Hondjie attacked Pieter – but she didn’t, Mother. Hondjie would never do that.’

  Linde instantly stormed across the camp, Anja and I running to keep up. Two of the farm workers intercepted her, just feet away from where her sister-in-law was camped, and held her fast.

  ‘You are a cruel and spiteful bitch, Betje!’ Linde shouted as the woman emerged from her tent. ‘Kill a little girl’s dog, would you?’

  The Boer woman drew her two children to her, a look of amusement playing on her face. ‘The dog was about to attack Pieter. I had to do it.’

  The women shouted back and forth: Linde aggressively berated her sister-in-law and the other tried to justify the animal’s murder. A small crowd of soldiers and workers gathered.

  Eventually I pulled Linde away. ‘Nothing can be gained from this,’ I said. ‘Come on, Linde. Leave them alone.’

  I led them away – Anja sobbing, her mother holding her tight – and went to find a shovel to bury Hondjie. My mind was whirring. Now I realised just how vengeful the family were and how deeply they hated her. I realised that her intimacy with me would allow them to justify attacking her, although they wouldn’t dare do so with me and the other soldiers around. I would have to keep a close eye on all of them from now on.

  Chapter 25

  Donald John, South Africa, 1901

  One day, Captain Willie caught me by surprise. He called me over, and I expected a friendly discussion about the progress of the convoy, but instead he let rip. His words are seared into my brain.

  ‘I thought we had dealt with this, Gillies! Have you forgotten you’re a married man? Damn it! You have children at home who depend on you, waiting for their hero father’s return. And you, do you not value yourself more than this? You have a reputation second to none in Lochaber yet here you are, cavorting with a girl almost half your age, acting like a love-struck teenager. That girl is vulnerable, Gillies, and you are taking advantage of her. Shame on you!’

  I was shaken by this attack and tried to defend myself, but he was having none of it. He dismissed me without allowing me to say a word. I stormed out, shaking with rage. I felt he was completely exaggerating the situation. Linde had saved my life, and I had not once acted inappropriately. This was how I rationalised the situation as I hurried straight back to the cart where Linde and Anja awaited my return. I could see Linde was puzzled by my angry expression, but I refused to answer her questions. Instead, I took myself away to a private spot and contemplated the sky as I tried to calm myself down.

  Anja and I had become firm friends, which made me feel a strange mix of joy and guilt. I felt young again as we played games such as I-Spy together, and it was a distraction from the day-to-day drudgery of the convoy, the heat and the dust. At times I even verged on being openly insubordinate to Cammy and Captain MacDonald, such was my contentment when in the company of Linde and her girl. But as we got closer to Aliwal North, I became increasingly anxious about the prospect of leaving them there. I could no longer convince myself that the rumours surrounding the camps were exaggerated. It was now common knowledge that they were desperate places where sickness was rife, at the very least. I realised with alarm that the Vanloos women would tell others in the camp that Linde had befriended a British soldier, and I knew she would pay a high price for that.

  The day before we were due to arrive at the camp there were long silences between us. We were both preoccupied with our own thoughts. My mind was racing. What would happen to Linde? To little Anja? Would I be able to keep seeing them? What could I do to help them? Their safety became my primary focus from then on.

  I was aware of Linde’s glances now and then. Something about her demeanour suggested that things were changing between us; when I met her gaze, she would bite her lip and look away. She must have been terrified of what lay ahead.

  That evening we camped as normal in a vast kraal, with the women and children huddled around the fire in the centre for warmth and protection. The wagons were pitched in a circle outside that, and the horses and oxen tied up in lines to one side. We soldiers were on sentry duty, two hundred yards out, for four hours at a time. Before nightfall I walked past the civilians by the fire and noticed that Linde and Anja had been shunned by the others; they were sitting apart, leaning against a wagon. Linde saw me and gave me a little wave. There was something about the expression on her face that I couldn’t get out of my mind. My body was aflame. I realised I hadn’t felt so full of longing and passion for twenty years. I persuaded one of the Scouts to do my sentry duty and left to wash and smarten up. I planned to search her out in the middle of the night and nothing was going to stop me.

  I decided to give it an hour until darkness fell and everyone was asleep, and then creep across to join her. I lay for ages, nervous as a teenage boy, summoning my courage and listening to the noises of the camp gradually quieten. I wanted to hold her close and whisper that I loved her. Did I dare to go further? To make love to her? It would be our only chance. It was time.

  But at that very moment, just as I was ready to set off, Captain MacDonald came by with a lamp. ‘Come on, Gillies,’ he said. ‘On your feet. We need to head out on patrol. There’s a report of noise in the trees over there. Perhaps the Boer are coming to free their women. Get two other men to join us, and I’ll be back in five minutes.’

/>   I couldn’t believe my ears. We’d be at Aliwal North tomorrow. I cursed once he was out of earshot, but I had no option: I had to follow orders. I was furious, until one of the corporals took me by my collar and hissed that I should behave myself. I shook him off.

  The whole squadron of Scouts was being told to ‘stand to’. We encircled the camp, silent men with loaded rifles, staring blindly into the darkness. Then our patrol headed off, blundering through the painful thorns that caught our clothes, up banks, along a dry riverbed for hours, stopping every few minutes to listen for the sound of feet or horses.

  We must have been out for six hours, and our search was futile. If there had been Boer about, they would definitely have heard us and we would have been shot to pieces, I was certain. It seemed a highly unusual and unnecessary manoeuvre, and I couldn’t get out of my mind that the whole operation had been instigated by the captain. I was so obsessed with my plan to reach Linde that I thought perhaps he’d guessed my intentions and wanted to put a halt to them.

  It was still dark when we got back in. Silence reigned throughout the kraal. The camp had been stood down hours ago and we were told we had an hour to rest before breakfast. As I passed the back of an ammunition wagon, a shadow flitted out of the dark and tugged at my sleeve. It was Linde.

  ‘You wanted to come to me last night, didn’t you?’ she whispered.

  I couldn’t speak, but nor could I lie. I nodded.

  ‘I waited for you. I wanted you to come.’

  Without a word I pulled her towards me and kissed her desperately, hungrily, giving in to the intense primal urge that had been building up over the past ten days. She was as frantic as me, her hands pulling at my hair, scratching my back, as our passion overtook our reason.

  She stepped back. ‘Under the wagon,’ she gasped, pulling me down.

  We scrambled underneath, disregarding the rocks and hard ground, and my right hand delved into her blouse to seek her breast while her hand struggled to undo my trousers. Our kissing was intense, each as passionate as the other.