DRUMMOSSIE TAE THE AMERICAS BOUND

Canna mend the skaith, but weep my ain woes, condemn’d a gillie indentin on this Indies isle, the Barbadoes, a humbl’d fugie wi’ a gloomie glunch raepin sucker doon till stibble.  For seven lang years I’se be a slave to weeder-clips an’ tillin wi’ pleugh in forc’d, fever’d labour.  I suld hae met wi’ the hangie at the gallows-ake on Kensington Common an’ pit an en’ to this dreadfu’ shame an’ shock.  But that’s the King’s mercy for ye.  Here awa this isle the timmer is scant but for palm trees spread at the edge of the mailins.  E’en now as I gie a keek owre thir bright green fields of tall, grassy canes an’ bane-white sands aneath a sinn glintin an’ blindin, the driegh reek o’ black smeek an‘ powther stechs in my nose an’ mou’ an’ hammers my heart, an’ thae heavy guns bade an unco bang, bang, bang, the deevil’s ain darg, the dirdum deaving our lugs.  Wat-shod wi’ bluid we were, fechtin for breath wi’ brunt throats, fechtin tae hald fast.  Hear’st thou the granes o’ ghaistlie loons that rend the mist?

For mysel, I was laith to fecht on Drummossie Muir.  The grun’ was too e’en, ordinar, wi’ jimp a howe an’ scant o’ covert, mair meet for horses.  Foreby, our baggies were tomb an’ we were weary o’ biding i’ the raw cauld for Cumberland’s regiments i’ daffin drucken at their stoups o’ wine.  Than there was the night march o’ madness tae Nairn the e’enin afore tae steal ahin the redcoat sodgers.  This scheme was bouchled an’ bred nae spunk in our leal men, wha win little sleep, an’ monie a stirra was glaikit eneugh tae toss awa his targe.  On the forenoon o’ the fecht, sundrie starvin laddies slypet awa to Inverness for meat, ithers didna forgather, e’en though we shored tae burn the theckit roofs o’ onie deserters.  Wi’ no Horse to tauk of – we werena weel-stockit wi’ naigs – we Grants wi’ stout stomachis marched up the brae tae the south o’ Culloden, teuk up position across the muir on the left showther an’ waited.

Fye, the folly, monie a mischance an’ tarrowin too lang tae press our advantage.  Wha had the wyte for this laik o’ action?  Prestonpans had been a dawdle o’ a game.  The Prince was o sae bonie, braw an’ buirdly i’ that battle.  Our Hielanders whummled and whanged Cope’s feckless cronies.  After Yule, the story was telt, the Prince grew melancholy an’ sick an’ distracted by the weel-buskit leddies an’ fidgin-fain for barlie-brie.  Culloden gaed a’ gleed, for the ower-genty Prince turn’d cockle-brain’d an’ tentless.  ‘The day will be ours!’ he wad aft say.  Hout fie, he leed i’ his throat!

Our billies were fother i’ the shambles, blawn awa like strae.  Felly the roll o’ thunderclaps frae their blastit bleezin cannons.  The mools shudder’d an’ sheuk an’ drown’d our pipes an’ drums.  We stood abeigh aboon ane hour gin that fearfu’ dinnin, deadly sick wi’ the shiverin an’ the snell sleet an’ rain licket our hoary faces.  Our men tumbl’d tozie like bonie-dies, stane deed or toyted about claughtin the gapin holes i’ bluidy limbs.  Wi’ pith an’ pluck, we didna, daurna wauble amang a heap o’ legs an’ arms an’ heids a’ snedded.  ‘Close up!  Close up!’ our officers were scriekin hearse as hoddie-craws.

I cam out wi’ the meddlin, fashious Prince wi’ a twang o’ regret.  I carena a boddle wha kens’t.  But we had plighted our troth on the Hooly Airn an’ a Hielandman’s word is his honour.

Muckle dauted but skittish as staigs, madly desp’rate for the order tae charge, we were bade again an’ again tae hald the front line afore Cholmendely’s Foot, a-roastin on red-het peats, stantin the black hailstanes o’ roun’-shot that shear’d thro’sae monie wi’ ane firin, clatterin braid swaird gin targe an’ yellin taunts, the mae bauld or vauntie or ram-stam fechtin cocks jinkin forrit, daurin the bluidy fae tae advance for Gude’s sake.  Thro’ thick, black smeek, we could just mak out a ribband o’ red an’ white.  The lang, thrang, unbrach’d wa’ o’ redcoats hadna moved.

Dark waters they were whaur the Prince raised his white an’ crimson banner at Glenfinnan by the loch o’ Glen Shiel, whilk rived the clans atwain.  Would we had nivver steer’d for naught!  Let him roam whaur he will an’ be damn’d!

Raized, ravin to skouth our wroth, we kilted up an’ scrogged bannets doon, vera like tae break ranks.  ‘Claymores!’  Gaun gyte, our plaidies flang aff, we rin hiltie-skiltie the aught hunder yards, skirlin an’ scrievin at the firelocks raised by Cholmendely’s front raw kneelin, our braid swairds a-swirlin an’ swingin as we louped the mire o’ neebors’ bodies faun.  ‘Stan’ fast, Craigellachie!’

Fegs, my cursed Prince, thou mak’st me loathe thy luckless cause that waefu’ day.  Some curmurring there had been eke at Prestonpans six months a-back.  Owre-tentie, too saft a poussie thou wert, thy heart stouted wi’ anguish at the faun redcoats whilk our claymores clawed wi’ a hunder bluidy gairs.  ‘Tak prisoners!’ thou order’d.  ‘Thir be my ain father’s subjects.’  An’ thou gae pardons to thae caddies cowed wha were fechtin agin huz at Culloden!  I scarce could weel believe it!  But yet, what reck, the chuffie, muckle-painch’d Cumberland and Hangman Hawley wad cut huz Hielanders doon like tawted, tousie dogs, no quarter gien.

‘Fire!’ barkit the order.  Muskets riskit, fuff’t cluds o’ smeek, bullets whissled thro’ the air, as we hacked awa amang ‘em wi’ straiks o’ fury, cleavin wi’ claymore, stickin wi’ durk i’ the baggie.  How we miss’d thae targes tae fend oursels!  The breath was sune strak out o’ our bouks by mortal dunts or roun’-shot or our jerkit tripes hing on the sharp point o’ a baig’net rin right tae the hilt.  O Mem’ry, spare me spite!

I’ trowth we werena doin our chief’s biddin.  The Laird o’ Grant was whiggish an’ covenantin, wha wouldna troke wi’ the Jacobites.  Instead, we lippen’d to the chiel, Young Grant o’ Glenmoriston, strang as a knaiggie aik-snag, wha I wad pit my haund i’

the fire for, wha had declar’d for the Prince an’ deliver’d huz boot an’ saiddle tae the Stuart standard.  ‘Hech, man!  Wha wadna fecht for Charlie, wha’s ane o’ our ain?’

‘Mak haste!  Swith awa!  Ta’en the bent!’  Forfain, crippl’d i’ rags, we shank’d oursel awa, snapperin back thro’ our ain thin, tatter’d lines the best we dought, graipet by grape, a hantle o’ huz deed or too slawly deeing, sindry ithers growlin an’ routin wi’ bodies torn, smoor’d i’ bluid.

Aye, fled we did, gaed leg-bail, joukin aneath coverts o’ scroggie heather, claver an’ whins on Drummossie, whaur thae deil-ma-care heathens pyked an’ pouked wi’ pitiless baig’nets an’ reived frae our mortal wounded.  We held our whisht.  Thou could’st hear the dreadfu’ eldritch soughin a’ owre the eerie moor aboon the sharp gibin o’ thae ugsome Sassenach voices.

O for a bite o’ gutsy bread or drummoch an’ a dram o’ usquabae!  I wad fain hae twal gills, a dish o’ het collops an’ a dizzen ait-cakes upon the girdle!  Nae mair snaw-broo!

Lag an’ lame frae clours an’ nicks, we gae a’ the dragoons a jink, wha herried an ravag’d, bickerin in a bizz about the lan’ whaur they wrocht havoc.  Hunger’d an’ huntit, hidin i’ the neuk o’ barns, i shiels an’ shaws, an’ nurs’d by poor, semple cotters wi’ weet claiths, plaisters an’ herbs, wha risked their ain lives, we hoyted an’ hobbled stowlins hameward by way o’ bit woods, sheughs, by lochans, ower haggs, on the unchancy, westlin way tae the north wa’ o’ Loch Ness, no daurin tae think on’t, that we maun be ruin’d an’ like tae dee.

Heigh on the skelvy braes o’ Glenmoriston, the gate tae our clan’s blithe gleib, winds whingin an’ cluds black as slaes whiddin across frae the Sound of Sleat, stan’t a lane red stag wi’ a crown o’ ten tines, proud an’ defiant yet meek an’ cannie.  Ayont the bare hills o’ Loch Clunie wi’ its kirtle o’ aik an’ birk raise the steyest peaks o’ the Five Sisters o’ Kintrail.  We worthless wretches tramp’d thro’ the lound clachans o’ a haunfu’ o’ dwallings an’ steadings now like tae burn.  Than at last!  A trysting wi’ our crankous, neglectit wives an’ wailin jos an’ doating weans, wha we hugged an’ kiss’d thro’ saut tears haused in ither’s arms, sae fain tae see our muckle-lo’ed, dearest comfort.  I think shame tae min’t, but doom’d tae despair we maun twistle an’ twine.  May Gude pity huz a’.

I’ the tapmost heughs o’ the hills we earded our sma’ hoords o’ graith an’ vittle an’ derned our black glaizie kye i’ the corries.  Thae leeches o’ King George wad nivver souk driegh our Hieland bluid!

Ae batch o’ eighty-ane o’ my fiers raught the auld Laird o’ Grant, wha bade huz tae gae tae Inverness tae haund owre our gullies, than no jeopard wad befa’.  By the kirk i’ town we fell into line an’ laid doon our braid swairds.  ‘Tae me,’ quo the Laird,’ an’ tae nane but my nainsel they wad hae submitted.’  ‘I’ll let them know they’re my father’s subjects,’ glowr’d the walie Duke wi’ gash gate an’ heart o’ stane, ‘an’ they must

likewise submit to me!’  Wi’ thae paughty words stangin our lugs, Cumberland’s swankies rugged huz thegither an’ gar huz march awa as best we dought.

Fu’ wroth I was an‘ mazed at the ingrate treacherie of our ain Laird!  Whatna freedom was this?  Whatna peace tae gae hame wi’!  I’ the name o’ Cloven Clootie, what wad be the dreeing destinie of our poor, fenceless women an’ sakeless weanies?  An’ the cast of huz sair hempies?

Glenmoriston was my warld, my ain dear kintra, my strath whaur I wonn’d, short syne wimplin an’ whisslin up the glen, list’ning tae the echoes ringin roun’ the craigs, a brace o’ grouse i’ my pock.  Now thae teugh ill-willies o’ redcoats caim the braes like swarms o’ chowin bum-clocks.  How painfully I regret the het smell o’ heather an’ a bed o’ brachens tae lie on i’ baumy simmer!  At weel the bizzards circlin the bens shrouded in snaw like tae drap like a stane on a frighted buck hare, guddling trout i’ the caller burnie wi’ a hap-step-an-loup owre the narrows, an’ a right royal gled glidin the glens gimlet-e’ed gin’ the gloaming.  Och, hell, fire an’ brunstone, now I dred the nest be filed for evermair!  Grudge huz MacCrimmon’s pipes, ye English polecats?  E’en the heigh crags be sabbing for the chiefless fowk.

Gravell’d, starvin twa days for vivers an’ thristin to weet our craigies, we scabbit sheep were marched doon bow’t an’ dowie tae Citadel Quay an’ the transport ‘Dolphin’ tae Lon’on.  At Tilbury we were row’d in airns shackl’d i’ pairs across the drumlie flats tae the ‘Pamela’.  Alake, ae sairy coble wi’ a lade o’ aught wretches couped i’ a blink an a’ our poor brithers sank like saut-backets thegither.

Pawkie brutes, Captain Grindlay an’ his Officer Barker.  Thae reif randies had stown ev’rything.  We were a’ stript an’ searched an’ rubbit of our claidin but for clouts o’ linen an’ tartan to dress our droddums.  Clapp’d doon i’ the foul, smellie bowels in pit-mirk whaizlin, we had tae souk air thro’ wee cracks in the timmer.  Roucle rattans rin owre our girnin, smoutie faces, our bodies yeukin wi’ flaes an’ beas.  Thae surly skytes lower’d water thro’ a trap in backets whilk their sailors pissed in whan drunk.  Like fish in a creel amaist gutted, sick o’ life, we lay an’ deed on ballast-stanes, tittling miffs in our ain tung, whan snakin Grindlay or sneerin Barker misca’ and leugh at huz ‘Rebel Redlegs’ wi’ southron aiths an’ suffer’d huz tae raible no Gaelic on pain o’ nivver settin fit in the Americas.  We see’d our licks in their graff-cauld eyen.

Wi’ that, bitter i’ life’s burr- thrissles, we lea’d frae auld Scotia’s shores.

                        Michael Small              February 7-April 25, 2007