Literary Imagination

The waves come in, the waves go out again, Marking the never-ending course of hours That drift into long days, and weeks, and months. These last four years, by my own calculation, This island far from home has been my home, Or rather should I say my prison cell, Since I was first brought here against my will In chains, forlorn among a savage race. The story of my capture I will tell In due time, and of married life in town Before that fatal night when all was lost. But first it seems expedient to speak About my present circumstances here, This island far beyond the setting sun, The customs and the manners of the people Who speak a language I have yet to master, Though Lord knows I have tried without success. Nasty and vild is this poor stinking isle. I live in a small beehive hut of stone With a turf roof. They use no mortar here On the dry stone, so when the wind blows cold And damp, it penetrates the cracks with ease, Though rain that falls upon the roof remains Without, for the most part. Inside the cleit (For this is what they call a storage hut, Though I am now the only goods stored here) Are two small rooms. In one I keep two sheep. Their warmth, when added to the small peat fire, Allows me to keep warm on winter nights. The door is facing the north-east, secure From shocks of tempest brought by south-west winds. Much of the cleit is subterranean, Which helps to insulate the gloomy dwelling Kept dark by want of windows. Even so, The hole above the fire allows some light Inside when the sun passes overhead. My diet includes porridge, milk, and eggs From seabirds dwelling on the cliffs of this And nearby isles and sea-stacks: Boreray And Soay, Dun, and also Stac ar Armin. The old name of this isle remains in use: They call it Hirt, though I prefer St Kilda. Returning to my meager diet here: We eat boiled cabbage, turnips, barley, oats, And cheese from milk of woolly ewes that graze On higher ground above the bay, the cheese, That is, remaining for our use when rent Is paid in kind to the MacLeod in Skye, Along with feathers, wool, and fulmar oil. The steward visits once each year in summer In a small vessel to collect the rent. The island as yet makes no use of money. The best part of our diet is solan goose, A large bird with a wing-span five feet wide That must be caught with poles and horse-hair snares By men and boys who risk their lives on cliffs. Equally good is the dried flesh of fulmar, Whose pungent oil is used as medicine And lights the kind of lamp they call a cruisgean Before we sleep upon a bed of straw. (For many years I’d cry myself to sleep Until I had been drained of all my tears.) My diet is augmented by the stores Brought yearly by the steward when he comes To take the rent: these usually include A stone of sugar and a pound of tea, A peck of wheat and, best of all, An anker of strong spirits for my nerves. The women weave a coarse tweed cloth for garments. Working in groups, they stretch it while they sing A waulking song in Irish led by one Old woman, answered by the lively chorus. They beat the time with joyful hands and feet. No shoes are worn in summer, but the necks Of solan geese are fashioned into shoes That last a few days on the rock and soil Before they tear and need to be replaced. But their supply of birds seems most secure. From time to time we eat the flesh of mutton. They sometimes brew a kind of ale from sowens, Disposing them to dance in merriment. Leather they tan with tormentil, which grows Throughout the island for their industry. The people live together in a little Village, which carries all the signs of sharp And constant poverty with no relief, Though they accept it patiently as sent By God, and worship in a small stone chapel. The islanders possess a single skiff, And each man has a share proportionate To those acres for which he pays his rent. A single kiln suffices for their needs. They live communally, dividing out In portioned shares the produce of their labors; The ones too old to work need never starve. The air is sharp and wholesome here, the hills Are often covered by white mists, or snow In winter, at the very crest. In summer, If mist reaches the top alone, the rain Should come. But if the mist descends to valley, It is prognostic of excessive heat. At summer solstice, night does not exceed An hour in length, especially if fair Weather prevails. The reflex of the sun Below the sea is visible that night. No trees are found, not the least shrub grows here, Nor is a bee seen here at any time. The isle is fenced with one continued rock Of such great height, its craggy blackness seems The devil’s work. The only partial break Is where the bay lies on the south-east side. The only place for landing here’s the north Side of the bay, unless the sea is raging, Which often is the case, except in times Of perfect calm, when favored by neap tide. But you are well acquainted with the bay, Since you survived the voyage to our shore. A generation past, the island numbered One hundred eighty-three, as I’ve been told, But the small pox arrived eight years ago With devastating hand. No more than thirty Souls in the village lasted out the season Of death. With tearful eyes cast down, they wiped The dirt from hands and faces at the graves Of friends and loved ones in the church-yard. I know that I am not the only one Whose life in Kilda has been full of grief, But only I have been imprisoned here. And yet I am allowed a servant girl Because I was a lady in the town. Religion here in Hirt was of concern In Scotland to the General Assembly Of the Kirk. Christ (they said) and the true faith Require a proper minister, and so They sent one Alexander Buchan for Their spiritual nourishment and guidance. The people were too easily misled By Satan: take the case of that strange man Pretending to be sent by John the Baptist. The story of this wicked man is known Throughout the land, how he would lead astray Women and girls, pretending to instruct Them in the secret prayers that John had taught. But Reverend Buchan proved a better shepherd, Reforming their religion, and his wife Once taught the women how to knit, they say. But now your face betrays a fresh impatience With my long story of this island life. The time to tell about my former life At home, and of my husband’s cruelty, Is now upon us, as the wind blows cold. My maiden name was Rachell Cheisley. Yes, My father was notorious: he murdered The Lord President of the Court of Session, Sir George Lockhart, in 1689. He shot him after church on Easter Sunday Because he ruled against him in a case Of alimony. I was only ten The day they hanged my father, after first Clamping on boots and thumbkins at the trial To crush the bones within. Oh, how he shrieked When they cut off his right hand at the gibbet And hung the guilty pistol from his neck. Thus died a shameful death Cheisley of Dalry. They say I have my father’s violent temper, But I would never murder in cold blood. You may have guessed my name is Lady Grange. Erskine of Grange, the second son of Charles, Tenth Earl of Mar, is still my lawful husband, Who held the office of Lord Justice-Clerk. They say I was a beauty in my youth. When he seduced me, I compelled the marriage, Reminding him that I was Cheisley’s daughter, A woman to be feared if pushed to seek Revenge, one capable of violence. At least that was the rumor back at home. For over twenty years we lived together In Edinburgh. I bore him eight fine bairns. The marriage was not happy, though, and he Arranged for us to live in separate houses. He called me mad and used to show his friends A razor that he said he found beneath My pillow, saying that I threatened him. But that was a foul lie. It only served For my defense against his nightly threats. He’s dissipated, restless, and intriguing In some men’s prying eyes, but not in mine, Or not by much, although in London town I know he keeps a woman, and, what’s worse, He seemed to have involvement in the plan To rise against the Crown, or sympathized With wicked allies of the Stuart claim, But little know I of such grim details. He said I threatened to betray his secret. Perhaps I said some words to that effect; I may have spoken boldly in my anger, But if I did, I only wanted peace. So now we reach the story of that night. (The wind is shifting and the sky is clear.) I took a chamber in a private house Near to my lord’s own lodging, in the hope Of reconciliation, but when I Had lost that hope, I planned to go to London And hired a coach. Two days before the journey, Ten nights before the end of January, The year was seventeen & thirty-two, I lay near midnight in my bed. The house Belonged to Meg MacLean, a Highland woman. There rushed into my room an angry band Of Highland men whom I had seen attend My Lord Lovat, the sometime Jacobite Conspirator, whose livery they wore. They threw me to the floor with violence. They stopped my mouth and dang out several teeth: Their hard, rude hands abused my tender face. They put a blindfold on to cloak my eyes And carried me down-stairs. Below, a man Was waiting in a chair to which they tied Me, swiftly bringing me to Multer’s Hill. To let me breathe they snatched the bloody cloth Which they had used to cover up my face. In moonlight clear I saw the man whose knee I sat upon was Alexander Foster Of Carssbony, a gentleman by station, Who had there six or seven horse and men. They set me on a horse behind that man And tied me fast to him lest I should leap. The night was frosty and a bitter cold. Constrained to sit astride the horse on rough Terrain, I rode for nearly twenty miles And took sharp stitches in my aching side, But they refused to stop for my relief. Among the riders was one Sandy Fraser, Another servant of Lord Lovat. Taking The straightest way to Lithgow and beyond, We reached a sturdy house as day approached. The place is called Muiravonside, the house Belongs to John MacLeod, an advocate, Whose servant met us with a candle. Next, They led me to a chamber with a fire, But I slept poorly on the linen sheets. All through the day there watched me Sandy Fraser, So barbarous and cruel. When it was night He told me I had more to ride again. He took me down the stairs by force and tied Me on the horse again and took the road By the south side of Falkirk, through Torwood, Which way I knew (I’d traveled it before). We met none on the way to cry for help. From there to Wester Polmaise I was brought To a tall house. They locked me in a room With boards nailed to the window. How I wept! Attended by a gardener and his wife For thirteen weeks or so, I could not leave The darkened room until my health grew poor. The tenant, Andrew Leishman, gave me leave To get some light and air down in the court Despite the wish of cruel Sandy Forster. In August, I was taken once again By Fraser and a band of Highlanders. Again they stopped my mouth with cloth and set Me on a horse behind the rider, James Fraser, Lord Lovat’s footman. Stirling Bridge We crossed, then followed roads I did not know. The captain, Mr. Forster, gave the charge of me To one called Alexander Grant, a name I thought was feigned. We rode all night And reached General Wade’s new way, I knew Not how far in the Highlands. Many times I slept in barns or byres, and other days I slept on the cold ground. They carried me To Milltown, where they kept me sixteen days. With their rude hands they hurt one of my breasts. It was September by the time we crossed A narrow loch and reached Glengarie’s ground. (His wife is aunt to John MacLeod the lawyer.) One time the way became too rough to ride, And so they carried me in their stout arms. I cried out bitterly to no avail; Nobody understood my Lowland tongue. They took me on September 9th by sloop Onto another loch; the boat was steered By Alexander MacDonald, who lived In Hesker, a small island, with his wife; There were no other tenants. For ten months I had no bread and must suffer cold and hunger. At least he understood my language well. I told him my misfortunes. He was sorry For meddling in the business (thus he said) But he was under orders from his master, Sir Alexander MacDonald of Sleat. In May of seventeen & thirty-four, The steward to the Laird MacLeod arrived. His name was John MacLeod. His man was rude And hurt me sore in taking me away, I knew not where. We sailed upon the sea For two days in the galley of MacLeod Until we reached this island, desolate And savage, long for me a heavy trial. A minister named Roderick MacLennan And his good wife lived here for several years Until the island people drove them off, Displeased by moral strictures he imposed. While here, he helped communicate my meaning And taught me to lament ochone in Erse. The years passed slowly. Saving scraps of paper, I wrote a letter, which they smuggled out, Carefully hidden in a clue of yarn, In hopes my kinsman Lord Solicitor Would read my pleas for justice and relief. I wrote: I’m not guilty of any crime Except to love my husband as an idol. The story of my capture and confinement To him I wrote in brief, as I’ve told you. I never read or heard of any wife, Whatever was her crime, so cruelly And barbarously treated as I’ve been. You may be sure that every word is true. I begged my lord to send me rescue soon, But if he hears I’m dead, to do what’s right. The waves come in, the waves go out again, Marking the never-ending course of hours That drift into long days, and weeks, and months.