I spent the summer of '85 visiting with my Aunt who lived in London. While there, we took a trip to Scotland, and on the way up, we encountered an elderly gentleman and his wife also heading for the Scottish highlands. He said although they currently lived in Argentina, his last name was MacDougall, and he was on a pilgrimage to visit his ancestral home. I found that fascinating enough, but then Mr. MacDougall told me the story of how Clan Dougall came into their historical lands.
The area where the Dougalls settled was also claimed by two other clans, and close quarters lead to constant skirmishes. The chieftains convened to try and negotiate how they would decide ownership. They resolved to settle the issue with a boat race from one side of the loch to the other. The chieftain whose hand first touched the distant shore would claim the disputed territory.
The day of the race arrived, and the boat crews readied themselves. When they launched, they would be able to look to the near shore and see the faces of their families and the hopefulness in their eyes. Seeking more than just green, craggy patches of land for farms and pastures, these men were vying for the right to call this land "home". Whether a grand estate or a humble crofter's cottage, the desire for a place to call home was a very insistent one. A warm hearth meant your children might survive the biting winter winds and live to see another spring. A full pantry meant your family wouldn't go hungry in lean years. In the midst of all the uncertainty of the time, home provided a small measure of safety and security.
The magnitude of the waiting prize energized the men. The crews began to strain at the oars with all their might, and the race was on. The three chieftains stood at the bow of their boats, urging their men onward. Spray kicked up by their efforts doused the men with frigid water off the loch. The distance was grueling, and midway across, the Dougall boat began to falter and trail the other two crews. The Dougall chieftain stood and clapped the nearest oarsman on the shoulder. He both cursed and implored his men to rally, pointing to their families behind them to underscore what was at stake. Galvanized, his men responded and surged forward. But by now they were well behind the lead boat, and the old chieftain saw his rival closing on the far shore. He glanced back once more at the families now receding from view on the other side of the loch and roared in defiance. Drawing and raising his sword, he laid his left arm on the boat deck and cleaved off his own left hand. Not pausing, he cast down his sword, picked up the severed appendage, and hurled it towards the beach where it landed on the sand.
By terms of the agreement, the hand of Clan Dougall's chieftain was the first to touch the shore, and the disputed territory was now rightfully his and his descendants in perpetuity. I was enthralled by Mr. MacDougall's story and hung on every word. Years later I found that the motto of Clan Dougall was "Buaidh no Bàs" - "Victory or Death". On that day, ages ago, the old chieftain of Clan Dougall rendered full honors to that credo.
In previous posts I've recounted my fondness of bagpipes. Andrea will even attest to the fact I've fallen asleep to its sonorous tones. Depending on your ear, bagpipes can be shrill or soothing. While they've been literal instruments of war, preceding Highland units into battle and freaking the bejeezus out of the waiting foe, they're also capable of some of the most melodious tunes I've ever heard. As the sun set on that long ago race day, it's the latter that I imagine provided the backdrop to Mr. MacDougall's ancient chieftain standing atop a Highland peak, surveying what he and his men had secured for their families.
No comments:
Post a Comment