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Childrcn of the

Clearances

_tbr:t by D¡vid Ros

llustr¿t€d by Tony o Doméll

@ 2001 Wavdl€y Boots Ltd

Reprinred 2002

Públished by Wav€.ley Book Lt¿New Lam.k, scod¿nd

All nshts ¡esered. No pa.t of this !üblcation may be ¡eprodlced,stored in a ret.ievál system, or üansine.l, in lny form or by my

ñeas, el€.tmñi., frec!¡nical, photocopins, rccordi¡g o¡ othe.{ise,without the pno¡ pcmisior of th€ copynght holder

lsBN I 902407 t8 0

Printed dd hoúnd in Slolenia

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I = -g_I HE L TEARANCES

\ nrme . . IP. \ i r . I rm gorng ro te l l )ou¡bout somc ofthe things that happened mScotland during a time in our history

called the Clearances.In the Highlands :nd Islands, m¿ny Scott ish

clansmen and thei¡ families rvcre forceci to leave theirhomes during the Clearances. They rvcrc living onsmall firms but the mcn rvho orvned the land wantedto set rrp huge sheep fárms. They bclieved the only u.ayto do this was to drive the ordinary people a\a.al'. Andso it w¿s that poor people, like my family, lost not onlytheir belongings ¡nd their homes but their whoie wáyof life. Many were forccd to leave Scotland foreve¡ toseek a ncw life in the colonies

Many children suffered as ¡ result of the Clearances,including my own brothers án¿ my sister I dm going totcll you a little about horv our livcs changed cluring th;stime. You can also ¡ead in this book about how someother people felt about what rvas happening. Theyinclude a rich and powerful Duke and his Duchess,tleir firctor fthe man rvho looked after thcir lands] andhis son.

Wlen this story bcgins, I was iiving \a'ith m)' grannyand my youngei sister and brothcrs in Suisinish on theIsle of Skye . . .

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ffiIHI L HILDREN OF 5UI\ INISH

lsLr or 5|(YE

\ .r.1¡ É:ranny is a very old lady. My sister,M¿rga¡et, my trl'o younger brothers, Mu¡doald Alcrander, ¡n¿ I live wjth our Éi¡arny

becat¡se our mother died a year ago. Our daddy,Alexander Mathcson, has tione away to the South, towork at thc harvest on the big farms. He has takcn ourbig hrothcr \a.ith him. Thcy will come back bcfore the\,vintcr, \^,ith the moncy they have earncd.

Granny can't n-alk any more but we ai1 help cary herout to the ftont of the house rvhen the sun is shining.She likes to sit there ancl see rvhat is happening. Fromthe housc we look dom onto the blue waters of LochSlapin. All around us a¡e small fields in rvhich there arecorn and potatoes growing, u,ith cows and sheep on thegrccn hills. Across thc loch rve can see hcathe¡,coveredhills ancl, rising bcyond them, thc distant pe¿ks of thcgreet Cuillin Mountains- I think wc live in the mostlovely placc in the rvorlcl \.hcn it isn't rainingl

But on this fine, sunny day what do we hcar? Thedogs are barking, all along the houses. We can hearpeoplc shouting, far off. Something vcry st¡ange ishappening. Little Alexander an.l I stay wirh our granny,and Margaret ánd Murdo climb over the wall and runto see $¡hat is going oh. Perhaps it is á pedlar come to

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scll nccdlcs and trinkcts? But it docsn't sound likc apedlar arriving.

"Is it our daddy coming back?" asksAlexander, who istoo youns to k¡o\.that his daddy rvon't come backuntil the harvest is ove¡ an¿ it is nearly winter

But when Murdo and Margaret come running back,rL-. . +;--- ^ .^ -^ l^. . - l - -^.^ l

"What's the matter?" I ask them.They are too breathless to speak properly."The men " gasps Margaret. "Men ¿¡e coming- They

are throwing everlthing out of the housesl They areputt ing thc pcoplc out and nail ing up thc doorsl"

"Thcy arc tipping out the meal chests and smashingup the furniture," says Murdo. "Why are they doing it?Who are they?"

Cranny throrvs up he¡ arms in hor¡or."lt is the Lair.l's menl Lorcl MacDonald has sent

them, as he threatened he rvould. He wants to take theland wc havc always livcd on and turn it into a grcatsheep fárm. Alas, that I should live to see the day."

"l won't let them come here," says Murdo, rn'ith afierce face, picLing up a stick as ifit wás á swo¡d-

"tsut where cán we go?" cries Margaret. She looks atme. I am the oldest. But I don't knour

"Let us go inside the house," I say. "Take Grannyinside. Surcly u'hcn thcy see there is just an old womanand child¡en here, they \^'ill leave us alone. Theywouldn't pl¡t us out.".

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^rrd that is what we ¿o. Poor old granny is crying and

moaninil as lve stagger through the nar¡ow doo¡ withhcr chair I push the door shut. lt is nearly dark insideou¡ little house and smoky from the pcat fire that isstili smouldering. Bright light comes in through thenarrow window and we all squeeze close, trying to lookout and sec what is happening.

"Thcy are comingl" cries Margaret, and she catcheshold ofme in her frlght and tries to hide her facc in myplaid.

In a minute, thcre is a heavy hammering on the door."Come outl" roars a ñan's big voice.We do not move and, with a crash, the door is pushcd

open and men come bursting into the room."lvVhat have we got here?" says one.'An old wif! and

a pa¡cel of bairns. Out $'ith the 1ot of you. This placeis being cleared."

"Leave us aionel" shouts Murdq and runs at the man,though hc only comes up to his waist. The mán catchesMu¡do and pushes him out through the door. Inanothc¡ moment they havc picked up Granny's chairand carried he¡ outside again. C¡ying, we fo1low, butthe men pay no attention to us. Now out through thedoo¡ come all the things we have - one or two chairs,¿ milking stool, the spinning whcc1, a1l tossed into abroken heap. It does not takc long to empty our poorlittlc house. Then hammcr, hammer strong woodenba¡s a¡e fixed ac¡oss t4re door and windows.

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"Where can we go?""Wh¡t can we do?"lhe mcn do rot answer Without looking back at us,

they tramp on to the next hotse.Mary MacDonald, from the next croft, comes to ou¡

rvall and looks ove¡."They are dcvils, these men. They chose their timc

wcll, rvith our men au'ay and only thc old folk and thewomen and children to face them- Is the old lady allright?" shc calls.

"I think so. I don't k¡ou'," I answer hcr "What ishappening? What are yoü going to do?"

"We will walk to Broadfbrd," she said. 'l have cousinsthe¡e who rvill take us in for a short time at least, untilmi' husband returns. I would offcr to take you too butI have my orvn three chilclren, and their house is so

"My gr¡nny cannot walk," I ansrver. "Wc can't leavchcr We cannot go from hcre."

"lt is a dcsperate day," said Mary MacDonald. "l rvi1ltell them in Broadford and hope that something can bedone. But I must go, or it $.ill be night belbre I getthere, with my baby to carry and my two cows to drivethrouSh the hills."

All that day u'c u'atch tlre people ofSuisinish stragglcavv'ay from their old homes. They carry heavy burdensand long memories of the lancl they had believed to betheir own. None of tfem can hclp us.

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Clou& a¡e rising now to hide away the sun ancl theblue water of Loch Slapin has turned a greeny-greycolour The men had tipped our bag ofoatmcal and ourlittle stock of potatocs out on the grass. Murdo ¿ndMargarct gathcr up thc potatoes while I scrape themeal together again, find ¿ dish, mi{ some of theoatmeal with w¿ter ¡nd make us ¿ cold ¿nd mise¡abledish of brose. A chilly rvind is coming in from the sea.We often look back at our house, locked and barred. Itseems so hard to belicvc such a thing could happen inthis land.

Wlile we eat, I ¿m thinking of rvhat we might do,¿nd then I remember the sheepcot on the hillside. It isno house but it has walls and a roof and offers somckind of sheltcr I makc up my mind.

"Wc will go to the old sheepcot," I say to the others.And I make them gather up what they can bits ofbedding, some clothes and c¡rry them up the hill.After two or three trips, we are ready to move granny.Büt it is one thing to ca¡ry he¡ trom hcr bcd in thchouse to the front door, and something clsc to carry hcra long way up a steep hill. We cannot do it we are justnot big and st¡ong enouSh. Having got the old lady outofher chair, we have to lay her down on the ground.

"You are good children," she says, over and over again,

¡ou do nor de.erve rhi ' t" haffen to )"uSJowly, slowly, wc hclp hcr along. Most of the way

our poor Sranny has¡o crawl, though where the ground

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is level, rve help hcr to her feet rnd she u,alks a ferv

It is horrible inside the sheepcot. It is made of roughstones ¿nd rvind blous through chinks and gaps. Underour feet thc groi-1nd is slippery and it is dark, smelly andclamp. 'l'here is no f:ireplace or chimney holc and u.eha\.e to light a firc outside. We stay out as long as wecan, saying nothing, watching the loDS slo$,twilightfall across the hills, wondering \r.hat rvill háppen to us.

gfHF FAarb-R s S()N

hcn I grow up, I'm going to be a farme¡.I l l hare thour¿ndr o[ 'he-p. Thar . r 'harmy daddy says. Sheep farming is the

futu¡e of the Highlands. My daddy's name is MrWilliam Gunn and he is an important man. He is thefactor to the Duke of Suthe¡land and we live in a nicehouse in Golspic, near thc Duke's castle.'l'he Duke isoltcn arvay and my father manages things for him.

I have to work ha¡d at my lessons, so that I can lcarnto courlt, ánd rea¿, and rvrite. A farmer needs to knowthese things. Some of the child¡cn fiom round herenever go to school. I knorr some of them. I1rey don ttalk English but only Gaelic. I k¡ow a little bit ofGaelic but I have to be ca¡eful whel I talk to them- Ifmy daddy hears me talkirg Gaelic, he gets very angry.He says it is the language ofthe olden days and pcopleshoulcl be forbidden to speak it.

"Everyone should talk the Quccn's Eniliish," he says."Gaelic is lor s¡vagcs."

Hcrc in Golspie everyone is very polite to my fatherand men take their hats off to him in the st¡eet.Sometimes they whisper in his eals, telling him things.Some people are very naught¡., and at night they willgo out and catch Íish from thc Dukc's river, or go down

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1to thc sca and €iather shellfish that belong to the Dukc.Evcrything here belongs to the Duke, you see. Mylathe¡ h¡s hacl to send people arvay from thc village fordoing such things. My mothe¡ is always !1pser \\'henüis lT appens.

"These pcople rvere hungry," I hcard her say to him,

"Thcy can go án.l find thcir fbod somewhere else,"said my daddy. "Cive them any kindness and they'11 hcback begging for morc. A man must clo his düty."

A while ago, I was sick ¡nd, when I was gctting better,my fathcr took me out into the country h'ith him.

'A bit of f¡esh air will do you good," he s¿id, "we'11put some colour into that pcelie-lvally face of yours."

I sat proudly in front of him on his big brown horse.About ¡venty mcn were riding n'ith him ¿nd wefollorved a path up into the hills. The sun was shiningan.l everyonc was talking ancl laughlng. A man lookedacross at me 'ls he ¿ chip off thc o1d block?" he asked.

"I hope so," said m¡. daddli ruffling my hair.We came to a place rvhcre there rve¡e ffe1ds and

houses in a green valley. A c¡orvcl of women andchildren rvere waiting as we cáme up, and they startedcr¡ring out and going dorvn on thei¡ knccs in lront oIus.My father stopped his horse.

"Get out of the wáyl lf you makc ¡ny trouble, I willhave solüe¡s come and shoot the lot of you," heshouted, in a fferce voicc.1-

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Then he wavecl his men on. They dismounted fiomtheir horses, ran into the houses and began throrvingout ¿ll thc bits offurniture. I sau.an old, old man beingcarried out on his bcd. Soon the¡e rvas smoke risinginro the dir M¡ i r l - " r ' ' m"n rr" e."n.rg l l . r " rh-empty houses. With his a¡m round mc, my lather saton his horse, w¡tching. He gave me an applc to cat.

"What is happening, Daddy?" I asked him. "Why arcthe men doing this?"

"Thcse people do not understancl," he said. "Theyhave to be movcd out. You can't just put sheep on thehillside; 1,ou need the g¡een valleys too. Mcn fiom thcSouth will pay the Duke a good price to breed sheephere. All these people were given fair w¡rnin8 to getost. Ji-1st becaüse they have ahvays ln ecl here, theyLhrnk rh"y.ar lccp

"n I v,ng her" i . r " rerBut D¿ddr. rhc] "re,r l ing.WherF.an rhe¡ go."

"There are too many of thcm," hc said. "l don't carewhere they gq as long as they get awa-\¡ f¡om here andoff the Duke's land."

"But doesn't the Duke own ail the land?""Yoü're too young to understand," saicl my father.

"Thcsc pcople don't matter. They are not important.Look at thei¡ houses - no bcttcr than huts. Thcy can'teven speak English. This is thc ninctccnth ccntury, notthe Middle Ages. They must learn to move ü-ith thetimes."

As rve ¡ode back tq Golspie, I could smell the smoke

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on my father's coat. Somcwhereclecidcd that I ¿idn't want to be aDore. But I didn't tell my dacldy.would undentand.

along that road Isheep f;¡mer anyI don't thinh he

gfHF f) r lK F

am His Gracc thc Duke of Sutherland. I ¡m theorvne¡ of Suthcrlandshire and I am a very angryman. You n¡ould think the people u.ho live on

my estates would have some respect for me. Well, justlisten to this. You may knon' that this year, 1854,Britain and F¡ance havejüst gone to lvar against Russia.Now, it is one ofthe Íihc traditions ofthe Highlands ofScotland that, when the army needs men, theHighlanders are ah4'a)'s first to come forward. OurHiehland reSimcnt. ¿r. Lh- i in."r rh" ' " - r ¿rd r ' lmay s¡y so, the Sutherland Highlandcrs arc the flinestof all.

I called all my tenants to a meeting ¿nd came downfrom my castlc to talk to them. I invited the youngmcn to join up to fiSht the Russians. I offe¡ed them aspecial payment and showed them the gold and thepound notes, right there and thcn. Would you believeit not one single man stepped lbru-ard. Disgracefull

Then at last, an old man stood up. He spoke in a lo\t,voice, but in thc silence, every word rvas clear. Hercminded me of the day when my ruife's grandmothcr,the Countess of St¡therland, had assembled a regimcntof nine hundred men in this very p1acc. She couldeasily have doubled their number. And then he said:

"But in her day, the glens of Sutherland were full of24 25

people. Ioda)', thc glcns ¡re empty arrd desolatc phccs.

The men o[ Srrthcrland hale seen dreir houses tor¡down, their wives and childrcn lb¡ted out, ¡n,:1 for

r.hat? So that the noble and riL:h Dukc and D¡¡chess of

SuthcrlanJ coultl become cvcn richcr b¡, repl:rcing

rhenr \\.ith sheep. Ancl nou' yoLr llnd, l¡cn vou ¡eecl

men, thcrc arc none who $'il1 ans$'er -vour

call. Pcrhaps

,vou had bettcr scnd -vour

sheep to fight lor you."

And some of thc lt-llorvs skulking i¡ the back ron

cal lecl out: " ts¡al Baal 'l r s¡ . .nr ' ,1- , ,h1". l ¡ r r . o mr 1. . . r ;^¡ ¡ ' ' - '

carriagc and rctürnell to m)- .¡stle.

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gTHE Dur 'HFss

y poo¡ husbandlThese people have simplyno ideá of the right wáy to behave to aDuke. Soon he's travelling South to our

house in London, and he did so want to be able to tellthe dear Queen that he had raised a whole ne.rvregiment of Highlanders to fight in her a¡my.

And after all u'e have done for the people. How canthey be so ungrateful?

*_LHITDRTN Of fHE LLEARANCIS

I nd so our story has come to an end. For a shortIl time, you have been with üs thc mcn,

.fI' women and child¡en of the Clcarances.You have had ¿ chance to see what it was like fo¡ us

during this time. Can you imagine what it felt likeliving on cold oatmeal and water, not just for one daybut every day, and being turned out ofyour home withnowhcre to go?

These things happened in Scotland a long time ago.Life in the Highlands and Islands is very different nowBut the wide glens and the green hillsides, where thechildren of thc Clea¡ances once lived, are still empty.Exccpt, of course, for the sound of sheep . . .

NOTE:The stoús in this book afe based on actuál ¿.cóunrs oievents, reláted Á Thc Hntu/y oJ the Higlk¡.] Cbannes by

^1eaánde. l!l¿.kenzn:, frnt ¡ublished in 1883.

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