Entry Island(117)
We arrived at the village of Gould in the township of Lingwick, towards noon yesterday morning. Sunday. It was here that we were told we should come if we wanted land. The village is built around a crossroads, with the road dipping away steeply at the north side, towards the valley of the River Salmon. There is a general store, and a church, and a school, and when we arrived there was not a soul to be seen.
That’s when I heard the Gaelic psalm-singing coming from the church. It’s not like normal singing. More a kind of chanting in praise of the Lord, with the congregation led in their unaccompanied song by one or more precentors. It was so familiar to me, and so redolent of home, that all the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. There is something about that sound, a sort of primal connection with the land and the Lord, that has always affected me.
‘What the hell is that?’ Michaél said.
And I laughed. ‘It’s the music of my island,’ I said.
‘Well, I’m glad I don’t come from your island. Sounds bloody weird to me.’
We were standing outside the church when the congregation streamed out into the noonday sun. They cast curious glances our way, two raggedy young men with beards and matted hair standing there in tattered shoes clutching little more than a handful of personal possessions.
When the minister had finished shaking the hands of his flock he walked towards us. A tall, thin man, with dark hair and cautious eyes. He introduced himself in English as the Reverend Iain Macaulay and welcomed us to what he called the Hebridean village of Gould.
‘We’ve come to the right place, then,’ I replied to him in Gaelic. And his eyebrows shot up. ‘My name is Sime Mackenzie and I come from the village of Baile Mhanais on the Langadail Estate on the Isle of Lewis and Harris. And this is my friend, Michaél O’Connor from Ireland.’
All the caution left the minister’s eyes then and he shook our hands warmly. And the congregation, when they heard that I was a fellow Hebridean, began to gather round, each of them welcoming us in turn and shaking our hands.
Mr Macaulay said, ‘You have indeed come to the right place, Mr Mackenzie. Gould was established by sixty Hebridean families cleared off their land in 1838. And they were joined by another forty destitute families from the west coast of Lewis just three years later. It’s as close to home as you can get without actually being there.’ I felt suffused by the warmth of his smile. ‘What’s brought you to us?’
‘We heard that they’re giving away free land,’ I said.
An old man in a dark suit said, ‘Aye, they are that. You’ve timed it well, laddie. The clerk from the British American Land Company arrives in the morning to start allocating parcels.’ He pointed a finger vaguely beyond the church. ‘Just to the south there, in what they call the St Francis tract.’
Michaél said, ‘But why would they be giving away land for nothing?’ He was still deeply suspicious of anyone who claimed to own land, but I was relieved that he was at least moderating his language.
Mr Macaulay said, ‘If there’s one thing there’s plenty of in this country, boys, it’s land. The company is giving it away so that it will be populated by settlers. That way the government will give them contracts to lay in roads and build bridges.’
*
We set off from Gould early Monday morning along a track that took us maybe half a mile into the forest. The minister was with us, as well as a large crowd of villagers to accompany twenty or more hopeful settlers and the clerk from the British American Land Company.
We arrived at a small clearing after ten or fifteen minutes. The sun was barely over the tops of the trees and it was still icy cold. But the sky was clear and it looked like we were in for another beautiful autumn day.
Mr Macaulay asked those wanting land to gather round. We were going to cast lots, he said.
‘What’s that?’ I asked him.
‘It’s a practice that occurs in the Bible, Mr Mackenzie,’ he said. ‘Most commonly in connection with the division of land under Joshua. I refer you to Joshua, chapters 14 to 21. In this case I will have a bunch of sticks in my hand of varying length. You will each draw one, and he who draws the longest will get the first allocation of land. And so on, right down to the shortest, who will get the last.’
Michaél grunted loudly. ‘What’s the point of that?’
‘The point is, Mr O’Connor, that the first parcel of land will be the closest to the village. The last will be the furthest away, and the most inaccessible. So this is the fairest way to decide who gets what. It shall be God’s will.’