Grandmother and the Priests by Taylor Caldwell Page A
Authors: Taylor Caldwell
Tags: Roman, Catholic, irish, Miracles, bishop, Scots, priest, Welsh, Early 20th Century, Sassenagh, late nineteenth century, Monsignori, Sassenach, mass
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The Scotsman, unlike the Irishman — though they are blood-brothers — is rarely sentimental. He is a harsher and bitterer breed, with long cold memory and an unforgiving heart. A feud with an Irishman can frequently be resolved in a burst of good temper and humor, and after a drink or two, especially if a priest intervenes in a spirit of brotherly love and conciliation. But a feud with a Scotsman is for life. He will reluctantly give his word, then keep it, but God help the man who gives a Scotsman his word and does not keep it.
And, if he wants something badly enough, he will get it.
Hence the tale of the Doughty Chieftain.
Douglass MacDougall was the laird of an island so remote that even the inhabitants of the Isle of Skye had seldom heard of it. Very cold, craggy and assaulted by the sea, it was doubted by many that even potatoes, turnips, barley and oats could be grown there, and few believed that cattle or even the hardy sheep could survive in that bitter weather. The race of Somerled had once ruled all the Islands, and had given birth to the lairds of Lome, brothers in blood and war and raids on Norway and Sweden. All, then, had called themselves MacDougalls. But later came the clans of Argyll, Campbell, MacLean, MacNaughton and MacDonald, and various others, to make life lively for the outlander and themselves. Robert the Bruce had ranged over the Islands and had done certain bloody things to the lairds of Lome, and especially to the MacDougalls. The latter were believed by almost everyone to have been pretty well exterminated by Bruce — who went after his countrymen during boring interludes of peace with the Saxon dog. A Scotsman may be one of the most courageous men on earth, but he knows when to retire and lick his wounds, and the few MacDougalls who survived the general slaughter retired to that far isle and thought long and homicidal thoughts. However, reality faced the few families. After a very long time, they thought of asking the help of the great houses of MacLeod and MacNeill, and such, but learned that these had come under the influence of William III and Queen Anne, and were receiving handsome subsidies in return for a cease-fire between all the clans of Scotland, and another cease-fire against England. Protestantism, too, had invaded the ancient Catholic clans, and the MacDougalls were firmly Catholic. There was nothing for it but to hate in the liveliest fashion, fashion songs of war and murder, play the bagpipes stirringly, and, in the hope that the new world would forget their existence, to lie low.
They lay low for centuries, but their hatred did not.
A warrior people do not breed lavishly, for it is hard to stay awake for love after the arm has been busy all day lopping off heads in battle or bashing in skulls with a mace. Too, the warrior has a wide swath of modesty in him, and a fear of women, the latter the result of a simple and primitive perspicacity. None of these things are conducive to large families around the hearth. After centuries following Bruce the inhabitants of Douglass MacDougall’s isle numbered some fewer than three thousand darkly Catholic souls, counting even the youngest baby in its cradle and its oldest men. The cattle and the sheep could boast a larger population and breeding rate, even in that fearful climate where the midnight sun could be expected every summer.
Young Father Robert MacBurne had just been ordained in Edinburgh when he was taken by the Bishop to his home. His lordship was by way of being Robert’s uncle, oldest brother to Robert’s mother, and he was a kindly soul. His manse was poor, bare and cold, with niggardly fires — all he could afford. He eyed Robert with affection, asked about the family, and gossiped a little. He was unnaturally effusive, and Robert began to feel a sensation of nasty premonition. As the Bishop’s nephew, he had not exactly hoped for preferred treatment and a parish that would give him
The Scotsman, unlike the Irishman — though they are blood-brothers — is rarely sentimental. He is a harsher and bitterer breed, with long cold memory and an unforgiving heart. A feud with an Irishman can frequently be resolved in a burst of good temper and humor, and after a drink or two, especially if a priest intervenes in a spirit of brotherly love and conciliation. But a feud with a Scotsman is for life. He will reluctantly give his word, then keep it, but God help the man who gives a Scotsman his word and does not keep it.
And, if he wants something badly enough, he will get it.
Hence the tale of the Doughty Chieftain.
Douglass MacDougall was the laird of an island so remote that even the inhabitants of the Isle of Skye had seldom heard of it. Very cold, craggy and assaulted by the sea, it was doubted by many that even potatoes, turnips, barley and oats could be grown there, and few believed that cattle or even the hardy sheep could survive in that bitter weather. The race of Somerled had once ruled all the Islands, and had given birth to the lairds of Lome, brothers in blood and war and raids on Norway and Sweden. All, then, had called themselves MacDougalls. But later came the clans of Argyll, Campbell, MacLean, MacNaughton and MacDonald, and various others, to make life lively for the outlander and themselves. Robert the Bruce had ranged over the Islands and had done certain bloody things to the lairds of Lome, and especially to the MacDougalls. The latter were believed by almost everyone to have been pretty well exterminated by Bruce — who went after his countrymen during boring interludes of peace with the Saxon dog. A Scotsman may be one of the most courageous men on earth, but he knows when to retire and lick his wounds, and the few MacDougalls who survived the general slaughter retired to that far isle and thought long and homicidal thoughts. However, reality faced the few families. After a very long time, they thought of asking the help of the great houses of MacLeod and MacNeill, and such, but learned that these had come under the influence of William III and Queen Anne, and were receiving handsome subsidies in return for a cease-fire between all the clans of Scotland, and another cease-fire against England. Protestantism, too, had invaded the ancient Catholic clans, and the MacDougalls were firmly Catholic. There was nothing for it but to hate in the liveliest fashion, fashion songs of war and murder, play the bagpipes stirringly, and, in the hope that the new world would forget their existence, to lie low.
They lay low for centuries, but their hatred did not.
A warrior people do not breed lavishly, for it is hard to stay awake for love after the arm has been busy all day lopping off heads in battle or bashing in skulls with a mace. Too, the warrior has a wide swath of modesty in him, and a fear of women, the latter the result of a simple and primitive perspicacity. None of these things are conducive to large families around the hearth. After centuries following Bruce the inhabitants of Douglass MacDougall’s isle numbered some fewer than three thousand darkly Catholic souls, counting even the youngest baby in its cradle and its oldest men. The cattle and the sheep could boast a larger population and breeding rate, even in that fearful climate where the midnight sun could be expected every summer.
Young Father Robert MacBurne had just been ordained in Edinburgh when he was taken by the Bishop to his home. His lordship was by way of being Robert’s uncle, oldest brother to Robert’s mother, and he was a kindly soul. His manse was poor, bare and cold, with niggardly fires — all he could afford. He eyed Robert with affection, asked about the family, and gossiped a little. He was unnaturally effusive, and Robert began to feel a sensation of nasty premonition. As the Bishop’s nephew, he had not exactly hoped for preferred treatment and a parish that would give him
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