Peter May - Entry Island

He casts a speculative eye over the assembled villagers before he says in Gaelic, ‘This is Mr Jamieson, the Sheriff-Depute.’

Mr Jamieson is a man of average height and build, maybe forty-five or fifty years old. He wears leather boots and a long coat that glistens with myriad tiny droplets of rain. His hat is pulled down low over his brow so that we can barely see his eyes. His voice is strong and carries the confidence of the ruling class, and his breath billows like mist around his head as he speaks in English, a language that 90 per cent or more of the people of the township will not understand.

‘People of Baile Mhanais. I am here to inform you that the notices to quit served upon you fourteen days since have now expired. I ask you for the sake of peace and good order to leave now, or I shall have no option but to sanction your forcible eviction.’ His words might not have been understood, but his tone is.

I feel anger well up inside me. ‘And if someone came, Mr Jamieson, and asked you to leave your home, how would you feel?’

He raises his head a little as if to see me more clearly. ‘If I were in arrears with my rent, young man, I would have no option but to comply. The law is the law.’

‘Aye, your fucking law!’ shouts someone with a good grasp of the English vernacular.

‘There’s no need for that kind of language!’ the factor says sharply.

‘How can we pay rent when we have no money and no means to earn it?’ I turn at the sound of Donald Dubh’s voice at my shoulder and see his face as grey as the ocean. I am surprised to hear him speak English.

Mr Jamieson sets his jaw against the tone of the debate. ‘I am not here to discuss the social issues involved. Only to enforce the law. I’m warning you that this is an illegal gathering, and that if you do not break it up and leave peacefully I will be forced to read you the Riot Act.’

I have no idea what the Riot Act is, or what the reading of it might entail, but the factor translates his words into Gaelic and they return an uneasy silence to the crowd. No one moves, and the Sheriff-Depute reaches into an inside pocket to bring out a sheet of paper which he proceeds to unfold.

‘For God’s sake!’ the factor says. ‘If he reads you the Riot Act and you pay it no heed, they can hang you for it.’

Which sends a chill through the gathering. But still no one moves. Mr Jamieson clears his throat and his voice rings out. ‘Our Sovereign Lady the Queen chargeth and commandeth all persons being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves...’ A stone comes out of the crowd, striking him on the forehead. His hat spins away and he drops to one knee, his copy of the Riot Act fluttering into the mud. His hand goes to his head, and the blood that oozes through his fingers seems vividly red against the white of his skin.

Macaulay hooks a hand under his arm and pulls him to his feet. ‘You bloody fools,’ he shouts at us. ‘You’ve brought this on yourselves.’

He drags the Sheriff-Depute away, the man slightly stooped and still clutching his head. His hat lies in the mud where it fell, and I see how thin his hair is, greying and oiled back across his scalp, and he seems less a figure of authority now, than simply a man humiliated. If I did not know what was about to happen, I might even feel sorry for him.

The two men are halfway up the hill when Macaulay shouts to the men at the top of it, and there is the briefest lull before a great yell goes up and the charge begins.

Down the hill they come at a gallop, thirty, forty of them or more. The constables at the front, batons raised, shouting at the tops of their voices as they charge. It is a moment that chills the blood. And the crowd responds. A hail of stones flies through the air towards the advancing policemen. Their helmets offer some protection, arms and batons raised to fend off the missiles, but some are struck about the face or head. Several stumble and fall. But it does not stop the assault.

More stones are hurled, but they are almost upon us now and I hear the first crack of a skull as a baton descends upon a head. A man I know well. A crofter from the beach side. He goes down.

It is mayhem! The voices of men and women in one-sided combat rising up into the still morning air. A bloody cacophony. I see batons rising and falling before my eyes, like the shuttles that fly back and forth across the weave on a loom. I have kept back my stone, but I swing it now, held in my fist, and smash it into the face of a young constable before he can fell me with his baton. I can feel and hear his teeth break, and see the blood spurt from his mouth as he drops.

We are falling back under the onslaught, fending off blows with our arms and hands. I have no idea where my mother and sisters are. I am assailed by the sights and sounds of battle. Those first villagers to have fallen are now being mercilessly kicked and beaten. No matter if they are women or children. I see a teenage girl, who lives three houses away from us, lying screaming on her back as two constables stamp repeatedly on her breasts.

And then I catch sight of the pitiful figure of old blind Calum staggering about, his Glengarry trampled in the mud, arms raised to shield himself from blows he cannot see. A man who once fought for Britain at the Battle of Waterloo. Struck down now by a vicious blow from a young man not even born when Calum was fighting for his freedom. His head divides almost in two and he falls, blood and grey matter oozing from his broken skull. Dead before he hits the ground.

I am so enraged I lose all control, charging at the bastards, screaming at the top of my voice, swinging my fists like a madman, catching one in the face, another in the throat, before there is a crippling blow to the side of my head and I feel my knees fold beneath me. The world goes black and silent.

I have no idea how long I have been unconscious. The first thing I am aware of is a terrible searing pain in my head. And then the light. Blood-red at first, and then dazzling white. And I have to screw up my eyes against it.

I can’t move, and for a moment I panic, thinking that I am paralysed. Before realising that a man lies on top of me. I manage to pull my legs from under him, dragging myself up into a half-sitting position against the wall of the blackhouse behind me. And I see that the man who lay on me is Donald Dubh. He is looking at me, eyes staring. But he sees nothing. There are other bodies on the path. Men, women and children. Most still alive, but dreadfully injured. I hear the muted moans of semi-conscious villagers in pain. Somewhere in the distance a woman is wailing. I roll my head to one side and see her running away across the shore, feet sliding and slithering in the shingle. Two constables chase after her. They catch her near the jetty and beat her to the ground before starting to kick her mercilessly.

It is like my worst nightmare. But there is no waking from it. Further up the slope, between the first two blackhouses at the top of the village, estate workers led by the distinctive ginger head of George Guthrie are dragging an old woman from her house. Old Mrs Macritchie. Eighty if she is a day, and bedridden for months. I remember that she was one of the women who were there the day my mother gave birth to Murdag.

She is still lying on her mattress as they drag her from the house and tip her into the mud. Her nightdress rips open, and I see her pitifully pale wizened old body. Her cries of protest are trapped in her throat like a swallowed whisper. And they start to kick her, these men. I cannot believe I am witnessing such inhumanity, such total absence of compassion. I look away and feel tears searing my cheeks, bile rising in my throat.

I scan the village through my grief. Most of the villagers are gone, it seems, though I have no idea where. And I know that I must get away before George and his crew find me. For then I would be as good as dead, too.