The journal of Margaret Ann Mouat
Born 1857 at Vaderwick, Bigton
Dunrossness
Shetland
London, 3rd December 1872
This is my first Entry, the first record of my new Life. Schoolmaster Craigie gave me this Book for writing, saying I should record all that happens for my children and their children. At fifteen year of age, Marriage and bairns of my own seem far in the Future. So I will write this for Jamie and Lizzie, for they share this Adventure although they are too young to understand much of what is happening.
It is now some weeks since we left the Ness and everything that is familiar. I am writing this in the Parlour at Mr Upson’s Establishment in Whitechapel, where we are accommodated. Annie is much wearied by the Journey and has stayed indoors with the bairns these past two days. Father and I have been out exploring the Sights of London, as far as our lack of money permits. Where we are staying, we are not far from the Tower of London and the Thames. Father and I made our way there through busy Streets thronged with Pedlars and people of all descriptions, Shopkeepers and Clerks, Seamen and Beggars. Wherever we walked near the River, we could see such grand old Buildings. My head reels with all the noise and activity. Even here indoors I can hear the rag and bone men constantly calling, the rumble of Carriages, and the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles.
Last night the Irish girls staying here escaped their Chaperone and ventured out into the streets of Whitechapel. Despite the scolding they received on their return well after dark, they were Unrepentant. They showed us the gay shawls and the gewgaws they had bought. Mr Upson said they had been Duped and cheated of their money, but I was envious of their Adventure.
I am getting ahead of myself. I should first explain how we come to be here in London so far from Home.
* * *
Life went on much as usual last summer. Bigton men put to sea for the fishing as often as the weather permitted. We did not seen much of Father. Like the other men, any time he was not at sea he spent on Bigton beach, working on the boat and lines or cleaning and splitting the fish for curing. From May through to August, he mostly slept down there in the stone hut so that he was on the spot. For all of that time the men were in tack to Bruce, Laird of Symbister, and the catch went to cover the rent on our crofts.
At first, the season went well. The boats came back regularly laden with cod and ling. Annie and I were hard pressed to keep up with baiting Father’s lines before the fleet put to sea again. It takes a lot of limpets to fill the thousand hooks of a long-line. The stink of their flesh as we chewed and spat them out got into our hair and clothes. After three weeks of constant baiting, I had had enough.
‘Mebbe we should pray for a storm tonight,’ I said to Annie, quietly enough, I thought. ‘A decent gale would keep the men ashore a bit.’
Before the words were scarce out of my mouth, I felt a fierce grip on my shoulder. I twisted against it to find Mary Goudie glaring at me, her warty old weathered face so close to mine I could smell the stink of limpet on her breath.
‘Curb thy wicked tongue, Margaret Ann Mouat,’ she shrilled. ‘Thursday’s child you may be, but that be no protection against the sea. Such words will bring bad luck upon us, you’ll see!’
I shrugged her off and muttered about superstition, but I could see the others agreed with her. Some of them were making the old sign against evil, though the Minister had forbidden it. Even Annie would not meet my eye. Subdued, I went back to work. It were not the first time my tongue had led me into trouble.
The weather stayed clear for another week. I was secretly relieved, for the talk of bad luck had given me a few wakeful nights. At last the wind changed and blew a gale that kept the boats on the beach. Father joined us up on the high moorlands of the skattald where we were turning the drying peat. He looked tired, the skin tight across his cheekbones.
‘A timely break, Da,’ I said, and earned another rebuke.
‘Each day ashore makes it harder tae meet Laird’s demands,’ he said. ‘Dinna be so quick tae welcome them, lass.’
All my life I had heard him rail against the fishing rents when the black mood was upon him. Rail against being in tack to Bruce, whose tenant he were like his father and grandfather before him. Forced to sell the catch to the merchant licensed by the Laird. Mouat the tacksman took care that the year’s credits did little more than cover the cost of the goods we needed from him. It were a sore point with Father that he shared his name with the man.
Once the fishing rent was met, the work was not so relentless, and we spent much of our time tending our small fields planted in corn and tatties. The other Vaderwick women worked within earshot, and their voices called back and forth with all the gossip. Annie and I were content to listen mostly, I guarding my tongue for once and Father’s young wife too kind-hearted to join in.
At first, when Father had said he was to marry again, I was resentful. We had coped well enough on our own since Mam had died. Although I was only nine at the time, I had already learnt how to run a good house. Mam had long been poorly with the bairns she lost. The last one proved too much, and she died with the babe a few hours after the birthing. It had been up to me to keep Father going. I had done so, even shrew-tongued old Mary Goudie, the howdie who attended Mam’s birthings, had been heard to say as much.
I watched Annie Jamieson for signs she would replace me in my father’s affections, but she made no attempt to do so. Instead she deferred to me on all matters in the house, checking how we had done things, my Mam and I. Before long, with nothing to fasten on, my resentment faded. Then Father started playing his fiddle again. The people gathered at our house of a long winter evening as they had done when Mam was alive. Music and laughter returned to our house. I realised Annie had restored to us something we had both forgotten. We became good friends then, Annie Jamieson and I. So life seemed fair that summer in 1872 as we worked at the peat and in the fields together. I was happier than I had been since Mam had gone.
After the long day’s work was done, Annie would turn a blind eye whenever I slipped away after supper to roam high on the skattald through the long twilight hours. I found a contentment up there, walking amongst the heather and the tilted rock that capped the rounded summits. The wide sky stretched above me and I could see far out to sea. Up there I felt I could breathe.
It were up there on the high ground one calm evening that I picked up some dark specks far out to sea. After watching for a while to be sure, I hurried back down, sore troubled. Twere only that morning the fleet had set out, it were too early for them to be returning.
As I ran past the Goudie house, the howdie called out to me from tending her midden, her voice sharp with disapproval.
‘Where are you off to in such tearing haste, Maggie Mouat?’
I answered her without stopping, ‘The fleet – ’tis returning – there’s been trouble at sea.’
‘Nonsense, lass!’ I heard her call after me. ‘You must be mistaken. The sea be calm. The men will be gone ’til the morrow.’
I did not reply. At Bigton, I stood waiting on the pebbled beach, straining my eyes against the gathering dusk. Time passed and the last calls of the seabirds flying to their cliff roosts faded. I wrapped my shawl close about me, but my limbs continued their tremble until I thought they would not bear my weight. It were a long hour or more before the first boat pulled in. Others straggled in behind her. My heart lurched as I recognised Da’s boat amongst them. But by the time they were all beached I knew my instinct had been right. Three boats were missing.
I waited numbly until Da trudged up the beach towards me. The clatter of stones under his boots startled the hush. ‘Eh, lass, lass,’ he said heavily.
I stared at him, unable to say anything. He held out his arms and the spell I was under broke. Flinging myself into his embrace I clung to him, sobbing. It were some while before I was able to say through my tears, ‘I thought you were lost!’
Father held me tight. ‘Shush, now, shush.’ He rocked me until I regained some control. ‘Tis bad,’ he said then, quietly. ‘William gone, Magnus with him and the rest o’ their boat.’ His voice broke. It were a moment before he went on. ‘John Jamieson and all his crew. Robert Hughson and all his crew.’ His grip on me tightened.
My face buried against his chest, the familiar smell of fish and damp wool in my nostrils, I tried to stop the names repeating in my head. My Uncle William and Cousin Magnus, only a few month older than me. His first season at sea. Annie’s brother John. All close kin.
The women from the small settlements scattered around Bigton arrived one by one on the beach. Throughout that long night we gradually learnt what had happened. A black squall, blasting out of nowhere, had caught the fleet off guard soon after they reached the fishing ground. The three boats lost still had their sails up, being late to arrive. They had not stood a chance. The others had survived only by cutting loose their paid-out lines and running before the violent wind. When they were able to make their way back to the fishing ground, there were no sign of the three boats or their crews but for a few smashed planks.
All five families at Vaderwick had lost someone, some from Mewhouse, others from Bigton. Eighteen lost in all, four of them mere lads like Magnus.
For a week or more, I worked without knowing what I did. My body performed the routine tasks while my mind howled and railed against the sea, the fishing, this life that bore down so relentlessly upon us. Da’s grandfather and three of his uncles had drowned in the great storm of 40 year ago, five year before Da himself was born. Now his own older brother had been taken. How many kin did we have to lose before God would be satisfied? Not even the Minister had an answer for me.
It were not long after the funerals that the talk started. At first I ignored it, too sore in my own heart to care. Then after a while, the pointing fingers and the muttering behind my back drove me away ever more often from the crofts of Vaderwick up onto the high ground of the skattald. I walked, the wind stripping the tears from my cheeks, until my very bones ached with exhaustion and the hurt of it. But I could not escape what some of the old women were saying, Mary Goudie among them.
They were saying it were my careless words that had conjured up the rogue squall. That it were my fault the men had drowned. My fault the boats had been destroyed. Part of me thought they might be speaking true. But the howdie was saying worse. That I had known of the disaster before the returning boats were even within view. She had heard me foretell it with her own ears.
* * *
‘Margaret Ann Mouat,’ said the Minister. ‘You are to stand up before the congregation for rebuke for the next three Sundays.’
I bowed my head so that I did not have to meet the condemning eyes of the row of black-clad elders of the Session.
The Minister continued, his tone measured and austere. ‘You have been heard taking the Lord’s name in vain and questioning His works. You must learn to guard your foolish tongue. We will waive the usual fine in view of the loss your family has suffered.’
Meekly I nodded. Inside me a voice I could not control said, ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, but where is the justice in His actions?’
Beside me I heard Mary Goudie draw in a breath of satisfaction. Silently I prayed for the Devil to go down her throat. She had borne witness against me, in terms so righteous and exaggerated she had made me sound both depraved and wicked.
Much to my surprise my prayer was answered.
The Minister spoke again. ‘Mary Goudie, you too will appear before the congregation on the same three Sundays.’
I felt the old howdie bridle in outrage beside me. She opened her mouth in a bleat of protest, but was quickly stopped by the Minister’s raised hand.
‘It has been brought to the Session’s attention that you have been spreading ancient superstitions and encouraging non-Christian beliefs amongst the people of our congregation.’
Although it came hard to me to stand in front of everyone at Kirk while the Minister used me as an example of the waywardness of youth, his words were tame compared with the sermons he preached against superstition and ungodliness. He had the old howdie so cowed I came close to feeling sorry for her.
Throughout the time of my discipline, I avoided people as much as I could. For it did not matter what the Minister said, there were some who still believed I had been responsible for the deaths. We were harvesting by then, and everyone were up in the fields, the men scything the corn, the women stacking the long stems into stooks, so it were hard for me.
Even the menfolk seemed to be gathering in small groups to talk behind my back when work was finished for the day. Wherever I went I came across such a group. I would hasten to pass, doing my best to ignore the hushed voices. One day I realised Father was increasingly amongst them. Sore at his betrayal, I sulked at home, not talking except when I was asked a direct question. Not that my silence was so much as noticed. I took to spending more time than ever up on the moorlands of the skattald, sometimes shirking my work.
Then one afternoon Father and some of the other men went off in Henry Shewan’s cart to Lerwick, to a lecture of some sort. For three days or more after the men returned, nowt were said. They spent more time than ever in a huddle. Slowly it dawned on me there must be more on their minds than my wayward tongue. Subdued, I put aside my foolishness in thinking I were the sole subject of their talk. But as time wore on, my patience and curiosity were much tested.
Father was moody. He has always had a temper that flashes in a spate of hot words directed at whoever gets in his way. Like summer lightning, Mam used to say. It were only since she died that his mood turned black for days on end, his movements slowed as though the Devil himself sat upon his shoulder. This time it were of the summer lightning variety. So I was careful not to cross his path. By the time he saw fit to say what were on his mind, I was near bursting with questions.
It were a dark morning and chill for that time of year. The wind was roaring in great gusts, coming off the sea from the north-west. I heard the other crofters tramp past on their way up to the tattie fields, but Father leisurely poured himself another mug of strong black tea.
‘Stop fussing with the fire, woman,’ he said to Annie. ‘Come and set – I’ve things tae say. You too, Maggie,’ he added as I made for the door into the byre to tend the cow.
Relieved that I would not have to pump Annie later, I pulled up a stool close to the fire, my knitting dutifully in my lap.
‘You mind that meeting at Lerwick,’ Father said. He paused.
I could tell he was reluctant to come to the point and could not restrain myself. ‘Out with it, Da! Annie ’n’ me have waited long enough.’
His blue eyes glinted at me. For a moment I thought I had provoked his temper, but then he laughed. ‘Aye, lass, you’ve a tongue on you. Twould take more than the Elders to curb it. I’ll put it to you both straight. Some of us are talking o’ leaving Shetland.’
I gaped at him. A gust of wind slammed against the house, rattling the windows in their frames.
‘They’re taking folk in New Zealand,’ he said. ‘Folk like us.’
‘New Zealand?’ I said incredulously. ‘That’s on t’other side of the world.’
Annie was silent. Then she said placidly, just as though he had said nowt out of the ordinary, ‘Go on, Thomas.’
‘Well, that’s it,’ said Father. He took a gulp of tea, then nodded his head at me. ‘Aye, Maggie, twelve thousand mile away on t’other side o’ the world. As far from lairds and merchants as you can get.’ I could hear the familiar bitterness in his voice. ‘A chance tae be me own man. That is what’s offered.’
Annie and I both stared at him. For once I was slow to find something to say.
‘Nowt tae keep us here any more,’ said Father quietly. ‘Kin lost to the sea, generation after generation.’ He paused. ‘Times are bad. I’ve heard a rumour that Grierson has plans to turn folk off so he can use the land for sheep. Nowt tae stop Bruce doing likewise.’
‘Aye,’ said Annie. ‘There be truth in that. Only t’other day, two families up Cunningsburgh were put off their land.’
‘No Mouat is going tae end up in the workhouse.’ Father’s voice grew suddenly fierce. ‘New Zealand would give us a new start.’
‘If you think that’s best,’ said Annie. Her lip quivered, and I saw she was close to tears. ‘I’ve heard tell there be heathen savages in New Zealand.’
‘Yon immigration agent that spoke at Lerwick said it’s for the south we’re wanted,’ said Da. ‘Apparently there were never many Mowries there. The New Zealand Government’s offering free passages for Shetlanders, farm labourers and fishermen like us.’
‘What else did he say?’ Annie sounded dubious.
Father thought a moment. ‘A paradise for fisherfolk, he said. Free land on Stewart’s Island being offered us. Tis a Special Settlement of some sort. Good fishing and fertile land for farming in New Zealand, thousands of acres, he said. Most of it flat grassy plains.’
And so it were decided. With us, four other Ness families took up the offer of free passage. Kin to us, Willie and Janet Burgher, with their two small bairns. Nothing would hold Willie back from such an adventure. Henry and Elspet Shewan from Scousburgh were the oldest of the group and had four children. I scarce knew Henry, a dour dark man of few words who had spent time at sea on whaling ships. The other two families were both well known to us. Magnus and Catherine Sutherland from Bigton, their children close to Jamie and Lizzie in age. Catherine was Elspet’s younger sister, but less shrew-tongued. Duncan and Barbara Manson from Mewhouse, I had no opinion of, for they did not take my eye as strong personalities and kept to themselves. They had a babe, not much more than four month old.
As well as these families, two younger men decided to take their chances with us – Robert Leslie and Gibbie Johnston. Both 20, single, and looking for a better life.
Within a few short months, by the end of November, we had packed up and left Dunrossness for London and a passage on a clipper ship to the other end of the world.