Spanning the Scottish Highlands, Gilded Age New York, and the contested lands of New Mexico, Land Shadows traces the rise of Murdoch McNeilâa man caught in a web of ambition, betrayal, and the seductive promise of ownership.
Orphaned in the aftermath of the Highland Clearances, Murdoch claws his way into the legal elite of New York City. But his success is built on a lie: a forged deed to a vast stretch of land in New Mexicoâs Maxwell Land Grant. As the U.S. government sorts which land frauds to honor and which to revoke, Murdoch must uproot his family and move to New Mexico to protect his claim.
Alongside him is Kewanee, a Potawatomi girl resisting the brutal assimilation of the Carlisle Indian School. Together, their fates entwine in a struggle for identity, legitimacy, and survival.
Land Shadows explores how America expandedânot just through conquest, but through compromise, betrayal, and the rewriting of truth.
Praise for Land Shadows
âAn enlightening and thoughtful approach to how land rights were handled during another era... Highly recommended.â
âAnn Howard Creel, The Magic of Ordinary Days
âAn engrossing tale with spellbinding characters... youâre watching history unfold.â
âMarianne Goodland, President, Denver Press Club
Spanning the Scottish Highlands, Gilded Age New York, and the contested lands of New Mexico, Land Shadows traces the rise of Murdoch McNeilâa man caught in a web of ambition, betrayal, and the seductive promise of ownership.
Orphaned in the aftermath of the Highland Clearances, Murdoch claws his way into the legal elite of New York City. But his success is built on a lie: a forged deed to a vast stretch of land in New Mexicoâs Maxwell Land Grant. As the U.S. government sorts which land frauds to honor and which to revoke, Murdoch must uproot his family and move to New Mexico to protect his claim.
Alongside him is Kewanee, a Potawatomi girl resisting the brutal assimilation of the Carlisle Indian School. Together, their fates entwine in a struggle for identity, legitimacy, and survival.
Land Shadows explores how America expandedânot just through conquest, but through compromise, betrayal, and the rewriting of truth.
Praise for Land Shadows
âAn enlightening and thoughtful approach to how land rights were handled during another era... Highly recommended.â
âAnn Howard Creel, The Magic of Ordinary Days
âAn engrossing tale with spellbinding characters... youâre watching history unfold.â
âMarianne Goodland, President, Denver Press Club
Saturday, August 9th, 1851
Near Castlebay
Isle of Barra, Scotland
ââŚThat sheep would scatter the warrior and turn their homes into a wildernessâ
Angus Mac Mhuirich
The plan and all the necessary steps to carry it out had been set-there was no changing it. My neighbors and friends were blinded with a glimmer of hope that things would remain as they had been. We paid our rent, the landlords raised it, we managed somehow, and we paid our rent. My friends said Colonel Gordon was not that great monster, Patrick Sellar. Their words swirled in my mind like a scythe cutting a swath into my sleep.
I bleed grief and sorrow because I knew what was to come. Mary breathes softly in her sleep. Her warm body beside me is usually a comfort, but tonight, it is a cold blade of reality. The signs are everywhere, but nobody wants to see them. They are blind. I will be forced from my home. My home is the only one my family has known since the 1600s. We are being forced out to make room for Gordonâs sheep. Sheep! For Godâs sake! Weâve been here on this land since the MacDonalds and the McNeils were at each otherâs throats, centuries ago and when they made their peace centuries ago â and now, sheep!
I have a proud family name. McNeil, a distant relative of the McNeils who owned the Isle of Barra with Ranald George MacDonald as the chief of the clans, whose excesses and debt led him to sell out to Gordon of Cluny. Gordon is allied with Patrick Sellar, that bastard, who enacted clearances all over northern Scotland. Sellar led his army of paid-for constables and estate agents that rounded up crofters and forced them onto ships bound for God knows where. Gordon has done the same in Barra.
I've got to wake Mary up; she needs to be a part of this now. I kiss the back of her neck and run my hands over her back. She sighs pleasantly.
âJames McNeil, itâs too early for that.â
"Mary, there's something we need to talk about, my dear. I'm sorry. We have to be quiet; we mustn't wake Murdoch and Elizabeth," I whisper.
Her brown eyes flutter open, showing a depth of concern that she hides so well during the day. Mary is a petite woman, with auburn hair that, when not braided, is tied into a simple bun held in place with a hand-sewn piece of linen. Her skin is weathered from years of hard work, but beautiful. She has a strength that never fades.
âThe meeting at Castlebay with Gordonâs agents? Thatâs about the rents, yes?â she asked.
âYes, and more. Thereâs a meeting at Uist, too, and I donât think thereâs going to be much talk. Three years back, do you remember, Gordon had over a hundred crofters rounded up for passage to Nova Scotia? And he just had them dumped on the streets of Glasgow. Just left them there with nothingâŚ. We have to leave. I will go to the meeting at Castlebay, but you, Murdoch, and Elizabeth ââ
âNo, James.â Her voice rose a bit. âYou know the fine if we donât present ourselves and our children. Two pounds sterling! Weâve finally caught up with the rents and the cost of the food Gordon gave us, and you want to put us back into debt?â
"Gordon means to force us onto steamers bound for some unknown place with only the clothes on our backs.â
"They will not finish with us until we are all out and every croft is burned to the ground!â I had a difficulty keeping my voice down, but Elizabeth and Murdoch didnât stir.
âJames, what if youâre wrong? What if the meeting really is about rents? No one has been talking about being thrown onto a ship. Do you think theyâd do that? What if weâre to get aid from Britain? If youâre wrong, we will have lost our home for nothing!â
I ignore her worry. âAfter I send Elizabeth and Murdoch to your sisterâs, weâll pack only what we can carry. After the children are asleep, Iâll take our bundles to John Crawfordâs Arran boat. Heâs agreed to take us to Glasgow. Monday morning, Iâll go to the meeting, and you take the children to Crawfordâs boat. Heâll be waiting. We can always come home if they donât try to force us to board a ship. Either way, we will be safe.â I pray I'm not just telling her what she wants to hear.
âAfter Glasgow, then? Do we settle there somehow?â
âThereâs nothing for us there. We go to New York. In America.â
Mary shed a tear. âThis is all we have, what we can see around us. Your grandfather built the furniture. I bore your two children upon this very bed. Your ancestors built this whole croft, and you have all added to it. This is where I came to when we married.â
I am silent. Mary is not saying anything I havenât repeated to myself over and over again, as first we were squeezed out with the rents, and now we are at the precipice of being forced to leave. We will be rounded up like cattle and thrown on board an immigrant steamer with no care as to what awaits us at the other end.
May laid her head on my chest, and I held her close. âWhat do we take, what do we decide is most important to us? My motherâs quilts, the silver set we hide from the landlord, your ceilidh fiddleâŚâ
Iâve lifted the clach cuid fir, the manhood stones until they seemed light as anything. But her tears were heavier than all the clach cuid fir borne all at once. Her face nuzzled in my chest and then she knew.
âYou sold the silver.â
I was ashamed, but I did what I must. âAnything of value. It will all be taken from us anyway. Sellar, Gordon, the landlords, the English, they are one and the same, part of the system. You know how they look down on the Gaels. Our language, our customs, and even our clothing are vilified. I hear America treats their own native people this way, too. These people, they mean to get rid of us all, the people of the land. And not just because of the sheep, but because they can.â
Maryâs tone soured as she does when I stand up in church. âIâve heard this one before, James McNeil, and youâve not convinced anyone at the church or any of your friends at the public house. The wives talk, and they talk to me of their husbandsâ opinions. They say youâre dangerous. That you will bring the wrath of God himself down onto Barra.â
âIf God comes in the form of Gordon of Cluny, thatâs as may be. But I suspect he is more of the devil himself!â
âThe Reverend Beatson refused our invitation to supper ââ
âYour invitation.â She knows how I feel about the false prophets.
ââour invitation to supper. He says the church is against you talking so about Gordon.â
âAnd this is from God? Gordon is in the Holy Book? Beatsonâs church follows the laws of man and those who would lord over their fellows, not the Lord of Heaven. They preach that we deserve what theyâre doing, because then we will accept it. I say that no righteous God would punish the lamb to feed the wolf.â
âAnd I thought you were polishing the silver set to surprise me,â she whispers. âDid you really think I wouldnât miss it?â
âThere is no other way. We can choose our destination or let Gordon choose it for us.â
She sighs. âI know, James. I know youâre right. I just wish you werenât. I wish thatâŚâ And her shoulders begin to shake. She sobs from a depth that I cannot reach. I can only hold her close as the dawn approaches. Our last dawn in the croft. I think of the brutality of all this. Would Gordon and Sellar be so cold as to witness the heartache that their policies cause? What is within a man who can allow the evisceration of home and land for profit?
Maryâs sobbing lessens. âKathryn admires my quilts. I can see what else we might sell.â
âI think Iâve sold off what I can without arousing suspicion. Itâs enough for our passage from Glasgow to New York.â
âI know I canât go on like this, wondering when our turn will come to be cleared like so many thistles. I canât keep wondering if weâll have another week or another month. But, James, we are crofters. What will we tell Murdoch and Elizabeth? Of why we lost our home and why we had to leave? Weâre tied to this land.â
âWe cannot be tied to what we can never own. Not really.â
Mary seals it off in her mind. âThen itâs to be New York.â
The fog is rolling in now. A light drizzle starts just when itâs light enough to see. Mary gets out of bed without a word and adds more peat to the fire. I can hear the clank of the kettle as she readies the tea. I hear our milk cows moo on the other end of our blackhouse, and our chickens cluck contentedly; they are separated from us by wood and stone rail, and they begin with their demands the second they hear us moving about in the morning. I hear running feet mixed with laughter and murmured conversation, and I smell oatmeal porridge. I must remember to tell Mary to make some barley cakes for the boat. I donât feel hungry, but I pull myself out of bed and dress, then step into the main room of our little stone blackhouse.
âPapa!â cried Murdoch and Elizabeth in one voice.
Murdoch, nine, and Elizabeth, eight could be twins and act as such. Sometimes I think they talk to each other without speaking. They favor their mother, thankfully, both having auburn hair and round faces with a few freckles. The only difference one can see at first glance is their eyes. Murdoch eyes are a riveting blue. That blue no painter could paint. Elizabeth has the same warm brown eyes as her mother. Those eyes a father looks at and knows she will get her way.
âGood morning, my wee bairns. Hungry this morning, I see. Well, get your breakfast and then do your chores.â
âJames, do you want eggs this morning?â
âNo, just tea.â
âYouâll have some porridge too, James; you have to eat something.â
I donât argue. After breakfast Murdoch and Elizabeth feed the chickens and milk the cows. We are better off than most of our neighbors, and we help them when we can by giving them eggs, and a bit of beef when we have it, and vegetables from our garden. I try not to judge them as they accept our help, even as they complain that Iâm stirring up trouble by being against Gordonâs plans.
I whisper as quietly as possible and as far away from the children as possible. âMary, we should send Murdoch and Elizabeth to your sister for the day. We can start to bundle our things.â
Maryâs fingers fidget restlessly. âJames, two of Gordonâs agents were here yesterday. You got home so lateâŚâ
âWhat? Who? And what did they want?â
âThey said they were auditing our rent for the meeting on Monday. One of them was McBride. I didnât know the other.â
âAn audit? But our rent is caught up.â
âThey said they wanted to compare Gordonâs records with our receipts. I showed them the receipts for last year. James, they snatched them from my hand and would not give them back. They said they needed them for the audit. Then they left.â Maryâs voice trembles as she bites her lip, her worry etched across her face.
âTheyâll accuse us of not paying, and we wonât have proof,â James worried aloud.
âI couldnât do anything to stop them.â
I take a deep breath and think this is not Maryâs fault. Itâs just another transgression by Gordonâs agents, a ruse to accuse us of not paying rent so they can evict us.
âMary, it doesnât matter. Gordon will have us off the land, with receipts or not. Theyâll evict us, with receipts or not.â
Murdoch bounded back from the livestock area. âThe cows and the chickens are fed!â
I let the matter of the rent drop. âMurdoch, you and your sister are to go to your Aunt Kathrynâs to help with their harvest. Theyâll be expecting you. Your cousins will be glad to have you over! Be home as the sun sets.â
Mary and I spend the day sifting through our lives, deciding what to take and what to abandon. Iâve dreaded this moment since the day I understood that there was no other path for us. But when did I truly grasp that we had to leave our home? Was it a year ago, when they began driving out our neighbors like cattle? I denied it for as long as I could, even as a gnawing sickness took hold. Not unease â a deep, gut-wrenching nausea brought on by the relentless march of grief and terror that has swept through Barra. Nauseated by the knowledge that no matter what I do, I cannot alter this grim fate.
It is as if I am looking out to sea at a ship, and sheâs in trouble and I canât help her. Not one that sails off never to return, but one that is just far enough away that I canât swim to it, yet close enough that I can hear the wails and see the crying, pleading faces of the men on deck. They cry to God to save them and the ship sinks beneath the cold, dark water. Close enough I can hear her timbers crack and break like bones. And on shore, I hear voices saying, âThe water was calm! Thereâs no reason the ship should sink!â
Yet it does sink.
That is Barra.
I watch Mary pack. Our home is now different somehow. Every item, every bit of furniture, every timber holding the thatch in place, and every stone in the walls is seen in crystalline sharpness. Even Maryâs demeanor has changed. There is no anger in her, no resignation, just stalwart determination to see this through. More than an anchor, she defines hope.
My grandfather made this furniture. I am abandoning it. Each mark in the wood and each scratch was put there by me, my ancestors, or by Murdoch and Elizabeth. Scratches that will never be there, because they should have been left by Murdochâs and Elizabethâs children and grandchildren. I feel like Iâve grown up in this house, and I havenât seen it until now.
âI know this is hard,â Mary said, taking a break to embrace me amid my sorrow.
I take a deep breath and look at her with resignation.
She is leaving her home too, and still, she takes the time to comfort me. âWeâve our memories, James, and not even Sellar or Gordon can take those from us.â
âOur memories, no; they canât steal those. But theyâve stolen our way of life.â
Mary pulls a bundle tight, leaving rope loops for us to hoist our things when the time comes. We finish packing without speaking and exchanging sympathetic glances. We have no disagreements about what to take and what to leave. We place the bundles in our bedroom and think of what to say to each other. All I can think of is to tell her that I love her.
âMr. McNeil, shall we pick up our activities from this morning?â She knows what we both need in this moment. We hold each other. We let ourselves get lost in each otherâs eyes, and we begin our gentle, experienced caresses. I want to touch her, taste her, and I move slowly down her body as though it may be my last such moment.
She grabs my shoulders and pulls me down with her legs. She grips me and moves me on my back, then moves on top of me, controlling the action, and showing her strength.
She kisses me passionately in perfect concert with her bodyâs movements. We tremble together as one, and her soft face falls to my chest, both of us breathing deeply, slowly.
âJames,â she whispers, her face still nuzzling in my chest.
âYes.â
âThe stone walls and the thatch roof. All of our things. They donât make us a family. We donât need them to be a family.â
âTrue,â I agreed.
Mary raised herself up and began her motions again.
âJames, I do believe you are stillâŚâ
âYes.â
âWell, then,â she continued, âwe are to leave this bed, and letâs leave it a wreck.â
***
Murdoch and Elizabeth arrive home that Saturday just as the August sun sets. The evening came and went. Our familiar routines of chores, dinner, and nighttime storytelling followed its usual course. I was torn between going to church on Sunday and not going to church. Once again we would hear Reverend Beatson, the supposed emissary to God, preach about the hell that has befallen us. Heâd tell us again that weâd brought it on ourselves by our sins, and that when we have our land seized and our people are oppressed, it is our lot to be patient with our oppressors. I didnât want to go. I was finished with arguing.
If we stayed at home, there would be questions. They would come to our home to check on us. We wanted to avoid suspicion, so Mary and I agreed to present ourselves to church one last time.
Sunday morning, we allowed ourselves a large breakfast. Mary had made as many barley cakes as possible before church. Murdoch and Elizabeth asked why she was making so many, but Mary explained to their satisfaction that she meant to distribute them to our needy neighbors. At church we sat in our regular pew and listened to Beatson lecture us on our sins. Familiar faces were strained with worry, and nobody listened to the Reverendâs droning. We were all preoccupied with Mondayâs meeting, so preoccupied that none dared speak of it. As we made our way out of church, one of Maryâs friends detained us.
âMary, Mary!â
âHello, Ellen. Please forgive me, but we donât have the time to speak right now. Weâve got toâŚâ
âElizabeth says you made barley cakes for everyone. The crops have been so poor this year on the island. Itâs wonderful what youâre doing. Iâll drop by later to lend a hand.â
âNo, Ellen, that wonât be necessary. Iâve finished baking them.â
âOh, you can always use a few more.â
Mary liked Ellen, but she had a way of testing her patience with her enthusiasm. âItâs not a good time to come, Ellen, Iâm sorry,â she said in a commanding tone. âJames, Murdoch, Elizabeth, we must go.â We turned sharply and left Ellen, jaw dropped in confusion, standing at the church entrance.
If we meant to project normalcy as a family, I fear that we did not, but I could also see that it may not have mattered much, if at all. We made our way home, and we had the children resume their usual routines. They couldnât know of our plan in advance, and even if we did tell them, they wouldnât understand. It was hard enough for me to understand why we had to leave. For the children, it was a normal Sunday, but for me, the day would drag on until darkness came, and I could haul our bundles to the Arran boat.
Mary set to cook her Sunday roast, and sheâd adopted a cheerful mood that I usually saw around the holidays. Her meal was matched, elaborate, and rich. A last meal.
âMint sauce? Stuffing? Quite a feast, my love!â I said.
âWe might as well; I canât pack all of this on the boat.â
âCareful, the children might hear.â
Sheâd just set the last of the dinner on the table when I heard the sound of knocking at the door. I opened the door, and to my anger and dismay, it was Reverend Beatson.
Reverend Beatson was a petty little man with a pinched face and narrow eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He had a way of looking down his nose at everyone, seeing himself as the expert interpreter of the Holy Bible, which he wielded as more of a weapon than a book of comfort and knowledge. Though his frame was slight and frail, his presence was overbearing, as if he were constantly measuring the worth of those around him against his own inflated self.
âReverend,â I said, my voice hard and flat.
âJames.â He pushed past me into our home. âMary, this smells so grand! I tried to catch up to you at church this morning, but you seemed to be in such a hurry. I wanted to let you know Iâd be able to dine with you after all. I hope you donât mind; even men of God make mistakes. It was so unchristian of me to refuse your invitation earlier. Do you forgive me?â
Mary glanced at me and barely shook her head as if to warn me not to arouse suspicion. On a day of lasts â last chores, last lovemaking on the bed, last dinner â it would have been wonderful to take advantage of my last forced interaction with Beatson.
âOf course, Reverend Beatson, there is nothing to forgive. We are delighted and blessed that youâre here,â she lied. âIâll get another place setting.â
I was still measuring my words as Beatson strode to the head of the table, to my place, pulled out my chair, and seated himself. I rearranged the settings while Mary grabbed another chair. I sat.
âWell, James, I trust you and your family will be at the meeting tomorrow morning.â
I swallowed hard. It was not a question. âOf course.â I didnât know what he wanted, but I was certain that his purpose here was not to eat dinner. Beatson wasnât a man of God as much as he was a man of the landowners.
Beatson said grace. We passed the food and ate our meal. Mary had a better sense of social politics than I did, and she kept Beatson occupied with talking about the congregationâs smaller affairs. Murdoch and Elizabeth asked Beatson questions about Jesus that he answered curtly and with annoyance.
Mary spared Murdoch and Elizabeth Beatsonâs impatience. âI think youâve asked enough questions of the Reverend for now, Murdoch.â
Reverend Beatson wiped his hands on his napkin, âYes, well, Mary, that was an excellent meal. Iâm surprised that you were able to come by such excellent roast beef. James, I thought youâd lost all your cattle. How was it they were lost, again?â
I was incredulous. âYou know what happened to them.â
Benson smirked. âYou failed to keep them on your land.â
âGordonâs men let them out in the middle of the night, just as they did our neighborâs cattle, and their neighbors, going from croft to croft. Then they rounded them up, claiming property by way of trespass, and any that would not be penned up, they drove off the cliff and into the sea.â Iâd lost the ability to measure my words as carefully as I might have liked, especially as the children were not used to seeing adults argue.
âJames. I would counsel you to choose your words carefully. You have no proof. The Lord does not favor those who bear false witness against his neighbor. Do not seek to place blame when your trouble reflects your own sins! Micah, chapter 2, verse 3, remember: You crofters may make accusations against good men like Gordon, but in the eyes of God, you are stealing their property, and you place your own necks in the nooses of your sins.â
I was seething at the audacity of using God for such a profane purpose. I felt Maryâs pleading stare. I tried to calm my voice. âYes, well, please kindly forgive me, Reverend Beatson. Mary, do we have any more tea for our guest?â
âOh, no, no, I am quite full. That was a wonderful meal, Mary. James, these are evil times as the Bible says, and the Lord forgives easily. Look within yourself and admit your sins, ask His forgiveness, accept the fate the Lord has laid out for you, and encourage your neighbors to do likewise.â Beatson pushed his chair back. âSee me to the door, James; we must speak outside for a moment. Mary, thank you again for dinner, and may the Lord bless you.â
Once we were out of the blackhouse, I didnât assault him only because I knew that this time tomorrow, my family and I would be on board John Crawfordâs Arran boat bound for Glasgow. This servant of Gordon claimed again to be the servant of God, and instead of holiness, he embodied all that was evil about the clearances.
âI know you see me as your enemy, James. Sometimes, the church needs to protect its existence. Iâm warning you that tomorrow at the meeting, you will be accused of being delinquent on your rent. Gordonâs agents will claim that your rent audit shows a deficit, and theyâll demand your receipts, but since they have possession of those receipts, not all of them will be counted in your favor. They mean to send you to debtorâs prison, James. Gordon grows weary of your slander and thinks emigration is too lenient, though they may expel Mary and the children. Theyâll be cleared from the land without you.â
âWhy are you telling me this?â
âI'm hoping you and your family will all come with me now to the church. I can offer you protection there. I hear rumors that you plan to leave Barra on your own. Is that true?â
I didnât trust his offer. âYour concern for my family has been noted, Reverend, but a McNeil has never turned away from an honest fight, and Iâll not be the first. I will see you at the meeting tomorrow. Good night, Reverend.â
âBut, James ââ
âGood evening, Reverend.â
I stepped back into our blackhouse and closed the door. Smoke and the wonderful lingering smells from our hearth hung in the air as Mary put Murdoch and Elizabeth to bed. I stood on the stone floor and stretched up to touch the thatched roof. I remembered as I grew, stretching my fingertips, trying to touch the new thatch as my parents replaced it year after year. Then finally, I was tall enough to touch it. How proud I was! Weâd use the old thatch to fertilize our fields. This year we would not be here to replace the old thatch. I wondered what the farmhouses looked like in New York.
I followed Mary to tuck in the children, and then I sat at the table waiting for Mary to finish her own nighttime rituals: rubbing unfinished sheepâs fleece in her hands to make them soft. Putting up her favorite woolen shawl for the night with a bit of bog myrtle flowers folded in so the midges would keep away whenever she wore it.
âWhat did the Reverend want to talk to you about?â Mary asked as she sat across from me.
âTrying to persuade me to be calm at the meeting tomorrow and not incite the other crofters.â I decided not to tell Mary the details, or else sheâd not want me to go. I was determined to have my say and let the other crofters know that Gordonâs accusations against me were false.
âI think the children are well asleep now, James.â
âIâll take our bundles to the boat. Iâll take the cart. I wonât be long,â I said.
âCover the bundles with peat. If someone sees you, you can say you ran out and needed to gather more for the night.â
I nodded and loaded what suddenly seemed like very few possessions into the cart. I headed to the little cove where John Crawford would be waiting with his sixteen-foot Arran boat. The night air was cool, and the cloudy weather only accented the darkness. I pulled back the night with a small lantern, just enough light to pass safely through the path to the cove.
I had arranged with Crawford to come on board the craft weeks before. He was somewhat short and stout, but tough and loyal, a friend to the McNeil name which still held some sway despite my distant ancestry from the original McNeils, who once owned the island. I soon saw the boatâs outline as she moored in the hidden cove. John stood on the bow, peering into the darkness. He spotted my light and stepped ashore. His voice was roughened by years of enjoying the islandâs Scotch whiskey.
âDid anyone see you, James? Anyone follow you?â
âNo, not that I could see or hear.â
âGood. Come aboard then, and we can store your things in the deck compartments. Theyâll be well-hidden.â
John had been a good friend to Barra and me, as were some of the other Arran boat skippers. They all made a fair living moving goods about the islands while avoiding the Kingâs taxes. John was a master at many things, but he was most adept at cloaking his movements and avoiding revenue cutters. He knew the tides, the caves, and the coves that could keep him hidden throughout the Hebrides.
Arran boats were designed for this purpose. They were named after the Isle of Arran, whose resourceful folk built them with a shallow keel yet packed with hidden compartments to store goods out of sight. The keel could skip along rocky coves and be easily pulled ashore on hidden beaches. They could be fast as well. John was known to lead revenue cutters on a merry chase through the numerous straits in the Hebrides. Some captains allowed their egos to overcome their seafaring knowledge and, trying to pursue Johnâs boat a little too close to the shore, wrecked the cutters on the sharp rocks. No one knows just how many revenue cutters were sent to the bottom of some Hebridean channel at the end of a fox-and-hound chase at Johnâs urging, but every time we heard of his victories, weâd drink a toast to him.
âMary, Murdoch, and Elizabeth will be here tomorrow morning. Iâll be along after the meeting.â
âJames, I donât think going to the meeting is a good idea. You should come here with the family instead. Gordonâs men might arrest you or hold you.â
âI mean to have my say, John. Iâll not run from Barra like the criminal theyâll make me out to be. Everyone there needs to know how Gordon has fixed the rent audits.â I told John about Beatsonâs visit and how Gordonâs agents had seized our rent receipts. âBut I allow they might try to run us down across the open water between Castlebay and Gunna Sound,â I worried aloud.
âBy the time they get a cutter after us, weâll be at the Sound, and itâll be getting dark. Thereâs many a hideout along the coast, and they wonât be able to find us,â he said with confidence.
âRight, then.â He knew his business.
âBit of scotch to warm you on your way home?â
âThanks, but no. I must be off. Youâve been such a good friend all these years, and I thank you for doing this for us. If Iâm not here by 11:00 a.m. tomorrow morning, please see Mary and the children make it on board the City of Glasgow steamer.â
âHeart of a lion, skills of a smuggler, thatâs me! Youâre welcome, James. Day after tomorrow, weâll have you all safely on board the steamer.â
The moon was almost full, and it peeked out from behind a cloud. It provided just enough light to follow the path home without risking relighting the lantern. I should have been filled with dread for the morrow, but I was not. I had already mourned the loss of our home, our land, and the McNeil legacy. It was time to let go of the sorrow and move on. I made my way along the rocky moonlit path to our home and stepped inside, where Mary sat quietly at the table.
âMary, my dear,â I said, keeping my voice low, âJohn will expect you and the children early in the morning. Youâll need to leave before the sun is up.â I gave her careful directions to the cove where Johnâs boat was moored. She knew each place and each cove on the isle, but I wanted to be sure there was no possibility that she might be unable to find him quickly. We went to bed and held each other, and there was nothing left to say. We fell asleep easily.
***
Mary nudged me awake. âJames, itâs time.â
I had slept well without worry or burden, as if the past years of troubles dissolved like salt in brine.
âIâll tell Murdoch and Elizabeth that John asked them to fish with him this morning. Theyâll be excited,â I said.
âWhat do I tell them when we get to the boat?â
âThe truth. The meeting is at 9:00, and I suspect Iâll say my words quickly. Youâll need to take our money with you. Mary, in caseâŚâ
âIn case what?â
For a moment I thought of warning her that Gordonâs men may plan to have me arrested, but I thought better of it.
âAnything can happen. Once you and the children are on the boat with John, he will get you to Glasgow and on the ship for New York. Take the money and hide it well on your person. If Iâm not there by 11:00 a.m., Iâve told John to push off without me. No arguments. Iâll do everything I can, but you must know what to do if I run into any trouble at the meeting.â
âAnd if the meeting is only about the rent?â she said with a faint glimmer of hope.
âIt wonât be.â
I finished dressing and picked up two barley cakes from the small crock on the table. I kissed Mary on the cheek and went in to awaken Murdoch and Elizabeth. The last such time I would do so in this house, though I tried not to think of it.
âWake up, my bairns. Iâm off to Castlebay. You must go with your mother this morning to meet John Crawford. Heâs taking you both fishing in his little Arran boat!â I tried to make it sound like an adventure. Mary came in to help me with the children and she slipped her hand in mine. We squeezed each otherâs palms.
âJames. Be there.â I nodded and kissed her cheek again before heading out the door.
As I crested the steep hills, the short growths of bright green grass seemed to battle the rocky outcroppings for a chance to warm the landscape. At the bottom of the hills and at the waterâs edge lay Castlebay. The Kismule Castle, which had given the town its name, was built on a small island nearer to the waterâs edge, and it had been abandoned for thirteen years ever since the Isle of Barra had been sold to Gordon of Cluny.
The sight of Castlebay was familiar to me, but this time as I crested the last of the hills, I was startled out of my fast paced hike. I sat on a rock, squinted, and stared at an immigrant steamer moored in the harbor. Freighters bringing supplies among the islands of the Hebrides were a common enough sight, but the steamers carried passengers to and from Glasgow, not the smaller isles. Iâd hoped that perhaps sheâd limped into Castlebay needing repairs, but I suspected better.
I quickened my pace, jogged down the steep hill to the church, and arrived early. The old stone church had walls darkly streaked from centuries of rainfall. The assault of the water on the stone gave the church the appearance that it was weeping. The door was open for early visitors, and I walked inside to greet my friends. Weâd all gathered to wait for Gordonâs men to arrive and begin their accusations, and without any other purpose we milled about the pews like worker ants who had lost their queen. A few talked in murmurs. A few acknowledged my presence.
âHow much do you think theyâll raise our rents?â asked one.
âWeâre barely making it now,â complained another.
âWhatâs the steamer doing in the harbor?â I heard.
The churchâs stained-glass windows were small, just twenty small panes held in place by metal frames in each of the four walls. They let but little light into the sanctuary, and it was difficult to see. The cloudy weather further refused us the light from outside, but I could see well enough to know that Beatson was nowhere to be found.
I stepped up to the altar.
âI must say my words to you all.â
The murmurs quieted for a moment, and then a voice boomed out from the back of the church, near the open doors.
âWe need not hear any of your talk, James McNeil. Your name gives you no right to assault our ears! Weâve heard enough from you in your cups at the pub!â
âAye, that!â someone else called out.
âIâm finished trying to convince you that weâre to be cleared from our homes, but you need to know youâll be hearing a lie about me from Gordon himself. I want you to know the truth before you hear the lies.â
âWhatâs the lie, then?â
âGordonâs men were at my home on Friday last, telling Mary that they needed my rent receipts for an audit. Iâve been warned they will alter those receipts and accuse me of being in arrears. Theyâll use this as an excuse to arrest me and send me to debtorâs prison.â
I stared into the faces of my friends. I heard horses and wagons drawing up to the church. The sharp, menacing baying of hounds came with them. Children, instantly put ill at ease, clutched at their parents.
âGordonâs agents are out front!â someone yelled. âThere must be thirty of them! Theyâve got ropes and shackles to hand â they mean to bind us like sheep trussed to market!â
Men with their wives and children lagging behind surged out of the church, some through the front door and some through the back. Gordonâs men and their dogs covered both entrances; some rushed through the front of the church and began striking the parishioners as they attempted to flee. I was frozen at the pulpit; not with fear but trying to decide which way to run.
âYou can either get into the wagons by choice, or we will tie you and throw you in!â the agents yelled out.
âJames was right! They mean to throw us on the steamer!â cried a crofter.
The women screamed, the children cried, the men cursed. Gordonâs men were ruthless. They clubbed the crofters with truncheons where they huddled in the church. Man, woman, or child; all were treated brutally. They bound and shackled the hands and feet of whomever they caught, dragging them out and tossing them in cages. The children in their path were shoved to the ground or picked up and carried to one of the cages. No one was spared. Anyone attempting to run off had to contend with the dogs. Wives who had not yet been captured remained, attempting to give aid to the wounded, only to become seized themselves.
In Godâs name I did not think this moment would be so horrific.
I heard a group of Gordonâs men yelling my name. âThereâs McNeil, by the pulpit! Gordon doesnât want him in the ship, but in prison! Grab him!â
I wanted to save everyone, but that chance had been long lost before this day. I ran to the back door of the church. Though Gordonâs men were thick, and ready to attack, I set to charge them nonetheless. I kicked at a hound and it howled. Still the men smiled with dark, dead eyes and bared teeth.
âThey want McNeil, lads!â yelled someone from the crowd. âDonât let these bastards have him!â It was one of my neighbors. Then another, and another, and then they crowded around me fighting off Gordonâs men and pushing me through the rear door. âMcNeil, weâll get you out of here â now make a run for it!â
Those who had been so vocal in their criticisms now saved my life for the sheer pleasure of denying our oppressors one single thing. I was not out of danger, but I was outside. Blood was everywhere. Skulls split open, the screams of women and children, the wails and curses of families bound in cages and ready to be hauled off in carts. The noise filled the August air.
I ran. I glanced over my shoulder to see the thugs held back by everyone remaining standing. The sounds of this tragedy faded behind me as I ran along the coast to where my family awaited me in Johnâs Arran boat. Two of the thugs, hired policemen, had broken from the crowd and were close behind me wielding their clubs and ropes in hand. A hound closed at my heels, and I grabbed a sharp rock. I hurled it at the animalâs front leg, and it went down with a shriek. I thought for a moment I should head in another direction and lead them away from my family, but I reasoned John and I stood a good chance of fighting them off.
I topped the small hill leading down to a hidden cove and spotted the Arran boat and John and Mary on her deck. I jumped in as Gordonâs men reached the waterâs edge. One of them grabbed the mooring line and started to board the boat.
John brought down the body of a hand spike onto the thugâs hand. The man howled in pain. âYou broke my hand, you goddamned bastard!â
John glared at the men who backed off to the shore. He pointed the sharp end of the bloody spike at them. âYou touch this boat again, and I swear on all that is holy that Iâll split both your heads open and feed your godless bodies to the sharks!â
The men looked at John and each other trying to decide what to do, but John did not allow them any choice. He hopped out of his boat raising the hand spike high above his head and screamed, âNow is when Iâd be running!â They fell over one another making their escape. The injured man cradled his broken hand, turned, and shouted, âWeâll be burning your home to the ground, McNeil! All you damned crofters! To the ground!â And they disappeared over the hill.
âRelease the mooring line, James, and cast us off! Weâll be lucky to make the Gunna Sound before we lose the light!â
I tossed the line into the boat and jumped aboard, grabbed the oar, and joined John in pushing her off. We reached a rhythm to the sea of Hebrides, the two of us rowing while Mary manned the rudder with the experience of many a Barra seagoing lass. John called to Murdoch and Elizabeth, âPush the panels away now, and come out of your places!â Our little stowaways did as they asked, and they were soon on deck, their faces dirty and streaked with tears. They seated themselves close to Mary as John and I put our backs into the oars through the calm sea waters.
I thought of the turmoil that my neighbors and friends were experiencing at the very moment of our escape. The sun came out, and for us the seas were quiet but my mind wasnât. As if to spoil any attempt at feeling the safety that our little Arron Boat afforded us, dark rolling plumes of smoke began to dance from the Isle of Barra to the blue morning sky. My mouth was dry, I felt sick, and I thought that the chase had merely paused.
âPapa, whatâs that smoke doing?â Murdoch asked.
I looked at Mary whose tears glistened on her cheeks in the sunshine. She held Murdoch and Elizabeth tightly, then said, âThatâs our home saying its goodbye to us, and wishing us a safe and wonderful journey to our new home in America.â
I nodded, and John said simply, âAye.â He pulled his oar with ferocity and anger.
The historical fiction, Land Shadows, by R.J. Striegel, hits the ground running. When Gordonâs men seize the McNeilâs home in Barra, Scotland, in 1851, James McNeil physically defenses his entitlement but prearranges for an Arran boat skipper and bootleg smuggler to transport his wife Mary and himself and their children, Murdoch and Elizabeth, to Glasglow to secure passage on a steamer.
In the shipâs steerage class, it is noisy, smelly, humid, and crowded. Cookware and utensils fly throughout the area during a violent storm, and Mary screams, âElizabeth is burning upâ (65). With no doctor available, âI prayed. I cursed. No more God, please. No moreâ (66). At Jamesâs request, another family isolates Murdoch, and the 9-year-old arrives in New York City without family, but he remembers his fatherâs words. âDo anything you have to do to get land and to keep itâ (80). The memory of his family haunts him into adulthood.
The main plot focuses on Murdochâs determination to fulfill his fatherâs instructions. His initial task, though, is survival. At first, he fights with fists and sticks, but winning--at anything-- requires strategy and knowledge. He reads absorbedly and remembers ânames, events, and placesâ (86), and âwords mattered, facts matteredâ (92). Perhaps, though, he should heed his teacherâs advice. âCareful how you use words. They are like bullets from a pistol: Very difficult to call backâ (97).
Besides obsession and initiation into adulthood, several topics flow through the book, including family, love and relationships, power, and responsibility. When Henry and Ada Townsend see Murdock with their daughter Annie, a forbidden relationship, life-altering situations face them. When the railroads threaten the freight companyâs future, Murdochâs decisions extend beyond business. At the least, Maxwell Land Grant Companyâs looming control threatens history repeating itself, running homesteaders off the land. However, his decisions affect not only his moral commitments to friends and family but challenge choices he makes he never means for anyone to know.
This is a page-turner and presents a well-researched, enjoyable portrayal of the landscape and lifestyle of the late 1800âs woven into a compelling narrative. The author strategically employs the switches between first person points of view of different characters, showing their sometimes-misguided thought processes. While the third person point of view reveals contrasting viewpoints. There is little questionable language, and what exists coincides with realistic portrayals of the charactersâ personalities but preview the book before implementing young adult reading. The author does not interrupt the narrative with an authorial voice until the end when providing resources for further study and classroom instruction (403-404).