Tales of a Scottish Freewheeler: Historical Fiction Featuring the Scottish and Gaelic Dialog

Contents

Acknowledgements

A Few Words From The Author

Tale # Yin

Tale # Twa

Tale # Thee

Tale # Fower

Tale # Fife

Tale # Sex

Tale # "En

Tale # Eeecht

Tale # Nien

Tale # Tin

Tale # Ele’n

Tale # Twal

Tale # Theetin

Tale # Fowertin

Tale # Fifetin

Translations

Acknowledgements

A grateful tip of the Munro Bunnet goes to Morag Dunbar of Edinburgh, Scotland and her friend Doli, without whos assistance the Scottish and Gaelic wording and translations would be decidedly worse and situations even more improbable.

Jayne, Carl and Mum Munro of Almonte, Ontario Canada for their willingness to offer helpful suggestions to the very end.

Pat Bartlemay of Washington State, USA for her editing talents and ever present writer’s knowledge and encouragement.

.

Frank Phillips, Crawfordsville, Indiana USA who cautioned me on everything he did wrong in his writings.

Sheila Cooper who has made her home in American so long she barely even sounds Glaswegian. (Except to a fellow Scot)

Joe Boswell for our cover-shot adventure.

To God for inventing spell-check.

My brother Charlie Munro for recommending this project

in the first place when he off-handedly remarked

Y’know you ought to write a book.

And, of course, my wife Betty, who thought I would never

finish this endeavor, but hung in there with me anyway.

A Few Words From The Author

This book is written with those in mind who travel on or wait for trains, planes, buses or boats yearning for relief from periods of tedium. Also, for those who enjoy sitting ‘round a campfire, on the family porch or during a long drive listening to or telling stories.

You hold in your hand a book of 15 tales. Some are based on fact, most are pure fiction. But each tale is designed to give the reader a moment of enjoyment and diversion. All tales are tied together by one man… Shamus …a man with many remarkable tales to tell.

Read these tales to yourself…or to others…the choice is yours to make and hopefully yours to enjoy.

******

(Another reading tip: Most non-English spelled words in the character dialog are merely each individual’s accent on an English word. Broaden your eye and ear a little and you’ll get the hang of it quite quickly.

That said, any person familiar with the country knows the Scots also have their regional tougue. As one person put it The Scottish accent is not the easiest to master. Indeed many people make a hobby of attempting to identify which region, town or city a fellow Scot comes from through their use of a certain phrase or even a single word.

Therefore, in the back of this book, I have included a translation of truly Scottish words. Those words are listed in order of their first appearance along with the identification of the tale number (i.e. chapter) in which they first appear. Hae fin! Dick Munro

Location: The Highlands of Scotland

Era: The late 17oo’s,,,(or there abouts)

Tale # Yin

The Clarty Duck

"Damn it, nae again!" Shamus managed to jerk his body to the left and raise one arm just in time to avoid a wooden chair hurled in his direction. Somebody… oniebody gie me aid! His plea was mental, unexpected, yet earnest.

As he turned to see which of the four other men in the tavern might have thrown it, he was greeted by a strong punch in the face just above his right eye. Another scruffy paw from behind grabbed at his chin but missed, resulting in a single grease-flavored finger slithering into his mouth. Shamus took the opportunity to bite down on the foreign digit hard enough to feel it crunch, causing the owner to let out a painful howl.

Morag, the barmaid, joined in the melee as well. She had taken offense at the fat man calling her bold an’ sonsie, followed by his sporty slap on her more than ample backside. Once the fight had begun Morag sprang onto the fat man’s back, wrapped her strong legs around him, squeezed tightly and commenced bashing him over the head with her wooden serving tray.

Shamus heard the thin man say Och, ye bugger! Whit dae ye mean ta welt me upside ma lug wi yer bottle. Ah’m nae th’ cheat.

As God be ma witness pledged his assailant, naebody ‘s gonnae reive me ay mah winnin’s lest I send heem tae th’ underside ay the sod tae be shoor.

Another rough but untrackable voice clamored Ye’ll hae mair than bluid rinnin’ doon yer airm when I gie a hauld ay ye cheatin’ in ma wee gam ay cairts!

While that exchange of pleasantries among local acquaintances mingled with the flying fists and feet, a moment of good fortune came to Shamus as another member of the fracas came skidding across the floor, tripping him at the ankles, causing him to fall flat on his left side. From that angle Shamus could see beyond several scuffling extremities to an opportunity of escape from this tumult. A door, slightly ajar, beckoned as an avenue he could not ignore.

Ah’m awfullie wabbit ay gittin intae stramashes loch thes! he complained to himself. If Ah git oot o’ this yin Ah’ll ne’er gie in anither siclike fankle again!

Struggling to his hands and knees Shamus managed to crawl to the doorway with his fingers being stomped on twice and a strong knee to the head only once. He grabbed his knapsack, yanked his bonnet more tightly onto his head, pushed the door open, rose to his feet and made a desperate dash to safety.

******

The clean, cool evening air was a refreshing relief from the sweat-scented stink hole of The Clarty Duck drinking den. Shamus had gone there for an evening meal and some liquid stimulation but had been caught up in a card game which took a negative turn when it was discovered two players in the same hand each held the Jack of Diamonds. Shamus was not only one of the pair but the single stranger in the game. For once his natural talent for fast talking failed to defuse the situation.

The real fight ensued when the other players argued over the three options of either hauling Shamus outside to immediately hang him, take turns on his body with a tree limb or simply break his deceiving fingers now and haul him to the sheriff in the morning.

But the lure of a pleasant Scottish spring evening was not what caused Shamus to run from The Duck as fast as he could. Preservation was the primary component. He had already planned to leave Fort Augustus the following morning. Presently, it was a matter of finding a hiding place to avoid the four angry, drunken men who were certain to follow him once they paused in pounding each other, only to find he had escaped their presence.

Faint moonlight assisted in guiding him to the edge of the village. But that didn’t stop him from running with top effort. Unfortunately that reckless mode caused him to lose his footing as he rounded a corner, slipping on a damp patch of cobblestone. The force of his speed sent his body plunging down rocky steps into a muddy pool of water at the base of a doorway. His shoulder crashed against the door driving it slightly ajar. Despite the pain in his shoulder and shins Shamus pushed the door open, dragged himself inside, then firmly shut the door behind him.

Ensconced on the ground, his back pressed against the door, Shamus managed to gasp a few deep breaths and deeper thoughts. Ah’m gettin’ richt wabbit ay thes life….damn tired he concluded to himself as he had several times before.

It wasn’t long when he heard his card-playing friends clamoring down the back street shouting obscenities, directions, instructions and questions. Shamus briefly held his breath then continued to remain quiet long after his four erstwhile friends had departed.

Doorway

Shamus is a traveling man. Actually more like a freewheeler, moving from one place to another with no particular goal in mind other than escape from all too often recurring desperate situations. He was usually rather proud of that vocation. In fact Shamus had traveled the beautiful Lowlands and Borders of Scotland from east to west since escaping as a youth from an import company in Dundee. Not once since then had he even considered what you and I would recognize as regular employment. Most people he engaged in conversation during his sojourns complained of their work.

Why continya tae wark if ye dislike it ‘at much? he would ask.

Haw else wid a earn ma faur? would be a typical reply.

Shamus pondered that point. Work you dislike only to make a few pence? How much better to have travel as your trade. Make your way through life using your wits. It worked for his father before he was hanged in Dunkeld for theft and habitual drunkenness. His mother had earlier been transported to the colonies a few years after the Rising of ‘45 due to her Jacobite sympathies. All of which left Shamus to live on his own, free to fend for himself.

So why change now? Let others labor for money. Shamus was always content to charm or cheat them out if it. Though never over-burdened at any one time with too much coin on his person, Shamus only infrequently found himself short of food, lodging or human companionship. He was living the full life. He had seen all and, with the exception of a few scrapes, usually managed to pull himself from impending danger of any variety.

But times change and people grow up. At least most people do. And though he was yet unaware of it, Shamus was approaching one of those major turning points in his life.

******

Sitting there in the dark, trousers soaked through with muddy water, chilled to the bone by the evening air of a early Highland spring, Shamus soon realized it wasn’t mud he had fallen into…it was a puddle of slops. A combination of partially eaten food, human and animal waste and assorted rotten garbage. With that realization he was surprised to feel tears begin to swell in his eyes. Uncontrollably his body started to shudder. His hands and arms fell limp to his sides. Throwing his head back he closed his eyes and let himself cry. It was a moaning, dejected cry. Audible! Gut-wrenching! A total surrender cry!

******

It was a good cry. A totally-wash-yourself-out cry. It lasted until his body could cry no more. Then Shamus began talking to himself as though he was his own father.

Look at yersel’! Squattin’ in a dub ay guff! Drookit ben yer trews. Almost 30 year olt an’ ye’ve come tae thes! Nae mair than twa bob in yer pooch an’ ance again withit a notion ay whaur e’en yer next scran micht be comin’ frae. Runnin’ frae a boorichie o’ rif-raff that’s nae better than th’ scum ay th’ earth. Whit a life! Ah telt’ ye’d noor be worth a rat’s erse. Ye ooght tae be ashamed ay yersel’.

Ashamed was an understatement. At this moment in his life Shamus felt lower than he had ever been. It had happened before of course. One of those situations when all he could think of was either killing himself or getting drunk. Previously he never had the guts to face death so he always took the easy road…he would get drunk.

Dae’ing = Gettin’

But this time a third option came to mind. Change! He remembered someone once told him If ye keep dae’in’ whit yer dae’ing’ ye’ll keep gittin’ whit yer gittin’..This has got tae be th’ bottom. he thought decidedly, "Ah’ll nae tak it ony mair!

He slammed his fist down into the slop, causing a splatter to erupt onto his face. Ah’m gonna git up aff mah erse, rise up ay thes guff an’ tak a guid grip ay mah life.

Unlike frequent similar statements, he immediately felt a subtle twinge in his chest…and somehow he sensed, this time, he would follow through on his pledge. At the moment Shamus had no idea how he was going to make that switch. He just knew in his soul he was going to readjust his life.

The first step would be to get up on his feet, find his way across River Orich to Loch Ness, wash off the slops, start a warm fire with his flints and get a good night’s sleep. With these thoughts Shamus already felt like a new man. But the biggest test of his new life was just ahead.

Time tae go

Having spent most of the winter near Fort Augustus, where Government soldiers were always eager to wager a few pounds but seldom wise or sober enough to outwit him, Shamus had gradually come to the realization his welcome was wearing thin. Indeed, it was time to get away. Today he had a different perspective but the same old problem…money… or rather the lack of it.

******

That night, during an uneasy sleep, Shamus concluded the root of his previous dilemmas had always been the lack of adequate money. Every time he ran into a problem he was either trying to get money or had recently lost what money was in his possession. In other words it wasn’t his trying to steal or otherwise scam people from their money that was the root of his problems, it was the fact he had set his monetary goals too low. Now, as a new man, he must forego the small card games and minor scams. He must look for the big ruse. The big money!

Adopting that line of thinking led to the obvious fact big-money will be easier to come by where you find big-money people. This current settlement near Fort Augustus, once called Cill Chuimein after Saint Cummein a successor of Saint Columba, was a beautiful village, steep in history and situated near the south end of Loch Ness with tall stately hills plunging at sharp angles into cold, dark, deep and dangerous waters.

But it was far too small for Shamus’ new purposes. Scenery wasn’t what he was yearning for. It was money. Big money! And the nearest location with the greatest population, therefore the most big-money people, would be Inverness, situated just up the Great Glen at the north end of Loch Ness. Simple mathematics deemed it to be the logical place to apply his well-honed skills to their best advantage. He decided he would find his way along the Loch up to Inverness, there to begin his new, well funded life.

Shamus tossed his knapsack over his shoulder, firmly pulled his bonnet securely on his head and set off for Inverness….with the prospect of new riches