Thomas's Dilemma

               Thomas’s Dilemma

Suzanne Marsh

June 1968

“Thomas” the grating old voice began, “go up in the attic, there are a set of bagpipes up there I want ye to have.” Tom had never liked the pipes, actually he hated them. His father had insisted that he at least learn to play the scale, an octave and one note. Tom had done so but he never learned to play tunes. It had no meaning to Tom, he was almost eighteen and on his way to Saint Andrew’s University, he was not really sure of his major at this point. He also knew he could not disobey his father’s wish. He trudged up the creaky wooden steps and into the attic. He had no idea where to even begin to attempt to find the bagpipes he had been sent to locate and bring down from the attic. He found kilts, sporrans, and white spats, plaids, some of which were historically valuable. He noted several busby's some bear fur and others ostrich feathers.

The cobwebs were making his search difficult, he wondered how long it had been since anyone was in this dreadful attic. The floorboards creaked under his weight. Thomas Reid was well over six foot, with red hair and blue eyes, a trait passed down from one of his father’s relatives, his mother had dark hair and blue eyes. He shook himself to bring himself back to his mission, find the damn bagpipes, and bring them down to his father. Finally, Tom found the wooden box with the pipes in them. He blew the dust off the top and opened it. These were not like any modern-day pipes, they had only the two tenor drones, the bag made from sheep leather, the Reid tartan covered the bag, the chanter was longer than the newer ones. Tom closed the box and lugged it down the stairs to his father’s bedroom. The old man lay propped up in bed:

“Aye Tom, I see ye found them.”

“Yes father, I did. They are different from the other bagpipes up in the attic as well as the

tartan that covers it.”

“Tom, sit ye down, I have something to tell you, but first can you play my favorite

piece music, The Skye Boat Song.”

“Father, I can’t play anything but the scale, remember. Aye, I remember no I want ye to sing it

to me.”

Tom rolled his eyes in exasperation but did as he was asked. He had a lovely tenor voice as he began clearly:

“Speed Bonnie boat like a bird on the wing, onward! The sailors cry. Carry the lad who is born

the lad who is born to be king, over the sea to Skye.”

Tom, sing the third verse please, once again Tom began:

“Many’s a lad fought on that day; well the claymore could wield. When the night came silently

lay dead on Culloden’s field.”

Tom, there is a story I must relate to ye now, I haven’t much longer:

16 April 1746

The cold mist of morning the clans began to assemble. They Scots want Charles Stuart on the throne of Scotland not the bloody English King George II. Tempers were high that morning as the clans began to prepare for battle. All the clans were gathered that day, roughly about 1300 men, pipers included. The English were determined to rule Scotland, the Scots wanted Prince Charles Edward Stuart on the throne, he was the rightful heir or so they contented. Charles was a French fop and had spent some time in France until he saw the opportunity to unite the clans and sit on the Scottish throne. The Scots had been rebelling and now seemed the perfect time. Scouts were sent out to watch for the bloody English, their hated enemy. Out of mist there could be heard songs of war, the men sang to prepare themselves. Several men played the pipes, one was a piper by the name of James Reid, our ancestor Tom. Anyway, Jamie Reid piped as he led a regiment of clans into battle that day. The blood than ran that day on Cullen field contained the blood of every clan, Mackenzie's to Sinclair and Grey.

Once the battle was over, there were very few men left standing. Blood could be seen over the field, blood of the Scots. Time stood still for those who survived. Pikes and claymores bloody, clutched in the hands of the men who held them. There were some who survived the battle but were soon found in hiding places by the English. Jamie Reid was among those captured and taken to York for trial. According to the legend Jamie was tried at Whitneffs for the Crown, he had engaged with the rebels and acted as a piper for a rebel regiment, he did not carry arms. He convicted for treason, mind you. He was hung on November 6, 1746, after being in prison. Many a lad hung in those days after Culloden, aye and many a lad died on the field.

June 1968

Tom was speechless, why after all these years did his father decided to tell him this story, how was he related to this Jamie Reid. The old man began to gasp for breath:

“Tom, when I leave this earth, please play The Skye Boat Song on the bagpipes, it

would mean a great deal to me to know that you will play them.”

Tom hated the thought of learning to play any instrument, he was not exactly musically inclined, he had clear tenor, but voice was one thing, the pipes were another entirely. However, if it would make his father happy, then he would do it.

The following morning the mist broke early, Tom strode toward Pipe Major Michael Sinclair’s home. He knocked on the door, then waited for the hubbub to subside at the pipe major’s home. The door opened a Mike motioned him in:

“Tom, good to see you, how is your father?”

“Mike, that is the reason I am here, my father is dying, his last request is that I play Skye Boat.

Would it be possible for you to teach me that tune?”

“Tom, I don’t suppose you brought a practice chanter with you?”

“No, Mike, the pipes he wants me to play are strange looking, they only have the two tenor

drones.”

“Tom, that is odd, bring them over later today, we can season them, that will give you time

to find you a practice chanter.”

“Thanks Mike.”

Tom began to think about those pipes, he had seen pictures of bagpipes but none quite like those. Maybe Tom could unravel the mystery of this set. Later that afternoon, the old bagpipes in the wooden box, made their way back to Mike’s. Mike opened the door and once again Tom entered. They sat at the kitchen table. Mike went into another room and returned with two practice chanters. Mike played Skye Boat as Tom watched his fingers move swiftly over the holes. Mike had also placed the sheet music with handwritten musical notes on it. By the end of several hours of blue words, Tom finally had the tune down.

Mike, asked Tom to bring in the wooden box with the pipes in them. Tom, opened the box, Mike with a look of pure shock on his face stared at the pipes:

“Tom, where did you find these?”

“My father’s attic in a dusty cobwebbed corner, why?”

Mike could barely get the words out:

“The reason these only have two drones is because these were played at the Battle of Culloden,

that is the Reid tartan. Did your father have them all these years? Are you a decedent of Jamie

Reid?”

“Geez Mike, I have never seen you this excited about anything other than becoming a

Pipe Major.”

“Tom, those pipes are priceless, they belong in a museum here in Scotland.”

“My father would have my head on a silver platter if I put them in a museum, they have

been in our family for years. I wonder if that is why he wanted me to learn to play them.”

“Could be Tom.”

Later that evening Tom came home to find an ambulance there, his father gasping for breath. Tom, calmly strode over to the old man:

“Father, oh no, Father.”

The old man took his son’s hand in his:

“Remember to play Skye Boat for me.”