The Last Lady from Hell (3 page)

“I understand you were at the Battle Somme.”

Ian took the magazine and squinted at it. He reached into his pocket and removed a pair of thick reading glasses. He put them on and inspected the photo. As he looked, his expression changed. He stared intently for several minutes. It seemed that he was no longer looking at the photo, but was looking deep into it, recollecting something long forgotten or perhaps buried.

“Mr. MacDonald, sir?” I said quietly.

His eyes refocused and he said, “Terry Manning.”

“Pardon me?”

He pointed at the piper and looked up at me with tired, sad eyes. “Terry Manning,” he repeated.

“You know the piper in that photo?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it was possible. What were the odds of that?

“Yes” he responded softly, putting the magazine in his lap. “He was one of the best pipers I ever knew. We were good friends.”

The old man reached into the side pocket of his jacket and produced a beautiful, ornate white bone pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He packed the bowl as he continued to gaze down at the magazine. Then he lit a match and produced a large billow of sweet aromatic smoke. Ian drew deeply on the pipe and began to speak in a low hypnotic voice. I turned on the tape recorder and leaned in closer to hear him more clearly.

PART TWO

THE STORY

1915 – Queens University, Kingston, Ontario

[Transcribed from Ian MacDonald’s recording]

I
APPROACHED
T
HE
U
NION
S
T.
Athletic Field, which would later become the site of Richardson Stadium in 1919, and could hear the crowd loudly singing the Queen’s fight song.

Oilthigh na Banrighinn a’ Bhanrighinn gu bràth!

Oilthigh na Banrighinn a’ Bhanrighinn gu bràth!

Oilthigh na Banrighinn a’ Bhanrighinn gu bràth!

Cha ghèill! Cha ghèill! Cha ghèill!

(same tune as “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”)

“We must have scored a touchdown,” I thought. It is traditional to sing this song after every score. This was McGill versus Queens, one of the biggest rivalries in Canadian higher education.

I was late for the kickoff, but I was really far more interested in the halftime show anyway. The pipe band in particular. I had
received a partial scholarship that hinged on my getting into the pipe band and, later that afternoon, I was to be at band practice for the tryouts.

Queens University was known to have one of the best college pipe bands in Canada and I wanted to get a good look at them before the tryouts. The halftime show was the perfect opportunity for this.

There was a lot riding on my qualifying for the band and securing the scholarship. I came from a farming family on Wolfe Island, the largest of the Thousand Islands. We had limited resources and Queens University was very expensive. This was my only avenue toward a higher education.

It was a warm fall day, but you could still feel the crispness in the air. It had that smell of fall. A light haze hung in the air that muted the vibrant colors of the trees, like an impressionistic painting, everything blended together.

As I walked toward the bleachers, the halftime cannon went off, causing me to jump. What a wallop that thing gave. I was just in time.

On the sideline, I could hear someone yelling out orders, then the drums marked time and the pipes began playing. Out marched the band, looking fine and marching in perfect unison. Their playing sounded grand and was very tight.

The band wore full dress military attire: kilt (Royal Stewart Tartan), long tunics, glengarry hats, horsehair sporrans and white spats. The Royal Stewart tartan, an overall red with a cross hatch of muted green and thin white lines, has long been one of the most recognizable tartans, and it makes anyone wearing it look sharp. The thought of being in one of those uniforms and marching with this band gave me a flash of excitement, and I smiled at my mental image.

Most of the tunes they played were familiar to me. Most marching bands tended to have standard repertoires, including “Scotland the Brave,” “The Minstrel Boy,” and “Marie’s Wedding.”

The Drum Major led the Queens band out to the field, followed by the pipes. Bringing up the rear was the drum section. The drums were powerful and precise. They sounded like one drum with the thunder of twelve. Supporting it all was the bass drum, huge and commanding. The drummer pounded out the cadence and signaled the band to start and stop with an air of total confidence. All the starts and stops were clean and crisp, not one pipe or drum sounded too soon or lingered beyond the last note, a sign of a good band.

The pipe major called for pipes down. The drummers snapped out rolls as the pipers brought their pipes down in unison and marched off to a single tap of a side drum. A well-disciplined unit, I thought.

I wanted to introduce myself, so I began to make my way around the stands to where they were gathered. But as I did, a knot of doubt formed in my stomach. What if I can’t cut it? I had played pipes for years, but never in an organized band.

As I approached the group, the first person I came to was the drum major. He was a massive imposing fellow, well over six feet tall, and with his feather bonnet he appeared even taller. In his right hand he held a five-and-a-half-foot staff with an orb on top called a mace. It gave him an air of superiority, and grandeur, almost like royalty. The drum major must have weighed 250 pounds, but he carried his large frame with ease. He had a prominent mustache that came down each side of his mouth. He didn’t seem all that happy — perhaps it was the effect of the mustache, which gave him the appearance of a perpetual frown. Maybe this is not the fellow to talk to first, I thought, but I took a gamble and introduced myself.

“Pardon me, sir,” I said tentatively. “My name is Ian MacDonald and I’m a freshman at Queens. I have received a bagpipe scholarship and…”

Before I could finish my rambling announcement he spun around and glared at me. I swallowed hard. This guy looked mad. His expression was enough to make my knees start to knock.

“Perhaps I should speak to…” I began.

“What?” he bellowed. “A freshman?”

I feared he would roar “fe-fi-fo-fum” next, but to my immense relief, he smiled a broad toothy smile and said, “Yah mean fresh meat!” Then he roared with laughter at his own joke. Poor form, I thought, but wasn’t about to call him on it.

“Congratulations!” he said. “What did you say your last name was? Was it MacDonald? Any relation to Al?”

“Yes,” I said. “Alan is my older brother.”

“One hell of a rugby player and an all-around good egg,” he said, slapping my back hard enough to knock me off balance.

“I’m Dan McKee. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the fellow you really want to speak with, our pipe major.”

He turned and walked through the crowd of kilted pipers and drummers, which parted with his approach. Those who did not move, received a friendly poke with his mace which accomplished the desired result with no malice intended or perceived. He led me toward a lean, sharp looking piper whose uniform was the same as the rest except for a red sash draped across his tunic, and four chevrons or military type stripes on his sleeve. His face was youthful and he exuded the air of leadership and responsibility that was necessary to function as a pipe major. His ramrod posture helped to accentuate this authoritative perception.

“Terry,” McKee bellowed, “We have more fresh meat, I mean another freshman.” He laughed again deep from his belly. Poor form.

“This is Terry Manning our Pipe Major,” he said by way of introduction. “Terry this is Ian Mactavish!”

“MacDonald,” I corrected.

He slapped me on my back again even harder and laughed. “That’s what I said—MacDonald.” I wondered whether my brother liked this guy.

Pipe Major Manning looked at me with a raised eyebrow and an analytical gaze.

“Ian MacDonald” I said, thrusting my hand toward him. My father always said that you can tell a lot about a man by his handshake and the shine of his shoes. Terry had a firm, genuine grip. He smiled as we shook hands, but it struck me as more businesslike than friendly. I supposed that to maintain a position of authority, one must exercise a degree of aloofness.

“Be at Grant Hall, room 110 at 1600 hours. Bring your pipes and have them warmed up and ready,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” Then he snapped around and briskly walked into the crowd.

My heart was pounding in my chest as the reality of the moment caught hold. This was really happening, I thought as I headed back to my room. I’m going to be a piper at Queens. The exhilaration was short lived, though, as I overheard two pipers discussing the latest news of the war in Europe. My thoughts turned to my older brother, Alan. Alan left ten months earlier with the first Canadian wave to fight for England. The reports coming back were mixed and my family had not received a letter for some time.

I glanced at my wristwatch. It was three o’clock. I had an hour to prepare for my audition. I walked up the limestone steps of Grant Hall. The buildings of Queens University are made of limestone, as is almost every building in Kingston, Ontario, which, as a result, had been tagged with the not very original nickname “the Limestone City.”

My pipes were stored in a case that my grandfather had made for me when I was twelve years old. He was a real craftsman with cabinetry and his skill was evident in this velvet-lined case. I purchased a new set of Macgregor pipes when I was seventeen. Though they were slightly larger than my first pipes, they still fit snugly into the case.

I took the pipes from the case and practiced scales for the next forty minutes, as Terry had requested. Warming up the pipes and
reeds before a performance diminished the tendency of this finicky instrument to go out of tune. The practice enabled the pipes to provide a modestly consistent tone.

Being an all-wood instrument, except for the bag, of course, the bagpipes are often at the mercy of the elements. The blow stick, three drones, and chanter are made from African blackwood, a very hard wood that provides a maximum volume with minimal reaction to temperature or moisture changes. The chanter—the part on which the tune is played–has eight finger holes and a hard, double reed, which gives it plenty of crisp volume. The cane reeds, however, are more susceptible to temperature and moisture and can pull a bagpipe out of tune smartly.