Foula 1590

The year 1590 was a most unfortunate one for Shetland. November of the previous year came in accompanied with severe snowstorms, which continued with an occasional interruption till the following June. In eight months 30 severe storms swept across the island. For three months the snow lay several feet on the ground and no outside work of any kind was done till Summermill day (14th April, Old Style). A few weeks of milder weather which then set in enabled the people working at their harvest to cultivate their small farms or tacks and then a succession of storms ensued.

To the surprise and delight of everyone midsummer day dawned calm and beautiful. The sea was smooth, the sky clear, the sun shone brilliantly, the air was vocal with the screams of sea birds and life and bustle suddenly sprang up in every household. Every man who could pull an oar in the whole Shetland group was in active preparation for the first trip of the season to the haaf. The sudden change from a dull despondency observable everywhere to one of joyous animation would have perplexed a stranger unacquainted with the cause. Nowhere would this have been witnessed to greater effect than in Foula, an island on the West coast of Shetland. After a morning of busy excitement among the inhabitants there, every one preparing and everyone ordering, whole families left their home and repaired to the beach as if they were about to leave the island, and there occurred a scene of congratulation on the change of weather and of kissing, each one calling his neighbour "My brother" ("The common appellation to all acquaintances is 'brother.'"—Low's Tour, 1774), such as can scarcely be realised at the present day. One or two of the oldest and most experienced men shook their heads, hinted at the change being too sudden and advised the men not to be too venturesome. They were laughed at, told that they themselves were not so cautious 30 years ago and that the sudden change meant utterly exhausted storms.

On one of the boats more than ordinary interest was centred. The skipper was Hakon of Guttorm, an athletic, powerful looking man of 25 years, and the crew consisted of, besides himself, his father, an elder brother, a brother-in-law, an uncle and a cousin. As a rule it was the cool experienced, middle-aged man who was chosen skipper. But Hakon was a precocious youth, had given evidence of superior abilities and for his coolness in danger, his abilities in managing a boat and his success in everything he undertook, he had been chosen skipper of the new boat the crew built and that was his first trip in command. He was the best crags-man, the swiftest runner, the best fencer, best dancer at balls and weddings and was the pride and boast of the island. In addition to these, he was to be married at the close of the season. The people had higher expectations of Hakon's success than of the others, although the hopes of all were high. When all were ready the crews, with a parting cheer, turned their boats with the course off the sun (it is contrary to island custom to turn a boat widdershins) and pulled out to sea.

There was only one little creek in the island that would shelter boats, and as they passed out of it there stood on the furthest rock a young woman, fresh and fair as the morning and before whom the crews rested on their oars for a moment as they bade her good-morning and good-bye. The people returned home when the boats floated, but the woman stood there immovable and shading her eyes with her hand she watched the boats until they appeared like specks in the distance. She then turned with a sigh and slowly wended her way to her house, which stood on the Southern part of the island and in size and construction still retained traces of ancient habits and customs.

Katherine Asmundder, the young woman mentioned, was the last descendent in a direct line of Guttorm, a Norwegian ever thought of visiting it. The islanders, in consequence, lived a very secluded life, lived, and thought, and acted as their fathers had done for centuries, with but little variation or change. It chanced, however, that when Katherine approached womanhood the haaf became the playground of storms which were felt nowhere else, and there was scarcely a week in summer that a boat's crew of young men was not driven to Foula. Every parish and island had its own haaf or fishing ground, and boats from the West Coast haafs and those of Fethaland, Yell, and Unst found their way to Foula, all driven by storms that the Foula people had not felt. Very often the boats had a supernumerary hand on board, the son of the laird of the district to which the boat belonged, and Katherine not only had admirers by the score, but jealousy and feuds sprang up among the visiting crews. She was attentive to the wants of all, but to none of them did she give even a stray thought. Hakon and she had been engaged for some years, and he alone absorbed her whole mind and thought. The weather on that midsummer day continued fine and beautiful, and the people on shore, whose every glance was towards the sea and sky, congratulated themselves on their changed prospects. Even the children were interested, and danced with delight when they thought of the pleasure they would experience in meeting and welcoming home the crews of the haaf boats. Towards evening an ominous-looking cloud appeared on the horizon, and the sun went down in a dense mass of clouds surrounded by a corona of fiery streaks. The boats were expected with the morning tide, but a little after sunrise a heavy shower of snow fell, and an hour or two afterwards a severe winter storm was raging. The people rushed to the top of Ljorafield, the highest peak in the island, in the hope of seeing the boats in the offing, but, after waiting for hours, not a speck could be seen amid the spindrift and foam to seaward. Foula is surrounded with strong currents, and since the boats did not return in the morning, they could not, had they been near the land, have reached the island till the afternoon, owing to the strong tidal streams, or ranks as they are called, which extend from the island far into the ocean, and in which the waves roll like breakers. To cross such tidal streams except in certain states of the tide and near the shore is extremely dangerous.

As the day wore on the storm increased, and the anxiety of the people became intense. All work was suspended, the hill tops were covered with people—aged men tottering on their staves, women with infants at their breasts, old and young were there, each and all straining their eyes seaward, and mistaking every speck in their strained vision for a returning boat. Evening came, but no tidings, and the storm raged with exceeding fury. Night was spent on the hill tops. The people could not return to their dwellings, but took shelter under rocks and in caves which the winds and waves of untold ages had scooped out. Morning brought no relief, and as it was believed impossible that an open boat could live in such a sea, all hope was at last abandoned. The scene was indeed one of lamentation and mourning. In every house one or more were absent, and in several cases all the grown-up male members of the family had perished. Before leaving they all gathered around old Olav, a kind hearted aged man. Removing his cap, he said in a voice quivering with emotion, "the hand of the Lord is heavy upon us this morning, my bairns," and looking upwards he offered up a prayer such as has never been heard since. It had neither beginning nor end nor middle, was without order or arrangement, was, in fact, simply a cry wrung from the old man's heart and directed to a being whom he believed saw, heard, and could help them. Scarcely had he finished when a boat with her sail torn and partly hanging in shreds, was observed approaching the island. The sight of her was like the sight of one from the dead. There was a rush to the sea shore and her every movement was watched with the keenest interest. The waves were running so high that she was often long hidden from view, and fears were as often entertained that she had foundered; but she was managed with superior skill and breasted the billows with buoyancy of a sea-bird. "It is Hakon," cried a dozen voices at once. "None but he could manage a boat like that in such a storm and sea," and turning to Olav they asked what he thought. "No, boys, no," Olav replied, "it is not Hakon. The boat is a stranger and is taking the rank at the wrong place and at the wrong time. Heaven have mercy on her." Scarcely had the words passed out of the old man's mouth when the boat rose on the crest of a towering billow, the torn sail shook and fluttered for a moment and then disappeared. "She is in the rank and has gone," the old man cried, and a yell of despair which seemed to cleave the air arose from the lookers on. In an hour or less, as time in such cases cannot be measured, the boat, contrary to all hope or experience of the kind, emerged from the rank and slowly made towards the creek. The boat was indeed a stranger from the island of Papa Stour. She had been out the whole of the storm, and after making superhuman exertions to reach her own shores, had that morning as a last resource stood for Foula. On rising on the crest of the wave, as seen from the shore, the hal'ards got foul, the sail would not lower, and in a moment the men were sitting up to their waist [sic] in water. They were stunned by the suddenness of the disaster and were rendered incapable of exertion. The only man who retained his presence of mind was Hind Eunson, the skipper. He bounded out of the stern, cut the hal'ards, drove in the end of the blaand keg with his foot, and before the crew had recovered from their stupor, he had the boat partially emptied. Their condition was indeed pitiable, there was a wild look in their eyes, and their faces wore a mingled expression of exhaustion and terror. Their hands were swollen and skinless, and they themselves were so worn out that, with the exception of the skipper, they had to be helped out of the boat. They had, however, the welcome news to convey that they had seen five boats under the lee of the island, which they doubted not were Foula boats. "Five boats," the people all at once exclaimed, "where is the sixth?" but no answer could be given.

The storm moderated, and the boats arrived at the creek, Hakon's boat was missing, and all that was known of her was that she had left her companion boats on the inner haaf and proceeded to the bank in the hope of finding more fish there. Hakon's crew were given up as lost, and all but Katherine Asmundder believed it. The other boats had returned, she thought, the Papa Stour boat had been at sea during the whole of the storm, and had reached land. Hakon's boat was new, his crew good, he himself was inferior to none, and until news had been received from all the stations on the mainland she would not mourn but hope.

More than thirty years passed; hope had died in the heart of Katherine Asmundder; another generation had arisen, and the remembrance of Hakon and his crew lingered only as a tale, when one April day, a Walls boat delivered a letter to a Foula boat on the Shaalds, addressed to the chief magistrate of the island. The letter was delivered, and the people flocked to the house of the Ranselman to hear it read. Katherine Asmundder (tradition says she could neither read nor write), now only the remains of her former self, went also. The letter which was from Guttorm Plantation, Jamaica, and dated two years before, read as follows:

SIR,—My father, Hakon Magnusson, was born in Foula, and spent the first twenty-five years of his life in your island; in the prosecution of his calling as a fisherman he was one day overtaken by a storm, was picked up by a passing ship, carried to the West Indies, and he and his crew were sold to the planters on a neighbouring island as slaves.

My grandfather and uncle died a few months after their arrival, and the remaining three men survived them only a few years. From the first my father was more fortunate than his companions. His master—a humane man—treated him kindly, and in gratitude for an important service, he gave my father his liberty, and a sum of money to enable him to commence business for himself.

He removed to this island, purchased a small property, married, became a successful planter, and died last year on the anniversary of the day he was picked up on your northern seas.

My father never forgot his early home and friends, but as all his efforts to gain intelligence of them had failed, he left instructions with me to try and communicate with them, tell the particulars of his life, and forward through Messrs. Finch &c Company, our London correspondents, £300, one third to be given to Katherine Asmundder, the friend of his youth, and the remaining two-thirds to be equally divided among the surviving relatives of his father's family. On hearing from you I shall remit the money, and advise you.

With moistened eye and quivering lip, Katherine listened, and when she heard her name mentioned she sank on the floor, saying, "Amidst all his trials and all his prosperity he thought of me to the last. He has now gone home. I will soon follow and meet him there," and covering her face with her hands, she sobbed like a child. She was shortly afterwards seized with a desire to sell the island and leave it, and in the following November, when on her way to negotiate a sale with the fishcuring owner who had used the island for some years as a fishing station, she was drowned, and as she was the last of her house, and the maxim of government in those days was "he shall take who has the power," the man to whom she was going quietly annexed the island to his property.

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It is not known who wrote the above story about Katherine Asmundder and Hakon Magnusson. It is however close to the oral tradition in Foula. The critique below is by Ian B. S. Holbourn, pages 59-60, in the book The Isle of Foula.

There are a few errors in the account, which although very correct in many particulars, show that the writer was not familiar with the island. Ljorafield is not the highest point, nor does it command a view of the west. That the islanders did not know of the boats taking shelter is rather incredible. Even under ordinary circumstances their knowledge of the least thing on any side is amazing, and under such conditions, when everyone was on the qui vive, it is out of the question. They probably discovered the news independently of the Papa boat, though a stranger might well have surmised that the Papa boat was the informant. The story differs from the island tradition in many respects. The following version was written to me by one who left the isle as a youth and who had not seen The Scotman's account.

Katrine must have been a very saintly woman. When her lover went away that day she watched him from the Head of the Baa, well knowing that he would never return, for she had heard the Fjulgie song from the song. [The Fjulgie resembles the Greek Siren except that it is never seen. The song is of surpassing sweetness and foretells the death by drowning of the hearer or the hearer's dearest friend.] The grief of Katrine does not overwhelm her nor make her despondent. On the contrary it shed a kind of halo around her and she became so gentle and good that the wild birds came to her hand and were not afraid. She became the refuge and help of every afflicted and suffering bird and animal as well as of the Islesfolk. Hence the name "Kreug Katrine." [Kreug means shelter, and we used to kreugen when sheltering from the magnificent snow showers of Foula. She never tried to sell the isle. This is how she was drowned.] A French ship anchored off the Hame Banks, the crew being entertained by Katrine in the manner of the times. The captain, a very dashing sailor, fell in love with Katrine whose gentle resistance of his overtures inflamed his passion out of all bounds. He resolved to kidnap Katrine and invited her aboard the ship with that intention. Rowing out of Lady Geo, on a beautiful, still day, the boat was suddenly engulfed and she, poor lady, drowned. There was nothing in sea or air to account for the disaster. It was, of course, Hakon who took her away beside himself to save her from the outrage of capture. Katrine never grew old, but looked just as young as on the day that Hakon sailed away.

Foula tradition records that the ship that captured Hakon was a Russian vessel. This is not improbable as the Shetland fish trade was for a long time mainly with Russia. Another point in the island tradition is that Hakon belonged to the family of David Henry, who was, as we have seen, at one one time in possession of seventy pounds, which may indicate that he inherited some of Hakon's money. Hakon is said to have been the son of a William Henry in Guttrun.

The fishcurer, who is referred to in the preceding account as having annexed the island on the death of Katrine, may, through his business, have established a lien over the property. Indeed, tradition says that Hakon's money came at an opportune moment to enable Katrine to free the island from encumbrances, and that she was setting out to transact the business when she met her death. But the times were certainly lawless, and the Danish heirs who, being foreigners, would have difficulty in establishing their claim undoubtedly lost their little kingdom. Thus Thule ceased for 300 years to be an independent property, nor did the lairds reside there regularly, even for a part of the year, until the days of the present Udaller.

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