February 1692
One
It was a rugged, mountainous glen through which tumbled the small river for which it was named, and to which the family called Donald had given its toil and blood from far back in times unknown.
It lay in the debatable lands between the low western forests of Appin, bordering Lochs Linnhe and Leven, and the high inland moor of Rannoch. The narrow valley formed, as it were, a doorway into the central Highlands, and the mountains that flanked it an impassable inland barrier between Strathclyde and the northwest Highlands. And though it lay not many feet above the sea and the nearby lochs, there could be no doubt that it was from the Highlands, rising on three sides around it, that Glencoe derived its soul.
The glen ran east to west, gradually narrowing as it increased in elevation from the shores of Loch Leven, then straightening to no more than a steep passage, climbing up through jagged enclosing heights on each side some twelve miles to the high, desolate watery flats of Rannoch Moor. The western valley itself lay at the base of and between several bare, rugged mountains, some of whose slopes were so steep as to render them impassable to anything but unfriendly Highland goats. North and south, the peaks rose steep and foreboding, leading nowhere but to higher mountains still. These sentinels offered few routes of escape, especially in winter.
The northern wall was called Aonach Eagach, the Notched Ridge, and the only pathway through it was the crooked trail, known as the Devil’s Staircase, that ran from Kinlochleven to Rannoch Moor at the eastern door of the glen. To the south, five mountains stood tied to one another by various forbidding ridges. Their lower slopes and glens provided some grass for summer grazing, but they offered few paths out of Glencoe, and only to those who knew them well. The ridges and mountains beyond them simply rose higher and higher, either covered with snow or lost in mists most of the year.
Down the sides of the surrounding hills and in their innumerable crevices and ravines tumbled a thousand small streams, each pouring into the Coe as it flowed from Rannoch Moor downward to empty into Loch Leven at the site of the small village of Invercoe. Boulders and walls of granite created hundreds of waterfalls and chilly crystalline pools. As they cascaded toward the valley floor, gradually the waters slowed and widened into shallow pools, then swelled into the loch of Achtriachtan before narrowing again to continue toward Leven.
For nine or ten months of the year, the upper portion of these streams ran swiftly with the icy water of melted snow. In the dead of winter the smaller ones iced over and ceased flowing altogether. On their banks grew an occasional fir, clumps of stunted pines, with here and there small stands of silver birch, mountain ash, or alder. None grew to any great size, however. Only the overhanging projection of some great boulder, or perhaps the face of a cliff, was capable of giving much shade during the short summer months when it might be needed.
It was a remote region, sparsely peopled in later years. But in those days when Highland life was at its zenith, the valley was fertile and full of life. For the two or three hundred men, women, and children to whom Glencoe was home, clan and earth wove together the fabric of existence.
These inhabitants spoke mostly Gaelic and a little Scots, and were almost entirely of Celtic blood. The cultivated portions of the glen produced little other than oats, kale, barley, and a few potatoes, though in some places sufficient corn ripened during the short summer for the distilling of whisky. Cattle gave milk for butter and cheese. Scrawny sheep also yielded milk and some fleece, and chickens gave eggs and themselves for food. From the nearby lochs, an abundance of fish, mostly herring, saw the people through fierce and punishing winters. Up the surrounding slopes there was much heather and moss, plentiful water and snow, but more rocks than anything.
And there was solitude. Upon leaving one of the half-dozen tiny villages in the glen, one could walk the hills and gaze about in all directions and discover but scant evidence of human abode. The faint perfume of peat fire drifting upward from some unseen chimney might give evidence of habitation. It would still be difficult to discover the cottage it came from, however, so entirely did the houses of that region blend in with the hillsides out of whose stones and turf they had been constructed.
Near the western edge of the glen, a little more than a mile inland from the mouth of the River Coe, over the cluster of ten or fifteen cottages that made up the village of Carnoch, twilight darkened the sky. Snow would not be far behind.
The girl leaning into the wind as she made her way to the warmth and safety of a nearby dwelling wore a happy smile on her face. Despite the inclement weather and descending dusk, she skipped along merrily, as if it were midsummer. Guests were approaching the glen, and she had particular reason to be hopeful.
They were from a neighboring clan over the hills, and twenty-one-year-old Ginevra MacIain1 knew what that could mean. She had not actually seen her Brochan among the uniformed riders. But she felt his presence. For one like Ginevra, it was enough, for what she knew came but partially from the sight of her eyes. She depended mostly on unexplained sensations residing quiet and hidden within her soul.
The cottage she approached was of two rooms with an earthen floor, roof of timber and turf with a hole in the center. Stone in this region was plentiful, wood scarce. Thus the timber beams that supported the roof were the most valuable and important part of any home. If the roof went, destruction of the whole cottage was not far behind. The roofs themselves, spread over these timbers, were formed of thick-cut turf or bound heather. Only the largest and most important homes of any community were covered with thatch, a commodity too needful as animal fodder to be commonly used as roofing material.
Barns, or byres, of similar construction, sat either adjacent to or as an extension of such structures. The dwelling places of humans and animals might be separated only by hanging skins and hides. During these harsh winter months, cattle had to be kept in and prevented from starvation on what meager provisions could be allotted them, their refuse piled in huge heaps outside.
The girl had seen the soldiers before anyone in Carnoch, though none saw her shadowing their movements. Had any of the horsemen, whom she had spotted approaching thirty minutes before, denoted the wispy figure stalking them, they might have considered her a nymph of these dark, fearsome mountains or perhaps a spirit of some ancient Highland legend. Her wild, flowing hair, however, would have given her away as related, and not distantly, to the current chief. No ghost ever wore such a bright red mane.
Had her own kinsmen spotted her at this moment, none would have paid her much heed. Everyone in the glen knew Ginevra. Most ignored her, though sometimes her peculiar ways unnerved them. She always seemed to turn up in the most unexpected places at the oddest times, watching silently, hearing all. And she always seemed to know what was happening, just as she now knew that the earl’s men were coming to seek lodging in Carnoch. The villagers, however, would have to get the news from the chief’s two sons, not from Ginevra MacIain MacDonald.
The year was 1692. None of them—not maiden, nor riders, nor the sons of the chief—knew that history was soon to be made. The events about to unfold would immortalize this tiny valley surrounded on three sides by snowcapped and forbidding peaks, and sear this moment of time into the fabric of legend for a nation.
Incredibly, the lass’s feet as they hurried over the frozen ground were bare, for she was at home in the elements. Indeed, as well a nymph might, she defied them, daring rain and snow, wind and hail, to do their worst. Her mother was a MacPhail from Laroch, said to be descended from Big Archibald. Her father was nephew to Chief Alasdair. The three, along with her little brother, made their home in Carnoch.
She wore but a plain, thin woolen dress, no coat, no bonnet. Such scant clothing on this night would have worried many a Scottish mother. The days when Ginevra’s mother’s heart stirred anxiously for her daughter, however, were long past. The girl knew every inch of the glen, every stream, every rock, every sheep path, every peak. She had survived twenty-one harsh Highland winters. Why should she not survive another?
The high regions to the east she had had occasion to traverse many times during recent years as well, for the same reason that her heart had been set stirring with particular hope and eagerness on this evening. For she was a lass in love—that much one look into her eye would reveal in an instant.
That she was one even capable of falling in love might have been questioned some years before. For everyone in the glen knew this girl was different from others of human parentage.
Three
Ginevra’s mother had worried for a time. The girl was set apart from the day she was born. Her dark hair, which started out almost black, and the deep blue eyes, which seemed preternaturally aware of her surroundings, immediately attracted the attention of every woman in the village.
“A beautiful baby,” the mothers all exclaimed when they first laid eyes on the infant, “and such eyes!”
One among them, however, was not so exuberant in praise of the infant’s countenance, a grizzled, ancient woman of wrinkled, leathery skin and more years than anyone in the glen dared speculate on. If she was a witch, no one said it. Yet all feared an evil glance from the old woman as much as they heeded whatever peculiar pronouncements might come from her mouth. Everyone for miles attributed to her the evil eye.
“Aye, she maun hae the second sicht,” muttered old Betsy MacDougall upon observing the infant.
A few gasps of mingled wonderment, terror, and awe escaped the lips of the other women. A solemn silence descended over the room.
“’Tis a blessing an’ a curse,” the strange woman went on. “An’ I be one who ought t’ ken, fer I’ve lived wi’ both this many a year.”
Ginevra’s mother trembled at the words. She knew the danger. She knew that those with the second sight were chosen to walk a lonely path. They beheld what no one else saw, and carried pain no one could take away.
That Ginevra was an unusual child was evident from more than her eyes. As she lay in her cradle, the infant uttered not a peep. Her eyes seemed capable of gathering meaning before the age when most normal children could speak. But as time went on, sounds did not accompany the changes that came to her body. By the time she was two, her mother knew something was amiss.
As the maiden Ginevra grew, her hair gradually changed from black to the bright red of MacIain’s himself, while her eyes lightened. The deep color which at first resembled dusk came to reflect the bright blue of midday, eventually transforming into the pale blue of a spring dawn.
Her personality fit both wild hair and pale eyes. A smile usually spread over her lips, but the expression was distant, somehow disconnected from those around her—a smile that came to be accepted as the grin of unknowing simplemindedness. When spoken to, she looked beyond, almost through, whoever addressed her, giving no sign that she heard or that the words communicated meaning to her brain. Her face remained as devoid of expression as her eyes were full of strange light, almost an inner luminescence.
Yet by actions and other signs of expression, it was clear her ears functioned properly, that sound, even meaning, registered something within her. As much as possible for one so inexplicably severed from the world of speech, she seemed capable of most functions of normality. Even the wisest among the villagers, however, could not tell exactly what she made of what went on around her, or what odd twistings occurred behind Ginevra’s eyes and ears after words and sounds and sights entered her brain. She absorbed it, that much was clear. But she never gave faintest clue what lay inside.
No one denied that Ginevra was odd in many ways—fixing upon some object and staring at it unmoving for an hour . . . getting down on all fours and imitating a dog, not merely for a few moments but perhaps for days. She took occasionally to wandering the hills alone, at night during the summer months, afraid of nothing. And always was present the blank stare of nonexpression. For any indication otherwise, she might have been stone deaf.
Attempts were made to send her to the small school which had recently been established. But the other children treated her cruelly. Ginevra never gave indication whether the goings-on made the slightest sense to her. She would get up from her seat and wander outside and perhaps not be seen for the rest of the day. No discipline, no tongue-lashing, no slap across wrist or any other portion of her anatomy was capable of producing anything but blank stare or sweet smile. As to a change in her peculiar mannerisms, Ginevra was not governed by any rule of conduct or behavior that anyone could gain a clue toward understanding.
One night after the most merciless whipping had produced only a smile in return, even as tears flowed from the innocent eyes, the schoolmaster had been so smitten with guilt over what he had done that he vowed never to touch her again. However odd her behavior, he realized he would never change it by force.
Whether she could read, not even her mother knew. She stared at words on a page with the familiar blank expression that conveyed no hint what she might be thinking.
Even old Chief Alasdair, whose unruly mane, now grown white, had once matched hers in hue, confessed he had never seen the like. Bard Ranald MacDonald of the Shield, poet and warrior of more ancient years even than Betsy MacDougall, found himself both charmed and puzzled. Plucking the strings of his small Celtic harp and staring deep into her eyes, softly the bard of Achtriachtan crooned a melancholy lament to the child whose depths even he could not probe.
Wee Ginevra oor love, bairn wi’ the chieftain’s mane,
What du ye think, what du ye ken?
We canna git inside ye, lass—tell us gien ye can.
We dinna hear what ye’re thinkin,’ lass—but fain wad we ken. . . .
Wha are ye, lass? Tell us gien ye can.
Wha are ye, bairn? What are yer thouchts aboot?
We luik . . . we luik but canna see.
We gaze into yer eyes—only blue looks oot.
We see only the twinkle o’ stars, the pale o’ dawn . . .
A vast empty sky. Tell us gien ye can.
O, lass, whaur hae ye come frae? Whaur are ye bound?
What is it that hides deep in yer hert?
Wha are ye, lass? To say, are ye afeart?
What du ye think, what du ye ken?
Fain wad we ken. Tell us gien ye can.2
The haunting melody in the ancient crackly voice brought tears to the mother’s eyes. But from Ginevra herself it elicited but the beginnings of the only sounds anyone ever heard from her mouth—a faint giggle of delight.
The general consensus in the village concerning Ginevra MacIain, great-niece of the chief, was that “she wasna all there.”
Four
Ginevra was fifteen when she first met young Brochan Cawdor, of a small sept of Clan Campbell who dwelt near Black Mount on the slopes of Meall a’ Bhuiridh at the edge of Rannoch Moor.
She had left the village that morning, wandering upriver about a mile, when the conical hill known as Signal Hill struck her fancy. Immediately she ran toward it, intent to climb the few hundred feet to its peak, stand upon the jagged stone that crowned the hill, and feast her eyes upon the entire glen.
A crowd of four or five boys were just then returning from a morning’s fishing in Loch Achtriachtan. If she saw them, she gave their presence no more heed than she did that of any human being.
But they saw her.
“Look, it’s the idiot Ginevra!” cried one.
They were after her in a flash.
At first the troublemakers were no match for the girl’s speed. She was halfway to the top before they reached the hill’s lower slopes. But Ginevra’s legs were shorter than theirs, and the boys brought to their aid the added resource of sadistic design to sustain their energy.
Ginevra reached the summit as the first two overtook her. She collapsed in a heap at the foot of the stone, breathing heavily. They approached, as exhausted as she, and she gazed up at them with the mysterious smile still on her face.
“Don’t smile that way at me!” said the oldest of the boys. He was their obvious ringleader and was by now irritated all the more that it had taken such an effort to catch a mere girl. A box on her ear followed.
She looked up at him with as much expression as she ever displayed, which was a mingling of confusion and pity. She knew him from the neighboring village, but had no idea why he would treat her so. Slowly the smile faded from her face. Catching her breath, she rose to go.
The others by now had gained the summit. Following their leader’s mischievous lead, they were not about to lose out on their share of the fun.
“Say something, Ginevra,” said one, following after her as she started down the hill.
“What’s the matter,” taunted another, “cat got yer tongue?”
The others laughed and now scrambled to surround her, preventing her descent.
One of the bolder of the younger boys approached closer and slapped at her face. Ginevra turned away confused, bewildered.
“Be careful,” cried the youngest, who hung back nervously. “She’ll put a curse on ye!”
“She’s just an idiot, Ruadh,” the other replied. “She’ll not be puttin’ a curse on anyone.”
“The old witch says she’s got the second sicht.”
From somewhere on the summit, though no one had seen him approach from the other side of Signal Rock, an elderly man hurried toward them in a feeble run.
“Get away, leave her be, ye nickums!” he cried, giving the two closest a few sharp raps aside the legs with his walking stick.
“What’s it to ye, old man!” said the oldest boy, making a few swipes at the stick and trying to grab it from the man’s hand.
“Protecting the lass from the cowardly likes o’ you, that’s what it is t’ me.”
“Who are ye callin’ a coward?” said the boy with imagined courage, spurred on by the knowledge that the others were watching. But behind him their support was quickly vanishing. The youngest, the one named Ruadh, had already turned and bolted back down the way they had come. He feared for his own safety if word of the incident reached his home, for his father was John MacIain, and he himself was grandson to the chief and cousin to the recipient of their torment.
“It’s naethin’ but a coward who hurts an innocent!” returned the man, giving the oldest boy another deft whack with his cane, this time on the side of the head. The sound of the crack against the thick skull of the troublemaker, followed by the sharp cry of pain from his mouth, was enough to send the remainder of his companions scurrying off after Ruadh Og. The next moment their leader turned and sprinted after them down Signal Hill, shouting meaningless threats behind him.
Her rescuer turned to Ginevra. She stood staring, her eyes more expressive than usual, though it would have been difficult to say what exactly was the expression they contained.
The man approached and laid a tender hand on the head from which red flowed in all directions.
“Dinna pay the nickums mind,” he said as he nodded approvingly down. “Ye’ve got the spirit o’ the Highlands in ye, lass. I dinna doobt that the good Lord smiles when he looks doon upon ye. Dinna forget it no matter what men may say.”
Ginevra smiled up at him. But it was a sad smile, and she could not hold it for many seconds.
She turned and ran across the top of the hill, continuing down the opposite side from which she had made her ascent.
Five
Ginevra ran and ran, reaching the foot of the hill and continuing eastward up the pass along the lower slopes of the Three Sisters overlooking the eastern end of the glen from the south. Steadily the ground rose beneath her feet. Within an hour, walking, climbing, running, stopping every so often for a brief rest, she had covered four or more miles. By now she was far from human habitation, on the northern slopes of Stob Dubh.
After leaving the old man on Signal Hill, uncharacteristic tears rose in her eyes. Running herself to near exhaustion for an hour was not sufficient to stop them. Why she wanted to quell them, Ginevra did not know. She could only tell that when tears came, other strange sensations accompanied them that were confusing and unpleasant, lumps in her throat and aches in her stomach and questions without answers.
Why did the children of the village call her names and throw sticks and rocks at her? Why did the old people try to get her to make noises with her mouth when she had no interest in doing so? She had no need to speak. Hers was a world of feelings, not of words.
But now strange new feelings were coming into her. Unknown and fearsome changes had begun in her body. She felt longings she could not express, happinesses that made her cry, sadnesses that made her quiet. When she looked at some of the older boys of the glen—the few who were kind to her—they looked different to her eyes than they had looked before. Sometimes she stared at them, curiously drawn, but did not know why.
This was not the first time tears had risen in her eyes that she could not account for. But never had they lasted so long. Never had she been so unable to make them go away.
She paused to rest on an outcropping of stone and gazed through brimming eyes at the rocky world around her. She was at home here, for the hills were silent as her own soul. The world of men and women was a noisy babbling world. She was a stranger in it. She could find no corner of stillness in the world of men to offer peace. Even in her own home, where she was comfortable and where she knew she was loved—even there no quiet existed that was like the quiet inside her. Even the silences of others were noisy silences.
Here on the hushed slopes, beneath the quiet sky, she was more content than anywhere. The trickling, splashing, tumbling brooks and streams made the kind of music that resonated with the sounds in her heart. The water needed no words to speak, to sing, to tell the world of its travels and adventures and dreams. Why should she need words? Why could not her heart speak like the water spoke, or with the silent meaning of the clouds drifting overhead?
The spirit of the high places was a spirit of calm, of aloneness without loneliness, of solitude and contented seclusion. That same spirit dwelt within her.
Ginevra leapt up from her craggy resting place. Again she ran, yet farther up the glen, up the hill and over a path which in a fateful winter not many years hence would save her life.
Where she ran she did not know. Gradually known landmarks faded behind her. She found herself in a region of the mountains unfamiliar to eyes and feet.
She arrived at length upon a high precipice. She found herself standing at the edge of a grassless boulder overlooking a watery cataract that plunged far below her. She had come to the River Etive, though she did not know its name.
She stood beholding the sight with wonder. But a few moments she stood. Then with sudden abandon she retreated a few paces, turned, and tore off down the slope. A vague notion had arisen within her that if her entire body was wet, the wetness of the tears would go away. She reached a lower rock and without hesitation flew with the grace of an eagle out in the air toward the deep pool of green she had spied from above.
A second of silence followed, then a resounding splash heard by none. Two or three seconds later, Ginevra’s head burst out of the pool, cheeks flushed and radiant. The tears were indeed gone. She was bathed from head to foot in the tears shed by the final remnants of the mountain snows.
Her heart pounded, for the pool was icy cold, but new joy swelled within her as well as she climbed from the water on the opposite side and continued on her way.
It was high summer and warm. Ginevra’s dress was dry within an hour. When the sun began at last to sink toward the mountains at her back, she did not know where she was. But Ginevra was not afraid. Every hill for miles was her home, whether she had walked their slopes and byways previously or was acquainting herself with them for the first time.
Six
The lad from Black Mount on the edge of Rannoch Moor was fond of stalking the stag and the hare through the wilds of Meall a’ Bhuiridh and Aonach Mor. It was desolate country, dangerous and uninhabitable five or six months of the year, but lonely and inviting for one of Brochan Cawdor’s disposition.
He loved to hunt. If he could not find fox, hare, stag or wild boar, one of the ten thousand Highland rabbits that scampered about numerous as insects would do. As he tracked the hills, he dreamed of the day he would ride with the men of his clan into battle against the Danes or the English.
Young Brochan was well acquainted with stories of the Viking invasion of his land centuries before. He knew the legendary accounts of Flodden, and especially the Battle of Sauchieburn, where his ancestor Colin Campbell, first earl of Argyll and chief of Clan Campbell, had risen to prominence, after which the clan’s power in Argyll increased greatly. All these stories he had heard from his childhood. They had captivated and filled his brain with romantic fancies of battlefield heroism and images of the glory that one day would rest upon his own shoulders.
At sixteen, with plentiful golden hair and face just beginning to chisel into a man’s, his lanky frame was starting to bulge with the muscles of a future soldier. Yet Brochan Cawdor was still too young to ponder the fact that most of the fighting done by the Scots these days was not against invading foreign hordes, but amongst themselves. Well might it be said of his countrymen, “They spend all their time in wars, and when there is no war they fight one another.”
The earl’s chief man in the region, Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, was Brochan’s own great uncle, though in a distant fashion, the intricacies of which he could not trace. That Campbell was considered by many a drunkard who was at the point of financial ruin made the thought of riding behind him into battle none the less romantic in the boy’s fancies.
Lost in dreams of adventure, all at once the grayish brown of a rabbit darted like a blur across his path.
The next instant his bow was cocked, a razor-edged arrow strung and ready.
Brochan crept toward the heather thicket into which the animal had disappeared. Carefully the young warrior drew back the wooden shaft and took aim.
Suddenly from behind a rock in front of the thicket sprang a figure. It leapt straight into his line of sight, waving arms and dancing about in wild, frenetic display.
It was a girl! A foolish, stupid girl!
Startled out of his wits, the lad’s finger twitched. The arrow loosed and whizzed past her, missing the frantic red head by about three feet. The shaft ricocheted off several rocks and slid harmlessly to a stop twenty or thirty yards beyond.
The rabbit scampered away to safety. The hunter lowered his bow in exasperation and anger, mingled with terror for what he had almost done.
“What did ye du that fer, ye goose?” he cried, running forward. “I might hae killed ye!”
No reply came. The girl relaxed her momentary jig, stood still, and stared at him. He returned the peculiar gaze, not knowing what to make of seeing one so young this far from any habitation or village.
“Whaur are ye frae?” he said after a second or two.
Still she stood staring. His bare, tan, rippling chest was one of the grandest sights the eyes of her dawning womanhood had ever beheld.
“I asked ye whaur ye’re frae,” he repeated, beginning to lose his patience. “What are ye, deef?”
Now finally did Ginevra answer. A high-pitched musical giggle met Brochan’s ears. How could he continue angry with a sound so delightful! He did not exactly smile, but his expression softened. He shuffled back and forth awkwardly on his feet.
“Dinna ye ken I might hae shot ye, lass?” he said, now speaking to her as a child. “An’ ye made me miss the cratur.”
Ginevra’s face fell, but she could not maintain the sad expression for long. Once again the smile broke out across her lips, spreading up into her eyes.
“Why du ye keep smilin’ in sic a way?” he asked.
Again came the giggle from the dainty mouth.
“Canna ye du naethin’ but smile an’ laugh?”
Another laugh, and a shake of the head.
“What’s yer name, then?”
No answer followed.
“Whaur are ye frae?” he now repeated.
Still keeping her eyes fixed intently upon her questioner, Ginevra threw her arm back behind her in the general direction of Glencoe. Brochan Cawdor could have no way of knowing that he was quickly becoming the recipient of more communication from Ginevra MacIain than she had ever given to anyone alive.
“Ye’re frae the mountains . . . frae Glencoe—whaur, then?”
At the word she began to nod.
“Glencoe . . . ye’re a MacDonald, then.”
Another nod.
“Weel, I guess I canna hold it against ye, though I’m a Campbell myself. No MacDonald ever hurt a hair on my head. My name’s Brochan Cawdor. I wish I kenned yers. What du ye want that I call ye?”
Ginevra giggled.
“Why winna ye speak, lass? Canna ye speak?”
A response to that question even Ginevra did not know the answer to. Only another smile met the boy’s inquiry.
“Weel, then, I’ll jist call ye lassie MacDonald,” he said.
The laugh that met his ears this time was pure delight.
“What are ye doin’ so far frae home, lassie MacDonald?” Brochan asked.
Ginevra began a little dance, with a waving of her arms, ran a few yards over the heathery hillside, then returned. It was a much different series of motions than that with which she had saved the rabbit from becoming an ingredient in Brochan’s mother’s stew. The beating of her heart and the explosion of strange sensations erupting somewhere inside her at sight of this boy gave rise to a new desire to express herself. Never before in her life had she wanted to say something to another human being. She had never needed to. Now she gave vent to this new feeling the only way she knew how—with animated activity.
She returned and stood before him with an expression that could not have more clearly indicated that he ought to understand everything clearly now.
At last he smiled and gave a little laugh.
“Weel, ye’re a strange one, lassie,” he said. “But ye’ve a bonnie face an’ the bonniest eyes I ever set my sichts on. An’ ye got courage, whate’er ye lack in speech.”
Unconsciously he glanced up toward the sun. It was just disappearing over one of the high western peaks.
“But ’tis late,” he went on. “Ye’ve got t’ get home. I dinna ken whether ye’re lost or whether ye ken what ye’re aboot as well as any other. An’ since ye canna tell me, I’ll take ye hame mysel.’ Come.”
Ginevra obeyed. She followed as Brochan led down the slope in a northwesterly direction, happier than she had ever been in her life.
If Ginevra had known what it meant to be in love, she might have used such words to describe the state of her heart. But she was only fifteen, younger still in the ways of the world, and this handsome, wonderful, friendly boy but sixteen.
It was early to talk of love.
But she knew she had found a friend.
Seven
As the two young people grew, the bond established between them at their first meeting deepened and blossomed.
How they chanced to see each other so often when eleven miles separated the homes of their parents might seem improbable. But where hearts begin to draw close, meetings seem to occur of themselves.
Ginevra hardly slept following her reappearance in the glen after Brochan left her at the point where candles from the first cottages became visible. Not that night, nor the following, nor the night following that. Three days later she was wandering the same solitary moors and slopes and heaths in hopeful thought of catching a distant glimpse of the boy who already occupied her dreams. She did not see him for another week. But when the day finally came that each saw the other on a distant hill, both came running toward the little dell that lay between them. He was as delighted to see her as she was to see him.
“Lassie MacDonald!” he cried.
The mere sound of the name that no one called her but him, in the voice from his lovely lips, sent Ginevra into an ecstasy of dancing gyrations and hand-wavings and skipping about. When at last they again stood before each other, she could do nothing but beam.
“Come, lassie MacDonald,” said Brochan, “I’m trackin’ a deer—a big one by the looks o’ it. But I promise to shoot naethin’ while ye’re wi’ me. We’ll jist hae a wee look.”
He led the way up the rugged slope, amazed at the girl’s stamina and agility as they followed the trail of hoofprint, trampled brush, and musky droppings. She could fly up the rocky ground as quickly as he. Indeed it was she who felt the animal’s presence long before his eyes detected movement. As they approached, Ginevra made signals and signs with hands and eyes that Brochan was already beginning to grasp. She led the way, making him understand that the creature was near, motioning him into silence that matched her own.
Suddenly he gasped in disbelief. “’Tis the white stag!”
His bow fell to the ground as he gaped in wonder. All thought of attempting a shot immediately left his mind. He had known the tracks he was following had been made by a large animal. But never in his wildest dreams did he anticipate this. The great snow-white creature stood drinking at a small pond among the rocks, his expansive rack of antlers riding gracefully as his head bent to the water.
Brochan had heard from his childhood of the great white stag of the Highlands, as had all Highland youngsters. Until this moment, he had only half believed the tales.
The stag apprehended their presence, lifted his noble head, and turned to gaze at them with great, liquid brown eyes. It was an instant that would remain forever etched in both their memories. Only a second more did the magical moment last. Suddenly the stag sprang as if with winged feet over the pond and disappeared among the rocks.
Brochan and Ginevra stood in silence a moment longer, then continued on their way. The encounter left them strangely quiet and peaceful. Gradually Brochan resumed talking. Before long they were on the track of other, more ordinary game. As the afternoon passed, Brochan realized what an asset Ginevra would be to any huntsman. At the same time he knew that whenever they were together, he would not be able to kill so much as a mouse.
For the rest of the summer, as often as they chanced to meet, they hunted together for the sheer joy of tracking and watching and more deeply understanding the ways of the Highlands. With wonder Brochan learned to gaze upon the many wild birds and other creatures of the region with new eyes, not as prey, but as fellow inhabitants of a world that was wider and richer and more beautiful than he had previously known.
In Ginevra’s presence he learned to listen to the silence and to hear what the quiet had to teach him. The land and its many creatures became dearer to him because he learned to see all through Ginevra’s eyes.
Eight
Gradually the air turned, the wind rose, and with it came the smell of snow. Winter descended upon mountains, glens, and moors.
As hearty as was Ginevra MacIain’s frame and constitution, no one could now travel in a single day to those high regions where she and Brochan had tracked the stag and the boar and the fox and the elk and hope to return alive.
Ginevra’s mother noticed the change in her daughter. Some deeper knowing, some keener awareness of life had grown inside her—a yet deeper calm, a more distant expression in her visage, something new in her eyes. All winter the sense deepened that a transformation had come upon Ginevra. It was not until the following summer that the mother discovered its cause.
Late in the spring a lad appeared in Glencoe, a stranger none of the glen had laid eyes on before. None knew him to be a Campbell.
He came asking the whereabouts of a strange girl with wild red hair and a snow cave’s eyes of pale blue. A girl who never spoke a word.
It took not long for him to find the one he sought. All in Glencoe knew the lass of pale eyes, flaming hair, and silent tongue.
Immediately the wives began to talk and the children of Achtriachtan, the first village to hear his inquiries, scampered off down the river toward Carnoch with the tidings. Some of the younger children lagged behind and followed the stranger as he went, so that by the time he reached the village where the chief of Clan MacIain dwelt, a multitude of youngsters and barking dogs followed in his train as if he were the piper of Hamelin.
News of his coming had preceded him. From the raucous and varied reports of the children who clamored to her mother’s door—that the stranger came from the east, that he was young and strong and handsome—Ginevra well knew who it must be. Ginevra’s mother sat rocking as she held her young son, looking at her daughter with question as to what could be the cause of the commotion.
Trembling, Ginevra went to the door and peeped out. In the distance a crowd approached along the village road. At its head strode the tall figure of one who was assuredly a boy no longer. Her heart began beating such that she thought it would explode within her breast.
Slowly she went to the door, opened it, and walked outside. She stood waiting in front of the cottage. He had filled her dreams all through the long winter months. But now she could hardly bring herself to look up. Her eyes sought the ground.
She heard the tumult approach. Gradually it quieted and grew still. Yet a moment more she waited.
“Lassie MacDonald,” said a wonderful, familiar voice. “Ye’ve aye grown into a bonnie maiden since I saw ye last.”
Slowly, bashfully, Ginevra lifted her head.
There he stood five feet away, even more magnificent than she had remembered him!
The eyes of the two Highland youths met. Slowly smiles spread over their faces. For a blissful eternal moment nothing else existed in the universe except that both knew they were still one, that they had been all along.
Ginevra’s eyes sparkled with light. There was no animated dance now, only a quiet, mysterious happy smile to hear his voice again.
“They tell me yer name’s Ginevra,” Brochan said.
She closed her eyes for sheer joy. As wonderful as the “lassie” had been, to hear her own name on Brochan’s lips was rapture indeed.
Both had changed. If Brochan was not much taller, his shoulders were broader and his chest thicker and his voice a note or two deeper. His cheeks were leaner, chin stronger and more angular. He was not yet quite a man. But his hazel eyes bore the dignity of a youth pointed in the right direction, who would be the best kind of man.
As for Ginevra, her body had become the body of a woman. Her face had thinned, her cheekbones grown more prominent, her lips more full, her contours more rounded. Nothing could be done to improve the eyes, the black lashes and brows setting off the pale blue orbs to perfection. Her beauty was indeed radiant, though it took one such as Brochan to see it. Had she not been considered an anomaly, she would have been sought after by every young man in the glen. As it was, none of them paid her the slightest heed, for her strangeness blinded them to the beauty in front of them.
At last, able to contain herself no longer, Ginevra broke into a happy, spontaneous dance of abandon. For a few seconds, her arms flew above her as head bobbed and hair tumbled about.
Brochan laughed with delight.
The spell was broken. Two dozen children and youngsters tore off through the village, each eager to be the first to spread the news of Ginevra’s caller from across the mountains.
Now Ginevra was truly in love. She knew it. And her mother knew it.
Nine
Whatever might have been the state of her mental faculties—on this question, notwithstanding the visits to Glencoe paid by Brochan Cawdor, the village remained greatly divided—Ginevra was utterly oblivious to the mounting political tensions between England and Scotland. Aware of them or not, however, the collision between the two nations would ultimately destroy the innocence of her silent childhood and youth, and the blissful years of her dawning young womanhood.
In the year 1685, King Charles II of England and Scotland was succeeded by his Catholic brother, James VII. The new king was unpopular throughout both England and Scotland—everywhere but in the Scottish Highlands, where the clan chieftains remained loyal to the ancient Stewart dynasty of the early Jameses and Mary Queen of Scots. James VII might be a Catholic, but he was a Stewart, and that fact was sufficient to resolve the issue in their minds. Highlanders would support him to the death.
The English government, however, adamant that no Catholic could be allowed as head of state, was determined to oust James from rule. So Parliament invited the king’s son-in-law, William of Orange, and James’ daughter Mary, over from Holland to assume the throne.
William was only too happy to oblige. What man of the times was likely to turn down a kingdom handed him on a silver platter? In November of 1688, therefore, he landed in England with his army, and James VII fled to France. William and Mary were crowned King William III and Queen Mary of England, Ireland, and Scotland.
These events took place in Ginevra’s seventeenth year, but she knew nothing of them. Her thoughts were filled with the Campbell lad who dreamed of marching with the earl’s men.
Most of southern Scotland supported William’s takeover, for the Protestant lowland clans felt little passion for the fading Stewart dynasty and had by then grown gradually comfortable with English rule. But many of the Highland clans obstinately viewed the Dutchman as a usurper to what rightfully should have been a Stewart throne. Eventually hostilities broke out between those who considered James their rightful king, known as Jacobites, and the regime of William and Mary.
In the summer of 1689, King William sent troops north to put down the Jacobite rebels. A force raised from among Highland clans met the government’s army at the gorge of Killiecrankie in central Scotland, fell upon it savagely, and nearly annihilated every one of the king’s soldiers. In this engagement, MacDonalds were represented more than any other clan, the Campbells the least, for Clan Campbell had little sympathy for the Jacobite cause.
Their victory only deepened the determination of the Jacobites to resist the new order. Fighting continued. King William determined to root out the rebellion against his throne . . . whatever measures must be taken. He would not let the Highlanders oppose him indefinitely.
Ten
Clan Donald, the largest of all Highland clans, stemmed from mixed Norse and Celtic origins. Its name derived from Donald (1207–1249), grandson of Somerled, the shadowy heroic warrior who had conquered much of western Scotland in the mid-1100s. The title “Lord of the Isles,” originally applied to Somerled and carried down through the years, reinforced the MacDonald view that the chiefs of Clan Donald, with all its multitude branches, were the undisputed lords of the Gaelic world.
The inhabitants of the little valley of Glencoe were the smallest branch on the tree of this great family. They called themselves Clan Iain, or Clan John, after their ancestor Iain Og nan Fraoch, Young John of the Heather. The land of the glen had been given to Young John as a gift early in the fourteenth century by his father, Angus Og of Islay, who had brought MacDonalds in large numbers to fight for the mighty Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn.
Following the burial of John of the Heather on the island of Iona in 1338, Clan Iain had been ruled by a succession of eight more Johns. Most of the inhabitants of Glencoe, therefore, considered themselves sons of John, or MacIains. The MacIains possessed an ancestry of which any Highlander might be proud, from the present chief Alasdair back twelve generations of MacIains to John of the Heather, to Angus Og and Angus Mor and Donald and Ranald and Somerled himself, yet further back to Colla the Prince and Conn, the High King of Ireland crowned on the Stone of Fail.
The MacDonalds, therefore, at least by their claim, possessed the largest, most royal, and most sacred genealogy in all the Highlands.3 And as could be said of most Highland clans, they felt they owed ultimate loyalty to none but their own chiefs. They especially resented the increasing southern attempts to subdue them and to compel their allegiance to a centralized form of national government. Theirs was a centuries-long tribal tradition in which nationhood meant nothing, clan everything.
Through the centuries, tension had increased between these two opposing ways of life—the old tribal tradition and the new, more centralized form of society developing in many parts of the world. For centuries, one English king after another had attempted to subdue the wild Scots of the mountainous north. Lowland Scotland, nearer the border, meanwhile had gradually allowed itself to be assimilated into English culture and government.
As the eighteenth century approached, the Highland chiefs could see their ancient ways dying out. Some, such as the leaders of clan Campbell, at last gave in to the march of progress. Those who went along cooperatively with the new order were rewarded. Money, grants of land, and positions of power were extremely effective inducements to the laying down of clan traditions, along with the swords and rifles that accompanied them.
Others of this proud race, however—notably the MacDonalds—remained fiercely determined to keep hold of their independence, their individuality, and the legacy of their Celtic past. They would bow the knee to no man but the chief of their clan . . . and the rightful king of their land.
No one man more implacably represented this determination than Ginevra’s great uncle, chief Alasdair MacIain of Glencoe.
Neighboring the Glencoe MacIains, both to the south in Argyll and eastward on Rannoch Moor, lived large numbers of Campbells who were loyal to the new king and disdainful of the Jacobite cause. For a hundred years Clan Campbell had profited from alliances with London and Edinburgh. As a result, it had grown and increased its holdings, while Clan Donald had its lands taken away for opposing the crown.
By the final decades of the sixteenth century, King William III and his advisors had come to view the Campbells as the most reasonable of Scotland’s clans, and the earl of Argyll as one of the king’s most trusted supporters in the Highlands. In MacDonald eyes, therefore, their neighbors to the south and east were the worst kind of national traitors.
But the rivalry between the two clans had local roots as well. As joint occupants of the western lands, they had thieved and raided one another’s herds for centuries. It was in this spirit that Alasdair “the Red” MacIain, giant chief of the Glencoe MacDonalds, carried out one of his most successful plunders in 1689. Returning from the victory at Killiecrankie with his men, still resentful that no Campbells had joined them in battle, he marched through the Campbell stronghold of Glen Lyon west of Aberfeldy, across the Black Mount, and north across Rannoch Moor, thence descending down into their native glen along the banks of the Coe. On their way they made off with thirteen hundred Campbell horses, cattle, sheep, and goats, as well as many household goods.
It was a monstrous raid. In the Highlands, livestock represented wealth and social standing as well as means to feed one’s people. The Campbells claimed losses in excess of £7500, a huge sum. Many in Glen Lyon vowed to get even.
Campbell and MacDonald—they were the mightiest of Caledonia’s ancient names, with much shared blood between them. But they remained rivals and enemies, and only one would lead Gaeldom into the future.
Eleven
By the autumn of 1691, Brochan and Ginevra had treasured many happy times together on the moors and mountains and each in the village of the other, where despite the rivalries between their chiefs both were well known and loved. They had also spoken—Brochan with words, Ginevra with eyes and her heart—of their future together.
But the season when Brochan stalked rabbits with bow and arrow was past. A sword and dirk now hung to the side of his plaid, for he had grown to be a man of twenty-one. The years when adulthood’s mantle must rest upon his shoulders had come. He was one who must know his worth, his mettle. Could Highlander and Gael expect less from himself?
Not Brochan Cawdor. If he would be worthy of her, he must first prove worthy to himself.
Therefore, a-soldiering he must go. It was the way of his clan . . . the way of his nation.
He came to the glen one day knowing it would be his last visit for some time.
Ginevra had become a quiet maiden, beautiful now even in the eyes of her own villagers, tall, graceful, well-proportioned, and modest. She rarely danced about now with hands waving, but could be seen walking beside loch or stream, in village or on distant hillside, with serenity of carriage and grace of expression. Still the faraway look distanced her demeanor and countenance from all others. Different she would always be. But hers was now the faraway expression of an angel, not of a half-wit.
Even those who in younger days had plagued her now stood not a little in awe. Some were afraid of her. Others greeted and spoke to her. A few, it is true, avoided her when they saw her approaching, in time to cross the road or change their course, for the looks she occasionally cast could still be disconcerting and unnerving. Not everyone knew how to return them. But these were not many. Most, indeed, held her in a similar sort of veneration as they did bard Ranald of the Shield.
Ginevra could not, of course, be more silent than she had always been. Yet somehow her silence seemed to have deepened. Whenever she and Brochan were together in the sight of those in the glen, she was shy about his affections. Often a pink blush might be seen about neck and cheeks. Alone, however, she could be as animated as ever. Brochan knew every look and expression and movement and glance and twitch of lips, and knew what each signified. Sometimes he felt richer for Ginevra’s silences, for they made him know her better. In one other thing she had changed: she had learned not merely to giggle, but to laugh—a rich, alto, robust laugh of joy.
On this occasion of Brochan’s visit, however, there was no laughter between them. He had just told her that he was going away.
They walked hand in hand along the banks of the Coe, then higher into the glen. The waters beside them were gentle and quiet, gathering strength for their winter rushes and tumbles.
For a long time Brochan was as silent as Ginevra. These tidings could not but bring her sadness. Yet they were at peace. Both had learned that in silence did the best within them meet in the profoundest way. They did not fear silence, but sought it—she because she could not help it, he because he loved her and would know this deepest part of her nature and what it had to teach him.
When at last he broke the spell of the stillness, it was that together they might remember their times. For in this coming season of their separation, they would have only happy memories to sustain them.
“The day when I first saw ye,” Brochan was saying, “I was so angry that ye made me miss my rabbit, but afraid too for what I might hae dune . . . an’ spellbound by yer antics all at once. I was sich a loon, I didna ken what t’ say. . . .
“An’ du ye remember,” he went on, speaking in a peaceful voice, “win we were oot up on Stob Dubh—during the storm, the unco rout o’ thunder an’ watching the water tumblin’ doon all aroun’ us, an’ racin’ doon t’ the glen tryin’ t’ git t’ yer cottage afore the rain . . .”
As he spoke, Ginevra nodded and smiled with pleasure.
“ . . . but then the clouds aye let loose . . . an’ there we came rinnin’ into yer puir mither’s hame wet an’ lauchin’ like twa bairns. . . .”
How could he ask if she remembered? She would never forget a single happy minute they had spent together these four years!
“Jist last week,” he was saying, “I saw a stag, an’ it put me in the mind o’ when we tracked the one t’ the old crag on Bhuiridh last year. I think ’tis the same one. Ach, but I haup one day t’ lay eyes on the white stag again. Remember hoo we came upon it—”
Suddenly, in the midst of his speech, Ginevra darted away. A moment later she returned with a tiny violet. She held it toward Brochan with the searching, inquiring eyes he had learned to read.
“Ay, I remember,” said Brochan, “when we found that bed o’ wee floers by the burn. An’ ye made me bend doon an’ look, ’cause I had eyes only for the fish I was tryin’ t’ git. An’ ye made me smell them. Ay, I mind the day.”
He paused, then began digging into the leather sporran that hung in front of his kilt.
“Look,” he said, “I still hae the ones ye pressed for me, atween this scrap o’ paper.”
Ginevra smiled to think that the great, strong man who was about to become a soldier would keep her few dried flowers.
Again they resumed their stroll. Brochan continued peacefully to reminisce. He knew he had to speak for both of them, framing their memories into words that they might enjoy them together.
“An’ the night we crossed the loch in yer father’s boat in moonlight t’ the north shore atween the twa lochs,” he went on. “Yer eyes were so full o’ the moon that night, I thought gien e’er yer tongue wad loose and ye’d speak, it wad hae been that night.”
There were not many occasions when Ginevra longed for the power of speech. But when Brochan spoke like this, she could not help wishing she could say something, if only to make him happy.
“All I want, sometime in my life, lassie MacDonald,” he continued, “is t’ hear my ain name on yer bonnie lips. Jist the ane word Brochan, an’ I’ll dee a happy man. Canna ye say it, Ginevra? Canna ye say it, jist fer me?”
But only the familiar, treasured smile met his question.
He turned toward her, then leaned down and kissed the silent, expressive lips. As he drew back, Ginevra’s eyes were full of tears.
If only she could speak, what torrents would her heart pour forth! But only with her eyes could she open her woman’s heart to the world. Now they flooded with the liquid of love.
They walked some distance in silence, then turned and began the return to Carnoch.
“Those were aye times when we both were free,” Brochan said at length. “Time doesna move on for you, but it moves for me. I maun gae next week, Ginevra. I’m at last to be in my uncle’s regiment.”
Now at last did the chill seize Ginevra’s heart. He saw it on her face.
“Dinna fear fer me, dear lassie MacDonald,” he said. “’Tis what I’ve always wanted t’ du. I’ll be a soldier at last. An’ I’ll come for ye ane day, an’ we’ll marry an’ build a wee cottage up the slopes o’ Aonach Mor where first we saw ane anither. An’ we’ll hae bairnies an’ grow old in oor cottage together, wi’ heather all around an’ the blue o’ the Highland sky abune us. An’ our bairns’ll—they’ll be half Campbell, half MacDonald. We’ll teach all oor people that the clans maun be one, jist as we are one. But I’ve got t’ be a soldier first, Ginevra, my ain lassie MacDonald. ’Tis my dream.”
Ginevra nodded. She understood. Brochan had helped her understand many things.
But her bones remained cold. And she could not help being afraid. She would not lay eyes on him again until that snowy evening when she saw him arrive once more in the glen of her home with the other soldiers of his clan.
After the ruthless slaughter of his army by the Highlanders at Killiecrankie, the English king determined to crush the rebellious spirit of the clan chiefs who remained obdurate in their support for James VII.
The Highlanders, in William’s eyes, were the most present and visible obstacle to a complete political union between England and Scotland. Their outdated tribal society, backward customs, ridiculous kilts, and uncivilized language . . . they had to be rooted out, destroyed, their independent spirit broken, their defiance humbled. Clans like the MacDonalds were thieving, savage marauders. If they would not submit, they deserved but one fate.
The word that began to be discussed behind the closed doors of London between the king and his closest advisor, Sir John Dalrymple, himself a Scot and a member of the king’s Privy Council, was extirpation.4 At length King William, advised by Dalrymple, decided upon an ultimatum from which there would be no retreat nor compromise.
He issued a proclamation ordering all Highland clan chiefs to sign an oath of allegiance to the English crown. If they complied by the last day of December 1691, there would be no further consequences. Upon those who did not sign, the punishment would be carried out by fire and sword.
Word of the ultimatum came to the deposed king James VII, exiled in France. He knew his son-in-law was a dangerous man and that this was no bluff. He sent word back to Scotland releasing the chiefs from their remaining loyalty toward him. They must, he said, swear allegiance to King William. The Jacobite cause was over.
Most of the chiefs complied. They were weary of the fight. It was clear they could not hope to win.
By year’s end, only a handful had not yet signed the oath. Mostly the holdouts were of the MacDonald clan in the northern and western Highlands. The chiefs of Glengarry, Sleat, Glencoe, and Clanranald of Moidart had proved most obstinate. One of these infuriated Dalrymple by his obstinacy more than all the rest—the elderly chief of the smallest branch of MacDonalds, Alasdair the Red of Glencoe. He seemed to represent everything about the Highlands that Dalrymple hated, and thus came to embody the focus of his venom.
Whatever happened, Dalrymple was not about to let this particular chief go unpunished. In his own mind he had already begun to plot how to destroy him, even if the man did sign.
But secretly Dalrymple hoped he would not.
Thirteen
That Alasdair MacIain of Glencoe was a thief who had spilled the blood of his enemies, there was little doubt. But in the Highlands there existed codes of loyalty to justify such things.
A century before, for their help in combating disorder in Scotland, the Campbells of Argyll had been granted huge tracts of land by the Crown—land seized from the MacDonalds. Ever since had the two clans remained the bitterest of enemies—with thieving, looting, burning, massacring going both ways between them.
As the seventeenth century drew to a close, it was still the Campbells who held the Crown’s favor. At their stronghold of Inveraray sat the court and jail from which the king of England meted out justice in the north, presided over by Archibald Campbell, tenth earl of Argyll. No greater satisfaction could exist for any man at Inveraray than once and for all to put an end to the raids by Glencoe’s men. It was the dream of many a Campbell to see Alasdair MacIain one day swinging on the end of a rope.
It would have taken a high-built gallows. Even in his old age, Alasdair presented an imposing figure, at six foot seven, with long, wild hair and a flowing mustache. In his youth, the hair had been red, and he had displayed a temperament to match. It was scarce wonder he was one of the most well-known—both loved and hated—rascals in the Highlands.
Argyll had had his chance in 1674, when MacIain had been imprisoned in the Inveraray Tollbooth. But though he was already in his sixties at the time, the huge man had managed to slip from behind Campbell bars and make good his escape back to Glencoe.
And now, seventeen years later, his red crop and mustache grown white, old Alasdair remained the same rogue he had always been. The years, however, if they had not made him repentant, had at least added a dose of realism to his hatred of the Campbells. By the end of 1691, he had finally accepted the inevitability of compliance.
After Christmas, therefore, Alasdair MacIain reluctantly set out for Fort William in Inverlochy. His head was now topped with the color of snow on the mountains, not the red of a peat fire. But he still presented a fearsome image, for a glow of the fire of resistance could yet be detected in his eyes.
Alasdair arrived at Inverlochy on December 31, the very last day before the ultimatum expired, presenting himself to the commander in charge and governor of Fort William, Colonel John Hill.
He was ready, he said, to take the required oath and swear allegiance to the king.
Fourteen
This was not the first time John Hill had seen service in Scotland.
He had been here at the beginning of his military career, briefly occupying the same post he held now—first as deputy, then as governor of this northern outpost under the shadow of Ben Nevis, the highest peak in all Britain. The Highlanders knew the outpost as Gearasdan dubh nan Inbhir-Lochaidh, the Black Garrison of Inverlochy. He had made many friends among the Highlanders at that time and had governed well.
For the next thirty years, Hill had moved through the empire as he climbed the military ladder to the position of colonel. Now in his late sixties, he was back in what was now called Fort William, renewing acquaintances among the Highland chiefs with whom he had managed to make peace more successfully than most of his peers.
Hill was an honest and relatively simple man, not a particular favorite among those who had now come to power in London, especially John Dalrymple. He was perhaps too principled. A good soldier, willing to gain native loyalty by friendship rather than threats, Hill was also set apart by his literary acumen and knowledge of the Scriptures, both of which bolstered a strong Protestant faith. His health was gradually failing, and the loneliness of age was setting in, which both his books and Bible helped alleviate. Events were soon to overtake him, however, for which he would find no comfort in either.
Hill was a sad figure, not because he had no scruples but because he was one of the few among the figures involved who did. Yet he was powerless to employ them to alter what more and more appeared the inevitability of disaster.
On this particular December day, a sense of impending doom fell upon him as heavily as the wet, clumping snow outside his office. For a moment he sat stunned as MacIain’s words echoed in his ear.
“Why do you come to me?” he asked.
“I have come to swear the oath,” repeated Alasdair in thick, Gaelic-encrusted English.
“But the proclamation is unambiguous,” insisted Hill. “The oath must be taken in the presence of the sheriffs, or their deputies, of the respective shires where any of the said persons shall live. Those are the orders you all received. You know as well as I do that I am no sheriff.”
Alasdair stood stoic and silent.
Colonel Hill looked over the stern, wild figure towering above him, the green-and-red kilt of his tartan dirty from travel, the dirk at his waist, the snow still unmelted on his shoulders, lips unmoving beneath the thick white mustache.
“I have no power to administer the oath,” Hill added, exasperated. He had done everything in his power to forestall a disaster. Now this old fool had come to the wrong place!
“I am a military officer, not a magistrate,” he persisted. “You must go to Ardkinglas at Inveraray. He’s the sheriff in this area.”
“Inverary’s a Campbell toon,” returned MacIain stiffly. “I hae not been there sin’ the day I escaped frae its jail. I’ll nae willingly set foot in sich a place.”
Hill now realized why the old chief had come to Fort William rather than Inveraray. How could the proud MacDonald chief take such an oath of submission before a Campbell?
“I realize it may seem unthinkable, MacIain—” nodded Hill.
“MacDonalds have swung on Campbell ropes at Inveraray,” interrupted the chief to bolster his point. “I dinna fancy being the next.”
“I know all about your feuds,” continued Hill. “But believe me, if you take the oath before Ardkinglas, no one will put a rope around your neck. Ardkinglas is a reasonable man.”
“He’s a Campbell.”
“Dalrymple’s threats are not to be toyed with, I tell you, MacIain. This is serious business.”
It was more grave than Hill dared reveal, but he could not tell all he knew. The proclamation of last August had stated the risk clearly: “Such as shall continue obstinate and incorrigible after this gracious offer of mercy shall be punished as traitors and rebels to the utmost extremity of the Law.”
Hill, after all, was a colonel in the king’s army. He could not tell that troops were already amassing in preparation to march on the strongholds of the septs who refused the oath, that some of the regiments were on their way here even as they spoke.
“For once in your life, MacIain,” Hill went on, more gently now, “you must listen to reason. The lives of your people depend on it. This is no time to be stubborn. I tell you, the danger is real and imminent.” The softness of his voice made it all the more urgent.
He paused briefly. His eyes bored solemnly into the Highlander’s. Then he added, “Don’t you understand the danger?”
As he stood listening, at last the proud, stoic, stubborn, thieving chief began to apprehend the true state of peril in which he stood. He knew Hill to be an honest man. The man’s tone was worrisome.
The chief grew uneasy, then slowly began to nod his head.
“Good,” sighed a relieved Colonel Hill. “Now you have only twenty-four hours, and with this weather, you’ll never make it in time. But I will write to Ardkinglas telling him that your attempt was made within the timetable prescribed by the king’s order. I am sure he will accept it.”
Hill took paper from his desk, wrote a few brief words, then sealed and folded the letter. He rose and handed it to the chief, then led the way from his office. The two walked together to the main gate.
“You must make haste, MacIain,” Hill urged as they went. “The danger is great, both to you and your people.”
With that final entreaty in his ears, the chief mounted his shaggy pony and headed south again through the snow.
The direct journey south to Inveraray on the shores of Loch Fyne crossed some of the most rugged terrain in Scotland. It would have been an impossible trek overland in the middle of the terrific winter’s snowstorm blanketing the Highlands this last week of the year. Taking the long way around, more than a hundred fifty miles, the chief did not arrive until January 3. There he discovered that the king’s sheriff, Sir Colin Campbell of Ardkinglas, was away.
For two days Alasdair MacIain waited. Finally Ardkinglas returned. The chief presented himself. The Campbell railed at him for being late. Stoically the chief handed him Hill’s letter. Ardkinglas read Governor Hill’s appeal.
“MacIain,” Hill had written, “has been with me, yet slipped some days out of ignorance. But it is good to bring in a lost sheep at any time, and will be an advantage to render the king’s government easy.”
Ardkinglas shook his head again. The deadline had been set, he said. The law was the law. He could not now administer the oath.
Suddenly the aged, towering man of rival clan broke down in tears before him.
“Administer the oath,” MacIain begged. “Upo’ my honor I promise I’ll order all my people t’ be loyal t’ the king. If ony refuse, ye may imprison them or send them t’ Flanders t’ fight in the king’s army.”
How could even a Campbell resist such a humbling of pride? The sheriff weakened. The humanity of the old man pricked his own.
“Come to me tomorrow,” said Ardkinglas finally, “and it will be done.”
On the morning of January 6, 1692, therefore, Alasdair MacIain of Clan Donald, before sheriff and clerks and other officers, swore and signed the oath of allegiance to King William and Queen Mary, asking their pardon, their protection, and their indemnity.
MacIain returned to Glencoe under sunny skies. The storm had passed. Already the snows were melting. A fire was built atop Signal Hill by which the chief summoned the men and women of the glen. Ginevra stood with her mother and father and other members of her clan to hear the chief announce to them that he had taken the oath on their behalf. Standing weary but straight-backed before them, the old man instructed his people to live peaceably under King William’s government, adding that they would have nothing to fear as long as they abided by the terms of the oath.
Ginevra listened to the announcement with a mixture of indifference and hope. Indifference because this world of oaths and kings seemed so far removed from her own world of village and mountain. Hope because she wondered if this occasion might somehow bring her Brochan sooner home to her. If all was to be well, as her great-uncle was proclaiming, surely she would see her love again before long.
All was not as well, however, as the chief might hope.
Papers arrived in Edinburgh from Ardkinglas a week later at the office of the sheriff-clerk. A list was included of all those who had taken the oath at Inveraray. Hill’s letter regarding MacIain was also included. Ardkinglas instructed the clerk to send the papers on to the Privy Council in London in evidence of compliance with the king’s proclamation.
The clerk, however, one Colin Campbell of Dressalch, had lost several cows to the Glencoe men in the raid of two years before. He looked over the list, noting with interest the date of MacIain’s oath: January 6.
Should it be accepted as valid? Dressalch consulted with other officials in Edinburgh. The matter was discussed among several Campbell lawyers.
The end result of their discussions was that, before the papers were sent to London, Dressalch scratched two or three black strokes of his pen through “Alasdair MacIain of Glencoe,” removing the name from the list.
Fifteen
As the year 1692 opened, no one in London knew exactly how many chiefs had taken the oath. The king’s commander in chief for troops in Scotland, Sir Thomas Livingstone, was put on alert for what might be required.
Sir John Dalrymple was delighted when he learned that up to a half dozen MacDonald chiefs had not taken the oath.
Having accidentally killed his brother as a boy in Scotland, young Dalrymple had been exiled to the Netherlands by his parents. As he grew to military age, he had made the acquaintance of William of Orange, gradually becoming one of his most trusted advisors. He had returned from the Continent with the new king, now as the Master of Stair, and had been given a high position in the new government. His sense of gratitude and loyalty to the king was as powerful as his resentment toward the Scotland of his childhood. As secretary of state for Scotland, Dalrymple now held the matter of the Highlands largely in his own hands. He was determined to make an example of the troublesome chiefs that would not soon be forgotten.
A large contingent of troops was amassed at Fort William for an assault on MacDonald of Glengarry, and whomever else it might be necessary to punish.
Even as this military buildup was under way, however, assurances were coming in from throughout the Highlands, relayed by Colonel Hill, that all the chiefs would submit in time—from MacDonald of Sleat and Coll of Keppoch to Clanranald of Moidart and the other vigorous holdout, MacDonald of Glengarry. Hill was not eager to see blood shed over the matter and was relieved that the great and widespread Clan Donald seemed at last ready to accept the new order of things. A peaceful resolution appeared at hand.
Colonel Hill’s sympathies, however, were not shared by his superiors.
On January 7, Dalrymple dined with the earl of Argyll and the earl of Breadalbane, both Campbells, to discuss what ought to be done to solve the Highland business once and for all.
“MacIain of Glencoe,” said the earl of Argyll, “did not sign by the first of the year.”
Dalrymple nodded, then took a sip of the fine wine the earl had provided. Gradually a cunning smile spread across his lips. It had turned out just as he had hoped.
A plan began to take shape in his mind of a secretive strike against MacIain and his brood, at a time when they were most isolated and could not hope for help from any of their cousin clans.
Dalrymple left the fortuitous dinner. Alone that same night in his own quarters, he drafted a set of orders to Livingstone. The next day they were signed by King William. The orders began:
You are hereby ordered and authorized to march our troops which are now posted at Inverlochy and Inverness, and to act against these Highland rebels who have not taken the benefit of our indemnity, by fire and sword and all manner of hostility; to burn their houses, seize or destroy their goods or cattle, plenishings or clothes, and to cut off the men. . . .
To these instructions Dalrymple added, “My lord Argyll tells me that Glencoe hath not taken the oath, at which I rejoice. It’s a great work of charity to be exact in rooting out the damnable sept, the worst in all the Highlands.”
At their meeting, the earl of Argyll had also expressed concern for the soldiers of his own regiment, who had been sent to Fort William under Major Robert Duncanson in case Glengarry did not sign. The earl cautioned that his men did not have rations for more than a couple weeks. The fort was too crowded to house everyone adequately for such a buildup of troops. Along with the orders, therefore, Dalrymple also told Livingstone to make some arrangement for provisions for the men of Argyll’s regiment.
The orders were sent north, the Master of Stair confident that Livingstone had been given full power in the plainest possible language to mete out the king’s punishment against the rebels.
A few days later, Dalrymple and the king conferred to discuss the other holdouts.
“It would not be wise at this time,” William said, “to provoke a widespread war in the Highlands. If only the remaining chiefs would sign the oath, I would be inclined to overlook their tardiness.”
“Even Glengarry?” asked Dalrymple.
“His men would be more useful fighting for me in Flanders than dead,” replied William. “If they will but sign the oath, I will not quibble over the date.”
“But you agree,” added Stair, “that MacIain of Glencoe must not go unpunished? An example must be made.”
“Do what you must do,” answered the king. “I will sign the order.”
“We may have a slight problem with Colonel Hill at Fort William,” said Dalrymple. “I fear he is more sympathetic to the Highlanders than suits our purpose.”
“Is anyone else in the region dependable?”
“There is Sir James Hamilton.”
“His rank?”
“Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Then appoint him deputy governor at the fort.”
“Hill would still be his superior.”
“A technicality,” replied William. “I am king and superior to them both.”
“What do you propose?”
“Bypass Hill. Carry out the orders through this Hamilton.”
Dalrymple nodded. That same night he wrote letters of new instructions to Livingstone and also to Colonel Hill and Lieutenant Colonel James Hamilton.
To Commander Livingstone he wrote, “For a just example of vengeance, I entreat that the thieving tribe in Glencoe be rooted out in earnest.”
As soon as it had been set in motion, however, Dalrymple’s plan was thrown into jeopardy. Suddenly word reached London that MacIain of Glencoe had in fact taken the oath, and sooner than had Glengarry and several of the others.
Dalrymple thought the matter through briefly. The news, he concluded, need change nothing. He would not even bother the king about it. Even if Glencoe had sworn the oath, he was still late—and would still serve as an example to the others.
Once more he wrote to Livingstone.
“I am glad that Glencoe did not come in within the time prescribed,” Dalrymple wrote. “I hope what’s done there may be in earnest, since the rest are not in the condition to draw together to help. I believe you will be satisfied it will be of great advantage to the nation that the thieving tribe be rooted out and cut off. It must be done quietly.”
Upon receiving his orders from Dalrymple, Livingstone now wrote to Hamilton, “It is wished by the king that the thieving nest at Glencoe be entirely rooted out. The orders from the court are positive not to spare any. I desire you would begin with Glencoe. Spare nothing which belongs to him. But do not trouble the government with prisoners.”
Hamilton read over the communication from his commander, then shrewdly considered the best method for carrying out the order. Well had Dalrymple chosen his man, for the two thought alike.
Slowly a plan entered into Hamilton’s mind—cunning and devious. He would use the fort’s overcrowded condition as pretext, aided by the relation of one of his captains to the MacIain brood. He would send a regiment to Glencoe and demand billeting for troops. Under the guise of requesting hospitality, he would sabotage MacIain’s defenses and catch him off guard.
He would, of course, keep quiet about his intent until the moment was right to spring the trap.
Hamilton drew up the necessary orders. He immediately dispatched Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, with two companies of men, to Glencoe.
Sixteen
As sixty-year-old Captain Robert Campbell, fifth laird of Glen Lyon, led his men south from Fort William toward Ballachulish, where they would cross to Glencoe, he thought back gloomily on the circumstances that had landed him here.
The face that once had caused women to swoon was now lined and aging. And at the moment very cold. He was a tragic yet cowardly figure in the drama of which he did not yet even realize himself a part. Cowardly not because he had no heart—but because he yet possessed the vestiges of one. And therein lay the tragedy of Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, forever after known as the Judas of Caledonia’s tearstained legacy. For surely he would live the rest of his days with the guilt of what he was about to do. Yet he did not possess even what cowardly courage it took to hang himself when it was done.
Like Hill and old Alasdair, Campbell was past his best years, if “best years” anyone would call them—years filled with drinking, gambling, and the financial strains brought on by both. In his early days he had cut a wide and dashing swath through the Valley of Glen Lyon between Rannoch Moor and Loch Tay, perhaps nearly as beautiful a place as the Glen of the Coe. Young Robert Campbell had been handsome, jovial, and polished, loved by men and women alike. But his self-indulgent lifestyle had brought him soon into debt and bankruptcy, and he remained in debt to half the men in the region. He had lost land, looks, and health. By the age of fifty he had become, if not a broken man, certainly a humiliated one. Others of Clan Campbell, to whom he was an embarrassment, had forced him to place what remained of his estate in his wife’s name to prevent his gambling it away.
Only a year before, he had taken a commission in the earl of Argyll’s regiment in order to raise what meager income he could. Eight shillings a day would not be enough even to keep pace with the interest on his debts. But it might keep him from starvation . . . and decently supplied with whisky.
Upon receiving his orders from Hamilton, anger from the former rivalry had stirred in Robert Campbell’s blood. He had suffered his own share of losses from the recent rash of MacIain raids in Glen Lyon, and he hated the MacDonalds like the good Campbell he was.
But the ride in the freezing wind, under skies that portended snow, and thought of MacIain’s whisky gradually moderated his bitterness. Young men might enjoy the rigors of military duty, but he did not. Perhaps a few days in Glencoe would not be so bad, he thought. And the fact was that he was himself related to Clan MacIain, by marriage if not by blood. He was uncle to the wife of old Alasdair’s second son. So he would make the most of a bad situation by enjoying a visit with his niece Sarah.
Even now, Robert Campbell did not suspect what lay in Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s mind, and that he had been sent to Glencoe as a pawn in a much wider scheme.
Seventeen
On the evening of February 1, the files of two mounted companies of soldiers were seen by several Glencoe men crossing in small ferries over the narrows from the north shore of Loch Leven to Ballachulish. They immediately sprinted toward Carnoch. The chief must be warned.
Nor were they the only eyes to witness the approach, though she who had observed the soldiers from behind some trees was now thinking thoughts not of warning but of great joy.
The men from Fort William disembarked on the southern shore of the loch, then remounted. At the head of the earl of Argyll’s regiment of approximately one hundred twenty men rode Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon. They approached the entry of Glencoe between Ballachulish and Laroch.
Clad in the king’s red, not the Campbell green, the regiment presented a curious intermingling of English and Scots. Some wore fur caps, others Scots bonnets. The Highlanders of lower rank spoke Gaelic, of which their English sergeants could not understand a word. A piper accompanied them for drills.
The day was February 1, 1692.
Campbell gave the signal to halt.
Ahead, a company of about twenty of MacIain’s men awaited them on foot. Hearing of their crossing and approach, the chief had sent his sons John and Alasdair out to meet them. Their numbers increased every second, for by now every boy from most of the small villages was running to catch up.
Campbell rode out several paces ahead of his men. The sons of MacIain came forward.
The younger greeted his wife’s uncle. He returned the greeting politely. What was his business? the elder MacIain asked.
Campbell turned and signaled. A rider came forward and handed him the order he had received from Deputy Governor Hamilton. Campbell stretched down his hand. John took the paper. The brothers read it.
The fort at Inverlochy was full, said Campbell as they perused the order. Several regiments were on hand. A march against Glengarry had been planned. Billeting was therefore requested among the inhabitants of Glencoe for these hundred and twenty troops.
“That is your only intent?” asked Alasdair suspiciously.
“We come as friends, I assure you,” replied Campbell. “On my honor, no harm shall come to your father or to any of his people. We will be grateful for whatever lodging you can find for us. It will be a matter of days only.”
The sons of MacIain pondered the situation. The suspicion between the two clans was undeniable, as well as between their father and this particular Campbell.
Behind him in the ranks sat one of Campbell’s young horsemen whose thoughts were neither on his duties, nor the conversation taking place ahead of the file of horses, but upon this glen to which his heart belonged. In the distance, as they approached, he had spied a figure behind a low hill. Everything within him had yearned to cry out, to break ranks.
But Brochan Cawdor was a soldier now, riding as he had always dreamed behind a captain of his clan. He must keep his own tongue as still as hers. From Ginevra he had learned to value silence. Now he had no choice but to content himself in that quiet she had taught him to treasure.
Perhaps, Brochan thought, if they remained a few days, he might contrive to see her. Whether or not it was she he had just observed, she probably already knew he was here, he thought with a smile. She always knew.
Meanwhile, Robert Campbell sat waiting, having no inkling of the infamy these two weeks would bring to his name. He had only been told to march south, seek billeting from his relatives, and await further instructions.
“You and your men will be welcome in Glencoe,” said John MacIain at length, extending his arm in a handshake of welcome.
He turned and led the way, walking back toward his father’s house alongside Robert Campbell’s horse. Ahead of them ran the boys and young men who had gathered, calling out the news everywhere that soldiers from Fort William were on the way to their homes.
Eighteen
For two weeks, the soldiers were fed and offered every hospitality, two to five in a home, in the cottages of the MacIains of Glencoe. Whatever cautions existed when they rode into the glen, they soon disappeared in the commonality of shared Highland roots and the camaraderie of the mutual roof. The weather warmed briefly. The temperature rose above freezing during the daylight hours. Some of the streams began to melt.
Campbell himself was put up in the home of MacDonald of Inverrigan. Many evenings he dined at the spacious Carnoch home of Chief Alasdair. The two managed to put aside their former disputes, drinking together often to drunkenness, while listening to the pipes or enjoying song from the lips of the bard. On other occasions Campbell played cards and backgammon with the chief and his sons and enjoyed meals and drink with his niece Sarah and her husband, Alasdair the younger.
Long before the stay showed signs of coming to an end, friendships had been formed and a genuine neighborliness appeared to be breaking out between both soldiers and hosts who were of the two clan septs of Glen Lyon and MacIain. Spirited games—both cards around the table and wrestling or caber tossing in the meadows—warm fires, congenial conversation, wine, whisky, music, and the generosity of simple provision bound together the longtime rival clans in the bonds of Highland fellowship. The mutual respect for their shared Celtic roots and traditions gradually came to outweigh the reminders of the feud between them.
It was an environment that tended to force people together. At such a time of year they had to keep mostly indoors—in stone houses exactly like those the Campbell soldiers lived in back in their own glens. The smaller cottages were of one or two rooms, of dry-packed stone covered in the direction of the wind with dried mud or slabs of turf. No chimneys existed, only a hole in the roof at the highest point to allow the escape of smoke. In the middle of the dirt floor below, throughout the months of winter, burned a hot fire of peat. With no draft to suck it skyward, smoke filled the house, meandering gradually upward and blackening everything inside until it eventually discovered the small overhead passage into the outside air.
As the Campbell soldiers sat sharing the warmth of the peat with their hosts, therefore, eyes red and cheeks stained, nostrils filled with the stench of nearby animal byres and dungheaps, lungs hacking from the smoky haze that filled every dwelling, they knew that back home their own wives and parents and children were huddled about identical fires with identical red eyes in identical cottages under the same sky from which fell the same snow.
Whatever one’s clan, the Highlander’s life was a simple, hard battle against the elements. All were gradually discovering—though few might have actually said it—that there really was not so much very different between a Campbell and a MacDonald after all.
Yet the growing rapport was far from universal among either villagers or troops. For the English soldiers, this was indeed an odd interlude in the soldier’s life.
“Why are we here so long?” commented one to his comrade as they walked together after one morning’s drill on the frosty ground. “It’s a peculiar place. I can’t understand a word out of the mouths of these people.”
“They say there’s no provisions at Inverlochy.”
“But there’s been time by now. I’m ready to get out of this place. I don’t like it—mountains glaring down on you from every direction. Something’s up, I tell you,” he added, glancing up toward the mountains he had just mentioned, then pulling his coat more tightly around his shoulders and shivering, “—and I don’t like it.”
Neither did Sarah’s husband, Alasdair the younger, who all the while remained suspicious. Backgammon and wine, jokes and stories and laughter had done nothing to alleviate his uneasiness.
He did not like the daily drilling of the Campbell soldiers in the glen, with prominent display of muskets and bayonets. Nor was he alone. Not everyone in the glen was comfortable with Campbells wearing the red coats of the English king’s army under their roofs.
Halfway through the stay, a company of men went privately to the chief.
“Send ’em away, MacIain,” said one. “Oor women are anxious. Their English sergeants shoutin’ oot orders in the southern tongue, the marchin,’ the drills . . . I tell ye, Chief, it bodes nae gude.”
Around him many others nodded and voiced similar objections. But it was clear the great man was growing angry as he listened.
“I winna sent them away,” he replied at length. His voice was stern. “Hae we not broken breid t’gither? I got nae love fer Glenlyon in my hert, but he’s aye given his word. He’s a Highlander. We’re all Highlanders t’gither. No harm’ll be done, no offense given. We’ve oor ain honor t’ think o.’”
The men of MacIain’s clan went away to make the best of it. Perhaps the chief was right. Hospitality given and hospitality accepted were indeed sacred in the Highland code.
Nineteen
All the while, the peat smoke swirled and whisky was consumed, and the games and conversation and laughter drew the people of the glen and the Highlanders of Glenlyon’s regiment closer. But the English regulars grew more eager to get out of the place.
At Fort William, meanwhile, Colonel Hill knew nothing of the treachery his deputy had set in motion. He intended no further action against the MacDonalds. In fact, he had sent confirmation to London in the plainest possible terms that peace had come everywhere in the Highlands. All the chiefs either already had or had promised to take the oath. There was no need for further action.
Yet he could not help feeling ill at ease. Something was up. In his quieter moments, Hill realized that Dalrymple was losing trust in him. He suspected the Secretary of State might be going behind his back. But he had no idea to what an extent Hamilton was already involved.
Hamilton, meanwhile, was growing impatient. Without divulging his darker intent to his superior, he sent Major Robert Duncanson south with four hundred men. The major was now camped out on the north landing of the Ballachulish ferry, at the narrows between the two lochs.
Finally arrived yet another communication from Dalrymple to Hill: “You cannot receive further instructions . . . be as earnest in the matter as you can . . . be secret and sudden . . . be quick.”
At last Colonel Hill realized further action would be carried out with or without him. To refuse would be treason, and Hamilton would report him if he hesitated now. He could do nothing to prevent what he had so long dreaded.
Sickened by the thought of what might be coming, at last Colonel Hill yielded. With a weary sigh, worn out from the fever which had been with him for almost a year, he sent for his deputy. Hamilton came and stood before him.
“This business grieves me,” said Hill. “I do not like it. And it is all so unnecessary. But I shall leave it in your hands. You may carry out your orders.”
Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton wasted no time. He left Hill’s office eagerly and sent off a quick letter to Duncanson to coordinate the attack. Then he himself set out immediately from the fort. His own detachment of four hundred would march from Fort William through Kinlochleven and descend into the glen across the Devil’s Staircase. Duncanson would cross by ferry to Ballachulish and approach from the west.
Late that same day, Major Duncanson received the following order at his secret encampment some three miles from Glencoe:
For Their Majesties’ Service,
To Major Robert Duncanson of the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment,
Fort William, 12 February, 1692
Sir,
Pursuant to the commander in chief’s and my colonel’s order for putting into execution the king’s command, you are to order your affair so as to be at the several posts already assigned you by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, being Saturday, and fall in action with that party of the earl of Argyll’s regiment now under your command, at which time I will endeavour to be with the party from this place. It will be necessary that the avenues on the south side be secured, so that neither the old fox, nor none of his cubs gets away. The orders are that none under seventy be spared the sword, nor the government troubled with prisoners, which is all I have to say to you until then. Sir, your humble servant,
James Hamilton
Upon receiving his orders, Duncanson now wrote out another message. He folded the paper, put it in an envelope, stamped it with his seal, and sent for his captain, Thomas Drummond.
“Take these orders to Campbell,” said Duncanson when Drummond appeared. He handed him the envelope. “He is lodging at Inverrigan, as I understand it. Then stay the night with him. Make certain he obeys. I will join you in the morning.”
Drummond nodded and left Duncanson’s tent. The wind was up. Snow had begun to fall. Another storm was nearly upon them.
It was mid-evening when the dispatch from Duncanson arrived in Inverrigan. Robert Campbell was playing cards with the two sons of the chief at Inverrigan’s house when Captain Drummond entered.
Campbell arose and approached. The two men saluted. Drummond handed him the envelope. Campbell opened it.
Stoically he read the orders, his face divulging nothing. To one side, Drummond eyed the chief’s grown sons warily. He had not been in the glen enjoying their hospitality for two weeks. He possessed no feelings of goodwill toward anyone in Glencoe, especially the old fox’s brood.
Once Campbell read the command, there could be no more doubt of the deed he had been sent to carry out.
The orders were gruesomely explicit.
For His Majesty’s Service,
To Robert Campbell of Glenlyon
Sir,
You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels the MacDonalds of Glencoe and put all under seventy to the sword. You are to have special care that the old fox and his sons do not escape your hands. You are to secure all avenues, that no man escape. This you are to put in execution at five of the clock precisely, and by that time, or very shortly after it, I will strive to join you with a stronger party. If I do not come to you at five, you are not to tarry for me but to fall on. This is by the king’s special commands, for the good and safety of the country, that these miscreants be cut off root and branch. See that this be put in execution without fear or favour, or you may expect to be dealt with as one not true to king or government, nor a man fit to carry a commission in the king’s service.
Expecting you will not fail in the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself, I subscribe this at Ballychyllis, the 12 Feby, 1692.
Robert Duncanson
Campbell folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. The evening of wine, laughter, and gambling was clearly over.
Keeping a straight face, betraying nothing, he looked toward John and Alasdair.
“My orders have come,” he said.
“You will be leaving, then?” said John.
Campbell nodded. “My men and I are most grateful for the hospitality of your people,” he said. “But now I have much to do.”
The brothers departed Inverrigan’s home for their own. Campbell and Drummond nodded somberly to each other.
Then Glenlyon went out into the night to pass the orders along to his various commanders.
Twenty-One
Throughout the ensuing hours as the fateful hour drew near, Robert Campbell found sleep more and more difficult.
Notwithstanding the camaraderie of the last two weeks, he felt no deep love for old Alasdair. His raids and thefts had added their own weight to the financial ruin that had forced him to take this miserable commission at such an age. Yet he was loath to carry out such a slaughter. If only the old fool hadn’t been so stubborn in the matter of the oath!
But, Glenlyon did his best to convince himself, he had no choice. To disobey now would insure him the same fate as awaited Alasdair.
Throughout the glen, those soldiers with consciences, chancing to get wind of what had been ordered, sought in cryptic ways to warn their hosts. In the Highlands, hospitality was considered inviolable. Few greater sins existed than the betrayal of one’s host. When they heard what the next morning was fated to bring, many of Argyll’s men were so disgusted and revolted that their consciences waged war as never before against their sworn duty as soldiers.
One of the Campbell soldiers at supper on the Friday evening with his hosts fingered the edge of a warm woolen plaid. “’Tis a good plaid,” he said, glancing toward the woman of the house. “If this were my plaid, I might put it on and gae oot tonight and luik after my cattle.”
He paused, then stared at her all the more intently, then turned his eyes upon her husband. “If this plaid were mine,” he added in solemn tone, “I wud put it around my shoulders, and I wud take my cattle an’ my family oot to a safe place.”
The man of the house understood his guest’s meaning well enough and did just that. When morning came, his house was empty.
One of his comrades sat that same evening at his own supper table, especially quiet. For two weeks his hosts had treated him almost as a son, and the young private had grown to love them. His heart was heavy for the evil tidings he had just heard from his sergeant. At length he sighed deeply and spoke to the dog lying beside the fire in the middle of the cottage.
“Gray dog,” he said, and then looked up to his hosts with solemn and significant expression, “if I were you, despite the snow, I would make my bed this night in the heather.”
The man and the woman went to bed whispering quietly amongst themselves as to what the young man could mean. Long before morning they realized his intent, for strange comings and goings could be distantly heard outside. Quietly, in the middle of the night, the man roused his wife. They left their cottage for the hills.
Ginevra herself, feeling heavy of heart in the dusk that fell that same evening as she wandered toward the village where Brochan was staying, hoping for a chance to speak with him, came upon one of the Campbell soldiers standing alone. The man was leaning against the projection of a great boulder that jutted at an angle out of the ground. A pained expression was on his face.
She paused. The man stared at her with an odd, almost compassionate look.
She returned his gaze. Their eyes met.
The soldier glanced away toward the stone beside him.
“Grit stone of the glen . . .” he began.
He paused, then turned toward Ginevra with significant expression.
“—ye hae the right t’ be here, stone . . . but if ye kenned what is coming afore dawn, ye would be up and away.”
Again came a penetrating stare at the girl he did not know. “Du ye hear me, grit stone—flee like the Stone o’ Scone. Up and away . . . afore dawn.”
Only a moment more did Ginevra remain. Suddenly her feet were flying beneath her as she ran away from the strange man. She glanced up. Clouds were approaching over the mountains. Suddenly a great chill swept through her.
Meanwhile, suspicions had returned to Alasdair, youngest son of the chief. He could not sleep. He had not liked the look on the face of the captain who delivered Glenlyon his orders.
In the middle of the night he arose and went out, keeping from sight. A bitter wind swirled through the glen. A few flecks of snow stung his face. Too many soldiers were awake and milling about.
Alasdair crept to his brother’s house and roused him. John did not share Alasdair’s concern. But he agreed they should tell their father. Together they went to wake him.
The chief, however, was of a surly disposition after being aroused from sleep on a cold night when another storm was blowing in. They were worried about nothing, he told his sons. If they wanted to look into it, that was their concern. He was returning to bed.
Eventually both of them did so as well.
Twenty-Two
All night those few of the Campbell regiment who had been told what was coming struggled with their consciences.
Some drank. Others tried to steel their minds against what they must do. Few slept.
At last the hour arrived.
Between four and four-thirty, Campbell’s men rose. In the house of Inverrigan, the nine members of the household were roused from sleep, tied, and gagged. They could not be killed until five, as the order stated. But Campbell needed the house to make preparations and as a temporary headquarters. His men began quietly preparing their muskets and pistols for the five-o’clock hour.
Meanwhile, throughout the long, dark hours Ginevra lay agitated. Dreadful visions played themselves over and over in her brain, but she could make no sense of them. She could not rid her mind of the cryptic words of the soldier by the stone.
A stone . . . a stone . . . why should a stone flee its natural home?
Again came tears. They were not now for herself, but for some terrible calamity she felt was coming.
She knew where Brochan was staying in the village of Achnacone, just beyond Signal Hill. In the past weeks, they had managed to find many a stolen moment to be together. She must warn him. She must tell Brochan to flee like the stone!
Ginevra rose, dressed warmly, and went out into the night. The hour was four-thirty.
In the corner of the same room, her mother lay awake, eyes wide with terror. When Ginevra left, she too rose and began bundling up Ginevra’s young brother.
As Ginevra left Carnoch, soldiers were about. There was much movement. Six or eight members of the Campbell regiment were marching toward the chief’s house. They were carrying rifles and taking care not to be heard.
The snow now fell in earnest.
But Ginevra was experienced at not being seen. She kept out of sight as the soldiers passed, then hastened out of the village in the opposite direction.
Her mind was occupied with Brochan. She did not pause to think what the rifles might portend.
Twenty-Three
A knock sounded on Chief Alasdair MacIain’s door.
He awoke. It was still dark. Momentarily confused, he waited briefly, thinking his sons might have come again. A servant entered the room with candle in hand to wake him. Several of the Campbell men were at the door, he said. They had come to thank him for Glencoe’s hospitality.
MacIain rose, told his wife to fetch wine for their departing guests, then began to pull on his trousers.
Suddenly behind him the room filled with soldiers. Two shots rang out in the morning. Screams from his wife echoed through the house.
The next instant Alasdair MacIain, proud chief of his clan, lay dead on his face on his own bed, trousers loose, one bullet in his back, the other having blown all the way through his head. Moments later two more shots were fired at the servants now attempting to run from the house. They fell dead on the frozen ground.
Emboldened by what they had done, the soldiers now turned to the chief’s hysterical wife. One grabbed her from behind while his fellow yanked and tore at her rings. But they were tight and would not come off. He set his teeth to the frantic woman’s fingers, pulling and tearing until he felt the rings loosen and fall into his mouth. Now they ripped the clothes from her body and threw her naked to the floor. Two others dragged MacIain outside into the snowy morning, where his blood, still warm, oozed onto the ground and there began to freeze.
All over the glen the slaughter was now on.
At Inverrigan’s house, Glenlyon was in the process of cruelly repaying his hosts for their hospitality. When five o’clock came, Campbell ordered that the nine they had bound be taken outside and thrown onto the frozen cattle dunghill. His order was carried out.
Campbell raised his pistol and shot his host in the head. Screams of horror sounded from wife and children. One at a time the others were shot with muskets, some knifed through with bayonets. After eight lay dead, only one young man of twenty remained.
Suddenly Glenlyon hesitated. He raised his hand and took several paces between his soldiers and the young man, then uttered but a single word.
“Hold,” he said.
Had he been seized by a sudden pang of conscience? His own men waited. A strange look of sudden revulsion filled their captain’s face.
“What are you doing, man?” cried Drummond. “Don’t forget our orders—kill him!”
Still no one moved. Campbell stared back and forth between his soldiers and the single man left trembling on the dungheap.
Muttering in disgust, Drummond raised his own gun. The next instant the young man slumped over two or three of the other bodies with a bullet through his head.
Behind them a boy of twelve now ran from somewhere out of the darkness. He grabbed at Campbell’s legs and begged to be spared.
“I promise . . . I will serve you!” the frantic boy cried. “Please . . . please don’t kill me. I will go anywhere . . . I will do whatever you—”
Drummond turned to the detail. “Shoot the boy!” he cried, “and be done with it.”
Several shots rang out. The boy slumped dead at Glenlyon’s feet.
Their business with that household done, the troop turned and set the thatch of Inverrigan’s house and barns ablaze.
In the darkness throughout the glen with gunshots filling every village, women fled for the hills with children in their arms, other youngsters struggling to keep up at their sides.
At the first sounds, servants awoke both of the chief’s sons. They had just time to escape with their families toward a stand of trees on Meall Mor before detachments came to administer the same fate that had already befallen their father. Behind them, smoke rose from several houses and byres. Musket fire, yelling, screaming, and muffled shouts of terror sounded through the early morning air.
More straggling survivors came after them. The brothers sent them higher up the slopes. There they would at least be safe from the treachery, if not from the impending blizzard. John and Alasdair quickly ran back down to the glen, working their way carefully along the frozen Coe. Locating what frightened survivors they could, they sent them toward the hills in the direction where others were gathering among the trees on Meall Mor.
Meanwhile, the terrifying betrayal continued. Men were butchered in their beds with bayonets. Others were thrown on the dungheaps of their own cattle, as if in final insult, then shot. Whatever sympathies may have existed the night before, those who now carried out the atrocities were equal to the task set before them. An old man of eighty and several children of less than five years were shot. A wounded old man crept into a hut to hide. Rather than go in after him, the soldiers who saw his retreat set fire all around, then watched as he perished in the blaze.
Twenty-Four
When Brochan awoke, he heard whispering.
Thinking he must be dreaming, at first he could not believe his ears. His own commander, Sergeant Robert Barber, was talking in hushed tones.
“. . . wake your men . . . march in sections to all the houses of the township . . . do as we’ve been commanded . . . no prisoners. . . .”
It couldn’t possibly be what it seemed!
He must warn them! He must warn Ginevra!
He dressed frantically, then wrapped himself with overcoat and blanket. He crept out of the house unseen. Snow was falling furiously. He could hardly see through it.
Before he had taken many steps, suddenly a voice called out behind him. “Cawdor!”
Brochan turned. There stood Barber.
“Where are you going?” said the sergeant angrily.
Both stood staring, well knowing what was in the other’s thoughts.
“Get your gun, Cawdor,” said Barber. “We have orders.”
“I heard the orders,” said Brochan.
“Come with me.”
“I winna be part o’ it.”
Behind them, Brochan saw several of the men of his own group now surrounding the house of MacDonald of Achnacone. He knew that at least nine family members were inside and that MacDonald’s brother from Achtriachtan had spent the night.
“You have no choice, Cawdor,” said Barber. “Do as you’ve been ordered, or you’ll wind up like the old fox and those about to die right now behind us.” He nodded toward the house behind him.
“I winna du it, I tell ye!” Brochan yelled.
He spun around and took two more steps.
“If you’re trying to warn that brat of MacIain’s brood I’ve seen you with,” yelled Barber after him, “it’s no use—she’ll be dead before sunrise. Stop, Cawdor—I order you.”
Brochan hesitated and glanced back one last time. “No!” he shouted. “The king can jist hang me!”
“If you don’t obey, the king won’t have a chance to hang you—I’ll shoot you first.”
Brochan turned and dashed away through the snowy morning. As he ran, Brochan spied an outline through the snow.
Ginevra!
He must tell her to stay away! She mustn’t come closer!
Suddenly came that which for years he had longed to hear. But its sound was to warn him of treachery behind him. The word rang with no joy, but resounded across the morning with pain and dread.
“B-r-o-c-h-a-n!” shrieked the great, otherworldly cry.
The single name through the darkness sent a chill and shudder through the bones of all who heard it. Never before had that voice been heard in twenty-one years. And with the single name of her beloved on her lips, Ginevra MacIain at last joined the world of men and women.
But in the same instant the innocence of her former existence was shattered. For the warning came too late to halt the finger of Brochan’s English commander.
Her shriek in the ears of Sergeant Barber was eerie and strange. The next instant his own gun silenced it.
A great explosion rent the air. Thirty yards in front of her, Ginevra saw the light fade from her beloved’s eyes. He staggered, then fell to his face in the snow.
Another tremendous scream sounded, followed by the long, forlorn wail of the precious name.
Young Brochan Cawdor had been struck down in the prime of his youthful manhood. His blood stained the snow redder than the hair of the maiden whom he had loved.
Ginevra’s cry floated through the snow on the echo of gunfire, over the village, waking many to the betrayal that was upon them. Her warning had been too late for one, but it would save many more.
Inside the house to which Robert Barber now returned, the brothers MacDonald, who were enjoying a morning’s drink while the household huddled close to the fire, heard the sound.
“What lass’s voice was that?” said one.
“I dinna ken,” replied another, “but ’twas a dreadful howl.”
But whatever warning Ginevra’s scream might have given to others, it did not come in time for the house of MacDonald of Achnacone.
Suddenly Barber and a dozen men burst open the door and shoved rifles through the windows from where they had surrounded the house. Musket shots exploded. Half of those seated about the fire fell dead instantly. The white smoke from the musket blasts, mixed with the black soot from the peat fire, quickly filled the house so densely that nothing could be seen. Two or three of the wounded ran from the house. More shots followed.
“Cut them down—every one to a man!” cried Barber.
He groped his way inside the house, then dragged the wounded body of his host out the door to be killed. The sergeant stood the householder up against the wall of his home and raised his rifle. But suddenly, and with great effort, MacDonald of Achnacone heaved his heavy plaid off his shoulders, threw it over the sergeant’s head, and sprinted away into the darkness as shots sounded from every direction.
Hot tears streaming down her face, burning in the cold of the air, Ginevra sprinted back toward home.
But she had not far to go. For now she saw her mother, who had followed her out in premonition of dread, coming toward her. Her young son was wrapped in the hurrying mother’s arms.
Suddenly more shots rang out, closer this time. Again Ginevra screamed in an agony of despair.
The poor woman who had loved and given birth to the mute maiden would never know that on this morning her daughter’s voice had been found. Before Ginevra’s very eyes, mother and brother now fell dead from the same bullet in the snow.
The sickening wail of the forlorn orphan filled the murderer with such fright that for several moments he could do nothing but stare after her. By the time he came to himself and reloaded his musket, the phantom with red hair had disappeared in the darkness.
Frantic now, Ginevra fled in a frenzy of confusion and horror, hardly knowing which direction her feet were taking her.
As what MacDonalds remained alive in Achnacone also ran from their village in terror, some saw the form of her whose eerie voice they had heard a few moments before. She was ahead of them in the snow and making for the hills higher up in the glen.
All Glencoe that morning was full of the cries of many Rachels and Ginevras weeping for their husbands and lovers, their brothers and children . . . their clan and their land.
But though they wept and mourned, they refused to be comforted, because they were no more.
Ginevra’s escape in the hours that followed took her along the very path she had run eight years before when her destiny lay ahead of her. Now it lay behind.
Unconsciously as she fled, her steps led up the glen, then south into the hills in the same direction where she had first seen Brochan. In her grief she was drawn to the slopes where she had found such happiness with the boy who dreamed of being a soldier.
While the slaughter continued, Ginevra ran through the snow, thankfully now not bare of foot. She was seen by several as she passed, including the dead chief’s grandson, grown now to a lad of sixteen, and two or three others who had tormented her in their youths. It took them not many moments to realize that the strange maiden with the second sight represented their best chance of survival. Without hesitation they were off to follow her. This time they had no thought in mind but to keep her in sight, knowing their lives might depend on it. Other fugitives observed them in turn and likewise followed in the predawn darkness. Behind them shots continued thudding dully amid screams of torment, the sounds eerily muffled in the silent snowfall.
By the time Ginevra took refuge in the cave which was one of her summer retreats on the slopes of Bidean Nam Bian, six or eight who had followed her to safety straggled inside behind her. They ranged in age from sixteen to fifty-three. Some had thought to grab blankets and what little food they could carry. Behind them, smoke rose from the villages of the glen where the houses they had left had been set ablaze.
They rested awhile but knew they must get further away before day broke. Search parties would surely be sent out to follow their tracks. They had no idea how many might have survived. If these were the only survivors, then sixteen-year-old Ruadh Og was now chief of the clan. He was too shocked for the moment, however, to do anyone much good.
The acknowledged leader of the little band was Ginevra, who now gave orders and offered encouragements as if she had been capable of speech her entire life. Her tongue loosed, she spoke with intelligence and clarity, her voice melodic and pleasant like the waters of these hills in springtime she had always so loved. If any had considered her the village simpleton the day before, none did now. They sensed that they could trust her with their lives. And that they must.
“Ye maun be away,” she said. “Ye maun git higher, further frae the glen.”
“We canna go anither step into the mountains, lass,” objected one of the men. “We’ll surely dee in the snow.”
“No one o’ ye will die,” said Ginevra calmly. Gradually she was coming to herself and found her thoughts returning to practicalities . . . and to Brochan. “’Tis anither cave, higher an’ east,” she went on. “Ye can build a fire there and warm yerselves. There are peats inside.”
“An’ how du ye ken that, lass?” asked the man.
“I put them there. Noo gae. I maun return t’ the glen. I will be back. Wait if ye like. But ye may be safer to git away noo. Ruadh Og, ye know the passes as well as I. Ye can lead them to Dalness.”
She turned and left the cave, disappearing into the snowy darkness. None thought to question further.
Even as Ginevra led the small band safely out of the glen of their home, at the same time, miles to the west, the two sons of the chief, John, now chief of the clan, and his brother Alasdair led a party of survivors that had grown to over a hundred, south from Laroch and Carnoch and Inverrigan across the slopes of Meall Mor toward Appin. They had by this time found their mother, wrapped her against the cold, and nursed her as well as they could. They heard now for the first time how their father was killed.
The new chief was worried about his son. He had not seen him since the family had scattered with the first shots. He feared the boy had suffered the same fate as his grandfather.
But he needn’t have been anxious. Young Ruadh Og had been led safely off into the snow-filled eastern hills by the once silent maiden of Glencoe.
Twenty-Six
As Ginevra crept back toward the village of Achnacone, a thin light began to show through the snowfall. Dawn was near.
Fires burned everywhere. Shouts could be heard in the distance. But the ferocity of the attack seemed to have spent itself. Most villagers were either dead or gone, and the soldiers had now moved down the glen.
How much time had passed, Ginevra had no idea. Thirty minutes, an hour, even more? Was it possible he could still be alive?
She retraced her steps. There was the house, its roof nearly burned through by now, the flames mostly reduced to breezy plumes of smoke. The byre behind was burning.
Ginevra ran forward.
There still lay her beloved facedown in the snow!
She darted to him, heart pounding in mingled fear and hope. She knelt in the white powder and gently tried to rouse him.
“Brochan . . . Brochan, please,” she pled desperately, “—please wake up.” Her voice was soft, her whisper urgent.
With great effort she turned him onto his side, then smothered his face and lips and eyes with kisses.
The skin was cold . . . but with the chill of snow, not death!
“Brochan! Oh, please, Brochan . . .”
A faint groan sounded.
“Brochan!” cried Ginevra with joy. “Oh, come . . . you maun get up! I ken ye’re hurt. But I maun git ye away afore they find ye.”
Another faceful of happy, desperate kisses was enough to rouse the young man sufficiently to remember what had happened. Groggily and painfully his brain awoke to his peril. His wound was serious. But thankfully the snow had nearly frozen it, effectively stopping the flow of blood.
With Ginevra’s help he labored to his feet. Using her lithe but wiry frame as his crutch, the two hobbled off through the gray dawn.
After more than an hour through the fresh snow, their feet nearly frozen, at length Ginevra managed to get Brochan back to the first cave. The others were gone.
The only reminder of their presence was a single tartan blanket, neatly folded and placed on a stone near the mouth of the cave.
Ginevra recognized it instantly. The last time she had seen it, it had been draped around young MacIain’s neck as she had spoken to him about leading the escape party to Dalness.
Ginevra smiled. She knew Ruadh Og had left it for her return.
1. Ginevra with soft g, as in jewel, an Italian form of the French Genevieve, meaning “white wave.” MacIain, of the clan MacDonald, literally “son of Iain” or “son of John,” roughly pronounced M’Kean, or Ma-Key-an, with emphasis on “Key.”
2. Wha—who; gien—if; ken—know; afeart—afraid; bairn—child; oot—out; whaur—where; wad—would; luik—look; frae—from.
3. British names can be confusing in an historical account such as this. Each clan has many subclans or “septs,” each with a different surname. There are dozens of distinct MacDonald septs, for example, all of which are affiliated and trace their roots back to the original Donald, grandson of Somerled. When different surnames evolve on this complex family tree, clans gradually develop more than one name. In the case of what are called the “Glencoe MacDonalds,” the sept name was Clan Iain or MacIain and the chief’s name in 1692 was Alasdair, nicknamed “the Red.” Confusion results when, in the common practice of the day, such a man might be known by any of his names—or by his home itself. Thus the chief might be called any of the following: “Alasdair MacIain” or “MacIain” or “MacIain of Glencoe” or “MacDonald of Glencoe” or “MacDonald” or even simply “Glencoe.” So when the king and John Dalrymple in London spoke together about “Glencoe,” they were generally not referring to the place, but specifically to Alasdair MacIain, chief of the Glencoe branch of the MacDonald clan. And Alasdair’s son, also named Alasdair, would possess the same list of appellatives.
Robert Campbell of Glen Lyon, Alasdair’s counterpart in the Glencoe drama, at least possessed only one surname, which lessens this confusion somewhat. He was known equally as “Campbell” and “Glenlyon.”
Further confusion results when men were known either by title or by the name of their estate or the title of their peerage. Thus Sir John Dalrymple, King William’s secretary of state for Scotland, who was the Master of Stair, is often referred to in historical documents simply as “Stair,” as if it were his actual name.
4. The multitude and confusion of names in this drama may be helped by a brief cast of the principal characters along with the various names by which they were known.
King William III of England—William of Orange, became king in 1689, son-in-law of deposed King James VII.
Sir John Dalrymple—Master of Stair, secretary of state for Scotland, also known as “Stair.”
Sir Thomas Livingstone—King William’s commander in chief in Scotland.
Chief Alasdair MacIain of the MacDonalds of Glencoe—“Alasdair the Red, the old fox, MacIain of Glencoe, MacIain, MacDonald of Glencoe, MacDonald, Glencoe.”
John MacIain—eldest son of Alasdair, who succeeded him as chief.
Alasdair Og MacIain—younger son of Alasdair, “Alexander the Younger,” married to Sarah Campbell, niece of Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.
Ruadh Og—son of Alasdair Og, grandson of the chief.
Archibald Campbell, tenth earl of Argyll—known simply as “the earl” or “Argyll.”
Captain Robert Campbell of Glen Lyon—known as “Campbell” or “Glenlyon.”
Sir Colin Campbell of Ardkinglas—sheriff of Argyll, known as “Ardkinglas.”
Colin Campbell of Dressalch—sheriff-clerk of Argyll, office in Edinburgh, known as “Dressalch.”
Colonel John Hill—governor of Fort William.
Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Hamilton—appointed deputy governor of Fort William.
Major Robert Duncanson—commander of the Argyll regiment sent by Hamilton from Fort William to Ballachulish.
Captain Thomas Drummond—delivered dispatch from Duncanson to Robert Campbell on February 12.
MacDonald of Inverrigan—Robert Campbell’s host in Glencoe, known as “Inverrigan.”
Sergeant Robert Barber—Brochan’s commander, hosted with his men by MacDonald of Achnacone.
Others mentioned: Sir John Campbell, earl of Breadalbane (known as “Breadalbane”), Alasdair the Black MacDonald of Glengarry (known as “Glengarry”), Allan MacDonald of Clanranald (known as “Clanranald”), Sir Donald MacDonald of Sleat (known as “Sleat”).