Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  “Thank you, Mr. Bain,” I said. “I don’t think I could have found my way without your help.”

  “Ye can thank me proper,” he added with a friendly twinkle in his eye, “by stoppin’ in at the cottage on yer way back doon an’ haein’ a drap o’ tea.”

  “Oh, that is very kind of you,” I replied. “Maybe I will—if I can find my way!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tales of a Historic Land

  Hark when the night is falling. Hear, hear! The pipes are calling,

  Loudly and proudly calling, down thro’ the glen.

  There where the hills are sleeping, now feel the blood a-leaping,

  High as the spirits of the old Highland men.

  Towering in gallant fame, Scotland my mountain hame,

  High may your proud standards gloriously wave,

  Land of my high endeavour, Land of the shining river,

  Land of my heart forever, Scotland the brave.

  —“Scotland the Brave”

  I found my way to the top of Crannoch Bin and the view, as I had expected, was spectacular. Mostly my thoughts remained occupied, however, with the old man I had just left. And with an invitation pending to visit a genuine old-fashioned stone shepherd’s cottage, I didn’t spend more than five or ten minutes at the top surveying the plaque with its arrows pointing to the surrounding towns and bins and coastal landmarks. I was anxious to see if I could find my way back along the same route I had come.

  It wasn’t difficult. I had to look carefully where I needed to leave the main trail for the wooded area that would lead me back to the meadows where I had encountered Mr. Bain. But once I was again traipsing down through the trees, the way was easy enough. Before long I could see the sheep through the trees in the distance. Ten minutes later I was climbing the wooden stile into the first of the stone-fence-enclosed fields through which I had come earlier. There was no sign of Mr. Bain.

  I paused to get my bearings, then struck out toward the stone cottage about a quarter mile away. I had to cross two more stone dykes. As I drew closer a few distinct pathways became clear and the stiles over them were easy to manage.

  Sheep munched on the grass everywhere. A few paid no attention, others scattered, bleating and baaing as I made my way through them. As I neared the cottage I saw that it was nicely kept and tidy. It was surrounded by both a flower and a vegetable garden, and a large cultivated field of potatoes. Two sheepdogs started raising a ruckus as I walked up, though they didn’t run to bother me but scurried around worrying the sheep seemingly just for the fun of it. Maybe they were showing off.

  The door of the cottage stood open. I knocked, and poked my head inside.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Ah, lassie, come in, come in!” called the familiar voice of the old man from inside. A moment later the bearded and white-topped head, now without hat, appeared to welcome me.

  “I was aye haupin’ ye’d stop back. The water’s het an’ ready tae pour.”

  As I entered I saw a table already set with two places on a nice white tablecloth. A plate of biscuits and little cakes sat in the middle of the table next to a vase of wildflowers.

  “You look like you were expecting company!”

  “Aye, I was—yersel’.”

  I laughed. “You were that sure I would come back?”

  “Reasonably so. It’s nae second sicht that made me think sae, but I haup I ken somethin’ aboot fowk, an’ I read on yer face ane wha’s yea is yea an’ wha’s nae is nae. Fan ye said ye micht come back, I took ye at yer word, an’ hauped it would be sooner raither than later. ’Tis few enouch visitors that pass by, I maun seize ilka chance I get. Sit ye doon, lass.”

  I did so and five minutes later I was enjoying tea and lively conversation with one of the most interesting people I had met since arriving in Scotland.

  “I take it you live here alone, Mr. Bain?” I had just asked.

  A shadow crossed Ranald Bain’s bearded face. The brief silence that followed gave me the chance to take in his features more thoroughly. He was not a tall man, probably about my height, five-six or five-seven, and thin and wiry. When I had seen him before I sensed energy about him from the way he walked that seemed undiminished by his years, which I judged to be perhaps sixty-eight or seventy. His beard, as I said, was white, his eyes a deep blue, his complexion tanner than you often saw among the fair-skinned Scots. He was obviously a man of the earth who had lived most of his life out of doors.

  “I do, lass,” he said, nodding slowly after a moment or two. “I lost baith my wife an’ my dochter tae the sea.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” I said. “How did it happen… were they on a ship or a boat?”

  Again the shadow briefly clouded his bright blue eyes. “There’s mony ways the sea has o’ claimin’ the life o’ those wha bide along sich rocky shoals as this coastline,” he said. “Nae, it wasna a boat gaun doon, though mony o’ the fisher families o’ the north hae lost sons an’ brithers an’ men fowk that way.”

  “How long has it been?” I asked.

  “Oor dochter was but a lass. ’Twas thirty or mair years syne. My wife was lost but six years syne.”

  “Again, Mr. Bain, I am so sorry. I lost my husband six years ago as well.”

  “I am aye sorry tae hear it. But fretna yersel’ aboot me, lass,” he added, smiling and now pouring more tea. “We had a gude life, my Maggie an’ me. I hae nae regrets. Nae that I dinna miss her, but we winna be parted sae lang.”

  “Have you always lived here,” I asked, “up on the slopes of the Bin?”

  “A’ my life, as did my father, an’ my gran’father an’s his father afore me. The croft has been in oor family fae the days o’ the bonnie prince. Course the families had mony bairns an’ ’tis but a wee croft that wi’ cattle an’ sheep an’ what they cud grow cud but barely keep food in the mouths o’ ane family. Sae as they grew the brithers an’ sisters had tae seek their fortunes elsewhere, an’ some became fishers an’ fisher wives, some warked the lan’, an’ some went tae the cities, an’ some went abroad tae Canada. But always there was ane fa remained tae work the croft an’ raise his ain family right here, an’ sae it went generation after anither, an’ noo here am I, the last o’ the line o’ the croftin’ Bains, alane wi’ my sheep.”

  “What will become of your land and home?” I asked.

  “I dinna ken, lassie. It will pass back till the duke an’ perhaps a few years later the roof will collapse an’ it will become like sae many ither crofts. But all things o’ this warl’ are passin’. E’en families come tae their earthly end.”

  “Do you have other relatives?”

  “Nae doubt. But no that I ken. The lan’s the duke’s anyway, no mine, sae till him it will gang an’ he’ll do wi’ it what he will.”

  I munched on an oatcake and took a sip of tea.

  “Why is Bonnie Prince Charlie so famous?” I asked. “It seems that half the folk songs I hear are about him. And you made it sound as though your family had connections to him.”

  “Aye. The Bains fought wi’ the prince. That was after they fled fae Glencoe fifty years afore. Sae they were Jacobites afore the Bonnie Prince was e’en born.”

  “Who are the Jacobites?” I asked, laughing. “I am having a hard time figuring out Scotland’s history, though it’s all around me.”

  “Aye, lass, ’tis a mite confusing on account o’ the Scots bein’ divided in their loyalties—Catholic or no, Jacobite or no. But ’tis simple, too. ’Tis aboot Scotland’s independence, Protestantism an’ Catholicism, an’ the monarchy o’ Britain.”

  “Those things sound complicated enough.”

  “Ye’ll get a grip o’ it in five minutes, lass, gien ye want an auld crofter tae tell ye the auld sang, as we Scots say.”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Bain. I would love to have you explain it to me.”

  “Then hae anither drap o’ tea,” he said, reaching for the teapot, “an’ ye’ll soon be an expert yersel’.”


  “I doubt that!”

  “Weel, lassie,” he began, “it all begins wi’ the people o’ this lan’ o’ the north. Different races came till England an’ Scotland. They shared this big island, ye ken, but they were different people. ’Course ’tis all mixed up noo, like it is all o’er the worl’. But in the beginnin’, the Scots were maistly a Celtic race, an’ the English were Anglo-Saxons—twa peoples, twa races, twa separate countries. An’ that’s hoo it remained for mony centuries. The Romans came an’ conquered England, but they couldna conquer the Picts, which is what the Celtic people o’ Scotland were called back then. Sae the stories gang that they painted themsel’s an’ were fierce warriors, an’ were ruled by matriarchal lineages—the kings comin’ doon through the lines o’ their women, ye ken. Isna athegither a healthy thing, in my opinion, for God ne’er intended women tae rule. The Buik says’t as plain’s can be. But some fowk see it differently, especially noo in these modern days fan feminism’s takin’ o’er mair an’ mair o’ the culture an’ feow ken the mortal danger o’ whaur it’s led ilka culture that’s ta’en that road. But ’tis anither story, that—fit I was tellin’ ye is that England an’ Scotland remained twa separate countries an’ twa separate peoples for centuries.

  “But as time went on, all o’er the worl’, as some countries an’ people became mair po’orful, they wanted tae conquer an’ subdue their neighbors an’ take their lan’ for themsel’s. ’Tis a natural thing, though sinful an’ greedy. But ’tis hoo people’s an’ nations are. Sae as the years went along an’ England recovered fae Roman rule an’ strengthened itsel’, its kings began tae luik at the lan’ o’ the Scots tae the north thinkin’ they’d like tae hae that land for themselves. All through the Middle Ages, the twa countries fought back an’ forth, whiles one gettin’ the upper hand an’ whiles anither. An’ as England was bigger an’ stronger, there were times when it subdued the Scots right proper an’ when Scotland was nae better than a northern province o’ England.

  “But e’en during sich times, the prood Scots ne’er forgot their Celtic roots an’ their independence. They may hae been ruled by the English for a season, but they ne’er gie up the independence in their herts. They ne’er forgot that they were Celts. They werena Anglo-Saxon nor English.

  “Then came a climax. ’Twas late in the thirteenth century during a period o’ English rule that was grim an’ cruel for the Scots. The auld Scots king had deid, ye see, wi’oot a clear heir tae the Scots’ throne. English King Edward had come north an’ used the opportunity o’ confusion in Scotland tae place it under his ain rule, an’ Scotland was in a sorry state. There were some wha tried tae rally the Scots tae rise up an’ throw off Edward’s rule, men like William Wallace. But they werena strong enouch an’ Edward squashed them under his thumb.”

  “William Wallace,” I said. “He was the one they called Braveheart. I know about him from the movie.”

  “I dinna ken aboot that, lass.”

  “It’s not important. Please, go on.”

  “Then came a day when a man called Robert Bruce, wha’s father an’ gran’father hae been earlier claimants tae the Scots throne, began tae raise a secret army throughout Scotland. In time he raised a big enouch army that the Scots were ready tae take on Edward an’ all the might o’ England. Fit the Wallace couldna do, the Bruce was ready tae try again. The year was 1314 an’ the twa armies met at Bannockburn jist outside Stirling. Hae ye heard o’ Bannockburn?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I visited there, before I came up here.”

  “Aye, then ye’ll ken a’ aboot it. ’Twas the greatest battle in all Scottish history. King Robert the Bruce defeated King Edward an’ sent him back south across the border tae England. An’ the independence o’ the Scots was guaranteed for anither four hundred years, or close till it.”

  “No wonder Robert the Bruce is so famous.”

  “He’s aye the greatest hero in the history o’ Scotland for his defeat o’ the English at Bannockburn.”

  “What about Bonnie Prince Charlie?” I asked. “I thought he was the most famous Scot.”

  “He’s comin’ in his time, lassie!” laughed Mr. Bain. “Jist be patient. By the 1600s, though Scotland an’ England were independent countries, the dispute between nations all oor Europe had changed. It wasna jist aboot land sae muckle as afore, an’ stronger nations bein’ greedy for their neighbor’s land. Noo ’twas aboot religion, too, on account o’ the Reformation. Noo Catholic nations wanted tae impose Catholicism on ither countries, an’ Protestant nations wanted tae impose their beliefs. An’ though both England an’ Scotland were Protestant, Anglican, an’ Presbyterian, ’twas still a dispute aboot Catholicism that led tae the Jacobite rebellion. An’ there were an unco heap o’ Catholics in Scotland, too, which added tae the problem.

  “What happened was this, ye see—in the 1680s, James II became king o’ England, an’ he was a hated Catholic. Noo the English lords couldna bide a Catholic on their throne. So they said tae William o’ Orange fae o’er in Holland, ‘Will ye come tae England an’ be oor king instead?’ ’Twas an invitation William o’ Orange couldna refuse. He sailed for England an’ became English King William II.”

  “That doesn’t sound right,” I said. “He wasn’t even an Englishman.”

  “It wasna richt. But the English lords preferred a Protestant Dutchman on their throne tae the richtfu’ heir wha was Catholic an’ a Scot. William’s wife Mary was English, sae they justified it till themsel’s. ’Tis the way the English think, ye see. They pride themselv’s o’ being a nation o’ law, but gien they dinna like what the law says they change it. No that the Scots are ony better in the matter o’ the kings o’ its history, but they arena sae high an’ mighty aboot it like the English.

  “Sae William o’ Orange became king. But the Scots didna like it—no on account o’ their bein’ Catholic but because James II was a Scot, the great-grandson of Mary Queen of Scots, an’ was also the king o’ Scotland. The leaders o’ England, in offerin’ the crown tae William o’ Orange, had also offered him the kingship o’ Scotland as weel. Ye see, e’er since the time o’ Mary’s son James, England an’ Scotland, though separate countries, had had the same king. He was already King James VI o’ Scotland. But when Queen Elizabeth died in 1603, he became heir to her throne as weel, as Mary an’ Elizabeth were cousins. Sae King James VI o’ Scotland became King James I o’ England. An’ after that, in what’s called the union o’ the crowns, the twa nations had the same king.”

  “I am afraid I am getting very confused!” I laughed. “I’m not used to keeping so many kings and queens straight in my head.”

  “Weel, maybe it isna sae important that ye mind ilka one, but the bigger story they tell. Ye see, there were mony Scots, maistly in the Heilands whaur the Catholics lived, wha werena aboot tae boo the knee tae William o’ Orange. In their minds, their king was still James, no matter what the law o’ the land said. That’s hoo the Jacobites came into bein’. They were loyal tae the hoose o’ Jacobus or James in Latin—the Stewart line that had been on the Scots throne syne the 1300s. But James had fled into exile in France when the Parliament invited William o’ Orange tae be king. The opposition tae his kingship in some parts o’ Scotland was sae great that William set oot tae crush it. He ordered a’ the Scottish clan chiefs tae take an oath o’ allegiance tae him.

  “But in the Heilands, whaur the loyalty tae James was strongest, many refused. William increased his demand, threatenin’ deith tae any wha refused. The last clan chief tae take the oath o’ allegiance was MacDonald o’ Glencoe. But because his oath was late in reachin’ the king, William ordered ilka MacDonald o’ Glencoe tae be put tae the sword.”

  “I thought they were killed by a rival clan.”

  “Aye, they were, but the Campbells was under orders fae King William.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would one Scottish clan fight against another?”

  “Ah, lass—fightin’ among themsel’s, ’tis the history o’ Scotland i
tsel’. Rivalries atween clans meant more tae some than the nation as a whole. Kings secured loyalty hoo they cud, wi’ money, wi’ power, wi’ special favors, wi’ land. An’ the Campbells were loyal tae the English king, e’en gien he wasna English at all. Scotland was split, ye see, atween Protestants loyal tae the new king William, an’ Jacobites an’ Catholics loyal tae ousted King James. It wasna sae easy as jist Scots on one side an’ the English on the ither.”

  “What happened at Glencoe, then?”

  “Whan MacDonald o’ Glencoe was late wi’ his oath o’ allegiance, King William—that’s William o’ Orange, the Dutchman, ye ken—sent the Campbells tae Glencoe tae carry oot his terrible order. An’ that they did early one cauld snowy February mornin’ in 1692. They roused the MacDonalds oot o’ their beds an’ the dreadfu’ slaughter began.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “’Twas horrible indeed, though many escaped, includin’ my own ancestor, cousin tae the chief MacAonghais wha fled Glencoe wi’ his son John. ’Tis hoo the Bains came tae settle in this region. The lad John Bain became a man an’ settled in Portsoy whaur he worked in the marble quarry.”

  “What happened to James?” I asked. “Did he ever regain the throne?”

  “Nae, nae. The massacre o’ Glencoe was the end o’ all hope o’ Scottish independence an’ a’ hope o’ the Stewart king rulin’ either England or Scotland agin. After the massacre naebody dared oppose King William. He was grudgingly acknowledged as king in Scotland. But the Jacobites kennt in their herts that he wasna the true king. When James VII died in France, the French king proclaimed his son James Francis Edward Stewart the rightful king’ o’ England, Scotland, an’ Ireland. The French, ye see, was always bitter enemies o’ the English, an’ ’twas in France among the exiled English an’ Scots that the Jacobite spirit remained stoot. James VIII tried tae start a rebellion tae put the Stewarts back on the throne in 1708, after the Act o’ Union, but it came tae nothin’.”

  “The Act of Union?”