Reunion: A Search for Ancestors

by Littrell, Ryan

  I nodded.

  I also had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Somewhere in my office,” he continued, “there are all these files, big files, with mysterious papers in them. They’re pleasant-looking, I suppose, and quite official, and very competent people have put them together. Very intelligent people. Well-regarded people. But once in a while, just once in a wee while, someone asks me to take a look at them. I start looking at the numbers, the columns and figures and such. And all’s well at the beginning, as someone takes me down the rows, but after a page or two the numbers start to lose their focus. Do you know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  And now I kind of had an idea what he was talking about.

  “I just break out in a cold sweat, every time. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. All of these Angus MacDonalds and John MacDonalds and Donald MacDonalds, and Angus son of Angus son of John son of Allan son of Angus. I think all of it is absolutely splendid, really, and I’m very happy to know that there are good people who can sort it all out, you know. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather pull teeth.”

  Luckily, his cousin John had compiled their family tree. It was all on one large sheet of paper, like a heraldic banner. Because of its size, Lachie and Diane had left it behind at Robert and Jeanette’s house nearby, where they were staying. Would we like to go there?

  Sure, yes, that would be great.

  At the house, just down the road, we were welcomed in, and Robert and Jeanette said to make ourselves at home. We found ourselves talking and laughing for an hour, and then another hour.

  But soon it was time for Lachie to ceremoniously unfurl his family tree and spread it out on the floor. We followed the generations up, from Lachie to his parents and grandparents, until we came to James MacDonald, who left Glencoe for the Isle of Lismore in the late 18th century.

  James’ parents weren’t listed here, but there was a long line connecting him to an Angus MacDonald, who was alive in 1692. Lachie’s family must have passed on the tradition that their ancestor James was descended from this Angus, who lived at Achnacon, the wide field in the center of the glen. Then we moved up one generation and saw that the father of this Angus of Achnacon was a man named Alexander MacDonald.

  The tacksman of Achtriachtan.

  If Lachie’s family tradition had it right, then the Glencoe tree now looked like this:

  There was no clear proof that Lachie was patrilineally descended from Angus MacDonald of Achnacon, son of the tacksman of Achtriachtan, but family legends were often true. Especially in the Highlands. The Gaelic tradition was almost entirely oral, and genealogies were passed down from one generation to the next without ever being written down. The Lord Lyon Court of Arms in Edinburgh had recently recognized a new chief based, in part, on an oral genealogy, known as a sloinneadh.

  One thing was clear: The DNA fit Lachie’s family story. The people who’d passed on this sloinneadh, Lachie’s grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents, his aunts and uncles and his passed-away cousins, never could have known that every male MacDonald in their family carried something of the Glencoe chiefs in their chromosomes. But the things they had said for more than three hundred years were perfectly consistent with what the DNA was saying, now, for the first time. Based on his close-but-not-so-close DNA match with Colin, I’d suspected that Lachie was descended from one of the tacksmen’s families, and suddenly I had a strong clue about which family it was.

  And so, just as suddenly, I had a hint of who could have been the father, grandfather, or great-grandfather of my ancestor Angus McDonald. Was I descended from the MacDonalds of Achtriachtan?

  Back in New York, at my computer again, I turned from the DNA and began looking for the documents, the paper trail, that might tell me more about my ancestor Angus, father of John and grandfather of Hiram. Before the trip to Glencoe, I’d discovered that my Angus left a will in Garrard County, Kentucky in 1826, and passed away by 1830. From census records and Internet posts, it appeared that my Angus was in Kentucky by the 1790s, but no one seemed to know where he lived before then.

  Maybe, though, there were records at the Garrard County courthouse that would shed light on Angus’ family. Online, I found Kathy Vockery, a genealogist in Garrard County, who said she’d be willing to look into the records there.

  A couple of weeks later, a yellow envelope from Kathy was in my mailbox, and I opened it. Inside were several photocopied pages.

  Here, on top, was Angus’ will, and I looked for his signature, but then I could tell it was written in the clerk’s handwriting; this was simply the court’s copy. That would explain why the name was given as McDaniel, not McDonald. Reading through the lines, I saw that Angus had left all of his property to his wife Nancy.

  Then the will read: “As for my first children, I have given them all that I intend for them and that I had of my own property.” There, listed among the adult children who’d received all that they were going to receive, was my ancestor John. From census records, I knew that Angus and Nancy had one son together, so the phrase “my first children” meant that Nancy really wasn’t the mother of John and the others, just as suspected.

  Next in the envelope, after the will, was a copy of the inventory of Angus’ estate; the executor had sold off much of Angus’ personal property in order to help support Nancy, and the items and buyers were all listed here. The date of the estate sale was August 25, 1828, suggesting that Angus died in the spring or summer of that year—about the same time as his son John, my ancestor.

  I read through the list. A cupboard full of plates, cups, knives, and forks. A looking glass, an oven. A field of standing corn. And then a “parcel of old books,” sold to John B. Jennings for 62½ cents. So Angus was probably literate. He owned books that, in 1828, were considered old. Perhaps these were 18th century books he’d inherited or bought, and perhaps he’d been an educated man.

  Next in the envelope was a record dated February 10, 1821. Here, set down in the clerk’s handwriting, Angus informed the judge that he had a claim to a certain piece of land, and that he wanted to pass on the claim to two of his sons, in case they wished to pursue it. One son was John, my ancestor, and the other was George, the youngest, born in about 1815 to Angus and Nancy.

  Angus told the judge that his uncle, also named Angus McDonald, had passed away. As a result, my Angus said, he was “entitled to a lot of land in the state of Virginia, entered, surveyed and granted to John Savage and Company for their services in the War of 1756.” This was the French and Indian War, also known as the Seven Years’ War, when the British and French fought for control of Canada and the lands west of the Thirteen Colonies.

  Angus continued: “The said Angus McDonald, deceased, did serve in the war aforesaid and has departed this life, leaving the said Angus McDonald, the younger, his only heir resident in America.”

  I looked up from the page and said it back to myself. My ancestor Angus had an Uncle Angus who fought in the French and Indian War of 1756 to 1763, who was awarded land in Virginia for his service in that war, and who, apparently, died without having any heirs—or at least any heirs who lived in the United States.

  The last piece of paper in this envelope from Kathy was a copy of a letter that had been written several years before, and had been sent to the Garrard County Historical Society. It had come from a man who was descended from my ancestor Angus. It was short, with an introductory sentence and then one full paragraph. It said that before Angus went to Kentucky, he and his family lived in Amherst County, Virginia.

  Now I knew the path forward. If I could identify this Uncle Angus, this old veteran of the French and Indian War, I might be able to identify his brother, and identifying his brother meant identifying the father of my ancestor Angus. And if this letter to the Garrard County Historical Society had it right, then the records of Amherst County, Virginia might tell me who my
Angus was, and where he’d come from.

  But just before I began looking to Virginia, I got an email from the DNA company. Uncle Chuck had a new match.

  This man matched Chuck more closely than anyone else did, with the exception of Jim McDonald of Houston, fellow descendant of my ancestor Angus. Besides Jim, this new match appeared to be my closest cousin.

  His name was Alistair MacDonald, of Glencoe.

  CHAPTER 22

  BÒID NA

  H-ÙMHLACHD

  Fiù mus d’fhuair iad buaidh oirnn a-rithist ’s a-rithist, cha robh sinne aig àird ar neirt.

  Even before the defeats, we were not at our full strength.

  In those first few months of 1690, while Alasdair MacIain and his tacksmen waited for word from our King James, they knew that their people could not give much more. At Killiecrankie and at Dunkeld, several months before, we had lost half of our men, so that scarcely fifty of fighting age remained.

  In those winter months, so many of our children were brought into new houses to be raised with their cousins, who would come to be their brothers and sisters. In those winter months, so many mothers held their tears until the night, when the rest were asleep.

  Yet, once the call came, a small party gathered beside the loch, as we had promised. Alasdair MacIain would stay behind, for now, as would his heir Iain, called John in your language. The men would be led by Alasdair’s younger son, known as Alasdair Og, who had few fears.

  They joined an army of Highlanders walking to Loch Ness in April. Only 1,200 were with them, for the bitterest cold had lingered into the spring, preventing more men from leaving the fields and cattle. The clans had been assured that 8,000 troops from Ireland would arrive, but only a few officers had come. The bulk of James’ army was needed there, it was said, for William himself was even now preparing to invade the Irish. The chiefs were loath to send many of their clansmen into battle while James remained in Ireland, while matters there remained so very unsettled. Some began to wonder, even, whether James was a king worthy of our swords.

  Those voices gained a new force at the close of April, when James’ man, Thomas Buchan, brought the small army of Highlanders to camp beside the River Spey, by the village of Cromdale. Buchan neglected to place guards by one of the river fords, and William’s cavalry came to that ford in the middle of the night, while most of the Highland men were asleep.

  Finding no resistance, the government’s horsemen crossed the river and charged into the camp. They hacked in the darkness. The Highlanders who were not instantly killed ran up into the hills, and they, too, surely would have been struck down were it not for the mist that suddenly formed about the upper slopes. The disappearing clansmen, it later would be written, seemed “rather to be people received up into clouds than flying from an enemy.”

  Alasdair Og and the men of Glen Coe returned home from Cromdale, but nearly a third of the army had been struck down, and many of the Highlanders had been taken prisoner. Old Alasdair MacIain and the other chiefs saw that this spring of 1690 would not give them their proper chance at a challenge to William’s rule. Buchan mustered the clans to fight in several skirmishes, yes, and the forces of William’s government harried the Highlands and the Isles, but all knew that the great battle, the momentous one, would be in Ireland, not so far to our west.

  There, beside the River Boyne, our King James stood in early July with 25,000 soldiers, most of them Irish. William had brought his fleet from England, and had landed in the north of Ireland, where he enjoyed his greatest support, about two weeks before. From Belfast, he came south to the banks of the Boyne, just thirty miles from Dublin, commanding 36,000 men from his England, his Holland and his Lowlands of Scotland.

  Early in the morning, William went about his attack, sending his loyal Dutchmen across the river. No Gael would have wished them well, but neither could any Gael have denied that the Dutchmen showed their strength. The Irish fired volley after volley at them as they pushed across the river on foot. Yet the Dutch returned fire even as they crossed, even as their feet sank, and then held their ground once the Irish cavalry came over them. With this foothold upon James’ side of the river, more of William’s forces were able to cross, and yet more, but only after hundreds of losses were they able to push back the Irish.

  James had preserved much of his army, and thus could have repulsed William’s men back across the river. Still, rather than rally his men for victory, he began to worry that an eventual escape route to Dublin might be imperilled by William’s cavalry. Even as our Irish cousins were preparing to attack, James ordered them to retreat. The Irish had lost less than a tenth of their army, and they wished dearly to fight on, to defeat William, but James would not give them the chance.

  Convinced, somehow, that his cause in Ireland was lost, he rode ahead of his retreating army, boarded a French vessel, and sailed away. He was in exile, once again, among our French allies. Many of his Irish supporters, enraged, left the army and returned to their homes, and a few days later, William and the English marched into Dublin.

  When word of James’ flight reached the Highlands and the Isles, our chiefs’ hopes waned. Our people could expect little support from Ireland now, and though it was hoped that France would aid our cause, Alasdair MacIain and the other chiefs wondered whether Louis XIV would place his trust in a sovereign who had abandoned his men.

  Still, James was our king, for loyalty cannot be disowned. If it could be, then it would hold no merit, it would have no meaning whatsoever. It would be nothing but a word.

  Too, a French fleet had crushed the English navy off Beachy Head one day before the Battle of the Boyne, and thus a French invasion of England did not appear so improbable. With James and Louis returning to the north, the Highlanders might enjoy, at last, our deserved fight. This was not a time for lunging, but for caution, a time to wait for news of James’ plans, France’s intentions.

  Yet, throughout the summer and autumn of 1690, William’s government pressed into the Highlands. Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll, took his new regiment to the Isle of Mull and burned all that he could of the MacLeans’ lands. His servants took Castle Stalker from the Stewarts of Appin, our neighbours and allies. Every day, English ships passed among the waters off of the Isles. Hundreds of infantrymen from the 32-gun ship Dartmouth laid waste to the Isles of Gigha, Cara and Colonsay. They killed so many of the people of the Isle of Eigg. Mackay, the commander whom we had defeated at Killiecrankie the previous year, built a new fort just north of our glen, and it was garrisoned with 1,200 redcoats under Governor John Hill.

  The Parliament in Edinburgh honoured it with the name of Fort William.

  As the people of Glen Coe celebrated Samhuinn at the close of October, as the snows built upon Bidean nam Bian, James’ court in Paris was rich with talk of the coming invasion. As the new year of 1691 began, as the sun came over Sgorr nam Fiannaidh, over Sgorr na Cìche and the stretching ridge of Aonach Eagach, as the taste of the salted cattle lost much of its novelty, there were yet more rumours from Paris of James’ return.

  For the next few months, Governor John Hill wrote his earnest letters to the chiefs, including Alasdair MacIain, urging them to submit to William. Again and yet again the chiefs refused. For all of the government’s forts and regiments, our people remained loyal. John Hill, Archibald Campbell, and the rest of them could not conquer us.

  In April, then, word reached the Highlands of Louis’ victory over William at Mons, across the English Channel in Flanders. Louis’ massive army threatened William more than ever before. With this, William and his advisors knew that they would need every last man they could summon to fight upon the Continent. It did not help them that many of their soldiers were yet in Ireland, for our cousins there had not surrendered when James ran away; they continued the fight, they kept to their hearts, despite the defeat beside the Boyne. Pacifying us in the north, for a time, would e
nable William’s government to shift men and guns south to Flanders, perhaps even to France itself.

  Thus, William’s servant John Dalrymple began to entertain a certain strategy. Dalrymple, the very man who had gone to London to give the Scottish throne to William and Mary just two years before, the very man who had dreamed for long of binding England and Scotland together, was now of course the Secretary of State for Scotland. His strategy had been whispered before, but only now did the men in Edinburgh and London take it seriously: If William could not subdue the Highlanders with force, perhaps he could subdue us with money. While James remained away from us, dithering at Louis’ château outside of Paris, perhaps English gold could buy a peace, for a short while.

  Into this opening stepped a Campbell. It was not, however, Archibald Campbell, William’s loyal Earl of Argyll, but his dear cousin John Campbell, the Earl of Breadalbane. He was the chief of the Campbells of Glen Orchy, who had gotten their lands through a most convenient marriage, centuries before. Besides being Archibald Campbell’s cousin, he was married to Archibald’s aunt Mary. Among the kindred and servants of the Campbells, he was second only to the Earl of Argyll himself.

  He was fifty-five years old or so in the spring of 1691, several years younger than our chief Alasdair MacIain, and he was pale, with thin lips, holding a grave expression nearly all of the time. Among the Gaels he was called Iain Glas, Grey John, for he rarely held to one view, or to one cause. Two years before, he had privately expressed his support to William, but had refused to provide him with troops. When called upon to fight for James, he had responded that, though he had dearly wished to join the clans, he had suffered a regrettable attack of gout, just then, that would keep him and all his men away. One who knew him well said that he was “cunning as a fox, wise as a serpent, slippery as an eel.”

  Now, with James in Paris, Grey John was publicly on the side of William, but kept in earnest correspondence with our chiefs, never firmly disavowing James. He was, as the chiefs knew, “Willie’s man in Edinburgh and Jamie’s in the Highlands.”