Reunion: A Search for Ancestors

by Littrell, Ryan

  No, that couldn’t be right. That had to be wrong. It just had to be. Because I’d already read about Colonel Angus McDonald of Frederick County, Virginia, and there was no way that he could be my Uncle Angus.

  Colonel Angus McDonald was a prominent man in Frederick County in the 1760s and 1770s, a confidant of George Washington and a well-regarded soldier—and a patrilineal descendant of the MacDonalds of Glengarry, not the MacDonalds of Glencoe. His gorget, an ornamental collar, was engraved with the Glengarry coat of arms. He even named his house and plantation Glengarry. According to his descendants, he fought with the Glengarry MacDonalds in the rebellion of 1745, but was forced to flee to Virginia in 1747 or so.

  It wasn’t just the Glengarry connection that made me suspect Colonel Angus and Uncle Angus were different people. In the 1821 Garrard County, Kentucky court record, my ancestor Angus wrote that he was Uncle Angus’ “only heir resident in America,” but Colonel Angus had several sons and daughters who lived into adulthood in the United States and were alive and well in 1821.

  Besides, Virginia militia records showed that the Angus McDonald who served with John Savage and George Washington on the Virginia frontier—the one who was entitled to the 400 acres as part of the Savage Land Grant—was twenty-one years old when he enlisted in 1754, which meant he was born in 1732 or 1733. But Colonel Angus’ descendants all said that he was born in about 1727, old enough to fight in Scotland in 1745 and 1746.

  Somebody had to be wrong. The question was: Who?

  I looked online for any Angus McDonalds or MacDonalds or McDaniels or McDonnells who might have served in the French and Indian War in America. Because maybe my Uncle Angus of Glencoe had been granted this land only to have it taken away by Colonel Angus of Glengarry, who might have innocently thought the land was his, or not.

  The searching took me to several books, and to a few genealogists, but after months of looking and note-taking and waiting, I’d found no other Angus McDonald who could have rightfully claimed that 400 acres other than Colonel Angus. Every record suggested that the Col. Angus McDonald who lived in Frederick County in the 1760s and 1770s was identical to the Angus McDonald who fought with John Savage and George Washington in the French and Indian War, and who was entitled to Lot #41 of the Savage Land Grant.

  Well, somebody had to be lying—either my ancestor Angus or Colonel Angus of Frederick County.

  And as I was going through all these online records and old books, I discovered more and more McDonalds and McDaniels living in Virginia and Maryland in the second half of the 18th century. There were several Anguses, several Johns, an Allen or two, at least one Alexander. But none of them lived in Amherst County, as far as I could tell, so I had no way of knowing whether they were related to my Angus.

  This one clue, though, this one Angus, might lead somewhere. Through a short entry on the Library of Virginia site, and with the help of genealogist Anne Taylor Brown, I learned of an Angus McDonald of Hampshire County, Virginia who emigrated to America from Scotland in 1766, the son of Archibald McDonald. My Angus first appeared in Amherst County in May 1767, so he very well could have emigrated just before then—what if he’d emigrated in 1766 along with these two other McDonalds?

  I had trouble finding any online records about Angus of Hampshire County, Virginia or his father Archibald, except for one thing: This Angus married a woman named Anne Doyle in Allegany County, Maryland in 1798. Allegany County was in western Maryland, and sure enough, there were a few Internet references to McDonalds and McDaniels in that area. So I found Michael Hait, who said he’d look into some of the Maryland records at the state archives in Annapolis.

  His findings came in an email, with PDFs attached. There were no wills or probate records for an Angus McDonald, he reported back, but an Angus McDonald bought several tracts of land in western Maryland in the 1760s and 1770s. Looking through the deeds and patents, I could tell, almost immediately, that this was Colonel Angus of Frederick County, Virginia. His wife Anne Thompson was from Maryland, not far from Frederick County, and Colonel Angus had bought many acres of land that had belonged to Anna’s brothers.

  Oh, well. This wasn’t what I’d been hoping for, but just in case something here was interesting, I should go ahead and look through the PDFs.

  Then I let out a little gasp in my mind.

  One of the tracts that Colonel Angus bought was on the Potomac River, and it began at a spot “standing opposite a high peaked hill.” Anna’s brothers had named the land after their parents, but after purchasing it, Colonel Angus decided to give it a new name.

  Glencoe.

  My ancestor Angus McDonald swore, in a Kentucky court in 1821, that Uncle Angus had received a tract as part of the Savage Land Grant. And now I knew that Colonel Angus McDonald of Frederick County, Virginia not only received that particular tract, but named some of his land in Maryland after the very same glen where my Angus’ ancestors lived.

  Colonel Angus was Uncle Angus.

  But how could this be, given that Colonel Angus’ ancestors were known to be from Glengarry, rather than Glencoe? I could think of two scenarios that made sense.

  Scenario One: Uncle Angus, a.k.a. Colonel Angus, was my Angus’ maternal uncle, not his paternal uncle. Under this scenario, my Angus’ mother was a Glengarry MacDonald:

  Then there was Scenario Two: Uncle Angus, a.k.a. Colonel Angus, was the half-brother of my Angus’ father. Under this scenario, my Angus’ grandmother married a Glencoe MacDonald, but then married a Glengarry MacDonald:

  I didn’t know which scenario was true, but each one fit the facts. Each one explained how my ancestor Angus could have had an uncle who shared his surname, but who didn’t share his patrilineal ancestry. Each one explained how Uncle Angus could have had a connection to Glencoe despite having a Glengarry MacDonald father.

  If Scenario Two were right, then it was even possible that Uncle Angus had Glencoe ancestry himself—his mother might have been from Glencoe, and so he could have named the Maryland purchase after his maternal homeland, having named his Virginia plantation after his father’s home.

  Still, what about my ancestor Angus’ 1821 claim that he was his uncle’s “only heir resident in America?” Colonel Angus had several children and grandchildren who were alive in the U.S. in 1821, so I’d figured that he couldn’t be Uncle Angus.

  But now that I knew more about my ancestor Angus’ history in Virginia, I didn’t see any contradiction at all. Several sources agreed that Colonel Angus married Anne Thompson in 1766, and they stayed in Frederick County all along, and their first child wasn’t born until May 9, 1767—the same day that my Angus’ first plot of land was surveyed in Amherst County, about 130 miles to the south.

  That meant my Angus wouldn’t have known about the birth and survival of Colonel Angus’ first child unless the two of them had stayed in touch after that. My Angus very well could have come to Amherst County before May of 1767, before Colonel Angus was even married. And I could easily see how an uncle and nephew living 130 miles apart, along a mountainous frontier in the 18th century, wouldn’t exactly be exchanging daily updates.

  Now I had two leads to go on, not just one. Two counties in Virginia, two stories, two sets of McDonalds. James Ward had only gotten a chance to take a first look through the Amherst County records regarding my ancestor Angus, so there were many more of those to uncover, and now the Frederick County records awaited, too.

  I was headed south.

  CHAPTER 24

  FÀILTE

  Cha cho-ionann teine lùchairt is teine teallaich.

  The fires in a palace burn differently than a hearth.

  At King Louis XIV’s château near Paris, where our men still waited for our King James’ decision, the firewood surely arrived each morning, and if it did not, that was only because enough had been stocked the night before. During the cold of November and December,
1691, James had day after day to warm himself, day after day to think and wait, knowing that more would come tomorrow. The people of Glen Coe had long conserved even the charred wood, even the wee pieces of peat, but for those few who might live on unclocked time, urgency has no bite.

  Too, at Kensington Palace near London, the logs came whenever needed. William’s ministers and lawyers could bide the time, trusting that news from the north would come soon enough. The Highland chiefs, after all, would have to swear the oath to William by the 1st of January, barely more than three weeks away.

  Still, William’s Secretary of State for Scotland, John Dalrymple, continued with his plans, his orchestration of letters. From Grey John Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane, he learned that the chiefs, even now, insisted upon waiting for approval from James before taking the oath to William. Dalrymple responded that “the madness of these people, and their ungratefulness to you, makes me plainly see there is no reckoning on them; but delenda est Carthago….”

  That phrase, from every good Englishman’s second language, meant “Carthage must be destroyed.” The Romans had repeated those words for decades until they succeeded in burning the whole of Carthage to the ground, selling all of its people into slavery. Every victory in Ireland and Scotland over the previous decades, and every new garrison in the lands of the Gaels, had demonstrated to the English and their Lowland servants that they might yet become the new Rome, expanding rightfully, inevitably, in each direction. Over the sea, even.

  So it was that on the 15th of December, William’s soldiers were given their orders to begin moving north and west. Seven companies of James Leslie’s regiment marched toward Inverness, joined by six companies from John Buchan’s regiment. Robert Lumsden’s company, and George Murray’s, as well, were added to Governor John Hill’s forces at Fort William. The 800 redcoats belonging to the regiment of Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll, were told that they, too, would soon be sent to Fort William.

  Yet Dalrymple did not know that, just a few days before, on the 12th of December, our King James had finally made his decision: He would lead no invasion, and the chiefs were free to swear the oath to William.

  Our messenger, Duncan Menzies, left the château in haste, but though he rushed north, taking the swiftest coaches and ships and hardly sleeping, he was unable to reach Edinburgh until the 21st. Travelling north, he arrived at his home the next day, still miles from the Highlands, and collapsed of exhaustion. Messengers had to be found, and they did not leave Menzies’ home until Christmas Eve. From there, they rode as quickly as possible through the ice and snow, but most of the chiefs did not learn of James’ decision until after Christmas, just a few days before the deadline.

  Alasdair MacIain of Glen Coe was among the last of the chiefs to receive the news, and he immediately set out for Fort William. Like the rest of our people, Alasdair had hoped that James would return and fight, but our king was alive, all the same, with a healthy heir and powerful allies in Scotland, France and elsewhere. The winds very well could shift soon. Signing William’s piece of paper meant a mere pause.

  On the 31st of December, white-haired Alasdair was escorted into Governor Hill’s room at Fort William, and standing tall in his plaid above every other man, he asked to give the oath. Hill was happy to see that Alasdair had come before the deadline, but there was nothing that he could do: He was a military official, and William’s law required, instead, that the submission be given before a sheriff or a sheriff’s deputy.

  Alasdair would have to travel to the Campbell stronghold of Inveraray, a sixty-mile journey to the south, and profess his loyalty to King William in front of the sheriff, Sir Colin Campbell.

  With no true chance at meeting the deadline, Alasdair nonetheless left for Inveraray, hoping that he would somehow be permitted to take the oath. The shortest route would take him through the mountains, but the driving snow prevented it, and thus Alasdair had to go the longer way, along the coast, before finally arriving at Inveraray on the 2nd of January.

  Yet Alasdair would have to wait, for Colin Campbell was away with his family, celebrating Hogmanay. The New Year, as you call it. He alone could accept the oath on William’s behalf, and so for three days, our chief remained in a small inn, never venturing outside, never giving his name, surrounded by soldiers and Campbells.

  Only on the 5th did Colin Campbell return, and Alasdair went to him immediately and handed him a letter written by Governor Hill. It explained that Alasdair had “slipped some days, out of ignorance,” and implored Campbell to accept MacIain’s oath, for “it is good to bring in a lost sheep at any time.” Campbell read the letter, and considered it for a time. William’s edict did not provide any exceptions to the deadline, to be sure. Still, Campbell was regarded as a fair man, and though he hated the MacDonalds, Hill’s letter made plain that the chief of Glen Coe had wholly intended to offer his submission in time.

  Campbell allowed MacIain to take the oath.

  At that, Alasdair returned to our glen, where the news was soon known by all. At Inverrigan and Dalness, at Achtriachtan and Laroch, at Invercoe beside Alasdair’s house, a comfort came over our people for the first time in months. Though our chief had taken the oath, others of the MacDonalds had not, and some worried that harm might come to our cousins of Glen Garry, of Clan Ranald and of the Isle of Skye. The MacLeans, too, had withheld their submission.

  It was scarcely a few days later, on the evening of the 12th, that someone interrupted John Dalrymple from his letter-writing at Kensington Palace. His servant informed him that Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll, had come with a message. Campbell was welcomed in, and told Dalrymple of the events of the north. Campbell owned a great house in London, as did his cousin John Campbell of Breadalbane, and over the previous days, the two of them had met with Dalrymple about what was to be done.

  Dalrymple thanked Campbell, bade him good-bye, and returned to his letter, addressed to King William’s Commander-in-Chief for Scotland, Thomas Livingstone. Dalrymple wrote: “Just now my Lord Argyll tells me that Glen Coe has not taken the oath, at which I rejoice. It’s a great work of charity, to be exact, in rooting out that damnable sept, the worst in all the Highlands.”

  Though other clans had been late, we were the smallest one, and it took only a few days for papers to be drawn up. In London on the 16th of January, 1692, the document was placed before His Majesty William III, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland. William read it all, and was satisfied. He dipped his quill into the ink and signed. The final sentence read: “If MacIain of Glen Coe and that tribe can be well separated from the rest, it will be a proper vindication of the public justice to extirpate that sept of thieves.”

  King William’s order was sent to Governor Hill at Fort William, and the Commander-in-Chief, Thomas Livingstone, soon wrote to James Hamilton, the Deputy Governor there: “So, Sir, here is a fair occasion for you to show that your garrison serves for some use….I desire that you would begin with Glen Coe and spare nothing which belongs to him, but do not trouble the Government with prisoners.”

  On the 1st of February, 120 soldiers from the regiment of Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll, marched toward Glen Coe. One of our men saw them coming and ran ahead to Alasdair MacIain, who quickly ordered his people to hide our weapons up toward the mountains, away from our houses. Alasdair had given the oath, and thus we had little to fear, but that would not prevent the government from confiscating our people’s arms, if they could be found.

  Alasdair’s son John went forward with several men to meet the soldiers, and beside Loch Leven, John asked what brought them to Glen Coe. Lieutenant John Lindsay, standing at the front, answered that they had come in peace. The garrison at Fort William was full, he said, and so it was necessary that the soldiers find food and lodging nearby for a short time.

  Lieutenant Lindsay handed John the orders from his superior officer, which, indeed, authorised the quartering of the troops. John saw that
the orders had been signed by Governor Hill, the very man whose letter had enabled Alasdair MacIain to take the oath despite being late, the very man whose signed letter of protection was still in the possession of our tacksman, John MacDonald of Achtriachtan.

  Now the captain of the company stepped forward. His name was Robert Campbell, and he was a cousin of the Earl of Argyll and of Grey John Campbell of Breadalbane. He was sixty years old, with red-blonde hair, and tall. He loved to drink, to laugh and gamble, to tell stories. Among the first words he uttered to John MacIain were: “How is my nephew?”

  For Robert Campbell was our own kin.

  His niece Sarah was married to Alasdair Og, son of Alasdair MacIain and brother of John. Campbell shook John’s hand and promised that Lieutenant Lindsay’s words were true: The soldiers needed quartering only because of the crowding at Fort William, and it was needed for just a few days, before the regiment would be called to Glen Garry to police the rebels there. Campbell was of Glen Lyon, a Gael, who spoke our tongue and lived in our way. He knew very well our law of hospitality.

  John looked at Campbell, and welcomed him and his soldiers into our glen.

  Sergeant Robert Barber was welcomed into the home of Angus MacDonald, Achtriachtan’s younger brother, and his men were brought into the houses thereabouts, upon the field of Achnacon. Campbell himself was invited to the home of our chief, Alasdair MacIain, but he chose instead to stay in the stone house of our tacksman of Inverrigan, in the woods. All along the glen, doors were opened, and soldiers ducked their heads to come in.

  The older children would have to sleep in the corners, but they would be able to bear it. We would keep the fires burning for them, and the heat would settle over them. We would drape our plaids over them. Yes, they would have to bear it for now, but only for the next few days.