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 nort
h, 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.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 10
