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.
Twenty-Five
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.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 12
