Robert Campbell of Glen Lyon, Alasdair’s counterpart in the Glencoe drama, at least possessed only one surname, which lessens this confusion somewhat. He was known equally as “Campbell” and “Glenlyon.”
Further confusion results when men were known either by title or by the name of their estate or the title of their peerage. Thus Sir John Dalrymple, King William’s secretary of state for Scotland, who was the Master of Stair, is often referred to in historical documents simply as “Stair,” as if it were his actual name.
4. The multitude and confusion of names in this drama may be helped by a brief cast of the principal characters along with the various names by which they were known.
King William III of England—William of Orange, became king in 1689, son-in-law of deposed King James VII.
Sir John Dalrymple—Master of Stair, secretary of state for Scotland, also known as “Stair.”
Sir Thomas Livingstone—King William’s commander in chief in Scotland.
Chief Alasdair MacIain of the MacDonalds of Glencoe—“Alasdair the Red, the old fox, MacIain of Glencoe, MacIain, MacDonald of Glencoe, MacDonald, Glencoe.”
John MacIain—eldest son of Alasdair, who succeeded him as chief.
Alasdair Og MacIain—younger son of Alasdair, “Alexander the Younger,” married to Sarah Campbell, niece of Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.
Ruadh Og—son of Alasdair Og, grandson of the chief.
Archibald Campbell, tenth earl of Argyll—known simply as “the earl” or “Argyll.”
Captain Robert Campbell of Glen Lyon—known as “Campbell” or “Glenlyon.”
Sir Colin Campbell of Ardkinglas—sheriff of Argyll, known as “Ardkinglas.”
Colin Campbell of Dressalch—sheriff-clerk of Argyll, office in Edinburgh, known as “Dressalch.”
Colonel John Hill—governor of Fort William.
Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Hamilton—appointed deputy governor of Fort William.
Major Robert Duncanson—commander of the Argyll regiment sent by Hamilton from Fort William to Ballachulish.
Captain Thomas Drummond—delivered dispatch from Duncanson to Robert Campbell on February 12.
MacDonald of Inverrigan—Robert Campbell’s host in Glencoe, known as “Inverrigan.”
Sergeant Robert Barber—Brochan’s commander, hosted with his men by MacDonald of Achnacone.
Others mentioned: Sir John Campbell, earl of Breadalbane (known as “Breadalbane”), Alasdair the Black MacDonald of Glengarry (known as “Glengarry”), Allan MacDonald of Clanranald (known as “Clanranald”), Sir Donald MacDonald of Sleat (known as “Sleat”).
4
Call of Ancient Roots
One
An auspicious gathering had convened in a dimly lit but expensively appointed back room of a pub in Knightsbridge.
Surrounded by dark oak and mahogany tones of paneled wainscoting and furnishings, one Dugald MacKinnon, the man who had masterminded the strategy behind the events leading up to this evening, stood drink in hand at one end of an ornate sideboard upon which several bottles sat. A smile was on his face as he listened to a select circle of colleagues offer congratulations on the triumph of the previous day.
The results of yesterday’s general election throughout the United Kingdom were now complete.
The long reign of the Conservative Party in the United Kingdom had come to an end late in the 1990s with Richard Barraclough’s overwhelming victory. It was a titanic shift of the country back toward the left for the first time since 1979. Everyone expected Prime Minister Barraclough to remain at the parliamentary helm for as long as Margaret Thatcher had, if not longer. His youthful good looks and dash seemed perfect for a long ride. No one expected such a close race in this, Barraclough’s first reelection bid, following as it did just one month after Charles III’s Stone-less coronation.
However, a squeaker it was. Suddenly the prime minister faced having to deal with parties other than his own to keep his grip on power. Labour’s meager eight-member plurality, well short of an outright majority, suddenly brought Barraclough face-to-face with the necessity of a coalition government. It was either that or call for new elections, which in the day’s uncertain climate might be dangerous. Barraclough could lose power altogether. Nor had the modest gains of the Liberal Democrats and the huge advance of the Scottish Nationalists been anticipated. Both would have to be considered for widely expanded roles if Labour hoped to rule for long. That was exactly what MacKinnon, the acknowledged leader of the Scottish Nationalist Party, or SNP, had been counting on.
Already one bottle of Glenfiddich stood empty on the sideboard. A second had been half consumed, while the ebullient toasts and cheers flowed as smoothly from the mouths of the celebrators as the twelve-year-old whisky from Dufftown passed between their lips.
This private coterie had been called together not merely to celebrate, however, but to discuss and plan. Any potential coalition would necessarily be thin. It was doubtful Labour could hold the reins for another full term. The SNP’s window of opportunity would be of unpredictable duration. They thus had to devise a strategy that would enable them to move into action the instant circumstances aligned themselves favorably. At the same time, with suspicion about the Abbey break-in continuing to hang over their heads, they felt they needed to keep a relatively low profile.
“Well, Dugald,” one of the number said, raising his glass, “I honestly did not think your scheme would work when you proposed it several months ago. I salute your foresight and courage!”
“My thanks, Buchanan, for your kind words,” laughed the recipient of the evening’s praise. His accent was distinctive for this cultured part of London and rang thickly and unmistakably with reminders of its northern origins. “Who can predict how the political winds will blow these days? The important thing is that Prime Minister Barraclough now owes us a tremendous debt. Believe me, I do not intend to let him forget it.”
More toasts from MacKinnon’s Scottish Nationalist colleagues followed.
“He gave his promise of yet more widely expanded Scottish sovereignty without understanding just how seriously we would take his words. We all know Major’s gesture with the Stone in ’96 was made in hopes of gaining enough of Scotland’s vote to salvage his government. That gambit failed. But now the good Mr. Barraclough has stepped into the same trap of underestimating the Scot. When it comes time that we may hold the key to keeping his government together, we will not let him forget his promise.”
“Here, here—you are a hero,” added Lachlan Ross, reelected MP from Glasgow, who had already had a glass or two more than the rest and was beginning to wax a bit too eloquent, even for this occasion.
“Yesterday’s vote warms us nearly as much as this amber brew in my hand, Dugald,” enjoined still another, whose tone carried more skepticism than had yet been voiced. “But do you realistically believe it is possible for us to advance yesterday’s result to the realization of our dream of independence?”
“I do indeed, William.”
“To be honest,” Campbell went on, “I am surprised we fared as well as we did with the Stone theft unresolved and people wondering if we had something to do with it.”
“In the polls I’ve seen, public judgment is evenly split between Scottish and Irish radicals in the affair. In any event, I doubt it affected the vote.”
“Perhaps not,” added Buchanan, “but it’s been unnerving having the police around. I don’t like it.”
Comments of agreement circulated throughout the room. Everyone in the party had been hounded and interrogated since the break-in, though no connection with anyone in the SNP had been found.
“Well then,” said Campbell, returning to the previous point, “we await the next phase of your proposal, Dugald, to which you alluded when you called us here. The Stone notwithstanding, you have accomplished what none of us, and probably no man in Scotland, thought possible. You have put a greatly expanded role for Scotland’s parliament on the government
’s manifesto.1 Barraclough may have intended it as a mere token, but it upped the stakes and heightened interest. He doubtless had no idea where it would lead. But how far can we go beyond these recent advances? Devolution is a fact. We have our parliament. What now?”
The room fell silent. One or two took thoughtful sips from their crystal tumblers.
MacKinnon allowed the hush to descend to an almost reverential quality. He continued to stand unmoving at the sideboard.
“It is quite simple, gentlemen,” said the leader of the small but outspoken party at length. “We will give our complete and unwavering support to our Labour brethren, exactly as I have assured the prime minister we will. Then we await events. A critical juncture is bound to come when the prime minister’s coalition will find itself threatened. That is the moment I will play my IOU—and then the stakes will be far greater than a mere puppet parliament. When the time comes we will place one of our own in the position of Scotland’s first minister. That done, we wait . . . and we watch.
“As long as Hamilton is at the helm of the Liberal Democrats,” put in the Deputy Leader of the SNP, Baen Ferguson, “your plan does not have a chance.” His statement was a trial balloon, for he alone of the group possessed information as to the potential future disposition of Hamilton’s loyalties.
“I admit the odds remain long,” MacKinnon was saying. “But we will take one step at a time. For now the election is past, certain advances toward home rule have been promised us, and we have placed ourselves in a position where the prime minister needs us. All these developments are significant gains for the cause of Scottish independence.”
He paused, then added in a tone of concern, “We must, however, keep our eyes on developments. If it were to be discovered that some radical element within our own movement were indeed involved in the Stone’s theft, everything could be ruined.”
“Perhaps the destiny of the Stone’s future legacy has come,” suggested Ferguson.
“Acts of radicalism may, as our friend Campbell suggested earlier, prejudice the public against us,” insisted MacKinnon. “It is only through the political process that we will achieve our ends. We just have to hope the Yard finds the culprit, and that no Scot is involved. In the meantime, we set our sights on the next rung of the ladder, await the right moment, watch for our opportunity.”
“We have no Robert the Bruce today, around whom all of Scotland will unite,” observed Campbell wryly, “ . . . unless you are prepared to take up the banner, Dugald. Do you intend to stand for first minister?”
The words were spoken but half in seriousness. Yet the room grew suddenly still, as if mere mention of Scotland’s legendary hero had permeated the air with an ancient presence.
“No,” replied MacKinnon with a faraway look in his mind’s eye. “I am not the one.” He was a politician and a pragmatic man, well enough aware of his own limitations. He had felt the presence more keenly than the rest, and he knew what it portended.
“I am merely a forerunner. There will come another,” he went on, his pragmatism and vision now fusing as one. “For now we must be patient. We cannot always see the circumstances that will thrust a hero up from the ranks of common men to change nations and redirect history. When Alexander III died suddenly in 1286, Robert Bruce was a mere lad of eight. No mantle of heroism yet clung to his boyish shoulders—it had to be earned later, and it was shaped by the events and demands of his era.”
He paused briefly, then added, “Events will come in our time as well. Devolution has begun a process from which there can be no turning back. Yet what most do not realize is that devolution and the new parliament in Edinburgh are only the beginning. The Act of Union must ultimately be undone.”
The room was still as they pondered their leader’s words.
“Our own hero-king will arise,” MacKinnon went on, “—a new Bruce, mounted upon the political war-steed of our times. He will wage the contest not with axe or spear or longbow, but with a heart that fears not the challenge.
“The election just past will, I am confident, precipitate events as did Alexander’s death seven centuries ago. I believe the sort of man of which I speak will soon emerge upon the national scene.”
The silence which followed this time was lengthy and pregnant with reflection.
Each of the small company felt drawn in one accord back centuries in time, as if they stood with that ancient king of legend on the eve of Bannockburn’s battle, each considering his role in the historic events soon to follow.
“My comrades and kinsmen,” concluded MacKinnon, his voice taking on the ancient timber of a Celtic bard, “the day approaches when the Sassanach will again rule his own land . . . and we ours.”
“Hear, hear!” slurred Lachlan Ross.
“Hear, hear!” added two or three others, now solemnly lifting their glasses.
“The moment has come for us to lay claim once more to the land of our heritage. It is time Scotland again belonged to her own people. Not in part . . . but in full.”
He raised his own glass now, in response to theirs.
“To Scotland!”
“—and ancient Caledonia!” added Buchanan.
“To Caledonia!” consented the others enthusiastically.
Two
A week following his reelection, Andrew Trentham again journeyed north.
Several receptions and speaking engagements were planned in appreciation for the vote, and to give him a chance to mingle informally with the people of his constituency. His thoughts of late, however, had been occupied more with the Glencoe story than with the election. The fact that the Stone of Scone had not been recovered and that the theft continued to baffle Scotland Yard also served to keep Duncan’s homeland at the forefront of his thoughts.
He had not seen Blair since the fateful luncheon prior to his previous trip. Nor could the Glencoe story but remind him, in his more morose moments, of the betrayal he felt at being dumped by her. It was a ridiculous parallel, he tried to tell himself. She had not betrayed him. Yet he could not prevent the reminder from stinging.
At the first available opportunity, Andrew dressed for the weather and headed out the front door.
“Where are you going, Andrew?” asked Lady Trentham, emerging from the drawing room behind him.
“Out for a walk, Mum,” replied Andrew cheerfully. “Maybe a visit to Duncan.”
“Why him, Andrew? There are more important people you need to see while you’re home.”
“I like Duncan, Mum. One can’t always be hobnobbing with three-piece-suit types. I get plenty of that in London.”
“Your father was just the same when I first met him. But you can’t be forever out wandering the hills and spending your valuable time in a sheepherder’s cottage. You need to pay more attention to your social obligations. You’ve let Blair slip away, and all you can do is go out walking. You’re an MP, for heaven’s sake, not a mystic.”
Andrew sighed but did not reply. What could he say? Slowly he turned and continued on to the door, feeling the intensity of her puzzled and disapproving stare on his back.
Walking away from the house, Andrew struck out along the hillside pathways, doing his best to put the incident behind him. It had been so long since he had visited Duncan’s cottage with any regularity and heard him speak of Scotland. Now all of a sudden, everywhere one looked Scotland was in the news. Despite his mother’s comments, he found himself hungry for more of the old man’s tales. As he walked, Andrew’s thoughts unexpectedly returned to yesterday’s briefing with the press.
A smile came to his face as he recalled the question that had been delivered with an unmistakable American accent. The discussion had centered around the upcoming second reading of a foreign aid bill. He had just commented that if division came on the bill, he anticipated no delay in its passage. Then the hand had gone up, and he had acknowledged it.
“How serious do you see such a potential division in the House?” came the blurted inquiry from a young woman t
o his left.
A brief snickering followed.
He had felt for the poor reporter as the eyes of London’s coterie of news veterans turned round to see what manner of foreign amateur had committed such a faux pas. He had tried to answer her matter-of-factly, though her reddened face showed she already realized her mistake.
The briefing had continued, and there had been no more questions from that quarter.
Andrew’s thoughts returned to the present.
Three
Patricia Rawlings sat in her London flat replaying yesterday’s events over in her mind.
How could she have been so stupid!
She had heard the term “division” many times before. It shouldn’t have thrown her. Now she had made a fool of herself in front of the very colleagues whose respect she was trying to gain.
The mortification was so severe that she could still feel the eyes turning to fix themselves upon her as MP Trentham gently corrected her.
“A division, Miss, uh—”
“Rawlings, sir,” she managed to reply.
“Yes, Miss Rawlings—a division is a vote in the House of Commons, sometimes taken after the second reading of a bill and subsequent debate. The term indicates no dispute or conflict, only that a vote is being taken.”
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 13
