by John Prebble
He folded the letter, sealed it, and took another sheet of paper. Dear Sir Thomas, I send you the King's instructions, super and subscribed by himself…. He was confident that Livingstone would see thereby that he was given full powers in very plain terms. Since the rebels had madly rejected the King's clemency, there could be no just complaint against their punishment. Stair admitted he was much concerned for those he called ‘the poor commonalty’, but if nothing were done to disable them too, they would continue in absolute obedience to their rebellious chiefs. He thought of Keppoch and Glencoe with angry frustration. He had no kind thoughts for them or their people, he said, and they were fortunate to have accepted the King's mercy. He paused, looking at the letter. A good servant deserved the promise of favour to encourage him in his further duties. He wrote on. ‘I did remember the King today that you are now a twelve-month a brigadier, and longer Commander-in-chief of his forces there, which must occasion you to be at greater expense, and yet you have no more but the colonel's pay.’ The King had promised to mend the matter. It could not be done by this post, of course, but Stair would not forget.
There was a scratch at the door and he looked up. A servant bowing, and behind him the tall figure of Argyll, his face flushed beneath the great wig. He had come at once, from dinner or Peggy Alison's bed, to tell Stair the news which Ardkinglas had sent at the turn of the year. He stayed a brief while only, the Master was obviously busy. He said that the clansmen of his regiment, sent to Inverlochy under Duncanson, had taken rations for a fortnight only, and they would have hard living if further arrangements were not made. When his visitor had gone, Stair turned back to his letter. He was elated.
Just now, my Lord Argyll tells me that Glencoe hath not taken the oaths, 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.
He scribbled a hasty conclusion to the letter, asking Livingstone to care for Argyll's Regiment, and then sealed it. Fresh instructions would have to be drawn up for the King's approval, now that MacIain had set himself beyond mercy, but these already before him on the table could not wait, and must be away on the morning tide from Wapping. The great work of charity would yet be ordered.
Five hundred miles away at Inverlochy the New Year had brought joy to John Hill, joy in Lochiel's submission and in MacIain's, albeit late. The season was cold, he reported to Edin-burgh, there being great snows, and the people about the fort were miserably poor. Duncanson's men were now with him, quartered inside the walls or in the houses of Maryburgh, and some detachments were stationed down the shore of Loch Linnhe. ‘All is peaceable,’ he said, ‘as the streets of Edinburgh.’ MacDonald of Moidart had sent word by the Laird of Morar that their chief, the boy Clanranald, was storm-bound on South Uist, but he would undoubtedly take the oath as soon as he could, and if he were then given a pass for France. From Skye came news that young MacDonald of Sleat, in his dying father's name, would also submit, and Coll of Keppoch was asking for commissions in William's army for himself and his brother (swearing that they were Protestants and no Papists). The best news of all was that MacDonald of Glengarry had changed his mind. He had heard of the troop movements against him, and had decided that the walls of Invergarry would not long stand against the cannon, petards and grenades that were being gathered at Inverness. He told Hill that if some of his gentry were given passes, to go abroad for service under King Louis, he and the rest would lay down their arms and surrender the castle to Livingstone's officers.
Governor Hill chided them all, telling them that since they were late with their submission the King might well think of punishing them. But he did not believe this himself. So much had been done without bloodshed. Clan Donald was bending its knee at last.
In London, Stair knew nothing yet of the meek surrender of the detestable MacDonalds. It would not have altered his decision, his eyes were clouded with blood. On 16 January, he placed before the King those additional instructions he thought necessary for the great work of charity. In the four days since Stair's last letter to Livingstone there had been a change of intent, and this may have been at William's wish. He needed Scots regiments for his spring campaign in Flanders, and it would have been foolish to provoke a war in the Highlands that once again kept them at home. Livingstone was now told that, upon his own discretion, he could ‘give Glengarry the assurance of entire indemnity for life and fortune, upon the delivering of his house and arms, and taking the oath of allegiance’. There was no suggestion of punishing the obstinate MacDonald for not taking the oath within the time. His surrender was all that was required. But to encourage him, and all others who had been or would be tardy, the violent lesson had still to be read and learned. It was stated bluntly in the last clause of these new instructions.
If M'Kean of Glencoe, 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.
The great plan for punishment, upon which Stair had been working since the middle of December, had now contracted into one small, bloody proposal of massacre.
King and minister faced each other across the sheet of paper. Neither man believed in showing his emotions, the King cold and withdrawn, the Master bland and deferential. Though they may not have heard it, there was an echo in the little privy chamber, the voice of a Prince of Orange refusing to take an oath that bound him to persecute his new people, and a Dalrymple assuring him that no law of the nation put that obligation upon him. William was no stranger to profit by murder. In Holland in his youth, he had secured the office of Stadholder (which he believed to be his by birth) after his supporters had brutally slaughtered the Republican brothers De Witt. And they had been civilized men. The MacDonalds of Glencoe were thieves and murderers and savages whose continued resistance to his authority made him a joke among European princes. Upon the Master's word, their removal would bring relief and satisfaction to all the people of Scotland.
He picked up a pen and signed the new instructions. He signed them at the head and the foot, and therefore no one can reasonably claim that he did not read and fully understand what was written.
The Master of Stair returned to his own room. There was a night's work ahead before the pacquet left. A double of the instructions had to be sent to Colonel Hill with a covering letter. There were letters to Livingstone, to Tweeddale and others. His pen scratched busily in the candle-light. ‘I am extremely glad,’ he told Tweeddale, ‘that the murderer MacIain of Glencoe did not accept the benefit of the indemnity. I hope care will be taken to root out that thieving tribe.’ His pen, in pale fingers thrust from a cuff of lace, was the servant of his hatred, a living thing almost, hysterically repeating the same words, the same phrases in each letter. ‘For a just example of vengeance,’ it told Livingstone, ‘I entreat that the thieving tribe in Glencoe may be rooted out in earnest.’ It wrote again with equal venom to John Hill. ‘I shall entreat you, that for a just vengeance and a public example, the thieving tribe of Glencoe may be rooted out to purpose.’
Hill was assured that when this work of charity was begun, his garrison would have assistance. And here, perhaps, the Master betrayed something of the conversation that had passed across Breadalbane's dinner-table.
The Earls of Argyll and Breadalbane have promised that they shall have no retreat in their bounds. The passes to Rannoch would be secured, and the hazard certified to the Laird of Weem to reset them. In that case, Argyll's detachment, with a party that may be posted in Island Stalker, must cut them off; and the people of Appin are none of the best.
And now, in London, there was little to do but wait. How much Breadalbane knew, cannot be said with any certainty. But he was uneasy again, and Stair's visit to his lodgings had led to no further confidences. ‘I am ill-requite on all hands,’ was his melancholy complaint to Carwhin, ‘for I am here ill-treat for these persons not ending timeously, and am again ill-treat for my good nature in dealing with them after such usage.’ H
is own good nature was a great comfort to him as he suffered nobly under the spite and jealousy of others. There was little else to comfort him. He had been told that the Government did not intend to pay the money he had promised the chiefs, and the sombre gravity of his expression became heavier with self-pity. But if all others mistrusted him, he still had the solace of his own virtues. ‘I thank God I do not repine for all the trouble and charges and danger I have been at for them and the nation, which is my duty and interest to endeavour it to be in peace and prosperity’ But, as he stepped out of his carriage at Kensington Palace, as he waited anxiously in Stair's ante-room, as he bowed to the passing shadow of the King in the corridors, he was desperate for news from the Highlands.
That month the storms were so great in the north that they kept the Post from the roads and most ships in port. In Edinburgh there was published a list of all those who had taken the oath, and it included MacIain's name, with the qualification that he had been six days late at Inveraray. To Breadalbane's chagrin, he heard this news at Court rather than by letter from Carwhin, and he wrote sourly to say that he was pleased to hear that Glencoe had changed his mind. He may well have meant it. At this moment, for all his denial of involvement, he was a frightened, unhappy man.
Stair's mind was unchanged by the news of MacIain's submission, and he informed Livingstone of this by letter on 30 January. There must be no half-measures.
I am glad that Glencoe did not come in within the time prescribed. I hope what's done there may be in earnest, since the rest are not in the condition to draw together to help. I think to harry their cattle of burn their houses is but to render them desperate, lawless men, to rob their neighbours; but I believe you will be satisfied it were of great advantage to the nation that thieving tribe were rooted out and cut off. It must be quietly done, otherwise they will make shift for both men and their cattle. Argyll's detachment lies in Letrick * well to assist the garrison to do all on a sudden.
It must be quietly done…. When he had finished this letter to Livingstone, Stair drew another sheet of paper before him and wrote to John Hill. He had received the Governor's letter of 14 January, explaining that the Highlands were now at peace and that the chiefs were disposed to take the oath. He told Hill to make the best of this situation, ‘by any means settle all one way or the other’. But he was to expect no more instructions than those he must already have received under the King's hand of 16 January. The orders for exterminating the Gallows Herd were not changed.
Pray, when anything concerning Glencoe is resolved, let it be secret and sudden, otherwise the men will shift you, and better not meddle with them than not do it to purpose; to cut off that nest of robbers who have fallen in the mercy of the law now, when there is force and opportunity, whereby the King's justice will be as conspicuous and useful as his clemency to others. I apprehend the storm is so great that for some time you can do little, but so soon as possible I know you will be at work… Deal with them as you find their consternation and the circumstances allows you, but by all means be quick…
A calm man at work by candle-light in a small room, each movement precise, delicate, as though rehearsed. The regular dip of the quill into the ink-horn, the flourish as the paper was sanded, and now and then a sweep of the hand to clear the curls of his wig from his face. Yet there was a madness in the man. What he was ordering, though it had arisen out of the situation, was no longer relevant to it. The tardy chiefs would be allowed, and were ready, to take the oath under William's mercy, and therefore this deliberate act of terrorism was neither necessary nor defensible. It seemed to come from Stair alone, like a reflex of heart or muscle. But if he were not the King's minister at this point, neither was he his own. He was the instrument of Mi-run mor nan Gall, the Lowlander's great hatred of the Highlandman, exacting vengeance for past fears and humiliations, preparing for the future, the future Union of Parliaments when Englishmen would accept Scots as their equals.
The night was almost gone when he rose from his desk. The events he had set in motion from it, by a feathered quill and a well of ink, were now inexorable.
The pacquet carrying the King's instructions of 16 January, with their order for the extirpation of the Glencoe men, had arrived at Leith four days later. Major Forbes collected the letters for Hill, opened them, read them, and sent them on to Fort William. With them in the same bag, perhaps, went a letter from Livingstone to Hamilton, whom both the Master and the Commander-in-chief now regarded as the only reliable officer at Inverlochy.
Since my last I understand that the Laird of Glencoe, coming after the prefixed time, was not admitted to take the oath, which is very good news here, being that at Court it's wished he had not taken it, so that thieving nest might be entirely rooted out; for the Secretary in three of his last letters hath made mention of him, and it is known at Court he has not taken it. So, Sir, here is a fair occasion for you to show that your garrison serves for some use; and seeing that the orders are so positive from Court to me not to spare any of them that have not timely come in, as you may by the orders I sent to your Colonel, I desire you would begin with Glencoe, and spare nothing which belongs to him, but do not trouble the Government with prisoners.
The letters reached F of January. John Hill was struck by the paralysis that came over him when faced with a distasteful duty that challenged his common sense, his conscience, and his simple Christianity. But for the moment he was not required to do anything. Lieutenant-Colonel James Hamilton had been put there for this purpose, and he acted immediately.
It was upon his orders that two companies of the Earl of Argyll's Regiment marched for Glencoe under the command of Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.
‘He is an object of compassion when I see him’
HE was sixty years of age. He was a gambler and a heavy drinker. He was improvident and bankrupt. He was so much in debt to his kinsmen, his friends and his enemies that he could not live long enough to repay them. Like all Breadalbane Campbells he had bred a large family, six sons and five daughters, and he shamelessly accepted the charity of the survivors as if this had been the purpose of their conception. The only land he now owned in Glen Lyon was the estate at Chesthill, and even that was held in his wife's name to prevent him from throwing it away on the turn of a dice-cup. At the age of fifty-nine he had taken a captain's commission in the Earl of Argyll's Regiment, and this must be recognized as an act of courage.
Robert Campbell, fifth Laird of Glenlyon in Breadalbane, never lacked courage, although toward the end of his life he was more desperate than brave. He had splendid, florid good looks, which are done less than justice in the only surviving portrait of him. It was painted when he was a young man, to celebrate his first experience of war, perhaps, and his long head is curiously feminine, and seems to have no blood and tissue connexion with the lobster-shell of black armour upon which it is conventionally mounted. His hair is the fine reddish-yellow of the Campbells, his mouth thin and petulant and too small for his heavy jaw. It is the face of a weak and self-indulgent man, and it would excite no passion now, but in his youth women thought he was an Adonis. His tall, well-articulated body moved with an affecting grace, his manners were polished and charming. With men he could be robustly jovial, and he had the disarming Highland way of calling them by affectionate diminutives of their Christian names, as if he wished all the world to be his friend. Indeed, since he was soon in debt to most of it, he could afford no enemies.
The valley his family had occupied for nearly two hundred years is the longest in the Highlands, twenty-five wandering miles from Loch Tay to Loch Lyon and the passes to Rannoch Moor. It is beautiful, and has been given many names – the Glen of the Black Water, the Desert Glen, the Crooked Glen of the Stones. ‘Fionn MacCumhail had twelve castles in the Crooked Glen of the Stones,’ said the old legends. On the northern hills that protected it from Rannoch, the warriors of the Feinn were sleeping, and in his boyhood Robert Campbell went with other children to find the long, green mounds that
were their beds. They were high on the braes, beyond the dark-headed, scarlet-stemmed plantations of fir, the orange cloudberry, and the open peat as black as pitch after rain. The valley was also called the Glen of the Chapels, as much a part of Christian history as Glencoe. Saint Adamnan, abbot of Iona and biographer of Columba, converted the early people, built them a school and a corn-mill, and instructed them in the civilized arts. He and his monks quarrelled quietly over the ritual of Easter and the exact purpose of the tonsure, celebrated mass and baptized the new-born, but they never convinced the people that there were not other supernatural beings besides choirs of angels. The sitheachan, for example, cunning fairies who lived by the River Lyon, stealing children from the cradles if they were not first propitiated by pagan ceremonies.
The Campbells came late, from the east with the first Glenorchy lairds. Many clans fought for the valley, or lived together there in uneasy neighbourhood. The MacDiarmids are believed to have been the first, in the trail of Saint Adamnan's robe, and after them were MacArthurs, MacCallums and MacGregors. For a while in the fourteenth century a MacDougall of Lorn, Black John of the Spears, held the glen on a grant from King David Bruce, and defended it bitterly against the Chisholms who came down on him from Strathglass, far beyond the Great Glen. At the end of the fifteenth century Black Colin Campbell, first Laird of Glenorchy, claimed the valley from the Stewarts of Garth, using sword, axe, bow and fire as his most persuasive arguments. More circumspectly, the second Laird of Glenorchy got a Crown Charter for the barony and gave it in fee to his younger son Grey Archibald, the progenitor of all the Glenlyon lairds. For four generations the Campbells of Glenlyon held this property against their MacGregor tenants, their Menzies neighbours, their Glenorchy cousins, and the marauding forays of the Lochaber Men. Grey Archibald was a wise and peaceful man. He hanged no one unless they deserved it, took nothing to which he had no right, and was therefore given little space in recorded history. His son, however, was more in character, a fine, robust fellow known as Dhonnachaidh Ruadh na Feileachd, Red Duncan of the Hospitality. He built almost as many castles as Fionn MacCumhail, and most of them on the same ground, guarding the narrows of the glen, the bends of the river. Their doors were always open to wandering bands of harpers from Ireland, to smiths, wrights and artisans from the Lowlands. His title was an irony, however, and one Highland visitor put the general thought into verse.
