So it was that the bards at Achtriachtan still praised MacIain, and still had poems to tell of his undaunted heart. They still spoke of the wine cups and panelled walls of his house at Polveig. The children still learned the old names for every stream, for each hollow and hillock. The heather by the River Coe had no regard for the fall of the Lordship of the Isles, and the fattening cattle during the spring cared little about a royal court, away in the Lowlands. Our shielings upon the Black Mount still gave us shelter for the summer, and autumn brought the festival of Samhuinn, as ever before.
Without one monarch to unite all of the Gaels, however, we could rely no longer upon the greater Clan Donald to govern our neighbours. No longer would fear of the Lord of the Isles suffice to shield us. Like the MacDonalds of Keppoch, of the Clan Ranald, of Glen Garry and of elsewhere, we became fully a clan of our own, maintaining our bonds to those kinsmen but cultivating our sovereignty, as well, safeguarding the glen upon our terms. MacIain, the people would say, is the arching tree that gives us shelter.
We were quickly accustomed to this new age, this time of forays, only because we already had the heart for it. The togail creach, the cattle raid, had for centuries been a test and show of our valour, just as it had been for our neighbours who longed for the bounty of Glen Coe. To walk away from my lands knowing that I may fall, forever, and yet to return with the riches of cattle: All of this augured courage on the battlefield. So, too, did a sudden defence, protecting my children’s milk and meat when raiders made their way, somehow, into the glen. Indeed, MacIain’s son only could become chief once he had proven himself in an expedition, leading the other young ones who had yet to show themselves. None of it was robbery, of course, for the man whose cattle had been taken yesterday was expected to take mine today, if he could but bring courage enough. If he could not, it was no fault of mine, and thus the bulls and cows had come to the proper place.
These forays were only the wee signals of a greater struggle, throughout the Highlands and the Isles. Everywhere in Somerled’s old kingdom, clan turned upon clan, with hopes of controlling much more than cattle. Under the MacDonalds, we Gaels had been no more warlike than any other people, but the same forces that gave an independence to the people of Glen Coe also promised sovereignty for all of the other clans: As the king was not strong enough to replace those he had unseated, every clan was newly emboldened to battle, to settle old disputes by the sword.
The monarchs of the Lowlands endeavoured to show their rule, still, by picking sides in those clan feuds, by rewarding grateful followers with titles, or by executing those rebels they could ensnare. In this, they relied upon their steadfast friends, who loyally knew of Highland politics, who loyally knew how best to manage the Gaels. From son to son, Campbells were elevated, and their holdings grew. Their young men were quickly married to noblewomen from the south, thus strengthening valuable alliances with the Lowland lords. Their daughters were quickly married to the sons of Highland chiefs, in the hope that some occasional favour might be obtained.
Whether it was a cattle raid or a clan battle that reached their ears, the king and his servants persisted in regarding Highland people as the most incorrigible barbarians, what with our unaltered superstitions, our thirst for blood, our primitive language. Upon a number of occasions, they provided us with a civilising example, as when the Earl of Lennox laid waste to MacDonald lands, and when the heads of our Donald’s supporters were placed just above the town gates at Elgin, and when the Earl of Huntly’s followers stabbed the Earl of Moray in a cave. These lessons were regrettably intermittent through much of the 16th century.
We were, thus, so very gratified when King James VI of Scotland, near the close of the century, at last deigned to bless us with his justice in full. To begin, he took away the lands of the MacLeods of Lewis, awarded them to Lowlanders, and arranged for the colonisation of that isle, just as he would later do across the Irish Sea in Ulster. The aim, stated forthrightly, was “to plant Lowlandmen in the Isles and transport the inhabitants to the mainland, where they might learn civility.” The colonists were given liberty to use “slaughter, mutilation, fire-raising or other inconveniences” as necessary for “rooting out the barbarous inhabitants.”
In the southern Highlands, James expunged the name of MacGregor, forcing the MacGregors into the choice between renouncing their family or being hanged, and then ordered the Campbell chief “to lay mercy aside, and by justice and the sword to root out and extirpate all of that race.” James occasionally showed his hospitality, as well. He once invited three chiefs to Edinburgh so that they could consult with him and his Privy Council concerning the governance of the Isles, and the Council promised the chiefs safe passage. When they arrived, he imprisoned them, only allowing them to go free once they had paid him a large sum and had pledged obedience to him and his cousin, Queen Elizabeth of England.
Yet James’ most helpful contribution to our eventual justice came from his laws. Passed through the Parliament of Scotland in 1609, and hardened in the succeeding years, the king’s statutes forced our chiefs to send their eldest children to school in the Lowlands, where the children had to remain until they had learned to read and write in English. Parish schools were set up in the Highlands, teaching in English alone. Our bards were outlawed. Ordinary clansmen were forbidden from carrying any weapon, and limits were placed upon our drinking of wine and whisky.
Through much of the Gaelic country, where the king’s power did not fully reach, these laws were, lamentably, unable to deliver us wholly to advancement. Some of the chiefs sent their heirs to Lowland schools, but our ancestors’ tongue was still ours, and many of our well-born sons studied at the University of Paris besides. The bards still recited our people’s histories beside the fire. Great and common men still held to our defence, and it was said that many a chief was yet in the habit of attending a feast accompanied by two servants with a wheelbarrow, who stood behind him for hours and then carted him home at the close of the evening.
Behind James’ boldness was his new station, his new power. Just a few years before, in 1603, this Lowlander of Scotland had become the King of England, and not through strength in battle, but through dynastic luck; his dear cousin Elizabeth, the only surviving grandchild of the English King Henry VII, had died childless, and as he was the great-great-grandson of Henry VII on both his father and mother’s side, James had been next in line to the throne of the English.
He had quickly left for the south, and had been received warmly by his subjects. He had promised to return to Scotland every few years, but came back only once during the twenty-two years he reigned in London. His son, the future King Charles I, grew up as an Englishman. The laws passed by his Parliament in Edinburgh, the civilising ones, might well have had this as preface: I now have the English navy behind me, and the English army.
Alasdair, the eleventh chief of the MacDonalds of Glen Coe, observing events from far away, saw by 1638 that such undivided support would never be enjoyed by the new King Charles. Although Charles was a Protestant, the Puritans in England and the Presbyterians in the Lowlands of Scotland suspected him of being not Protestant enough, with secret designs to return both countries to Catholicism. For more than a decade, as well, they and their allies in the Parliaments of both England and Scotland had quarrelled with Charles over the limits of royal authority. Civil war broke out in Scotland in 1639, and in England three years later.
Like all MacDonalds and most Highlanders, Alasdair of Glen Coe and his people entered the war on the side of Charles, but our support naturally did not spring from any loyalty to this son of James VI. No, we took this side because Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll, and the whole of his followers had taken precisely the opposite side.
The Campbell reach had so expanded that Archibald was the most powerful man in Scotland, beside Charles, and his betrayal of his king delivered us an opportunity. At last, after a century and a half, the MacDonalds might again
be acknowledged as the lords of the Gaels. Campbell might be returned properly to his compliant, southern hills. Once more, Somerled’s grandsons might rule over our lands.
Our first chance arrived at the 2nd of February, 1645, when we, outnumbered, met the Campbells beside Inverlochy Castle. The men of Glen Coe were at the front of the line, next to our Irish and Highland cousins, as the Campbells and their few Highland allies lined up across us, flanked by Lowland infantry. After firing a single volley, the Irish charged, and the Lowlanders panicked and fled. Campbell’s Highland men stood their ground longer, of course, but even they could not withstand the charge of Clan Donald.
The Earl of Argyll himself watched from his galley in the loch while his army was utterly ruined. Throughout the Highlands and the Isles, his downfall was celebrated in the bards’ poetry and songs.
In England, however, King Charles was being routed by the forces of Parliament. Even in Scotland, with their armies replenished, the Lowlanders won a victory against the king at Philiphaugh, and in May of 1646, Charles was taken prisoner. On the 2nd of June, our commander, Lord Montrose, received a letter from Charles, ordering him to disband our army.
For us, in the glen, that would not happen quite so quickly. Two days after Lord Montrose received Charles’ letter, the MacDonalds of Glen Coe learned that the daughter of Robert Campbell of Glen Orchy, cousin to the Earl of Argyll, was to be married soon at Finlarig by Loch Tay, so that all of the gentry of Glen Orchy would be away at the wedding celebrations. For the better of two years, the Campbells had plundered MacDonald lands, and now there was a chance of revenge. Our chief Alasdair, along with Angus MacDonald of Achnancoichean, son of the chief of Keppoch, led the men of Glen Coe and Keppoch into the Campbells’ lands and made off with a large spoil of cattle.
When the Campbells heard of this, they rushed from Finlarig and caught up with the MacDonalds, who drew our swords. Big Archibald MacPhail of Glen Coe, just before he charged, took the time to pray: Lord, if you cannot join the MacDonalds at this time, please do not join the Campbells, either.
Perhaps Big Archibald’s prayer had been answered, it later was said, for the MacDonalds decimated those Campbells with fury, slaying nearly all of their leading men. Though Alasdair of Glen Coe and Angus of Achnancoichean fell, the sons of Iain Fraoch had once again proven our fortitude.
The Campbells’ great leader, for his part, did not forget that his sole compass was his own self-interest. Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll, swiftly allied himself with Oliver Cromwell, the commander of the English Parliament’s army. Then Campbell established a Scottish government that was wholly friendly to Cromwell. Yet when Cromwell and his supporters executed King Charles in early 1649, Scots were revolted, even the king’s opponents. Campbell felt about for the winds and promptly turned into a Royalist, joining with other members of the Scottish Parliament in recognising Charles’ son, Charles II, as king.
The MacDonalds lamented: We only entered into this Anglo-Saxon feud in order to daunt the Campbell, but he has come around to our side.
While they waited for Charles II to return to Scotland, the English turned their eyes upon Ireland. Like Highlanders, the native Irish were no admirers of the English Crown, but had supported the king when compelled to choose sides. Cromwell and his massive army landed at Dublin in August of 1649, and the Irish fought with such valour, but the numbers of the English, their cannons and naval blockades, were too much. One town wall after another fell. The English murdered thousands of women and children, besides soldiers and old men. They burned crops and churches. Famines spread. Most of the native landowners had their lands taken from them, and many of the Irish people were sold into slavery, to work on English plantations in the New World.
It was at this time that the son of our fallen chief Alasdair finally returned to our glen. He was named Alasdair, as well.
A young man, barely older than twenty, he had been studying at Paris throughout the recent troubles, and all of the people of Glen Coe rejoiced when he appeared. He was six feet, seven inches tall, with broad shoulders, and with hair hanging long, nearly to his heart. All saw that he was clever, that he could be brave, and it was thought that he was fair.
Like his fathers before him, Alasdair stood atop a pyramid of stones and was recognised as our chief, the twelfth MacIain. All around him gathered our people, while one of our bards recited Alasdair’s descent from Iain Fraoch, from Somerled and Conn of the Hundred Battles. The bard told Alasdair of the courage of the ancestors, and reminded him of their generosity. That evening, as the whisky overtook just a few, as several of the younger ones danced about the fires, perhaps some remarked that the sun had shone with uncommon brightness upon Beinn Fhada today, and that the tide at the loch had seemed uncommonly gentle.
He was so very young then.
CHAPTER 17
ON THESE
STONES
The online article in Scots Heritage Magazine had been written recently, and it began: “Alistair MacDonald is not a rich man; far from it. Like his father and grandfather before him, he has been a crofter in Glencoe since he was a boy.”
A few years back, the article recounted, Alistair was nearing retirement when he learned that 130 acres in Glencoe had come up for sale. The chiefs of the MacDonalds of Glencoe and their cousins had sold off the clan’s lands, piecemeal, beginning in the early 19th century. Then the lands had been divided, resold, and divided again and resold again, until these 130 acres were all that remained in any single owner’s hands. That single owner, it turned out, had once employed Alistair as a shepherd.
Alistair and his wife Rosalin wanted to buy the land, and they knew that the Scottish Government might be willing to step in and help—it was common in the Highlands for local people to band together, garner public financing, and buy large tracts from willing landowners. But Alistair and Rosalin refused public funds.
“If I accepted State money,” Alistair said, “conservationists from Edinburgh or Glasgow would soon be telling us how to run the place and I don’t agree at all with their theories of land management. All they want to do is lock up the land and forget about the communities that live here.”
So Alistair and Rosalin came up with the money on their own. They went to their family, and to their friends, and they borrowed. When they presented their offer to the executors of the estate of Lord Strathcona, they knew that the other bidders had offered much more money.
But Lord Strathcona’s executors chose Alistair and Rosalin. They chose this idea of a Glencoe Heritage Trust, which would belong only to the local people. Alistair and Rosalin wouldn’t own the land, but the debt would be all theirs. The purchase included a one-half share of the burial isle, out in Loch Leven.
“You cannot put a price on history,” Alistair said. “Glencoe means more to the MacDonalds than mere money. This is the land of our forefathers. Our history is written in blood on these stones. To us this is a sacred site. It’s where we are who we are.”
The article said that Alistair’s father and grandfather had lived in Glencoe, and so I wondered: What if his great-grandfather had lived there, too, and his great-great-grandfather, and his ancestors? What if Alistair were my cousin?
I wanted to contact him and ask about his family’s history, but I didn’t even make it to “Dear Mr. MacDonald.” Because I could already hear how my email would sound: Hello, I’m an American who found this story about you at ScotsHeritageMagazine.com, and I’ve never even been to Glencoe, but I think what you did was great, and how about a DNA sample?
All I could say, anyway, was that I was descended from a John McDonald who died in Warren County, Kentucky, U.S.A. in 1828. John very well could have been born in America, the son or grandson or great-grandson of immigrants, in which case Alistair probably wouldn’t have any records mentioning him. It was better to put off emailing Alistair until I’d uncovered my immigrant McDonald, or at leas
t tried. Besides, it’s one thing to contact someone whom you know is a DNA match. It’s another thing to go trawling.
But then, on a Friday afternoon, a match came to me.
The email was from the DNA company, and it took me to Uncle Chuck’s personal page. There I saw a new name: Lachlan Buchanan MacDonald. He was Chuck’s closest match; they shared 35 out of 37 DNA markers. Lachlan had given his email address, so I started writing, introducing myself and admitting that I hadn’t yet uncovered my ancestor John McDonald’s parents. Still, I told him, all three of our shared DNA matches knew that their MacDonalds came from one particular place. “Do you know whether your MacDonald ancestors were from Glencoe?” I asked.
Just a few hours later, a message arrived from Diane MacDonald. “Hello Cousin Ryan,” she wrote. “My husband Lachie is a Luddite and doesn’t use a ‘pooter,’ so I’m his secretary.” Yes, Lachie’s patrilineal ancestors were from Glencoe—they fled the glen sometime after 1692.
And Lachie and Diane were Scots.
They lived near Glasgow, where Diane was an administrator with the National Health Service and Lachie was a dentist. Diane didn’t mention where she was born and raised, but she wrote that Lachie was from Lismore, an island off the west coast of Scotland, and he was a native Gaelic speaker.
“We have long memories for the 13th February, 1692 and all that!” she wrote. “You have dozens of rellies, I’m afraid…perhaps you will visit us sometime.” She promised to send me Lachie’s family tree, and closed with the words Slainte Mhath. Good health.
I searched for Lachie’s home isle of Lismore on the map, and saw that it lay only fifteen miles or so from Glencoe, just one hundred yards off the mainland at one point. The ancestors of Uncle Chuck’s closest DNA match didn’t just remain in Scotland; they remained in the Highlands, and never stopped speaking Gaelic.
Reunion: A Search for Ancestors Page 12