by Sam Heughan
Sam: Oh dear Lord. Make it stop.
SAM
I have been photographed ‘up my kilt’ a few times (not by myself!). Generally it’s when I’m on a panel at a fan convention or Comic Con and I forget the audience below can afford a pretty decent but rather terrifying view. The first kilt I bought was from Howie Nicholsby, the amazing modern kiltmaker from 21st Century Kilts, in Edinburgh. He’s done away with the rather nasty Victorian creation of traditional high-waisted kilts and has made them a great deal more comfortable to wear. Along with his modern design, complete with denim or leather kilts, he has added pockets for iPhones or hip flasks (essential). Although the sporran has become less fashionable I still enjoy wearing one. Whilst doing some research on Outlander we found that a sporran was worn (pre-Victorian times) to one side, more of a manbag than a ‘bawbag’ to hide yer privates.
Outlander created our own coloured tartan, to reflect the wildlife of the area the clan was from. There would have been an unofficial uniformity due to the very nature of the natural dyeing materials that grew nearby. For instance, clans in the north might not have had access to certain plants or berries that they had in the south. I have five kilts at the moment, one a ‘beer kilt’ that could be akin to a hunting one; fine to get it dirty and covered in beer when attending a rugby game or rowdy party. I actually lost my most recent kilt, in Sassenach tartan, somewhere between Las Vegas and Mexico. I do hope someone in the highlands of Mexico is distilling tequila whilst wearing a fine grey and black plaid. Most dear to me is my father’s kilt, which I received after he passed away whilst I was shooting Season One of Outlander in 2014. I haven’t worn it yet. It’s MacDonald, as our family descends from the MacDonalds and comes with a plain but well-used brown leather sporran. I’ll honour him one day by wearing it – just need to lose some weight first, he was rather slender!
GRAHAM
CUT TO: Rome
I’m filming Empire (a TV show for ABC) when Stephen Graham, a wonderful actor, persuades me out to a Roman nightclub. And, as usual, my kilt came too. It was time to go to the toilet. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Graham, there seems to be a pattern developing. Well . . . yes. I was followed in there by a man who seemed quite insistent on seeing what was under the plaid. After much grappling and several stern words from yours truly, I escaped. Stephen Graham still laughs about this. Bastard.
At Outlander events, wearing a kilt is almost a requirement. Sam was the first to break ranks (something he still no doubt gets shit for) but I persevered, giving up only recently, but not before I found myself doing a fan convention with Diana Gabaldon (the novelist who created the Outlander series) in Iowa. I was asked to deliver a thirty-minute speech about my own life (terrifying), and while I stood at the lectern, wearing, of course, a kilt, a particularly drunken fan ambled up and lay down underneath my kilt.
SAM
Both Graham and I share a very grand title, one we have fought over for years. He received it first but mine was obviously way better. We have both been Grand Marshall of the New York Tartan Day Parade. It comes with little responsibility and the benefit of walking down the centre of 6th Avenue and not getting a ticket for jaywalking. I bet the local NYPD officers would be too nervous to give you a citation as you’re followed by several thousand proud, flag-waving, kilted Scots. Each year, the procession is led through New York and celebrates all things Scottish and our influence in the USA. Previous alumni have included Sean Connery, Billy Connolly, KT Tunstall, Brian Cox and Kevin McKidd. Actors, musicians, politicians and athletes have led marching bands et al., in every weather.
The day I was Grand Marshall it was dreich and typically Scottish. I’d been sent a vast selection of whisky by Laphroaig, which filled the hotel room, and I proceeded to share it with my friends, including Howie from 21st Century Kilts, an ex-Grand Marshall himself. A Variety magazine photographer joined in, documenting the event and throwing himself into the celebrations, donning a warm cashmere tartan scarf and toasting our small ‘clan’. We all ‘filled our boots’ with whisky, smelling of peat fire and damp wool, and fell out onto the street, gathered up by the crowd. The turnout was incredible; despite the pouring rain, spectators lined the streets and cheered as we marched past; Highland dancers performed a Highland Fling and I toasted the crowd from the top of a NYC tour bus. Slainte Mhath!
GRAHAM
And the crucial difference between both of us receiving the honour of being Grand Marshall of the Tartan Day Parade (apart from them choosing to give me the honour first) is that my New York parade was bathed in sunshine, with the Avenue of the Americas glorying in the blooms of spring, the fans dressed scantily for early summer, enjoying the warmth of the sun, while Sam’s parade was marked by relentless, pissing rain. Mine was apparently the largest turnout they’d had. [Sam: They told me the same. Apparently, I had the largest turnout!]
One could almost call it Dougal MacKenzie’s revenge . . . He kills me in Outlander, you know. Horribly. But we’ll come to that a bit later.
Our plaid and fighting lesson over, we leave the Clanlands crew to film some savage fight re-enactment with the kilted ones while Sam and I slope off with Charlie to do some still photographs. Charlie duly poses with us but I can’t help feeling that this sort of namby-pamby shite is beneath him. Eventually, after another bone-crushing handshake, he stalks off back to his waiting motorbike. He pulls up the bandana, rams his Nazi bucket on his head, guns the beast into life and thunders off down the Glencoe pass, leaving our wilting masculinity in his wake.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Massacre of Glencoe
Forgive your enemy but remember the bastard’s name.
Old Scottish Proverb
SAM
When I was twelve, we moved to Edinburgh. It was an exciting place for a teenager with little experience of cities, with its dark alleys, ancient spires, hidden closes, and dimly lit pubs with dark corners and even darker histories. There was one watering hole called the ‘Cask and Barrel’ on Broughton Street, where every Thursday night my friends and I would gather in our late teens. A blind man with a white beard, resembling a seer or Druid (Graham’s wise doppelganger), would sit quietly near the window, with only a half pint of ale as company, seemingly waiting for someone. The bar would be full of regulars who wouldn’t give him a second glance. My friends and I would pull up a small barstool as close as we could and wait for him to sing. For a few hours each night, he’d sing old Scottish folk songs, his voice powerful, filled with sadness, his only payment the occasional half pint from a thankful audience. After I worked up the courage, I’d lean close and ask him to sing ‘The Massacre of Glencoe’, a mournful lament. He could always transport me to the bleak, cold glen and the demise of the unsuspecting MacDonalds on 13th February 1692.
The Massacre of Glencoe
Chorus:
Oh cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe
And covers the grave o’ Donald
And cruel was the foe that raped Glencoe
And murdered the house o’ MacDonald
They came in a blizzard, we offered them heat
A roof for their heads, dry shoes for their feet
We wined them and dined them, they ate of our meat
And they slept in the house of MacDonald.
Chorus
They came from Fort William with murder in mind
The Campbell had orders King William had signed
‘Put all to the sword’ these words underlined
‘And leave none alive called MacDonald’
Chorus
They came in the night when the men were asleep
This band of Argyles, through snow soft and deep
Like murdering foxes amongst helpless sheep
They slaughtered the house of MacDonald
Chorus
Some died in their beds at the hand of the foe
Some fled in the night and were lost in the snow
Some lived to accuse him who struck the first blow
> But gone was the house of MacDonald
Chorus
It is a very ancient and important Scottish song. Well, I thought it was ancient but it was actually written in the 1960s by Jim McLean and performed by the Corries! It’s still beautiful though.
Walking along the Old Military Road in the sunshine, it feels a very different Glencoe to the one in the Corries’ song. The story we were about to learn was far more complicated and nuanced than the tale I’d learnt in various bars off the Royal Mile. And by my side is a trusty grey companion – neither wise, nor blind but definitely still moaning about me starting off with the handbrake on again.
We walk up a hill to a pile of stones, which our guide – Derek Alexander, Head of Archaeology at National Trust Scotland (NTS) – tells us was the settlement at Achtriochtan, one of the MacDonalds’ turf houses furthest up the glen. Turf blocks were used to construct walls, insulate the roof and act as mortar. It was a perfect solution if you lived in a landscape without trees (and therefore had no timber). Dry-stone was used internally to stop animal damage – because during the winter you were living with all your animals – cattle, goats, hens, you name it, all in the byre, which was a cowshed in your living room. Given there was no TV I suppose it was a primitive version of Countryfile.
Derek and his team excavated the whole thing and plan to build a replica turf house at the Glencoe Visitors Centre in 2020. He leads us to where the entrance would once have stood and shows us remains of a turf wall that runs around the settlement. ‘We uncovered flagstones and drains this end so we think this was the byre. The animals would have kept the people living here warm. As the wind howled up the glen, the cattle at this end would absorb the cold air and pass warm air into the house. And there would be a fire in the middle so it would be warm, sometimes too warm . . .’
Graham: . . . And fragrant. Like our camper van toilet.
Indeed.
Achtriochtan is one of five poorly preserved remains of houses, barns and byers at Glencoe, with people living in some form of structure here until the mid-nineteenth century. ‘When you go back to the seventeenth century we know there were 400–500 MacDonalds in the glen, with possibly forty or so people living at each of these houses,’ says Derek.
The massacre that happened here at Glencoe is a subject close to Graham’s heart and was the seed which started our Clanlands journey, so I’m going to let him tell you the story, as he will tell it well.
GRAHAM
Thank you, Samwise.
As we enter the Glen my thoughts turn to the books I have studied and treasured. One called Ward Lock & Co’s The Highlands of Scotland, a red illustrated guidebook that doesn’t have a date but must be from the 1940s, says, ‘Glencoe maintains its air of wild grandeur, despite the new highway [built in the 1930s], and its increasing stream of motors. On a little elevation stands a modern monument [erected in 1883] to the victims of the Massacre of Glencoe, while for a mile or two up the Glen on the same side clusters of green mounds and grey stones mark the sites of the ruined townships of the clan. At the head of the wider part of the Glen rises the Signal Rock, which owes its name to the tradition that it was the spot from which the signal for the massacre was given.’
Close above this spot stands the Clachaig Inn where only days before we got hammered on whisky at 9am.
Sam: Er, that was this morning, Graham.
Graham: It’s been a long day.
One of the things I’ve learned about history is that it’s rarely simple. This is definitely true of Glencoe. The received wisdom is that the peace-loving MacDonalds were murdered in their beds by a bunch of treacherous evil Campbells: ‘The Bloody Campbells’ as they became known. As if a group of choristers had been set upon by a collection of Satan worshippers. It was even the case that, until recently, the Kingshouse Hotel (where we are staying), like the Clachaig Inn, bore a sign above its door with the words ‘No Hawkers or Campbells!’ These people have long memories. But received wisdom hides a bigger picture; many paths led to Glencoe and it’s worth looking at them all.
The MacDonalds of Glencoe (a branch of the larger Clan Donald tribe) came to Glencoe in the 1300s after supporting Robert the Bruce. Due to the hostile terrain, terrible weather and even crappier soil, they were known to be light-fingered, rustling their neighbours’ cattle and generally getting a bad name for themselves (along with the MacGregors and the Keppoch MacDonalds). This is also partly why they were set upon at the Glencoe Massacre: they had few friends and had amassed a great deal of enemies over the years.
And the same people who were murdered that night in February 1692 were guilty of many acts of violence for and against the Campbells, and others. The Glencoe men murdered MacGregors for Campbell paymasters in the sixteenth century, and then later, joined with the MacGregors, who were then serving the Campbells. In short, they burnt, killed, and stole across the region for whoever it suited them to at the time. Sometimes the alliances of these men beggared understanding. MacIain (chieftain of the MacDonalds of Glencoe) fought alongside Camerons against Mackintoshes and he also helped the MacLeans against the Campbells of Argyll. In other words, there were no Gandhis in them there hills.
In late January 1692, 128 soldiers from the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment of Foot were billeted (assigned temporary accommodation, often in a civilian’s house) with the MacDonalds of Glencoe. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon commanded one troop of men; Thomas Drummond, from south of Athol, commanded the other.
The Earl of Argyll (later made a Duke in 1701 by William II) was a leader of the Campbell clan. Now, the Argylls were one of the most powerful noble families in Scotland for hundreds of years – let’s just say the Campbells knew how to play politics and how to amass land. Rather like Lord Sandringham in Outlander, played by the fabulous Simon Callow, they knew when to keep quiet, when to drip poison into a carefully chosen ear, when to make alliances and when to remain neutral.
And it is worth noting that of the 128 soldiers billeted with the MacDonalds, a third were from the Lowlands, who definitely had no love for any Highlander, the other two-thirds were from the Argyll region and were by no means all Campbells; only thirteen of the 128 were actually Campbells. The rest were a plethora of clans – no McTavishes, I might add – but Camerons, Alexanders (my mother’s maiden name), MacCallumms, MacIvor, MacLean, MacKinlay, MacNeill, MacEwan, and even, if you look closely at the list, a certain James Fraser . . .
The soldiers spent twelve long days with their hosts the MacDonalds, breaking bread together, gambling, drinking and trading stories by the fire. They had wrestled each other, tossed the caber, practised archery, played shinty . . . they would have become friends, some may have been related. I mean if you spend two weeks with people you’d get to know them well. Sam and I have only spent a couple of days together in the camper van and already he wants to massacre me. And the feeling is certainly mutual.
So what marks out the Glencoe Massacre as so heinous was that the ‘Redcoats’ had arrived under the protection of Highland hospitality and the MacDonalds had no idea that the soldiers in their midst were vipers about to strike. But the soldiers had no knowledge of the impending slaughter either.
It was only the night before that their leader, Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, received the order. It is worth quoting here in full:
‘You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, the MacDonalds of Glencoe, and to put all to the sword under seventy. You are to have a special care that the old fox and his sons do upon no account escape. You are to secure all the avenues that no man escape. This you are to put in execution at five of the clock precisely; and by that time, or very shortly after it, I’ll strive to be at you with a stronger party. If I do not come to you at five, you are not to tarry for me, but to fall on. This is by the King’s special command, for the good of the country that these miscreants be cut off root and branch. See that this be put in execution without feud or favour, else you may expect to be dealt with as one not true to King nor government, nor a ma
n fit to carry Commission in the King’s service. Expecting you will not fail in the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself, I subscribe these with my hand at Ballachulish.’
Robert Duncanson, 12th February 1692
It’s chilling stuff, isn’t it?
In short: do as you’re told, kill them all, don’t wait for me, and if you don’t do as you’re told, you’re a traitor and will be hanged.
They had Robert Campbell by the proverbial balls. He was sixty, a drunkard with a very expensive gambling habit and he was also married to MacIain’s niece. Imagine the scene: Duncanson writes the order by candlelight, quill scratching on paper, signs and seals it in wax, dispatching the epistle up the glen to Campbell. Duncanson also places the burden of action on Campbell. ‘If I’m late, don’t wait for me. Just carry on slaughtering.’ As it was, Duncanson was six hours late. Long enough for many of the clan to escape into the hills in the blizzard.
Now imagine Campbell reading those orders. Did he know what was coming? Did his men? I doubt even they could have imagined such an order. If he followed the order he would be breaking that most inviolable code of honour: that of Highland hospitality. You see, it was fine to lay in ambush and kill a Highlander from a tree, or thieve from him, or burn hundreds of them in a cave (see the MacLeod and MacDonald feud), but definitely do not have dinner with him and then kill him.
Strange, but true.
Campbell would have passed on the order to his junior officers and, in turn, to the men along the five-mile length of the settlement, that the killing should begin promptly at 5am on 13th February in what is supposed to have been a simultaneous strike. These orders could not have been passed on within the walls of a cottage, for fear of being overheard. They would have been whispered outside, in the dark, in the icy wind. The darkness would have at least hidden the horrified faces of the men receiving the news.