He turned and led the way, walking back toward his father’s house alongside Robert Campbell’s horse. Ahead of them ran the boys and young men who had gathered, calling out the news everywhere that soldiers from Fort William were on the way to their homes.
Eighteen
For two weeks, the soldiers were fed and offered every hospitality, two to five in a home, in the cottages of the MacIains of Glencoe. Whatever cautions existed when they rode into the glen, they soon disappeared in the commonality of shared Highland roots and the camaraderie of the mutual roof. The weather warmed briefly. The temperature rose above freezing during the daylight hours. Some of the streams began to melt.
Campbell himself was put up in the home of MacDonald of Inverrigan. Many evenings he dined at the spacious Carnoch home of Chief Alasdair. The two managed to put aside their former disputes, drinking together often to drunkenness, while listening to the pipes or enjoying song from the lips of the bard. On other occasions Campbell played cards and backgammon with the chief and his sons and enjoyed meals and drink with his niece Sarah and her husband, Alasdair the younger.
Long before the stay showed signs of coming to an end, friendships had been formed and a genuine neighborliness appeared to be breaking out between both soldiers and hosts who were of the two clan septs of Glen Lyon and MacIain. Spirited games—both cards around the table and wrestling or caber tossing in the meadows—warm fires, congenial conversation, wine, whisky, music, and the generosity of simple provision bound together the longtime rival clans in the bonds of Highland fellowship. The mutual respect for their shared Celtic roots and traditions gradually came to outweigh the reminders of the feud between them.
It was an environment that tended to force people together. At such a time of year they had to keep mostly indoors—in stone houses exactly like those the Campbell soldiers lived in back in their own glens. The smaller cottages were of one or two rooms, of dry-packed stone covered in the direction of the wind with dried mud or slabs of turf. No chimneys existed, only a hole in the roof at the highest point to allow the escape of smoke. In the middle of the dirt floor below, throughout the months of winter, burned a hot fire of peat. With no draft to suck it skyward, smoke filled the house, meandering gradually upward and blackening everything inside until it eventually discovered the small overhead passage into the outside air.
As the Campbell soldiers sat sharing the warmth of the peat with their hosts, therefore, eyes red and cheeks stained, nostrils filled with the stench of nearby animal byres and dungheaps, lungs hacking from the smoky haze that filled every dwelling, they knew that back home their own wives and parents and children were huddled about identical fires with identical red eyes in identical cottages under the same sky from which fell the same snow.
Whatever one’s clan, the Highlander’s life was a simple, hard battle against the elements. All were gradually discovering—though few might have actually said it—that there really was not so much very different between a Campbell and a MacDonald after all.
Yet the growing rapport was far from universal among either villagers or troops. For the English soldiers, this was indeed an odd interlude in the soldier’s life.
“Why are we here so long?” commented one to his comrade as they walked together after one morning’s drill on the frosty ground. “It’s a peculiar place. I can’t understand a word out of the mouths of these people.”
“They say there’s no provisions at Inverlochy.”
“But there’s been time by now. I’m ready to get out of this place. I don’t like it—mountains glaring down on you from every direction. Something’s up, I tell you,” he added, glancing up toward the mountains he had just mentioned, then pulling his coat more tightly around his shoulders and shivering, “—and I don’t like it.”
Neither did Sarah’s husband, Alasdair the younger, who all the while remained suspicious. Backgammon and wine, jokes and stories and laughter had done nothing to alleviate his uneasiness.
He did not like the daily drilling of the Campbell soldiers in the glen, with prominent display of muskets and bayonets. Nor was he alone. Not everyone in the glen was comfortable with Campbells wearing the red coats of the English king’s army under their roofs.
Halfway through the stay, a company of men went privately to the chief.
“Send ’em away, MacIain,” said one. “Oor women are anxious. Their English sergeants shoutin’ oot orders in the southern tongue, the marchin,’ the drills . . . I tell ye, Chief, it bodes nae gude.”
Around him many others nodded and voiced similar objections. But it was clear the great man was growing angry as he listened.
“I winna sent them away,” he replied at length. His voice was stern. “Hae we not broken breid t’gither? I got nae love fer Glenlyon in my hert, but he’s aye given his word. He’s a Highlander. We’re all Highlanders t’gither. No harm’ll be done, no offense given. We’ve oor ain honor t’ think o.’”
The men of MacIain’s clan went away to make the best of it. Perhaps the chief was right. Hospitality given and hospitality accepted were indeed sacred in the Highland code.
Nineteen
All the while, the peat smoke swirled and whisky was consumed, and the games and conversation and laughter drew the people of the glen and the Highlanders of Glenlyon’s regiment closer. But the English regulars grew more eager to get out of the place.
At Fort William, meanwhile, Colonel Hill knew nothing of the treachery his deputy had set in motion. He intended no further action against the MacDonalds. In fact, he had sent confirmation to London in the plainest possible terms that peace had come everywhere in the Highlands. All the chiefs either already had or had promised to take the oath. There was no need for further action.
Yet he could not help feeling ill at ease. Something was up. In his quieter moments, Hill realized that Dalrymple was losing trust in him. He suspected the Secretary of State might be going behind his back. But he had no idea to what an extent Hamilton was already involved.
Hamilton, meanwhile, was growing impatient. Without divulging his darker intent to his superior, he sent Major Robert Duncanson south with four hundred men. The major was now camped out on the north landing of the Ballachulish ferry, at the narrows between the two lochs.
Finally arrived yet another communication from Dalrymple to Hill: “You cannot receive further instructions . . . be as earnest in the matter as you can . . . be secret and sudden . . . be quick.”
At last Colonel Hill realized further action would be carried out with or without him. To refuse would be treason, and Hamilton would report him if he hesitated now. He could do nothing to prevent what he had so long dreaded.
Sickened by the thought of what might be coming, at last Colonel Hill yielded. With a weary sigh, worn out from the fever which had been with him for almost a year, he sent for his deputy. Hamilton came and stood before him.
“This business grieves me,” said Hill. “I do not like it. And it is all so unnecessary. But I shall leave it in your hands. You may carry out your orders.”
Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton wasted no time. He left Hill’s office eagerly and sent off a quick letter to Duncanson to coordinate the attack. Then he himself set out immediately from the fort. His own detachment of four hundred would march from Fort William through Kinlochleven and descend into the glen across the Devil’s Staircase. Duncanson would cross by ferry to Ballachulish and approach from the west.
Late that same day, Major Duncanson received the following order at his secret encampment some three miles from Glencoe:
For Their Majesties’ Service,
To Major Robert Duncanson of the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment,
Fort William, 12 February, 1692
Sir,
Pursuant to the commander in chief’s and my colonel’s order for putting into execution the king’s command, you are to order your affair so as to be at the several posts already assigned you by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, being Saturday, and fall in
action with that party of the earl of Argyll’s regiment now under your command, at which time I will endeavour to be with the party from this place. It will be necessary that the avenues on the south side be secured, so that neither the old fox, nor none of his cubs gets away. The orders are that none under seventy be spared the sword, nor the government troubled with prisoners, which is all I have to say to you until then. Sir, your humble servant,
James Hamilton
Upon receiving his orders, Duncanson now wrote out another message. He folded the paper, put it in an envelope, stamped it with his seal, and sent for his captain, Thomas Drummond.
“Take these orders to Campbell,” said Duncanson when Drummond appeared. He handed him the envelope. “He is lodging at Inverrigan, as I understand it. Then stay the night with him. Make certain he obeys. I will join you in the morning.”
Drummond nodded and left Duncanson’s tent. The wind was up. Snow had begun to fall. Another storm was nearly upon them.
Twenty
It was mid-evening when the dispatch from Duncanson arrived in Inverrigan. Robert Campbell was playing cards with the two sons of the chief at Inverrigan’s house when Captain Drummond entered.
Campbell arose and approached. The two men saluted. Drummond handed him the envelope. Campbell opened it.
Stoically he read the orders, his face divulging nothing. To one side, Drummond eyed the chief’s grown sons warily. He had not been in the glen enjoying their hospitality for two weeks. He possessed no feelings of goodwill toward anyone in Glencoe, especially the old fox’s brood.
Once Campbell read the command, there could be no more doubt of the deed he had been sent to carry out.
The orders were gruesomely explicit.
For His Majesty’s Service,
To Robert Campbell of Glenlyon
Sir,
You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels the MacDonalds of Glencoe and put all under seventy to the sword. You are to have special care that the old fox and his sons do not escape your hands. You are to secure all 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 will strive to join 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 commands, for the good and safety of the country, that these miscreants be cut off root and branch. See that this be put in execution without fear or favour, or you may expect to be dealt with as one not true to king or government, nor a man fit to carry a commission in the king’s service.
Expecting you will not fail in the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself, I subscribe this at Ballychyllis, the 12 Feby, 1692.
Robert Duncanson
Campbell folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. The evening of wine, laughter, and gambling was clearly over.
Keeping a straight face, betraying nothing, he looked toward John and Alasdair.
“My orders have come,” he said.
“You will be leaving, then?” said John.
Campbell nodded. “My men and I are most grateful for the hospitality of your people,” he said. “But now I have much to do.”
The brothers departed Inverrigan’s home for their own. Campbell and Drummond nodded somberly to each other.
Then Glenlyon went out into the night to pass the orders along to his various commanders.
Twenty-One
Throughout the ensuing hours as the fateful hour drew near, Robert Campbell found sleep more and more difficult.
Notwithstanding the camaraderie of the last two weeks, he felt no deep love for old Alasdair. His raids and thefts had added their own weight to the financial ruin that had forced him to take this miserable commission at such an age. Yet he was loath to carry out such a slaughter. If only the old fool hadn’t been so stubborn in the matter of the oath!
But, Glenlyon did his best to convince himself, he had no choice. To disobey now would insure him the same fate as awaited Alasdair.
Throughout the glen, those soldiers with consciences, chancing to get wind of what had been ordered, sought in cryptic ways to warn their hosts. In the Highlands, hospitality was considered inviolable. Few greater sins existed than the betrayal of one’s host. When they heard what the next morning was fated to bring, many of Argyll’s men were so disgusted and revolted that their consciences waged war as never before against their sworn duty as soldiers.
One of the Campbell soldiers at supper on the Friday evening with his hosts fingered the edge of a warm woolen plaid. “’Tis a good plaid,” he said, glancing toward the woman of the house. “If this were my plaid, I might put it on and gae oot tonight and luik after my cattle.”
He paused, then stared at her all the more intently, then turned his eyes upon her husband. “If this plaid were mine,” he added in solemn tone, “I wud put it around my shoulders, and I wud take my cattle an’ my family oot to a safe place.”
The man of the house understood his guest’s meaning well enough and did just that. When morning came, his house was empty.
One of his comrades sat that same evening at his own supper table, especially quiet. For two weeks his hosts had treated him almost as a son, and the young private had grown to love them. His heart was heavy for the evil tidings he had just heard from his sergeant. At length he sighed deeply and spoke to the dog lying beside the fire in the middle of the cottage.
“Gray dog,” he said, and then looked up to his hosts with solemn and significant expression, “if I were you, despite the snow, I would make my bed this night in the heather.”
The man and the woman went to bed whispering quietly amongst themselves as to what the young man could mean. Long before morning they realized his intent, for strange comings and goings could be distantly heard outside. Quietly, in the middle of the night, the man roused his wife. They left their cottage for the hills.
Ginevra herself, feeling heavy of heart in the dusk that fell that same evening as she wandered toward the village where Brochan was staying, hoping for a chance to speak with him, came upon one of the Campbell soldiers standing alone. The man was leaning against the projection of a great boulder that jutted at an angle out of the ground. A pained expression was on his face.
She paused. The man stared at her with an odd, almost compassionate look.
She returned his gaze. Their eyes met.
The soldier glanced away toward the stone beside him.
“Grit stone of the glen . . .” he began.
He paused, then turned toward Ginevra with significant expression.
“—ye hae the right t’ be here, stone . . . but if ye kenned what is coming afore dawn, ye would be up and away.”
Again came a penetrating stare at the girl he did not know. “Du ye hear me, grit stone—flee like the Stone o’ Scone. Up and away . . . afore dawn.”
Only a moment more did Ginevra remain. Suddenly her feet were flying beneath her as she ran away from the strange man. She glanced up. Clouds were approaching over the mountains. Suddenly a great chill swept through her.
Meanwhile, suspicions had returned to Alasdair, youngest son of the chief. He could not sleep. He had not liked the look on the face of the captain who delivered Glenlyon his orders.
In the middle of the night he arose and went out, keeping from sight. A bitter wind swirled through the glen. A few flecks of snow stung his face. Too many soldiers were awake and milling about.
Alasdair crept to his brother’s house and roused him. John did not share Alasdair’s concern. But he agreed they should tell their father. Together they went to wake him.
The chief, however, was of a surly disposition after being aroused from sleep on a cold night when another storm was blowing in. They were worried about nothing, he told his sons. If they wanted to look into it, that was their concern. He was returning to bed.
Eventually both of them did so as well.
Twenty-Two
All night those few of the Campbell regi
ment who had been told what was coming struggled with their consciences.
Some drank. Others tried to steel their minds against what they must do. Few slept.
At last the hour arrived.
Between four and four-thirty, Campbell’s men rose. In the house of Inverrigan, the nine members of the household were roused from sleep, tied, and gagged. They could not be killed until five, as the order stated. But Campbell needed the house to make preparations and as a temporary headquarters. His men began quietly preparing their muskets and pistols for the five-o’clock hour.
Meanwhile, throughout the long, dark hours Ginevra lay agitated. Dreadful visions played themselves over and over in her brain, but she could make no sense of them. She could not rid her mind of the cryptic words of the soldier by the stone.
A stone . . . a stone . . . why should a stone flee its natural home?
Again came tears. They were not now for herself, but for some terrible calamity she felt was coming.
She knew where Brochan was staying in the village of Achnacone, just beyond Signal Hill. In the past weeks, they had managed to find many a stolen moment to be together. She must warn him. She must tell Brochan to flee like the stone!
Ginevra rose, dressed warmly, and went out into the night. The hour was four-thirty.
In the corner of the same room, her mother lay awake, eyes wide with terror. When Ginevra left, she too rose and began bundling up Ginevra’s young brother.
As Ginevra left Carnoch, soldiers were about. There was much movement. Six or eight members of the Campbell regiment were marching toward the chief’s house. They were carrying rifles and taking care not to be heard.
The snow now fell in earnest.
But Ginevra was experienced at not being seen. She kept out of sight as the soldiers passed, then hastened out of the village in the opposite direction.
Her mind was occupied with Brochan. She did not pause to think what the rifles might portend.
Twenty-Three
A knock sounded on Chief Alasdair MacIain’s door.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 11