The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (31 page)

The sun shone for Clan MacIain Abrach as together they marched down the pass and into the glen with Colonel Hill riding his horse behind them. Og and Gavyn rode the ponies, while Cuddy helped them herd the sheep to the valley where the grass had grown lush and green. Hugh clutched his bride’s hand, while both excited and hesitant to take her there.

To Hugh there was no place on earth as stunning as Glencoe. The best thing about leaving was always returning home again. No matter what time of year he crossed the valley, it took his breath away. Emerald green, majestic mountains towered above, their precipices stern and rugged, warning of the dangers brought by sheer cliffs and piled rocks.

During his exile, Hugh had glimpses of home from a distance but with dragoons infesting the glen, it had been too risky to go there. As the crags of their hiding place behind Meall Mòr gave way and sloped to the valley, Hugh stopped, holding up his hand.

Beside him, Charlotte gasped. “Papa?”

A group of black cattle stood in a makeshift pen, and rows of white tents cut through the landscape as if the army had moved in. “What the devil?”

Hugh turned around to see his father-in-law cantering toward them. “I figured you’d need temporary accommodations until you could put new roofs on your cottages.” The old colonel dismounted and led his horse while he walked beside them. “The six heifers and bull are my wedding gift. Should give you a start.”

Charlotte grasped his arm and hugged it, resting her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Papa, thank you, thank you ever so much.”

“Aye, sir,” Hugh stretched his palm forward and shook the old man’s hand. “Your generosity exceeds all expectations.”

Colonel Hill wiped his eyes. Perhaps the stern colonel had a gentle side when it came to his child. “Nonsense. I would have my daughter well looked after.” He handed Hugh the reins and grasped Charlotte’s shoulders. “Does anything of your dowry remain?”

She met Hugh’s gaze before answering. “Most of it.”

“Then I expect you to put it to good use.” He pulled her into his embrace. “I shall miss you ever so much. You are the sweetest thing ever produced in this weary soldier’s lifetime.”

Then Charlotte held him at arm’s length. “We will see you often,” her voice trembled as if she were staving off tears. “’Tis only twenty miles to Fort William.”

“I will hold you to that.” The colonel smiled, his teeth stained yellow. “I expect to see grandchildren within the year.”

Hugh chuckled. “We’re working on that, sir.”

Charlotte covered her mouth, her eyes shocked. “Hugh!”

The old man extended his hand. “Take care of her. She’s more precious than all the king’s gold.”

Hugh grasped the offered hand and held it firm. “I will, sir.”

After the colonel and his men took their leave and the clansmen and women set to cleaning the burned shells of their cottages, Hugh led Charlotte to Carnoch. Black creosote scorched the manse’s stone walls with upward lashings, posing as a testament of the devastation of that fateful morning on 13
th
February, 1692.

Charlotte squeezed his hand. “I pray the inquisition will rule in your favor and compensate you and the clan for all you have suffered.”

Hugh still would have rather taken up the sword and fought until he ran William of Orange out of London, but as Donald of Sleat had said, times were changing. The Jacobites needed the support of France to be successful. In time, perhaps there would be another rising. When that time came, Hugh would be at the forefront of the first line, leading the army of Clan Iain Abrach. But for the time being, he must play the game of the ruling aristocracy. Aye, there would be an inquisition in Edinburgh and, aye, he would testify and repeat the truth over and over—as many times as it took for the peers who lived lives of luxury to understand the extent of the heinous crimes committed against his family and his people.

Moving his arm around Charlotte’s waist, he clutched her to his side. “As I said before, our lands have been returned to us. At least that is a start.”

“Yes it is.”

They stood in silence for a moment and stared at the burned shell of the place of Hugh’s childhood memories—of Da and Ma—of an era that somehow had passed and faded into the earth.

“It will be a quite a job to rebuild such a large manse,” Charlotte whispered.

Hugh shook his head. “We will tear down these walls.”

She looked up at him in question.

“Here, I will build a memorial to my parents as testament to their lives and their brutal deaths. Never shall anyone who passes through this place forget what happened here.”

“Yes.” Charlotte rested her head on his shoulder. “You are right to honor them.”

Swallowing back the thickness in his throat, he took her hand. “Would you like to see where I will build your house, m’lady?”

She grinned. “You mean our house?”

He mirrored her smile. “Aye.”

Taking her hand, he led her along the path to the mouth of the River Coe. They stood on a curved peninsula high above the river where it would be free from floods. Hugh spread his arms wide and looked across Loch Leven. “The hills of Glencoe will be our backdrop, the river of the Coe will be our music, and our galleys will sail through the waters of the Leven to Loch Linnhe and out to sea. Mark me, my love, Clan Iain Abrach will rebuild, and will once again rule these lands.”

He looked into her eyes and saw joy there. “And you will be my queen.”

It was mid-July, the year of our Lord 1695—three years since the massacre of Glencoe. Hugh and Charlotte had pooled their treasures and built a fine manse at the mouth of the River Coe where Hugh had taken her the day they returned to the valley. The lintel above the door bore their initials inscribed in stone. Every time Charlotte crossed the threshold she regarded it, proud to be the matriarch of the new generation of MacIain MacDonalds.

The Jacobite chieftains continued to gather under the guise of their Highland games. And with their every meeting their forces grew stronger—both in brawn and more so, their web of clandestine activities. Nonetheless, Charlotte prayed every night for peaceful resolution of the differences between the Williamite and the Jacobite parties.

Warmed by the sun, they sat on the verandah awaiting Colonel Hill’s arrival. Charlotte held three-month-old James in her lap while Hugh rocked two-year-old Alexander. Two healthy sons had been born to carry on their legacy—the eldest named for Sandy, the youngest for their exiled king.

A single rider approached in posting trot, wearing a tell-tale red coat. Charlotte grinned. “He’s here.”

Together they stood and said their hellos. Papa’s back had stooped more since the last time she’d seen him. The inquisition hadn’t been easy on Hugh, but it had been even harder on the old man.

Charlotte gestured to a chair. “Please sit with us and share a cup of ale.”

“I don’t mind if I do.” The colonel grunted as he sat—Charlotte could almost hear his bones creak. “My, the boys are growing too fast.”

“That they are,” Hugh agreed. “Have you news?”

After pouring, Charlotte resumed her seat, her stomach squeezing. They’d had word that the Scottish Parliament under direction of the Privy Council had drawn up its address to the king.

Papa took a drink, then pulled a missive from inside his coat. “Indeed, parliament has condemned the slaughter as ‘Murder under Trust’.” He handed the missive to Hugh. “Thank God for justice.”

Both elated and concerned for her father, Charlotte placed her palm atop Papa’s hand. “And you? What are the findings regarding your role?”

“Innocent.” He hung his head and shook it. “Only because of all the appeals I made against Stair to begin with.”

“Oh, praises be.” She bit her bottom lip. “And the king?”

“Of course, they couldn’t convict William without inciting a rebellion.” He regarded her with sad, rheumy eyes. “The Master of Stair was named as the original cause of the whole sordid affair. Robert Duncanson was convicted as well because his order to Glenlyon exceeded the directives I’d given him.”

Hugh folded the parchment and tapped it. “Captain Campbell of Glenlyon and Captain Drummond were also accused.”

Papa raised his tankard. “At least it recommends full reparation for your loss.”

Hugh smirked. “I doubt we’ll ever see that. The king never did make good on the promises he made through Breadalbane.”

“I wish I could admit differently, but with the war in Flanders, payrolls are oft overlooked at Fort William.” Papa took a long pull of his ale. “It seems there are never enough funds to cover all the expenses.”

James awoke and yawned, his tiny mouth turning toward his mother. “The wee one will need to suckle soon.”

Hugh stood and stretched, setting young Alexander on his feet. “Thank you for bringing this news, colonel. We shall have a gathering to share the resolution with the clan.” He bowed to Papa. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The lad toddled over and raised his arms to Grandad. “Up.”

Papa chuckled and pulled Alexander onto his lap, his eyes growing moist. “You and my grandchildren are the only joy left in this old man’s heart, my dear.”

At last their plight had been resolved. Charlotte stood with James on her hip and kissed her father. “I am blessed with so many men to look after me.” Looking to her husband, she straightened. “Tonight’s gathering shall be the grandest the Coe has ever seen. Let us revel in our good fortune.”

Hugh moved beside his wife and smoothed his hand around her waist, tugging her close. “And celebrate a new era for us all.”

Thank you for joining me on this fictional journey that encompasses the Glencoe Massacre. Hugh MacIain MacDonald was fashioned after John by the same last name, the son of Alasdair MacIain MacDonald, murdered 12
th
Chieftain of Glencoe.

Though Charlotte is a fictional character, the record does mention that Colonel Hill supported two spinster daughters who lived in London.

Robert Campbell, 5
th
Chieftain of Glenlyon indeed had a reputation for drinking and gambling his estate away, and became the oldest captain in the king’s army at the request of his earl cousins Argyll and Breadalbane. As an officer, he received pay and work that his cousins hoped would keep Robert from their coffers. It is said that after the massacre, Glenlyon could be found in an Edinburgh alehouse, nursing a tankard as he sat against the wall in a dark corner with a haunted stare on his face. People would come to observe the spectacle of that crazed, aging man. “I would do it again!” he reportedly would holler. “I would dirk any man in Scotland or England without asking cause if the king gave me orders.”

Some reports said, “MacIain hangs about Glenlyon day and night.” Indeed, the man’s soul was haunted.

The missive to Captain Campbell ordering the massacre was written by Major Robert Duncanson in Ballachulish on 12
th
February, 1692, and was said to have been passed down through Glenlyon’s kin until it ended up in the possession of the National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh where it resides today. It reads:

You are hereby ordered to fall upon the Rebells, the M’Donalds of Glencoe, and putt all to the sword under seventy. You are to have a special care that the old fox and his sones do upon no account escape your hands. You are to secure all the avenues that no man escape. This you are to putt in execution ate five of the clock precisely and by that time, or verie shortly after it, I’le strive to be att you with a stronger party; if I doe not come to you at five, you are not to tarry for me, butt to fall on. This is by the King’s special command, for the good and safety of the country, that these miscreanis be cut of root and branch. See that this be putt in executoine without feud or favour, else you may expect to be dealt with as one not true to King nor Government, not a man fit to carry commission in the King’s Service. Expecting you will not faill in the ful-filling hereof, as you love yourselfe, I subscribe these with my hand at Balicholis, Ffeb. 12, 1692.

R. Duncanson

“To Capt. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.”

“ffor their Maties service.”**

Interestingly, five o’clock was two hours before dawn, and Colonel Hill’s original missive stated seven o’clock. That Major Duncanson wanted no part of the killing was clear, for when he did arrive with his battalion at seven that ill-fated morning, the killing had been done and the survivors were fleeing into the hills in the midst of a blizzard.

Though three years later, the Privy Council did conduct an inquisition and found the Master of Stair, Glenlyon, Duncanson and others guilty of murder under trust, John (Hugh) MacIain MacDonald and his clan never saw a penny of recompense. Further, though convicted, penalties were not enforced, and not one “murderer” spent a single minute behind bars.

Today Glencoe is a thriving place of awe-inspiring landscape and is home to an abundance of wildlife. In the town of Glencoe there is a lovely museum displaying remnants of the early life. A memorial still stands giving ode to Alasdair MacIain MacDonald, the fearless old laird. Up the A82, the National Trust for Scotland has built an impressive visitors center with something for everyone. Glencoe truly is one of nature’s grand fortresses, one well worth a visit.

*The missives from the Master of Stair included in this story are adaptations from historical papers reported in
GLENCOE
, by John Prebble, Published by Penguin Books, 1966.

**The order from Major Duncanson is a reproduction of the missive sent to Captain Campbell on February 12, 1692. The original handwritten order resides in the National Library of Scotland.