PANALBA

The Massacre of Glencoe

James Irvine Robertson 08/26/2009 10:51 AM

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Glencoe today © Mellimage

Truth often loses out to myth. Myth is more simple, more vivid, and better at rousing the emotions. Nowhere in Scottish history is this more apparent than in the Massacre of Glencoe in 1692, when the Campbells treacherously fell upon the Macdonalds of Glencoe and slaughtered them, man, woman and child. But it wasn't quite like that.

In the Glorious Revolution of 1688, James II of England and VII of Scotland abandoned the throne. His stoutly Protestant son-in-law William of Orange was invited to London to become king where he and his wife Mary, James's daughter, were jointly crowned. Some Scots objected and rose in rebellion, beating a redcoat army at Killiecrankie before the impetus died, but discontent and a low grade war in the Highlands rumbled on.

William's main purpose in accepting the throne had been to utilise the forces of Great Britain in his desperate struggle to preserve his native Netherlands against the might of the French armies of Louis XIV. With a potential second front in the north - Highland rebels supported by French troops - he wanted the problem sorted out.

But Highland politics was not for the faint-hearted. The petty kingdoms of the chiefs clashed against each other in a constantly shifting network of alliances, treachery, and violence with ambition of each for his own power being the only discernible common thread. The Campbell Earl of Breadalbane, a man described as being ‘as cunning as a fox, as wise as a serpent and as slippery as an eel' persuaded the government to give him £12,000 with which he would bribe the chiefs into swearing an oath of submission to the government by 1st Jan 1692. Word eventually came through from ex-king James in exile in France that he would permit his supporters to make the pledge.

But McIan, the old chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe, failed to meet the deadline. He certainly tried, but swore too late to the wrong man and although his oath was forwarded to Edinburgh he had left himself vulnerable.

William's Secretary for Scotland was Sir John Dalrymple, heir to Viscount Stair, a Lowlander with a deep hatred and contempt for the chiefs. He had been involved in the administration of King James and was keen to prove his allegiance to the new regime. He threw doubt on the loyalty of Breadalbane and the effectiveness of his policy. He reckoned terror was the best weapon and wished to destroy one of the rebellious clans, preferably the Macdonalds of Glengarry, and thus cow the rest.

McIan and his technical failure to swear the oath in good time would do. His little clan was notorious for its cattle theft and brigandage. Sir John prepared a warrant ordering their destruction - man, woman and child. The king signed it and it was dispatched north to Colonel Hill who commanded the garrison at Inverlochy near Fort William. He described it as ‘a nasty durty thing.'

Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, a cousin and neighbour of Breadalbane was an aging drunk and a gambler who had lost most of his lands. His powerful kinsman was tired of baling him out and Glenlyon joined the army, obtaining a company in Argyll's Regiment. He and his men were posted to Glencoe, arriving there on February 1, 1692. There was nothing unusual about this. Feeding billeted troops was a way the authorities could extract taxes from the cash-strapped Highlands. Moreover Campbell's niece was married to McIan's son. So the soldiers spread themselves through the cottages in the glen and concentrated in keeping warm since there was a heavy cover of snow.

Hill had reluctantly passed on his orders and redcoats marched to seal the passes and trap any of the Glencoe people who might escape the forthcoming slaughter. On February 12th Glenlyon received instructions that at 5am the following morning he was ‘to putt all to the sword under seventy'. If he disobeyed he might ‘expect to be dealt with as one not true to King nor countrie.'

Stories of warnings given by the soldiers to the local people survive but they were little heeded. A couple of Glenlyon's officers refused to carry out the command and were sent to Glasgow for court martial. Nonetheless well before dawn and in a blizzard the killing took place. McIan was shot in the back in his night clothes. His wife was stripped naked and robbed of her rings. Firing there and in other cottages alerted many people who made their escape. Glenlyon was seen bayonetting some of the wounded with an ‘expression of frozen despair' on his face. The murders were incompetently carried out. Men escaped from one farmstead where the soldiers only killed a 60-year old woman and a child. An 80-year old man survived an attempt to smash his skull with the butt of a musket.

38 were known to have been killed. It is surmised that perhaps the same number died of exposure as they tried to escape through the high passes which the weather had prevented from being blocked by soldiers from Fort William. The survivors were given shelter by the Stewarts of Appin and, so Macdonald tradition asserts, by the family of Campbell of Airds.

Treachery and the ruthless slaughter of one's enemies was quite acceptable behaviour in Highland warfare. What made the Massacre so wrong was that the redcoats had first accepted hospitality from their victims. Glenlyon went to Edinburgh where he found solace in whisky and expressing remorse to anyone who would listen to his tale. And there was no shortage of those. He was posted to Flanders to get him out of the way and died of drink in 1696. But plenty of ears had been listening to him and down in London the government's enemies saw an opportunity. A ferocious pamphlet campaign was run painting the Massacre in lurid detail - not that it needed much help - and founding the myth that the Campbells, particularly Breadalbane, connived with the Secretary to exterminate the Macdonalds.

An Inquiry was held. Parliament tiptoed round the King's involvement and condemned Dalrymple for exceeding his instructions and he resigned - but was granted an earldom within the decade. And the government learned that soldiers could do terrible things in the Highlands and virtually get away with it. That lesson was put into practice in 1746.