20. Chapter 20
Beau
Glencoe
Translation: Valley of the River Coe
Usage: Both the name of the larger glen and the name of a Highland village
After losing my mind over my first encounter with a Highland cow, we wander over to the reconstructed turf and creel house on the grounds.
The low walls and thick thatched roof make it look like something that grew straight out of the hillside.
Inside, the air smells faintly of peat and damp wood, and I have to duck as we step through the doorway.
“This is where people actually lived?” I ask, looking around at the woven walls, stone floors, and timber ceiling, a large opening combining the two rooms of the home essentially into one.
“Aye. People here,” he says, pointing to the floor below us, then points to the smaller space. “Animals there. Keeps the heat in.”
We spend a few minutes poking around and talking about the hardships of mountain living before stopping at the gift shop.
I grab a book of Scottish folktales and a couple of Christmas ornaments shaped like shaggy Highland cows, then I grab a few more.
Everyone I know needs some furry cuteness on their trees next year.
Torin is browsing the history books when a title catches my eye: How the Scots Invented the Modern World by Arthur Herman.
I grab two copies and hand one to him. “We should read this,” I say.
“Start an exclusive two-person book club.” Truth is, I do want to read the book, but I also want more excuses to spend time with him when we get back to Edinburgh.
Souvenirs acquired, we head back out onto the road, and it only takes a few minutes to get to our next destination.
Torin goes still and quiet next to me as we pull into Glencoe.
The village is idyllic in every sense of the word, nestled into the Glen Coe Valley with Loch Leven lapping at its western edge, misty mountains closing in from all sides.
We park and head east on the main road, passing a mixture of old stone cottages and modern homes.
Everything is immaculate, clean sidewalks and no litter, and the few people we pass give gentle nods of acknowledgment.
Torin returns each greeting, but he hasn’t said a word since we parked.
We turn down a narrow lane and walk along the River Coe, snow hugging its banks.
We pass more tidy abodes, then trek up a small hill, and when we reach the top, I see the reason for Torin’s silence.
The Glencoe Massacre Memorial sits on a stony mound to our right.
A tall granite Celtic cross stands at its center, set into a rugged cairn base encircled by a low wrought-iron fence.
We pass through the gate and approach the monument.
I read the inscription, a dedication to the chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe and the clansmen who died here, erected centuries later by one of his direct descendants.
It’s peaceful and tucked away, and the only sound is the river flowing nearby. It’s beautiful.
“My mother is a MacDonald, you know,” Torin says, voice quiet.
I nod. “Yeah, she told me.”
Then Torin goes quiet again next to me, his gaze fixed on the monument. My heart aches at the look of pained determination on his face. I don’t know what my future looks like with him, but I do know I’ll do whatever it takes to support him right now.
Unsure how to proceed, I hesitate before placing my hand on the sleeve of his coat, pressing gently against his upper arm. “If you need to talk, I’m here to listen.”
His green eyes flick to my face, and I can’t read his expression. I drop my hand back to my side, wondering if I’ve said the wrong thing. I look back at the monument.
Then he clears his throat. “I do want to talk about it. It’s important. But I can’t figure out the words. You know what happened at Glencoe, but it’s not just a series of events. It’s much, much more than that.”
I nod, understanding. “How about you pretend I don’t know anything about it? Tell me the whole story, start to finish. Maybe that will help you get things off your chest.”
He glances down, chewing on his lip.
I pat his shoulder and say, “Take your time. I’m here.”
When he begins speaking again, his voice steadies.
The hesitation fades, replaced by the quiet confidence I’ve heard before when he talks about history.
Piece by piece he lays out the events that led to the night of February 13, 1692.
As the story flows out of him, I realize something: Torin doesn’t just know history, he brings it to life.
And the sound of him telling it, here in the shadow of the mountains where it happened, feels almost as powerful as the River Coe rushing along behind us.
He tells me about the MacDonalds and their allegiance to the Stuart kings, who had been dethroned in 1688. How they, along with other Highland clans, had attempted to restore the Stuarts to the British throne while they were away in France.
“Their efforts had mostly been in vain,” he says, gaze on the cross, “and eventually William III had enough control across Britain to pacify the clans who had sworn allegiance to the deposed King James II and VII.
Clan chiefs, including Alasdair Maclain of the MacDonalds, had until the first of January 1692 to swear an oath of allegiance to William.
If they signed in time, they would be pardoned.
If not, they would be punished as traitors.
“Unsure how to proceed and not wanting to betray James, they wrote to him in France and asked what they should do. He responded and freed them from their commitment to him so they could pledge themselves to William, but the letter didn’t reach them until the twenty-eighth of December.
That left Maclain only a few days before the deadline.
He set out immediately, riding to Fort William, but when he arrived, Colonel Hill told him he didn’t have the authority to administer the oath and sent him to Inveraray instead.
The chief fought sixty miles through a blizzard and was finally able to swear his clan’s allegiance on January sixth.
Late, technically, but through no fault of his own.
He rode home, believing the matter had been settled.
Believing he and his people were safe. But he was wrong. ”
Voice shaking, Torin goes on. “Lord Dalrymple, William’s Secretary of State, had already decided to make an example of the MacDonalds of Glencoe.
They were a convenient target. Militarily vulnerable due to their location, and politically useful for stirring up anti-Catholic sentiment by labeling them Pope-ish.
Papers were drawn up, signed by William himself, passed down through the chain of command, and eventually delivered to his commander-in-chief in Scotland. ”
Torin’s hands disappear deeper into the pockets of his coat.
“Orders were given to Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon to march roughly one hundred and twenty men into Glencoe.
Once there, he provided Maclain with a warrant requiring the MacDonalds to house them.
And they welcomed them. For nearly two weeks, government soldiers enjoyed the hospitality of the Highlands.
The clan fed them, gave them beds, shared their whisky, even invited them to their ceilidhs.
“Then, late on the night of February twelfth, new orders arrived. Campbell and his soldiers were instructed to seal the exits from the village and attack at five o’clock the next morning. They were to kill everyone under the age of seventy.”
He takes a shuddering breath. I have the sudden urge to hold him, but he keeps going before I can give in.
“Before dawn on the thirteenth, the killing began. The initial gunfire that killed the clan chief alerted nearby homes. Others were tipped off by soldiers who refused their orders, unable to stomach slaughtering their hosts. Many MacDonalds escaped into the hills around the glen, but, Beau, it was February,” he says, voice breaking.
“The snow was deep, and many of them fled without coats, without food. Thirty-eight men, women, and children were murdered in cold blood that morning. More died of exposure in their efforts to escape the slaughter.” For a moment he just stands there, looking out across the glen.
Then he murmurs, almost to himself, “It happened out there.”
A tear works its way down his cheek, and it breaks me.
I put my arm around his shoulders. Torin turns into me immediately, gripping the back of my coat.
His head presses against mine, and his body begins to shake with quiet sobs.
I don’t tell him not to cry. I don’t say it’s going to be okay.
I just reach into my pocket, pull out my handkerchief, and press it into his hand.
I hold him while he wipes his face and sniffs. Clearing his throat, he leans his head up but keeps his arm around me.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m being ridiculous.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say. “This is your history. I’d be worried if it didn’t affect you at times.”
He nods and wipes his nose again.
“And you can keep that handkerchief,” I tell him, earning a small laugh.
I give him another minute, then say, “Tell me the rest?”
He takes a deep breath, seeming to steel himself, then proceeds.
“News of the massacre spread quickly,” he says.
“People across Scotland were outraged when they learned what’d happened.
Clan Campbell’s name fell into disrepute because of the role the Captain played.
Even today, the old Clachaig Inn carries a sign on its door: No Campbells.
But nothing was done by the government until an inquiry was held in 1695.
“A royal commission published a report stating the massacre had been murder perpetrated by the government. The only repercussion of this was that Dalrymple had to resign his post as Secretary of State. William pleaded ignorance, saying he hadn’t fully understood the orders he’d signed, and everyone else was judged to have simply been following commands. ”