The Macdonald’s of Glencoe were undoubtedly as fearsome and ruthless a tribe as any other in the bloody history of inter clan rivalry and warfare. But their officially sanctioned massacre at the hands of the Campbell’s caused such a deep sense of outrage, that many of their bitterest enemies viewed it with undisguised revulsion. This wasn’t just murder, this was “murder under trust” and, as such, it broke a moral code to which even the most brutish clan adhered. For it was an inviolable custom of the Highlands that you should provide hospitality to anyone who sought it, be they friend or foe.
It all began in December 1691 when, in a determined effort to bring the Jacobite Highland’s to heel, the authorities in Edinburgh decreed that, before the years end, every clan must swear an oath of allegiance to King William. The majority made the pledge immediately. But, prominent amongst those who didn’t, were the MacIans of Glencoe, whose Chief, Alasdair Macdonald, made the fatal error of holding out until the last possible moment. When he finally decided that resistance was futile an unfortunate combination of tragic error, bureaucratic obstinacy and atrocious winter conditions, meant he was several days late in swearing. Sir John Dalrymple, Secretary of State for Scotland, seized the opportunity to make an example of the Macdonald’s by “rooting out that damnable sect, the worst in all the Highlands”.
At the beginning of February 1692, Captain Robert Glenlyon was ordered to lead a hundred and twenty men of the Earl of Argyle’s Regiment - all Campbell’s and hereditary enemies of the Macdonald’s - into Glencoe. John Macdonald, the elder son of the chief came to meet them, and demanded the reason for a military force entering a peaceful territory. Glenlyon explained that they came as friends and merely sought suitable quarters against the winter snows. They thereupon received a warm welcome and were afforded food and lodgings. On the evening of February 12th, Glenlyon settled down to a game of cards with several members of his host's family. He laughed, joked, ate their food, drank their
and, at the end of the evening, thanked them for their hospitality as he bade them goodnight. Yet all the while he carried in his pocket the clans brutal death warrant, instructing him that he was to “fall upon the rebels of Glencoe, and put all to the sword under the age of seventy”
At precisely five o’clock the next morning, the silence of the frozen Glen was shattered by the sudden explosion of rifle fire, as guests began turning on their hosts, murdering them and their families. The old chief himself was shot dead as he rose from his bed, and his wife was so cruelly abused that she died of her injuries the following day. The whole valley echoed to the anguished screams of the injured and dying. As the first rays of dawn illuminated the grisly scene, the snow was red with Macdonald blood, and thirty-eight members of the clan lay butchered. The great majority, however, managed to evade their pursuers and hundreds of men, women and children fled into the mountains. But they were ill equipped for their flight and found themselves at the savage mercy of the elements. Many were overcome by the bitter winter temperatures, or else floundered in the deep snows where they perished miserably on the unrelenting slopes.
Today a chilling aura of indefinable restlessness hangs heavy over what is truly one of Britain’s most poignant and haunting landscapes. Every nook, crevice and cranny seems imbued with the terror and hopeless sorrow that washed across the valley on that long ago morning. Indeed, such is the stark and fearsome beauty of the place, that it is possible to agree whole-heartedly with Charles Dickens's sentiment that “anything so bleak and wild and mighty in its loneliness, it is impossible to conceive”.
