Page 68 of The Tartan Thesis

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.”

“At least Dalrymple lost his power,” I say, hearing how lame it sounds.

Torin gives a hollow laugh. “Not for long. Eight years later, he was named the Earl of Stair. The scumbag.”

“And what happened to the MacDonalds?” I ask.

Torin sighs. “They carried on best they could. Maclain’s son became chief, and they continued to support the Stuart claim to the throne. Many MacDonalds were still fighting for that cause more than fifty years later. Some of them were in the Highland regiments that charged across the Culloden Battlefield in 1746.”

That morning Torin had described Culloden like a historian—dates, troop movements, the boggy ground that ruined the charge. Now the story comes out differently.

“In the immediate aftermath of the battle, the king’s men stripped their prisoners and left them in the cold for two days. Many were executed, hundreds died in prison, and even more were sent to the West Indies and Americas to be sold into indentured servitude. When the government troops traveled back to Inverness, they slaughtered anyone they encountered wearing Highland garb. If you looked like a rebel, that was enough to sign your death warrant. When they found thirty of the Rising’s officers and soldiers hiding in a barn, they sealed the doors and burned it down.”

He’s shaking again but not crying. I squeeze his shoulder, encouraging him, understanding that he needs to get this out.

“Government soldiers were sent across the Highlands to hunt down anyone who might have been in league with Prince Charlie. Rampant hangings and rape became the norm. Families were evicted, houses burned. Twenty-thousand head of livestock were stolen and sold to pay the men who perpetrated the atrocities with the king’s support.

“And then came the laws. The Disarming Acts. The Dress Act. Bagpipes, tartan, and kilts were banned. Speaking Gaelic was forbidden. It wasn’t enough for them to murder Highlanders. They wanted to kill our culture, our entire way of life. As long as we were different, we were a threat. They wanted to stamp out what they saw as savagery.”

The more he tells me, the more I see how it affects him. And the angrier I get. I know much of this already, but hearing it from him is different. The anger in his voice, hands balled into fists, the grief sitting just beneath the words. It gets my hackles up.

“No one should be punished for being who they are.” The words come out rougher than I intend. My mind flashes to locker-room whispers, slurs tossed across school hallways, the careful editing of myself I learned to do before I was even old enough to fully understand why. I know Torin has had these experiences, too. They’re inescapable for people who are viewed as being “other.”