Mine?
Why mine? There are others who, I’m sure, could tell you more. If you are after the truth of that night, of the snowy glen murders, then go to them that survived it. Go to them who live to bury those that do not, and ask for their stories. They know more than me, on many things – like who killed The MacIain, and who ran his wife through. Whose voice said find his damned cubs!
Why mine? And here, too, is a question, Mr Leslie – why do you want to know at all? No one else has asked. No others care that so many people died in the glen. They were MacDonalds. Why grieve for MacDonalds? is what they say – for they stole cattle. Burnt homes. Ate their foe.
Barbarous clan.
The gallows herd.
Glencoe? A dark place…
I think most are glad that those people were stabbed, and robbed. Like they deserved what happened to them – for their outdoors life, and their language, and their dress were all a blight on the nation, a canker in the rose. So Lowlanders say. So Stair says, and the Campbells. So does this Orange Dutchman who seems to be king.
King…That brightens you.
I reckon it’s a word to hang with hag and law – a fiery word which can kill a man, if whispered wrongly, or in the wrong ear. But most folk like it. Most folk have a man they call king, and fight for – and such fighting…Two men, with two different faiths, and look what that does! It splits up the world. It makes nations narrow their eyes at themselves, and seethe.
Always eyes and ears, in the dark.
James is your fellow, I think.
Jacobite? I know the word. The MacDonald men were those – that Jacobite clan. Those wretched papists in Glencoe. They wanted what you want, sir – to have James sail back from France and take his throne again, and for all to be as God meant it to be. They fought for that. They went to Killiecrankie and flew his flag, and killed William’s men, and rallied, and sang, and plotted against the Dutchman in their wild, blustery glen, and I was asked by them who is your king, English thing? Whose flag do you stand under? That was in the Chief’s house. There were beeswax candles, and a dog with its head on its paws. And I said I didn’t have a flag – that nobody ruled me. I said I don’t have a king.
That brought a silence to the room. I remember that.
But it’s true. I think kings can only cause trouble. Too many men die, in their name. Too many fight, and kill, or are killed – and so I think of loss with that word king. With king, I think of lost things.
So much is gone. So much. All for kings, or a shiny coin.
And I remember so much…The dog’s name was Bran, and the snow lay itself down on every branch of every tree, that night, and I kissed a man – there was a kiss – and I remember so much! I know plenty. And if I do not speak of what I saw, that will also be gone.
Stair called me a meddling piece, but he also said you must have seen such things, through those long lashes of yours…In a soft voice. Like he was my friend, which he never was.
That’s why he’ll burn me, I think.
Get rid of the one who saw it all.
The one who saved people, and ruined the plan.
She who remembers all things.
Yes I will give you my telling.
You say tell me what you know – give me names! Soldiers’ names. And I will. I will tell you of the Glencoe massacre, and what I saw – of the musket fire, and the screams, and the herbs I used, and the truth. The truth! Who else knows it, as I know it? I will tell you every part. And I promise you this, Mr Leslie – it will help your cause. It will help you to bring your James back, for what I have to tell makes the Highlanders look wise, and civilised, as they are. It shows their dignity. It says the king we have now is not Orange, but blood-red. I promise you that.
And in return?
Speak of me. Of me. Of my little life. Speak of it, when I am gone – for who is left to tell it? None know my story. There is no one left it to, so speak of it from your pulpit, or write it down in ink. Talk of what I tell you, and add no lies to it – it needs none, it brims with love and loss so I see it be quite a fireside tale as it is, all truthful. Say Corrag was good. Say that she did not deserve a fiery death, or a lonesome one. All I’ve ever tried to be is kind.
Is this fair? A fair bargaining? Sit with me and hear my life’s tale, and I will speak, in time, of Glencoe. On a snowy night. When people I loved fell, and died. But some, also, survived.
It is Corrag. Cor-rag. No other name but that.
My mother was Cora, sir. But her most common name was hag so she joined them together like two sticks on fire, to make my name. That was her way. Her humour.
But Corrag is also what they call a finger in the Highland tongue. I never knew it till I walked into those hills. Many folk have pointed theirs at me, so it’s a fitting name. Also, it’s fitting that some mountains are called the word – the tall and snow-topped ones. There is the Corrag Bhuide, which I never saw because it’s far north of here. But they say it is beautiful – mist-wearing, and wolf-trodden. It’s all height and wonder in my head.
Who would believe it? A churchman and a captured witch, helping each other like this? But it is so.
The world has its wonders and I will speak of them.
Dearest Jane,
I have plenty to tell you. There is much to write, for today was full of strangeness – so much strangeness that I wonder where to start. Have I not met sinners before? I have. When I was still a bishop, I met plenty of them – thieves and fornicators, and do you remember the man they strung up for having two wives, and blaspheming? That was a foul business. I had hoped to never step near such wickedness twice, in my life. But I wonder if I have met worse.
This afternoon, I sat with the witch.
I think I wrote a little to you of how they say she is: savage, dark-hearted, and with lice. He – my landlord, who is the sole source of all I know, thus far – assured me she was quick-tongued and hot-tempered, or so he had heard. I asked how hot-tempered and he said very, I hear. She is the wickedest person that has been in that cell – and that cell’s seen some rogues, sir! And he filled up a tankard.
I took my Bible, of course. I do not like being near wickedness, and I confess to you that as I walked through the snow to the tollbooth, I felt an apprehension in me. A nervousness, perhaps. So I recited as I walked, which heartened me. ‘But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen and keep you safe from The Evil One.’ (2 Thessalonians 3:3 – as you know.)
Let me tell you of the tollbooth where she is kept. It is near the castle, in this town. It’s a sombre prison, certainly – half on the ground and half beneath it. It was built, I am told, to keep the Highland cattle-thieves before they were hung, up on Doom Hill, and perhaps it was anxiousness on my part, but I thought I smelt cows there. It has the smell of a byre – dung and dampness. Also, the odour that comes from soiled bodies and fear – the gallows at Lawnmarket had a milder form of it. I wonder if this is death’s smell, or the smell before death.
The gaoler belongs, I think, in the cells as much as the ones he locks there. He curses. He reeks of ale and vices, and insisted on undoing my leather travelling case. He thumbed my inkwell and quill. He glanced at the Bible as if it bored him – I’ll pray for his soul. Then he coughed into his hand, wiped it on his coat, and held out that hand for some pennies. Seeing the witch is-nee free, he said (so they talk, in this country). I gave over a coin, and he smiled a brown smile. The last door? That’s her.