The Loch

Chapter 5

It was an eight-hour flight to Gatwick Airport, where we would have to switch planes to fly on to Scotland. We would not arrive in Inverness until seven in the morning, local time.

I was already exhausted, but determined to stay awake, fearing sleep and the possibilities of experiencing a night terror while on the plane. With the ongoing threat of terrorist attacks still keeping most Western travelers on edge, I knew that one bloodcurdling scream at forty thousand feet might result in an intense, free-for-all beating.

With Max snoring next to me, I remained awake, sobriety forcing me to think. Avoiding all thoughts of the Sargasso, I tried focusing my mind on Scotland, a land I scarcely remembered.

My mother had barely been out of college when she traveled to Britain with two friends and first laid eyes on my father. Angus Wallace was brash and handsome and larger-than-life to twenty-six-year-old Andrea McKnown, and the fact that she had recently lost her father and Angus was twenty-seven years her senior no doubt added to her infatuation. Their courtship lasted barely six weeks before he insisted they marry. Andrea said yes, partly because there was nothing waiting for her back home, partly because she was pregnant and couldn't bear to face her mother, a strict Catholic. To this day, mom still insists I was born nine weeks prematurely instead of only three.

My mother put up with a lot during those early years, and, over time, as the glitter of her infatuation gradually faded, she began to see my father for what he truly was, an irresponsible drunk who loved to flirt as much as he liked to drink. I kept my father's affairs from my mother as long as I could, but after nearly drowning, I'd confessed everything I knew. Biding her time, my mother waited until Angus's next "business trip," then sold our cottage and its furnishings, packed our bags, and filed for divorce. By the time Angus returned from Inverness, a new family had moved into his dwelling, and Mom and I were living in her mother's home on Long Island, New York.

That was the last time I saw my father or Scotland, and I was surprised at how anxious I felt to see the Highlands again. Perhaps Angus was right when he said, "Born a Highlander, aye a Highlander, oor blood bleeds the plaid."

Scottish identity comes from both the land and its history, and its history, like most of Europe's, is a bloody one. Separated from continental Europe by the North Sea, Scotland forms the northern boundary of Great Britain, attached to England's northern hip, and our people have always been in conflict with our neighbor to the south — a people greater in number and wealth and more advanced, especially in the art of warfare. Coexisting with the English has been our greatest challenge, and remains so, even today.

Like other nations, Scots are descendants of every race who ever settled upon our shores. Our earliest immigrants, primitive hunters, most likely came over from Europe about eight thousand years ago, shortly after the ice from the last Ice Age finally melted. We don't know much about these ancient ones, but their island would be invaded some five thousand years later by a people known as the Celts. Hailing from parts of northwestern Europe, these conquerors referred to themselves as "Pretani," which was later misconstrued by future Celtic settlers as "Britoni."

Britons soon found themselves invaded by the Romans, the masters of Europe and the Mediterranean world who never met a land they didn't seek to conquer. The Romans quickly subdued the Celtic tribes of the south, then gradually worked their way north toward the future nation of Scotland. Unfortunately for the Romans, the farther they distanced themselves from their southern ports, the more difficult it was to maintain their supply lines.

The northern region also involved another challenge: the Highlanders.

To the Roman conquerors, these mountain barbarians were known as the Picts, a name derived from the Latin word, Pictii, meaning painted, perhaps referring to the tribes' body tattoos, or their written records, left in the form of pictures carved on great vertical stones. To this day, we're not sure where they came from, what language they spoke, or what they even called themselves, but one thing is clear, these Highland warriors refused to succumb to the rule of Rome, or of any other invader. Like relentless vermin, the Picts never ceased attacking the Romans, and by A.D. 409, the Romans had finally had enough, abandoning Britannia, leaving as legacy their lifestyle and the Christian religion.

It was about this time that a Gaelic-speaking tribe invaded Britain and settled along Scotland's southwest coast, establishing the kingdom of Dalriada. These were the Scots and they came from Scotia, the northeastern region of Ireland, then called Hibernia. By the seventh century, they had succeeded in moving their frontier a half day's march south of Inverness, the Pictish capital, before eventually being pushed back again toward Dalriada.

By A.D. 834, the Picts found their armies occupied to the north by the invading Vikings, to the south by the Angles, and to the west by the Scots. Seriously weakened by the Viking raids, Drust IX, the new Pict king, accepted an invitation by Kenneth MacAlpin, a Scot from the Gabhran clan, to settle the issue of Dalriada. Arriving in Scone, Drust and his nobles were plied with alcohol and became quite drunk. The Scots then pulled the bolts from the Picts' benches, trapping the king and his nobles in earthen hollows, where they impaled them on sharp blades and killed them.

Having defeated the Picts, MacAlpin claimed the Scottish crown and renamed his new kingdom, Alba, which he ruled until his death in A.D. 858. For the next three hundred years, the Scots continued to battle the Angles to the south and the Norsemen in the north. The Viking wars would finally end in 1266 with the battle of Largs and the Treaty of Perth.

But Scotland's turbulent history was just getting started.

The accidental death of Alexander II, King of Scots, in 1286, left an empty throne. As a sign of friendship and respect, the Scottish nobles invited King Edward (Longshanks) I of England to act as judge during the selection process for their new king. Instead of choosing, Longshanks arrived in Scotland with his army, citing a dynastic marriage made a century earlier as basis for his own right to the crown. Though Longshanks's claim had no legitimacy, Scotland was forced to accept Sir John Balliol as their newly elected king as part of England's compromise.

But Longshanks was not through. Still seeking Scotland as part of his own kingdom, he imprisoned John Balliol in the Tower of London, then used state terrorism to subdue the Scottish nobles and their subjects.

The Scots finally rebelled in the spring of 1297. They were led by Sir Andrew de Moray in the north and, in the south, by my own kinsman, Sir William Wallace.

William Wallace was born sometime around 1270, most likely in Ayrshire. He had an elder brother, Malcolm, an uncle Richard, and another uncle — a priest — who prepared him for life in the church. The death of William's father at the hands of English troops changed William's destiny, marking him as an outlaw. After killing several soldiers, Wallace was captured and locked up in a dungeon where he lapsed into a coma. Rumors spread that he died of fever, but when a former nanny received permission to bury him, she found he still had a pulse. She nursed him back to health, and soon he was out recruiting other patriots, organizing a guerrilla army against the English.

Longshanks had become William Wallace's dragon, and a warrior was born.

In late August 1297, Longshanks sent an enormous army into Scotland to defeat Wallace. When Moray heard, he joined forces with Wallace, and together they headed south to Stirling. Three days later, half the English cavalry crossed the narrow Stirling Bridge then paused, realizing their leader, John de Warenne was not among them (he had overslept). In the confusion, no more troops were sent across, while Wallace and Moray's army, half-naked and screaming, swept down from the hills to attack. Carpenters pulled pegs from the bridge and destroyed it, killing hundreds while cutting off the rest of the English army's retreat. As Moray continued his frontal assault, Wallace led his troops downriver, where they crossed and attacked the remaining English forces, soundly defeating them. It is said English fatalities exceeded five thousand.

Moray died from his battle wounds, leaving Wallace as sole commander. More conquests ensued, and Wallace's reputation as a charismatic leader grew. His army of followers recaptured Stirling Castle, then invaded the English shires of Cumberland and Northumberland. Later that December, he was knighted and proclaimed Guardian of Scotland, ruling in Balliol's name. Still, most of the Scottish nobles refused to support him.

On July 3, 1298, Longshanks invaded Scotland, his ninety-thousand-strong army soundly defeating Wallace at Falkirk. His military reputation ruined, Wallace resigned his guardianship and traveled to France on a diplomatic mission.

By 1303, the hostilities between England and France were over and Longshanks could again concentrate on his conquest of Scotland. Stirling was recaptured in 1304, Wallace betrayed a year later by a Scottish knight, who served Edward.

On August 23, 1305, Sir William Wallace was hanged, kept alive, then disemboweled, his entrails burned before his eyes. His body was then decapitated and quartered, his head impaled on a spike and displayed on London Bridge.

The barbarism of Wallace's execution made him a martyr to the Scots and gave Robert the Bruce the momentum he needed to lead another uprising. In 1306, the triumphant Bruce was crowned King of Scotland.

Bruce's army would defeat the English in 1314 in the battle of Bannockburn. Twice he invaded England before finally accepting a truce with Longshanks's son, King Edward II. Peace between Scotland and England lasted thirteen years before another war broke out. The Scots were again victorious, and in 1328, Bruce secured a treaty recognizing Scotland's independence. A year later, the king would die of leprosy, leaving the crown to his son, David II.

In 1390, David II died, and Bruce's nephew, John Stewart (Stuart), Earl of Carrick, was crowned King Robert II.

Thus began what is known in Scotland as the Stuart Monarchy.

The next three centuries of rule would be marred by internal strife, conflicts of commerce, and marriages manipulated between Scotland's and England's royal houses. More bloodshed followed, as brother fought brother and religion battled religion in the age-old nonsense of settling whose method of worship was holiest to our Creator, who, for all our murderous efforts, most likely despises the lot of us.

Religious differences would lead to the House of Stuart's undoing.

In 1603, King James VI of Scotland, son of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, cousin to Elizabeth I, Queen of England, also became King James I of England in the Union of the Crowns. By succeeding to the throne of England, he thus united Scotland and England as one kingdom — Great Britain — believing the English would accept his Scottish brethren just as they accepted him. But centuries of bloodshed are not so easily forgotten, and England's parliament quickly voted against the proposal.

The King's successor, James VII of Scotland (James II of England), openly supported Roman Catholicism, Scotland's traditional religion. England's parliament forced James VII out, and rather than fight for his crown, he went into exile in France. England offered the crown to his son-in-law, William of Orange, who became known as King William III of Great Britain.

James VII and the House of Stuart were gone, but they still had support from many Catholic Highlanders, who considered the Stuarts Scotland's true bloodline. These Stuart supporters became known as the Jacobites.

When James VII died in France in 1701, the Jacobites felt his son, James VIII, the old Pretender, was rightful heir to the crown. When King William III of Great Britain died a year later, the crown fell to his daughter, Queen Anne, who had no heirs.

Back in France, James VIII's son, Charles Edward Stuart, also known as Bonnie Prince Charlie, decided it was time to lay claim to the Scottish crown. Supported by France (or so he believed), he journeyed to Scotland's Highlands and recruited an army of Jacobite followers. The first Jacobite uprising had taken place years earlier, ending in defeat. The second uprising gained more support, and soon Bonnie Prince Charlie and his followers were marching south to Edinburgh, where his troops easily defeated Britain's opposing forces.

News spread quickly in England that, once again, an army of Highlanders was on the march. The British King, George II, sent British, Dutch, and German troops to intercept, under the command of General Wade and William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland.

Meanwhile, the French decided not to back Charlie, leaving him to fight these masses with only his Jacobite troops. The prince closed within 120 miles of London, then retreated when he heard (false) rumors that Cumberland had amassed a force of thirty thousand men and was heading his way.

Fearing a massacre, Charlie led his rebels on a long, exhausting retreat back through snow-covered hills and up through the Highlands. Upon reaching Inverness, the Jacobites learned that Cumberland's army had made camp in Nairn, fifteen miles away.

On April 16th, 1746, Bonnie Prince Charlie and his exhausted Jacobites faced Cumberland's heavily armed veteran force on Drummossie Moor, near Culloden.

The massacre took a mere thirty minutes.

Upwards of two thousand Jacobites died that day, some Highlanders losing entire clans. But the worst was yet to come.

After the fight, the Duke of Cumberland rode into Inverness, brandishing his bloody sword, shouting out orders, "No quarter given," meaning none should live. By the end of the day, the bloodied bodies of men, women, and children lined the roads into town. Hundreds of innocent Highlanders were butchered, and for months, Cumberland's forces continued to search the countryside for Jacobites, refusing to stop until the ethnic cleansing was completed.

Bonnie Prince Charlie managed to escape, but England was far from done with the Highlanders. Fearing the ancient crofting way and the fighting men it yielded, the "Highland Clearances" were put into law, intended to destroy the clans' very culture. The speaking or writing of Gaelic and the wearing of tartan were made hanging offenses. Entire communities were "encouraged" to emigrate to the New World, while other Highlanders were sold off as slaves, their land stolen and used to raise sheep.

More than two centuries have passed since the dark days of Culloden. Those Scots who fled long ago have seeded great generations that have flourished the world over. George Washington claimed Scottish ancestry, and more than thirty other American presidents bear the Scot credentials as well.

Today, a new kind of invasion is under way. Italians and Pakistanis, Asians and Africans, and many other nationals have settled in Scotland, calling it home. Though they may not share our turbulent history, they, too, are Scots, and now they are part of our heritage.

Still, there are those of pure Gael blood, those like my father, who swear they'll never forget what the English did to their ancestors on the moors of Culloden so long ago.

That John Cialino hailed from London did not surprise me in the least.

Dawn blinded me, the sun's rays striking my sleep-deprived eyes beneath the partially drawn window shade. We were circling Gatwick Airport, the long night finally over. In just a few short hours I would be back in the Highlands, reunited with my father, and though I had no inkling about what lay ahead, if history was any teacher, then I knew my stay in Scotland would be filled with turmoil.