The story of the Glencoe Massacre is more than a mere historical event; it is a primal Scottish story of loyalty, betrayal, and ruthless political calculation that has echoed through the centuries. It is a tale so potent that its name—Glencoe—still evokes a shiver, synonymous with a breach of trust so profound it transcends time. Set against the stark, breathtaking beauty of the Glen of Weeping, this 1692 tragedy is a dark stain on Scottish history, a story where hospitality was weaponized and the king’s soldiers became executioners.
The Political Tinderbox: Oaths and Allegiances
To understand the massacre, one must first step into the turbulent political landscape of late 17th-century Scotland. The Glorious Revolution of 1688 had replaced the Catholic King James VII (II of England) with the Protestant monarchs, William III (William of Orange) and Mary II. This shift created a deep rift, particularly in the Scottish Highlands, where many clans, including the MacDonalds of Glencoe, remained loyal to the deposed Stuart king—a political stance known as Jacobitism.
Seeking to consolidate his control, King William issued a decree in August 1691: all Highland clan chiefs must swear an oath of allegiance to him before a magistrate by January 1, 1692. Failure to do so would be punishable by death. This was a strategic move, designed to force the Jacobite clans into submission or give him a legal pretext to crush them.
The MacDonalds were a proud and often troublesome clan, known for their fierce independence and occasional cattle raiding. Their chief, MacIain (the Gaelic patronymic for MacDonald of Glencoe), was a formidable and charismatic leader. Like many chiefs, he delayed the oath, hoping for word from the exiled James II that it was permissible to swear. That word came late.
A Fateful Delay: The Missed Deadline
On December 31, 1691, the elderly MacIain set out for Fort William to take the oath. Upon arrival, he was told the commander there was not authorized to administer it; he must go to the sheriff at Inveraray, over 60 miles away through harsh winter weather. After a gruelling journey, MacIain arrived on January 2, 1692—two days past the deadline.
After some persuasion, and likely recognising the dire consequences of refusal, Sir Colin Campbell, the sheriff depute, reluctantly accepted the oath. It was then sent to the Privy Council in Edinburgh, which, under the influence of men deeply hostile to the Highland clans, chose to see it as invalid. MacIain had returned home to Glencoe believing he had secured the safety of his people. He was tragically mistaken.
The Plot: “Rooting Out That Sect of Thieves”
For the Scottish government’s secretary, John Dalrymple, the Master of Stair, the missed deadline was not a bureaucratic error but a golden opportunity. A Lowlander who despised the Highland clans, which he referred to as “that sect of thieves,” Dalrymple saw a chance to make an example of the MacDonalds. He wanted a brutal, public act of terror that would crush the Jacobite spirit for good.
With King William’s signed authority—a document that chillingly included the words “to extirpate that sect of thieves”—Dalrymple set a monstrous plan in motion. Orders were sent to a regiment of soldiers, under the command of Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, to march into Glencoe.
The Unwitting Hosts: Twelve Days of Feigned Friendship
Captain Glenlyon was a broken man—a heavy drinker whose estate had been ravaged by MacDonalds in past raids. Yet, when his regiment of 120 men arrived in Glencoe on February 1, 1692, they came not with swords drawn, but with hands outstretched. They claimed to be there on a routine mission to collect taxes and requested quarter, citing a lack of barracks.
Bound by the ancient Highland code of hospitality, one of the most sacred and inviolable codes of conduct, MacIain and his clansmen welcomed them in. For twelve days, the soldiers lived side-by-side with the MacDonalds. They shared food, whisky, and shelter. They played cards, socialized, and built bonds of trust with the families who were, unknowingly, their designated victims. Glenlyon himself was regularly entertained in MacIain’s own house. This period of feigned camaraderie made the betrayal that was to follow one of the most heinous in British history.
The Massacre: Murder Under Trust
The orders were explicit. At 5 am on February 13, the soldiers were to rise up and “put all to the sword under seventy.” They were to show no mercy.
In the pre-dawn darkness, as a blizzard raged through the glen, the soldiers turned on their hosts. Captain Glenlyon himself enjoyed the hospitality of MacIain’s sons before calmly rising from the card table to order his men to begin the slaughter. The elderly chief, MacIain, was shot in his bed. His wife had her jewellery ripped from her fingers, and the rings torn from her ears.
Yet, the plan was botched. The soldiers, perhaps uneasy about their task, were not as efficient as Dalrymple had hoped. Many of the officers, including Lieutenant Francis Farquhar, refused to participate, breaking their swords in protest. The terrible weather and the rugged terrain also aided the escape of many MacDonalds. People fled into the hills, where dozens, including MacIain’s two sons, perished from exposure in the freezing snow. While the official death toll was around 38, the true number of lives lost, including those who died fleeing, was likely higher, and the destruction of homes and livestock left the entire clan destitute.
The Aftermath: Outrage and Injustice
News of the massacre spread slowly but then with mounting horror. The public outcry was immense. Even in an age accustomed to violence, the breach of hospitality was seen as a stain on the nation’s honour. A parliamentary commission was established in Edinburgh to investigate. Its findings condemned the massacre as murder, stating that the soldiers had killed men “under trust,” a uniquely despicable act.
The Master of Stair, Dalrymple, was made the scapegoat and forced to resign, though he would later return to government. King William, whose signed order had authorized the violence, was largely absolved. No one was ever punished for the murders.
The Glencoe Massacre was immediately weaponised by Jacobite propagandists and entered the realm of legend as the ultimate symbol of government treachery. For the Highlanders, it was proof that the state could not be trusted and that their way of life was under existential threat. The deep-seated resentment it fostered fuelled the Jacobite risings of 1715 and 1745.
Today, Glencoe is a place of serene, majestic beauty, drawing walkers and tourists from around the world. But a sombre atmosphere lingers in the glen. A monument to the slain MacDonalds, erected by a later clan chief, stands as a simple, powerful reminder. It bears the words of the clan’s Latin motto: “Glencoe Massacre. Murdered under trust.”
The story of Glencoe endures because it speaks to a universal horror: the betrayal of a sacred bond. It is a timeless warning about the dangers of dehumanising one’s enemies and the terrifying ease with which lawful orders can mask monstrous acts. It is a story written not just in the history books, but in the very landscape of Scotland itself.