The Appin Murderer
by Roger McKillop
Genre: Historical
Swearwords: None.
Description: Drawing on Stevenson's Kidnapped version of the murder of The Red Fox and the article here on Facebook, this is an imagined conversation between the unknown (for two and a half centuries) murderer and the corpse of James of the Glens.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Drawing on Stevenson's Kidnapped version of the murder of The Red Fox and the article here on Facebook, this is an imagined conversation between the unknown (for two and a half centuries) murderer and the corpse of James of the Glens.
“Tha mi gle dhuilich, Seamus, mo charaid, bha e mise fhein!”
I am very sorry, James my friend, it was me! I killed Colin Roy, I watched as Red Soldiers take ye abin the clachan and hang a quite innocent person! I wanted tae gan doon tae Inveraray an’ confess ma guilt an’ yer innocence bit I wis telt it would be tae nae avail. Ye were a died man, whitivir A did, Mac Cailean Mor, the Duke, wid see tae it! Ma confession would jist bring mair retribution on oor people, yet A could feel their hate of the Campbells, the Red Soldiers and their disgust o’ me! Their loathing wis as nothin’ tae ma ain shame! Aw’budy, in the ken, hae vowed to keep oor secret tae protect oor folk.
Noo let me get ye oot o’ this cage. At last, they hae let us tak’ yer body fir a descent Christian burial. By God James man bit ye stink an’ there’s no’ much tae hod yer banes thegithir! Twa years ye’ve hung there tae haunt me. Twa years o’ gradual decay an’ ma increasin’ shame. Twa years yer eyeless sockets hae accused, bit noo A’ll play a man’s pert an’ take ye doon tae a honest grave. There, A’ve rowed ye in a clean sheet, ye maun go in a sack as weel, fir fear ye’ll fa’ apert when A pit ye ower the garron’s back.
Ach, A suppose ye hae a richt tae ken why ye died. Weel, we aw’ ken't Colin Roy Campbell o’ Glenure, wis oan his wy’ tae Appin, intent oan the eviction o’ oor Clan. Tae replace us wi’ bare-arsed Campbells, fir the “pacification” o’ the area by the emasculation o’ the Stewarts an’ thereby the Jacobite cause. We aw’ talked aboot daein’ somethin’ tae stop him. Sic thochts come gie easy wi’ drink an’ bravado. Masel’ an’ three ithir “Gentlemen”, nae need tae bring their names intae the story, though God kens ye’ll no’ be tellin’, met ower a dram or twelve tae plot the death o’ Glenure. He wid travel first tae Duror tae yersel’ as laird. We could get a shot at him on the track at Lettermore. “We?” Aye right, there’d be nae “We” aboot it, this wis a job fir yin shooter, dae the deed an’ escape. But whae tae dae it? It’s fine tae be a hero at the erse o’ the bottle! We met again tae see wha wis the best shot, guess wha won, gin that’s the richt word?
Three o’ us let it be ken't that we were goin’ up loch taewards Kinlochleven, fishin’. We set off early an’ A wis dropped off oot o’ sicht o’ the Clachan, tae make ma way up hill, roond Ballachulish, tae the ambush site. The ithirs had spare claithes tae stuff tae mak’ it look like there wis three men in the boat.
A settled doon tae wait jist by a bend that offered me some cover. Noo A wis here, the venture didnae seem sae glorious. Glenure wid hae the Red Soldiers wi’ him, hoo could A kill him an’ escape? Usige Beatha fair drains the brag oot o’ ye as it passes frae yer bladder leavin’ jist doubts, panic an’ a sair heid! A felt sma’, exposed an’ feart! A’d loaded ma fowlin’ piece wi’ a cherge o’ black powder an’ a smooth ba’, row’d in silk frae ma mithir’s auld scarf, tae gie it a ticht fit an’ minimise it bouncin’ in the barrel bit A’d no’ primed it, in case ma increasin’ly shakin’ han’s discharged it prematurely. Ma range o’ fire wid allow me a frontal heid shot, o’ 8o paces, as the riders came roond the bend an’ allow me tae escape, unseen, in the ensuin’ confusion. Ma han’s were shaking sae much that A couldnae aim properly. A decided tae rest the barrel in the fork o’ the branch o’ the bush, ahint which, A wis hidin’. Ma he’rt wis poundin’, ma han’s an’ oxters ran wi’ sweat an’ ma eyes bleared. Lang A waited wi’ numbed legs an’ erse, when finally A heard the clip o’ hooves an’ muffled conversation, approachin’ frae the east. A primed ma piece an’ pit the hammer tae haf’ cock. “Relax,” A counselled masel’, “breath an’ focus, dae yer job!” As the horses appeared, there wis The Red Fox, Colin Roy directly in ma field o’ fire. A pit the piece tae fu’ cock’. “Dae it noo’, this is yer time, dinnae be feart!” The enormity o’ the deed filled ma mind, the tak’in’ o’ a man’s life, the consequences o’ discovery! Ma fingers widnae work, ma piece shook an’ A couldnae fire! By the time A focused again, Mungo Campbell the lawyer rode atween me an’ Glenure. Ma chance had come an’ gone! Shamed A recovered ma piece frae the branch, pit it back tae haf’ cock, kennin’ A’d failed an’ wid hae tae face the scorn o’ the ithirs an’ watch as Colin Roy evict oor folk!
Then o’ a sudden, up springs a young laddie, wha’d been hidden frae me, an’ addresses Glenure. Mungo wis still in ma way. A knew that this micht be ma only chance sae A double shoted ma piece. The Red soldiers, accompanyin’ Glenure, were still a guid distance awa, no’ yet at the bend in the track. A could still escape noo unseen, when Colin Roy spurred forward tae answer the lad. A could hear they wir speakin’ in the southern tongue. A’d nae time tae think, A levelled the barrel an’ sighted the Fox, aboot the saddle level. He had his back tae me sae gin A fired high, wi’ the recoil, A should tak’ him in the spine. A breathed in, cocked the gun, then let oot a slow breath an’ gently squeezed the trigger. The hammer sprang furrit, struck an’ the flint sparked, the pan powder ingited an’ haf’ a second later the main charge sent the balls onward. The range wis only aboot 100 paces an’ A ken’t the shot wis true! Baith ba’s took him in the sma’ o’ the back an’ The Red Fox fell frae the saddle! The lad looked straight at me, efter seein’ the muzzle flash frae ma piece. A didnae ken him sae he widnae ken me! A heard Glenure tellin’ Mungo “tae look tae hissel’” an’ that “they hae killed him!”
A took tae ma heels, as the laddie cried “There’s the murderer!” an’ sterted tae run efter me. He wis young an’ fit bit bein’ a lowlander wis no’ sae experienced at movin’ fast in rought roond as masel’. It took some time till A heard the infantry firin’ at me an’ stertin’ tae follow up hill. A ducked doon low an’ sped diagonally across the hill. Scrub an’ bracken gave me cover bit nae protection frae their continuin’ fire. As ma wind wis stertin’ tae wain, A came face tae face wi’ nane ithir than Alan Breac Stewart! He quickly pointed fir me tae duck doon an’ scramble across the hill tae the east. Very shortly efter A heard him talkin’ urgently tae the southern laddie, whom he seemed tae ken. They headed up an’ west, an’ tae ma shock Alan Breac stood up, frae time tae time, exposin’ his position. There wis a great cry frae the Red Soldiers wha followed him. A jooked intae a neuk in the hill an’ kept low as the chase passed me by. Alan saw me clearly an’ ken't me, bit he’s no’ likely tae tell the soldiers, as he wid be shot on sicht, fir desertion frae the Government Ermy.
A made ma w’y back tae oor arranged spot an’ waited, hidden, tae be picked up by the “fishin’ boat”. The ithir twa, were, at first, fu’ o’ glee aboot Colin Roy’s fate. As we approached Ballachulish though we saw the clachan wis aw’ a biz, news o’ the murder wis abroad an’ aw’budy were blamin’ Alan Breac. We took oor catch, the lads had nae been idle, ashore an’ spiered “with wis up?” Then the truth hit us, gin Alan Breac committed the murder, the authorities wid pit the blame o’ complicity oan you James, as his close relation an’ senior Stewart laird. A grat when the Red Soldiers arrested ye an’ wheeched ye off tae Inveraray. Ma Mithir pleaded wi’ me no’ tae gang there, sae A sat oan ma murder-fouled han’s while they condemned ye tae be hanged!
Ach, James, here we are, doon at the Kirk. We’ve dug the grave an’ hae a stout ciste fir ye as befits yer rank. A asked fir the honour o’ washin’ yer banes the nicht, A hope that A can wash awa’ the filth o’ murder an’ shame o’ denial. Sae there ye are James o’ the Glens, cleansed, wrapped an’ in yer ciste, ready fir the morn’s interment.
Beannacht libh, Seamus, a graidh!
Whit? Whit’s ma name? Did A no’ tell Ye? Ma name is Donald Stewart o’ Ballachulish, bit mind an’ keep that tae yersel’!
I am very sorry, James my friend, it was me! I killed Colin Roy, I watched as Red Soldiers take ye abin the clachan and hang a quite innocent person! I wanted tae gan doon tae Inveraray an’ confess ma guilt an’ yer innocence bit I wis telt it would be tae nae avail. Ye were a died man, whitivir A did, Mac Cailean Mor, the Duke, wid see tae it! Ma confession would jist bring mair retribution on oor people, yet A could feel their hate of the Campbells, the Red Soldiers and their disgust o’ me! Their loathing wis as nothin’ tae ma ain shame! Aw’budy, in the ken, hae vowed to keep oor secret tae protect oor folk.
Noo let me get ye oot o’ this cage. At last, they hae let us tak’ yer body fir a descent Christian burial. By God James man bit ye stink an’ there’s no’ much tae hod yer banes thegithir! Twa years ye’ve hung there tae haunt me. Twa years o’ gradual decay an’ ma increasin’ shame. Twa years yer eyeless sockets hae accused, bit noo A’ll play a man’s pert an’ take ye doon tae a honest grave. There, A’ve rowed ye in a clean sheet, ye maun go in a sack as weel, fir fear ye’ll fa’ apert when A pit ye ower the garron’s back.
Ach, A suppose ye hae a richt tae ken why ye died. Weel, we aw’ ken't Colin Roy Campbell o’ Glenure, wis oan his wy’ tae Appin, intent oan the eviction o’ oor Clan. Tae replace us wi’ bare-arsed Campbells, fir the “pacification” o’ the area by the emasculation o’ the Stewarts an’ thereby the Jacobite cause. We aw’ talked aboot daein’ somethin’ tae stop him. Sic thochts come gie easy wi’ drink an’ bravado. Masel’ an’ three ithir “Gentlemen”, nae need tae bring their names intae the story, though God kens ye’ll no’ be tellin’, met ower a dram or twelve tae plot the death o’ Glenure. He wid travel first tae Duror tae yersel’ as laird. We could get a shot at him on the track at Lettermore. “We?” Aye right, there’d be nae “We” aboot it, this wis a job fir yin shooter, dae the deed an’ escape. But whae tae dae it? It’s fine tae be a hero at the erse o’ the bottle! We met again tae see wha wis the best shot, guess wha won, gin that’s the richt word?
Three o’ us let it be ken't that we were goin’ up loch taewards Kinlochleven, fishin’. We set off early an’ A wis dropped off oot o’ sicht o’ the Clachan, tae make ma way up hill, roond Ballachulish, tae the ambush site. The ithirs had spare claithes tae stuff tae mak’ it look like there wis three men in the boat.
A settled doon tae wait jist by a bend that offered me some cover. Noo A wis here, the venture didnae seem sae glorious. Glenure wid hae the Red Soldiers wi’ him, hoo could A kill him an’ escape? Usige Beatha fair drains the brag oot o’ ye as it passes frae yer bladder leavin’ jist doubts, panic an’ a sair heid! A felt sma’, exposed an’ feart! A’d loaded ma fowlin’ piece wi’ a cherge o’ black powder an’ a smooth ba’, row’d in silk frae ma mithir’s auld scarf, tae gie it a ticht fit an’ minimise it bouncin’ in the barrel bit A’d no’ primed it, in case ma increasin’ly shakin’ han’s discharged it prematurely. Ma range o’ fire wid allow me a frontal heid shot, o’ 8o paces, as the riders came roond the bend an’ allow me tae escape, unseen, in the ensuin’ confusion. Ma han’s were shaking sae much that A couldnae aim properly. A decided tae rest the barrel in the fork o’ the branch o’ the bush, ahint which, A wis hidin’. Ma he’rt wis poundin’, ma han’s an’ oxters ran wi’ sweat an’ ma eyes bleared. Lang A waited wi’ numbed legs an’ erse, when finally A heard the clip o’ hooves an’ muffled conversation, approachin’ frae the east. A primed ma piece an’ pit the hammer tae haf’ cock. “Relax,” A counselled masel’, “breath an’ focus, dae yer job!” As the horses appeared, there wis The Red Fox, Colin Roy directly in ma field o’ fire. A pit the piece tae fu’ cock’. “Dae it noo’, this is yer time, dinnae be feart!” The enormity o’ the deed filled ma mind, the tak’in’ o’ a man’s life, the consequences o’ discovery! Ma fingers widnae work, ma piece shook an’ A couldnae fire! By the time A focused again, Mungo Campbell the lawyer rode atween me an’ Glenure. Ma chance had come an’ gone! Shamed A recovered ma piece frae the branch, pit it back tae haf’ cock, kennin’ A’d failed an’ wid hae tae face the scorn o’ the ithirs an’ watch as Colin Roy evict oor folk!
Then o’ a sudden, up springs a young laddie, wha’d been hidden frae me, an’ addresses Glenure. Mungo wis still in ma way. A knew that this micht be ma only chance sae A double shoted ma piece. The Red soldiers, accompanyin’ Glenure, were still a guid distance awa, no’ yet at the bend in the track. A could still escape noo unseen, when Colin Roy spurred forward tae answer the lad. A could hear they wir speakin’ in the southern tongue. A’d nae time tae think, A levelled the barrel an’ sighted the Fox, aboot the saddle level. He had his back tae me sae gin A fired high, wi’ the recoil, A should tak’ him in the spine. A breathed in, cocked the gun, then let oot a slow breath an’ gently squeezed the trigger. The hammer sprang furrit, struck an’ the flint sparked, the pan powder ingited an’ haf’ a second later the main charge sent the balls onward. The range wis only aboot 100 paces an’ A ken’t the shot wis true! Baith ba’s took him in the sma’ o’ the back an’ The Red Fox fell frae the saddle! The lad looked straight at me, efter seein’ the muzzle flash frae ma piece. A didnae ken him sae he widnae ken me! A heard Glenure tellin’ Mungo “tae look tae hissel’” an’ that “they hae killed him!”
A took tae ma heels, as the laddie cried “There’s the murderer!” an’ sterted tae run efter me. He wis young an’ fit bit bein’ a lowlander wis no’ sae experienced at movin’ fast in rought roond as masel’. It took some time till A heard the infantry firin’ at me an’ stertin’ tae follow up hill. A ducked doon low an’ sped diagonally across the hill. Scrub an’ bracken gave me cover bit nae protection frae their continuin’ fire. As ma wind wis stertin’ tae wain, A came face tae face wi’ nane ithir than Alan Breac Stewart! He quickly pointed fir me tae duck doon an’ scramble across the hill tae the east. Very shortly efter A heard him talkin’ urgently tae the southern laddie, whom he seemed tae ken. They headed up an’ west, an’ tae ma shock Alan Breac stood up, frae time tae time, exposin’ his position. There wis a great cry frae the Red Soldiers wha followed him. A jooked intae a neuk in the hill an’ kept low as the chase passed me by. Alan saw me clearly an’ ken't me, bit he’s no’ likely tae tell the soldiers, as he wid be shot on sicht, fir desertion frae the Government Ermy.
A made ma w’y back tae oor arranged spot an’ waited, hidden, tae be picked up by the “fishin’ boat”. The ithir twa, were, at first, fu’ o’ glee aboot Colin Roy’s fate. As we approached Ballachulish though we saw the clachan wis aw’ a biz, news o’ the murder wis abroad an’ aw’budy were blamin’ Alan Breac. We took oor catch, the lads had nae been idle, ashore an’ spiered “with wis up?” Then the truth hit us, gin Alan Breac committed the murder, the authorities wid pit the blame o’ complicity oan you James, as his close relation an’ senior Stewart laird. A grat when the Red Soldiers arrested ye an’ wheeched ye off tae Inveraray. Ma Mithir pleaded wi’ me no’ tae gang there, sae A sat oan ma murder-fouled han’s while they condemned ye tae be hanged!
Ach, James, here we are, doon at the Kirk. We’ve dug the grave an’ hae a stout ciste fir ye as befits yer rank. A asked fir the honour o’ washin’ yer banes the nicht, A hope that A can wash awa’ the filth o’ murder an’ shame o’ denial. Sae there ye are James o’ the Glens, cleansed, wrapped an’ in yer ciste, ready fir the morn’s interment.
Beannacht libh, Seamus, a graidh!
Whit? Whit’s ma name? Did A no’ tell Ye? Ma name is Donald Stewart o’ Ballachulish, bit mind an’ keep that tae yersel’!
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Roger McKillop is a retired Sports Studies lecturer. He has been writing poetry in Scots for many years and has had his work published in The Scots Magazine. His pen name is Roger Ceann Maol Beag, which means Wee Roger with the Bald Head!