Sir James Douglas captured Roxburgh Castle on the 19th of February, 1314.
Crawling about on his hands and knees was something that Sir James Douglas hadn’t been used to since he was a bairn at Douglas Castle. He was still a child, aged around five or six, at the time his father was Keeper of the Castle of Berwick. But, by 1314, the year of Bannockburn, Sir James Douglas was a grown man and had come to be known as the ‘Black Douglas’ and was the first to take that epithet. By then, nobody expected him to crawl around on his hands and knees, least of all, the English invaders occupying Roxburgh Castle. Sir James earned his dark sobriquet from his enemies, while his friends recognised him as Jamie and his biographers as the ‘Good Sir James’. He wasn’t good in the sense that he observed too many niceties when it came to fighting the English aggressors. Where the occupying English forces were concerned, chivalry and all such courtesies were put to one side. The same held true for what might otherwise have been religious observances.
Thus it was, that on Fastern’s Eve, Shrove Tuesday night, in 1314, Sir James Douglas and his not so merry men, stealthily approached and attacked Roxburgh Castle. The taking of Roxburgh was part of an unorthodox campaign by Robert the Bruce to capture a line of English held castles throughout Scotland. A feature of the Bruce’s tactics was the use of stealth and surprise, begun at St Johnstoun of Perth in January of 1313. Here, The Bruce himself had led a successful attack, launched at night. In full armour, he had waded through the moat surrounding St Johnstoun, sword in one hand, ladder held tight in the other. He and his men had managed to get over the walls before the slumbering garrison knew what had hit them and, by sunrise, Perth was in Scottish hands. Shortly afterwards, Linlithgow was also taken. On that occasion, they had used a hay cart, which had been jammed against a portcullis gate to prevent it from lowering.
Inspired by The Bruce’s success, The Douglas determined to use his wits to take Roxburgh in similarly effective style. Whilst planning, he got Sim of the Leadhouse, a crafty and skilful man it seems, to make some scaling ladders. Those were made from hempen ropes with wooden steps. Sim also devised and had made grappling hooks of iron to catch on the battlements. Outfitted in such a manner, the men were prepared to affix their spears to the hooks in order to reach up the walls. With the ladders then dangling down and held securely by their less sprightly comrades, the plan was then for a number of Douglas’ men to mount the assault, up the ladders and over the wall. All very well, but the real cunning plan came in answer to the question, “how to approach the walls unobserved?”
In fact, what Douglas and his three score men, not ten more and not ten less, did was to have covered their armour with heavy black cloaks and, crawling on all fours, proceeded in a disorderly manner in the direction of the castle. They were pretending to be black cattle, grazing quietly around the castle perimeter. Now, that isn’t as daft as it sounds, because cattle in those days were substantially smaller than those we recognise today. Indeed, until the mid-twentieth century, cattle in Scotland remained exceedingly small. It appears the ‘cow-men’ were spotted by a member of the garrison, but were mistaken for the cattle they were impersonating. One Borders story suggests that a guard was heard to say that the oxen had been left out carelessly and were likely to be driven off by The Douglas. Another Borders story tells of a woman cradling her baby on the battlements singing “hush ye, hush ye, the Black Douglas will no get ye,” when suddenly the Black Douglas appeared on the battlement beside her. The former is likely to be true, whilst the latter is the stuff of myth and legend, which has been repeated so many times in so many different guises, it can’t be believed. In any event, the men reached the wall, shed their disguises and scaled the walls.
According to several accounts, Leadhouse was one of the first to climb the wall, only to be attacked by a guard. However, he managed to silence this man, whom he “stekit upwar with ane knyff.” Then, climbing onto the wall, he threw the body down to his comrades, encouraging them to speed their climb behind him. Leadhouse held the wall until the others came up beside him, killing at least one more himself. The Douglas’ men, having thus dealt with the guards, seized the courtyard and opened the gatehouse to allow the remaining men ‘grazing’ nearby to throw off their cloaks and enter the castle. Moving quickly into the tower, they came upon the garrison in the hall, dancing and singing as was the custom on Fastern’s Eve prior to Lent. The Scots poured in, crying aloud, “A Douglas! A Douglas!” and caught off guard, the English occupiers were not able to put up much of a defence. Douglas’s men slew many of them, quickly gaining the upper hand. The Warden or Governor, Sir Gylmyne (Gillemin or William) de Fiennes, a knight of Gascony, ran off to the great tower with some others and hastily closed the gate.
The Governor stoutly defended the tower against Douglas’ men. Despite their having rained shower after shower of arrows in upon him, the Gascon was able to hold out stubbornly until the next day. However, he got his comeuppance for his mocking defiance from the battlements as in one attack, he received an arrow in the side of his face, which passed through both of his cheeks and left him gripping the shaft of the arrow between his teeth. Not being too fond of chewing on Arrowmint, he then yielded the tower on condition that Douglas escorted him to the Border, unharmed. That demand from Sir Gylmyne stemmed from his fear of reprisals from the natives of the Kelso area, because of his ill treatment of that local population. Sadly for de Fiennes, however, he lived but a short time thereafter, due to the wound in his face.
Afterwards, the Scots ‘slighted’ their castle as per the policy of Robert the Bruce, which meant that the fortifications were demolished; razed to the ground. Roxburgh suffered a similar fate to those other castles that the Scots had succeeded in retaking. In case the English should seek to lord it over the land through occupying such strongholds, Bruce chose to deny them to the enemy. By the summer of 1314, the only castle of any real consequence still in English hands was Stirling – that was, until Bannockburn. Incidentally, the capture of Roxburgh in 1314 was an inspiration for ‘The Three Perils of Man’ by the Ettrick Shepherd, James Hogg.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
The Battle of Ancrum Moor
The Battle of Ancrum Moor was fought on the 17th of February, 1545.
Over the centuries, representatives of what we now recognise as Scotland and England have been at odds with one another, to say the least, on many an occasion. Anglo-Scottish conflict between nation states or tribes, from north and south of wherever the border was at the time, was rife until the Union of the Crowns in 1603, when Scotland’s James VI became James I of England. In the Dark Ages, we had the Northumbrians fighting the Picts or the Scots from Dal Riata. In the Middle Ages, there were umpteen wars and battles, sieges and skirmishes. Typically, they fought over land, particularly Berwick-Upon-Tweed, and the Anglo-Scottish border frequently changed as a result. Major conflicts between the two ‘sides’ include the 1st and 2nd Wars of Scottish Independence, including battles fought by the Bruces in Ulster, and the Rough Wooing. The Wars of the Three Kingdoms in the 17th Century and the Jacobite Risings of the 18th Century don’t count as Anglo-Scottish conflicts, because they were really Civil Wars.
Interestingly and perhaps surprisingly, the score stands at Scotland 30, England 24. There was a single draw, which was the indeterminate Action at Earnside (Yrenside); the last military action of William Wallace.
The Battle of Ancrum Moor was one of the battles fought during the War of the Rough Wooing and it took place on the 17th of February, 1545. It was yet another of those ‘against the odds’ Scottish victories and it put an end to English depredations in the Borders – for a while. The Rough Wooing was the sardonic name for the concerted efforts of Henry VIII to force the marriage of the infant Mary I, Queen of Scots, daughter of James V, to Henry’s son Edward. Between 1544 and 1551, the English King, who looked like he modelled for ‘Sponge Bob’, mixed intermittent diplomacy with force or the threat of force. Nevertheless, in December 1543, prior to hostilities breaking out, the Scottish Parliament, under the Earl of Arran, as Regent for the infant Mary, decided to reject Henry’s overtures and decided to renew the alliance with France instead.
Stung by the rejection, Henry began a ruthless war against Scotland. He ordered the Earl of Hertford, his Warden of the Marches, to devastate Edinburgh, Leith and many other towns. Hertford wholeheartedly and dutifully achieved that task in two campaigns during 1544. The following year, an army under Sir Ralph Eure (a.k.a. Rivers or Evers) and Sir Bryan Laiton arrived at Jedburgh with an army of five thousand soldiers. The objective of the English was to seize the Merse and Teviotdale, which duty they set about with some zeal, committing several atrocities. Those activities of the English meant that the Regent and the Earl of Angus were forced to put aside their differences in order to oppose the invaders. For Angus it was personal as his estates had born the brunt of the invasion and his family tombs had been vandalised by Hertford in 1544. To add insult to injury, Henry granted some of his lands to Sir Ralph, in the expectation that he’d be keeping them. Red Angus had other ideas.
The Scottish army didn’t amount to much in the way of numbers. It consisted of between three hundred and a thousand lances under Angus, and a similar number of troops under the Leslie Earl of Rothes. They were joined by seasoned border mosstroopers under Scott of Buccleuch, whose lands had also suffered at the hands of the English. The English command, on the other hand, had three thousand German and Spanish mercenaries, fifteen hundred English borderers, and seven hundred disaffected Scots at their disposal. A bit obviously one-sided, from a purely mathematical point of view as you’d be forgiven for stating.
Without waiting for reinforcements, The Regent and the Earl of Angus moved to confront the English army on Ancrum Moor. But they didnae lose the heid; for a change, they played things canny. As the English approached, a small Scottish force made a feint attack and then retreated. Fooled perhaps, by the small numbers, and encouraged by their usual arrogance, a good portion of the English force followed in pursuit. What followed next has been repeated many a time since in Cowboy films. As the English dashed over the Hill and chased down the other side, they found that the whole Scottish army was gleefully waiting for them. The Scots pikemen drove the English back in disarray and the entire army scattered. The English lost eight hundred men killed on the battlefield, including Eure and Layton, who got their just deserts, and upwards of a thousand were taken prisoner.
Ancrum Moor was a hugley decisive Scots victory, considering the inequality of their number. The Rough Wooing was a series of three campaigns and the result was Scotland 2, England 1. Apart from Ancrum Moor, the Scots won the Sieges of Haddington, with the sole English victory coming at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh. Soon after, when Henry VIII died, the war came to an end. You’d think it was but only a temporary reprieve for the Scots as usual, but in fact, the next action wasn’t until 1575. That skirmish became known as the Raid of the Redeswire and it was, effectively, the last Anglo-Scottish battle.
Also worth a mention regarding Ancrum Moor, is the story of Lady Lilliard, after whom the battlefield was later named. She fought against the English and was herself killed in the battle. The remains of her tombstone can still be seen on the battlefield site. And there’s a wee poem in her memory:
Fair maiden Lilliard lies under this stane;
Little was her stature, but muckle was her fame.
Upon the English loons she laid monie thumps,
An’ when her legs were cuttit off, she fought upon her stumps.
Over the centuries, representatives of what we now recognise as Scotland and England have been at odds with one another, to say the least, on many an occasion. Anglo-Scottish conflict between nation states or tribes, from north and south of wherever the border was at the time, was rife until the Union of the Crowns in 1603, when Scotland’s James VI became James I of England. In the Dark Ages, we had the Northumbrians fighting the Picts or the Scots from Dal Riata. In the Middle Ages, there were umpteen wars and battles, sieges and skirmishes. Typically, they fought over land, particularly Berwick-Upon-Tweed, and the Anglo-Scottish border frequently changed as a result. Major conflicts between the two ‘sides’ include the 1st and 2nd Wars of Scottish Independence, including battles fought by the Bruces in Ulster, and the Rough Wooing. The Wars of the Three Kingdoms in the 17th Century and the Jacobite Risings of the 18th Century don’t count as Anglo-Scottish conflicts, because they were really Civil Wars.
Interestingly and perhaps surprisingly, the score stands at Scotland 30, England 24. There was a single draw, which was the indeterminate Action at Earnside (Yrenside); the last military action of William Wallace.
The Battle of Ancrum Moor was one of the battles fought during the War of the Rough Wooing and it took place on the 17th of February, 1545. It was yet another of those ‘against the odds’ Scottish victories and it put an end to English depredations in the Borders – for a while. The Rough Wooing was the sardonic name for the concerted efforts of Henry VIII to force the marriage of the infant Mary I, Queen of Scots, daughter of James V, to Henry’s son Edward. Between 1544 and 1551, the English King, who looked like he modelled for ‘Sponge Bob’, mixed intermittent diplomacy with force or the threat of force. Nevertheless, in December 1543, prior to hostilities breaking out, the Scottish Parliament, under the Earl of Arran, as Regent for the infant Mary, decided to reject Henry’s overtures and decided to renew the alliance with France instead.
Stung by the rejection, Henry began a ruthless war against Scotland. He ordered the Earl of Hertford, his Warden of the Marches, to devastate Edinburgh, Leith and many other towns. Hertford wholeheartedly and dutifully achieved that task in two campaigns during 1544. The following year, an army under Sir Ralph Eure (a.k.a. Rivers or Evers) and Sir Bryan Laiton arrived at Jedburgh with an army of five thousand soldiers. The objective of the English was to seize the Merse and Teviotdale, which duty they set about with some zeal, committing several atrocities. Those activities of the English meant that the Regent and the Earl of Angus were forced to put aside their differences in order to oppose the invaders. For Angus it was personal as his estates had born the brunt of the invasion and his family tombs had been vandalised by Hertford in 1544. To add insult to injury, Henry granted some of his lands to Sir Ralph, in the expectation that he’d be keeping them. Red Angus had other ideas.
The Scottish army didn’t amount to much in the way of numbers. It consisted of between three hundred and a thousand lances under Angus, and a similar number of troops under the Leslie Earl of Rothes. They were joined by seasoned border mosstroopers under Scott of Buccleuch, whose lands had also suffered at the hands of the English. The English command, on the other hand, had three thousand German and Spanish mercenaries, fifteen hundred English borderers, and seven hundred disaffected Scots at their disposal. A bit obviously one-sided, from a purely mathematical point of view as you’d be forgiven for stating.
Without waiting for reinforcements, The Regent and the Earl of Angus moved to confront the English army on Ancrum Moor. But they didnae lose the heid; for a change, they played things canny. As the English approached, a small Scottish force made a feint attack and then retreated. Fooled perhaps, by the small numbers, and encouraged by their usual arrogance, a good portion of the English force followed in pursuit. What followed next has been repeated many a time since in Cowboy films. As the English dashed over the Hill and chased down the other side, they found that the whole Scottish army was gleefully waiting for them. The Scots pikemen drove the English back in disarray and the entire army scattered. The English lost eight hundred men killed on the battlefield, including Eure and Layton, who got their just deserts, and upwards of a thousand were taken prisoner.
Ancrum Moor was a hugley decisive Scots victory, considering the inequality of their number. The Rough Wooing was a series of three campaigns and the result was Scotland 2, England 1. Apart from Ancrum Moor, the Scots won the Sieges of Haddington, with the sole English victory coming at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh. Soon after, when Henry VIII died, the war came to an end. You’d think it was but only a temporary reprieve for the Scots as usual, but in fact, the next action wasn’t until 1575. That skirmish became known as the Raid of the Redeswire and it was, effectively, the last Anglo-Scottish battle.
Also worth a mention regarding Ancrum Moor, is the story of Lady Lilliard, after whom the battlefield was later named. She fought against the English and was herself killed in the battle. The remains of her tombstone can still be seen on the battlefield site. And there’s a wee poem in her memory:
Fair maiden Lilliard lies under this stane;
Little was her stature, but muckle was her fame.
Upon the English loons she laid monie thumps,
An’ when her legs were cuttit off, she fought upon her stumps.
Saturday, 26 February 2011
The Rout of Moy
Lord Loudon failed in an attempt to capture Bonnie Prince Charlie at Moy Hall on the 16th of February, 1746.
At the tail end of January, 1746, after their victory at the Battle of Falkirk and the fiasco of trying to reduce Stirling Castle, the Jacobites began their retreat north. The Jacobite army crossed the Fords of Frew and, by way of Crieff, where it split into two columns, headed for Inverness. One column, under the command of Lord George Murray, took the coast road by Perth, Dundee, Montrose, and Aberdeen, while the other, under Bonnie Prince Charlie himself, went straight through the mountains by Blair Atholl. On the 16th of February, the Prince reached Moy Hall, near the eponymous Loch and village, the seat of the chief of the MacIntoshes, where he was to spend the night. Angus, the twenty-second Laird of MacIntosh was with the Hannoverian forces in Inverness, but his wife, Lady Anne Farquharson-MacIntosh, was a staunch Jacobite who had called out the Clan for the Prince in her husband’s absence.
Not too far away, in Inverness, the 4th Earl of Loudon formed a plan of surprising and capturing Charlie at Moy Hall, no doubt encouraged by the promise of a £30,000 reward. He posted sentries all round Inverness to stop anyone trying to escape and warn the Prince. Then, later that evening, he set out with a force of fifteen hundred men to surprise the castle. Meanwhile, the daughter of innkeeper Mrs Bailly overheard some English officers discussing the plan whilst she served them drink. As soon as she was able, she left the inn, escaped from the town, despite the vigilance of the sentinels, and took the road to Moy, running as fast as she could in bare feet. She was intent on warning the Prince of the danger he was in. This girl, the 18th Century’s answer to Liz McColgan, reached Moy gasping for breath, but well ahead of Loudon’s force.
Charlie, having no suspicion of any such daring attempt on his life or capture, had very few people with him in the Castle of Moy. However, as soon as the girl had spread the alarm, the blacksmith of the village of Moy, Donald Fraser, encouraged by ‘Colonel Anne’, assured the Prince that he had no need to abandon the castle. He, the blacksmith, would ensure that Loudon and his troops would be obliged to return faster than they came. Nevertheless, the Prince didn’t have enough confidence in these assurances – or more like any real faith in the small number of men at his disposal. He then promptly escaped, presenting a somewhat ludicrous ‘Wee Willie Winkie’ kind of figure, still in his ‘robe-de-chambre’, night-cap, and slippers. He fled to the neighbouring mountains, where he passed the night in concealment. It was a night of keen frost and the freezing night air meant that puir Charlie ended up contracting pneumonia. That happenchance may even have endangered his life, but it certainly put him out of action as he spent the rest of the month recuperating in Inverness.
Back at Moy, the blacksmith continued with his plan, stationing a dozen or so of his comrades (some reports suggest only five or six men and others that it was merely the blacksmith, the son of Lady MacIntosh and just two retainers) on each side of the moor road to wait the arrival of the detachment of Lord Loudon. The martial blacksmith ordered them not to fire until commanded, and then not to fire all at once, but one after another. When the head of Loudon’s detachment of Hanoverian troops approached, the blacksmith called out, “Fire, my lads; do not spare them; give no quarter!” Muskets were discharged in proper order and the blacksmith’s men then ran about and beat their broadswords against their targes, making an almighty clamour; seemingly enough noise to have been made by an entire company of Highlanders. They called out to a host of imaginary Clansmen to advance and Loudon's men, having come under fire and assuming that a horde of Camerons, Frasers, MacDonalds and the like from Clan Chattan were upon them, ran off in panic. Thus ended the Rout of Moy; an ignominious defeat for the Government forces and Lord Loudon. The cunning plan to capture Bonnie Prince Charlie was foiled by the bravery and cunning of a few good men and true; retainers of Lady MacIntosh. The blacksmith and his opportunistic companions had put Lord Loudon and fifteen hundred regular troops to flight.
An interesting addition to the story is that the hereditary piper to the MacLeod, Domhnall Bàn MacCrimmon, who was reputed to have the second sight, had composed 'Cha til me tuille' when he left Skye, with the chorus of the song predicting that he would never return – “McLeod shall come back, but MacCrimmon never”. Unfortunately, for MacCrimmon, the prediction came true as the luckless piper was the only person on either side killed at the Rout of Moy, when he was travelling in the company of the MacLeod and Lord Loudon in their attempt to capture the Prince. Subsequently, on the 18th of February the Prince’s men entered Inverness, whereupon Loudon evacuated the town and crossed over to the Black Isle. Two days later the garrison surrendered; the day after the Prince was joined by Lord George Murray. Soon after, in early March, Angus MacIntosh and three hundred of Loudon’s men were captured north of Inverness. The Prince paroled Captain MacIntosh into the custody of his wife, Lady Anne, commenting “he could not be in better security, or more honourably treated.” She famously greeted her man with the words, “Your servant, Captain” to which he replied, “your servant, Colonel” thereby being the source of her nickname, ‘Colonel Anne’. Prince Charlie also gave her a nickname; he called her ‘La Belle Rebelle’ (the beautiful rebel).
Inverness remained the headquarters of the Jacobite army till the end, at Culloden, which was by then less than two months distant. After the Battle of Culloden, Lady Anne was arrested and turned over to the care of her mother-in-law. Later on, she met the Duke of Cumberland at a social event in London, which she attended with her husband. Cumberland, with no sense of irony, asked her to dance to a pro-Government tune, whereupon she jauntily returned the compliment by asking him to dance to a Jacobite tune. ‘Colonel Anne’ MacIntosh died in 1787. As a further postscript, Moy Hall is now in the Highland Council Parish of Daviot and Dunlichity, and when recent works associated with a new wind farm were carried out on part of the battle site, no evidence of the clash was found. Ach well, it wisnae much of a battle.
At the tail end of January, 1746, after their victory at the Battle of Falkirk and the fiasco of trying to reduce Stirling Castle, the Jacobites began their retreat north. The Jacobite army crossed the Fords of Frew and, by way of Crieff, where it split into two columns, headed for Inverness. One column, under the command of Lord George Murray, took the coast road by Perth, Dundee, Montrose, and Aberdeen, while the other, under Bonnie Prince Charlie himself, went straight through the mountains by Blair Atholl. On the 16th of February, the Prince reached Moy Hall, near the eponymous Loch and village, the seat of the chief of the MacIntoshes, where he was to spend the night. Angus, the twenty-second Laird of MacIntosh was with the Hannoverian forces in Inverness, but his wife, Lady Anne Farquharson-MacIntosh, was a staunch Jacobite who had called out the Clan for the Prince in her husband’s absence.
Not too far away, in Inverness, the 4th Earl of Loudon formed a plan of surprising and capturing Charlie at Moy Hall, no doubt encouraged by the promise of a £30,000 reward. He posted sentries all round Inverness to stop anyone trying to escape and warn the Prince. Then, later that evening, he set out with a force of fifteen hundred men to surprise the castle. Meanwhile, the daughter of innkeeper Mrs Bailly overheard some English officers discussing the plan whilst she served them drink. As soon as she was able, she left the inn, escaped from the town, despite the vigilance of the sentinels, and took the road to Moy, running as fast as she could in bare feet. She was intent on warning the Prince of the danger he was in. This girl, the 18th Century’s answer to Liz McColgan, reached Moy gasping for breath, but well ahead of Loudon’s force.
Charlie, having no suspicion of any such daring attempt on his life or capture, had very few people with him in the Castle of Moy. However, as soon as the girl had spread the alarm, the blacksmith of the village of Moy, Donald Fraser, encouraged by ‘Colonel Anne’, assured the Prince that he had no need to abandon the castle. He, the blacksmith, would ensure that Loudon and his troops would be obliged to return faster than they came. Nevertheless, the Prince didn’t have enough confidence in these assurances – or more like any real faith in the small number of men at his disposal. He then promptly escaped, presenting a somewhat ludicrous ‘Wee Willie Winkie’ kind of figure, still in his ‘robe-de-chambre’, night-cap, and slippers. He fled to the neighbouring mountains, where he passed the night in concealment. It was a night of keen frost and the freezing night air meant that puir Charlie ended up contracting pneumonia. That happenchance may even have endangered his life, but it certainly put him out of action as he spent the rest of the month recuperating in Inverness.
Back at Moy, the blacksmith continued with his plan, stationing a dozen or so of his comrades (some reports suggest only five or six men and others that it was merely the blacksmith, the son of Lady MacIntosh and just two retainers) on each side of the moor road to wait the arrival of the detachment of Lord Loudon. The martial blacksmith ordered them not to fire until commanded, and then not to fire all at once, but one after another. When the head of Loudon’s detachment of Hanoverian troops approached, the blacksmith called out, “Fire, my lads; do not spare them; give no quarter!” Muskets were discharged in proper order and the blacksmith’s men then ran about and beat their broadswords against their targes, making an almighty clamour; seemingly enough noise to have been made by an entire company of Highlanders. They called out to a host of imaginary Clansmen to advance and Loudon's men, having come under fire and assuming that a horde of Camerons, Frasers, MacDonalds and the like from Clan Chattan were upon them, ran off in panic. Thus ended the Rout of Moy; an ignominious defeat for the Government forces and Lord Loudon. The cunning plan to capture Bonnie Prince Charlie was foiled by the bravery and cunning of a few good men and true; retainers of Lady MacIntosh. The blacksmith and his opportunistic companions had put Lord Loudon and fifteen hundred regular troops to flight.
An interesting addition to the story is that the hereditary piper to the MacLeod, Domhnall Bàn MacCrimmon, who was reputed to have the second sight, had composed 'Cha til me tuille' when he left Skye, with the chorus of the song predicting that he would never return – “McLeod shall come back, but MacCrimmon never”. Unfortunately, for MacCrimmon, the prediction came true as the luckless piper was the only person on either side killed at the Rout of Moy, when he was travelling in the company of the MacLeod and Lord Loudon in their attempt to capture the Prince. Subsequently, on the 18th of February the Prince’s men entered Inverness, whereupon Loudon evacuated the town and crossed over to the Black Isle. Two days later the garrison surrendered; the day after the Prince was joined by Lord George Murray. Soon after, in early March, Angus MacIntosh and three hundred of Loudon’s men were captured north of Inverness. The Prince paroled Captain MacIntosh into the custody of his wife, Lady Anne, commenting “he could not be in better security, or more honourably treated.” She famously greeted her man with the words, “Your servant, Captain” to which he replied, “your servant, Colonel” thereby being the source of her nickname, ‘Colonel Anne’. Prince Charlie also gave her a nickname; he called her ‘La Belle Rebelle’ (the beautiful rebel).
Inverness remained the headquarters of the Jacobite army till the end, at Culloden, which was by then less than two months distant. After the Battle of Culloden, Lady Anne was arrested and turned over to the care of her mother-in-law. Later on, she met the Duke of Cumberland at a social event in London, which she attended with her husband. Cumberland, with no sense of irony, asked her to dance to a pro-Government tune, whereupon she jauntily returned the compliment by asking him to dance to a Jacobite tune. ‘Colonel Anne’ MacIntosh died in 1787. As a further postscript, Moy Hall is now in the Highland Council Parish of Daviot and Dunlichity, and when recent works associated with a new wind farm were carried out on part of the battle site, no evidence of the clash was found. Ach well, it wisnae much of a battle.
The Massacre of Glencoe
The infamous Massacre of Glencoe took place on the early morning of the 13th of February, 1692.
There have been many instances over the centuries of Scottish Kings being involved in dark deeds; so dark they’ve been called ‘black’. Back in the day, Robert the Bruce tarnished his reputation with the ‘Black Parliament’ of 1320. Then we had the ‘Black Dinner’ and the ‘Black Murder’ of the 8th Earl of Douglas, both involving James II and the latter personally in ‘subdicide’. Then there was the black deed that saw the hanging of Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie by order of James V. After that, there was the mysterious involvement, shades of grey if you like, of James VI in both the Gowrie Conspiracy and the murder of the Bonny Earl o’ Moray, which were black days in the reign of that King. And then we had the ‘Black Massacre of Glencoe’ in 1692, in which William of Orange was implicated.
In 1691, with William the Dutchman sitting comfortably established on the thrones of both England and Scotland after the defeat of James VII at the Battle of the Boyne, the Highland clans that supported James were offered a pardon. The offer of pardon was issued on the 27th of August and was conditional on the clan chiefs taking an oath of allegiance in front of a magistrate and by the deadline of 1st January 1692. The Highland clans were threatened with reprisals if they did not sign, but many remained loyal to James VII and deemed it necessary to get his approval or permission to take the oath. The delusional James was in exile in France and still dreamt of reclaiming his throne. As a consequence, he dithered and dallied over his decision, before eventually sending word back to Scotland authorising the taking of the oath. He’d left it very late to give his OK, which made compliance difficult for many of his followers. James’ message didn’t reach its intended recipients until mid-December, just a few weeks before the deadline. In difficult winter conditions and with magistrates being reasonably thin on the ground, it’s surprising that most all of those who were ever going to take the oath actually managed to swear it in time.
One of those who found it difficult to meet the deadline was Alastair Maclain, 12th Chief of Glencoe. He made if hard for himself as he waited until the last day, the 31st of December, before setting out on his loathsome oathsome journey. Arriving at Fort William within the allotted time, MacIain asked the governor, Colonel Hill, to administer the oath. Hill decided he wasn’t authorised to receive MacIain’s oath, but, decently enough, he gave MacIain a letter of protection and a letter addressed to Sir Colin Campbell, the Sheriff of Argyll, explaining that MacIain had appeared with the right intentions and, crucially, on time. No doubt in good faith at the time, Hill also gave MacIain his assurance that no action would be taken against him without him having the opportunity to put forward the evidence of his compliant purpose.
It took MacIain three days to reach Inveraray, where he expected to meet Sir Colin, the Sherrif. That was only partly due to winter weather. In the main, it was due to his having been detained for a day at Barcaldine Castle by the 1st Company of the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment of Foot, under the command of Captain Drummond. You can speculate on Drummond’s motives, for he later played a crucial role in the massacre. On arrival at Inveraray, MacIain then had to wait for a further three frustrating days, until Sir Colin arrived back from celebrating Hogmanay. So, after several delays and contrivances had thwarted his efforts, MacIain eventually managed to swear his allegiance before the reluctant Sheriff of Argyll on the 6th of January. The fact that he was late can be explained reasonably. MacIain’s only failing was not to have started out in good time and in believing that pitching up at Fort William would’ve been good enough. He wasn’t to know the authority was looking for an excuse to make an example of his kind.
That authority was embodied in the despicable shape of John Dalrymple, the Master of Stair and Lord Advocate and Secretary of State for Scotland. He was also an advocate of Union with England and saw the Highlanders as a hindrance and a nuisance. Dalrymple deemed MacIain’s oath to have been invalid and managed to persuade King Wullie that the Macdonalds of Glencoe needed to be exterminated. If you believe the King’s absolvists, such as the historian Macaulay, the 17th Century Dalek-rymple persuaded the King that the order, which Orange Wullie signed in person, was merely designed to root out a nest of thieves in Glencoe. Nevertheless, one way or another, King William authorised the genocide in Glencoe, which began simultaneously in the settlements of Invercoe, Inverrigan, and Achnacon on the 13th of February, 1692. Thirty-eight MacDonald men were either killed in their homes or chased down and chopped down. Another forty clansfolk, women and bairns, died of exposure after their homes were burned. MacIain was killed while trying to rise from his bed.
One aspect of the massacre that sticks in the craw was the betrayal of the MacDonalds’ Highland hospitality – a charge of ‘murder under trust’ was made at the later inquiry. Another distasteful fact is that Captain Campbell, who led the troops, was related by marriage to MacIain and billeted in the Chief’s own house. And it should not be forgotten that the troops from the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment of Foot lived alongside the MacDonalds for around two weeks leading up to the killings. Ostensibly, the army was there to collect a tax, which in effect meant there was no suspicion about their presence. Then there is the behaviour of the vile Captain Drummond, who brought the orders for the extermination. He actually spent the evening before the slaughter playing cards with his unsuspecting victims and even accepted an invitation to dine with MacIain the next day – an appointment he knew he’d never keep.
At the official inquiry in 1695, the Widgery Tribunal of its day, the conclusion of that sordid affair was to exonerate the King and blame everything on Dalrymple. The Scottish Parliament voted that “the killing of the Glencoe men was murder,” but that responsibility lay with the King’s Ministers. Macaulay’s later history does admit to King William being guilty of a “great breach of duty,” but only in shielding the Master of Stair from any punishment beyond his (temporarily as it transpired) dismissal from office. The date of ‘Mort Ghlinne Comhann’ (the murder in Glen Coe) is indeed a black day in Scotland’s history.
There have been many instances over the centuries of Scottish Kings being involved in dark deeds; so dark they’ve been called ‘black’. Back in the day, Robert the Bruce tarnished his reputation with the ‘Black Parliament’ of 1320. Then we had the ‘Black Dinner’ and the ‘Black Murder’ of the 8th Earl of Douglas, both involving James II and the latter personally in ‘subdicide’. Then there was the black deed that saw the hanging of Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie by order of James V. After that, there was the mysterious involvement, shades of grey if you like, of James VI in both the Gowrie Conspiracy and the murder of the Bonny Earl o’ Moray, which were black days in the reign of that King. And then we had the ‘Black Massacre of Glencoe’ in 1692, in which William of Orange was implicated.
In 1691, with William the Dutchman sitting comfortably established on the thrones of both England and Scotland after the defeat of James VII at the Battle of the Boyne, the Highland clans that supported James were offered a pardon. The offer of pardon was issued on the 27th of August and was conditional on the clan chiefs taking an oath of allegiance in front of a magistrate and by the deadline of 1st January 1692. The Highland clans were threatened with reprisals if they did not sign, but many remained loyal to James VII and deemed it necessary to get his approval or permission to take the oath. The delusional James was in exile in France and still dreamt of reclaiming his throne. As a consequence, he dithered and dallied over his decision, before eventually sending word back to Scotland authorising the taking of the oath. He’d left it very late to give his OK, which made compliance difficult for many of his followers. James’ message didn’t reach its intended recipients until mid-December, just a few weeks before the deadline. In difficult winter conditions and with magistrates being reasonably thin on the ground, it’s surprising that most all of those who were ever going to take the oath actually managed to swear it in time.
One of those who found it difficult to meet the deadline was Alastair Maclain, 12th Chief of Glencoe. He made if hard for himself as he waited until the last day, the 31st of December, before setting out on his loathsome oathsome journey. Arriving at Fort William within the allotted time, MacIain asked the governor, Colonel Hill, to administer the oath. Hill decided he wasn’t authorised to receive MacIain’s oath, but, decently enough, he gave MacIain a letter of protection and a letter addressed to Sir Colin Campbell, the Sheriff of Argyll, explaining that MacIain had appeared with the right intentions and, crucially, on time. No doubt in good faith at the time, Hill also gave MacIain his assurance that no action would be taken against him without him having the opportunity to put forward the evidence of his compliant purpose.
It took MacIain three days to reach Inveraray, where he expected to meet Sir Colin, the Sherrif. That was only partly due to winter weather. In the main, it was due to his having been detained for a day at Barcaldine Castle by the 1st Company of the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment of Foot, under the command of Captain Drummond. You can speculate on Drummond’s motives, for he later played a crucial role in the massacre. On arrival at Inveraray, MacIain then had to wait for a further three frustrating days, until Sir Colin arrived back from celebrating Hogmanay. So, after several delays and contrivances had thwarted his efforts, MacIain eventually managed to swear his allegiance before the reluctant Sheriff of Argyll on the 6th of January. The fact that he was late can be explained reasonably. MacIain’s only failing was not to have started out in good time and in believing that pitching up at Fort William would’ve been good enough. He wasn’t to know the authority was looking for an excuse to make an example of his kind.
That authority was embodied in the despicable shape of John Dalrymple, the Master of Stair and Lord Advocate and Secretary of State for Scotland. He was also an advocate of Union with England and saw the Highlanders as a hindrance and a nuisance. Dalrymple deemed MacIain’s oath to have been invalid and managed to persuade King Wullie that the Macdonalds of Glencoe needed to be exterminated. If you believe the King’s absolvists, such as the historian Macaulay, the 17th Century Dalek-rymple persuaded the King that the order, which Orange Wullie signed in person, was merely designed to root out a nest of thieves in Glencoe. Nevertheless, one way or another, King William authorised the genocide in Glencoe, which began simultaneously in the settlements of Invercoe, Inverrigan, and Achnacon on the 13th of February, 1692. Thirty-eight MacDonald men were either killed in their homes or chased down and chopped down. Another forty clansfolk, women and bairns, died of exposure after their homes were burned. MacIain was killed while trying to rise from his bed.
One aspect of the massacre that sticks in the craw was the betrayal of the MacDonalds’ Highland hospitality – a charge of ‘murder under trust’ was made at the later inquiry. Another distasteful fact is that Captain Campbell, who led the troops, was related by marriage to MacIain and billeted in the Chief’s own house. And it should not be forgotten that the troops from the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment of Foot lived alongside the MacDonalds for around two weeks leading up to the killings. Ostensibly, the army was there to collect a tax, which in effect meant there was no suspicion about their presence. Then there is the behaviour of the vile Captain Drummond, who brought the orders for the extermination. He actually spent the evening before the slaughter playing cards with his unsuspecting victims and even accepted an invitation to dine with MacIain the next day – an appointment he knew he’d never keep.
At the official inquiry in 1695, the Widgery Tribunal of its day, the conclusion of that sordid affair was to exonerate the King and blame everything on Dalrymple. The Scottish Parliament voted that “the killing of the Glencoe men was murder,” but that responsibility lay with the King’s Ministers. Macaulay’s later history does admit to King William being guilty of a “great breach of duty,” but only in shielding the Master of Stair from any punishment beyond his (temporarily as it transpired) dismissal from office. The date of ‘Mort Ghlinne Comhann’ (the murder in Glen Coe) is indeed a black day in Scotland’s history.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
James Stewart, 2nd Earl of Moray
James Stewart, a 2nd Earl of Moray, was murdered by George Gordon, the 6th Earl of Huntly, on the 7th of February, 1592.
Two Earls went a fighting; a fighting they did go. Well, the nobility have been fighting each other for centuries. However, calling them noble could be akin to an oxymoron. According to Tom Johnston’s 1909 “book that rocked the nobles” seventy-five percent of the Scottish aristocracy was descended from “foreign freebooters” post 1066. That’s not much of a distinction as the same could be said of the Norman-English, but Johnston’s “excoriating polemic” went on to show that most ‘Scots’ were “descended from border thieves and land pirates.” A key premise of ‘Our Scots Noble Families’ was that the blood of those rogues had, over the centuries and aided by “a process of snobbery”, become ‘blue blood’. Johnston also wrote that the title deeds of our noblemen were forged by “Court harlotry” and rapine, murder and massacre. That makes for a pretty good summary of the feud between the Gordons and the Morays.
In fact, name any two so-called noble families and they were probably at each other’s throats. As example, James Stewart, the 2nd Earl of Moray, only gained that title, which he assumed ‘jure uxoris’ (in right of his wife), after marrying the daughter of the 1st Earl on the 23rd of January, 1581. But Elizabeth Stewart had inherited the title, 2nd Countess of Moray, ‘suo jure’ (in her own right), as heir to another James Stewart, ‘The Good Regent’ Moray, when that man was assassinated in Linlithgow on the 23rd of January, 1570, by James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh. The new 2nd Earl was the son of James Stewart, the 1st Lord Doune, and grandson of yet another James Stewart, that one of Doune who was made Commendator of Inchcolm Abbey around 1540. As blue blood goes, the 2nd Earl was also a direct male-line descendent of Robert II, the grandson of ‘The Bruce’, through the 1st Duke of Albany, the 2nd son of that 2nd Robert.
The killing of James Stewart is remembered in the ballad ‘The Bonny Earl o’ Moray’ with that epithet being significant on two counts. The Stewart Earl was reputed to be quite handsome and deserving of the appellation, but he was also romantically linked with the Queen, Anne of Denmark, the wife of James VI, as this bit verse signifies:
“He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the glove;
And the bonny Earl o’ Murray,
Oh he was the Queen’s love!”
A funny thing about this tale of two Earls is that at one point, the Earl of Huntly was also the Earl of Moray. When James Stewart, illegitimate son of James IV and the 4th created 1st Earl of Moray died childless, the title became extinct. It was later given to the Gordon 4th Earl of Huntly, who held the 5th creation of the Moray title until 1460, when he fell out of favour. That Gordon died in 1462 and the title forfeited. Then the 6th creation made ‘The Good Regent’ and illegitimate son of James V into the 6th 1st Earl of Moray. When he died as you’ve read, his daughter became Countess and, when she married, her bonny husband became the 2nd ever 2nd Earl.
The feud betwixt the Gordons and Morays began with the 4th Huntly and the 4th 1st Moray back in the days of the 1st Mary. At one point, the two were erstwhile allies, having been in joint command of an army against the English, in 1542. But they couldn’t agree on tactics and Moray rode home in a sulk. While Moray brooded over his former ally turned unfriend, the Scottish army was defeated. The petulant Moray died in 1544, but the mutual dislike continued between the families until 1562, when the future 6th 1st Moray drove north towards Banchory and Gordon territory. There at Corrichie, on the 28th of October, the Protestant Regent Moray, on behalf of his Catholic Queen, entered battle with the Catholic former 5th 1st Moray, the ancient 4th Huntly, known as “the wylest lad that lyved.” Laughably, the Gordon was too old for such capers; he fell off his horse and died. The feud then simmered on through the 5th Huntly and ‘The Good Regent’ and ultimately, to the 6th Huntly and the Regent’s son-in-law.
By that time, James VI was King and married to his Dane who took a liking to the bonny Moray, which wouldn’t have pleased the King overmuch, but not for obvious reasons. It would’ve had more to do with not wanting anything to come between him and the English throne. The 6th Huntly was both a supporter of and schemer against his King. According to Francis James Child of ‘Child Ballad’ fame, Huntly was keen to prove that Moray was plotting rebellion with Francis Stewart, the Earl of Bothwell, against the King. No doubt as a smokescreen for his own double dealings in cahoots with the Spanish, Huntly got his King’s permission to bring Moray to trial. But instead of simply apprehending Moray, Huntly rampaged through his northern territory, causing death and destruction. On the 6th of February, when Moray was on route to Edinburgh of his own volition, Huntly cornered him at Donibristle House in Fife.
Late that evening, approaching midnight, Huntly’s men fired the house. Early in the morning of the 7th, Moray made a dash for the rocks on the seashore, but his headpiece had caught alight and betrayed his attempt at escape through the trees. He was cut down by Huntly’s men and slashed across the face by George Gordon’s own sword. Bonny Moray’s last words as he lay dying were, “Man, ye hae spoilt a better face than yer ain.” Moray’s mother sought revenge for her son, but despite ghoulishly exhibiting the corpse for several months in its coffin, Huntly wasn’t punished by the King, beyond a week long house arrest. In truth, Huntly was always one of the King’s close favourites, but he spent his entire life falling into and out of favour with his monarch. A painting of Moray’s body, gruesomely showing off his multiple wounds, was paraded through Edinburgh in an attempt at propaganda. It can be seen today in the Great Hall at Darnaway.
Significantly, Huntly, who was later charged with treason over the matter of the ‘Spanish Blanks’; excommunicated; absolved; victor over the King’s army at Glenlivet in October, 1594; tolerated by James VI; and who periodically abjured Romanism; was created the 1st Marquess of Huntly on the 7th of April, 1599. Later, he was again excommunicated; imprisoned several times; signed one Reformist confession and refused another; accused of intrigue; set free on the King’s order; joined James’ Court in London; absolved again; and involved in a feud with the Crichtons. Released by Charles I in 1636, Huntly died in Dundee on the 13th of June, after declaring his Catholic faith.
The son of the murdered 2nd Earl of Moray became the 3rd Earl and Lieutenant of the North. He later married Huntly’s daughter and put an end, once and for all, to the Moray/Gordon feud.
Two Earls went a fighting; a fighting they did go. Well, the nobility have been fighting each other for centuries. However, calling them noble could be akin to an oxymoron. According to Tom Johnston’s 1909 “book that rocked the nobles” seventy-five percent of the Scottish aristocracy was descended from “foreign freebooters” post 1066. That’s not much of a distinction as the same could be said of the Norman-English, but Johnston’s “excoriating polemic” went on to show that most ‘Scots’ were “descended from border thieves and land pirates.” A key premise of ‘Our Scots Noble Families’ was that the blood of those rogues had, over the centuries and aided by “a process of snobbery”, become ‘blue blood’. Johnston also wrote that the title deeds of our noblemen were forged by “Court harlotry” and rapine, murder and massacre. That makes for a pretty good summary of the feud between the Gordons and the Morays.
In fact, name any two so-called noble families and they were probably at each other’s throats. As example, James Stewart, the 2nd Earl of Moray, only gained that title, which he assumed ‘jure uxoris’ (in right of his wife), after marrying the daughter of the 1st Earl on the 23rd of January, 1581. But Elizabeth Stewart had inherited the title, 2nd Countess of Moray, ‘suo jure’ (in her own right), as heir to another James Stewart, ‘The Good Regent’ Moray, when that man was assassinated in Linlithgow on the 23rd of January, 1570, by James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh. The new 2nd Earl was the son of James Stewart, the 1st Lord Doune, and grandson of yet another James Stewart, that one of Doune who was made Commendator of Inchcolm Abbey around 1540. As blue blood goes, the 2nd Earl was also a direct male-line descendent of Robert II, the grandson of ‘The Bruce’, through the 1st Duke of Albany, the 2nd son of that 2nd Robert.
The killing of James Stewart is remembered in the ballad ‘The Bonny Earl o’ Moray’ with that epithet being significant on two counts. The Stewart Earl was reputed to be quite handsome and deserving of the appellation, but he was also romantically linked with the Queen, Anne of Denmark, the wife of James VI, as this bit verse signifies:
“He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the glove;
And the bonny Earl o’ Murray,
Oh he was the Queen’s love!”
A funny thing about this tale of two Earls is that at one point, the Earl of Huntly was also the Earl of Moray. When James Stewart, illegitimate son of James IV and the 4th created 1st Earl of Moray died childless, the title became extinct. It was later given to the Gordon 4th Earl of Huntly, who held the 5th creation of the Moray title until 1460, when he fell out of favour. That Gordon died in 1462 and the title forfeited. Then the 6th creation made ‘The Good Regent’ and illegitimate son of James V into the 6th 1st Earl of Moray. When he died as you’ve read, his daughter became Countess and, when she married, her bonny husband became the 2nd ever 2nd Earl.
The feud betwixt the Gordons and Morays began with the 4th Huntly and the 4th 1st Moray back in the days of the 1st Mary. At one point, the two were erstwhile allies, having been in joint command of an army against the English, in 1542. But they couldn’t agree on tactics and Moray rode home in a sulk. While Moray brooded over his former ally turned unfriend, the Scottish army was defeated. The petulant Moray died in 1544, but the mutual dislike continued between the families until 1562, when the future 6th 1st Moray drove north towards Banchory and Gordon territory. There at Corrichie, on the 28th of October, the Protestant Regent Moray, on behalf of his Catholic Queen, entered battle with the Catholic former 5th 1st Moray, the ancient 4th Huntly, known as “the wylest lad that lyved.” Laughably, the Gordon was too old for such capers; he fell off his horse and died. The feud then simmered on through the 5th Huntly and ‘The Good Regent’ and ultimately, to the 6th Huntly and the Regent’s son-in-law.
By that time, James VI was King and married to his Dane who took a liking to the bonny Moray, which wouldn’t have pleased the King overmuch, but not for obvious reasons. It would’ve had more to do with not wanting anything to come between him and the English throne. The 6th Huntly was both a supporter of and schemer against his King. According to Francis James Child of ‘Child Ballad’ fame, Huntly was keen to prove that Moray was plotting rebellion with Francis Stewart, the Earl of Bothwell, against the King. No doubt as a smokescreen for his own double dealings in cahoots with the Spanish, Huntly got his King’s permission to bring Moray to trial. But instead of simply apprehending Moray, Huntly rampaged through his northern territory, causing death and destruction. On the 6th of February, when Moray was on route to Edinburgh of his own volition, Huntly cornered him at Donibristle House in Fife.
Late that evening, approaching midnight, Huntly’s men fired the house. Early in the morning of the 7th, Moray made a dash for the rocks on the seashore, but his headpiece had caught alight and betrayed his attempt at escape through the trees. He was cut down by Huntly’s men and slashed across the face by George Gordon’s own sword. Bonny Moray’s last words as he lay dying were, “Man, ye hae spoilt a better face than yer ain.” Moray’s mother sought revenge for her son, but despite ghoulishly exhibiting the corpse for several months in its coffin, Huntly wasn’t punished by the King, beyond a week long house arrest. In truth, Huntly was always one of the King’s close favourites, but he spent his entire life falling into and out of favour with his monarch. A painting of Moray’s body, gruesomely showing off his multiple wounds, was paraded through Edinburgh in an attempt at propaganda. It can be seen today in the Great Hall at Darnaway.
Significantly, Huntly, who was later charged with treason over the matter of the ‘Spanish Blanks’; excommunicated; absolved; victor over the King’s army at Glenlivet in October, 1594; tolerated by James VI; and who periodically abjured Romanism; was created the 1st Marquess of Huntly on the 7th of April, 1599. Later, he was again excommunicated; imprisoned several times; signed one Reformist confession and refused another; accused of intrigue; set free on the King’s order; joined James’ Court in London; absolved again; and involved in a feud with the Crichtons. Released by Charles I in 1636, Huntly died in Dundee on the 13th of June, after declaring his Catholic faith.
The son of the murdered 2nd Earl of Moray became the 3rd Earl and Lieutenant of the North. He later married Huntly’s daughter and put an end, once and for all, to the Moray/Gordon feud.
James Braid
James Braid, golfer and course architect, was born on the 6th of February, 1870.
Forget Sandy Lyle, forget Colin Montgomerie, forget Sam Torrance, Bernhard Gallagher, Uncle Tom Morris and all, the greatest Scottish golfer of all time is a figure from the past – James Braid. For his record and overall achievements, the moustachioed Braid stands figuratively head and shoulders above any other golfing Scot. He probably did the same by stature as he grew braid-like into a long man. Long before the days of carbon-fibre and titanium clubs, Braid held the world record for the longest drive. That distance was measured in 1905, at Walton Heath in England, as 395 yards. And he made it look easy, using what looks like an awesomely awkward club of hickory and pig iron with ‘gutty’ balls. Over a hundred years later, very few golfers of the modern era, equipped with their state-of-the-art drivers and aerodynamic balls have ever beaten that distance of Braid’s.
There is a case for naming Braid one of the greatest British golfers of all time, not withstanding the likes of Nick Faldo and Tony Jacklin. In Braid’s era, his domestic rivals included Harry Vardon and John H. Taylor. Collectively, they were known as the ‘Great Triumvirate’ and unsurprisingly, most sources seem to pick out Vardon as the preeminent golfer. However, as the ‘Scotsman’ reported in a well written and unbiased article by Christopher Cairns in June, 2006, there seem to be many contemporary accounts that conferred on Braid the honour of ‘best golfer in the world’. Back in the day, there wasn’t the over saturated list of professional tournaments we now see. In fact, there was only one tournament of global significance. That was the Open Championship, which Braid won five times; the first man so to do. Braid won the British Matchplay Championship an unprecedented four times, finished second in the Open on three occasions, and added the one French Open title for good measure. Surely, he must’ve done something only twice? Yes he did, he was runner-up in the British Open in 1897 and 1909.
Unfortunately for Braid, but otherwise for his rivals, especially those abroad, Braid suffered from motion sickness and couldn’t travel; neither by steam train, plain old boat nor even automobile. Poor man; the Scotsman article reports that he was often sick in the cars sent to pick him up from railway stations. Poor taxi driver. So he never made it to the United States, unlike Vardon, who did add the US Open title to his collection. In terms of ‘head-to-heads’ against Vardon, Braid won 40 out of 83 contests, with his arch rival taking 36 and the remainder being halved (that’s a draw for anyone ignorant of gowf). Braid also included 18 ‘holes-in-one’ in his career (that’s a bit like Nayim scoring from the half way line 18 times).
Another thing for which Braid is famous, is his record as a golf course architect. His legacy can be seen in the six ‘James Braid Trails’ that have been produced in partnership with VisitScotland and 30 Scottish golf courses. They go by the names of Angus, Gleneagles, Highland, Links, Lothian and West Coast and should be high on any golfer’s agenda. During his distinguished career, Braid designed, reconstructed or advised on more than 250 golf courses (sources state over 300) throughout the British Isles.
Braid was ‘The Authority’ on golf course design and his layouts are amongst the finest courses in the world. In his book, ‘Advanced Golf’ which was published by Methuen and Company in 1908, Braid set out his rules for the general features he felt every good course should possess. As example, his principles stated that there “should be a complete variety of holes, not only as regards length, but in their character” and that, with regard to bunkers “the player who does not gain [a desired] position should have his next shot made more difficult …or should be obliged to take an extra stroke.” Braid’s ‘sixth law’ of course design stated that there should be “as frequently as possible two alternative methods of playing a hole, an easy one and a difficult one, and there should be a chance of gaining a stroke when the latter is chosen and the attempt is successful.”
James Braid was born in Earlsferry, near St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf, on the 6th of February, 1870. James’ earliest recollection of golf was playing with a child’s club when he was about four. Thereafter, he became fascinated with the game and learned to play golf at Elie links, where he won his first tournament at the age of eight. He trained to be a carpenter and joiner and became a reasonably successful amateur golfer. Later, Braid set to reconditioning old clubs for his own use and developed a skill as a club maker. That enabled him to leave Scotland in 1893, to take up such a position at the Army and Navy in London. That employment led to his gaining professional status, in 1896, and in turn to his appointment as Club Professional at Romford. Braid stayed in Essex for eight years before taking moving to Walton Heath, in Surrey, where he remained until his death.
Although Braid started his career as a poor putter, he soon recovered, through single minded dedication, hours of practice and a new putter. Thereafter, he became lethal on the greens. His spectacular success began in 1901, when he won his first Open. Within ten years he had become the first man to win the event five times, a milestone he reached before either of his contemporaneous rivals, Vardon and Taylor. Braid’s record of five ‘Opens’ is only matched by Taylor, Peter Thomson and Tom Watson, although Vardon won the ‘Claret Jug’ six times. Braid retired from competitive golf in 1912, with not much left to achieve on the course, so he promptly took to designing golf courses.
Braid was a pioneer in his field and used established architectural techniques and topographical analysis. Braid realised that whilst the natural terrain was useful for certain holes, it could be radically altered to create new and more imaginative designs, based on shot strategy. Braid worked on a number of links courses, but his best courses tended to be inland parkland tracks. He is regarded as the inventor of the dogleg hole, which featured in many of his courses, however, holes of similar design had been known for centuries in Scotland. Braid found them to be ideal for inland layouts that very often wound their way through trees and around hillsides. Braid formalised the practice of positioning bunkers specifically to establish landing areas from the tee, and also developed the plateau green and the pot bunker, along with sophisticated drainage systems.
Braid’s third major claim to fame was the establishment of the Professional Golfers’ Association of which he later became President. James Braid died in London on the 27th of November, 1950, and, in reporting his death, the ‘Scotsman’ said that in his heyday, he was “an awesome figure” of a golfer.
Forget Sandy Lyle, forget Colin Montgomerie, forget Sam Torrance, Bernhard Gallagher, Uncle Tom Morris and all, the greatest Scottish golfer of all time is a figure from the past – James Braid. For his record and overall achievements, the moustachioed Braid stands figuratively head and shoulders above any other golfing Scot. He probably did the same by stature as he grew braid-like into a long man. Long before the days of carbon-fibre and titanium clubs, Braid held the world record for the longest drive. That distance was measured in 1905, at Walton Heath in England, as 395 yards. And he made it look easy, using what looks like an awesomely awkward club of hickory and pig iron with ‘gutty’ balls. Over a hundred years later, very few golfers of the modern era, equipped with their state-of-the-art drivers and aerodynamic balls have ever beaten that distance of Braid’s.
There is a case for naming Braid one of the greatest British golfers of all time, not withstanding the likes of Nick Faldo and Tony Jacklin. In Braid’s era, his domestic rivals included Harry Vardon and John H. Taylor. Collectively, they were known as the ‘Great Triumvirate’ and unsurprisingly, most sources seem to pick out Vardon as the preeminent golfer. However, as the ‘Scotsman’ reported in a well written and unbiased article by Christopher Cairns in June, 2006, there seem to be many contemporary accounts that conferred on Braid the honour of ‘best golfer in the world’. Back in the day, there wasn’t the over saturated list of professional tournaments we now see. In fact, there was only one tournament of global significance. That was the Open Championship, which Braid won five times; the first man so to do. Braid won the British Matchplay Championship an unprecedented four times, finished second in the Open on three occasions, and added the one French Open title for good measure. Surely, he must’ve done something only twice? Yes he did, he was runner-up in the British Open in 1897 and 1909.
Unfortunately for Braid, but otherwise for his rivals, especially those abroad, Braid suffered from motion sickness and couldn’t travel; neither by steam train, plain old boat nor even automobile. Poor man; the Scotsman article reports that he was often sick in the cars sent to pick him up from railway stations. Poor taxi driver. So he never made it to the United States, unlike Vardon, who did add the US Open title to his collection. In terms of ‘head-to-heads’ against Vardon, Braid won 40 out of 83 contests, with his arch rival taking 36 and the remainder being halved (that’s a draw for anyone ignorant of gowf). Braid also included 18 ‘holes-in-one’ in his career (that’s a bit like Nayim scoring from the half way line 18 times).
Another thing for which Braid is famous, is his record as a golf course architect. His legacy can be seen in the six ‘James Braid Trails’ that have been produced in partnership with VisitScotland and 30 Scottish golf courses. They go by the names of Angus, Gleneagles, Highland, Links, Lothian and West Coast and should be high on any golfer’s agenda. During his distinguished career, Braid designed, reconstructed or advised on more than 250 golf courses (sources state over 300) throughout the British Isles.
Braid was ‘The Authority’ on golf course design and his layouts are amongst the finest courses in the world. In his book, ‘Advanced Golf’ which was published by Methuen and Company in 1908, Braid set out his rules for the general features he felt every good course should possess. As example, his principles stated that there “should be a complete variety of holes, not only as regards length, but in their character” and that, with regard to bunkers “the player who does not gain [a desired] position should have his next shot made more difficult …or should be obliged to take an extra stroke.” Braid’s ‘sixth law’ of course design stated that there should be “as frequently as possible two alternative methods of playing a hole, an easy one and a difficult one, and there should be a chance of gaining a stroke when the latter is chosen and the attempt is successful.”
James Braid was born in Earlsferry, near St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf, on the 6th of February, 1870. James’ earliest recollection of golf was playing with a child’s club when he was about four. Thereafter, he became fascinated with the game and learned to play golf at Elie links, where he won his first tournament at the age of eight. He trained to be a carpenter and joiner and became a reasonably successful amateur golfer. Later, Braid set to reconditioning old clubs for his own use and developed a skill as a club maker. That enabled him to leave Scotland in 1893, to take up such a position at the Army and Navy in London. That employment led to his gaining professional status, in 1896, and in turn to his appointment as Club Professional at Romford. Braid stayed in Essex for eight years before taking moving to Walton Heath, in Surrey, where he remained until his death.
Although Braid started his career as a poor putter, he soon recovered, through single minded dedication, hours of practice and a new putter. Thereafter, he became lethal on the greens. His spectacular success began in 1901, when he won his first Open. Within ten years he had become the first man to win the event five times, a milestone he reached before either of his contemporaneous rivals, Vardon and Taylor. Braid’s record of five ‘Opens’ is only matched by Taylor, Peter Thomson and Tom Watson, although Vardon won the ‘Claret Jug’ six times. Braid retired from competitive golf in 1912, with not much left to achieve on the course, so he promptly took to designing golf courses.
Braid was a pioneer in his field and used established architectural techniques and topographical analysis. Braid realised that whilst the natural terrain was useful for certain holes, it could be radically altered to create new and more imaginative designs, based on shot strategy. Braid worked on a number of links courses, but his best courses tended to be inland parkland tracks. He is regarded as the inventor of the dogleg hole, which featured in many of his courses, however, holes of similar design had been known for centuries in Scotland. Braid found them to be ideal for inland layouts that very often wound their way through trees and around hillsides. Braid formalised the practice of positioning bunkers specifically to establish landing areas from the tee, and also developed the plateau green and the pot bunker, along with sophisticated drainage systems.
Braid’s third major claim to fame was the establishment of the Professional Golfers’ Association of which he later became President. James Braid died in London on the 27th of November, 1950, and, in reporting his death, the ‘Scotsman’ said that in his heyday, he was “an awesome figure” of a golfer.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
John Witherspoon
John Witherspoon, clergyman, writer, President of Princeton University and signatory to the American Declaration of Independence, was born on the 5th of February, 1722.
Whiter you may go and whether you come back, John Witherspoon was a Scot, there’s no denying that fact. John Witherspoon was born in Scotland, but he was also a very important and influential American, being one of the signatories of the 1776 Declaration of Independence. In fact, of the fifty-six men who signed that historic document, twenty-one had some Scottish ancestry and Witherspoon was the only clergyman to sign. Witherspoon not only signed the Declaration, he was influential in its construction and in its very signing. The first draft of the Lee Resolution, otherwise known as the Resolution of Independence, and which became the United States Declaration of Independence of the 4th of July, 1776, contained a phrase that complained of the King having had sent to America “not only soldiers of our common blood, but Scotch and foreign mercenaries.” To a native Scotsman like Witherspoon, that was an insult and so he demanded the phrase be deleted.
Interestingly, for a man who became an American revolutionary, Witherspoon had earlier, in 1745, raised his own band of Beith Volunteer Militia “for the …defence of our only rightful and lawful sovereign, King George, against his enemies engaged in the Jacobite rebellion.” Years later, when some of the representatives from the Thirteen Colonies became apprehensive over taking on the might of Geordie’s British Empire, it was Witherspoon who urged them to sign the Declaration of Independence. In reply to an objection that the country wasn’t ready for such a step, Witherspoon witheringly replied that it was “not only ripe for the measure, but in danger of rotting for the want of it” and he went on to add, famously, that “There is a tide in the affairs of men, a nick of time. We perceive it now before us. To hesitate is to consent to our own slavery.”
John Witherspoon was born in Gifford, in the parish of Yester, a few miles from Edinburgh, on the 5th of February, 1722 (O.S.). John was first educated at school in Haddington and later, from 1736, at Edinburgh University. At the age of twenty-one, he finished his collegiate studies and commenced preaching, before being ordained as a Minister of the Auld Kirk on the 11th of April, 1745. Witherspoon then took up a post in Beith in Ayrshire, where he preached for twelve years, during which time he came to be regarded as a brilliant orator. Witherspoon moved to Paisley in 1756, where he spent ten years as Minister of the Laigh Kirk. Whilst there, he further cemented his reputation as a scholar and writer, which status got him, in 1764, an honorary doctorate from St. Andrews and invitations to ‘honourable stations’ in Dublin, Rotterdam and Dundee. Ultimately, his repute extended far beyond the confines of Paisley. In 1766, he was ‘head hunted’ for its Presidency by the College of New Jersey, an institution that later became Princeton University, but declined to leave Scotland. However, two years later, he was persuaded to leave, thanks to Benjamin Rush and letters from Benjamin Franklin.
Witherspoon arrived in Philadelphia in early August of 1768, carrying three hundred books for the college library. A couple of days later, he was greeted a mile out of Princeton by an escort of students and tutors who later illuminated Nassau Hall in celebration of his arrival. The great orator delivered his inaugural speech in Latin on the 28th of September, before “a vast Concourse of People.” Now, the nascent College was deplorably short of funds and so Witherspoon became a bit of an itinerant preacher, travelling from Massachusetts to Virginia raising contributions. On one occasion the ‘Virginia Gazette’ reported that he “preached to a crowded audience in the Capital yard and gave universal satisfaction,” to the extent that he walked away with a collection box containing “upwards of fifty-six pounds.”
According to Rush the ‘Persuader’, Witherspoon’s sermons were “loaded with good sense” and adorned with “elegance and beauty” of expression. Rather less subjectively, Rush recorded that Witherspoon didn’t use notes in the pulpit, which was unusual for the time, when most sermons were simply recited. As President of the College, Witherspoon’s main responsibility was instruction in moral philosophy, divinity, rhetoric, history, and chronology. He also taught French and, in his spare time, he was a practical gardener, but with a sense of humour. When a visitor once remarked on the absence of flowers in his garden, Witherspoon responded dryly, “Ye’ll no see ony flo’ers in my discourses either.”
According to ‘A Princeton Companion’ by Alexander Leitch, Witherspoon was a Scot from an age when the Scottish universities had a vitality possessed by no others in Great Britain. You can read that last sentence twice, if you like. Despite his religious beliefs, Witherspoon was a subscriber to John Locke’s view of the role of sensory perception in the development of the mind and to the ‘Common Sense Philosophy’ of the likes of fellow Scot, John Reid. Witherspoon is quoted as having found both “perfect sense and perfect nonsense” very interesting, but because of his insomnia and when attending the New Jersey legislature, he told his colleagues that “when there is speaking, as there often is, halfway between sense and nonsense, you must bear with me if I fall asleep.”
Witherspoon joined the Committee of Correspondence and Safety, which were collectively, shadow governments organised by the Patriot leaders, in early 1774. In June of 1776, as part of the New Jersey delegation, he was elected to the Continental Congress, a convention of delegates called together from the Thirteen Colonies and which became the governing body of the United States during the Revolution. Witherspoon served in Congress until 1782 and was one of its most influential members, serving on over one hundred committees. Those committees included the powerful Standing Committees, the Board of War and the Committee on Secret Correspondence or Foreign Affairs, in which he played a major role in shaping foreign policy Witherspoon also helped to draft the Articles of Confederation the Peace Agreement which brought an end the war. After leaving Congress in 1779, to spend the remainder of his life as he said, in “otio cum dignitate,” he was re-elected in 1781, but retired for good in November the following year.
Witherspoon was involved in the rebuilding of Princeton College, which had been destroyed during the war, and he remained its President, from his appointment in 1768 until his death. However, before that, in 1784, and aged over sixty, he was persuaded to brave the dangers of the ocean and a hostile Great Britain, in order to raise funds for Princeton. That wasn’t much of a success, but not for the want of endeavour on the part of Witherspoon. He returned to the United States and, by 1792, had succumbed to blindness, having lost an eye during his fruitless fundraising trip. Nevertheless, he was frequently led to the pulpit to continue his ministry. Finally, on the 15th of November, 1794, the man whom John Adams had pronounced “as high a Son of Liberty as any Man in America” and whom Rush called “our old Scotch Sachem” sank under the accumulated pressure of his infirmities. Born a Scot, he died an American.
Whiter you may go and whether you come back, John Witherspoon was a Scot, there’s no denying that fact. John Witherspoon was born in Scotland, but he was also a very important and influential American, being one of the signatories of the 1776 Declaration of Independence. In fact, of the fifty-six men who signed that historic document, twenty-one had some Scottish ancestry and Witherspoon was the only clergyman to sign. Witherspoon not only signed the Declaration, he was influential in its construction and in its very signing. The first draft of the Lee Resolution, otherwise known as the Resolution of Independence, and which became the United States Declaration of Independence of the 4th of July, 1776, contained a phrase that complained of the King having had sent to America “not only soldiers of our common blood, but Scotch and foreign mercenaries.” To a native Scotsman like Witherspoon, that was an insult and so he demanded the phrase be deleted.
Interestingly, for a man who became an American revolutionary, Witherspoon had earlier, in 1745, raised his own band of Beith Volunteer Militia “for the …defence of our only rightful and lawful sovereign, King George, against his enemies engaged in the Jacobite rebellion.” Years later, when some of the representatives from the Thirteen Colonies became apprehensive over taking on the might of Geordie’s British Empire, it was Witherspoon who urged them to sign the Declaration of Independence. In reply to an objection that the country wasn’t ready for such a step, Witherspoon witheringly replied that it was “not only ripe for the measure, but in danger of rotting for the want of it” and he went on to add, famously, that “There is a tide in the affairs of men, a nick of time. We perceive it now before us. To hesitate is to consent to our own slavery.”
John Witherspoon was born in Gifford, in the parish of Yester, a few miles from Edinburgh, on the 5th of February, 1722 (O.S.). John was first educated at school in Haddington and later, from 1736, at Edinburgh University. At the age of twenty-one, he finished his collegiate studies and commenced preaching, before being ordained as a Minister of the Auld Kirk on the 11th of April, 1745. Witherspoon then took up a post in Beith in Ayrshire, where he preached for twelve years, during which time he came to be regarded as a brilliant orator. Witherspoon moved to Paisley in 1756, where he spent ten years as Minister of the Laigh Kirk. Whilst there, he further cemented his reputation as a scholar and writer, which status got him, in 1764, an honorary doctorate from St. Andrews and invitations to ‘honourable stations’ in Dublin, Rotterdam and Dundee. Ultimately, his repute extended far beyond the confines of Paisley. In 1766, he was ‘head hunted’ for its Presidency by the College of New Jersey, an institution that later became Princeton University, but declined to leave Scotland. However, two years later, he was persuaded to leave, thanks to Benjamin Rush and letters from Benjamin Franklin.
Witherspoon arrived in Philadelphia in early August of 1768, carrying three hundred books for the college library. A couple of days later, he was greeted a mile out of Princeton by an escort of students and tutors who later illuminated Nassau Hall in celebration of his arrival. The great orator delivered his inaugural speech in Latin on the 28th of September, before “a vast Concourse of People.” Now, the nascent College was deplorably short of funds and so Witherspoon became a bit of an itinerant preacher, travelling from Massachusetts to Virginia raising contributions. On one occasion the ‘Virginia Gazette’ reported that he “preached to a crowded audience in the Capital yard and gave universal satisfaction,” to the extent that he walked away with a collection box containing “upwards of fifty-six pounds.”
According to Rush the ‘Persuader’, Witherspoon’s sermons were “loaded with good sense” and adorned with “elegance and beauty” of expression. Rather less subjectively, Rush recorded that Witherspoon didn’t use notes in the pulpit, which was unusual for the time, when most sermons were simply recited. As President of the College, Witherspoon’s main responsibility was instruction in moral philosophy, divinity, rhetoric, history, and chronology. He also taught French and, in his spare time, he was a practical gardener, but with a sense of humour. When a visitor once remarked on the absence of flowers in his garden, Witherspoon responded dryly, “Ye’ll no see ony flo’ers in my discourses either.”
According to ‘A Princeton Companion’ by Alexander Leitch, Witherspoon was a Scot from an age when the Scottish universities had a vitality possessed by no others in Great Britain. You can read that last sentence twice, if you like. Despite his religious beliefs, Witherspoon was a subscriber to John Locke’s view of the role of sensory perception in the development of the mind and to the ‘Common Sense Philosophy’ of the likes of fellow Scot, John Reid. Witherspoon is quoted as having found both “perfect sense and perfect nonsense” very interesting, but because of his insomnia and when attending the New Jersey legislature, he told his colleagues that “when there is speaking, as there often is, halfway between sense and nonsense, you must bear with me if I fall asleep.”
Witherspoon joined the Committee of Correspondence and Safety, which were collectively, shadow governments organised by the Patriot leaders, in early 1774. In June of 1776, as part of the New Jersey delegation, he was elected to the Continental Congress, a convention of delegates called together from the Thirteen Colonies and which became the governing body of the United States during the Revolution. Witherspoon served in Congress until 1782 and was one of its most influential members, serving on over one hundred committees. Those committees included the powerful Standing Committees, the Board of War and the Committee on Secret Correspondence or Foreign Affairs, in which he played a major role in shaping foreign policy Witherspoon also helped to draft the Articles of Confederation the Peace Agreement which brought an end the war. After leaving Congress in 1779, to spend the remainder of his life as he said, in “otio cum dignitate,” he was re-elected in 1781, but retired for good in November the following year.
Witherspoon was involved in the rebuilding of Princeton College, which had been destroyed during the war, and he remained its President, from his appointment in 1768 until his death. However, before that, in 1784, and aged over sixty, he was persuaded to brave the dangers of the ocean and a hostile Great Britain, in order to raise funds for Princeton. That wasn’t much of a success, but not for the want of endeavour on the part of Witherspoon. He returned to the United States and, by 1792, had succumbed to blindness, having lost an eye during his fruitless fundraising trip. Nevertheless, he was frequently led to the pulpit to continue his ministry. Finally, on the 15th of November, 1794, the man whom John Adams had pronounced “as high a Son of Liberty as any Man in America” and whom Rush called “our old Scotch Sachem” sank under the accumulated pressure of his infirmities. Born a Scot, he died an American.
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