The Highland Frontier

Chapter 1

I am aware that my story will be overshadowed by the tales of William Wallace, Andrew Moray and King Robert Bruce, and with good reason. They were and still are the symbols of what the war was about and of Scotland's freedom and the decades of fighting to reclaim what was always theirs. Their stories will be told for generations to come. I do not believe that mine would last until the end of this decade. However, I feel that my story should be told. I am not a warrior, and I am not a Queen, but I was told that there are no small tales only small speakers.

There is one more reason as to why I am writing this; this is not only my story but also the tale of a prominent individual in my life, without her I would not be alive and as she has no voice of her own, I feel that it is my duty to ensure that her own story is told or I would be doing her a diservice. So, consider this to be her story as much as it is mine.

I was born on the rugged coast in Argyll to humble farmers with their own lands. It was a peaceful but difficult life, for my father especially. He struggled with maintaining good harvests with the rough weather and our money that was held within the English's grasp. Being as young as I was, I would stay with my mother as she taught me how to read and sew. Her father had been an educated man and taught her himself, an uncommon feat but one of great value. Since my work was light I had many chances to leave the farm and play with neighbours, skipping stones, going for swims in the burn and playing hide-and-seek for hours until mama called me home for dinner in front of the fire where I would have friends over to listen to papa's stories of the King Alexander and those before him, before the English came and took the land for their own. I was only a bairn when it all happened and I do not have any memory of it. All I could fathom was that things were more peaceful and stable before Alexander's death but things quickly became more volatile. But at that age, none of that mattered. I remember the warm of the fire, with my friends and sitting close next to mama while papa played his bagpipes, the notes floating through the trees and into the silent mountains, surrounding the land in music. I still think about her to this day, but all I can fully recall of her are her brilliant and gentle hazel eyes. My memories of my mother and father end there, as on my tenth year, they were suddenly taken from this earth by the ravages of a violent storm. My father struck by a rogue bolt as he went to protect our flock and my mother quickly succumbing to pneumonia and grief shortly after. And with them, my own life ended.

My grief in suddenly losing the two most important figures in my life was punctuated by despair as, soon after, my paternal grandfather took ownership of the farm and in turn, myself. Perpetually sodden on whiskey and as unpredictable as the Highlands itself, the farm rapidly fell into ruin. The crops were poor and the income was thin. What little he made made its way into whiskey and nothing was saved for my upkeep. Not only did the farm suffer from his idiocy but I am sad to say that I was also dealt a harsh blow. Despite my lack of knowledge, I was put to work in tending to the crops, walking for hours to check our dwindling flock and work more fit for a cattle than a child, only to return to little more than a crust of bread hardly the width of my hand and a rug on the dirt for a bed; not that I was in it much at all. From the break of dawn to the somber and dark skies the beast of burden struggled. I never got to spend time with my friends anymore and I quickly grew lonely and unhappy. I missed running through the wet grass, swimming and playing with them. Rather I was trapped into what I can only now call slavery.

However, it was not the lack of food, loneliness or no rest that was the worst of it, my life of deprivation and exhaustion was further worsened by violence. Branded a "bad omen" every misfortune that befalls us was my own doing, whether I was aware or not, any small falter in my manners or effort would be swiftly punished with a vicious beating, going as far back as when I first questioned my grandfather on why I got little more than the cold scrap of a turnip for supper, accusing me of sloth and ingratitude. How dare I?