How They Held the Bass for King James–1691–1693 recounts one of the bold­est episodes in the Jaco­bite strug­gle, where four men, once pris­on­ers on a lone­ly rock fortress in the Firth of Forth, turned cap­tiv­i­ty into rebel­lion. The Bass Rock, often used to imprison those loy­al to the Covenant, had seen hymns echo off its cliffs as pris­on­ers clung to faith with­in cold, damp stone. But in 1691, that somber silence was shat­tered when Haly­bur­ton, Mid­dle­ton, Roy, and young Dun­bar, impris­oned there under grim prospects, took fate into their own hands. With only the ocean for escape and death as their expect­ed end, they seized a moment of weak­ness when most of the gar­ri­son had gone ashore. What fol­lowed wasn’t desperation—it was bril­liance. With stealth and strength, they over­took the remain­ing guards and raised their own ban­ner, trans­form­ing prison walls into a Jaco­bite citadel.

Once in con­trol, the rebels declared the fortress held for King James, and their audac­i­ty echoed across the coast. Ships that once passed unboth­ered now found them­selves stopped and taxed by these new rulers of the sea-rock. Mes­sages were smug­gled, rein­force­ments arrived, and a gar­ri­son of four grew bold­er, lever­ag­ing their posi­tion against Williamite ship­ping with a flair both dar­ing and the­atri­cal. The gov­ern­ment, embar­rassed and enraged, respond­ed with force. William’s navy and sol­diers sur­round­ed the rock, hop­ing to bring the defi­ant few to heel. But the Bass held firm, resist­ing fire and famine for months, even years. Their cause might have seemed lost else­where, but atop that rocky fortress, Jaco­bitism burned with furi­ous clar­i­ty.

Twice they repelled full assaults, send­ing sea­soned sol­diers back to the shore, humil­i­at­ed by the resilience of men once thought bro­ken. Their rifles answered can­non, and their resolve con­found­ed every com­man­der sent to break it. The Bass became more than a fortress; it became a sym­bol of defi­ance, perched on the edge of the sea. Yet no leg­end lives for­ev­er with­out cost. Over time, food dwin­dled, pow­der ran low, and the tide of sup­port with­drew. Starved and iso­lat­ed, the defend­ers made the dif­fi­cult choice to surrender—not with a cry of defeat, but under terms that reflect­ed their grit and cun­ning. The flag was low­ered, but their spir­it, it seemed, would not bow.

When the emis­saries came to receive the sur­ren­der, they expect­ed bit­ter­ness or arro­gance. Instead, Mid­dle­ton received them with unex­pect­ed warmth, offer­ing wine and food, as though they had been guests rather than con­querors. This act, part gen­eros­i­ty and part polit­i­cal the­atre, became a final state­ment of hon­or and dig­ni­ty. He may have yield­ed the rock, but he nev­er yield­ed pride. Their fight had stirred the imag­i­na­tion of sym­pa­thiz­ers and mocked the pow­er of a ris­ing empire. Though the Bass was lost to the Jaco­bites, the sto­ry endured, not as a fail­ure but as a fire­brand act of loy­al­ty and inge­nu­ity. It cap­tured the resilience of men dri­ven by faith and loy­al­ty, fight­ing not because they expect­ed to win, but because they could not stand idle while their king was over­thrown.

The rocky island itself, carved by wind and wave, became a char­ac­ter in the tale—unyielding, ancient, and per­fect­ly suit­ed for leg­ends. The men who held it were not knights in gleam­ing armor, but out­laws, pris­on­ers, and partisans—ordinary Scots who carved their place into his­to­ry with sheer resolve. Their saga reminds us that courage often ris­es in the most unex­pect­ed places, and that his­to­ry remem­bers not only vic­tors, but those who dared the impos­si­ble. The hold­ing of the Bass Rock was no grand cam­paign; it was a whis­per of rebel­lion shout­ed from a crag above the sea. And though the wind has long car­ried away their voic­es, the echoes of their defi­ance still cling to the cliffs.