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The morning had dawned on Aberfoyle early in July of the
year 1710; and the eastern sun had just burst forth in all the glory of
his summer splendour, throwing his golden tints far among the
magnificent hills of the country of the Macgregor—when Rob Roy looked
out of his cave in the rock-built walls that skirt the western shores of
the fairy Loch-Ard. As he gazed over the deep waters of the Highland
loch, he laid his rough hand on his red beard and shook the dew from his
curly locks; he looked eastward towards the red sun, and westward toward
the grey cloud that hung around the top of his native Ben-Lomond. There
was no stir in the Pass of Aberfoyle, save among the warbling throng and
beasts of prey. On the distant shore trotted reynard; while the otter
dashed through the blue waters after its finny prey; behind him prowled
the wild-cat deep among its native heather; and above him was heard the
cry of the wild eagle as it surveyed the nether air, or floated away to
the dizzy cliffs over deep Loch-Chon. There was no sign of life among
the honest natives; but as the mist rolled off each rugged glen, the
curling smoke might be observed ascending from a dozen smugglers’
stills; while on the watch-rock might be seen the rustic form of a
Highlander gazing wistfully down the pass, looking for one whom he hoped
not to see, namely, the dreaded “gauger” Macgregor had not looked long
on the fairy scene before him till he had matured his plans for the day;
and turning back into the cave where his young son lay, with no covering
but his Highland kilt, and with the granite rock for his pillow, “Rab!”
whispered the Highland chief. Young Rab snored. “Rab!” again muttered
the outlaw; but Rab only rubbed his red eyes and turned himself on his
hard pillow. “ Rab!” again growled the undefeated hero, in a voice of
thunder that rang through the dark recesses of the cave, and the echoes
from the distant shore whispered it back. The sleeper sprung from his
hard bed and clutched his sgian-dubh, but only to confront his angry
father. “Get ready,” whispered Macgregor. The boy sheathed his dirk, and
the rocks rang with the gathering notes of the bugle; when, instantly, a
score of hardy natives of the hill and glen sprung from their heathery
beds, all eager to do the bidding of their chief. As the sound of the
bugle echoed far among the shattered rocks of the Glasshart, the watcher
started and gazed wildly down the glen; and here and there might be seen
the curly head of a smuggler as he peeped from his still, fancying
himself surrounded by a score of rangers. Rob Roy and his party having
had a fire kindled on the rock overhanging his cave, were enjoying their
morning repast. A good Highland wether, snatched the night before from a
flock on the neighbouring hill, had been roasted on the red embers, and
the bold but warm-hearted Macgregors might have been seen picking the
bones on the heath-clad shores of Loch-Ard.
“I’ll pay these refractory lairds a visit to-day!”
exclaimed Rob. “It’s not for me to be done this way. I have not pocketed
a penny of black-mail for nearly a twelvemonth; but if I don’t teach
them a lesson this day, my hair’s not red nor my name Macgregor!” “You
mean Auchentroig, I suppose?” asked young Rob. “I do,” answered the
chief; “and some of his neighbours also.” “Is that Garden?” asked one of
the party. “Yes,” replied Rab; “and I have an old account to settle with
the gudeman of Kep-dowrie.” “What is that?” eagerly inquired the youth.
“Well,” continued Macgregor, “a few years ago, when you were a mere boy,
and only able to attend your father’s flock, or harry the eagle’s nest
at Inversnaid—at that time I was engaged in a quarrel I had with the
Montrose; and as I could not be there myself, I sent a score of my best
lads on a lifting excursion to the vale of Strathendrick, and as I had
not been to that country for some time, I expected a good drove. My men,
however,” continued Rob, “passed the gudeman on their way south, who,
suspecting their intentions, sent a messenger on horseback to warn his
friends on the Endrick that the Macgregors had passed southwards. Acting
on the hint, the men of the Endrick were hastily gathered, and led by
big Jock Din of Fintry, (curses on his carcase!) met, outnumbered, and
overpowered the Highlanders, near Balgair. My men fled towards Boquhan
glen, hotly pursued; and big Jock coming up to two of them, was about to
strike one down with his heavy leaden staff, when my lad instantly
wheeled round, and levelled his piece at his pursuer, but the gun missed
fire, when he and his companion were instantly felled to the earth by
the powerful arm of Din.* Big Jock then rushed to the head of the glen,
gave one wild cry, that rang among the rocks like the roar of a lion,
and reaching even to Boquhan, it aroused the Cunninghams, who renewed
the attack, when seven more of my brave lads were slain.” “And so you
have good reason to settle accounts, I guess,” replied several of the
gang. “No doubt,” continued Macgregor; “one member of a rival clan has a
good right to inform his friends of the intended attack of another; but
as I want a year’s black-mail, if he is not inclined to cash up to-day,
we shall have the pleasure of his company, and all that he possesses, to
Inversnaid to-night.” “I should rather think so,” chimed in young Rob,
as he pitched the last bone of “the wether” into deep Loch-Ard; and the
gang in general buckled on their swords, wiped the grease from their
grizzly beards, and prepared to “ bundle and go.” “We go straight to
Auchentroig,” cried Rob, as he snatched his broadsword—that sword which
had taken the noted freebooter out of a hundred frays, and left him
unscathed, while his rivals lay dead around him; “ thence towards
Garden, pass the night at the Kepp, and, God willing, return with the
spoil to-morrow.” Rob Roy and his hardy band then started to pay the “
refractory” lairds what afterwards turned out not to be a friendly
visit, and to claim that to which, if he had not a right, he by might
had a title. When Rob Roy left the shores of Loch-Ard on that somewhat
eventful morning, the July sun rose clear and beautiful, the mist had
just left the lesser hills of the Grampians standing clear in bold
outlines, and was taking a lingering farewell of the craggy summit of
Ben-Lomond. On his right lay classic Duchray, famous in the everlasting
pages of history, on whose heather hills the standard of the Graham was
unfurled, when the brave vassals gathered around their loyal chief to
defend the interests of their injured King. Duchray, with its grey
castle and hoary strongholds, its ivy-mantled turrets and dark-
dungeons, its rocky passes and ferny glens, its deep pools and
meandering streams—where the quiet linn contrasts with the roaring
waterfall, and the heathery plain with the towering rock, and,
“Here, perched on some o’erhanging rock,
Far from huntsman’s murdering shock—
On some wild cliff that nears the sky—
The falcon rears her young on high,
And feeds with care her tender brood;
Drops from above the dainty food;
A moment looks; then, circling round,
Seeks anew the hunting ground;
Then, far aloft, with outspread tail,
She scorns the keeper’s leaden hail.”
As the Macgregor marched along the heathery banks of the
Ard, the loud echoes of the waterfalls were heard deep in the glens, and
the dancing spray glittered in the morning sun like a shower of gold.
“For o’er thy crags, with sullen gush,
The crystal waters loudly rush;
And dashing o’er, with deafening shock,
Plunges on the granite rock.
Then winding on, both clear and cool—
Eddying round each silver pool—
Till with the Duchray rushes forth
The parents of the infant Forth.”
On his left stood the rocky Craigmore, with the wrecks of
a thousand storms at its base, and the ravens floating round its summit.
The sheep were bleating on the knowes, while the lambs played in the
meadows, and the fragrance of the bluebell was wafted far on the wings
of the zephyrs. Before him now rolled the dark waters of the Avendhu,
with the finny tribe sporting in its deep pools, and the playful fawn on
its mossy banks. Rob Roy and his gang strode onwards, chatting, over
past exploits, and hopefully looking to the future. Approaching
Craiguchty, and at a turn of the road, they stumbled on a camp of native
gipsies. An old cove, who had grown grey in the service, was striking
his tent, and otherwise preparing for the day’s campaign. Beside him on
the road stood a gipsy girl, covered with what had once been clothes,
with brown face and matted hair; on her head the wreck of a cap, an
infant on her back, and black pitcher in hand. Perched on a stone sat
the female parent stem, with withered hands and wrinkled face, cracking
the lice on a, young tinker’s rags. Defiling through a pass in the
hills, Macgregor saw approaching some thirty “flaskers,” with cudgels
iii their hands and unlawful treasure on their backs, marching on
towards Glasgow to dispose of the smuggled whisky.
Macgregor and his party concealed themselves behind a
knoll, and watched the flaskers approaching. As they drew near, Rob
could observe a band of determined looking fellows, powerful and well
armed—each having a heavy oaken stick in his hand, and all carrying
knives,—just such a lot of men as would face a body of rangers, or a
troop of red-coats, regardless of life or limb, provided the darling
treasure on their backs was safe; and woe betide the unhappy gauger who
should have the misfortune to fall in their way. As the “flaskers” came
full round in view of the Macgregor party, Rob gave one wild halloo,
that rang among the rocks, sent the sheep bounding up the hill, and
brought the whole gang to a stand-still. “In the king’s name,
surrender!” cried Rob. “Hang me if I will!” roared back the leader of
the flaskers; and shouting out, “Gaugers! men!” thirty flasks were
rolling on the heath and as many cudgels brandishing in the air, and
with earnest hearts prepared to defend, against all comers, the darling
“wee drappie.” A loud laugh burst from Rob’s men, as they witnessed the
confusion into which the smugglers were thrown. “Confound you,
Macgregor!” cried one of the flaskers, “we took you for gaugers.” “I’ll
be easier put off than these gentry,” replied Rob; “I’ll only ask a part
of the goods—not all, as gaugers would do.” “We are only proud to supply
you,” responded half-a-dozen voices; and Macgregor and several of his
party had their flagons filled; when, bidding each other god-speed,
“They wended each their several way,
In hopes to meet some ither day.”
Approaching Auchentroig, the Macgregors were observed by
some of the servants, who immediately informed the Baron of the advance
of armed men to the house. Being well aware of their intentions, the
Baron proceeded to barricade the doors and windows, to prevent the
possibility of their being forced open. The front door was made of red
oak, of the most massive description, and filled at regular intervals
with strong iron bolts having large round heads, to prevent, if
possible, any chance of its being burned. Rob Roy drew up his men in
front of the house, and called upon the inmates to Surrender. “Surrender
to whom?” cried the Baron. “To Rob Roy Macgregor!” was the bold reply.
“Never!” quoth the Baron. “Never will the Baron of Auchentroig yield to
robber such as thee; and had I had time to collect my men, one half of
your cowardly gang would never return!” “Force that door!” roared
Macgregor; and instantly a dozen of his men were at it with their brawny
arms, but they might as soon have attempted the mountain rock. “Fire it,
then!” growled the enraged freebooter; and instantly the torch is
applied; but for a time the massive door defies their efforts.
By-and-by, however, the fire catches, and the bolts fall out one by one,
and then there ensues a scene of exultation and sorrow. Outside ring the
jeers and coarse laughter of the Macgregors; inside is heard the curses
of the Baron, the shrieks of the children, and the stifled sobs of the
ladies. The women, in despair, clamour to let them in. The Baron rushes
forward, seizes the iron bar, in a moment the door, black with smoke and
red with flame, reels back on its hinges, and the Baron is a prisoner.
The Baron still refused to settle with Macgregor, and Rob handed him
over to his men to carry him to Aberfoyle; at same time ordering a party
of his men to sweep the estate of the cattle and sheep—an order which
was carried out to the very letter. An old member of the house of
Auchentroig used to say, “They left not one hoof behind them.” The Baron
was kept for some days till Rob’s return, when the ransom was paid, and
he returned to his family. The cattle, however, were never returned,
which must have been a great hardship. An old farmer, who died within
the memory of some parties now living, used to tell, that when he was a
boy herding his father’s cattle at Clashmore, near Gartmore, he saw the
Macgregors passing with the Auchentroig cattle, and he used to remark
that among the drove was a fine young grey mare. He also remarked that
the men were very kind to him—“ gave him a lash o’ drink, an’ lots o’
cake and cheese,” a luxury he rarely enjoyed at home.
After instructing his men regarding the disposal of the
unfortunate Baron and his cattle, Macgregor, with a number of his men,
went to settle matters with the guidman of Kepdowrie, as before
arranged. Here, as well as at Auchentroig, Rob had the misfortune to be
seen approaching, and preparations were made for resistance. The house
at that time was one of those low one-storeyed buildings, the outer door
opening in two halves inwards. Built into the wall was a heavy piece of
oak, several inches square, which drew out behind the door at pleasure,
and which made invasion from that quarter impossible. On the approach of
Rob, the guidman, who was then very old, but still of great strength,
armed himself with what is known in country districts as “a peat spade,”
a most unhappy weapon in the hands of any powerful man, and took up his
position behind the door. Presently Macgregor arrived, and demanded
admittance. Getting no answer, he became impatient, and cried “Who’s
there?” “I’m here,” coolly whispered the guidman. “Let me in,” cried
Rob. “I will not,” was the reply. “Come, hand me that siller!” demanded
the freebooter. “Not a plack,” was the cool response. Rob, getting very
angry, dashed at the door, seized the handle, and made the fabric rattle
on its hinges. “Cross but that threshold,” cried the veteran, “and I
shall cleave your red head to the shoulders.” Macgregor staggered back
amazed; and an old rhyme says that
“Macgregor at the door did stand,
And swore like ‘ Rab the Ranter; ’
The auld man, wi’ his spade in hand,
Did cheerie up his chanter.
‘Come in, man, Rab! don’t look sae douse,’
The auld man he did cry;
There’s no ae soul within this house
But this peat spade and I.’”
“By the Lord,” roared Rob, “and there’s one too many!”
And, ordering his men off, he left the guidman to his reflections. Rob,
not to be done, however, surprised the guidman next day, and carried him
and his neighbours of Easter Kepdowrie prisoners to Gartmore, where,
promising to cash up for the future, he left them to return home.
After being paid in “peat spade coin” by the guidman, Rob
continued his march towards Garden. The then house of Garden stood on a
small eminence, a little to the north of where the present mansion now
stands, in what was at that time a small lake, but now converted into a
beautiful and fertile meadow. The building was of the circular tower
kind, the walls being very strong, and, when surrounded on all sides by
deep water, must, in early times, have been impregnable. The principal
entrance to the tower was by a drawbridge, leading towards the north,
and connected with an avenue that is still called “The Causey-head,” a
number of the old trees being still growing. On Macgregor’s arrival at
the castle, he ordered his men to open the drawbridge, to prevent any
surprise, while he himself deliberately walked into the hall. “Is the
laird at home?” demanded Rob of the servant. “He is not, just now,” was
the prompt reply. “Do you tell me the truth or a lie?” cried Rob. “I
tell thee the truth,” retorted the servant sharply. “Well, I shall see,”
muttered Macgregor; “and if you do not, I shall hing you by the heels
from the balcony window.” The servant rushed to the door to call
assistance to expel the intruder, but was surprised to find the house
surrounded by armed men, when he became painfully aware of the character
of his visitor. Presently Rob stalked at pleasure through each room in
the house, peering into every corner, looking for the absent laird, or
anything else worth, should he not find the object of his search.
Looking out at one of the windows of the upper storey, he saw the laird
and his lady slowly walking down the avenue, and he coolly awaited their
approach. “What men are these?” asked the lady of her husband, as they
drew near the house, and saw Rob’s men marching around it “Good
heavens!” exclaimed the laird, “that’s the Macgregors, and there is no
other than Rob Roy himself looking out of the window!” As they
approached the drawbridge, Macgregor cried, “You have long refused me my
reward of protection, Garden, but you must render it now.” “I will not,”
cried the undaunted laird; “I never had protection from you, and you
never shall have reward from me.” “You shall rue it, then,” growled Rob
in accents that made the pass ring with their echoes. “I never shall,”
cried back the laird; “you will not have a penny from me.” Macgregor
made no reply, but rushing into the nursery, seized a child from the
nurse, and dashing out on the balcony, held, with his long orangoutang-like
arm, the child far in mid air, and swore he would plunge it in the gulph
below, if they would not instantly comply. The laird still refused, well
knowing that Rob would disdain to injure a helpless babe; the lady,
however, as soon as she beheld her infant heir sprawling between heaven
and earth (the cries of the boy and the curses of Rob Roy mingling in
awful contrast, being too much for any mother to bear), burst out with
hysteric yell, “Garden is at your will; only save my son!” Macgregor
being made sure of his protection money, ordered the drawbridge to be
lowered, and the laird and his lady admitted to the house. After being
paid the full amount claimed by him, Rob handed his tender charge over
to his affrighted mother, bestowing a Highland benediction on the laird,
and advising him to be more attentive to his just debts for the future,
lifted the drawbridge to prevent pursuit, and set off for Arnprior,
where he intended to pass the night. Rob Roy and his men took up their
quarters in the only public-house in the village, and prepared to make
themselves comfortable after the day’s fatigues, by indulging in a
little of the mountain dew. Captain Cunningham, of Boquhan, chanced to
be in Arnprior on the same evening, accompanied only by a friend and his
servant, and, unaware of the presence of the Macgregors, stepped into
the house. A short time previous to this there existed a deadly feud
between Rob and Cunningham, on account of a severe chastisement a party
of Rob’s men received at the hands of Cunningham. They had met, however,
on one occasion before this, and although by no means friendly, they
were certainly on better terms. Cunningham, who was a retired officer,
was a tall and handsome man, rather more sinewy than powerful-looking,
and acknowledged to be the best swordsman in the King’s service, he
having put to flight an Italian who challenged the English army. Besides
being a skilful swordsman, he was gifted with great stretch of arm, and
had a peculiar squint, which, while it rather dumfoundered his
antagonists, often proved of great sendee to him. On Cunningham entering
the room, Macgregor exclaimed, “Glad to see you, Cunningham.” "Halloo,
Rob Roy!” was the reply. “What’s up to-day?” “Not much,” answered Rob.
“I have just been calling on your neighbour laird, and I guess his lady
will not ask to see my red face this twelvemonth.” “Rob Roy Macgregor
does not mean he has done anything serious to the lady?” replied
Cunningham. “Not at all,” quoth Rob; “I only frightened her a little.”
“Take the other side of that table,” cried Macgregor; “it’s a while
since you and I met in such friendly quarters.” “Proud to do so, and
ready to face you at all times,” cried the free and warm-hearted
Cunningham; at the same time shaking Rob warmly by the hand. Rob
shrugged his shoulders as if he did not altogether relish the word
“ready,” but made no reply. There sat the two proud and warm-hearted
chieftains in the little front room of the “corner house” at Amprior,
quaffing their reeking punch, and “fighting their battles o’er again.”
At each side of the table sat the outward friends, but inward rival
chiefs; while round the room sat the rustic Highland corps.
“There each the social cup did quaff,
Each mingled in the merry laugh.
There sat the lawless, dauntless corps,
Their former battles fought once more.
On went the fun, as each declared
How many fights and spoils he shared—
How many foes he’d put to flight,
When standing up in single fight—
How each came out free skaith from harm,
By dint of skill and strength of arm.
Macgregor told, in long detail,
His grand exploits when levying mail:—
He’d viewed the prey with eagle eyes,
Had caught his victims by surprise;
He’d rushed, like wolf from out his den,
And seized upon thy heir, Garden;
He’d, like a deluge, with his staff
Swept the hill country round Dundaff.
He’d oft been proud to check the pride
Of haughty chiefs on Lomondside;
He’d met Argyle and faced Colquhoun,
And wagSd war with clansmen round.
Oft had he, to speed his fame,
Measured lances with the Grseme.”
“I understand,” cried Macgregor, addressing Cunningham,
“you had a set-to with an Italian?” “I had a slight brush,” replied
Cunningham. “Tell us it,” cried half-a-dozen voices at once. “Well,”
continued the Captain, “immediately before I left the King’s service, an
Italian landed in England, who had been creating a great sensation on
the Continent by his extraordinary feats of the sword. He had never been
defeated, and, in fact, had either killed or maimed all who opposed him.
Landing at London from France, where he had defeated some of the most
expert swordsmen of that country, the fellow had the audacity to
challenge the British army! For a time there was no response; as no one
seemed to have the courage to face the undefeated foreigner. Seeing the
dishonour that would accrue from the non-acceptance of such a challenge,
I resolved to meet him myself and abide the issue. We did meet, and he
seemed a terrible foe— tall and strong, and carrying the most
awful-looking sword you ever beheld. As soon as I saw him prepared, I
suddenly sprung upon the stage, swung my sword out at full length, and
stared him wildly in the face, calling him to come forward. He advanced
one or two steps with a bold and careless air, when he suddenly stopped,
and surveying me from head to foot, stood for a moment as if paralysed;
then, sheathing his sword, he uttered a most hideous yell, and fled from
the stage;—thus ended my meeting with the Italian.” “Hurrah for the
Sassenach!” burst from a dozen Highland throats, as Cunningham finished
his story, while his health was pledged in as many drained tumblers.
“Then, Captain,” cried Macgregor, “it was that squint of
yours, and not your sword, that frightened the poor Italian.” “Then, Rob
Roy, was it that squint that makes the bones of seven of your men lie
bleaching on the banks of Bouquhan Glen?” “What! do you know whom you
insult 1” roared Macgregor, as he started to his feet and clutched his
dagger. “I do,” replied Cunningham, starting from his chair and
confronting the outlawed chief. “Where is your sword, and I will teach
you a lesson?” growled Macgregor. “That’s what no Macgregor ever could
do,” returned Cunningham. Cunningham, having come unarmed, had sent his
servant home for his sword; his family, however, suspecting some foolish
broil, refused to give it, and he returned without it. Observing an old
sword in a corner of the room, the Captain instantly dashed at it, and
insisted on fighting. Macgregor put his back to the wall, and swept his
sword around him. Cunningham ordered him to the field in front of the
house; an order which he reluctantly obeyed. It was early morning when
these two rival chiefs rushed to the glen-side of Arnprior, to seek each
other’s blood. The eastern sun had just burst forth in more than summer
brightness, was casting golden tints along the braes of the Kepp, and
revealing the hidden beauties of the lowland glen. No stir, save the
murmur of the stream, as it played among the ferny rocks, till the clash
of swords— as those two warriors, mad with jealousy and their eyes red
with wine, rushed at each other with wild-cat fury—awoke its slumbering
echoes. But the ever sagacious Rob Roy found, at the very first onset,
that he was no match for him who had been
“Trained abroad his sword to wield;”
and instantly dropping his blade, held out his hand to
Cunningham, who grasped it warmly. The two again returned to “the
Corner,” where they drank till far on in the afternoon—a practice
prevalent in Arnprior till the present day.
In the month of August of the year 1691, Rob Roy, then in
the pride of his youth and zenith of his fame, encouraged by a desire
for plunder, emboldened by successes, and undeterred by a feeble
government, headed what is called in local history “The herriship of
Kippen.” The daring Macgregor on this occasion is said to have been
followed by a band of marauders five hundred strong. It does not appear
that this was a raid on Macgregor’s own account; and Mr. Macgregor
Stirling, in his notes to the “History of Stirlingshire,” says,—“This
was nothing more than a military diversion in favour of his legitimate
Sovereign;”—a sentence, it must be confessed, I cannot fully comprehend.
At the head of this large and daring band, Rob swept the country around
Balfron, the valley of the En-drick, and the whole western half of the
parish of Kippen, at his will; lifting horses, cattle, and sheep, and
anything else of value he could lay his hands upon. Resistance was
impossible. To attack him was madness. The only way of reaching his
Highland heart, was to plead poverty. One poor man who had followed him
from beyond Balfron to near Gartmore, and there told him a “tale of
woe,” had his two cattle returned to him. When leaving the village of
Fintry, Macgregor saw a man coming along the road with a burden on his
back, who afterwards turned out to be a weaver, on the road home with a
web of cloth to some of his customers. Riding up to the traveller, Rob
asked what he carried. “ What’s that to you?” replied the fellow. “I’ll
let you know what’s that to me,” cried Macgregor; and, springing from
his horse, took the traveller by the neck, and gave him such a shake
that made his nerves rattle to his very heels. “It’s a bit wab,” gasped
the terrified weaver. “ Let’s see it,” cried Rob. Rob being pleased with
the pattern, helped himself to as much as would make a kilt, after which
he allowed the weaver to go. Getting the web on his back, he had only
proceeded a few yards, when, looking over his shoulder, he exclaimed,
“Ye’ll answer for that yet, Rab.” “Ay, my man, when will that be?” asked
Rob. “At the last day,” cried the weaver exultingly. “Ye gi’e lang
credit, man; I’ll just take a pair o’ hose,” roared Rob; and the unhappy
weaver had to submit to a further demolition of the web.
Returning through the western portion of the vale of
Monteith, Macgregor and his men halted for the night on the fann of
Kinachlachan, about two miles west of the village of Gartmore. Hearing
of this incursion, a party of military, or Western Militia, as they were
called, then stationed at Cardross House, were ordered out to follow the
marauders. There had been some festivities going on at Cardross, and
when the soldiers were ordered out they were in no fit condition for the
task, the tradition being that they were all more or less intoxicated.
As a striking proof of this it is said the officer in command left his
quarters with only one round of ammunition per man. Getting notice in
the evening that the Macgregors were likely to pass the night to the
west of Gartmore village, the commander of the military led his men up
the valley of the river Forth, to a point where it is joined by the
water of Kelty; then passing up the strath of the latter, he reached the
western portion of the Dram of Drumit at early dawn. Under the cover of
this ridge he could now see the northern marauders at a distance, making
rapid preparations for starting—the rising sun shining brightly on the
motley camp. The plundered sheep lay bleating among the heather, the
stolen cattle were grazing on the plain; and here and there could be
seen a kilted Highlander driving back the wandering steeds. The sound of
the bugle had just ran along the Dram, calling the slumbering clansman
to march, when, like startled hares, five hundred kilted warriors sprang
from their heathy beds; while, mounted on a hardy steed, and sword in
hand, could be seen the giant form of the great freebooter himself.
Unperceived, the soldiers crept very near the Macgregors. Rob’s own
servant, Allister Roy Macgregor, was the first to observe them, and
creeping back behind a dyke, shot an advancing soldier dead. This bold
stroke on the part of Allister had two very different effects: it woke
the Macgregors to a sense of their danger, while it sent a thrill of
terror to the hearts of their pursuers. Rob, seeing the military,
instantly galloped back to his men, and ordered them to draw their
swords. The commander of the soldiers, although seeing the bold attitude
of Rob’s men, fancied they would flee at the first volley, and ordered
his men to discharge their muskets; but instead of daunting the
Highlanders they became the more infuriated, and dashing at the
soldiers, who were now entirely out of ammunition, caused them to flee
in the wildest confusion. One of the soldiers engaged Rob single-handed,
but finding he was no match for the giant Highlander, he instantly
turned and fled. Macgregor galloped after him, with the intention of
cutting him down, when the soldier suddenly stooped, tore a heavy shoe
from his foot and hurled it with great violence at his pursuer, which
striking Rob upon the breast, nearly threw him from the saddle. Seeing a
man mowing grass in the field close by, the soldier rushed behind him
and craved protection. Rob came up and demanded his surrender. “ Never,”
cried the man of the scythe. “Do you know,” roared Rob, “that I am Rob
Roy Macgregor? And I have sworn an oath that no red coat shall stand
this day.” "I care not for your oath,” returned the noble-hearted
peasant; “but,” continued he, and turning to the soldier, “I’ll relieve
him of his oath. Put off your coat, and put on that of mine.”
Then raising his scythe with his brawny arm, he held it
far in mid-air, and cried, “Be you Rob Roy, or demon, come but one step
further and I shall make your red head dance on the bog!”* Rob gazed for
one moment at the awful weapon as it flashed in the morning sun, and
reining up his horse, turned back towards the battle-field. A wounded
soldier took refuge in the farm-house of Gartnahodick. The good wife of
the house ran and stood in the door, with her hands resting on either
side, when a Macgregor came up and demanded admittance. “You may get
in,” replied the woman, “but it will be through me.’’ The man did not
insist, and thus the soldier escaped. A young boy, the son of an
officer, being pursued by one of Rob’s men, ran behind some bystanders,
and cried wildly to be saved; but the ruthless Highlander dashed at him
and shed his young blood on the dark moor of Kinachlachan. Till within a
few years the graves of those slain were marked by green spots among the
long heath, but with some recent improvements they are now not so easily
seen.
This was the most serious misdemeanour Rob Roy was ever
accused of. It seriously attracted the notice of Government, and a
reward of one thousand pounds was offered for his head. At the same
time, large bodies of cavalry were marched into Monteith, Aberfoyle, and
other parts of the Western Highlands, to check the lawless chief.
Macgregor, however, valued his head far more than the Information from
Mr. James M‘Donald, Gartfarran, whose grandmother was present at the
time.
Government could afford to offer for its capture, and
after being made aware of the proclamation, he for a time dispersed his
band, and, along with a few chosen ones, sought the sweets of retirement
among the wild rocks and woods on the shores of his native Loch-Lomond.
After a time, and at the intercession of some of Rob’s friends, the
proclamation was revoked, and Rob was once more a free man.
In consequence of the harsh and cruel treatment Rob
received at the hands of Montrose and his factor, he considered it his
duty, both to himself and family, to take ample revenge on the authors
of his misfortunes; and with this end in view, he was neither slow nor
slack when occasion suited. He would, with his “ lads,” as he was wont
to call them, emerge from his rocky fastnesses, like the wild eagle from
her eyrie, on his doomed prey, lifting the cattle of his enemy, and
sweeping his estates of everything of value for his lawless life. For
many years he kept up a regular system of annoyance, and which must have
told heavily on the resources of Montrose. Year after year, he called on
the tenantry farming the northern portions of the Duke’s estate, and
compelled them to deliver up the rents then due to his Grace, at the
same time taking good care to grant receipts for what he had lifted on
the part of the Duke; thus keeping the tenants all right with the
factor, and freeing from all responsibility those helpless individuals.
Although Macgregor delighted to plunder and annoy Montrose, and the
other neighbouring proprietors who refused to pay him the stipulated
“black mail,” he was the friend of the oppressed, and the ready
benefactor of the poor and needy; and many a hard-up tenant did he
relieve in the dark hour of adversity, when there was no helping hand
but his own. Coming down through Aberfoyle from Inversnaid one day,
about the year 1716, and approaching a small farm which was at that time
tenanted by a widow of the name of Macgregor, he was rather surprised to
see a number of men near the cottage. Being anxious to know what was
likely to take place, he and his chosen ones drew their swords and
stepped boldly into the house. “What’s up with you the day, Mrs.
Macgregor?” exclaimed Rob, as he entered. “Oh, Mr. Macgregor,” cried the
sobbing dame, “I ha’e faun ahin’ wi’ my bit rent, and the factor’s
cornin’ the day tae sell my things, and there the folk gatherin’ tae the
roup." Rob Roy Macgregor had a heart that could feel for every pang of
human distress, and a tear stood in his noble eye as he heard the
mournful tale, thought of the horrid oppression, and gazed on the three
helpless children, as they clung to their lone mother’s knee and cried
for bread. “How much are you behind, Mrs. Macgregor?” asked Rob. “I am
just twenty pounds,” replied the widow. “Oh, is that all?” replied
Macgregor cheerily; “I’ll soon make you all right—I always carry
something in a hugger for folk of your sort;” and, plunging his hand
into his long waller purse, he handed the widow the required sum. “And
now,” said Rob, “you will get a receipt, and leave me to settle with Mr.
Graham;” and Rob took his leave, while a thousand benedictions were
being showered on his head. Rob Roy and his men concealed themselves in
a small public-house that then stood on the roadside near the Gleshard,
on the classic shores of Loch-Ard. Presently Graham arrived, and was
rather surprised to find the widow prepared to settle his claim. On
asking who had been kind enough to help her with the money, the widow
replied, “I hope the siller will do you as meikle guid as it’s done me,
factor.” Graham, feeling he was rather cut short, granted the receipt,
and, along with his clerk and servant, took his way home. Macgregor, who
had all the while been watching the factor’s movements, cautiously
awaited his opportunity, and, as he drew near, stepped out on the road
to meet him. “Well, Graham, how did the sale go on?” cried the sarcastic
freebooter. Graham looked daggers, gazing as if he had beheld an
apparition; and, seeming fully to realise his position, muttered out,
“We had no sale.” “Oh, she would settle up, I suppose, then?” returned
Rob. “No, she did not,” replied Graham, getting afraid of his cash.
“Come, come, factor, no more of your lies; I know she did, and hand me
my money at once,” cried Macgregor, getting somewhat impatient. “I got
no money; and, you ruffian, you shall pay for this interference,”
retorted Graham. “Tell your lies to your master, but not to me,” roared
Rob Roy; and, dashing at the bewildered factor, clutched him by the ears
and shook him like a withered reed, till his screams rang through every
glen, and the rocks threw back the echoes. Seeing there was no escape,
Graham handed Rob “the widow’s mite,” being in perfect terror of his
life. “Now,” said Macgregor, as he pocketed the money, “see you do the
like of this no more, for as long as there is life in this heart, nerve
in this arm, and steel in this sword, no Sassenach shall dare insult the
poor in the country of Rob Roy. You may trample out the lives of your
serfs at Killearn, but not on the soil of the Macgregor.” After this
very sensible advice on the part of Rob, he allowed the factor to
proceed on his way; and, I presume, he would plod his path to Killearn
rather crestfallen.
About this time Montrose had a meal-store at Miling, a
farm on the western shores of the Lake of Monteith; and when Macgregor
was in any strait, this store was of considerable value to him, as it
often supplied himself and his men with a very necessary article. It
having come to the knowledge of Rob Roy on one occasion that a number of
the cottars on the Duke’s estate in Monteith were in rather poor
circumstances, he instantly issued orders to a number of the Duke’s
tenants to meet him at Miling, on a certain day, and on horseback. The
tenantry, although rather surprised at this demand, had more sense than
disobey it, and they all met him at the appointed time. After meeting,
Rob asked the names of all the most deserving poor in the neighbourhood
of each of the tenants present, and after being informed on the point,
he ordered the storekeeper to hand over to the men a stated quantity of
meal for each poor family, and desired the tenants to convey it on the
horses’ backs to the individuals. At the same time Rob gave the
storekeeper a regular receipt that the distribution was by order of his
Grace, thus keeping the storekeeper all right as to his accounting for
the meal. The storehouse is still standing, and is carefully preserved
by the noble proprietor.
*Information from Mr. Alexander Miller, Aberfoyle, who
had it from an old man who died about 70 years ago, at a very advanced
age, and who knew Rob Roy in early youth.
Whether this “generous” action on the part of Macgregor
was solely for the interests of the poor cottars of Montrose, or with a
desire to annoy his enemy for the cruel persecution he and his family
had received at the hands of his Grace’s factor, is not known. One
thing, however, is certain, that his great sagacity contrived to make
all his transactions clink together for his own interest; and although
he was in reality the poor man’s friend, yet in most cases he took good
care to be no loser by the transaction; and it is said he turned this
“raid” into good account, although at the end it very nearly cost him
his life. Macgregor, thinking that a little in the cattle-lifting line
would be a good finish to the meal transaction, and as it might save him
a trip some other time,—made a dash at the village of Gartmore, and
succeeded in lifting a number of cattle belonging to the villagers.
Among the spulzie were some animals belonging to one Miller, a resident
of the village. Miller being himself a bold and daring man, resolved to
pursue Rob Roy, and retake his cattle, or perish in the attempt.
Accordingly, he armed himself with his dagger and pistol, and,
accompanied by a single servant, set out on the hazardous enterprise.
Miller tracked Macgregor as far as Glendhu; but there, having lost track
owing to the darkness of the night, and being considerably tired by the
journey, he resolved to pass the night. Entering the inn (?), Miller and
his servant partook of some refreshment, after which they retired to
bed, having heard nothing of Rob or the lost cattle—the servant sleeping
in front of the bed, and Miller at the back. The travellers had been but
a short time in bed, when the trampling of feet, the noise of several
voices, and the lowing of cattle were heard around the house. “Do ye
hear that, maister?” muttered the servant, at the same time giving his
half-sleeping master a punch with his elbow. “What is it?” whispered
Miller. “It’s the rout o’ yer ain stirks,” replied the watchful servant.
“Keep quiet till we see what will turn up,” whispered Miller. In a short
time Rob and his men entered the house, having secured the cattle for
the night. After some conversation with the landlord, and being regaled
with a horn or two of the mountain-dew, Rob asked for his favourite
bedroom. In passing to the room allotted to him, Rob had to pass through
the one in which Miller and his man lay, and seeing a fire in the grate
he stepped forward to light his candle. Hearing some one in the room,
Miller raised his head and there beheld the thief of his cattle stooping
at the grate. Thinking this was now his opportunity, Miller raised
himself gently up, and with nervous arm took aim at the noted
freebooter. He drew the trigger, and clack went the hammer; but, alas
for the Gartmore hero! the powder only flashed in the pan, and left him
helpless. Rob, who was perfectly unconscious of any one being in the
room, instantly “smelled powder,” and, clutching his pistol, fired, when
a yell burst from the dark bed, and Miller fell dead on the pillow.
[Information from Mr. James M‘Donald], Gartfarran. Early one May morning
in the year 1716, Rob Roy Macgregor, then residing at Glengyle, near the
head of Loch-Katrine, ordered into his presence his faithful and trusty
servant, Allister Roy Macgregor. Allister was instantly in the presence
of his chief, and was at all times only too glad to be of service to
him. This individual is said to have possessed almost the great sagacity
of Rob himself, and being of the true Macgregor stamp, was intrusted by
him on many an important mission, and was held in great esteem by his
master, as on many occasions his services were of very considerable
value. “Allister,” said Rob, as the servant drew near, “I am a little
hard up, and it is now about the time Montrose’s rents are due; and as
he has taken the precaution of lifting them privately this last time or
two, and that too before they fell due, you will go down to Drymen, and
cause to be proclaimed at the church door, on Sunday first, that I Łave
gone to Ireland, and will not be home for some weeks; and this will no
doubt induce Graham to collect the rents at once. Before you return, you
will, if possible, get word when and where the factor is likely to
collect. And now’, Allister, be to me as you have been before.” “Just
leave that to me, chief,” replied Allister, proud to be sent on such a
mission; and a few minutes after the faithful servant was hurrying down
the rugged side of Loch-Katrine on his way to Drymen. Allister reached
the village of Drymen late on Saturday evening, and as the people were
assembling to the church on the following day, he caused the officer to
proclaim at the church door that Rob Roy had gone to Ireland a few days
before, on business of great importance, and could not be back before
some weeks; and that said proclamation was to inform his friends in that
quarter the cause of his absence. Having got this part of the mission
completed, Allister stayed that night and the following day and night in
the village, but without getting any information regarding the rent
collection. Leaving somewhat early on the following morning, and coming
across what is known as the Moor of Drymen road, leading towards the
village of Gartmore, and as he turned down the hill, commanding a
beautiful and extensive view of the surrounding country, Allister
stretched himself on the green grass to enjoy the scene. Before him, in
all its varied enchantments, lay the lovely vale of Monteith—the lake,
like a fairy thing, slumbering on its bosom—and rivers watering its
plains,—with the Castle rock of Stirling and the Abbey Craig looming
through the morning mist, and the Ochil hills filling in the back
ground. Allister, too, could see^ the battle-ground of Sheriffmuir, on
whose bloody field he took part only the year before. On his left,
rolled the infant Kelty deep o’er its rocky bed, with the finny tribe
sporting in its dark pools. There, too, lay the battle-field of
Kinachlachan, where, by his own dexterity and watchfulness, Allister
had, when in the full bloom of his youth, slain an advancing enemy, and
saved his master and spoil from capture. The village of Gartmore lay
basking in the morning sunshine, with its curling smoke rising far in
mid air, while the bald head of the Grampians towered beyond. On his
right was heard the cry of the moor-cock and the song of the shepherd,
mingled with the bleating of the lambs as they sported among the long
heather, or the bark of the shepherd’s dog, as it drove back some
wanderer from the flock. Above him was heard the carol of the lark, as
it soared upwards towards the blue vaulted heaven, and the falcon, with
outspread wing, floated over her eyrie on the Gowlan rock; while the
peeweep and the plover filled the air with their doleful cries.
Allister was thus enjoying the sylvan scene, when his
attention was attracted to a youth as he came tripping over the heath.
The Highlander lay watching his approach, when suddenly, and as if by
magic, the youth disappeared among the long heather. Allister started to
his feet and gazed in .the direction where he was last seen, and
presently beheld him floundering up through the heath, and shaking the
fog and moss from his shoulders. With the agility of the mountain cat
the strippling sprung on to the road, and instantly recognising Allister
as the man he had seen at the church-gate on Sabbath, he exclaimed, I
Man! I wish Rob Roy, instead of going to Ireland, had come and lifted
the Duke’s rents, as he’s done mony a time before, an’ no haen me lost
among thae mortal peat holes.” Allister instantly picked up the idea,
and the thought that he had now fallen on the right scent shot through
his brain with meteoric flash, and he eagerly replied, “Did ye say ye
was warnin’ to the rents?” “Atweel am I; an’ I ha’e been knockin’
amang cottars an’ peat holes the hale mornin’,” replied the careless
boy. Allister was now fully satisfied that the whole matter could be got
by a little extra pumping, and, as they strode on towards the village,
he look every precaution to drag from the unsuspecting boy when and
where the rents were likely to be collected. “When did ye say the rents
are to be gathered? I’m a wee Hielan’; I didna understand you very weel,”
said Allister. “There’s some o’ your sort no sae very Hielan’ after a’;
our herd callan’s Hielan’, and when ye tell him to mind his wark, he
looks as if he was as Hielan’s the very deevil; but when ye say, ‘Its
dinner-time, Donald,’ he understands ye fine.”
Allister laughed deep in his own sleeve, and the boy
continued, “The factor’s to lift the rents on Friday.” “It’ll be at
Drymen?” chimed in the cautious Highlander. “No, it’s no; it’s to be
down there at the Chapelarroch,” replied the youth. “Is there an inn
there?” asked Allister. “Yes,” continued the boy; “an’ there’s a letter
tae the man in the inn to have the factor’s dinner ready for him.” “Ay,
an’ I’se warrant he’ll tak his dinner hearty,” replied the Highlander.
Approaching the chapel, Allister was anxiously taking stock of the
country, and planning to himself the most convenient way of surprising
the house without being observed; and seeing a considerable quantity of
broom growing on the Dram of Drummit, he whispered to his companion,
“There’s a good deal of broom on that brae.” “Man, an’ it’s richt deep,”
was the quick response. “Will it tak ye ower the head?” asked Allister.
“Ower the head!” muttered the boy. “If ye were in the middle o’t ye wid
neither see sun nor win’.” Allister having thus fully satisfied himself
on all the more important points connected with the rent collection,
took leave of his young companion, and hastened on to Glengyle, to
inform his chief of his success. The faithful servant reached home in
due time, and recounted to Rob his adventure with the boy, and the
information he succeeded in drawing from him; when Macgregor at once
determined on seizing the money, and securing the person of Graham
himself. Accordingly, he mustered a strong band of choice “lads,” and
marched down through Aberfoyle the night previous to the rent
collection; and, to prevent being observed, he took the moor by
Clashmore to the west of the village of Gartmore. Arriving at a place
called “Balloch Roy,” or the “Red Pass,” the hardy band sat down in the
early dawn to sharpen their swords. Macgregor and his party next reached
the Dram of Drummit unobserved, and took up their position among the
long broom, where they lay concealed till well on in the afternoon. In
this hiding-place Rob had a full view of the house, and saw all the
transactions going on. He watched with more than eagle’s eye the
tenantry as they went to and from the inn. As the day wore on, and the
last tenant had apparently left, Rob thought the convenient time had now
come for him to be up and doing, and, as he always liked to do things in
a becoming manner, he ordered his piper to play before him to the house.
On hearing the sound of music, Graham, who was seated at dinner,
surrounded by a number of the tenantry, started up to learn the cause,
and was thunderstruck to see his old enemy, instead of being off to
Ireland, in the very act of entering the house. “Good heavens!”
exclaimed Graham, as he beheld Rob, “here’s Rob Roy! all’s up!” The
roast beef fell from his teeth. “What shall I do with my money?” cried
the factor in despair, and turning as pale as death. “Throw it into that
loft,” whispered one of the tenantry; and instantly the bags containing
the collected rents were rattling on the sooty rafters. Macgregor
entered with a bold but careless air, naked sword in hand. “Come awa,
Mr. Macgregor,” cried one of the company. “I’m just coming; I’m one of
those folks that require little treating,” replied Rob. “Will you have
some dinner?” asked Graham, anxious, if possible, to get the fair side
of Rob. “I will—I have had a long day o’t,” was the quick response; and
Rob sat down at the table, thrusting his sword far ben among the plates.
Macgregor and the factor, with those at the table, made a most agreeable
dinner, chatting over the events of the period, which were then very
stirring, and never once alluding to the rents. Dinner being finished,
Macgregor thought it was about time to begin business, as the afternoon
was wearing on. “Have you any objections to a tune, factor?” asked Rob.
“Not in the least; would only be delighted with a tune,” replied Graham.
Rob instantly ordered his piper to play up a certain tune, and which he
did with stirring effect. This was the preconcerted signal for his men
to surround the house, and six instantly entered the room with drawn
swords. The tenants looked at the factor and the factor at the tenants;
and it then began to dawn on his hardened heart that all was not over.
Starting to his feet, and clutching his sword as if in the act of
leaving, Rob turned to the factor and exclaimed, “By-the-by, Mr. Graham,
how did you get on with the rents'?” “Oh, I have got nothing; I have not
yet begun to collect,” replied Graham. “No, no, chamberlain; your lies
will not do for me. Rob Roy always counts by the book; out with it,”
rejoined the hero. The book was accordingly produced; and it having been
seen that the money was collected, it was instantly ordered up. Graham,
shaking like a shattered reed, produced the bags, which were immediately
pocketed by Rob, in presence of the dumfoundered chamberlain. “And now,
Mr. Graham,” continued Macgregor, “it’s a long time since I saw you at
Loch-Katrine; ye’ll come along and see how I am getting on there?” “No,
no; I beg pardon; I pray to be excused,” muttered the trembling
chamberlain. “ You pray to be excused; what effect had the prayers of my
Helen on your hardened heart, when you insulted her, drove my children
from their home, at Craigroystan, and wrongously seized upon my
estate—long the land of the Macgregor? And it shall yet be theirs. There
was no pardon for my boys, when you drove them out, helpless, amid the
storm, when their father was far away in England, when there was no
helping hand for the Macgregor, and no mercy with the Graham. Now there
shall be no mercy with the Macgregor. Allister, seize him! I will settle
with the rogue when I get him to the shores of Loch-Katrine.”
These last words of Rob Roy were delivered with a
sternness of character that told he meant what he really spoke. Graham
understood them well; and he looked anxiously around him, but there was
no helping hand there. He well knew that to attempt resistance was to
annihilate the only hope of saving his life, and he resolved at once
(though he deserved none) to throw himself on the mercy of his captors;
and, quivering like an aspen leaf, the bewildered chamberlain crawled
from the dinner-table at Chapelarroch more dead than alive. “Play up a
tune,” cried Macgregor to his piper. “He’ll be the first Graham ever was
played up the Boreland brae.” The order was instantly obeyed, and the
Macgregors pushed on their way to Loch-Katrine, with the crestfallen
factor in their front, cheered only with the stirring strains of the
bagpipe. As he passed the village of Gartmore, and entered the dark
defiles of the Highland mountains, Graham’s heart almost sank within
him. On either side were frowning hills and yawning glens; above him
towered the rocks, as, like naked skeletons, they hung in shattered
masses over his unhappy head; beneath him roared the waterfall, as it
foamed over its rocky bed; behind him the sun was fast sinking below the
western horizon; before him he saw the shades of evening gathering
around the hill-tops of the Trossachs, and on either side the mist began
to wade among the stinted hazel, and to linger on the bosom of Loch-Auchray;
while here and there a twinkling star could be seen high up in the
heavens, telling plainly that night had already began “ to tread the
heels o’ day.” Alone, in a wild and lawless country, with foes on every
side, Graham now began to reflect on his sad position. He had shown but
little mercy himself; and now he could look for none. In front strode
Rob Roy, the sworn enemy of his master; on either side were his trusty
retainers, with drawn dirks; while at his back was Allister, with a
naked sword. Graham felt that his life hung by a single thread. One word
of Rob could set him at liberty—another send his carcase to feed the
eagles; and the bewildered chamberlain knew not but the first rock might
be his block, or the first tree his gibbet. Rob Roy strode onwards
before his captive in sullen silence; and, reaching Loch-Ivatrine,
Macgregor, in a voice that echoed far across the loch, sending the wild
drakes quacking from the reedy inlet, ordered Graham into a boat, and
his men to pull him to the island. The men pulled away through the deep
waters of Loch-Katrine, Graham knew not whither. Around him in the boat
were his sullen captors. Silent also sat the captive, as he gazed out on
the ruffled waters, and looked around him on the wild Highland scene.
Above him in solemn grandeur towered the shaggy form of Ben-Venue, its
bald head hidden by a cloud, and its black shadow lying far across the
loch. Among the rugged hills was seen the blaze of the heather, as, like
some mighty serpent, it hissed and darted its fiery tongue among the
long heath, and spread its red wing on the breeze, sending its fiery
glare high into the clouds. The shallop, steered by brawny arms, sped on
through the still waters; and as they neared the island, the darkness
was deepened more by the shades of the thick copsewood. Bounding away
among the dark recesses, was heard the light foot of some startled deer,
while from the forest came the wail of the tawny owl, as it floated
after its evening prey; and as the piercing cry rang in his ears, Graham
fancied it the last howl of some dying captive less fortunate than
himself. Before he had time to reflect, the boat struck on the rocky
island, and a gruff voice ordered him on shore. Crawling out among the
rocks, the half-dead factor found himself on a lonely island on the “
Loch of the Robber.” “Follow me,” cried Macgregor sternly, as he led the
way to Graham’s future prison-house. The captive moved on in Rob’s
track, and rising above the thick underwood he saw looming before him a
gloomy ruin, dismal and dark as the forebodings of his own soul. “Put
him in the old room, Allister,” cried Rob Roy, “and set two of the lads
to keep watch and ward over him till I settle matters with him in the
morning.” The faithful servant bowed to his chief, and led his charge up
a short flight of steps, and along a dark and narrow passage—the only
light being that of the moon, as it glimmered through the broken roof. A
few more steps, and Graham found himself within a dreary-looking abode.
A cold shiver shot through his whole frame as he sank down exhausted on
a broken stool, while Allister turned the key in the rusty lock, and
retraced his steps down the dusty stair. For a time Graham sat half
unconscious. The journey from Chapelarroch had told on his not too hardy
frame. The peril of his own life, and the thought of his wife and
family, nearly drove him to distraction. Reviving a little from his
gloomy condition, he rose and looked at the narrow window. The moon had
just burst through a shattered cloud, revealing the hidden glories of
the Highland loch, and Graham gazed rapturously on the scene. Around him
was water, only water; beyond, in proud pre-eminence, rose the grand old
Highland hills, the mist lying on their sides, with here and there the
bald scalp of a rock peering through the silken covering, like islands
in a sea. In the distance was heard the cry of the startled sea-gull, as
the plunge of the prowling otter had scared it from its nest. Ever and
anon came from the glens the hoarse calls of the parents of the flock,
as the wild cat dashed on some unoffending lamb. On a corner of the old
“keep” the barn-owl sat and watched, while the bats played around the
walls. Below him, on the grass, sat the two sentries, muttering their
Highland dirges, and chanting their war songs; and he could hear them
whispering curses on the Sassenach for keeping them out of their
heathery beds. Retiring from the window, Graham flung himself down on
some heather in the corner of the room, and passed the night in sleep
and reflection. Early in the following morning, Rob ordered the
chamberlain to be brought into his presence. Rob, however, only taunted
him about his present position, mingled with threats, and again ordered
him back to his room. This continued from day to day for about three
weeks, after which Rob Roy allowed him to return home. Before sending
him away, however, he addressed him thus, “ Now, chamberlain, if I had
done what your usage of my family demanded in return, I should have hung
you up by the neck; but, as Rob Roy never avenges himself on defenceless
men, I allow you to return home. Remember, however, that the soil north
of the Kelty is ours. The Macgregors lost it by unfair and cruel
persecution, and by a gross breach of the right of succeeding
generations; but so long as Rob Roy Macgregor lives, and his clan
breathes in these glens, he shall not cease to take care of the rents
himself. And you may tell your false master that, so long as he holds
these lands, I shall continue to be his open enemy—and not of him alone,
but of all who dare to seize the sacred soil of my fathers. For years my
poor clansmen have been hunted, shot, and murdered; but remember, there
is one head in Glengyle, and swords in Strathfillan, and God shall
defend the right!” After the very merciful treatment which Graham had
thus received, Montrose, partly in consideration of the leniency shown
to his factor, and on account of the unjust treatment which Rob had been
subjected to at his own hands, in a great measure ceased to persecute
Rob. Macgregor,-in turn, ceased to annoy Montrose, and for many years
before his death Rob had given up all raids into the country of his old
enemy. |
