MacGregor by Peter John Lawrie
Chapter 1
Stronachlachar - June 1789
The stem of the boat grounded noisily on water-worn pebbles a few yards from a ruinous pier. The boatman leapt ashore with the painter in his hand. He looped the rope around the remains of an ancient, whitened tree stump, buried in peat for centuries but now exposed at the water’s edge. The Snaid Burn sang noisily across the beach where it joined the loch. A lapwing cried out its distress. It hopped away, flapping its wings, instinctively distracting attention from the chicks that lay prone and camouflaged somewhere among the pebbles. The boatman hauled the boat further aground while his crewman lowered the single square sail.
Two passengers stepped over the gunwhale of the boat onto the shore of Loch Lomond at Inversnaid.
"My thanks to you both for a comfortable voyage," the older passenger said with an indefinable accent. It was neither Scots, English, nor Caribbean, but with a suggestion of all of them. He handed the boatman a coin. "I would thank you to return here on Tuesday next at the hour of noon."
The two passengers shouldered their packs and walked over the stony beach which the Snaid Burn had created. The older man was in his early forties with a full head of reddish brown hair gathered into a seaman's queue at the back. A few grey hairs could be seen at his temples and in his thick beard. He was a powerfully built man and almost six feet in height. His arms were noticeably longer than average and terminated in large hands, which showed the evidence of hard physical labour. Tar stains were apparent on them despite scrubbing. He walked with a rolling gait, more familiar with a ship’s deck than dry land. He wore clothes that indicated some expense but not much fashionable taste, as if he had recently acquired the means to purchase them without the sense to judge the effect. His buff-coloured breeches were fastened with buttons at the knee over brightly coloured knitted hose. His red silk waistcoat had its edges braided in gold. His bright blue topcoat had a high collar and long tail. Ivory buttons marched in a long line from his collar down the right side of the coat to mid thigh. The fourth button was missing. Over-large cuffs on the coat-sleeves were adorned with more ivory buttons. His black leather shoes had large square silver buckles. On his head sat a tri-cornered black hat.
The lad was about thirteen years of age. He was tall and gangly, like a young tree recently sprung up. His young face, marked by the pimples of adolescence had the makings of a handsome man. He wore clothes similar, though less bright, to those his father wore. He was hatless, wigless and barefoot. His silver-buckled shoes hung on a string around his neck. He looked askance at the dark trees that stretched in serried ranks up the hillside. "Where do we go now? We surely cannot climb that hill, and there is no road here by the lake. You said that Grandfather would meet us here. Can we not take a carriage? This pack is too heavy."
"All right, lad," said his father, "one question at a time and do not throw stones at the trees. There is a road up the hill that went to the fort at the top. The soldiers built that old pier for their supplies, but it is plain to see it has not been used in a long time. There are no carriages here. It will be necessary for you to walk and if the pack is too heavy that is your own fault for wishing too many clothes in Glasgow. Your grandfather wrote he would meet us here today at noon. My pocket watch has stopped, but the sun tells me this is the correct hour.”
They walked towards the pier where they saw the remains of the road. An old man emerged from the trees and walked towards them. "Donnchadh, mo mhac" he cried in Gaelic, "Duncan, my son.” The two men hugged each other in welcome.
The old man was Robert, usually know as Rob, MacGregor. He was similar in height to his son, though grey-haired and dressed in loose, dark trousers above bare feet. A faded red plaid enveloped his upper body.
“How wonderful it is to see you both. I was so pleased to receive your letter. Jean has not been keeping well, but she fairly bucked up when I told her the two of you would be making a visit. This must be Alasdair.” The old man turned to the lad. "Well now, Alasdair, it is glad I am to be seeing you. I thought your father would never bring you home. Jean will be most excited to see you. She always wanted to be seeing you, since you were born."
"My name is not Alasdair! I am Alexander, though my father calls me Sawney sometimes," the boy said with some indignation.
"And what an English tongue you have in your head, my wee man. Why your father should want to keep you at Wearmouth, I do not know. Greenock was good enough for your uncles. Has your father not told you that Alasdair is our name for Alexander? While you are here, you will be Alasdair."
Greetings over, Rob led them up the track. It climbed the hill in wide zig-zags. There was little evidence of maintenance work on the track for many years. The winter floods had undermined it, gouging out water channels through the road. Great rocks, tumbled from the hillside, stood in the way and gullies cut in from either side. The three clambered over fallen trunks and avoided tree roots that threatened to trip them. They came to an area where swathes of the forest had been cleared, but secondary timber growth almost obscured the view to the west behind them, over the loch to the mighty hills of Arrochar beyond.
The steep climb levelled out where the Snaid Burn joined the larger Arklet Burn. A large masonry-built structure stood on their left. The timber gates hung partly off their hinges. The boy ran over and stepped gingerly over the rank growth of nettles that surrounded the gateway. His father, shaking his head, followed. Pushing against the gate they made their way into the courtyard. Around them stood neglected buildings, their roofs were collapsing and windows missing. Weeds grew all around, especially around the structure that looked as if it had once been stables.
"I remember,” Duncan said to his father, “that you and your friends had taken and destroyed this fort, back in '45. But when I was the age of Sawney, the government had repaired it. There were soldiers here and none of us could approach the fort for fear they would lock us up.”
Alasdair joined in excitedly, "Did Granddad really capture this place? Did the soldiers have guns? Why did Granddad fight the soldiers? If you fight the soldiers, don't they send you to Australia? Wouldn't they hang you for it? Have we much farther to go? I'm hungry."
"Can't you keep quiet for a moment?" his exasperated father said. "Ask one question at a time, please. And when we reach your granddad's house, you speak when you are spoken to or I'll take a rope's end to you."
Rob said, “Your father was just the same at your age, Alasdair. Oh yes, we did capture this place - Seamus Mòr, myself and a few sturdy lads behind us. The soldiers were all fast asleep, so we just collected their guns. The government would have hanged the lot of us for it, but they had to catch us first. I’ll tell you all about it when we get to the house. That is if you want to hear about it.”
“Of course, I want to hear about it, but why did they build a fort here at all? What did they guard? What is its name?”
“Well in 1710, the year I was born, Great-uncle Rob Roy had a small estate here at Craigrostan. He traded in cattle and would gather together large droves that were to be driven down to England for the best prices. Business was good until one of his partners absconded with money for the sale of cattle that was due to Rob. The Duke of Montrose had invested in Rob’s trading and when he heard of the loss, he demanded his investment back. Rob could not pay immediately, so the Duke had him put to the horn as a debtor and had the High Court declare that the estate was forfeited to him in lieu of the debt. The Duke sent militiamen to burn Rob’s house, but they could not catch him. For many years after that Rob lived as an outlaw. The Duke arranged for the government to build this fort and pay for a garrison on the pretext that dangerous outlaws and Jacobites infested the whole country. In truth it was so the Duke’s men could be protected while they felled the trees and collected the rents. I do not think that it was ever given a name, other than Inversnaid fort, but we have always called it ‘the garrison’.”
They continued on their way. Soon they reached the t
"This is Glen Arklet and here is Loch Arklet,” Rob told Alasdair. “Those hills to the south are known as the Braes of Menteith.”
"My father told me James Moor once lived here. Is that right? Where did he live? I can see no houses here. Did he just live here on the moor? Is that why he was called James Moor?"
"His name was Seamus Mòr. Seamus is Gaelic for James and mòr is pronounced like mawr, not moor. Mòr means big or tall. In English he would be nicknamed ‘Big Jim.’ But, look, there is a house." Rob pointed to a long low structure, with walls apparently made out of turf, surmounted by a thatch of bracken and reeds. A slight wreath of peat smoke hung around the roof. A man looking as dark as the turf of the house stood silently in his doorway, watching them as they passed. As they walked on, more houses became visible, but these were ruinous – bare of thatch and the remaining roof timbers blackened as if by fire. The stone and turf walls were slowly collapsing back into the earth from which they had come.
At a ford where a more substantial burn tumbled down the steep hillside into the loch, they picked their way over the stream, leaping from stone to stone. Rob pointed out a group of houses, partially ruined and a little way up the hillside. "That was James Mòr's house, but he died in Paris many years ago. No-one lives there now."
"Was James Mòr a fierce murderer, Grandfather?”
"No, he was not that. He was a very brave and proud man, but headstrong too and he often did foolish things. He had to go into hiding after the '45, as I did also. Some people say he was really on the side of the government in Edinburgh, although I know he was not. When it was safe to live at home again, he helped his brother kidnap an heiress and fled into exile in France. He died there in '54 when your father was just seven years old.”
"Why did they kidnap an heiress? Did she have money? Was that wrong? How did they do it? What is exile?"
"Canst thou never stop questioning, lad?" his exasperated father said.
“Let the lad be, Donnchadh, I am pleased he is interested. Her name was Jean Keay and she had inherited some land down at Balfron. James Mòr had a brother called Robin Og - that means 'Young Robert' - and he was the youngest and wildest of Rob Roy’s family. James and Robin thought the fuss would settle after a while. They arranged a legal marriage in front of a minister and then kept quiet up here beyond the Highland line for a year or so. They expected the hue and cry would die down and then Robin would be able to settle down with Jean on his fine estate. He would not have been the first to get a wife that way. My father virtually kidnapped my mother after all, in almost the same way. She was willing but her kin, the Bardowie Hamiltons, threatened all manner of vengeance when Gregor took her off to the Highlands. To get back to Jean Keay, she sickened and died of measles. Her family had some powerful friends and they would not let the matter lie. So a company of soldiers was sent up and eventually James, Robin and their brother Ranald were captured and taken to Edinburgh. The court freed Ranald. Robin was hanged, but there was a great mystery about James Mòr. They said his daughter helped him escape from the Edinburgh tolbooth. That's the town gaol. Some said the government helped him escape because he was really their spy among the Jacobites. I liked him. He was a great companion and no traitor, though he had a hot temper.”
The three of them continued along the side of the loch until they came to its end. A little farther on they rounded the last outspur of the mountain they had followed since the garrison fort, where a much larger loch came into view.
Rob pointed. "That is Loch Katrine and just here you can see my house at Stronachlachar. Are you tired of walking, Alasdair? When I was your age, a walk like this was nothing."
"It isn't the walking I mind. It is the hills. There are no roads to walk on. When can we go back to Glasgow?" answered Alasdair.
They approached a huddle of buildings. The largest had mortared walls of stone, but was thatched with heather and bracken like the rest. They stepped into the house, their eyes taking a little time to adjust after the brightness outside.
An old lady sat in a rocking chair by a peat fire. She looked up as the three of them entered. She called out, “Raibert, am bheil Dhonnchaid comhla-riut?”
“Yes, dear,” Rob answered in Gaelic, “Duncan is with me and Alexander as well”
Rob stepped forward and helped his wife Jean to her feet. She peered at them. “Goodness me, my sight is no longer what it once was. Come you away in so that I can see you, Duncan. It is so long since you have been with us. We were thinking that it would be in Tir nan og (translation: land of the young, metaphorically heaven) that we would see you again. Oh, and this must be dear Alasdair. Come to me, dear boy and give this old cailleach a hug.”
Jean stood barely five feet tall. She was small and thin, wrapped in knitted shawls. Her hair was white, her cheekbones high. Her deep dimples and creased smile gave her a kind and welcoming demeanour. Alasdair stooped for her hug.
“Mairead,” Jean called to the servant girl, “bring refreshments for our guests.”
"Here is some buttermilk for you, Alasdair" the girl said, handing Alasdair a wooden vessel, brimming with liquid.
He looked at the container in surprise. "What is this? Do you not have pottery or tankards?"
"Mind your manners, lad!" warned his father. "That is no way to speak."
"Never mind, Duncan," Rob said. "Alasdair, that is a wooden bicker, made out of little staves, bound with brass, just like a barrel. I made that myself when I was much younger. See, I have a press here." Stepping across the room, he opened a large cupboard. "Look it is has china, pottery, pewter tankards, even a silver tankard and wine-glasses. That bicker has always been my favourite."
"Sorry, Grand-dad."
"Never you mind. You were not to know. But do not call me Granddad. I am seanair or you can call me Rob. I don't need to stand on ceremony, and your grandmother is seanmhair."
"Shennar? Shennavar?" asked Alasdair.
“Och, do not mind them, Alasdair,” Jean said. “It is so good to see you. How is your sister and your mother? How long can you stay? Come you here and sit beside this old cailleach and tell me all about yourself.”
"Well then, Duncan," Rob said, “what is the cause of this unexpected pleasure? It has been so long since you have come home that I thought we would not see you again this side of the grave. It was a wonderful surprise when I received your message, and Jean has been counting the minutes until you arrived."
"I am a sea-going man and Sawney's mother has said the same thing to me more than once. It is far from here to the Gold Coast and the Caribbean. A voyage can last a year, and yet after I have been ashore a week, I need a rolling deck under my feet once more. But Donald died earlier in the year, so when I returned from Jamaica I had to go to Glasgow for my inheritance. The writers have their claws into me and I swear I shall never see a penny of what is mine."
Rob's brother, Donald had been a shipmaster, sailing out of Greenock. He had amassed a sizable fortune in the West India trade, and when he died earlier in the year, he had left his entire estate to Duncan.
"How much did Donald leave then?" Rob asked.
"According to Mr Lindsay, who describes himself as writer to the signet and notary public, though he is a thieving lawyer as far as I am concerned, there is three thousand three hundred pounds sterling money."
"Diabhol, you don't say! I knew Donald had done well for himself but that is a fortune. What will you do? You could have your own ship. Indeed you could buy the entire estate of Glen Gyle from James for that much."
“Ah well then, he is part of the problem. I have obtained some of the money, but Donald loaned James
“So, John Hamilton has some of Donald’s property. They were always a greedy family. You may have a fight on your hands with them. When I last visited Greenock, I had to stay at the common lodging house because John Hamilton would not accommodate me at his house though he is my first cousin."
"Aye, John Hamilton is now a magistrate in Greenock and has a fine house on the High Street. He would not give me time of day, nor acknowledge my letters. He denies that he has anything of mine, but there is nothing left in Donald's house but rubbish. The furniture and some jewels he told me he had have all gone. Mr Lindsay states that he must have an inventory of the goods I claim that Hamilton has before he can pursue him, but I do not have such an inventory apart from the Testament. As for James of Glengyle, the writer tells me I may have to have him put him to the horn as an outlaw before he will redeem his bond. I believe the lawyers will make more of this sorry business than I ever will. Duncan loaned Glengyle the money in return for a heritable bond in order to save the estate from foreclosure by his other creditors. Now the bond is mine, at least John Hamilton has not stolen that, but I want my money, not a scrap of paper."
Rob answered. "Yes, Glengyle has his difficulties. He now lives at Brig of Turk and has let Glengyle House to a sheep farmer. A miserable cockerel of a shepherd from Northumberland is sitting pretty in the house of Griogar Glun Dubh lording it over everyone he meets. Indeed, the Duke of Montrose may be setting this part of his estate under sheep and I am fearful Jean and I may not be allowed to die here in the house that I built with my own hands. The miln is not worth keeping in repair for there is hardly a farmer left growing grain. It is sad indeed when I see what we are come to. The Chiefs always possessed their oighreachd lands, but in my youth we served and honoured them. They would never force their people to leave their duthchas, the place of their birth, and that of their fathers."
“Father, I do not wish to be rude, but I do not understand. How can someone write to a signet?” Alasdair interrupted.
Rob answered. “The lad is inquisitive, Donnchaidh, as you were at his age. That is a good sign. You have kept him down in England for too long. He needs to know how matters are in Scotland. I have had the misfortune, in my time, to be enmeshed by lawyers as your father is now. A ‘Writer to the Signet’ is the name given to a type of lawyer. The signet was a ring worn by King James VI. The Writer that your father complains about is a man who spends his days writing long and complicated legal documents that only other Writers and Advocates in the law courts can understand. They make their writings complicated so they can extract even more money from poor people such as ourselves. A Notary Public is another of the same tribe. When Donald loaned money to Glengyle, he paid a Notary Public to make up a bond for the loan. That meant the loan could be sold to another person if the owner so wished. The price of the sale depends on whether full repayment was likely. Selling Donald’s bond might only raise a small part of nine hundred and eighty three pounds since Glengyle does not have the wherewithal to repay the loan. The bond is also heritable, which means it can be bequeathed to one’s heirs and successors and it does not end with the death of either or both of the contracting parties. The best price your father could raise on his bond would be if he sold it to the Duke of Montrose, whose Buchanan estate marches with the lands of Glen Gyle. The Duke’s factor could use this bond to foreclose on James and therefore take over the estate if he could not honour the debt in full. Your father would then be ostracised by the whole of Clan Gregor. When I was your age, he would be killed for such an insult, as we believed it was the obligation of a clansman to support the Chief in time of need, with his money, his goods or his life. Today, let us just say he might not be welcome in the house of any that remembered the old days.
“Seanair, my father said everybody here spoke Gaelic, but you speak good English and only use a few funny words. And seanmhair spoke in English but in a strange way.”
“Well, lad, that is because I had a tutor when I was your age who taught me French and Latin as well as Scots – that is what we call the English. The word is Gadhlig, not ‘gay lick’. Say that.”
“G aaah lik?”
“That’s better, but more emphasis on the ‘aaah’, ‘lik’ is soft and quiet. Not everybody in the Highlands could afford to pay for schooling, but the gentlemen of the clan understood Scots. Many of the old chiefs did not want their followers to learn Scots, but we are near the Highland line and the drovers had to understand the Scots tongue in order to trade. These days, there are schools in every parish and almost all of the young people can speak Scots. Now as to ‘speaking in a strange way,’ in Gaelic the verb is put first in a sentence rather than in the middle and nouns are male or female just like in French. When Highlanders speak in Scots, they use the same words but put them together in the way in which they speak Gaelic. Our bards say Gaelic is the language of the Garden of Eden. That may or not be so, but it was the first language of the Scots long before there were people speaking English.”
“Did you really fight the English? Why did the Highlanders want to do that? Did you hate the English? I quite like them. Well, some of them, anyway. There are boys in Wearmouth that want to fight me because they say I am a Scots thief. I would like to kill that sort of English if I had a claymore,” Alasdair said.
“Oh dear,” Rob answered. “This is going to be difficult. Donnchadh, you do not appear to have explained very much to the lad. Where should I start? First of all, the present King is George III. His grandfather was George I. He became King when I was just four years old, in 1714. He was not the rightful King but the Parliament in London wanted him to be King because he was not a Catholic. Scotland had no say since our Parliament had ended at the Union in 1707. The rightful King was James VIII, the son of James VII that ran away to France in 1688.”
“Why did he run away?”
“That is complicated, but mainly because he was a Catholic and people thought he wanted to make them become Catholics as well. His opponents invited a man from the Netherlands to be King instead. He was called William of Orange and was married to Mary, the sister of James VIII. He had no children left alive when he died, nor did another sister of James who was called Anne and who became Queen after him. The Presbyterians in Scotland were very pleased James had been deposed because they took over all the churches and manses in the country and threw out the Episcopal ministers.”
“My mother takes me to the Presbyterian Church in Robinson Lane at Monkwearmouth, but most of my friends go to the Church of England and that is Episcopalian. The Church of England is the most important church. Why would the English allow Episcopal ministers in Scotland to be thrown out of their churches?”
“Well, that is one of the differences between Scotland and England that was preserved in the Union along with all the thieving lawyers in Edinburgh. The Presbyterians supported the Whig party. They agreed to support William and then George I as King, but most of the Episcopalian ministers would not accept them. That is why they were called non-jurors. They would not pray for King George, and the government did not trust the people who continued to go to their churches. They were called the Jacobites.”
“Why were they called Jacobites?”
“It comes from the Latin word for James which is Jacobus. Most of the Episcopalians lived in the northeast, around Aberdeen and Dundee as well as in the Highlands. The Presbyterians were strongest in Glasgow and the southwest. There were some Catholics in the western Highlands as well, but not many. After the Union in 1707, many people were unhappy because trade did not get better, in the way that the English had promised. English excisemen came into Scotland and tried to make people pay lots of new taxes that they could not afford. So in 1715 the Earl of Mar led a rebellion in favour of James VIII. The Whigs called James VIII, the
“What about the ’45? That was a war between Scotland and England, wasn’t it?”
“No, Alasdair, it wasn’t. That was a hard time. I shall never forget it. English soldiers came here afterwards. They burned Glengyle House and all the houses around, including this one. But it is getting late, perhaps you would like me to tell you about it tomorrow or at least before you go back to Glasgow.”
“Please, Seanair, was the ’45 like the ’15 rising? Were the Presbyterians against the Episcopalians and Lowlanders against Highlanders?”
“Well, yes to the first, but not so much of Lowlanders against Highlanders. The Government was very angry with the Episcopalians after the ’45. They burned their churches and arrested most of the ministers. Many of them were transported to America as a punishment. As I told you, many Episcopalians lived in the northeast. The Prince’s army had lots of people from Banff, Aberdeen, Stonehaven, Arbroath, Dundee and the country all around those towns. About half of the Highland chiefs brought their followers out for Charles Stuart. The Campbells came out for the Government and so did the Earl of Sutherland and some others. The Prince decided to dress all of the army in Highland dress. He wore the kilt himself. Then the generals decided some of the regiments were too small and others too large so they drafted men from one to another to even them out. It was common to meet with men dressed in plaids who could speak no Gaelic. Even in Highland regiments like Glengyle’s there were Lowlanders.”
“But the Hanoverians had the English army on their side?”
“Oh yes, there were some English regiments, but the Hanoverians were not popular and they did not really trust the English people either. The Prince marched his army down to Derby, expecting the English would rise for him. They did not but King George had a boat ready to take him back to Hanover. He paid for mercenaries from Germany to come and fight for him and left most of the British army, including some of the Scots regiments, in Belgium. Cumberland’s army had many Scots in it, especially militias from the Duke of Argyll and the Earl of Sutherland and from Glasgow, but he did not trust them. Now that is enough. Time is getting late. Your seanmhair is tired and needing her bed. There will be time in the morning to tell you an old man’s memories.
The next morning dawned bright and the three set out along the shore of Loch Katrine. Rob, despite his seventy-nine years was able to maintain a steady pace, which Alasdair found himself hard put to keep up with. Rob pointed out Glengyle House, an imposing three-storey, stone-built house standing near the head of the loch.
"There was a time when that door was ever open and warm was the welcome to anyone who came in friendship. The ‘sheep lord’ in there now would not give you the time of day, and if you approach the house, his dogs will be at you. We are headed up the glen to the old sheilings. I have some cattle still, although nothing like the herds we used to have here. They are at present up on the high ground with a herd lad watching them. He has food taken up to him each week and I sometimes go myself when I feel up to it, and the weather is good. I remember the day, when whatever the weather, I could run up there and back and hardly notice it.” He waved at the rocky peaks that surrounded them in all directions except for the loch behind them.
"Seanair, are we really going to climb that mountain?"
"That's nothing to worry a fit young man. We will be up there in no time at all.”
Indeed it was not long before they surmounted the last of the climb and reached the lush patches of summer meadow near the peak of Stob an Eighrach. The herd lad came over to them. He burst into a flood of Gaelic. Rob spoke with him and then turned to his son and grandson.
"That damned shepherd has been harassing Iain again. This land is on the Duke’s estate rather than Glengyle’s and I have a lease of it as a summer sheiling. There is not much of it compared to what we used to be able to graze our herds on, but he is jealous even of that and is forever making trouble. I remember when just a look from Rob Roy would have made a callant like him run back to where he came from as fast as his legs could carry him. I never thought I would see the day when we could be harassed by such as him upon our own lands."
Rob handed over the food he had brought for the herd boy. Then he led Duncan and Alasdair to a little knoll overlooking a lochan beside which stood a little turf built sheiling hut. Nearby were a number of grass-grown mounds, looking quite natural among the tussocky grass and heather. "Yonder mounds are the remains of our sheiling township. Most of the clan would come up here in the summer. It used to be a great time, especially when Rob Roy or Gregor Glun Dubh took the men off on a ploy. All the women and children and any valuables we had, as well as all the livestock, came here for safety."
Alasdair said, "Seanair, Father told me stories about Rob Roy and about you when you fought the British army. I used to think he was just making it up to make me go to sleep at bedtime. Were they all true? Tell me more about the old days. About the '45."
Rob smiled. "Aye, my lad, I was out, but it was a grim time. Don't let anyone tell you it was all fun and romantic like they are saying now. Many good men lost their lives and property, for an ungrateful man who did not deserve and would not remember the sacrifices made for him. But first, let me tell a story of this place and Rob Roy, when I was younger than you are now."