MacGregor by Peter John Lawrie
Chapter 2
Heights of Glengyle - June 1719
The sun shone briefly through gaps in the cloudy June sky. A buzzard circled endlessly. Somewhere a blackcock cried. The midges swirled like demented wreaths of smoke, darting this way and that. Rob watched them, thankful that the midges preferred the cattle, whose tails switched almost as quickly as the midge clouds. This warm weather was all very well, except for the scourge of the midges. Rob glared at the tattered book in his hand. He wished that he could throw it as far as the dark lochan which glistened below the summit of Stob nan Eigrach. His father had told him how important education was, especially to those who had little or no estate before them in life, but what benefit could it be to read this tale of a foreign war, in the dim past, in a dead language? He was sure that it had not helped his Great Uncle escape from the wicked Duke of Montrose. He looked again at the page of the Iliad before him. "Iain, dè tha 'perficiebatur', Chan eil mi tuigsinn," he shouted in Gaelic to his older brother sitting some yards below him.
Eleven-year-old Iain, eldest son of Gregor MacGregor of Glengyle, was trying to sharpen the dirk that his father had recently given him. This was no mere sgian for cutting meat, but a real man's weapon. His father had shown him the way it should be sharpened, but somehow he could not restore the edge that it had had before. He looked up to his nine-year-old brother. He could not see the point in Latin and Greek either, but the dominie insisted.
The dominie, Fergus O'Brien, a Roman priest, had settled for a fugitive life among the Jacobite clans of Breadalbane after the 1715 Rising. He made a precarious living teaching the children of the broken clans in the hills around Glen Dochart, Balquhidder and Strath Gartney. They were neither the hills of Rome where he had studied nor the hills of Antrim where he had been born, but, with a purse of guineas on his head, they were the hills of sanctuary. Close by, at the shielings at Cille mo Cheallaig, were the ancient remains of the tiny Celtic church dedicated to St Celloc, a ninth-century abbot of Iona. Father O’Brien often visited this little shrine. The people were Presbyterian by act of parliament although the minister at Drymen in whose parish they were, never ventured beyond Balmaha. Their preference, where they had such, was for the Episcopal tradition, overthrown in 1690 when the ministers who would not take the oath of allegiance to Dutch King Billy were turned out of their manses by the triumphant Whig ministers of the Presbyterian Kirk. The old Episcopal minister had died some years earlier. He had a prayer for James, the King over the water, on his lips to his last breath. Father O'Brien had returned from Sheriffmuir at the invitation of Rob Roy MacGregor.
The boys, minding their father's cattle among the patches of sweet grass around the shielings at the head of Glen Gyle, had a page of the Iliad to memorise for father O'Brien. Iain had the measure of the Irishman and had little concern for his bluster. Rob, still smarting since the last visit, was anxious to avoid a repetition. "Iain," he began again, "De tha ..." Iain answered this time, that was a word he could remember. "Was finished," he replied in English.
Their mother, Mary Hamilton, was the daughter of the laird of the small estate of Bardowie in the English-speaking farming country to the north of Glasgow. The Bardowie estate, of a few hundred acres had been improved and managed by a bailiff to provide a moderately comfortable income to John Hamilton. Enough to pay his dues to the Duke of Montrose, An Greumach Mòr to his Highland tenants, but ‘his Grace’ to men like John Hamilton. It was enough to pay for a substantial stone-built house with a fine slate roof and enough, too, for a new house in Glasgow where he had become involved in the growing tobacco and slave trade with the English colonies. Bardowie had been unhappy, to say the least, when his daughter married beyond the Highland line, but Mary had left him little choice but to accept when she eloped with the tall handsome Highlander. Now it was 1719, several Jacobite risings later, with little sign of the prosperity promised by the Union of 1707. The MacGregors had been outlawed yet again. Bardowie's wife still complained of the rogues and caterans who had taken away her daughter. Glen Gyle house at the head of Loch Katrine had been burned by redcoats after the 1715 Rising. They had had sufficient warning to move their furnishings and stock to safety and the house was soon rebuilt. Now, there was another rising.
Iain, Rob and seven year old Hamish, sons of Gregor Glun Dubh of Glengyle had been up on the shieling ground at Cille mo Cheallaig in upper Glen Gyle for several weeks. They had been watching the cattle and supposedly preparing for their lesson with Father O'Brien. With them were other children of the clan, including thirteen-year-old Ranald, son of Rob Roy and cousin to Glengyle, guarded by a dozen of their father's followers, Gregarach all, for no-one followed a broken nameless clan unless they were of the blood. Iain was the Master of Glengyle, heir to his father Gregor. However, the ever-watchful leader amongst this group was Alasdair Ruaidh mhic Sheamus, a veteran of Killiecrankie in 1689. Alasdair was now grey, despite his byname meaning red-haired. He had followed Colonel Domhnal glas of Glengyle, chieftain of the Clannn Dùbhghaill Ciar and Captain of Clan Gregor. He now followed Gregor glun dubh, son to Domhnal glas and chieftain in turn. He would give his life for these boys if the need arose. The boys' mother was a great one for the book learning. Books were for the chiefs. The basket hilted broadsword on his left hip, hidden under the folds of his plaid, the dirk on his right side, targe on his back and Doune dag or pistol at his belt were all that Alasdair ruaidh had ever needed. All of the group were bare-foot and bare-headed, clad in the muted red and green of Clan Gregor. All wore the breacan feile or belted plaid that sheltered them from the sun and showers in summer and from the biting wind and driving rain in winter. The protection of the plaid and blade were the only surety that any of the Gregarach possessed after centuries of persecution. The law of the Lowlander gave them nothing, but no Lowland law officer, unless he had a red-coated company behind him, dared come this far into the Highlands.
It had only been four years since a company of the saighdearan dearg – redcoated soldiers, guided by Campbell militiamen from the garrison at Finlarg castle had done just that and burnt the big house by Loch Katrine. Some years before that, the Duke of Montrose had sent soldiers to burn Rob Roy’s house at Inversnaid. In the last few months, with Rob Roy away in the north with many of the fighting men of Clan Gregor, the danger of a repeat visit was very real. The boys and the cattle were not up in this quiet, sunny, out of the way corrie just for the grazing. Mairi MacGregor, wife of Rob Roy remained at Glen Gyle House with the boys' mother and the younger children. The house was bursting with people but all were ready to fly to the hills at a moments warning. Mairi MacGregor knew too painfully the treatment that could be in store for them if taken by surprise.
The midges continued their chaotic swirling, the cattle switching their tails endlessly. The buzzard dropped, like a stone, on to an unwary grouse, its call "Go bye, go bye" cut off abruptly.
Sionad, Alasdair's daughter, called from the door of one of the shieling houses. Food was ready. The shielings, at first glance, were no more than mounds of grass-grown earth. A more observant stranger might notice the haze of peat smoke around them. The walls were constructed entirely of feal, or divot stiffened by hidden baulks of bog timber as crucks to support the roof timbers. Covering the roof were more divots, arranged like overlapping slates to carry most of the rain off. There were no windows and the door was made of cowhide stretched over a frame of birch. They provided shelter when necessary from the weather, often for cattle as well as the humans, and most importantly they blended into their environment so well as to be almost invisible. Usually these houses were only used in the summer months, when the cattle were herded away from the growing crops on the unfenced arable land in the lower glen. Clan Gregor had often found more vital use for their hidden shielings, but in this weather, except for the midges, it was the closest to heaven one could be, if only their thoughts were not far away with their sons, husbands and fathers.
Suddenly they heard the danger call of the curlew. But
it was not an alarmed curlew, it was the Gregarach watchman on the north side of the summit of Stob nan Eighrach. Alasdair, hurried the children toward the shieling as his men closed in towards him. The boys, Iain, Ranald and Rob pleaded with the old man to let them come with him. The cattle protested as they were driven, none too gently into the hollow beside the shieling where they would be unseen from any distance. Alasdair relented and allowed the boys to come, but insisted that they keep in the middle of the group already moving around the hillside towards the watchman.
Soon they were crouched at the edge of the ridge watching the distant company climbing the drove trail that led by Beinn Ducteach from the direction of Glen Falloch. Young Rob asked Alasdair, “Are they Gregarach?” The distance and the haze sucked out of the wet hillside by the early summer sun made it difficult to tell, but those approaching were clearly Highlanders and not redcoats. Few of the broken men of the central Highlands would dare steal cattle from Clan Gregor's shielings, not even the notorious MacFarlanes from Arrochar beyond Loch Lomond would attempt that. However, with Rob away, the possibility existed. The lookout now reached them, panting a little from the scramble down the face of the hillside. He had a naval telescope that had been part of the booty from Sheriffmuir. He quickly confirmed that it was Rob Roy with his fighting tail of Gregarach who indeed approached. The boys began to shout excitedly and Alasdair had to quieten them. "Take care,” he told them in Gaelic, "there could be pursuit."
When it was clear there was none and the approaching band of fifty or so were in no great haste. Alasdair allowed the boys with a couple of ghillies to run to join them. The younger boys rushed, racing each other to be first. Even little James, at seven could cover the ground quickly. Soon the two parties met. There was babble from all around as the children greeted their fathers, and the tired men lifted their sons. Eventually the enlarged group continued on its way the last couple of miles from the shielings down the glen towards Loch Katrine.
Rob sighted his father striding towards them. Gregor Glùn Dubh MacGregor received his byname from the black birthmark on his knee. He was a tall, powerfully built, handsome man of thirty. He was legally known as James Graham, proprietor of the estate of Glen Gyle, by feu charter from the Duke of Montrose. The estate comprised some 2200 English acres at the western end of Loch Katrine and separated from the Braes of Balquhidder by the peak of Stob a'Choin. Gregor had been out in the Fifteen Rising as nominal leader of the Clann Dùbhghaill Ciar sept of Clan Gregor, but with his uncle the real leader beside him. This time, Rob Roy had advised him to stay at home. Glengyle, himself, unlike his uncle had not been outlawed and retribution for his part in the Rising was past. It seemed pointless for him to hazard all on this chancy venture of the Marquis of Tullibardine.
Gregor was soon warmly greeting his uncle Robert, known as Rob Roy. In the eyes of the law Rob Roy was the notorious outlaw Robert Campbell. Now aged forty-eight and with many adventures behind him, Rob Roy was above middle height, spare and compact, but with an extraordinary breadth of shoulder. His strongly muscled legs were likened to those of a highland bull, both in light footed agility and thighs furred with red hair. He had powerful arms, longer than average and so strong that it was said he had once captured a stag by the antlers and held it fast. He had a heavy full beard and moustache, shoulder length flowing hair, once red but now auburn streaked with grey. His brown eyes were uncommonly expressive, his nature open. He had a reputation for speaking his mind, and leaving friends and enemies in no doubt where they stood. He had fostered his nephew Gregor Glùn Dubh since 1701 until he came of age in 1710. Rob Roy’s fairness and sense of justice had left the younger man with a real respect and filial love for his uncle and foster-father.
An outlaw, at the instance of the vindictive Duke of Montrose since 1713, Rob Roy had been made famous, or infamous, in England by the dubious romances of Daniel Defoe. Rob Roy's house at Inversnaid had been burned and the estate of Craigrostan on Loch Lomond forfeited. Despite the efforts of Hamilton of Bardowie, Gregor's father-in-law and holder of a now worthless mortgage on the estate, the Duke had secured it for himself when he had made Rob Roy bankrupt and an outlaw. The Duke, Rob Roy's chief persecutor and prosecutor, had initiated the construction of a military barracks at Inversnaid, to maintain his hold on this, his latest and perhaps least valuable possession. Rob Roy had, perforce, become expert at handling the four scheming lords, of Argyll, Montrose, Atholl and Breadalbane who owned the best part of three counties between them. Rob Roy had moved his wife and family to a new home at Inverlochlarig in Balquhidder, on the lands of the Duke of Atholl. Nearby was the farm of his nephew Donald, at Monachyle Tuarach, with other Gregarach and largely friendly neighbours. There were no roads into the area and the approach was less easy than at Craigrostan. Rob Roy himself had found it necessary to remain in hiding since the Fifteen and for much of the time he had been in Glen Shira. Recently the pursuit of him by the noble Dukes had diminished, and he had judged it opportune to join his family in Balquhidder. Once again, though Jacobite politics had intervened in his life. This latest escapade made it likely that government retribution would be directed at him yet again.
The band quickly covered the last few hundred yards to the settlement at the foot of Glen Gyle, between the steep face of Meall Mòr and the calm surface of Loch Katrine. Running sinuously along the hillside was the head dyke, separating the arable infield lands beside the Loch from the steep heather covered hillside above. Below the dyke, the lands were divided into strips of alternating arable and fallow by balks of divot, or by green strips of rushes marking the paths of rivulets from the hills above. The land was held in run-rig, the narrow strips divided between Glengyle's tenants. Once they had been balloted for each year. Alternation of the strips ensured that no one tenant would have all good or all bad land. But in recent years this happened only when a tenant died. There was no true crop rotation, bere, a low cropping but hardy barley, and oats were alternated, with an occasional fallow year when the land was exhausted. On this south-facing slope the summers were often good, but the altitude brought frosts in late May, that blasted the young crop, or the rising loch would inundate the best of the land, or early snow would blight the harvest. There had been no disasters so far this year. The young bere showed green where it had been planted before the fighting men had left for the North.
Within Rob's memory, the ill years of King Billy in the early 1690s had scarred a generation with famine and widespread dearth. It was impossible, even in good years, to fill the bellies of the clansfolk with these crops. Their wealth was in the cattle hidden on the hill. The Gregarach were largely a pastoral people. Cattle breeding and droving provided a livelihood, and bred a sturdy, hardy people inured to the hardships of life. In recent years the government in Edinburgh and now in London, had paid more attention to the Highlands. Grasping noble men sought ways of enforcing long-held and long-ignored feudal charters over the traditional rights of the Celt. Government forces were occasionally seen in the hills, and there was talk of roads being built to join together their garrisons.
The Duke of Atholl, the powerful owner of most of the county of Perth, had raised the Black Watch, Am Freicadan Dubh, to impose his own view of law and order. Duke John was a staunch supporter of Hanover. His elder brother, George had been equally fervent for the Jacobites, but had fled to France after the ’15.
Still, there was still a place for the Highland Watch run by Rob Roy and by his father Donald Glas before him. The Watch guaranteed protection to the farmers in the fertile farmlands of the upper Forth valley to the south of the Highland line. The Watch undertook to protect the herds and to recover or replace cattle stolen by raiders from elsewhere. In return, they exacted a payment for protection as a proportion of the landlord’s rent. Most farmers, recognising the character of the men they dealt with, paid up and were, by and large, happy with the service. Those that did not pay one year, usually found that it was worth their while to do so the next. Once, indeed,
Rob had taken a close-fisted farmer before the sheriff at Stirling who found that his contract should be enforced.
Just below the head dyke, avoiding as far as possible the precious arable strips, stood Glen Gyle House. In a ragged line, further up the slope beyond the tigh mòr - ‘Big House’ stood the black houses of the cottars and sub-tenants. Manpower, not productivity was the need in the Highlands, manpower to support the cattle trade, and the pride of the chiefs. The cottar houses were long low mounds of turf and thatch, dipping down the hillside. At the lower end lay the stable and byre. In the middle was the living room with an ever-burning peat fire in the centre of the clay floor. Wreathes of aromatic blue smoke hung in the air, searching the reed and heather thatch for an exit. At the top end lay the sleeping rooms, with wood partitioned box-beds. These houses could be built in a couple of days, when the whole community joined together. The smoke impregnated thatch was often torn off in the spring to add to the winter dung of the cattle as manure for the fields. Glen Gyle House was different, two stories and an attic with dormer windows, of stone construction, cemented with lime mortar. Four great trees from Breadalbane had gone into its roof. Reed thatch protected it from the elements. Slate was beyond Glengyle's means. The best of the furnishings had come from Gregor's father-in-law as part of his wife's belated dowry, most of them had been removed for security when Colonel Cadogan's redcoated soldiers had paid their destructive visit four years previously.
Mary Hamilton and Mairi MacGregor, wives of Gregor and Rob Roy, stood at the door of Glen Gyle House, surrounded by children. Mary had little Elizabeth in her arms and Jeannie, shyly standing beside her; Mairi was holding Robin Og, her last child, born twenty four years after her first, Seamus Mòr - now a powerfully built and heavily armed man striding towards her. The older boys rushed into the house boisterously, happy to be home from the shielings again. Mairi hugged her two grown sons, Coll and Seamus Mòr who had been with their father, Rob Roy. The last weeks had been anxious ones. There was bustle as the men laid down their weapons, weary from the three-day march from Glen Shiel in Kintail, Wester Ross. Little Rob drew Rob Roy's basket hilted Andrea Ferrara broadsword from its scabbard and took up the en-garde position his father had taught him. "Steady there, lads," laughed Rob Roy, "there have been no losses among the Gregarach this time around. Let's have none here."
The women laid out food and ale for the menfolk, and hurried the children out to play in the evening sunshine. Mairi asked her husband, "What happened? How long can you stay? Can we return to Balquhidder? Is there pursuit?"
"Steady, a ghraidh,” Rob Roy answered, supping his ale, "all in good time."
Rob Roy related the events of the last few weeks. It had been another fruitless attempt on behalf of the Stewart dynasty to recover their throne. Perhaps, some slight chance for the Clan Gregor to recover its ancient patrimony, but it had been another disaster, doomed by poor planning, bad general-ship, the English navy and the weather. The great invasion of England by the exiled Duke of Ormonde and his Spanish army had come to grief in the storms off Finisterre. The Scottish exiles, led by the Jacobite Lords - the Marquis of Tullibardine, the Earl of Seaforth and the Earl Marischal - were supposed to make a simultaneous landing in the Northwest with a Spanish regiment and arms for as many Highlanders as would join them. Tullibardine had garrisoned Eilan Donan on Loch Alsh and settled down to wait in Strath Croe. There, Rob Roy had joined him along with the outlawed Lord George Murray, deposed Duke of Atholl, Clanranald, Lochiel and the MacDougalls of Lorn. In all they mustered a scant, 1100 men. Memories of confiscation and exile after the '15 were still raw and bitter amongst many of the clan chiefs.
Then came the news: Ormonde had lost his battle with the Channel gales and was back in Cadiz with the remnants of his invasion fleet. Tullibardine was instructed to disperse his men and return to Spain. Before he could act, three English frigates had bombarded Eilan Donan and driven the Spanish ships away. Rob advised dispersal to rise again another day, but Tullibardine hung on against hope. Soon General Wightman, the governor of Inverness Castle, approached with his company of regular troops. He was supported by the Earl of Sutherland and by the chiefs of the Hanoverian clans of Munro, Fraser, and Mackay. Coming down Glen Shiel with 1600 men, General Wightman attacked the Jacobite positions. After an inglorious and indecisive scrap with most damage caused by Wightman's light artillery, Murray and Seaforth had both been wounded and their men retreated to save their chiefs. The rout was soon general. Tullibardine, Murray and Seaforth were eventually able to escape back to France, when one of the Spanish frigates belatedly re-appeared. By then, however, Don Alonzo de Santarem had surrendered his men as prisoners of war, to be honourably exchanged. The Highland Jacobites would have no such courtesy offered to them, so there was no question of surrender. Rob Roy and his band retreated down Glen Lichd to Strath Croe where he destroyed the powder magazine and any weapons that could not be carried. Then he led his men, with little incidents on the long march home.
Gregor interrupted to tell Rob of renewed outlawry notices that had been posted during his absence. Before setting out, Rob had provisioned his expedition at the expense of the farmers around Aberfoyle. A party of militia had followed him as far as Glen Falloch. Two of the militiamen had been killed in a skirmish with Rob at Inverarnan when he had disarmed the rest of the detachment. A proclamation in the King's name had been issued, giving a reward of two hundred pounds sterling, a princely sum, for Rob's apprehension. Rob said that it was no more than he had expected and he would take some of his small band back to their hiding places in Glen Shira. He could still be useful to the Duke of Argyll, and neither Montrose nor Atholl would dare pursue him on Argyll's lands. In the meantime it should be safe enough for Mairi and the younger children to return to Balquhidder.
Outside, in the fading light of early summer, Rob, Iain and the other boys ran in and out of the birch and elder scrub above the head-dyke. They had wooden swords in hand and old, done muskets without fire locks. Battered targes hung on their arms. They leapt from rock to rock, hid in the yellow gorse thickets and yelled their slogans as they charged down the hillside.
Heights of Glengyle - June 1719
The sun shone briefly through gaps in the cloudy June sky. A buzzard circled endlessly. Somewhere a blackcock cried. The midges swirled like demented wreaths of smoke, darting this way and that. Rob watched them, thankful that the midges preferred the cattle, whose tails switched almost as quickly as the midge clouds. This warm weather was all very well, except for the scourge of the midges. Rob glared at the tattered book in his hand. He wished that he could throw it as far as the dark lochan which glistened below the summit of Stob nan Eigrach. His father had told him how important education was, especially to those who had little or no estate before them in life, but what benefit could it be to read this tale of a foreign war, in the dim past, in a dead language? He was sure that it had not helped his Great Uncle escape from the wicked Duke of Montrose. He looked again at the page of the Iliad before him. "Iain, dè tha 'perficiebatur', Chan eil mi tuigsinn," he shouted in Gaelic to his older brother sitting some yards below him.
Eleven-year-old Iain, eldest son of Gregor MacGregor of Glengyle, was trying to sharpen the dirk that his father had recently given him. This was no mere sgian for cutting meat, but a real man's weapon. His father had shown him the way it should be sharpened, but somehow he could not restore the edge that it had had before. He looked up to his nine-year-old brother. He could not see the point in Latin and Greek either, but the dominie insisted.
The dominie, Fergus O'Brien, a Roman priest, had settled for a fugitive life among the Jacobite clans of Breadalbane after the 1715 Rising. He made a precarious living teaching the children of the broken clans in the hills around Glen Dochart, Balquhidder and Strath Gartney. They were neither the hills of Rome where he had studied nor the hills of Antrim where he had been born, but, with a purse of guineas on his head, they were the hills of sanctuary. Close by, at the shielings at Cille mo Cheallaig, were the ancient remains of the tiny Celtic church dedicated to St Celloc, a ninth-century abbot of Iona. Father O’Brien often visited this little shrine. The people were Presbyterian by act of parliament although the minister at Drymen in whose parish they were, never ventured beyond Balmaha. Their preference, where they had such, was for the Episcopal tradition, overthrown in 1690 when the ministers who would not take the oath of allegiance to Dutch King Billy were turned out of their manses by the triumphant Whig ministers of the Presbyterian Kirk. The old Episcopal minister had died some years earlier. He had a prayer for James, the King over the water, on his lips to his last breath. Father O'Brien had returned from Sheriffmuir at the invitation of Rob Roy MacGregor.
The boys, minding their father's cattle among the patches of sweet grass around the shielings at the head of Glen Gyle, had a page of the Iliad to memorise for father O'Brien. Iain had the measure of the Irishman and had little concern for his bluster. Rob, still smarting since the last visit, was anxious to avoid a repetition. "Iain," he began again, "De tha ..." Iain answered this time, that was a word he could remember. "Was finished," he replied in English.
Their mother, Mary Hamilton, was the daughter of the laird of the small estate of Bardowie in the English-speaking farming country to the north of Glasgow. The Bardowie estate, of a few hundred acres had been improved and managed by a bailiff to provide a moderately comfortable income to John Hamilton. Enough to pay his dues to the Duke of Montrose, An Greumach Mòr to his Highland tenants, but ‘his Grace’ to men like John Hamilton. It was enough to pay for a substantial stone-built house with a fine slate roof and enough, too, for a new house in Glasgow where he had become involved in the growing tobacco and slave trade with the English colonies. Bardowie had been unhappy, to say the least, when his daughter married beyond the Highland line, but Mary had left him little choice but to accept when she eloped with the tall handsome Highlander. Now it was 1719, several Jacobite risings later, with little sign of the prosperity promised by the Union of 1707. The MacGregors had been outlawed yet again. Bardowie's wife still complained of the rogues and caterans who had taken away her daughter. Glen Gyle house at the head of Loch Katrine had been burned by redcoats after the 1715 Rising. They had had sufficient warning to move their furnishings and stock to safety and the house was soon rebuilt. Now, there was another rising.
Iain, Rob and seven year old Hamish, sons of Gregor Glun Dubh of Glengyle had been up on the shieling ground at Cille mo Cheallaig in upper Glen Gyle for several weeks. They had been watching the cattle and supposedly preparing for their lesson with Father O'Brien. With them were other children of the clan, including thirteen-year-old Ranald, son of Rob Roy and cousin to Glengyle, guarded by a dozen of their father's followers, Gregarach all, for no-one followed a broken nameless clan unless they were of the blood. Iain was the Master of Glengyle, heir to his father Gregor. However, the ever-watchful leader amongst this group was Alasdair Ruaidh mhic Sheamus, a veteran of Killiecrankie in 1689. Alasdair was now grey, despite his byname meaning red-haired. He had followed Colonel Domhnal glas of Glengyle, chieftain of the Clannn Dùbhghaill Ciar and Captain of Clan Gregor. He now followed Gregor glun dubh, son to Domhnal glas and chieftain in turn. He would give his life for these boys if the need arose. The boys' mother was a great one for the book learning. Books were for the chiefs. The basket hilted broadsword on his left hip, hidden under the folds of his plaid, the dirk on his right side, targe on his back and Doune dag or pistol at his belt were all that Alasdair ruaidh had ever needed. All of the group were bare-foot and bare-headed, clad in the muted red and green of Clan Gregor. All wore the breacan feile or belted plaid that sheltered them from the sun and showers in summer and from the biting wind and driving rain in winter. The protection of the plaid and blade were the only surety that any of the Gregarach possessed after centuries of persecution. The law of the Lowlander gave them nothing, but no Lowland law officer, unless he had a red-coated company behind him, dared come this far into the Highlands.
It had only been four years since a company of the saighdearan dearg – redcoated soldiers, guided by Campbell militiamen from the garrison at Finlarg castle had done just that and burnt the big house by Loch Katrine. Some years before that, the Duke of Montrose had sent soldiers to burn Rob Roy’s house at Inversnaid. In the last few months, with Rob Roy away in the north with many of the fighting men of Clan Gregor, the danger of a repeat visit was very real. The boys and the cattle were not up in this quiet, sunny, out of the way corrie just for the grazing. Mairi MacGregor, wife of Rob Roy remained at Glen Gyle House with the boys' mother and the younger children. The house was bursting with people but all were ready to fly to the hills at a moments warning. Mairi MacGregor knew too painfully the treatment that could be in store for them if taken by surprise.
The midges continued their chaotic swirling, the cattle switching their tails endlessly. The buzzard dropped, like a stone, on to an unwary grouse, its call "Go bye, go bye" cut off abruptly.
Sionad, Alasdair's daughter, called from the door of one of the shieling houses. Food was ready. The shielings, at first glance, were no more than mounds of grass-grown earth. A more observant stranger might notice the haze of peat smoke around them. The walls were constructed entirely of feal, or divot stiffened by hidden baulks of bog timber as crucks to support the roof timbers. Covering the roof were more divots, arranged like overlapping slates to carry most of the rain off. There were no windows and the door was made of cowhide stretched over a frame of birch. They provided shelter when necessary from the weather, often for cattle as well as the humans, and most importantly they blended into their environment so well as to be almost invisible. Usually these houses were only used in the summer months, when the cattle were herded away from the growing crops on the unfenced arable land in the lower glen. Clan Gregor had often found more vital use for their hidden shielings, but in this weather, except for the midges, it was the closest to heaven one could be, if only their thoughts were not far away with their sons, husbands and fathers.
Suddenly they heard the danger call of the curlew. But
Soon they were crouched at the edge of the ridge watching the distant company climbing the drove trail that led by Beinn Ducteach from the direction of Glen Falloch. Young Rob asked Alasdair, “Are they Gregarach?” The distance and the haze sucked out of the wet hillside by the early summer sun made it difficult to tell, but those approaching were clearly Highlanders and not redcoats. Few of the broken men of the central Highlands would dare steal cattle from Clan Gregor's shielings, not even the notorious MacFarlanes from Arrochar beyond Loch Lomond would attempt that. However, with Rob away, the possibility existed. The lookout now reached them, panting a little from the scramble down the face of the hillside. He had a naval telescope that had been part of the booty from Sheriffmuir. He quickly confirmed that it was Rob Roy with his fighting tail of Gregarach who indeed approached. The boys began to shout excitedly and Alasdair had to quieten them. "Take care,” he told them in Gaelic, "there could be pursuit."
When it was clear there was none and the approaching band of fifty or so were in no great haste. Alasdair allowed the boys with a couple of ghillies to run to join them. The younger boys rushed, racing each other to be first. Even little James, at seven could cover the ground quickly. Soon the two parties met. There was babble from all around as the children greeted their fathers, and the tired men lifted their sons. Eventually the enlarged group continued on its way the last couple of miles from the shielings down the glen towards Loch Katrine.
Rob sighted his father striding towards them. Gregor Glùn Dubh MacGregor received his byname from the black birthmark on his knee. He was a tall, powerfully built, handsome man of thirty. He was legally known as James Graham, proprietor of the estate of Glen Gyle, by feu charter from the Duke of Montrose. The estate comprised some 2200 English acres at the western end of Loch Katrine and separated from the Braes of Balquhidder by the peak of Stob a'Choin. Gregor had been out in the Fifteen Rising as nominal leader of the Clann Dùbhghaill Ciar sept of Clan Gregor, but with his uncle the real leader beside him. This time, Rob Roy had advised him to stay at home. Glengyle, himself, unlike his uncle had not been outlawed and retribution for his part in the Rising was past. It seemed pointless for him to hazard all on this chancy venture of the Marquis of Tullibardine.
Gregor was soon warmly greeting his uncle Robert, known as Rob Roy. In the eyes of the law Rob Roy was the notorious outlaw Robert Campbell. Now aged forty-eight and with many adventures behind him, Rob Roy was above middle height, spare and compact, but with an extraordinary breadth of shoulder. His strongly muscled legs were likened to those of a highland bull, both in light footed agility and thighs furred with red hair. He had powerful arms, longer than average and so strong that it was said he had once captured a stag by the antlers and held it fast. He had a heavy full beard and moustache, shoulder length flowing hair, once red but now auburn streaked with grey. His brown eyes were uncommonly expressive, his nature open. He had a reputation for speaking his mind, and leaving friends and enemies in no doubt where they stood. He had fostered his nephew Gregor Glùn Dubh since 1701 until he came of age in 1710. Rob Roy’s fairness and sense of justice had left the younger man with a real respect and filial love for his uncle and foster-father.
An outlaw, at the instance of the vindictive Duke of Montrose since 1713, Rob Roy had been made famous, or infamous, in England by the dubious romances of Daniel Defoe. Rob Roy's house at Inversnaid had been burned and the estate of Craigrostan on Loch Lomond forfeited. Despite the efforts of Hamilton of Bardowie, Gregor's father-in-law and holder of a now worthless mortgage on the estate, the Duke had secured it for himself when he had made Rob Roy bankrupt and an outlaw. The Duke, Rob Roy's chief persecutor and prosecutor, had initiated the construction of a military barracks at Inversnaid, to maintain his hold on this, his latest and perhaps least valuable possession. Rob Roy had, perforce, become expert at handling the four scheming lords, of Argyll, Montrose, Atholl and Breadalbane who owned the best part of three counties between them. Rob Roy had moved his wife and family to a new home at Inverlochlarig in Balquhidder, on the lands of the Duke of Atholl. Nearby was the farm of his nephew Donald, at Monachyle Tuarach, with other Gregarach and largely friendly neighbours. There were no roads into the area and the approach was less easy than at Craigrostan. Rob Roy himself had found it necessary to remain in hiding since the Fifteen and for much of the time he had been in Glen Shira. Recently the pursuit of him by the noble Dukes had diminished, and he had judged it opportune to join his family in Balquhidder. Once again, though Jacobite politics had intervened in his life. This latest escapade made it likely that government retribution would be directed at him yet again.
The band quickly covered the last few hundred yards to the settlement at the foot of Glen Gyle, between the steep face of Meall Mòr and the calm surface of Loch Katrine. Running sinuously along the hillside was the head dyke, separating the arable infield lands beside the Loch from the steep heather covered hillside above. Below the dyke, the lands were divided into strips of alternating arable and fallow by balks of divot, or by green strips of rushes marking the paths of rivulets from the hills above. The land was held in run-rig, the narrow strips divided between Glengyle's tenants. Once they had been balloted for each year. Alternation of the strips ensured that no one tenant would have all good or all bad land. But in recent years this happened only when a tenant died. There was no true crop rotation, bere, a low cropping but hardy barley, and oats were alternated, with an occasional fallow year when the land was exhausted. On this south-facing slope the summers were often good, but the altitude brought frosts in late May, that blasted the young crop, or the rising loch would inundate the best of the land, or early snow would blight the harvest. There had been no disasters so far this year. The young bere showed green where it had been planted before the fighting men had left for the North.
Within Rob's memory, the ill years of King Billy in the early 1690s had scarred a generation with famine and widespread dearth. It was impossible, even in good years, to fill the bellies of the clansfolk with these crops. Their wealth was in the cattle hidden on the hill. The Gregarach were largely a pastoral people. Cattle breeding and droving provided a livelihood, and bred a sturdy, hardy people inured to the hardships of life. In recent years the government in Edinburgh and now in London, had paid more attention to the Highlands. Grasping noble men sought ways of enforcing long-held and long-ignored feudal charters over the traditional rights of the Celt. Government forces were occasionally seen in the hills, and there was talk of roads being built to join together their garrisons.
The Duke of Atholl, the powerful owner of most of the county of Perth, had raised the Black Watch, Am Freicadan Dubh, to impose his own view of law and order. Duke John was a staunch supporter of Hanover. His elder brother, George had been equally fervent for the Jacobites, but had fled to France after the ’15.
Still, there was still a place for the Highland Watch run by Rob Roy and by his father Donald Glas before him. The Watch guaranteed protection to the farmers in the fertile farmlands of the upper Forth valley to the south of the Highland line. The Watch undertook to protect the herds and to recover or replace cattle stolen by raiders from elsewhere. In return, they exacted a payment for protection as a proportion of the landlord’s rent. Most farmers, recognising the character of the men they dealt with, paid up and were, by and large, happy with the service. Those that did not pay one year, usually found that it was worth their while to do so the next. Once, indeed,
Just below the head dyke, avoiding as far as possible the precious arable strips, stood Glen Gyle House. In a ragged line, further up the slope beyond the tigh mòr - ‘Big House’ stood the black houses of the cottars and sub-tenants. Manpower, not productivity was the need in the Highlands, manpower to support the cattle trade, and the pride of the chiefs. The cottar houses were long low mounds of turf and thatch, dipping down the hillside. At the lower end lay the stable and byre. In the middle was the living room with an ever-burning peat fire in the centre of the clay floor. Wreathes of aromatic blue smoke hung in the air, searching the reed and heather thatch for an exit. At the top end lay the sleeping rooms, with wood partitioned box-beds. These houses could be built in a couple of days, when the whole community joined together. The smoke impregnated thatch was often torn off in the spring to add to the winter dung of the cattle as manure for the fields. Glen Gyle House was different, two stories and an attic with dormer windows, of stone construction, cemented with lime mortar. Four great trees from Breadalbane had gone into its roof. Reed thatch protected it from the elements. Slate was beyond Glengyle's means. The best of the furnishings had come from Gregor's father-in-law as part of his wife's belated dowry, most of them had been removed for security when Colonel Cadogan's redcoated soldiers had paid their destructive visit four years previously.
Mary Hamilton and Mairi MacGregor, wives of Gregor and Rob Roy, stood at the door of Glen Gyle House, surrounded by children. Mary had little Elizabeth in her arms and Jeannie, shyly standing beside her; Mairi was holding Robin Og, her last child, born twenty four years after her first, Seamus Mòr - now a powerfully built and heavily armed man striding towards her. The older boys rushed into the house boisterously, happy to be home from the shielings again. Mairi hugged her two grown sons, Coll and Seamus Mòr who had been with their father, Rob Roy. The last weeks had been anxious ones. There was bustle as the men laid down their weapons, weary from the three-day march from Glen Shiel in Kintail, Wester Ross. Little Rob drew Rob Roy's basket hilted Andrea Ferrara broadsword from its scabbard and took up the en-garde position his father had taught him. "Steady there, lads," laughed Rob Roy, "there have been no losses among the Gregarach this time around. Let's have none here."
The women laid out food and ale for the menfolk, and hurried the children out to play in the evening sunshine. Mairi asked her husband, "What happened? How long can you stay? Can we return to Balquhidder? Is there pursuit?"
"Steady, a ghraidh,” Rob Roy answered, supping his ale, "all in good time."
Rob Roy related the events of the last few weeks. It had been another fruitless attempt on behalf of the Stewart dynasty to recover their throne. Perhaps, some slight chance for the Clan Gregor to recover its ancient patrimony, but it had been another disaster, doomed by poor planning, bad general-ship, the English navy and the weather. The great invasion of England by the exiled Duke of Ormonde and his Spanish army had come to grief in the storms off Finisterre. The Scottish exiles, led by the Jacobite Lords - the Marquis of Tullibardine, the Earl of Seaforth and the Earl Marischal - were supposed to make a simultaneous landing in the Northwest with a Spanish regiment and arms for as many Highlanders as would join them. Tullibardine had garrisoned Eilan Donan on Loch Alsh and settled down to wait in Strath Croe. There, Rob Roy had joined him along with the outlawed Lord George Murray, deposed Duke of Atholl, Clanranald, Lochiel and the MacDougalls of Lorn. In all they mustered a scant, 1100 men. Memories of confiscation and exile after the '15 were still raw and bitter amongst many of the clan chiefs.
Then came the news: Ormonde had lost his battle with the Channel gales and was back in Cadiz with the remnants of his invasion fleet. Tullibardine was instructed to disperse his men and return to Spain. Before he could act, three English frigates had bombarded Eilan Donan and driven the Spanish ships away. Rob advised dispersal to rise again another day, but Tullibardine hung on against hope. Soon General Wightman, the governor of Inverness Castle, approached with his company of regular troops. He was supported by the Earl of Sutherland and by the chiefs of the Hanoverian clans of Munro, Fraser, and Mackay. Coming down Glen Shiel with 1600 men, General Wightman attacked the Jacobite positions. After an inglorious and indecisive scrap with most damage caused by Wightman's light artillery, Murray and Seaforth had both been wounded and their men retreated to save their chiefs. The rout was soon general. Tullibardine, Murray and Seaforth were eventually able to escape back to France, when one of the Spanish frigates belatedly re-appeared. By then, however, Don Alonzo de Santarem had surrendered his men as prisoners of war, to be honourably exchanged. The Highland Jacobites would have no such courtesy offered to them, so there was no question of surrender. Rob Roy and his band retreated down Glen Lichd to Strath Croe where he destroyed the powder magazine and any weapons that could not be carried. Then he led his men, with little incidents on the long march home.
Gregor interrupted to tell Rob of renewed outlawry notices that had been posted during his absence. Before setting out, Rob had provisioned his expedition at the expense of the farmers around Aberfoyle. A party of militia had followed him as far as Glen Falloch. Two of the militiamen had been killed in a skirmish with Rob at Inverarnan when he had disarmed the rest of the detachment. A proclamation in the King's name had been issued, giving a reward of two hundred pounds sterling, a princely sum, for Rob's apprehension. Rob said that it was no more than he had expected and he would take some of his small band back to their hiding places in Glen Shira. He could still be useful to the Duke of Argyll, and neither Montrose nor Atholl would dare pursue him on Argyll's lands. In the meantime it should be safe enough for Mairi and the younger children to return to Balquhidder.
Outside, in the fading light of early summer, Rob, Iain and the other boys ran in and out of the birch and elder scrub above the head-dyke. They had wooden swords in hand and old, done muskets without fire locks. Battered targes hung on their arms. They leapt from rock to rock, hid in the yellow gorse thickets and yelled their slogans as they charged down the hillside.