MacGregor

by Peter John Lawrie

Chapter 10

  Inversnaid - Wednesday September 4th, 1745

  The moon, lurking behind the clouds that rushed along Loch Lomond, briefly shone down. It’s light illuminated the sentry who stood on the rampart of the government fort of Inversnaid. It was hardly a fort in fact, more a defended barrack block, with an enclosed courtyard. The plan had been to assail the barracks as soon as darkness fell, for more than this was planned for the cover of the night. Glengyle had decided he needed more men and had swept the Loch-side almost as far as Rowardennan for recruits, with only mixed success. After a tiring and dispiriting search, they had raised another twenty men, but some of them had deserted on the way here.

  Rob and James Mòr spoke quietly together as the watched the silent fort. “How was Edinburgh?” Rob asked.

  “As ever, as ever,” James Mòr answered, “Full of stinks and bustle. Robert Craigie, the Lord Advocate was all ears. I told him most of Clan Donald had risen and Lochiel too. I exaggerated a little, but I had to earn my pay, whatever. He was grateful. He believes me now to be a loyal servant of his King in the Prince’s camp. I told him everything the Duke of Perth had commanded me and added a little more on my own account. Then I found Lord Perth’s man Drummond and we toiled together through the night printing the handbills which Lord Perth had prepared. I used the Advocate’s money to pay street urchins to post the bills on every door in the town. The guard ran here and there the next day tearing them down and the urchins pelted them as they did. I was affronted though, that Advocate Craigie offered a bigger reward for the apprehension of the persons responsible for the bills than he had paid me for the information on Glen Finnan.” … “Wheesht, now, Glengyle is back and we are to begin.”

  Rob, shapeless in his plaid, crouched behind a whin bush, watching the sentry. Two men, carrying a rough ladder, newly made from slender birch trunks and thonged with heather root, crawled towards the rampart. One of them dislodged some loose stones. Rob held his breath as they clattered downhill. The rushing waters of the Snaid Burn, perhaps, masked the sound, or maybe the sentry was asleep on his feet.

  This was a strange place for a government fort. It was no great centre of population. There was no significant traffic passing it by. It had no market deserving protection. However, its presence demonstrated the co-incidence of the interests of the state with the interests of its great magnates. It had been built to ensure the de-facto forfeiture of Rob Roy MacGregor, a representative of a race, long since out­lawed by the Scottish and British crown. Rob's little estate of Inversnaid was worth a derisory twenty-six pounds a year in rent. It was a poor scrap of woodland and rough pasture, up by the northeast corner of Loch Lomond. It contained inac­cessible trees, bog, rock and moor amongst patches of grazing that bred lean but hardy cattle. Its very inaccessibility was a virtue to the people who had lived there. The greedy, vindictive Duke of Montrose, a great territorial magnate and Secretary of State for Scotland, was only too pleased to buy this place from the Commissioners for the forfeited estates.

  The fort had been established on a small patch of level ground, close to the site of Rob Roy's thrice burned house. Near by was the Snaid Burn, rushing and tumbling down to the loch below, and the pier by which the garrison was provisioned. Lawyer's papers could give him title, but not possession. Montrose had used his position to have the government pay for that possession. Government money paid for its construction. More government money paid the militiamen that were needed to protect the woodcutters and the freshly planted Graham tenants from harassment by the nameless ones.

  Rob Roy had captured and razed the place once before, but Montrose had had it rebuilt. Rob Roy had lain in the kirkyard of Balquhidder these past eleven years. The fort continued to rankle with his people and now the unrest in Scotland had presented an opportunity for combining personal business with a success for the Prince. Glengyle had arrived here yesterday at dusk with a band of forty men. He had learned from a woodman that most of the garrison, a company of Argyll militia, were away across the Loch. They were on road-building duties through the Arrochar passes. Glengyle had decided to capture and occupy the fort first and thereafter to pursue the rest of the company.

  Rob crouched lower behind the stunted bush as the moon shone briefly down. Somewhere, amongst the whins and heather surrounding the fort silently crouched the rest of Glengyle's band. He checked behind him, his own three men were patiently waiting his signal. Now the moonlight had shown that the sentry had not moved. An owl hooted, once, twice, three times. GO! The two men with the ladder swung it up against the wall and held it steady as Rob and several others clambered up and on to the wall top. The sentry turned in alarm. He was too slow. The hilt of the broadsword smashed into his face. He toppled into the heap of horse dung and straw below. He lay there, unstirring.

  As the others clambered up the ladder, Rob ran around the wall top and jumped, lightly, down to the latrine roof, then to the ground. The barrack block butted against the highest and longest wall of the fort on the north side. To the east were the almost empty stables. The latrines block stood to the southeast, in the lowest corner. Along the west wall stood the stores and armoury. The armoury was most likely empty, too, but weapons were not the main objective here. Rob paused, with his back against the wall beside the door to the barrack block as his two men from Stronachlachar, Alasdair Roy and Gregor Bàn joined him. WAIT! The third man, Calum Og, had the gate open and the others, led by Glengyle and James Mòr, entered the courtyard.

  The unfortunate sentry stirred on the dung heap. Calum Og removed the musket that lay beside him. "A Nis!” James Mòr yelled. Rob unlatched the door and charged into the barrack room, yelling the slogan, "Claidheamh Mòr.” Two men inside tried to rise from the table where they had been playing cards. Alasdair Roy, lifted a table and flung it across the room, striking both of them on the chest. They went down, dazed, with the broken table above them. Another militiaman, attempted to grapple with Gregor Bàn, but he crumpled when Calum Og clubbed him from behind with a musket. Rob, with a pistol in each hand, pointed them at the heads of the last two men in the room, lying in their cots. There was a lull. The militia did not have the will to fight. In the adjoining barrack room they could hear sounds of struggle, terminated by a pistol shot. Rob motioned his prisoners outside. Someone had raised a pine torch to shed light on the scene. Rob lined his prisoners up against the wall. Calum Og dragged the sentry off the dung heap and dumped him beside his comrades. Another five prisoners, one of them nursing a wound in his shoulder, filed out of the second barrack room escorted by the men of Coire Arclet. James Mòr appeared from the officer’s quarters with a middle-aged ensign, his hands held high in front of him.

  The engagement was over. Barely six minutes had elapsed since Rob had scaled the wall. The prisoners were quickly lashed together in pairs. They were seated on the ground against the wall of the barrack block guarded by Calum Og. The other Gregarach ransacked the place. James Mòr found a barrel of gunpowder in the magazine. There were only six mus­kets, but ample flint and ball. Two Highland garrons stood patiently in the stable.

  Glengyle gave orders that the prisoners were to be warded in the now empty magazine, the most secure building in the compound. He picked out some of his followers, those he was least able to rely upon. He commanded them to remain here as garrison, under the command of James Mòr. The remainder were to cross the Loch with him.

  Down the hill they went in file, any sound they made hidden by the rushing waters of the burn as it tumbled its way down to Loch Lomond. At the bottom of the hill the militia had constructed a pier jutting out into the Loch. This was used to re-supply the fort and also as a convenient port from which to cross to the road workings on the western shore, part of the new military road from Inveraray via Crianlarich to Inverlochy, or Fort William as the Sasunnaich now called it. There was usually a small piquet post at the pier to guard the boats.

  Glengyle motioned to Rob. He crawled forward on his belly. The glimmer of the moon f
ailed to pierce the darkness. Rob carefully approached the sentry box now, from its right side. The lapping waters masked any sound, but also prevented him from hearing the sentry. He sidled alongside the shelter at the end of the pier. A stone flung at the planking of the pier made a thump, louder than the jumping of a fish. The sentry, dozing on duty, started and stepped forward. Instantly Rob was behind him, left arm round his throat, his dirk before his eyes, "Wheesht, now,” he breathed, "or meet your maker."

  The sentry let his musket fall. Calum Og, who had crept around to the left of the piquet post, caught it before it clattered on the plank­ing of the jetty.

  "Are there any more on duty? If you lie, then you are a dead man," breathed Rob.

  The frightened sentinel confirmed he had been alone. Rob ordered Calum Og to bring rope to bind the sentry. The other members of Glengyle's party clustered around. Glengyle detailed one man to escort their prisoner up the hill to join the rest in the fort. Others searched the banks for any boats that may have been left. None remained.

  "Now, we wait for Alasdair Greumach and Iain MacNeacail to bring up their boats from Cailness," Glengyle said. "Rob show a torch from the end of the pier, but hide the flame from the other side of the loch. If they have obeyed my commands they should be not far away."

  After a delay, long enough to cause Glengyle's temper to rise, a disturbance on the loch could be heard. Close in by the bank, to the south, keen eyes observed the phosphorescence, picked out by the fitful moonlight, caused by oar strokes. Soon two boats, lightweight, locally built craft called cobles, came up to the pier. Each of them contained a single oarsman, with a second coble on tow behind. They made to leap out at the pier.

  "You took your time over coming here. Stay in the boats, " Glengyle ordered. "The rest of you enter as you find room."

  "Glengyle, we have followed your command and brought our boats." exclaimed Alasdair Greumach, the tenant in Cailness, "We cannot agree to accom­pany you on this expedition. Graham of Gorthly will have us evicted at the very least, if not hung from a tree with yourself."

  "And I shall have you burnt out if you do not come, and your cattle taken also. Stay in the boats, or, as Royal is my Race you shall regret it. Have you more regard for Montrose's hired factor than for your chief?"

  Glengyle had not expected an answer, but MacNeacail came back at him. "Mr MacFarlane, the minister at Buchanan says you are in league with the Antichrist and we shall be condemned in the afterlife, if we consort with you."

  "Fool," said Glengyle. His face was hidden in the darkness, but the anger in his voice clear enough, "You shall reach that afterlife sooner than you expect. Should you leave that boat you are a dead man. Since when did upstarts like Gorthly and that prattling meenister rank above your chief?”

  Wisely the two men remained, silently, where they were.

  The band of men arranged themselves in the boats, eight in each. More than a few were reluctant to be there. Glengyle ensured that they kept together by tying the four boats together with hempen rope. Each boat had a few trusted men to keep control. The oars dipped in the water and the boats shoved off from the pier into the night.

  On they rowed across dark Loch Lomond. Most of them were familiar with the Loch, but navigation was difficult in these conditions. The high hills around were invisible, except when, fleetingly, the moon allowed a brief glimpse. Patchy mist hung on the water, giving the faint phosphorescence in the water, excited by the splash of the oars, an eerie quality. In the middle of the Loch, reasonably sure that they would not be sighted from either bank, Glengyle altered direction to travel slightly North up the Loch. Eventually, they rounded the little islet where the ruin of Inveruglas castle stood, they turned in towards the western shore and soon the scrape of gravel under the boats indicated the beach.

  Already the faint light of dawn lit the eastern sky. The banks were clad with whins and bracken, affording plenty of cover. With as little noise as possible the boats were pulled ashore and left where they would be well hidden but easily re-launched. Then Glengyle led his war-band up the slope from the waterside until they reached the scar across the hillside that was the new military road. He took the point himself and commanded the utmost care so as not to alarm the militia camp. Stealthily they moved on, keeping largely to the heather on either side of the road to reduce the sound of their passage. Once over a small summit, the road dipped sharply and to the left. Below them in a hollow and near a temporary pier lay the camp. Several fires were burning. Even so it was difficult to spot the sentries around the fire, and harder still to determine whether any were on duty beside the boats drawn up on the strand.

  After a little time, Glengyle motioned Rob over to him. "It is too dark to risk an attack," he explained. "We will hurt our own and break too many heads in this mirk. You take a dozen men around the knoll there and come down on the far side. I recall that there is cover just beyond the stream at the bottom of this. You should be far enough from their camp not to waken them. Also place two men by the shoreline beyond the point where the stream reaches the Loch. When the light strengthens, I shall give you a signal for attack. Now remember, I want prisoners, none are to escape but there is to be no killing."

  Rob slipped silently back to the main body and picked out his party, choosing the most trustworthy and best armed of the band, but leaving sufficient for his father. He led the way back along the road a little way and then took to the hill, feeling their way through birch scrub which masked the noise of their passage from the sleeping camp. Then, they came to the stream, almost a ravine at this point, but manageable with care. One by one they crossed and crouching low, made their way up a gentle slope over heather-clad moor. They skirted rocky outcrops, until once more they reached the relative safety of a scrub woodland that terminated in an outcrop of rock and an almost sheer drop of twenty feet or so to the loch. Carefully, he spread his men out and inched forward to a position from where he could watch the camp. Already tonight he had served the Prince, and the clan, he thought to himself, this ploy far exceeded any excitement on the droving.

  The imminence of dawn lit up the eastern sky. A low mist lay on the loch, so low that Rob in his position on top of the knoll lay above it, and could look down on the woolly blanket. The camp was partly shrouded but the mist was so thin that it did not hide it. He shivered. The morning chill and the sleepless, crouching hours during had penetrated his bones. Gently, he flexed his limbs, rubbing them to get some warmth into them. He motioned his men forward. He positioned some below the slight ridge that separated them from the militia camp. Others were stationed farther in from the water along the line of the new road.

  Now it was light enough to see across to the opposite side of the hollow, where Glengyle and the rest of the band ought to be. Then Glengyle was there! Gregarach alongside him with their muskets presented. Up Rob jumped and waved his men forward.

  "In the name of His Majesty King James," Glengyle roared, "I command all here to surrender."

  The sleeping camp came to life. One of the militiamen made towards the stand of muskets. Glengyle fired, knocking the stand over. The militiaman jumped back in fright.

  "You are outnumbered and surrounded. Surrender or we fire!" Glengyle shouted once more.

  The militia officer could be seen, wigless, surveying the line of Highlanders on either side and above his position. He looked at his sergeant, and made his decision.

  "Do not resist." he called out to his men. Then addressing Glengyle, he said. “You have us at your advantage, sir, I surrender my men.”

  Glengyle motioned Rob forward and began to descend the slope himself. As they collected the weapons, it became apparent why the company had surrendered so easily. Amongst the fifty or so men of the company there were only a dozen muskets. The militiamen had their own dirks, but no broadswords. Only the officer was properly armed, with a pair of fine Highland pistols as well as his sword.

  The excitement subsided. The officer was Captain Campbell, the tacks
man of Ardgartan in Glen Croe. Glengyle informed him that he and his men were now his prisoners, in the name of King James and that the garrison of Inversnaid was also in the possession of his Majesty.

  Moored at the rough pier were three naval longboats. These were considerably larger than the cobles in which they had crossed. Glengyle ordered the men who had brought the cobles from Cailness to return to their boats and bring them back here. Four other men were ordered to go with them.

  The sun soon rose and melted the mist. The four cobles came alongside the pier. Quickly their prisoners were embarked on to the longboats, with four armed guards on each. Various pieces of booty, tools and provisions were thrown aboard. The remainder of Glengyle's band, with all of the captured weapons, climbed aboard the cobles for the return journey to Inversnaid.

  In daylight their course was easier. The thin mist only slightly impeded navigation but reduced the worry of being sighted by hostile forces. Soon they were back at the pier of Inversnaid. James Mòr himself was awaiting them.

  "What kept you, Glengyle? " he called when they came into earshot. "I expected you earlier."

  Glengyle responded, "Well met, then Seamus, we thought to have a snooze before we came back with these. Catch this rope-end and tie it fast for me."

  Quickly, but without fuss, Glengyle had their prisoners escorted up the hill to the garrison. James Mòr had been busy in the interval. The windows of the barrack block had been barricaded and secured to make a suitable prison for their additional captives. Glengyle picked out some of the private men and locked the doors on the rest of them.

  "Where are the rest of your men, Seamus," Glengyle asked, "I left you with twelve. I can see no more than five here.

  "Run,” James Mòr answered. "When I was busy with the wright barricading these windows, MacMurrin in Rouchoish and some of the others opened the gate and walked out. They were clear away before I missed them. Then the ensign tried to escape and lost his wig and damaged his topcoat in the excitement. I do not believe he feels too well at present."

  While Glengyle spoke with James Mòr, Rob stood by the prisoners in the yard of the Fort. Most of them were little the worse for their treat­ment. One was in some pain from his damaged shoulder, and another, smelling none too clean, had lost some teeth when Rob had thumped him with his sword hilt in the assault the night before. They were of the Argyll militia, with some sympathy for their neighbours of Clan Gregor. One of them, a MacFarlane from Arrochar, near to where they had surprised the party on the other side of the Loch, spoke to Rob.

  "Well,” he said, "there is a fine day in it for the harvest. Some of us were to be away home in the week to come to gather it in. Think you that we will be going now?"

  Rob recalled that his father had spoken of this issue. The Jacobite army would not have the resources to feed and guard large numbers of prisoners. This was not a war of conquest, in which they would subdue their enemies with terror. The Cause needed the friends that mildness and forgiveness would bring. Rob replied, "Think you that you would be back in arms against us after the harvest? My father will be wanting your parole.”

  The MacFarlane thought about this. "If it was mine to give, then you should have it with my compliments. I follow Captain Campbell of Ardgartan. He is my landlord as well as my captain."

  "Come, man,” Rob responded, "If you are prepared to swear that you will not take up arms against Prince Charles Stewart, then you are free to go.”

  Andrew replied "How will you determine we do not renege.”

  "I may not, but the Almighty would know. I cannot speak for my father, but I feel assured he would concur with me. Should you give your parole of honour, sworn on the word of God, then you shall be free. Have you a wife?"

  "Aye, and four bairns at home. I have served at Inversnaid since the Belteine bonfires and have not seen them since that time,” Andrew replied. "Ardgartan keeps us close watched. He fears that we would desert, as some already have, and that it would reflect on him if Argyll should find out."

  "An athair, Seamus,” called Rob, "Come you over here, there is a word we are wanting with you.”

  Glengyle and James Mòr walked across to where Rob sat with Andrew. Despite the friendly nature of the conversation, Rob kept Andrew and his companions well covered with his pistols. As James Mòr sat down on a bar­rel, Rob said. "Anndra, here, is thinking on giving his parole. What say you to that?"

  Glengyle responded," We spoke with Glencarnaig and Perth on this. Glencarnaig was unsure, particularly of the Lowlanders and the English. However, Argyll militia should be honourable gentlemen. Now, if that was the Duke of Montrose, instead of your Ensign over there,” he said, motioning at the magazine where the militia Ensign was warded along with Ardgartan," I feel sure he would be having an unfortunate accident as he ran away."

  Andrew MacFarlane shuddered a little. "Your honour, there are no thoughts of running away in my mind, at all.”

  "Wheesht, man. Since when were you the Duke of Montrose?" James Mòr laughed.

  Others among the group were chatting with each other. The men of Clan Gregor knew some of the militiamen from the droving trade. At least three of these men had met with hospitality from Clan Gregor on droves from Kintyre by way of Inveraray and Ardlui, or on the trail from Oban through Brander, to Crianlarich and Ardlui on the road to Aberfoyle and the Tryst at Falkirk.

  Glengyle had intended to take the captives as a symbol of his duty and success to show before the Prince. But there were too many, and perhaps some better use may be made of them. "Aye" Glengyle said at length, "there are too many. Seamus, bring the good book from your pack."

  "Your honour," Glengyle summoned Ardgartan from the magazine, "a word, if you please."

  Gregor, James Mòr and Rob stood in the open courtyard of the little fort with Captain John Campbell, tacksman of Ardgartan in Glen Croe. "Sir, I wish to request your parole, as an officer and a gentleman, and your consent for parole to be offered your men. I require a pledge on the holy book you will not bear arms against King James or his Son Prince Charles for a year and a day. You are free to consent or not, as your honour demands. Should you refuse, I shall have no other recourse than to carry you with me till I can deliver you to a suitable prison."

  Ardgartan replied. "I thank you, sir. I know I shall not dissuade you from this course upon which you are imbarqued. I respect you, of old, as an honourable man, tho' I wish damnation on your politics. I surrendered to you my sword tho' I should condemn myself as a fool for allowing your success so easi­ly. I am broken by this episode and will not be given further command. I cannot give you my parole as a gentleman since I could nowise return home if I did so, but you have my consent, under threat of force, to approach my men.”

  Ardgartan bowed to Glengyle, and then spoke to his men, using the Gaelic known to them all except the ensign. "Men, we have been bested, and received honourable treatment. I cannot give my parole to Glengyle not to take up arms against their Pretender - I cannot call him Prince. Any of you who wish to give your parole are free to do so. You will not suffer dishonour or penalty when you return home. This is my command. Should you refuse, then you will, perforce, go God knows where, with these gentlemen. I warn you all however, these men will offer their blandishments to you to join their army. Should you do so you will surely hang." Ardgartan sat, removed his wig and bowed his head.

  Rob announced to his prisoners, "You may join our cause or pledge your parole to return to your homes and take no further part in this scrape."

  Several in turn came up and gave their pledge, repeated in Gaelic, as James Mòr spoke. "I pledge I shall not again take up arms against the mighty Prince James, rightful King of Great Britain, or against his son and regent, Charles. So help me God. I further pledge I shall return to my home and continue there peacefully for a year and a day from this date."

  Most of the militiamen were too frightened of their landlords to risk their livelihood and families. Those that had given parole threw off their
surcoats and canvas webbing and left their knee boots in a heap on the ground as they filed away.

  Glengyle addressed the remainder, "Any of you who wish to support the Prince in his just cause are welcome to remain with us.” Some of the men came forward.

  "Your name, sir" Rob requested.

  "John Landless,” answered the first, "I am of your race.”

  "Robert Ferguson,” the second said.

  Altogether, just four men agreed to join the Prince's cause, while twenty-six had given their parole of honour, leaving a more manageable forty five prisoners.

  Only one remained. He was a grizzled sergeant with his hair in a queue.

  "You sir,” Glengyle said to the sergeant, "What is it with you? Do you wish a foul prison cell to sweet freedom?"

  "Well,” he replied, "I have served in 'Am Freiceadan Dubh' at the Battle of Fontenoy with honour. I have given my pledge to the King George. I take up arms to fight and I surrender only after honourable fight. That was a devilish trick there at the camp. I demand combat with one of you to satisfy by honour. Then I will consider your offer.”

  Glengyle grinned at his cousin. "Well, Seamus, how say you or should I offer this challenge to Rob?”

  James Mòr considered, "I would gladly face him, but perhaps it would serve well if Rob was to represent our cause. How say you, Rob?"

  "Very well,” Rob responded. "Swords or dirks?" he offered the choice to the sergeant.

  "Swords,” came the reply.

  Rob removed his plaid and encumbering belts. The sergeant shrugged off his topcoat and tunic. An area of ground, reasonably flat and dry was cleared. "En garde, sir,” the sergeant cried, lunging forward. Rob darted to the side and struck down the other's sword. They circled each other.

  "Your name, sir,” Rob asked.

  "Kenneth MacPherson of Ruthven,” he answered, thrusting again.

  They circled each other, cutting and parrying. Rob slipped. MacPherson slashed but Rob rolled clear. Again they faced each other. Present, cut, parry, thrust! Both men watched each other warily, thrusting and parrying in turn, circling as they assessed each other’s sword-skill. After a little time, MacPherson, growing more confident, rushed forward. Rob stepped back, parried the blow, and slashed in turn. This time MacPherson, not fully recovered from his stroke, lost his sword which flew in an arc, ending up some yards to the side, quivering, tip embedded in the heather. MacPherson went for his sword, but found Rob's at his throat. He stopped.

  "Enough, sir,” MacPherson said, holding up his hands. Rob stepped back. The men around cheered. "Sir,” said MacPherson, "My honour is satisfied, I will take your oath, and I will join your Prince. Tho', should I be taken, I will surely hang. My life is now yours."

  The paroled militiamen began to walk off down the hill, barefooted. Unemcumbered by the heavy militia gear, they would soon be home. The Gregarach, assisted by their new recruits, arranged the spoil on the garrons and a small party set off to remove it to Glen Gyle. James Mòr had arranged for a small garrison to remain at the fort, which could prove useful to the Prince’s cause. Those of the militia who had not given their parole were to be kept in ward here until they could be moved.