FOR THE NEXT few years, Rob was a busy man. Scotland smouldered, always about to burst into flame but never quite doing so. All the time, revolt and civil war were just below the surface. The government in London was feeble; it was savage, fluctuating, riddled with jealousies and suspicions, personal animosities and divided loyalties. Ever since 1603, on the death of the childless Queen Elizabeth, when King James VI of Scotland, Mary Queen of Scots’ son, had succeeded his faraway cousin to the English throne and so became James I of the United Kingdom, Scotland had been more and more neglected as to government. Moving down to London, the Stewart Court had taken much of its power and influence with it, and though the Scottish Parliament still existed, it had never been such a powerful body as that of England, and the king’s rule predominated. So when the Revolution of 1688 took place in England with Catholic King James II and VII being driven away by the Protestant English Parliament and the Dutch William of Orange brought to the throne instead, there was much bitterness in Scotland – for this foreign king could be expected to misrule and neglect Scotland still further. And he did. There had been continuous murmurings in the northern kingdom ever since his accession, and open revolt in 1689. The aftermath of Killiecrankie had only damped down this unrest.
Now, central authority could be exercised only sketchily in the Lowlands and scarcely at all in the Highlands. Religious differences between Presbyterians, Episcopalians and Catholics rent not only the kingdom but districts, clans and families. Taxes were collected for both King William and King James. Money was scarce and prices high. Men did not know which way to turn – but those who did, had room to manoeuvre to some effect.
Robert Ruadh MacGregor knew which way he wanted to turn. He was a convinced Jacobite and probably a Catholic at heart. But he had seen the price his father had had to pay for his loyalty to the House of Stewart, and saw no point in paying it all over again. He kept his politics, like his religion, under his bonnet, difficult as this was.
He is not altogether to be blamed, perhaps, for this prudent attitude. He had an enemy at the head of the government in Scotland, Lord Murray, the Secretary of State, his own landlord. Moreover, the Clan Alpine, the entire race of MacGregor, was once more in a highly dangerous situation. The proscription of the name had been reintroduced just a few weeks before Glengyle died.
To understand just what this meant, it is necessary to go back another 100 years or more. As has been indicated, the MacGregors had been on the losing side in most of the struggles for power in Scotland over a long period – through lack of political judgement rather than any lack of valour. Most of their wide lands had been taken by others, notably the great Clan Campbell, which had cornered nine-tenths of them. Much of this had been achieved by shady legal manoeuvres rather than by right of conquest, for the MacGregors had never troubled to invest in legal charters and papers to prove their ownership of their age-old territories, and the Campbells were always expert at manipulating the law. The sheepskin, not the sword was the Campbells favoured weapon – sheepskins being used in the old days for writing charters upon.
To protect their gains, the Campbells prevailed on successive kings of Scots to grant Letters of Fire and Sword against their victims, in effect outlawing the entire race. This did not mean a great deal so long as the MacGregors stayed in their own Highlands where the government’s writ did not run anyway; but it did mean that the law was always against them, and as the rule of law increased, so Clan Alpine diminished. Then, in James VI’s time, matters were brought to a head by a particular piece of MacGregor brigandage which united their many enemies. The entire clan was proscribed. Even the name was forbidden by Act of Parliament. None could legally call themselves MacGregor; all must adopt another surname. None was permitted under pain of death, to carry any weapon, even for self-defence, other than a blunt eating knife. Anyone who slew a MacGregor could not be punished – indeed Govenunent rewards were paid for MacGregor heads brought in, and bloodhounds were imported to hunt them down. That the Nameless Clan survived at all is something of a miracle, and a tribute to the toughness of the race.
This state of affairs persisted until the Restoration of King Charles II, when the Act of Proscription was repealed; this was because of the good work done by the MacGregors in aiding Montrose in the royal cause and the Civil War. It was astonishing how loyal they remained to the Stewarts, who had never done anything for them – quite the reverse, indeed. For the next 30 years, men could proudly call themselves MacGregor again; not that they had ever ceased to do so, but legal documents, such as charters of land and so on could now bear the name once more.
In 1693, however, King William’s Government abruptly reintroduced the Act, with all its ferocious clauses. Whether it was done on Lord Murray’s advice is not known, but it does not seem improbable, for he made no secret of his grudge against the MacGregors, which was of much older standing than merely the loss of his 350 sheep. The old high chief of Clan Alpine had died, and his successor, MacGregor of Kilmanan, had bought the large property of Craigrostan, on the east side of Loch Lomond adjoining Glen Gyle. Possibly the authorities feared that this, together with the growing power of the Glengyle Watch, heralded a strengthening of the clan. Government policy was always to weaken the Highlands, by any and all means, as a breeding ground of support for the exiled Stewarts. So the blow fell, only a few months after the dire Massacre of Glencoe.
No doubt they would have disbanded the Watch too, only the pockets of many members of the government were involved, cattle being one of the few stable sources of wealth in 17th-century Scotland. Without the Watch’s protection, lairds north of the Forth and Clyde could not sleep easy in their beds of a night. Rob, then, had to walk with infinite care, playing one factor against another, skilfully balancing pros and cons. He played not only factors and policies, but men; the highest in the land. Since he could not own or occupy land or sign the merest receipt in the name of MacGregor, he was forced to adopt another surname for business purposes, as were all those of his race of any degree whatever. Most found it convenient to take the name of their landlord or of the dominant house in their district, and the majority of MacGregors in Perthshire called themselves Murray in consequence. Not so Rob Roy. He did not even name himself Graham – the family name of the Marquis of Montrose – as did his brother, although Glen Gyle was in the territory nominally under the sway of that nobleman.
Instead, he chose the name of Campbell, despite its hated sound in MacGregor ears. Admittedly this was his mother’s name, but that was not why he selected it. He did so deliberately in order to place himself in some measure under the guardianship of the Earl of Breadalbane, the chief of the mid-Scotland branch of Clan Campbell, and Murray’s great rival in the area. It must have astonished many. However, Rob chose his name with considerable shrewdness.
Quickly, the new direction of the Watch made itself felt. What had been casual and haphazard became close-knit and efficient. In the past, the Watch, like others of its kind, had been a sort of irregular police force, with special reference to cattle-stealing and the responsibility to keep under control other forms of thievery and violence in its neighbourhood, the costs of which were met, not by the government but by the landowners and farmers whose cattle were protected. No large sums were collected in this way, and the Watches were popular with their captains and members not for financial reasons, but because they enabled them legally to go about armed, imposing their will on their neighbours, and keeping their heads high. Also, it provided an excellent training for clansmen who might well be involved in more serious military activities in due course. Without sacrificing this last advantage, Rob changed all this, as far as the Glengyle Watch was concerned.
From now on, the Watch and business were more or less combined. Every landholder and farmer, great and small, in the area – and in time Rob stretched his area as far as it would go – was visited, assessed and given good advice, being left in no doubt that he would be well advised to join the subscribers to the Watch. He was given a careful calculation of the sum he would require to pay annually. There were to be no more vague, optional or intermittent payments. Each was expertly assessed on his acreage, numbers of beasts carried, and ability to pay. This was insurance, a serious business arrangement. Those who paid – and in time they were the vast majority – were assured that their herds would graze safely at all times, travel safely to markets, and be expertly driven; for, of course, he looked after the droving too. If, for one reason or another, any beasts fell by the wayside, they would be compensated. That these compensation animals would come from those who had been foolish enough not to join the scheme was not likely to be proved. The standards of payment were raised – but so were the services rendered.
Those who refused were warned that they were injudicious indeed; they would not be protected and who could tell what robbers and ruffians might sally forth from Highland hideouts to attack their flocks and herds? That such attacks did follow upon refusal to pay, most promptly and regularly, left the unkind whispering that of course Rob organised it himself, and that while Rob as Captain of the Watch guarded men’s cattle, Rob as leader of unattached MacGregors ensured that men’s cattle indeed needed guarding. Undoubtedly the Watch was never anywhere near when such raids took place – yet the moment chastened owners toed the line, depredations ceased.
It took months and years, of course, to build up this organisation to the pitch of effectiveness which Rob desired. There were, at first, many who had to learn the hard way. But as time went on, pride was apt to be pocketed, and even hardened, proud and obstinate men saw the light. They recognised that, on his own terms, they could trust Rob. He was reliable. He worked what was in effect a great co-operative scheme. In the unsettled state of the country, cattle amounted to wealth, the best investment against almost every contingency. With Rob Roy’s aid men could rear and market their cattle almost without fear – which was something new in Scotland. His charges were high but not exorbitant.
Moreover, he kept the neighbourhood free from many other forms of trouble. Over many hundreds of square miles of central Scotland peace of a sort prevailed – Rob Roy’s peace. It was the successful initiation of what in modern times has been called the protection racket – and few of the 20th-century operators in Chicago or elsewhere worked it out so thoroughly and so fairly as Robert MacGregor Campbell.
Rob prospered and Glen Gyle prospered, although as a whole Scotland’s prosperity was ebbing fast. Even the new high chief of Clan Alpine, Kilmanan, prospered, despite the fact that he was a feckless, improvident man and little better than a drunken roisterer. Rob took over the management of Kilmanan’s large estate of Craigrostan and Inversnaid as a sort of factor, for the clan’s sake. Though this added much to his work, it also added to his power. He was now considerably more influential, within and without the clan, than was his brother Glengyle.
All this was not achieved without jealousy and hostility, of course. Scots being Scots, there were many attempts at independent action, and not a few groupings together to challenge Rob’s monopoly. But he held the great advantage of the Watch, almost as good as a private army. His high opinion of himself as a gentleman, however, restricted his use of this to counter those who acted against him; to those who merely spoke against him, he used other tactics where he felt that they ought not to be ignored. When his intelligence system informed him of such – and he did not miss much – it was his habit to seek them out personally and challenge them to put the matter to the test as gentlemen should, with their swords. He had made himself a very expert swordsman – and his enormous length of arm aided him. But, though he is known to have fought more than 20 duels, he was no killer, and is not reported ever to have slain anyone thus – something of a record for that duelling age.
He did not always win, however. One night he met his match, and by mere chance. He enjoyed good fellowship, and on this occasion, dropped in at the inn of Arnprior, near Buchlyvie. Here he met, and took an instant dislike to a young and dandified laird named Harry Cunningham of Boquhan, dressed in the height of Lowland extravagance. When this exquisite gentleman, who had drunk more than he should, began to express Whig and anti-Jacobite sentiments too loudly, Rob found it necessary to rebuke him before all. Cunningham must have been very brave, or very drunk, for he promptly slapped Rob Roy’s face.
A duel could be the only result, and at once.
There was a problem here, for it turned out that the laird’s sword could not be found – in fact it had been taken away and hidden by the goodwife of the inn, so she presumably knew its owner’s habits and wanted to keep her establishment free of trouble. Either no-one was willing to lend him one, or all other bearers of swords quietly betook themselves off, for the only weapon that could be found for him on the premises was an old rapier used for poking the fire. With this, nevertheless, he took on the redoubtable MacGregor.
Cunningham of Boquhan must have been a swordsman indeed, for drunk as he was, and thus armed, he in fact out-fought Rob Roy. Perhaps Rob was even more drunk – although this was not a failing of his. At any rate, he had the worst of it, on this occasion, and was actually slightly wounded in the stomach by the poker-rapier, staggering back against the inn door which collapsed under his weight and landed him his length in the mud outside. It is perhaps illustrative of Rob’s character, despite this public discomfiture, that he picked himself up, came back into the hostelry, congratulated the victor and shook hands with him, bought him a drink and remained drinking with him for the rest of the night. Thereafter, these two are reported to have been the best of friends.
It should be mentioned that Rob habitually fought with the Highland broadsword, a heavy weapon probably more apt for real warfare than duelling, and in the confined space of an inn parlour a slender rapier, even one that had seen better days, in a nimble wrist, might well have a great advantage of speed.
That Rob’s fame with the broadsword was of no mere local renown is proved by the fact that the great MacNeil of Barra, 38th of his line and chief of his name, proudest of all the island chiefs, left his Hebridean isle and carne all the way south to Loch Lomond-side especially to put this fame to the test. Demanding to know where he could find MacGregor, this notable warrior actually ran Rob to earth at the market of Killearn only 16 miles north of Glasgow, and promptly challenged him to a duel with broadswords there and then in the public street.
Rob protested at first that he was busy, and never in any case fought without a cause. But the other would have none of it, declaring that he had come hundreds of miles for this purpose, and demanding to know if the MacGregor was afraid.
That, of course, was that. Without more ado they fell to, no doubt to the great interest and excitement of all at the market. It was a long and fierce struggle, for MacNeil was, needless to say, a brilliant broadsword himself. But in the end it was Rob’s sword which won the day, snaking past the older man’s vigilant guard and slicing his swordarm at the elbow. It would be interesting to know how the proud islander took his beating, but all that we are told is that he lay convalescing at Killearn for many weeks, presumably until he could return to Barra without being too obviously wounded and defeated.
This chief, Roderick Dhu, or the Black, was as staunch a Jacobite as was Rob, having been ‘out’ with Dundee at Killiecrankie, and therefore a companion-inarms of Rob’s father. He also played a prominent part in the later Rising of 1715, in which Rob also took a large share – so that the pair were to see a deal of each other in the future.
Not all men could be dealt with by means of the sword, or even the Watch, however. The biggest challenge and problem of them all, of course, was John, Lord Murray, the Secretary of State. Rob had prudently kept pretty well out of Murray’s way for some time, but the other had by no means forgotten him. Murray was only waiting his time to catch Rob out in some situation where his captaincy of the Watch would not save him. In May, 1695 he got his opportunity.
Strangely enough, it is difficult to trace the exact reason or excuse for Murray’s action, and why he suddenly decided that he had sufficient evidence against the MacGregor to risk a showdown. Perhaps Rob had been less discreet than usual – if that is a term that may be used about Rob Roy MacGregor. Perhaps there had been treachery. At all events, Murray wrote to his mother that he had the information which he needed, but indicating that official action had to be pursued with considerable care. He recorded:
I have sent a party to apprehend that Rob: Campbell, I have not yet heard what they have done. I believe Breadalbin indeed is his friend because he has taken his name, and his lordship has espoused his interest wherefor I wish none of his lordship’s friends at Dunkeld may get notice I employed about him.
The Secretary of State must have thought well and long before this operation, for it was most efficiently planned. Probably wisely – for Rob was a most difficult fish to catch unawares – he decided that his enemy would be most likely to be least on his guard and unsuspecting when at his own home at Monachyle. But Balquhidder was a hard nut to crack. No direct approach up the glen was possible; Rob would be warned and away long before any government party, however strong, could be half-way to his farm. Accordingly, Murray employed a man called Duncan MacEown, who was conversant with all the area, and knew the high passes and secret tracks about the head of Balquhidder, to lead a troop of selected dragoons by devious ways through the mountains – no light task for heavy cavalry horses. But luck was with them in this enterprise. One morning, the troopers slipping down from the misty hillsides, quietly surrounded the farmhouse, and when the officer and MacEown presented themselves at the front door, it was Rob himself, unarmed and unsuspicious, who opened to them.
There does not seem to have been any struggle.
No doubt Rob saw that anything of the sort would be as hopeless as it was undignified. Mary would have had to suffer indignity also, undoubtedly, and this was bound to weigh with him. Where Macanleister and the other close Gregorach stalwarts were this misty morning is not reported. At any rate, Rob yielded quietly, was set upon a horse, and surrounded by armed dragoons was led off down the glen, the troopers having orders to shoot him down at the first sign of trouble. Eyes must have opened wide too late in Balquhidder that day, at such a sight.
The MacGregor seemed to be slumped in dejection, as well he might be. The troop turned southwards where Balquhidder glen joins the wider valley of Strathyre – bonnie Strathyre of the song. This was the road to Stirling and Edinburgh. Strathyre is a long glen, its lower half almost wholly filled by the four-mile-long loch of Lubnaig. Then there is the short Pass of Leny, and abruptly the mountains end and it is open rolling country from Callander southwards.
There had been neither time nor opportunity for Rob to get any message out to either the Watch or his clans-people at Glen Gyle to effect any kind of rescue. Although undoubtedly word of the capture would speed swiftly across the little pass to Glen Gyle, long before any body of men large enough to tackle a troop of dragoons could assemble and come in pursuit, the soldiers and their prisoners would be out through the Pass of Leny and into the safe settled Lowland countryside where anything short of a pitched battle must fail to effect a release. Anyway, to bring the Watch into it, in a direct clash with government forces, whether successful or not, would indubitably be the end of the Watch. Rob was on his own – and looked it, head hanging in depression as he was trotted off to captivity as his father had been before him. Once in Murray’s hands in Edinburgh, there was little doubt that, whatever charge they liked to lay against him, it would be long before he smelled the Highland heather again.
Rob may have been downcast at the turn of events, angry with himself for allowing it to happen – but his mind was far from dwelling on his misfortunes. He was in fact going over, before his mind’s eye, every foot of the road before it reached the Pass of Leny. It did not take him very long to reach a decision. He continued to look hang-dog in the saddle, however – in fact, he made his horsemanship to appear quite deplorable, jouncing about like a mounted sack of potatoes.
In those days the road down Loch Lubnaigside was a mere slender winding track – but a track which Rob Roy knew like the palm of his own hand. Between his captors he trotted and jolted humbly down almost a couple of miles of the loch’s length, so that even if they might have feared trouble initially, they were lulled into belief that their prisoner’s spirit was gone. At numerous points they were forced to ride in Indian file. The troopers were not fools, of course; at such places those immediately in front and behind their captive drew and cocked their heavy cavalry pistols.
At length the cavalcade, now inevitably much strung out, drew near a spot where the track rose quite high above the loch, with a long and almost sheer drop below to rocks at the water’s edge. Round a little headland here the path was narrow indeed, with loose stones fallen from the bank above, which all but overhung. Those rocks below must have looked thoroughly unpleasant to all concerned especially when the captive’s horse began to fancy-dance and fidget temperamentally at the narrowest part, presumably on account of the drop below and the loose stones beneath its hooves. Other horses can be easily affected by such tantrums and the dragoons directly in front and behind, cursing, gave the brute a wide berth. Slouched heavily in the saddle as he was, it looked indeed as though the unhappy rider could barely keep his seat. The rocks below in that case, might well save the Secretary of State an expensive trial.
Rob’s hectic clutching at his beast was in reality vicious nipping and scratching at its sweating coat. As the ill-used charger reared and curvetted in alarm, the men in front pushed ahead, lest the wretched brute bolt into them out of control and send them toppling down the cliff; those behind held back for the same reason, seeking to calm steeds rapidly becoming uneasy at what they saw.
Where the bank above hung low over them, in seemingly the very worst position, Rob sprang into life. Sprang in deed and in truth, up off his mount’s heaving back. It was extraordinary that any man could, from a sitting position astride a saddle, leap so abruptly upwards – and leap so high. His great length of arms helped, of course, for somehow he grabbed the stout heather that grew there and with another explosive sideways jerk, swung himself bodily up on to the bank, a shower of earth and gravel descending from his hands and knees as they scrabbled for holds and purchase.
Not a single pistol-shot cracked out, then or later. The troop was now a lengthy twisting line. Of those in front, probably only three or four would have been able to see what went on – had they been looking behind them; which they were not, for obvious reasons. Only a few of those behind had rounded the little headland, and of these only the first two might have been able to shoot without endangering their fellows. But these were far too busy controlling their restive mounts and wondering what the prisoner’s brute was going to do on that perilous track, to take difficult aim from their lurching saddles. Anyway, their only target was a pair of white, convulsively-kicking kilted legs – a poor mark at the best. Very quickly even these were gone from their sight, over the upward curve of the bank.
The situation was an extremely awkward one for organising swiftly any pursuit. To have been at all effective, the nearest troopers would have needed to be equally agile, desperate, and as good at jumping as was Rob Roy – which, apart from anything else, their long and heavy leather cavalry thigh-boots made impossible. If they had jumped, and missed reaching the bank above, the chances were that it would have been the rocks below for them. At all events, none tried it, shouting their alarm instead and pressing onwards. But shouts round a corner of narrow track are not always intelligible. These had the effect of halting those just in front. Some tried to turn their horses back; others contented themselves with gazing behind from their saddles. The excited oncoming riders inevitably became entangled with their forward colleagues – and there was no room for any sort of entanglement on that path. Confusion reigned, and there was an almost complete standstill. The officer in charge, away in front, could only shout in return and gaze back helplessly – while nobody could tell his sergeant in the rear what was going on round the bend.
Needless to say, none of them clapped eyes on Rob Roy again. The hillside was and still is heavily wooded, and by the time that some kind of search could he instituted by dismounted men, the trees had long since swallowed him up. Anyway, even if they could have spotted him, it is almost unthinkable that they could have caught Rob in his own heather, especially hampered by their heavy boots. In fact, he contoured along the hillside in the cover of the woods, then slipped down to the waterside at the head of the loch, and crossed the shallows hidden by reeds and alders there. Once on the west side, there was nothing between him and Monachyle Tuarach save six or seven miles of birch woods, deer-hair grass and heather, however steeply sloping. He was home in a couple of hours, with Mary sobbing relief in his long arms.
He did not linger long in telling the tale. By the time that the harassed captain of dragoons and his troop had arrived back at the farm, Rob and Mary were gone. Every cattle – beast, sheep and garron was gone – as was the poultry. And a great crowd of hostile Balquhidder men were gathered round the house, growling threats and insults at the military. Circumspectly, however reluctantly, the soldiers took their leave and headed back whence they had come, to face Lord Murray’s wrath.