A NUMBER OF circumstances brought those, the most peaceful, easy and prosperously uneventful five years of Rob Roy’s life, to an end. These were, in fact, mainly the deaths of various people. His elder brother John, Glengyle, died in 1700. The exiled King James died in 1700. William of Orange, King in London, died in 1702. And Hugh MacGregor, the only surviving son of Kilmanan, high chief of Clan Alpine, died soon afterwards. All these deaths had a marked effect on Rob’s career.
The unexpected death of his brother, at a comparatively early age, threw a great new responsibility on to Rob’s shoulders. John had left two young sons, the elder of which, Gregor, aged 11, became Glengyle in his turn. Rob therefore was not the new chieftain of Clan Dougal Ciar, but he became its leader inevitably in practice, responsible to his nephew. The clan system had a name for this situation, when an older relative became the effective leader during the minority of a young chief: he was called the Tutor. So Rob became Tutor of Glengyle.
Needless to say, Tutor in this connection had a vastly different meaning from that in normal English usage, for it meant taking on all the responsibilities of chieftainship, as father, captain, judge, adviser and governor to the entire clan. But in this instance Rob voluntarily took on the other kind of tutorship also. He was very fond of his young nephew Gregor, and also of his widowed sister-in-law Christian, Lady Glengyle. So he took these two, and also of course the two younger children, Donald and Catherine, very much under his wing. Now he was a busy man indeed. As well as running his ever-growing business, captaining the Watch, factoring Kilmanan’s estates for him, looking after the destinies of Clan Dougal Ciar, he was managing the Glengyle property for his sister-inlaw and bringing up his nephew as a Highland chieftain should be reared. Moreover, he was involving himself ever deeper in Jacobite affairs.
A Highland chieftain had very great responsibilities and duties, as well as power and privileges. It was not just a case of swaggering about at the head of some hundreds of armed clansmen. He was the patriarch of his clan, with complete hereditary jurisdiction over his people, with the power of pit and gallows, of life and death and imprisonment, like any Lowland baron. But he was also expected to be the friend and adviser of all. Every clansman had the right to approach his chief at any time, and was apt to name him as cousin. The clan’s land was all in the chief’s name, but it was always mainly farmed out to tacksmen, lesser lairds, who in turn saw that the ordinary clansmen were secure in their little holdings. There was usually a clan council, over which the chief presided, so that some sort of democratic government subsisted. Nevertheless the chief’s word was law, and he need not take the advice of his council.
It all added up to a great deal of work for Rob Roy. The tutoring of Gregor Ghlun Dhu – or Black Knee, from a mole on the boy’s left knee – both in the duties he would have to take on one day as chieftain, and in the more normal education which Rob was determined he should have in academic subjects as well as in sword craft, horsemanship, hillcraft, manly sports and other suitable attributes of a Highland gentleman, took up much of his uncle’s time. His own first son, Call, was born that same year. It has been alleged with some truth that Rob Roy made a better job of bringing up his nephew than he did with his own sons, none of whom turned out to be wholly admirable characters. If there is anything in this, it is probably because Gregor was fortunate enough to have Rob’s wholehearted attention at a time when he could best benefit by it. Later, when Rob’s own sons were growing up, he was seldom at home, being deeply involved in the Jacobite campaigns.
The approach to these campaigns seemed to receive a serious setback the following year when James II of Great Britain – and VII of Scotland died in France, and King Louis XIV and most other European monarchs proclaimed his 13-year-old son, the Prince of Wales, as James III of Great Britain and VIII of Scotland. There was no doubt that a boy of 13 did not represent the same cause to fight for as a crowned mature king in exile. Plans for a rising were abruptly upset, then postponed. Jacobites argued amongst themselves what should be done now. Should attempts go ahead to put this boy on his father’s throne as soon as possible, or should they wait until he was older, fit to lead a campaign in person and rouse his people – or until he possibly succeeded to the throne without dispute, when the childless King William died? Much debate went on.
Then, before anybody was ready with final answers, in less than a year Dutch William himself fell off a horse, broke his collarbone, and curiously enough died of it within a month.
The dynastic situation was now thoroughly difficult and confused. King James II and VII had been married twice. By his first marriage he had a surviving daughter, Anne, who was now a rather dull woman of 37 – so much older than his young son by his second marriage with the Princess Mary of Modena. Anne had been brought up in England, as a Protestant, away from her father who had, of course, turned Catholic. Queen Mary of Modena was a strong Catholic also, and had seen that her son was one likewise. Although it is likely that the Scots on the whole would have preferred to have young James as king, Catholic as he was, the English Tories were content that Anne was a Stewart, and thankful that she was a Protestant. They largely gave up their Jacobitism, therefore, and made common cause with the Whigs, whose Act of Settlement had already decided that Anne should succeed to the throne instead of her Catholic half-brother. Anne was therefore made queen before the Scottish Jacobites could act.
The Scottish Parliament took longer to make up its mind, but under pressure agreed. It did have reservations, however, and presently it passed a measure called the Act of Security, which made it possible for the Scots, at the death of Queen Anne, to choose a different sovereign from the English, and thus revert to being a totally separate kingdom again. This caused much alarm in English government circles.
It might have been thought that now, with a true Stewart on the throne again, even though she was a remarkably unexciting female married to a Danish prince, and with the Pretender, as the Whigs called him, a mere boy, the Jacobite plots and intrigues would die down. But no – they grew more intense than ever. The reason for this was mainly political and economic rather than dynastic and religious. Since James VI of Scotland had succeeded to the throne of Queen Elizabeth of England, and had gone to live in London, uniting the two kingdoms, Scotland had begun to suffer the disadvantages of long-range government. Admittedly she still had her own parliament in Edinburgh, but the king in London had great powers and still greater influence, and these were exercised through a succession of favourites and corrupt politicians. Royal direction and dominion was now 400 miles away. Moreover, the English, who had always been jealous of Scots trade overseas, now began to take measures to filch this away. It must be remembered that for centuries England had been more or less at war with most of her European neighbours, and so not in any position to develop trade with them; Scotland, on the other hand, had always been closely linked with the Continent, particularly with the Low Countries and Sweden, and through the Auld Alliance, with France. Scotland’s overseas trade had always been great for so small a nation. Now she was losing it because, more and more, government was being concentrated in England.
Things really boiled up to a crisis with what became known as the Darien Scheme. This was a most ambitious Scots colonial enterprise, organised by that Scottish financial genius who founded the Bank of England, William Paterson, to exploit the Isthmus of Darien, or Panama, for trade and communications with the Pacific. The Scots people supported this scheme enthusiastically. Parliament gave its blessing, and the great enterprise was started in 1698. The expedition, however, quickly ran into difficulties – not the least of which was strong English opposition. Fever and disease broke out. The Spaniards attacked the colonists, claiming that the isthmus belonged to them. The settlers began to run short of provisions. Yet, though they appealed to neighbouring English colonies in the West Indies for help and food, on King William’s orders no assistance was to be given. The English fleet in the Caribbean was to remain inactive.
The English authorities and English merchants had of course put obstacles in the way of the Scots colonists from the first – but this example of power politics within the newly United Kingdom shook Scotland. Indeed, at this very time, the English were actually refusing to allow Scots to trade with their colonies in America. It is all a most unpleasant tale of jealousy, greed and folly – an echo, probably, of the long centuries when English and Scots had fought each other over the Border. It all ended, unhappily, with the great scheme having to be abandoned, having cost Scotland 2,000 lives and more than £200,000, a vast amount in those days.
It was in these conditions that the Jacobite cause grew in Scotland – more especially as the English were talking about uniting the parliaments of the two countries in London. The years from 1702 to 1707 were full of intrigues, negotiations and preparations for what amounted to Scotland becoming an independent country once more. It was one of these, the so-called Scotch Conspiracy of 1703 which I have already mentioned, in which the new Duke of Atholl, Lord Murray, was implicated by name if not in fact – an implication from which Rob Roy, significantly, was able to clear him. That Rob was in fact in such a position indicates that he was deep in the inner Jacobite councils himself.
I mentioned another death, that of Hugh MacGregor, Younger of Kilmanan, and that it greatly affected Rob Roy. Kilmanan himself had been going from bad to worse in drunken dissolution, with Rob, for the clan’s sake, taking an ever greater responsibility. Now, with his only heir dead, Kilmanan seems to have gone to pieces entirely. He had got into hopeless financial trouble, and Rob had been advancing him money from time to time. Now Rob found himself a principal creditor to a bankrupt, as well as manager of the encumbered estates of Craigrostan and Inversnaid. Kilmanan had no further interest in anything – indeed he disappeared to Ireland shortly afterwards and was heard of no more. Craigrostan had to be sold up – and Rob, anxious to keep it MacGregor land, strategically placed as it was, bought it himself.
That he was now in a position to purchase this large property, indicates how far the penniless young second son had come in a few years. He was now a laird in his own right, MacGregor of Inversnaid, which was the name of the principal holding on the estate. He did not dispose of Monachyle Tuarach, but moved his little family from Balquhidder to Inversnaid on the east shore of Loch Lomond, which had a larger house and was more convenient for the governance of Clan Dougal Ciar and the care of his Glengyle dependents.
We get a revealing glimpse of Rob Roy at this important stage in his career, before warfare changed everything – and also of his nephew, Gregor Ghlun Dhu MacGregor of Glengyle at Lammas, the August quarter-day of 1706. These term-days were, and still are, the time for payment of agricultural debts and entry on possession of land in Scotland, and they were the days when Rob Roy received his payments for services rendered to the cattle-breeders of central Scotland. On this occasion he was established, in the full panoply of a Highland laird, at the Kirk of Drymen, a little market-town – really only a Lowland village by southern standards – near the foot of Loch Lomond, sitting behind a table within the church doorway, at the receipt of custom, his Gregorach minions busy all around, handling the cattle coming in from all quarters.
Nine-tenths of all Rob’s payments were made in cattle themselves, the most convenient method for all concerned in a country where money, actual cash, had always been scarce. Every laird and farmer whose herds had been protected – and that was considered to be practically everybody in some 750 square miles of fair Scotland – sent in some recognised percentage of his total stock, often coming in person to make the payment and receiving a handsome signed receipt from Rob, with drinks and hospitality for all at the local ale-house.
It must have been a stirring scene, noisy and colourful with a continuous succession of droves coming in from a wide area, lowing and protesting, dogs barking, men shouting, and bagpipes playing – for Rob liked to keep up a great style on these occasions, and was the soul of good-fellowship. There was something special about that day, too; young Gregor of Glengyle, now aged 17, was being initiated into his uncle’s business as an active participant – and much enjoying the experience. As well he might; proud earls had contributed to his day’s tribute – even the Marquis of Montrose, in line, it was whispered, for a dukedom; lairds of large acres and small, members of the government, fine Lowland gentlemen and canny Highland drovers, the church and state, were all represented at Drymen, acknowledging the power and influence of Rob Roy MacGregor, who might not be permitted by law to sign his name of MacGregor but whose word was more effective than that same law over much of the land.
All seems to have gone satisfactorily – for Rob, at least – until, fairly late in the day it was discovered that one of the lesser beneficiaries of the MacGregors’ protection had not appreciated their services – or at least, had not yet come up with his due insurance premium. There was no tribute, either in gold, cattle, or even promissory note, from Graham of Gallangad.
Rob, when he heard, rose in righteous wrath – for all subscribers had had ample warning, and Gallangad was quite close at hand, a mere five miles southwest of Drymen. That its bonnet-laird should keep his betters waiting like this was insupportable. By the time that the sun was sinking, Rob’s patience was at an end, and he declared that the foolish man must be taught a lesson. This was, of course, entirely necessary. A number of the Watch’s clients, who had duly paid up, were still at Drymen, partaking of Rob’s hospitality. No doubt they would make a night of it. Any sign of him letting off the defaulter lightly might well give them ideas as to the future. Rob had his reputation to keep up.
But in this same respect, there was a slight complication. Gallangad was no proper laird, no substantial figure against whom Rob Roy could suitably pit himself. The term bonnet-laird meant merely a sort of yeoman farmer. While it was shocking that such a character should defy him, Rob would have demeaned himself by personally making any major move in retribution, as Captain of the Watch, Laird of Inversnaid and Craigrostan, and Tutor of Glengyle. Highland pride and business practice swung in delicate balance.
Rob found a way out by deputing young Gregor Black Knee to look after Gallangad’s education on his behalf, for a change, the youth’s first independent command, indeed, just as the Herriship of Kippen had been Rob’s. Overjoyed, he seized the opportunity with both hands, and set off into the sunset with a few Gregorach gillies at his heels, in high spirits.
Gregor, at 17, was a fine handsome young giant. Fair-haired, ruddy, and of a pleasing, cheerful, uncomplicated nature. Indeed, history treats him well always – which is unusual in prominent men. Undoubtedly his was a much less intricate and involved character than Rob Roy’s. Throughout his career, which was a long and active one, as a clan chieftain and soldier – he was colonel of the important MacGregor Regiment throughout the hard-fought campaign of the Rising of 1745, and entrusted with many responsible tasks by the Jacobite leadership – I have read no ill comments upon him. Rob, all his eventful life, aroused mixed feelings – praise, fear, scorn and hatred; Gregor does not seem to have done so. Yet uncle and nephew remained great friends throughout 35 years of collaboration.
Gregor came to Gallangad as dusk was falling, and saw at once that there had been no attempt even to round up any cattle, or the sign of a move towards complying with Rob’s demands. Not only so, but his request, at Graham’s door, for some explanation was met only by a curt refusal, and that at the lips of a mere servant. Gallangad must have assumed that since Rob Roy had not come in person, and sent a mere boy, he could continue his defiance with impunity. Undoubtedly he was a bold if incautious and ill-mannered man.
History is silent as to the actual details of what followed. All that is recorded is that before dark that night, Gallangad did not have one remaining beast on his foothill grasslands. Every animal was on the long road to Inversnaid. Whether any broken heads were left behind in their place, we do not know.
What we do know is that in this wholesale sweep, a bull was included – a bull that became famous. For this brute seems to have been a tartar, and to have done as much droving as being driven. Had Gregor been more experienced, he might have left the bull alone but he was an enthusiast. It is a lengthy and rough road from Gallangad to Inversnaid by any route, but particularly by the way that Gregor chose, the shortest way actually, but certainly the way wherein he was least likely to be followed – across the marshes of the Endrick at the foot of Loch Lomond, through the Pass of Balmaha, and along the weary, difficult, steep and trackless eastern shore of the loch for 18 rock-strewn, slant-wise miles. The Bull of Gallangad appears to have been in charge most of the way, and we can imagine a fine picture of the fierce Gregorach streaming on ahead, the cows and calves and cattle-beasts lumbering along behind, and in the rear the angry determined bull, roaring and snuffing and puffing in pursuit.
Even the most ferocious bull must tire, however, and that journey would have exhausted a mountain goat. Before they were near Inversnaid, it is reported the bull was like any lamb, a breathless and limp-legged lamb, and a child might have scratched its ears, they said, and have led it anywhere. Gregor MacGregor created a great sensation by arriving at Inversnaid early in the morning, before anybody could have looked for him, with his great booty, in almost unbelievable time for droving cattle nearly 25 miles over a trackless wilderness. His reputation soared from then on. How much of his success he attributed to the bull is not clear.
Some years ago, I visited Gallangad, then still a remote upland cattle farm as it was 250 years ago. I was surprised to find that the farmer knew nothing of Rob Roy or his connection with the place nor did he seem in the least interested. It was only as I was going away, somewhat crestfallen, that he threw after me the jerked remark: ‘Hey! D’you mean yon bull? The White Bull o’Gallangad?’ He pronounced his bull to rhyme with gull, in typical Lowland Scots country fashion, while I had given it the more usual pronunciation. I hurried back, agreeing.
However, that was all I got out of him. He knew no more than that, it seemed – just a phrase which had come down to him out of the past, ‘The White Bull of Gallangad’. No link with Rob Roy or his nephew; no explanation of what the bull might have done, or anything about it. Except this significant word: white. Though that bull has its niche in history, nowhere have I seen its colour mentioned. Here, the authentic voice of tradition, speaking however faintly down the centuries, declared the bull to have been white. Even Walter Scott, 150 years nearer the relevant date, had not been able to give his bull a colour.