Chapter XVIII: The Despatches Captured

The summits of the hills, behind which the sun was setting, were dark and sombre, while a ruddy purple hue tinged those on which his light was falling.

Concealing themselves among some tufts of high fern and dwarf alder-trees, the MacGregors watched the advance of those whom they deemed the chief tools of their tormentors--the unsuspecting soldiers of the line.

The brightly-burnished musket-barrels of the men, and the pikes then carried by the officer and his sergeant, were seen to flash and glitter as they advanced through the deep hollow, along which the narrow foot-track wound; and soon the bright red of their square-skirted coats, and their white crossbelts, breeches, and gaiters appeared in strong relief upon the dun heather of the glen.

Rob counted that there was an officer, a sergeant, and twenty rank and file. From his ambush he could with ease have shot down the whole party, had he been cruelly disposed; but, that even his enemies might not be taken unprepared, he ordered young Coll, MacAleister, and the rest to keep out of sight, but to start up at a given signal; and then, rising from his hiding-place, he advanced alone towards the marching soldiers.

The appearance of a fully-armed Highlander, with sword, dirk, pistols, and target, excited no comment then; for, on Rob drawing near, the officer coldly returned his salute, and the sergeant inquired "how far it was from thence to the head of Loch Lomond?"

"About twenty miles, if you pass through Glenfalloch." The soldiers, who were a mixed party of the 15th Foot and the South British Fusiliers, muttered something which sounded very like oaths. In those days an officer's escort accompanied every Government letter or message through the Highlands, as smaller parties were liable to be cut off.

"It will be mirk midnight before you get half way through the glen," resumed Rob, with a mocking smile; "and people say that Glenfalloch is haunted."

"By what?" asked the officer, who wore a Ramillie wig, a three-cornered hat, and red rocquelaure.

"Spirits."

"Indeed--whisky, I suppose?" said the sergeant, laughing.

"Loud voices are heard talking in the air overhead, when nothing can be seen but the sailing clouds."

"Voices!" exclaimed Captain Huske.

"Yes, as if one hill-top was talking to the other."

"Bah! I can bid our drummer beat the 'Point of War.' I warrant he'll scare away all your Highland goblins, even Rob Roy himself, whom I wish was as near me as you are."

"You have had him near enough once before," said MacGregor, gravely, as he suddenly recognized the officer, though some time had elapsed since they last met.

"Hah--when?"

"In Moffatdale, where he gave you a lesson in humanity, and in good manners, too."

"Zounds, sirrah, what do you mean?" asked Captain Huske, cocking his hat fiercely over his right eye, and stepping forward a pace.

"Simply, that he ran you through the body, as he is quite prepared to do again, if you do not instantly yield up your packet of despatches!"

The officer sprang back, threw off his rocquelaure, and brought his pike to the charge; Rob parried the thrust by his claymore, but he uttered a shrill whistle on seeing the soldiers fixing their bayonets and cocking their muskets.

"Shoot down the Highland dog!" cried Captain Huske, choking with passion; but his soldiers paused, for a yell now pierced the welkin, and fifty MacGregors, armed with sword and target, and each with the badge of his forbidden clan in his bonnet--a sprig of the mountain pine--rushed down with a shout of "Ard choille! ard choille! 'Srioghal mo dhream!" Perceiving that he was outnumbered, the officer withdrew his pike, and by outstretched sword-arm Rob kept back his own people, who glared over their shields at the unfortunate party of soldiers, who thought their doom was sealed, and that a hopeless and bloody struggle was about to ensue.

"Are you all robbers?" asked the officer, fiercely.

"No more than your citizens of London or Carlisle may be," replied MacGregor. "You might be shot by a cowardly footpad on Hounslow Heath--ay, or London Bridge, or in the High Street of Edinburgh; but who there would stop a band of armed soldiers as I this day stop you? Here, in front of your men, sir, I will fight you, with sword and pistol, or with sword and dirk; whichever please you."

"Neither please me--I am a king's officer, and may not risk my life, like a roadside bully, thus," said the captain, haughtily. "Am I right in supposing that you are the outlaw Rob Roy, for whose capture a high reward is offered?"

"You are right; I am the Laird of Inversnaid, and instantly require your despatches."

"For what purpose?"

"The service of his Majesty, King James VIII., whom God preserve!" replied MacGregor, lifting his bonnet with reverence.

"I must either give up my life and the despatches together, or the despatches alone," said the officer, bewildered and exasperated.

"What you may do is nothing to me."

"But there is one of vast importance."

"The very one I wish, captain; so surrender it at once, or I shall cut you and your men into collops for the fox and the raven." Captain Huske opened the breast-pocket of his regimentals, and unwillingly gave to Rob a large sealed packet, addressed, "To the most noble Prince, James, Duke of Montrose, Secretary of State for Scotland. On His Majesty's Service."

Rob's eyes sparkled with resentment on seeing the name of his enemy; but he tore open the envelope, and taking out the well-known bond of the Highland chiefs, restored the packet to the English officer.

He then offered him and his men a dram each, and marched off into the darkening mountains, leaving the captain to proceed towards Dumbarton, or return to Colonel Hill at Fort William, whichever suited his orders or his fancy.

By this bold exploit Rob preserved secret the plans of the forthcoming insurrection, and saved from the scaffold, captivity, or exile, many brave nobles and gentlemen, whom otherwise the merciless Government of George I. would have seized and destroyed in detail.