Chapter XXX: The Fight at Aberfoyle

The little boy found at Inversnaid was kindly and tenderly received by Helen MacGregor, who made him share the heather-couch of her youngest son, Duncan, a hardy little Highland colt, who was about the same age as the yellow-haired Saxon. The arrival of the latter created great speculation in the small clachan or farm-town of Portnellan; but the poor boy, accustomed to other sights and sounds than those around him now, was scared and terrified by the aspect of the Highlanders, and mourned for his father and for the soldiers among whom he had been reared, and clung to the skirts of Helen MacGregor as his only protectress.

However, as children so young have but shallow griefs and short memories, a few days found him quite reconciled to his fortune, to little Duncan as a bedfellow and playmate; and he learned to sup his porridge with a horn spoon from a large wooden trencher, and to make a companion of the stag-hounds, collies, and otter-terriers, that shared the fireside and sitting-room of the family of Portnellan.

"Alas!" said Helen, one evening, as she sat with the little stranger on her knee; "this fair boy is too sweet, too good and beautiful to find a proper place on earth."

"How--what mean ye, goodwife?" asked Rob, with displeasure.

"Such children never live to comb grey hairs."

"Say not so, Helen," said Rob, impressed by her manner.

"I would the youngling was with his own people. I judge of their sufferings by what I myself have suffered," said Helen, with a sigh.

"True, Helen," said Rob Roy, sternly, as he sat at the table oiling the locks of his pistols; "but little cared they for our heartaches when Ronald was their prisoner--fettered like a felon in the port of Inversnaid, because he fished on the patrimony of his father, and scorned to betray him for gold!"

"To seek the major at Dumbarton----"

"To seek Major Huske anywhere would be to seek death, even for him who took the child to him. A dab MacAleister gave him with his dirk is not likely to have improved the major's temper; so let us bide our time, Helen. Our Highland air but ill suits Saxon lungs, yet the blue-eyed boy thrives bravely, and our little Duncan loves him well. They share their bannocks and cheese, their brochan and brose, like sons of the same mother."

"Yet I would the child were with his," said Helen, earnestly.

"She is, I hope, in heaven," said Rob, looking upward.

"Dead!" exclaimed Helen; "mean you that she is dead?"

"Ay, Helen, even so. She was killed by a cannon-ball at the siege of Landau, in the Lowlands of Holland; and the poor child, then at her breast, was covered with her blood. Thus, poor Oina, who heard a soldier say so, told me."

Helen's eyes filled with tears, as she kissed and caressed the motherless boy, who, while creeping close to her, always viewed her husband's red flowing beard, glaring tartans, and glittering weapons (which he could scarcely lay aside for a moment, even by his own hearthstone) with an undisguised fear and mistrust that frequently made Rob and his henchman laugh heartily.

Helen dressed little Harry Huske in a home-made kilt and short coat, which she adorned with buttons formed of those remarkable pebbles which are found on the isle of Iona. Her own hardy boys never wore shoes except in winter, and then she fashioned for them soft warm _cuarans_ of the red-deer's hide, to protect their feet from the snow; but to little Harry, having been more gently nurtured, she gave every luxury their circumstances would admit, and nightly she sang him to sleep with her harp, and the plaintive old song of MacGregor na Ruara.

Assisted and protected by Sir Humphry Colquhoun, James Grant of Pluscardine, and others, Major Huske, though severely wounded, with all his half-disarmed fugitives, reached the castle of Dumbarton, which is more than twenty miles from Inversnaid, and from thence in a few days, by order of Lieutenant-General Carpenter, commander-in-chief in Scotland, a company of grenadiers, and three of the line, were ordered to penetrate into the district of the MacGregors, to punish them, and, if possible, to capture Rob Roy.

This party, notice of whose march was speedily brought to Portnellan by Coll MacGregor and Greumoch, who had been scouting among the hills of Buchanan, was commanded by Captain Clifford, whose residence at Inversnaid had rendered him pretty conversant with the country. The tidings filled Helen and her household with something very like dismay; but her husband fearlessly prepared for the emergency, and resolved to meet the invaders in one of those narrow passes which then formed the only avenues to the Highlands--avenues which no foreign sword had ever been able to open up.

Clifford's detachment consisted of picked men of the South British Fusiliers, all burning to avenge the late affair at Inversnaid and the loss of their regimental colour. As incentives to them, the price of Rob Roy's head, the entire spoil--cattle, arms, and goods of his adherents--were given in prospective; thus, they commenced the expedition with great alacrity; and the noon of the third day after quitting Dumbarton saw them crossing the mountains near Gartmore House, and approaching the pass of Aberfoyle, intending by that circuitous route to penetrate towards Loch Ard and the Trossachs, and then fall suddenly in the night on Rob Roy's quarters.

They required no guide, as Captain Clifford alleged that he had shot and fished over all the district, and knew it very well.

Brightly shone the steel bayonets and polished musket-barrels in the setting sun of the May evening, and the redcoats looked gay and gallant, while chatting and singing, for no fife was blown nor drum beaten when the strong detachment of Captain Clifford entered the valley of Aberfoyle; but little knew he what awaited him between the Trossachs and Loch Katrine!

Clifford, a brave, handsome officer, rode at the head of the Grenadiers, mounted on a fine white charger. He was a good horseman, and sat well in his saddle. They seemed intended for each other, steed and rider; both seemed to have high spirit and good blood in them; and, in sooth, the steep and rugged mountain path they had to traverse put both to the test.

He had a red feather in his cocked hat, and the snow-white curls of his regimental Ramillies wig flowed over the low cut collar of his wide-skirted scarlet coat. He wore fine lace ruffles, and long black riding-boots.

The Grenadiers had all conical caps of blue cloth, shaped like episcopal mitres, but with scarlet flaps in front, whereon was worked in worsted the white horse of Hanover. Their wide skirts and loose sleeves were all looped up, and they marched with their pouches open and fuses in their hands.

The rest had their bayonets fixed and arms loaded.

Ere long the silence of the vast solitude on which they were entering--the utter absence of all appearance of life or inhabitants--made Captain Clifford begin to dread a surprise. Anon, even the voices of his men died away; they began to speak in whispers, and as the purple shadows deepened amid that tremendous mountain scenery, they kept closer in their ranks, and looked anxiously about them, and at the narrow pass in front.

The arms taken at Inversnaid had, more than ever, completely equipped the Clan Gregor; so now, in the gloomy gorge of Aberfoyle, one of the greatest barriers between the Gael and the Lowlander, were posted in ambush one hundred and sixty marksmen armed with muskets. Under Alaster Roy and Coll, eighty manned one side of the pass, and as many under Greumoch were on the other.

There, too, was little Ronald, crouching among the thick heather, armed with a long horse-pistol, and intent on deadly mischief, if he could see Major Huske, whom he vowed should pay dear for his basket of trout.

Well did Rob and his men know that, if conquered, death and decimation awaited them, together with the utter ruin--it might be the _extirpation_--of their families: for the terrible massacre at Glencoe was still fresh in all their memories.

Moreover, they remembered that this spot was one of good augury; for there, in the days of their grandsires, a fierce encounter took place with a body of Cromwell's soldiers, who were cut to pieces, and some of whom were buried in a grave which yet remains by the wayside.

Under Rob Roy in person, the main body of his men lay concealed right in front of the marching soldiers.

Sombre twilight was stealing now across the deeper glens, but a bright glory of sunshine yet lighted the vast mountain cones that towered above the valley.

Clifford and his officers frequently uttered exclamations expressive of admiration, for the vale of Aberfoyle, with its splintered rocks, abrupt precipices, and richly-wooded hills, is singularly beautiful; but when Loch Ard began to open its sheet of water on their view, gleaming like a golden shield in the last light of the western sky, the scene became more lovely still.

The dusky _iolar_ was seen winging his way to his eyry in the craggy steeps; and the sweet notes of the _druidhu_, or Alpine blackbird, rang loudly from the hazel woods; while the wild goat, perched on a sharp pinnacle, with his long beard floating on the wind, looked down on the marching troops.

Above hills covered with oak and birch, that waved in the evening breeze like ostrich plumes, above even the saffron clouds, Ben Lomond towered into the grey mist; and far across the placid lake fell its shadow with that of the isle that holds the ruined tower of Murdoch, Duke of Albany; while far in the distance rose the Alps of Arroquhar, with their summits hid in mist, or capped still with the last year's snow.

Such was the scene that opened beyond the dark and narrow defile on which the soldiers were entering.

"A sergeant and three men to the front--double quick!" cried Captain Clifford, as certain undefinable suspicions crossed his mind on seeing that some large boulder-stones had been dislodged from the rocks above, and were hurled down on the narrow pathway, as if to form a barricade. "Grenadiers," he added, "blow your fuses; be ready to throw your grenades, and fall on at a moment's notice."

Still nothing was seen, though five hundred men and more were crouching within musket range--crouching amid the long green braken, the thick purple heather, and the wild bloom which grew so luxuriantly that the crows and magpies built their nests in it; but the tartans of the Highlanders blended with the colours of Nature so admirably that they were still unseen, when at last the whole detachment, officers and men, were _between_ the muzzles of the musketeers who lay in ambush on both sides of that narrow and gloomy gorge, and already the sergeant and his three advanced files were clambering over the boulders and stones that lay beyond the ambush.

Before MacGregor's horn could give the signal, his son Ronald, unable longer to restrain his anger and enthusiasm, fired his pistol, and the ball struck Clifford's holsters.

Then red fire flashed fiercely from both sides of the dusky hollow, as a hundred and sixty muskets poured their adverse volleys on the unfortunate soldiers, who in a moment were panic-stricken, thrown into confusion--a huddled mass--above their dead and dying.

Springing from amid the grey rocks, the MacGregors, with a simultaneous shout, flung down their plaids and muskets, drew their claymores, and amid the white curling smoke, rushed downward to the charge.

"Steady, men, steady!" cried Captain Clifford, loudly and rapidly. "Grenadiers to the centre! Keep shoulder to shoulder, and face outwards--close up in your ranks, and bayonet them as they come on! Be firm, my Royal Fusiliers!"

"Firm, in the king's name, and we shall yet bear back these Highland savages!" added Captain Dorrington, a brave officer who had served in the war of the Spanish succession.

Leaping over bank, bush, and rock, with heads stooped behind their targets in the usual Celtic fashion, their bodies bent, and sword and dirk in hand, down came the MacGregors, in front and on both flanks, like a herd of wild cats, all yelling, "Ard choille! ard choille! Dhia agus ar duthaich!"

A confused volley was fired by the soldiers; but almost before the bayonets could be brought from the "present" to the "charge," the swordsmen were among them. Stooping below the charged bayonets, they tossed them upward by the target, dirking the front rank men with the left hand, while stabbing or hewing down the rear rank men with the right; thus, as usual in all Highland onsets, the whole body of soldiers was broken, trod underfoot, and dispersed in a moment!

These were the whole tactics of the Scottish Highlanders. Hence their clan battles, no matter how many swordsmen might be engaged, seldom lasted more than five minutes. It was usually an instantaneous charge--a rout--a killing, and all was over!

Captain Dorrington rushed sword in hand upon Greumoch, who, by a single blow with his Lochaber axe, clove him literally through hat and wig to the teeth; then, by the hook of the same weapon, he dragged Captain Clifford from his saddle, and would have slain him had not Rob Roy strode across the fallen officer, and by receiving the blow on his own target, saved him.

Several soldiers, who had burst out of the press, leaped behind rocks and stones, from whence they opened a desultory fire; but they were soon pursued, and cut down or pistolled.

The whole detachment would have been destroyed in a few minutes, had not Rob Roy, towering over the throng, shouted in English, and with a voice that rose above the shrieks and shouts, the clash of weapons, and explosion of firearms, which woke a thousand echoes in the narrow pass, the overhanging rocks and mountains,--

"Surrender, yield--lay down your arms! on your lives lay them down, and I promise you all quarter,--I, the Red MacGregor!"

On hearing this, his own men partly drew back, and many a claymore was withdrawn from a thrust, or lowered from a cut, and the firing instantly ceased.

"You hear what I have said, Captain Clifford," exclaimed Rob Roy; "to resist now is to court death. I know you are too brave a soldier to deem rashness is valour."

"Unfix your bayonets, my lads, and ground your arms. Grenadiers, extinguish your matches," cried Captain Clifford, sullenly. "Our time for sure vengeance shall come anon. But what manner of man are _you_, sir," he added, turning fiercely to Rob Roy, "who dare thus attack the king's troops on the open highway?"

"The pass of Aberfoyle, which leads to the country of Clan Alpine, is _not_ an open highway, as you, captain, have found to your cost; and as for me, I am the man your king and laws have made me," replied MacGregor, sternly.

"Sir, is not our king yours?"

"Nay, sir. You serve the Elector of Hanover. Our king is far away in France, beyond the sea; but we are his true liege men, nevertheless. We have no time to spend in talking, captain. The night darkens fast, and the sooner your men with the wounded get out of the Highland bounds the better. Do not be cast down, my friends," said he, still speaking English to the prisoners, who were now huddled together in a crowd, and surrounded by the armed MacGregors; "you are not the first men who have come into the Highlands to shear, and have gone home closely shorn."

"But your terms: our fate, Mr. Rob Roy Campbell?" began Clifford, in a blundering way.

"'Sdeath and fury!" exclaimed Rob; "call me Campbell again, and I shall cleave you to the belt!"

"Excuse me; but I do not understand all this," said the officer; "are you not named MacGregor Campbell?"

"Yes; by tyrannical acts of Parliament, which I treat with the scorn they merit."

"Well, sir; your terms?"

"Are these,--Surrender your arms and ammunition; leave the Highland border, and begone to England or the Lowlands; let us see you no more in the country of the Clan Gregor."

"The Lowlands," said Clifford, haughtily; "sir, we are quartered in the castle of Dumbarton."

"Where you are quartered, captain, is nothing to me."

"There will be a bloody reckoning for this," said Clifford through his clenched teeth, as he gazed sadly on the mangled body of his poor friend and comrade, Captain Dorrington. "Chief, have you no fear for the future?"

"I fear nothing," replied Rob, haughtily; "moreover I am no chief, but a simple Highland gentleman, whom wrong and tyranny have driven to desperation. You have yet to learn, sir, that though the king may create a titled noble, Heaven alone can make a Highland chief."

The English officer shrugged his shoulders, and gave a disdainful smile, for to his ears this sounded like mere rhodomontade.

"To you, Captain Clifford," resumed Rob Roy, "I return your sword. The arms of your men I retain for the service of King James and the protection of my own people. I restore you all to liberty; but bear this message to the Saxon Governor of Dumbarton, to General Carpenter, or whoever sent you hither, that of the next band which on a hostile errand enters the country of Rob Roy, not one shall return alive if I can help it--_not one_, by the blessed God of my forefathers, and by St. Colme of Iona, for they shall be cut off root and branch, and the eagle of the hill shall alone tell their fate." He pressed his bare dirk to his lips as he spoke, and many of his men followed the example. "Go, sir; and may we never meet again. My foster-brother, with a hundred of my men, shall escort you so far as Bucklyvie to assist in bearing your wounded. After reaching that place you will be safe from all molestation. Farewell. Strike up, Alpine!" he said to the piper, while saluting the captain with one hand and sheathing his sword with the other.

Then, as the disarmed band of soldiers, after getting, by Rob's orders, a good dram of whisky each, carrying or supporting their wounded, and escorted by MacAleister with a hundred picked men, proceeded in the shadowy gloaming down the dark and rugged pass of Aberfoyle, Alpine's great warpipe woke its many echoes with the triumphant pibroch of "Glenfruin."

Only two MacGregors were killed, so instantaneous had been their onset; but ten redcoats lay dead in the pass; and these the MacGregors buried with reverence by the wayside, where their tomb may yet be seen.

Encouraged by this victory to attempt greater enterprises, MacGregor now resolved to break down into the Lowlands, to carry off the spoil of his enemies; and remembering that it was about the time when the rents of his great enemy the Duke of Montrose were collected, he conceived the idea of visiting the chamberlain on the rent-day--of putting the whole money in his own pocket, and, to punish his grace for old scores, to carry off the obnoxious Killearn bodily into the mountains.

"As the runnels from a hundred hills unite in one, and form a mighty stream," said he, in a stirring address to his followers, "so must all the branches of our outraged people now converge in one. From Glengyle and Glenstrae, from Menteith and Balquhidder, let us muster and march--march down on those sons of little men, the Lowlanders; and they shall shrink before us like dry leaves beneath the lightning! Our forefathers sleep on Inchcailloch; but we, alas! must find our graves on the mountain side, where nothing shall mark them to future times but a grey cairn or a greener spot amid the purple heather."

"Down on the mongrel bodachs--down on the Whigamores!" responded his followers, brandishing their swords with almost savage glee; for to the Highlander then the single word Whig expressed the acme of anything that was sordid, mean, and treacherous to king and country.