Chapter 25
Cowal - Wednesday November 6th, 1745
James Campbell MacGregor squeezed the sheepskin bag at his side and began to play again. His fingers caressed the ebony wood of his chanter. The notes of 'Failte Chlann Ghriogair' - The Salute to Clan Gregor echoed around the narrow strath of Glen Croe. To the right lay the brooding bulk of Cruach nam Miseag. To the left, Cruach Fhiarach hid the sun.
Glengyle walked proudly at the head of his men, gorgeously attired and armed to the teeth. He was glad to be alive this day in 1745. Behind him strode Rob, carrying atop an eight-foot lance, the pinsel, triangular banner, of Clan Gregor. On it, proudly flying in the breeze, was the silver oak tree of Clan Alpin surmounted by an azure claidheamh da laimh or great two handed sword. A golden circlet encircled the whole device. He was most proud of that banner
Following behind them was a band of Highlanders, clad in tartan of varying hues, the muted red green of Clan Gregor predominating, although other colours could be seen. Some two hundred men were here, strung along the road, covering the ground at an easy trot.
"Play up, man, play up. “Glengyle said. “I wish the world to know that MacGregor of Glengyle is here in Cowal. I represent An t-Ailpeineach and many of the people hereabouts are mine by descent. Piper, play 'Ruaig Ghlinn Fraoin' - The chase of Glen Fruin - now there was a battle!”
The piper began to play the gathering tune, a celebration of the great battle of Glen Fruin in 1603, when despite being ambushed by superior numbers of the Colquohouns, Clan Gregor had slaughtered their assailants. Rob preferred not to think of the bloody consequences when James VI outlawed the very name of Clan Gregor. The killing times that followed would live in the annals of tyranny, when bounties were paid for the heads of MacGregor men hunted down like foxes, women were ravished or murdered and children had their brains dashed out against the rocks.
Rob was worried. They marched through Campbell country on the new military road, connecting Dumbarton to Inveraray and designed to control and 'civilise' the Highlands. They marched with pipers playing and banners flying. There appeared to be no concern for the risk of discovery. Mac Cailein Mòr, the great son of Colin, Archibald third Duke of Argyll, remained well away from disturbance at his House of Ham in London, but there were sufficient of his House, hereabouts, who were unfriends to the Prince.
The party paused at the heights of Strath Croe. "Here we rest for the night. Leave the road and secure yonder vantage,” Glengyle commanded. "Post sentinels and find some cattle beasts."
To the northeast, the peak of Beinn Luibhean caught the last light of the dying autumn sun. Below them the Loch Restil was dark in the shade of Beinn an Lochain. The military road stretched like a grey scar on the brown landscape away to the North. To the southwest the route for the morrow, the narrow Gleann Mòr, stretched away.
So far they had met with little success. A wandering chapman, Ranald Mac Neachol from Glen Orchy, had joined them at Arrochar. John Mac Ighaill of Torosay had met them at Ardgartan. But Glengyle had not been discouraged. “We shall be justified in this venture when we reach Lochgoilhead. From there we go to Auchinbreck and Glendaruel. They await only my arrival before they shall bring their tenants out for Prince Charles.”
The next day dawned, dreich and dreary. Clan Gregor marched on with their plaids dripping. Along by the Allt Ghlinne Mhoir, they forded the rivulets that cascaded off Beinn an t-Seilich. They tramped through a silent landscape. News of their coming had preceded them. The cattle were hidden, the women and children secure and menfolk clutched sickles and clubs but stood well clear.
Glengyle’s men reached the foot of Gleann Beag and there turned south and east around the base of Beinn Donich. They entered the little green strath of Gleann Goil. The narrow strip of land lay green and inviting, despite the rain. Here were signs of the Duke of Argyll's improvements. Neat little stone cottages stood here and there, surrounded by arable ground, neatly dyked. One of the party, John Landless, who had joined Rob after the capture of the Inversnaid garrison, pointed out the little brown heap at the side of the strath, remnants of this year’s growth of nettles still standing. "That was my home," he said, "and the home of my father and his father before him. The Duke raised the rent till we could not pay and then threw us out. My little daughter died of croup in Lochgoilhead, my son of measles in Inveraray and my wife of a stillborn infant in Greenock."
The party reached Inbhir Dhonich. Glengyle stopped and turning to his piper said, "Seamus, Play 'Failte Chlann Griogar.'" To Rob he ordered. "Lift that standard high. I want them to see who comes.” Glengyle turned to the front and marched the last few hundred paces into the hamlet of Lochgoilhead.
This was Rob's first visit here. He wondered why his father had been so keen to come this way. There were a dozen mean little houses and only one of the better sort. There was a small pier with a decrepit yawl moored to it and a hovel of an alehouse. The brown and black of sea-wrack covered the high-water mark on the shingle. They made for the alehouse. Gregor instructed his men to post sentinels and cover the tracks that stretched away along either side of Loch Goil.
Glengyle and Rob, with their immediate attendants, entered the alehouse. It was surprisingly busy. A dozen or more men were seated at tables, pewter ale pots before them. None were drinking. All sat warily, observing the newcomers. "Aye," spoke one of them. "Gregarach are seldom seen in the land of the great Colin."
Glengyle advanced proudly into the room. With his great height, he had to stoop to avoid the rafters. The room was gloomy. "Landlord,” he called out, "more ale for all, if you please. Clan Gregor are here to make friends not enemies.”
Soon the tension eased for the common people of Argyll were not altogether unfriendly to Clan Gregor. They too, perhaps more than most in these troubled times, were the pawns of great Lords. The changes in the land had aroused resentment. Many of the people here were the same stock as the broken men of Perthshire, feeling just as insecure about their future with the tides of change flowing in Argyll’s lands. Gregor hoped for willing followers from among these people.
The ale flowed freely. Rob told of the victory at Gladsmuir and the wonders of Edinburgh and its great palace of Holyrood. His audience listened intently.
By now, Glengyle had loosened his tongue. More people had entered the alehouse so that it was crowded. Surely he would leave here with more than he came. He spoke of his intentions, “to meddle in nothing, no further than to wait upon certain gentlemen in this country." Rob observed a man, clad in the sober black of the lowlands, sitting quietly at the back of the room, listening.
The party left as it had came with banner flying and piper playing and with two more among their number. Paraig MacNeil, who proudly declared himself a descendant of Conn of the hundred battles and Neil of the Nine Hostages, but now a landless labourer. John MacLellan, a former crewman from a trading vessel which had called at the tiny pier and abandoned him as he had been too drunk to sail.
They made their way along the western edge of Loch Goil and then turned west, up by Cruach nam Miseag, climbing the drove trail of Bealach an Lochain until they turned down the narrow trail between Beinn Lagan and Carnach Mòr. They came to the little fertile strath at the head of Loch Aic and cast around for recruits, but never a one did they find.
Rob approached his father. "Two of the men of Glen Falloch that I brought to Doune have run."
Glengyle seemed unconcerned. "That is nothing,” he responded, "to the hundreds that Campbell of Auchinbreck will bring to us when we reach Glendaruel."
They spent the night in a sheltered corrie in Glean Shellish. The weather though cold and wet was not hostile to their cause. These men were inured to the conditions and the low cloud and mists hid their progress from the unfriendly.
Early the next morning, they successfully ambushed one of the Duke’s factors who had been collecting rents. Glengyle was well pleased with his haul, but Rob was concerned when his father released the man.
"Sur
ely," Rob said. "He will run straightaway to the Duke's principals and call down the militia upon us."
"No matter,” his father responded.” They will not catch us. Colonel Jack is with Argyll, his brother in London and his lackeys have not the stomach for a fight."
They moved on into Strachur, another little hamlet of tiny cottages with a pleasant stone house above. Glengyle hammered on the door to no avail. "Break it down," he commanded, announcing, "I have the warrant of his Majesty King James VIII to spoil the effects of this man, as he is an unfriend to His cause.” The owner was not at home, but his plenishings could satisfy Glengyle's followers' thirst for loot. The contents of the meal girnal were loaded onto garrons, for food was already becoming scarce in this year of troubles. No weapons could be found, but several of the band limped away in unfamiliar footwear and one Highlander looked most fetching in the lace and satin dress of the lady of the house, his dirk and musket clashing with the delicate pink embroidery.
The next day they continued southward along Loch Fyne, still drumming up recruits but less gently than before. Among them, taken at the Leachd, was a labourer, who admitted to the name of Gregor MacGregor, though not publicly. "'S rioghal mo dhream, agus ‘S Griogar ainm agam - Royal is my race and Gregor is my name - you shall join us, ye of the race of kings,” Glengyle declared.
They discovered more of Argyll's rent money, taken from another factor and liberated the muskets from the two frightened militiamen who escorted him. As Glengyle's band departed, the factor, brave now when he found that no more was proposed than to remove the rents from his saddle packs, declared, "You shall not be so cocky, sir, when Colonel Jack catches you!”
Glengyle motioned Rob to go back to obtain more information. Rob and four stalwart, well-armed men soon persuaded the factor to admit the rest. Colonel Jack Campbell, commander of the Argyll militia had returned from England. He was reported to have crossed Loch Fyne at a point some miles South of them. The factor claimed not to know more. Rob drew his dirk and stroked the blade. The factor's eyes widened. "Your honour," he whispered, "he has three companies, with a mortar, and is some three hours march from this place."
Rob sheathed his dirk, "Go your way and report not this tryst with us, or Clan Gregor will return and smoke you out.”
Glengyle sat with Rob and his other officers above the clachan of Garbhallt at a council of war. "If Jack Campbell is ahead and with at least three companies of militia, then the road to Auchinbreck is closed,” Glengyle announced.
John Stewart of Balquhidder spoke. "We are more than two hundred. Surely we can face them down.”
Ranald MacGregor, Rob's cousin, felt differently. "Some fifty of our men would melt away at an instant, although the others may be bonny fighters. I would be less concerned should these be regulars or Lowland militia. But if Colonel Jack leads the Argyll men, then we have a fight on our hands that we should avoid if we can.”
Rob concurred with this advice. "Tho' 'twas easy to deal with Ardgartan's company at Ardlui, we took them unawares. They will still smart from that day and will not allow it again."
Glengyle pondered this advice. "Tho' it grieves me, I admit that we cannot match this force in open battle. We make for Gleann Fionn instead."
Soon the band of Gregarach, though less than half were of the name, were trotting back the way they had come. They spent the night, securely, in a corrie off Gleann Beag. The next day, Sunday the tenth of November, they returned to Loch Fyne side. Glengyle confided in Rob, “although the militia are behind, there is no other force in the area that would approach us.”
The little hamlet of Ardno lay below Cruach nan Capull. Across yje Loch lay the impressive Dunderave castle, once the seat of the chief of MacNaughton, but now possessed by the Campbells of Ardkinglas. Glengyle's men were spread out. A small herd of black cattle had been found, apparently owner-less as God was providing their feed, and a group had been assigned to droving them. A belt of trees lay above the party on the slope and wraiths of mist from the loch had, by now, reduced visibility.
Rob was feeling depressed. Their venture had not met with great success, although some of Argyll's money would help fill the Prince's coffers and garrons laden with meal would at least feed the garrison of Doune. A dozen or more recruits had joined them, but others had deserted. Now they were running away from a fight. The cattle were bound to slow them down. If they had to run, these cattle should be abandoned, or else they should find a strong position from where they might give General Jack a bloody nose.
Rob hailed his father, ready to offer this suggestion, when the quiet of the morning was shattered by a single musket shot followed by a ragged volley and the crump of a mortar shell. Rob looked ahead, through the mist. He saw Gregarach running towards them. "We are ambushed,” they called out. Fortunately, it appeared that some of the enemy had fired before the main body had entered the defile. Even so at least two were reported to have fallen, and others were wounded.
Glengyle drew his broadsword. "A fight, by god, let us up and at them!"
Rob held his arm. "Father, they are well positioned and armed. We could fight them should the position be reversed, but not here. We must withdraw.”
Others of Glengyle’s officers added their weight to Rob's argument and Glengyle reluctantly agreed. Already some of the men who they had earlier doubted were in full flight. Glengyle waved his sword in the air. "Withdraw.” he roared. “To me, form close order. Abandon the kyloes. Piper, sound the retreat."
Glengyle's men trotted back up Gleann Beag, past the spot where they had spent the night. The Piper still blew bravely. The party was smaller than it had been, Rob thought. How much smaller he could not say. As they mounted the side of Stob an Eas, he was able to get a clearer view behind them. The militia had been slow in leaving their positions, wary of a trick, and by now were several miles behind and well below. They could be clearly seen outlined against the ridge of Tom a' Chrochain, at least three hundred men in scarlet coats and well spread out. It appeared possible too, that if Colonel Campbell had three full companies, then his full force was there behind them, and it was unlikely there would be any nasty surprises ahead.
At last at the summit of Gleann Mòr near the campsite where they had spent the first night in Cowal, Glengyle held up his sword and they all collapsed, breathless from the exhausting pace that he had set. Rob thought, how fit his father was, despite his fifty-six years. After a few moments to catch his breath Rob rose and took a roll call. There appeared to be at least thirty men missing, even when he eliminated the known deserters. They waited there another five minutes. Two stragglers, both slightly wounded, came up with them. That was all. They still had the garrons with the meal and money, but the cattle, extra muskets, some of the ammunition supply and the bulkier booty had long since been abandoned.
“Where is Cornour?” Rob asked. “He commanded the advance guard.”
No-one knew. Calum of Cornour, one of Glengyle’s captains must have been taken or killed.
Glengyle motioned them forward again. The march lay along the military road which had been recently cut along the Bealach an Easain Duibh. The danger was not yet over. Colonel Campbell could have stationed men ahead to cut them off here. Campbell of Ardkinglas might have prepared an ambush for them. They left the road where it turned westwards back to the head of Loch Fyne and Ardkinglas house. Their route now led up Glean Chonglais, around the head of Loch Sloidh and through Srath Dubh Uisge to the foot of Glean Falloch. At last, across the River Falloch and up the hills beyond to the heights above Glen Gyle, the despondent and exhausted men halted. The rain poured down. Only a few purses of Argyll's money and rain-soaked bags of meal had resulted from their venture.
The next day, after a brief stop at Inversnaid, they continued the long trek back to Doune. Once past Aberfoyle, Glengyle swept up most of the cattle he could find from Montrose’s tenants. Now there was no hint of subterfuge, of blaming the MacFarlanes. These farmers had refused to pay the Watc
h, but Glengyle took great care to leave signed requisitions in the name of the Prince for all the beasts they took. This raid was not for personal gain, or indeed insurance for after the rising. The cattle were for the army that was gathering in Perth. They needed to be fed and there was precious little money in the treasury.
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