THE ADVENTURES OF ROB ROY.

BY

JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "JACK MANLY," "DICK RODNEY," "SECOND TO NONE," ETC. ETC.

LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE; NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.

BY JAMES GRANT.

Price 2s. each, Fancy Boards.

THE ROMANCE OF WAR. THE AIDE-DE-CAMP. THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER. BOTHWELL. JANE SETON; OR, THE QUEEN'S ADVOCATE. PHILIP ROLLO. LEGENDS OF THE BLACK WATCH. MARY OF LORRAINE. OLIVER ELLIS; OR, THE FUSILIERS. LUCY ARDEN; OR, HOLLYWOOD HALL. FRANK HILTON; OR, THE QUEEN'S OWN. THE YELLOW FRIGATE. HARRY OGILVIE; OR, THE BLACK DRAGOONS. ARTHUR BLANE. LAURA EVERINGHAM; OR, THE HIGHLANDERS OF GLENORA. THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD. LETTY HYDE'S LOVERS. THE CAVALIERS OF FORTUNE SECOND TO NONE. THE CONSTABLE OF FRANCE. THE PHANTOM REGIMENT. THE KING'S OWN BORDERERS. THE WHITE COCKADE. FIRST LOVE AND LAST LOVE.

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.

CONTENTS.

I COLIN AND OINA II THE CATERANS III THE ALARM IV THE HOLY STEEL V THE RED MACGREGOR VI THE PURSUIT VII HAND TO HAND VIII THE BATTLE OF GLENFRUIN IX THE DEVASTATION OF KIPPEN X THE DUEL XI ROB GOES TO ENGLAND XII THE GIPSIES XIII INVERSNAID PILLAGED XIV ROB AND THE DUKE XV DESOLATION XVI ROB TAKES THE TOWER OF CARDEN XVII THE JACOBITE BOND XVIII THE DESPATCHES CAPTURED XIX ABERUCHAIL XX ROB ROY RETREATS XXI JOINS KING JAMES XXII INVERSNAID GARRISONED XXIII THE SNARE XXIV WILL HE ESCAPE? XXV LITTLE RONALD XXVI PAUL CRUBACH XXVII THE HOUSE OF INVOCATION XXVIII ROB ROY'S CAVE XXIX THE STORMING OF INVERSNAID XXX THE FIGHT AT ABERFOYLE XXXI ROB SEIZES THE RENTS OF MONTROSE XXXII KILLEARN CARRIED OFF XXXIII KILLEARN'S FATE XXXIV GREUMOCH TAKEN XXXV ROB'S NARROW ESCAPE XXXVI A WEIRD STORY XXXVII THE HAUNTED WELL XXXVIII ROB ROY TAKEN XXXIX THE FORDS OF FREW XL SEAFORTH'S MESSENGER XLI ROB'S MARCH TO GLENSHEIL XLII A STRANGE MEETING XLIII MAJOR HUSKE'S REVENGE XLIV THE BATTLE OF GLENSHEIL XLV THE KNIGHT OF MALTA XLVI EILAN DONAN XLVII THE HARPER'S RANSOM

XLVIII MORRAR NA SHEAN, OR THE LORD OF THE VENISON XLIX GUILT AND REMORSE OF MORRAR NA SHEAN L THE RUINED HOUSE IN GLENSTRAE LI HE FIGHTS THE LAIRD OF BARRA LII INVERNENTIE PUNISHED LIII ATTACKED BY THE DUKE OF ATHOLE LIV THE FINAL ATTEMPT OF ATHOLE LV ROB ROY IN LONDON LVI THE DUELS WITH INVERNAHYLE AND ARDSHEIL LVII THE CLOSING SCENE

[Transcriber's note: the source book had a list of illustrations (below) but no actual illustrations.]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

1. The body of Colin Bane MacGregor

2. "He showered blow after blow upon MacRae"

3. "Waving his bare blade in a circle between her and the rest, who dared not advance"

4. "One night they were roused by some Travellers noisily demanding shelter"

5. "Clenching his right hand, he would have struck the Duke"

6. Rob Roy and the English Captain

7. "He sprang upon them and cut down two"

8. "The MacGregors were protected by ridges of rock"

THE ADVENTURES OF ROB ROY.

CHAPTER I. COLIN AND OINA.

The sun of a September evening—we need not say in what year—was shining down a wild and lonely glen, a few miles eastward from the head of Loch Lomond, where a boy and a girl sat on the slope of the green hill-side, watching a herd of fifteen red-eyed, small, and shaggy black cattle, with curly fronts and long sharp horns, that were browsing mid-leg deep amid the long-leaved fern. The place was one of stern and solemn grandeur.

Leaping from ledge to ledge, and foaming between the grey and time-worn rocks, a mountain torrent, red and fierce, swept down the steep slope of the narrow glen, now disappearing in deep corries, that were covered by dwarf birch, hazel, and alder trees, and elsewhere emerging in mist and spray, white as the thistle's beard, till it reached the lake which reposed under the shadows of the vast Ben Lomond, whose summits were hidden in grey mist.

Ben Lawers, which towers above the source of the Tay, and Ben More, that looks down on the Dochart with its floating isle, are there; but the king of these is Ben Lomond, a name which means in English "the hill of the lake full of isles," for four-and-twenty stud the loch below; and the bare scalp of that mighty mountain rises to the height of 3,300 feet above the water. There the wild winds that came in sudden gusts down the glens, furrowed up the bosom of the loch, causing its waters to ripple on the silent shore, and on its verdant isles, with a weird and solemn sound.

But here where our story opens, the shrill note of the curlew, as he suddenly sprang aloft from the thick soft heather, made one start; while the rush of the many white watercourses that poured over the whinstone rocks, and woke the silence, was sharp and hissing. The setting sun shed a flood of purple light along the steep-sided glen, making the heather seem absolutely crimson.

The boy and girl, Colin Bane, the son of a widow, and Oina MacAleister, belonged to the clachan, or village—the smoking chimneys of which alone indicated its locality—about three miles off; for the walls of the little cottages so closely resembled the grey rocks of the glen, and their roofs, thatched with heather, blended so nearly with the mountainside, that, except for the forty little columns of white vapour that ascended into the clear evening sky, there was nothing else to indicate a human habitation.

Neither of these young people was above twelve years old; but the boy was tall, lithe, and manly for his age. His dark grey eyes were keen and sharp as those of the wiry otter terrier that sat beside him; and his bare legs, which his tattered kilt revealed from the knee, showed that he was handsome as well as strong—so strong, that he was already entitled to wear a man's bonnet, as a proof that he could lift and fling the "stone of strength,"—the test of manhood, which lay beside the door of Rob Roy's house, as beside that of every Highland chieftain, to test the muscle of his growing followers; for previous to being able to poise and hurl the Clachneart, a boy wore his hair simply tied with a thong.

A jacket of deerskin, fastened by wooden buttons and loops of thong; a pouch or sporan composed of a polecat's skin, with its face for a flap; and a skene dhu (or black knife) stuck in a waist-belt, completed the attire of Colin.

His pretty companion, who sat with her little bare feet paddling in a pool of water that gurgled from a rock, was enveloped in a short plaid of red tartan, fastened under her chin by a little silver brooch, and her thick brown hair, which she had wreathed with blue bells and golden broom, fell in masses on her shoulders.

But the faces of this boy and girl were thoughtful, keen, and anxious in expression; for they were children of a long-oppressed, outlawed, and broken tribe, the MacGregors, or Clan Alpine. Still, as they tended the cattle, they sang merrily; for when reaping in the fields, or rowing on the lochs, casting the shuttle at the loom, or marching in the ranks to battle, in those days the Scottish Highlander always sang.

Ever and anon the boy and girl would pause and utter a joyous shout, when a large brown salmon leaped amid a shower of diamonds from the rough stream that tore through the glen; or when a sharp-nosed fox, a shaggy otter, or a red polecat came stealthily out of the gorse and whins to drink of it; for as yet they had no other visitors, and saw not those who were secretly approaching.

Colin, who had started up to cast a stone at a wild swan, and pursue it a little way, returned breathless; but nevertheless, producing a chanter of hard black wood, mounted with ivory rings, from his girdle, in which it had been stuck, he said,—"Come, Oina—Mianna Bhaird a thuair aois—sing, and I shall play."

"It is a song of many verses, and is too long," replied the girl.

"Long! There are only two-and-thirty verses, and mother says that old Paul Crubach can remember as many more."

Colin commenced the air at once upon his chanter, and without further hesitation the girl began one of the old songs which are half sung and half recited, in a manner peculiar to the Highlands.

I have no intention of afflicting my readers with all the said song in Gaelic; but it ran somewhat in this fashion (a friend has translated it for me), and the girl, as she sang sweetly, splashed the sparkling water with her tiny feet:—

Lay us gently by the stream That wanders through our grassy meads; And thou, O sun! with kindly beam, Light up the bower that o'er us spreads.

Here softly on the grass we'll sit, Where flowerets bloom and breezes sigh; Our feet laved in the gentle tide That, slowly gliding, murmurs by.

Let roses bright and primrose fair With sweet perfume and lovely hues, Around us woo the ambient air, And breathe upon the falling dews.

Intent upon themselves and their simple occupation, and singing thus in the fulness of their young hearts to the objects of Nature, the boy and girl saw not those who were coming up the glen, creeping on their hands and feet, with keen eyes and open ears.

Place by my hand (with harp and shell), So long our solace and our pride, The shield that often roll'd the swell Of battle from our father's side!

Let Ossian blind and tuneful Dall Strike from their harps a solemn sound, And open wide their airy hall— No bard will here, at eve, be found!

So closed the song, and at that moment a cry burst from Oina, while Colin sprang up with a hand on his knife, for suddenly there arose out of the long tossing leaves of the braken, or fern, the dark whins and matted gorse, amid which the cattle grazed, about twenty well-armed and fierce-looking Highlanders, whose tattered attire, green tartans, and wild bearing, all proclaimed them to be strangers and foes, who had come intent on spoil and hostility.

CHAPTER II. THE CATERANS.

With her eyes dilated by terror, and her usually ruddy cheeks blanched and pale, the girl clung to her companion, who stood resolutely between her and those who had come so suddenly upon them. Barking furiously, the otter terrier erected his shaggy back and also shrunk close to the side of Colin.

These unwelcome visitors were all armed with basket-hilted swords, dirks, and pistols. He who seemed the leader bore a long luagh, or Lochaber axe, the head of which is adapted for the triple purpose of cutting, thrusting, or hooking an enemy. They all wore waistcoats and hose of untanned deerskin, rough, shaggy, and tied with thongs.

Their kilts and plaids were of tattered green tartan, and all wore woollen shirts of dark red dyes. Only a few had bonnets; but in these they wore a tuft of deer-grass, the badge of the MacKenzies. This, however, did not deceive the boy or girl, who knew them to be MacRaes, who followed the banner of Lord Seaforth.

The leader, a giant in stature, but fleet of foot and active as a roebuck, was a dark-visaged and savage-looking man, with eyebrows that met over his nose, and were shaggy as the moustache that curled round his fierce mouth, to mingle with his beard. His belted plaid was fastened by an antique silver brooch covered with twisted snakes, and silver tassels adorned his sporan, which was of otter-skin covered with white spots; and hence such skins are said in Scotland to belong to the king of the otters.

"Keep your cur quiet, boy," said this formidable-looking fellow, "or I must put a bullet into him. Go on with your song, my girl, and don't be alarmed; we shall not harm you."

"He is Duncan nan Creagh!" said Colin.

"And our cattle will be taken," sobbed Oina.

Indeed, while the boy and girl spoke their fears in whispers, the gillies, or followers of Duncan of the Forays, as he was named, ran round the cattle in a circle, driving them together, by holloing and striking them with cudgels or the flat sides of their claymores—occasionally using the point, to spur on the more lazy or refractory. Undaunted by the number of the caterans, Colin began to shout shrilly and wildly for succour; but aid was far off, and the echoes of the rocks alone replied.

"Silence!" exclaimed Duncan MacRae, fiercely, "or I shall fling you into the pool, with a big stone at your neck!"

The boy bravely brandished his skene, and dipping his bonnet in the rivulet, as a defence for his left hand, said,—

"Beware, you false cateran; these cattle are from the lands of Finlarig; and Finlarig belongs to Breadalbane."

The tall cateran grinned, and replied,—

"Ay; but the beasties belong to the MacGregors——"

"From whom all men may take their prey," added another.

"True, MacAulay, and were they Breadalbane's own, every hoof and horn should be mine, even though he were here, with all the Clan Diarmed of the Boar at his back. Hear you that, my little man? But the Griogarich—wheeugh!"

And the tall cateran snapped his fingers with contempt and grinned savagely, as he made a whistling sound.

This action, and the slighting manner in which his clan was spoken of, made Colin tremble with rage. His ruddy cheek grew pale with emotion, and his eyes flashed with light.

In pursuing a sturdy little bullock, one of the MacRaes dropped a pistol. Quick as lightning young Colin sprang forward, possessed himself of it, and fired full at the head of Duncan nan Creagh! The latter reeled, for the ball had pierced his bonnet, and grazed the scalp of his head, causing the blood to trickle over his sombre visage. Then, before he could recover himself, the fearless boy hurled the empty pistol, which was one of the heavy steel tacks still worn with the Highland dress, at the cateran's head, which it narrowly missed.

Oina and he now turned to seek safety in flight; but the MacRae caught him by the hook of his long poleaxe, and fearing further violence, the brave Colin clung to his right arm with fierce energy. Duncan tried to shake him off; but in vain. At last, he fiercely bit the hand of the poor boy, who relinquished his hold with a scream of pain.

At that moment the savage fellow exclaimed,—

"Wasp of a MacGregor, that will take the sting out of you," and cut down Colin, by a single stroke of his ponderous axe, severing his right (some say his left) arm from his body.

Without a moan, Colin fell on the heather in a pool of blood.

"Quick, lads, quick!" exclaimed the remorseless Duncan; "drive on the prey; the MacGregors will soon scent the blood and be on our track."

At some distance from the bleeding and dying boy, Oina sank upon the ground, screaming wildly, and covering her face with her hands and hair.

"What shall we do with the girl?" said one; "she will soon reach and rouse all the clachan."

"Take her with us," suggested another.

"Oich—oich! that would be kidnapping."

"But she is only a MacGregor's daughter," said a third.

"And you shall soon be tracked by one MacGregor, who will revenge us," exclaimed the girl, whom excess of terror now endued with courage.

"Oich! and who may he be?" asked Duncan nan Creagh, mockingly.

"Rob Roy of Inversnaid."

"The Red MacGregor—is that all?"

"All! Conn Ceud Catha was a boy when compared to him, as you shall soon find, false thief of a MacRae."

"A swim in the linn will be good for one of your temper," said the tall Cateran, as he took up the girl, and regardless of her shrieks, rushing to where the torrent that flowed towards Loch Lomond poured over a brow of rock forming a cascade that plunged into a deep pool below, he tossed her in, without ruth or pity.

In falling, Oina caught the stem of a tough willow, and clung to it with all the tenacity a deadly fear could inspire. The rush of the foaming torrent was in her tingling ears, and its snowy spray covered her face, her dress, and floating hair, as she swung over it. She closed her eyes and dared not look; but her lips prayed for mercy in an inaudible manner, for the power of speech had left her. And now, with her weight, the willow bent so low that at last her feet and ankles dipped in the rushing water; while with a pitiless frown, the wild MacRae—for so this tribe was named, from their fierce, lawless, and predatory habits—surveyed her from the bank above. Then saying, "Oich—oich, but the Griogarich are folk that are hard to kill," by a slash of his long axe he severed the willow, and with a faint shriek Oina vanished into the cascade that foamed beneath!

Duncan nan Creagh then hastened to overtake his gillies, who by this time had driven the cattle across the stream, which they forded in the old Scottish fashion, with their swords in their teeth, and grasping each other's hands to stem the current, which, otherwise, must have swept them away singly, as it came up to their armpits.

They then wrung the water from their plaids, and driving the cattle at full speed by point and flat of sword, hurried up a gloomy and lonely ravine, and soon disappeared, where the sombre evening shadows were deepening over the vast mountain solitude.

Well did they know that the vengeful MacGregors, whom some aver to be the Children of the Mist, would soon be on their track, following them with blade and bullet, hound and horn.

The poor boy soon expired, but the girl was not destined to perish. She was swept by the torrent round an angle of the rocks, towards a pool, where a young man was fishing.

He saw her body whirling in the flood, and without a moment of hesitation, cast aside his bonnet and plaid, his rod and dirk, and plunging in, soon caught her in his arms.

Being powerfully athletic, he stemmed the fierce brown torrent, which ran like a flooded millrace, bearing along with it stones, clay, and dwarf trees, the spoil of the hills that look down on Loch Dochart; and, after a severe struggle, he reached the bank and laid the girl on the grass.

"Oina!" he exclaimed, with deep commiseration, on removing the masses of wet brown hair from her pallid face, for he recognized her to be the child of his own foster-brother.

She was pale, cold, severely bruised by being tossed from rock to rock, and lay there to all appearance dead. He placed a hand on her heart; he opened and patted her clenched fingers; he placed his warm ruddy cheek to her cold face, and his ear to her mouth, to ascertain whether or not she breathed.

Then taking her up in his arms as if she had been an infant, he wrapped his plaid around her, and with rapid strides, hastened towards the smoke, which curled greyly against the now darkened sky, and indicated where the clachan or village stood.

This man was Robert MacGregor of Inversnaid and Craigrostan, otherwise known as Rob Roy, or the Red, from the colour of his hair, and who, by the proscription of his entire clan, had been compelled by law to add the name of Campbell to his own, for reasons which will afterwards be given to the reader.

CHAPTER III. THE ALARM.

He soon reached Inversnaid, which lay about three miles distant.

At first he walked but slowly, comparatively speaking, as he believed the girl to be quite dead; but the motion of her limbs, as he proceeded, having caused the blood to circulate, he perceived with joy that she still lived, and then he increased his pace to a run, which soon brought him to the cottage of her father, Callam MacAleister (i.e., the son of the arrowmaker), to whose care he consigned her; and the bed of the little sufferer was rapidly surrounded by all the commiserating gossips and wise-women of the clachan.

No doctors were required by the hardy men of these secluded districts. Their wives and daughters knew well how to salve a sore; to bind up a slash from an axe or sword; to place lint on a bullet-hole, or on a stab from a dirk; while valerian, all-heal, liver-wort, and wild carrot, bruised in a quaichful of whisky, formed the entire materia medica of the matron of a family. So men lived till patriarchal years, strong, active, and fearless as mountain-bulls; for sickness was unknown among them.

Of these female family physicians, Rob's wife, the Lady of Inversnaid, was the queen in her time and locality.