Donald Mackay of Farr, a firm ally of, and related to, the Gordons,
Earls of Sutherland, was through them brought under the notice of, and
knighted by, James VI. in 1616. Afterwards, having raised, by licence
of the King, a regiment of 3000 men, who left Cromarty in 1624, to
assist Count Mansfield in his campaign in Germany, he was created a
baronet.
Next year he was raised to the peerage, under the title of Lord Reay,
when, with a number of other gentlemen from Ross, Sutherland, and
Caithness, he served under Gustavus Adolphus in his campaigns for
Protestantism. Lord Reay afterwards showed his attachment to royalty
by taking up arms in defence of Charles I., for whose cause he brought
from Denmark arms, ships, and a large sum of money.
Taken prisoner at Newcastle, he was confined in Edinburgh until after
the battle of Kilsyth, when he was released, and shortly after he
embarked from Thurso for Denmark, where he died.
He was succeeded by his second son John, who was married to a
daughter of Scourie, said to have been a woman of great beauty, and
of singularly fascinating manners. Brought up in the principles and
opinions of his Royalist father, it was little to be wondered at that
Lord Reay joined Glencairn in his rising for the King in 1654. When the
Earl of Middleton took the command at Dornoch of the Royalist
troops, by virtue of a commission from Charles II., thus superseding
Glencairn, Lord Reay continued to serve under the new General till he
was taken prisoner at Balveny, and conveyed to Edinburgh Tolbooth,
where he remained during a lengthened period of the troubles of the
Commonwealth, but at length effected his escape in the following
manner:—
* * * * *
One autumn afternoon might be seen emerging from the gloomy doors
of the Heart of Mid-Lothian—as the Tolbooth of Edinburgh was
designated—two very remarkable forms. A lady, young and of wondrous
beauty, her hair of that shade of which the poets of our land have so
loved to sing—“a gowden yellow”—as seen by a few stray ringlets from
beneath the plaid drawn over her head; her eyes, brilliantly blue,
flashed in their glances of anxiety; her figure, straight and lithe as
the lily stalk, and as she walked seemed to exhibit the very poetry of
motion. Her attendant, a man of gigantic size, and stout in proportion,
of fierce aspect, save when his glance fell upon his mistress, bore
the Lochaber-axe, dirk, and sgian dubh—his arms, which he had just
received back from the sentries or guards as he stepped into the
street, and which he had left outside in order that he might be
admitted to the prison. The contrast between the two was most marked,
as was also the conversation. The lady was the wife of the Lord John
Reay, the prisoner in the jail from which they had just stepped forth.
The man was their trusty henchman, John Mackay, the favourite of his
noble master and mistress, as much for his courage as for his fidelity
and gentleness, and their pride in him as a clansman of enormous size
and strength.
If Lady Reay was anxious, John was equally so—his eyes seemed to
follow every glance of hers, like an attached hound seeking to
anticipate the owner’s wish.
Looking round to John, who followed a few steps behind, while she
seemed to hesitate in her progress, she said, as if half communing with
herself, ‘I will go, and God be with me.’ ‘Surely, my lady, but where
to?’ ‘I will see Cromwell—will entreat him, he may listen to me.’
‘Surely, my lady, and what for no?’
And away went Lady Reay to endeavour to obtain an interview with Oliver
Cromwell, then in Edinburgh at the head of the Parliamentary troops.
Access to Cromwell was a difficult matter, but Lady Reay was fortunate
in obtaining an introduction through an intimate friend. As she was
presented, Cromwell, in his usual abrupt manner, was in the act of
turning away, when her ladyship fell on her knees at his feet, and,
catching the skirts of his coat, poured forth in heart-breaking,
agonised supplications her entreaties for her husband’s release.
Struck by her deportment, her beauty, and her language, he listened,
and finally, overcome by her supplication, said he would willingly do
all in his power to serve her, and restore her husband to her; but as
Lord Reay was a State prisoner, the Committee of Estates could alone
discharge him from custody.
On hearing his decision, she became so affected that Cromwell at
last declared to her that if she could by any means get her husband
out of ward, he would grant him a protection to prevent his further
molestation. This protection he wrote and handed to her ladyship, who
retired with heightened hopes, springing she knew not what from.
When she left the lodgings of Cromwell, she glanced hastily round for
her henchman, who in an instant was by her side. ‘Aweel, my lady,’ said
John, ‘what will the bodach do?’ ‘He will do nothing, John; but he has
given me this pass, which would be all that would be required if we
only could get his lordship outside the prison walls, and that, I fear,
is impossible.’
‘Prut, my lady, ilka thing is possible.’
‘But how will it be done, John?’
‘Ah, it’s easy durkin’ the turnkey body inside, and the twa sentries at
the door.’
‘Ah, John, John, we must have no blood, and still less murder, whatever
happen; besides, you yourself would suffer death.’
‘Aweel, that’s little for Mackay’s sake.’
‘Promise me, John, that not a hair of these men’s heads shall be hurt,
whatever we attempt; remember they are only doing their duty. Promise
me.’ And John promised.
Lady Reay and her servant had free access to his lordship at all times.
Outside the prison door was a wicket, guarded within by a turnkey, who
generally lolled against it, or rested himself upon a form beside.
Outside the main door were two sentries placed as guards, who either
crossed each other in their steady walk, or stood at ease, one on each
side of the doorway. As Lady Reay was a favourite with the turnkey,
on account of the politeness which she daily showed him, he did not
think it necessary to lock his lordship’s cell during the time of
her ladyship’s visit, and at last got into the habit of allowing his
lordship to accompany Lady Reay till she passed through the wicket, on
her leaving for the night.
On the day following her visit to Cromwell, Lord Reay, as usual,
accompanied her ladyship, and while she was stepping beyond the wicket,
he suddenly laid hold of the turnkey, and, laying him down in the
passage, placed the form above him, seized his keys, and passing
through the wicket locked him in. The lady having effected her part so
far, of which John was perfectly aware by sound, though he could not
turn round to see, he at once seized the sentries, one in each hand,
and laying one down, placed the other above him, kicking their arms
to a distance, while Lord Reay sprang over them and rushed down the
street. Addressing the soldiers, who had ceased to struggle in the grip
of their powerful opponent, he said—‘Now, lads, you will just be good
and be quiet, or if you no be quiet, I will just have to shake your
pickle brains out of their pans, and so you’ll see what you shall see;
but if you are good, I’ll give myself quietly up to be put into the
jail instead of his lordship.’
John accordingly surrendered himself, and, loaded with irons, was
lodged in the Tolbooth.
In due time he was brought to trial for aiding the escape of a State
prisoner, and Cromwell was present as President. Said he—‘There is no
doubt that the servant has duly forfeited his life, but his conduct
and fidelity, which went to release his master, and perhaps have saved
his life, were of so high a character, and so heroic, that if this man
were put to death for qualities so valuable and so commendable, and
particularly seeing that nothing hurtful resulted to the State from his
doings, it would discourage every faithful servant from doing his duty.
I therefore propose that, for the sake of justice, John Mackay, the
prisoner at the bar, shall be condemned to death; but that, under the
circumstances of the case, the punishment shall be remitted, and Mackay
shall leave the bar a free man.’
During the time that John Mackay was digesting the speech of Cromwell,
the latter was taking a steady look of the former, when he exclaimed to
those around him, while he remarked Mackay’s fierce aspect and athletic
form—‘May I ever be kept from the devil’s and that man’s grasp.’ On
the other hand, John’s remark on Cromwell, whom he had as carefully
noticed, was—‘The deil’s no sae doure as he’s ca’ed.’
[Illustration]