THE PURSUIT.
The inroads of the Highlanders were generally made upon the
Lowlanders, whom they still view as intruders and aliens; but since
the proscription of the MacGregors, every man might outrage _them_,
under protection of law, and "lift" their cattle, if he could do so;
and a knowledge of this increased the wrath and resentment of Rob Roy
and his followers as they hastened after the MacRaes; though why
people of _that_ name, whose home was in Kintail, should have come so
far to molest the MacGregors, no one can explain. In the bright
moonlight the pursuers soon reached the place from which the creagh
or spoil had been taken, the same where this history opened, and
where the widow's son had been so cruelly slain.
There the MacGregor's sleuth-hound paused and howled, where Colin's
bonnet and the chanter, with which he had accompanied Oina's song,
lay on the heather, and again he uttered a low prolonged howl on
snuffing the odour that came from a patch of heath, the darkness of
which might make one shudder.
It was the crusted blood of the poor boy's death-wound which still
lay there. "Callam, lead the dog across the stream," said Rob; "he
must find the scent on the other side; let him but once snuff their
footmarks, and then woe to the MacRaes!"
MacAleister, the henchman, dragged the fierce dog, by its leash,
across the stream. It was a bloodhound of the oldest and purest
breed, being all of a deep tan colour with black spots, about two
feet four inches high, with strong limbs, a wide chest, broad savage
muzzle, and pendulous upper lip.
Crossing the stream hand in hand, with their pistols in their teeth,
to keep the flints and priming dry, the MacGregors reached the
opposite bank, while the dog ran to and fro, till he suddenly uttered
a growl. He had found a man's bonnet.
"Paul Crubach was right--here is the badge of Seaforth!" said
Greumoch MacGregor, tearing a tuft of deer's-grass from the bonnet,
and trampling upon it with vindictive hate.
"And there are the cattle-marks," added Rob Roy, who had been
scrutinizing the grass and heath by the light of the moon; "cast
loose the dog, Callam--the caterans can have gone up the glen but a
little way yet."
The henchman let slip the leash, and the hound, without hesitation,
placed his nose near the grass, and, uttering from time to time low
growls of satisfaction, proceeded up the glen at a trot, which gave
Rob and his armed companions, active though they were, some trouble
to keep pace with him.
All traces of habitation were soon left behind, as the pursuers and
their questing bloodhound penetrated among the dusky mountains,
entering on a wild and silent region of sterile magnificence, above
which towered the double cone of Ben More.
On they went, through the lengthened expanse of a glen that lay
between two chains of barren hills, at the base of which a river,
rushing among fragments of detached rock, foaming over precipices and
plunging into deep dark pools, swept onward to mingle its waters with
the Dochart. The dog went forward unerringly.
The hoof-marks of the hastily-driven cattle were occasionally seen
among the ferns, the crushed leaves, the bruised stems and twigs of
the wild bushes; but for a time these traces were lost when they
entered on a great expanse of deep soft heather, broken only here and
there by a pool of boggy water, which shone whitely in the light of
the waning moon: it was a tract of vast extent, and all of a dun,
dark hue.
Afar off, in the distance, rose the hills of Glenorchy; and now,
being somewhat wearied by the long and arduous pursuit, Rob Roy and
his men sat down beside one of those great grey stones which stud the
Scottish hills and moorlands, marking either the site of a Druid's
altar, an old battlefield, or a forgotten warrior's grave. On
consulting his watch, Rob found the hour was midnight, and that they
had travelled about twenty miles, over a road of unparalleled
difficulty.
A dram from Greumoch's hunting-bottle revived them a little, and then
MacAleister led the bloodhound in a circuit round the stone to find
the scent again. These great tracts of heather are frequently to be
met with in Scotland, and concerning them a singular tradition
lingers in the Highlands.
It is said that the Pictish race were celebrated for brewing a
pleasant beverage from the heather blossom, and that they usually
cultivated great tracts of level muir for this purpose, carefully
freeing them of stones.
On the extinction of their monarchy, and the fabled extirpation of
the whole race by Kenneth II., King of the Scots, after the battle of
the Tay, two Picts became his prisoners, a father and his son, who
alone knew the _secret_ of manufacturing this beverage.
Urged by promises of liberal reward, continues the tradition, the
father consented to reveal it, on condition that first they slew his
son, whom a Scottish warrior thereupon shot through the heart with an
arrow.
"Now," said the stern Pict, "do your worst; for never will I be
prevailed upon to disclose a secret known to myself alone."
A second arrow whistled through his heart, and the secret perished
with him.
It was on one of these moorland spots that the MacGregors halted.
The eye could detect no living object in the distance, and the wind
brought no sound to the ear, as by the great grey stone in the
wilderness Rob and his men sat listening intently, and frequently
with their ears close to the ground, conversing the while in their
native Gaelic, which, though strange in sound and barbarous to
English ears, is, like the Welsh, a strong, nervous, and poetical
language, expressing the emotions of the human heart almost better
than any other in Europe. His followers were beginning to lose
heart; and fears that Colin's death might be unavenged and the cattle
lost were freely expressed.
"Remember the oath we have sworn, and neither will come to pass,"
said Rob, with stern confidence. "By the soul of Ciar Mhor, and by
all the bones that lie in the Island of the Cell, our swords shall
cross theirs before another sunset, or my name is not MacGregor!"
"Four of the cattle are brown beasties of my own," observed Greumoch;
"and if they should be lost, and Breadalbane does not see me righted,
by St. Colme, I'll bring off the Spanish ram and the eight score of
black-faced Galloways that are now in his park at Beallach, though
every Campbell in Glenorchy puts his sword to the grindstone for it!"
"And I will back you, Greumoch, though Breadalbane is my own
kinsman," said Rob Roy.
"We are Campbells by day, oich! oich!" said Greumoch, in a tone of
singularly bitter irony, which drew muttered oaths from his
companions; "but by night----"
"We are MacGregors like our fathers, and again the sons of Alpine!"
said Rob, starting to his feet. "'S Rioghal mo dhream! Forward,
lads! MacAleister shouts to us--the bloodhound has again got the
scent."
The chieftain was right--the noble dog had discovered the trail; and
once more the pursuit was resumed in a direction due north-west. As
day broke, the distant hill-tops became yellow, and the wild moor
gradually lightened around them. Rob and his followers had just
doffed their bonnets, in reverence to the rising sun--a superstitious
act, old as the days of Baal and the Druids--when a fox suddenly
crossed their path.
"Shoot, MacAleister, shoot!" exclaimed a dozen voices in an excited
manner, for the son of the arrow-maker was the best marksman on the
shores of Loch Lomond.
"But the creagh--the caterans!" he urged, while unslinging his long
Spanish gun.
"They cannot hear the shot, and, even if they did, the fox must not
escape."
MacAleister took aim and fired. Then a cheer of satisfaction burst
from the MacGregors, as the fox rolled over, feet uppermost, dead,
about two hundred yards off; and the pursuit was resumed with fresh
alacrity, as it was then a common Celtic belief, that to meet an
armed man, when proceeding on a hostile expedition, portended
success; but to have your path crossed by a four-footed animal
without killing it, or by a woman without drawing blood from her
forehead, ensured defeat and flight.
Roused by the report of the musket from their lair among the green
feathery bracken, more than one red roebuck started up and fled
towards the desert of Rannoch, on the skirts of which the MacGregors
were now entering; and closely following the footsteps of the hound,
they drew near the hills that bordered the vast sea of bog and
heather.
"Halt!" cried Rob Roy; "do you see that?--it is another omen."
As he spoke, a black carnivorous raven daringly soused down upon a
poor little lamb that was cropping a patch of grass near its dam,
and, in a second, picked out his eyes. As the lamb bleated loudly,
the mountain bird next seized and tore its tongue, but a shot from
MacGregor's steel pistol killed them both.
"It foretells good fortune," said he, "and that we shall soon pounce
on the MacRaes, even as the raven pounced on the lamb."
Greumoch proposed that they should light a fire of dry heather-root
and broil a collop from the dead lamb; but Rob Roy, as he re-loaded
and primed his pistol, now detected a faint column of blue smoke that
rose at the edge of the moor; and, after breakfasting on a little
meal and water, he ordered all to advance, but cautiously, towards it.
"We shall have our collop after we have punished the caterans,
Greumoch," said he, good-naturedly. "You remember what the Earl of
Mar said after the battle of Inverlochy, when supping cold crowdy out
of his own cuaran with the blade of his dagger?"
"'That hunger is ever the best cook.'"
"Yes; so now, lads, forward again; and remember the widow's son."
The appearance of some cattle grazing near the smoke made the
unwearied pursuers certain that those they sought were not far off;
but, after drawing stealthily nearer, they discovered that the fire
was lighted to cook the food of a family of gipsies, or itinerant
tinkers, who were about to take to flight on seeing Rob and his armed
band approach. On the former calling aloud that they came thither as
friends, the eldest of the wanderers turned to hear what their
visitors required of them.
MacGregor inquired if they had seen anything of the spoilers.
"They passed us towards the hills, with twenty head of cattle, only
two hours ago," replied the gipsy, "and, by the smoke that is now
rising from yonder corrie, I am assured that there they have made a
halt."
"Good!" said MacGregor, with grim satisfaction. "What is your name,
friend?"
"Andrew Gemmil."
"You are a Southland man?"
"Yes," replied the wanderer, doffing his bonnet with reverence, for
the aspect and bearing of Roll Roy awed and oppressed him.
"From whence?"
"Moffat-dale. I will show you a track in the hills that will lead
you to the corrie unseen."
Rob promised the old gipsy two Scottish crowns, and two silver
buttons from his coat, if this service were done. Dividing his band
into two, he led one party straight up the face of the hill, on their
hands and knees; the other, under Greumoch, guided by Gemmil, the
gipsy, made a detour, for the purpose of entering the corrie or deep
ravine on another point, and thus cutting off the retreat of the
marauders.