HAND TO HAND.
The autumn morning stole in loveliness over the purple heather of the
vast moor of Rannoch; the blue hills of Glenorchy, that rose in the
distance, were brightened by the rising sun, and their grey mists
were floating away on the skirt of the hollow wind.
The dark fir woods which then shrouded the base of that great spiral
cone, the Black Mountain, tossed their branches in the breeze that
swept through Glencoe--the Celtic "Vale of Tears"--Dutch William's
Vale of _Blood_! A blue stream poured down the mountain-side, past
an old grey-lettered stone, whose carvings told of the deeds of other
times. Many are these battle-stones over all the Highland hills,
for--in foreign or domestic strife--every foot of the soil has been
soaked in the blood of brave men.
Creeping on their hands and bare knees, like stalkers stealing on a
herd of deer, Rob and his men advanced up the mountain slope,
dragging their swords and Spanish guns after them.
The gipsy who acted as their guide was in front. Thus they continued
to ascend for three hundred yards, and soon the sound of voices and
of laughter was heard. Then came the unmistakeable odour of broiled
meat, and in a few minutes Rob Roy, on peering over a ledge of rock,
that was fringed by the red heather, could perceive the party they
were in search of and their spoil.
Seated round a large fire of dry bog-roots, on the embers of which
they were broiling a road-collop as it was named, were the twenty
caterans, conversing merrily, making rough jests on the MacGregors,
and passing their leathern flasks (containing usquebaugh, no doubt)
from hand to hand, in a spirit of right good fellowship. All wore
the green MacRae tartan, and conspicuous among them was Duncan nan
Creagh; near whom lay his long pole-axe and brass-studded shield, on
which was painted a hand holding a sword, the crest of his
surname,--for this unscrupulous marauder was not without pretensions
to gentle blood.
His ferocious aspect was greatly enhanced by his large and irregular
teeth, which were visible when he laughed.
"I was right," said Rob in a whisper to his henchman, who always
stuck close to him as his shadow; "'twas his fangs that left a
death-mark in the flesh of Colin Bane, the widow's son."
MacAleister levelled the barrel of his long gun through the heather
full at Duncan's head.
"Hold," said MacGregor, half laughing and half angry; "I shall meet
Duncan in open fight; but take your will of the rest, thou son of the
arrow-maker!"
The deep corrie or hollow wherein the caterans lurked was shaped like
a basin or crater, but was open at one end. At the other, or inner
end, were all the cattle; so Rob's plans were soon taken. He knew
that the conflict would be a severe one, for the men of this tribe
were so fierce and tumultuary that they were, as we have stated,
named the _Wild MacRaes_; but the clan almost disappeared from the
West Highlands, when, a few years after, 600 of them enlisted in the
Seaforth Fencibles, or old 78th Regiment.
Greumoch, with the rest of his party, now appeared creeping softly
along the other side of the opening, where they set up the shout of
_Ard Choille!_ This is the war-cry of Clan Alpine, and a volley from
five or six muskets formed the sequel to it, and speedily altered the
aspect of the carousing party; for the whole MacGregors rushed on
them in front and flank, with swords drawn, and heads stooped behind
their targets.
With a thousand reverberations the jagged rocks gave back the sharp
report of the muskets and pistols. A yell rose from the hollow, and
in a moment the MacRaes, three of whom were bleeding from
bullet-wounds, were up and ready with sword, dirk, and target. Hand
to hand they all met in close and deadly strife, the long claymores
whirling, flashing, and ringing on each other, or striking sparks of
fire from the long pike with which the centre of every target was
armed.
Swaying his pole-axe, the gigantic Duncan nan Creagh kept the sloping
side of the corrie against all who came near him, hurling every
assailant down by the ponderous blows he dealt on their shields, till
Rob Roy hewed a passage towards him, just as MacAleister, by a
fortunate shot from his gun, broke the shaft of the cateran's axe, on
which he cast away the fragment and drew his sword. While he and Rob
eyed each other for a minute, each doubtful where to strike or where
to thrust, so admirably were both skilled in the use of their sword
and shield, the strong cateran, who was a head taller than his
muscular assailant, laughed grimly, and said,--"We have drawn the
first blood in this feud, Robert Campbell: so it is vain to attack
us."
"Coward! the first blood was drawn from the heart of a poor boy,"
replied Rob; sternly; "and remember that, though I may be Campbell at
the cross of Glasgow, or at the fair of Callender--yea, or at the
gallows of Crieff, if it came to that--HERE, upon the free hillside,
I am no Campbell, but a MacGregor, as my father was before me, thou
dog and son of a dog!"
Again the tall robber laughed loudly, and said with pride, as he
parried a thrust,--"Beware, Red MacGregor--I am a MacRae!"
"And wherefore should I beware of that?" asked Rob, delivering
another thrust which the cateran received by a circular parry, that
made both their arms tingle to the shoulder-blade.
"It was said of the first of our name--_Bhai Mac-ragh-aigh_--that he
was the son of Good Fortune, and his spirit is with us to-day."
"We shall soon see whether it is so, though I believe that his spirit
is in a warmer place than the Braes of Rannoch," retorted Rob,
pressing vigorously up the rough stony side of the corrie, his great
length of arm giving him, when thrusting, a superiority over his
antagonist, whose blade he met constantly by his target and claymore,
so that he seemed invulnerable.
A wound in the sword-arm now deprived MacGregor of all patience. He
flung his target full at his enemy's head, and grasping with both
hands his claymore--the same claymore with which his father, the
Colonel, slew Duncan of the Heads--he showered blow after blow upon
MacRae, whose target soon fell in fragments from his wearied arm; and
the moment that protection was gone, Rob closed in, and thrust his
sword through and through him!
Writhing his huge frame convulsively forward on the blade, MacRae
made a terrible effort to get the victor within reach of the dirk
that was chained to his left hand, but suddenly uttering a shriek
which ended in a heavy sob, he sank down, to all appearance lifeless,
with the blood gushing from his lips and nostrils.
This put an end to the fray, for all his followers fled down the
hill-side, pursued by the MacGregors--all save one, a man of powerful
form and ferocious aspect, who was naked to the waist, and had his
kilt girdled round him by a belt of untanned bullhide.
This Celtic savage, whose name was Aulay MacAulay, flung himself upon
MacAleister, who had stumbled and fallen. Seizing the henchman by
the throat with his teeth, he grasped Greumoch MacGregor by the right
foot, and with a fragment of his sword, which had been broken,
endeavoured to despatch them both.
MacAleister strove vainly to release himself, and Greumoch struck
MacAulay again and again on the head with his steel pistol clubbed;
but finding that he might as well have hammered on a log of wood, he
snatched a pistol from the belt of one who lay dead close by, and
shot the marauder through the lower part of the head. He yelled and
rolled away, biting the heather, and wallowing in blood; and from
this wild man of the mountains--for, in truth, MacAulay was nothing
better--that great literary foe of the Celtic race, the brilliant
historian of England, was lineally descended.
Six of the MacRaes were left slain in or near the corrie, and several
of those who escaped were severely wounded.
Alaster Roy and three other MacGregors were wounded, and one was
killed by a musket shot. The cut on Rob's arm was deep, and, for a
time, required all the medical skill of Helen to heal it.
It was thus that he avenged the foray of the MacRaes, and recovered
the cattle, which he restored to their proper owners, who were poor
cotters, to whom the loss would have been a severe one. All the
weapons, ornaments, and spoil of the vanquished he gave to the widow
whose son had been slain. On the coat of one they found a complete
set of silver buttons, as large as pistol shot. Such buttons were
frequently worn, even by the poorer classes, in the Highlands in
those days, and came by inheritance through many generations. They
were meant to serve as ornaments when living, and as the means of
providing a decent funeral, if the owner fell in battle, or died far
from the home of his kindred.
Rob Roy received considerable praise for this exploit, the scene of
which was long marked by a cairn, and Mr. Stirling, of Carden, and
many other gentlemen, whose estates lay near the Highland frontier,
and who had been neglecting to pay their black-mail, now sent the tax
in all haste to Inversnaid.
It was usually said of Rob that his sword was like the sword of
Fingal, which was never required to give a _second blow_; but Duncan
nan Creagh was not slain, for such men were hard to kill. He was
borne away by his followers, who returned on the departure of the
MacGregors, and bound up his wounds; so Duncan lived to fight at the
battles of Sheriffmuir and Glenshiel.