THE DUELS WITH INVERNAHYLE AND ARDSHEIL.
As time stole on and ripening age wrinkled the brow and whitened the
beard of Rob Roy, he lived a quiet and inoffensive life. A change
came gradually over him. Time with its mellowing influences rendered
him less fierce, less irritable, and in the events that marked the
close of his career he showed less inclination to meet half-way those
who would seek a quarrel with him.
In the winter of 1727, while purchasing some cattle at the fair of
Doune, he obtained among others a cow from a woman who offered it for
sale.
On the following Sunday he happened to attend the parish church. The
sermon of the minister was directed against the sin of covetousness,
fraud, and roguery; and his text was the Eighth Commandment.
Emphatically and amply did the divine expatiate upon his subject; and
with his eyes fixed resolutely on MacGregor, threw out so many
offensive hints, which were evidently meant for _him_, that Rob soon
found himself the centre of observation; and his heart swelled with
rage, while he could not but admire the daring of the man who thus
bearded one who might have fired both church and manse about his ears.
However, smothering his wrath, Rob waited quietly until the sermon
was over and the congregation had dispersed. He then repaired to the
manse, and requested to see the minister, who met him with a calm and
unflinching front.
"Reverend sir," said he, "I was present, as you no doubt perceived,
at sermon this morning, and heard your discourse, every word of which
I understood, but should like to know what you _meant_ by it. I am
an old man now, and have lived a bold and perilous life, but I shall
thank you to point out a single instance of fraud or roguery that has
dishonoured it. If you cannot, as you have made me a spectacle to
your parishioners, by the souls of those who died in Glenfruin! I
will compel you to retract your words in your own pulpit."
Unmoved by the stern bearing of Rob, whose right hand clutched his
dirk, the minister replied,--
"I own, MacGregor, that I alluded to you."
"Dioul, to me!" exclaimed Rob, furiously.
"To you. Did you not buy a cow from a poor widow at the fair of
Doune--a cow at little more than half its value?"
"Sir, I was ignorant that she was poor, that she was a widow, and
considered her cow worth double what she asked for it; but is my
whole life to be slandered thus, and about a miserable cow?"
"Her family are starving--that cow was the last of her herd, for the
others all died of disease."
"If this be the case," said Rob, "I shall restore to her the cow with
double the sum I paid for it; here," he added, laying the bank-notes
on the table, "I leave the money with your reverence. I shall do
more; she shall have eight cows, the best in my herd, and money to
stock her farm anew, for never shall it be said that a widow appealed
in vain to the sympathy of Rob Roy!"
After this time he passed nearly seven years in perfect peace; but in
1734 he became embroiled with a very powerful enemy, Stewart of Appin.
The clan of MacLaren laid claim to the land of Invernentie in
Balquhidder; to this the MacGregors also had a right, which they
enforced by the blades of their swords, expelling therefrom Hamish
MacLaren. A portion of Balquhidder was certainly the ancient
patrimony of the Clan Laren, and their feud with the MacGregors was
embittered by the memory that the latter, in 1604, had slain
_forty-six_ of their householders, with all their wives and children,
as the criminal record has it.
In 1734, they appealed to Appin, chief of the Stewarts, a powerful
tribe, which could always muster from seven to eight hundred
swordsmen. General Stewart of Garth, so lately as 1821, reckoned the
fighting force of this name at four thousand men.
The MacLarens assembled in great numbers; Appin reinforced them with
four hundred chosen men, and together they marched into Balquhidder,
where Rob Roy with all his kindred was in arms to oppose them.
The summer sun shone brightly on the grey walls of the old kirk of
Balquhidder, shaded by its dark yew-trees, and its quaint old
burial-ground studded with mossy head-stones, when close by it the
hostile clans approached each other in two lines, each man with his
round shield braced upon his left arm, and his sword brandished in
his right hand.
All the Stewarts had thistles in their bonnets; the MacLarens had
laurel leaves, and their war-cry, "Craig Tuirc! Craig Tuirc!" was
shouted fiercely by a hundred tongues, for they were eager to engage.
Conspicuous in front of the MacGregors stood Rob Roy, in his waving
tartans; his once ruddy beard was now white with time, but his strong
form was erect as ever. Anxious to avoid bloodshed, when the adverse
clans were about a hundred yards apart he stepped resolutely forward,
sheathed his sword and requested Stewart of Appin to meet him
half-way. Stewart accordingly sheathed his weapon, and also stepped
forward from his line.
"Appin," said Rob, "I am deeply grieved that those who bear the royal
name should come as invaders into the land of Clan Alpine, whose race
is also royal. Our forefathers were friends, and stood side by side
in battle on the braes of Rannoch. The same inscription is on both
our sword-blades--see," he added, showing the favourite legend,
usually carved on all Scottish swords between 1707 and 1746,--
"PROSPERITY TO SCOTLAND, AND NO UNION."
"I have come but to right my kinsman Invernentie, and restore to him
the lands of which your people have reft him," replied Appin.
"Those lands were ours of old, Appin. But hearken! we are all loyal
men to _the King_, and it were a pity we should weaken our mutual
strength by mortal conflict, so I shall consent that Hamish MacLaren
hold the lands of Invernentie at an easy quit-rent."
"To that will I agree blythely," said Appin, who was a tall, brave,
and handsome man, dressed in scarlet Stewart tartan, with a
grass-green coat covered with gold lace, and who had in his bonnet a
white rose, with the three feathers of his rank.
"'Tis well--so there's my thumb on't," said Rob, as they shook hands.
"But now," he added, "as we have here so many gallant men in arms, it
will be a shameful thing if we all separate 'thout a trial of skill;
so I here take the liberty of inviting any gentleman Stewart to
exchange a few blows with me for the honour of our respective clans."
On this, Appin's brother-in-law, Alaster of Invernahyle, sprang
forward, exclaiming,--
"I accept the challenge!"
"Good; and we shall lower our swords when the first blood is drawn."
The pipers struck up on both sides, as the two combatants engaged
with claymore, dirk, and target; but in a few minutes the red blood
spirted from the sword-arm of Rob Roy, who immediately lowered his
blade, and said,--
"I congratulate you, Alaster of Invernahyle, on being one of the very
few who have drawn blood from the veins of Rob Roy."
"Nay," said Stewart, as he offered his handkerchief to bind up the
wound, "without the advantages which youth and its agility give me, I
had come off with neither honour nor safety."
"I thank you, MacGregor," said Appin, "that your brave blood has
alone been shed here to-day. Farewell!--we go back to the braes of
Appin. If I survive you, this hand shall lay the first stone of your
cairn and bid it speak to future times."
"To you, Appin, thanks! you must indeed survive me. The Red
MacGregor is _red_ only in name now--his hair is white as the snows
on Ben Lomond."
This was his _last_ appearance in arms.
Some time after this, in a trial of strength with Stewart of
Ardsheil, finding his eyesight dim, his sword-arm weak, and that he
was compelled to give ground, his cheek--a wrinkled cheek
now--flushed red with shame; tears stood in his eyes, and he flung
his old and faithful blade upon the heather.
"Never have I drawn thee without honour," he exclaimed; "but alas!
never shall I draw thee more!"
Ardsheil, a generous and high-spirited gentleman, was deeply moved by
the grief of the old warrior for his own decay of strength. Picking
up the claymore, and presenting the hilt to Rob Roy, he politely
raised his bonnet, and said,--
"Shame on me, shame that I should have drawn on years and bravery
such as yours! But give me your hand, MacGregor--your hand, and
henceforth let us be friends."
"Alas!" said Rob, sadly; "I am too old now to be your enemy!"