The Clansman

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

This is the second book in Nigel Tranter's trilogy of novels about the MacGregor clan. In 1715, declared an outlaw by the Secretary of State, the Duke of Montrose and the Duke of Cumberland, Rob Roy MacGregor, steadfast supporter of the Stuart cause, leaves home and clansmen to avoid bringing diaster upon them. In his absence, Montrose's factor comes to his home, attacking his proud wife, Mary MacGregor, frightening his children and setting fire to Inversnaid House. For which Rob Roy vows a terrible revenge . . . 'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 256

Sample

PROVOST DRUMMOND of Crieff looked apprehensively from one visitor to the other, and cleared his throat. ‘Did . . . did ye bring many men along wi’ you, sirs?’ he wondered. ‘More than just them, oot there?’ And he nodded his greying head towards the knot of red-coated dragoons who stood outside the Tolbooth window.

‘There are a dozen stout fellows, there,’ Captain Plowden said impatiently. ‘Ample, surely, to apprehend one man! Our information is that the fellow rode into Crieff yesterday, alone, and put up at the house of one Lucky MacRae. He is said to have business with a dealer and corn-chandler of the name of Patrick Stewart.’

‘Aye – I daresay.’ The Provost’s grizzled eyebrows rose a little at the accuracy of the Stirling military’s information. They must have passing good spies in Crieff town. He wondered how much more they knew? That Rob had business with himself also, as tanner and hide merchant? ‘But maybe a bigger troop, see you, would ha’ been wise. A kittlish customer, he is. And no’ just alone, mind. MacAlastair’s wi’ him – MacAlastair’s ay wi’ Rob. . . .’

‘Tut, Provost – this is a law-abiding town, isn’t it?’ the Sheriff Officer interrupted. ‘You’re no’ suggesting that a round dozen o’ Her Majesty’s sodjers are no’ enough to arrest two men in the middle o’ the burgh o’ Crieff – wi’ all your good honest townsfolk at hand to support the Queen’s officers?’

The little tanner, who was Crieff’s chief magistrate, moistened his lips. ‘No, no – never think it, sirs. It’s just that ye never ken what Rob’ll be up to. And he has a deal o’ friends – amongst the baser sort, see you. Rob’s ay a great one for the common folk. They like him, some way. I’ve seen him giving away whole sides o’ beef, at the Cross oot there, for the poor. . . .’

‘Not good enough friends to make themselves the Queen’s enemies, for any nameless MacGregor, I’ll warrant I’ the Captain snorted. ‘You don’t foster rebellion in this town of yours, Provost – do you?’

‘Guidsakes – no! Och, mercy on us – nothing o’ the sort! We’re a’ right loyal subjects o’ Her Majesty. . . .’

‘I’m glad of that.’

‘You’ve no MacGregors in the town, to worry you, Provost?’ the Sheriff Officer said. ‘You’re far from the MacGregor country here – twenty good miles and more. There are no MacGregors nearer than Strathyre and Balquhidder. Our word is that Glengyle is away in the south, visiting Arnprior. And Rob Roy’s own folk are all out scouring the country for winter fodder for his beasts.’

Again the Provost marvelled at the authorities’ informa-MacGregors like hawks. They had waited until he was well outside his own country, and alone, to strike. Biding their time, knowing that come out he must, desperate for winter feed for his swollen herds of cattle. Did they know, too, that Rob was here seeking to barter hundreds of hides to himself, for his tannery, in exchange for great loads of Lowland hay from Patrick Stewart?

‘Is that a fact, sirs?’ he stalled. ‘Och, no doubt you’ve the rights o’ it. There are no MacGregors in town, no. But . . .’

‘Devil take it – enough of this!’ Captain Plowden cried impatiently. ‘We have wasted time enough as it is. I want to be back in Stirling, with our prisoner, before dark. Where is this Lucky MacRae’s house, man? Lead us there – in the Queen’s name!’

Drummond swallowed. He was not a valiant man. He had done what he could, put off as much time as possible, kept these officers talking, in order to give opportunity for Rob to slip away, out of town. Whenever they had arrived at the Tolbooth, from Stirling, and sent for him, he had contrived to get a messenger out of the back door, with the word for the MacGregor. He could do no more.

‘As ye will, sirs. Lucky’s howff is up in the Kirk Wynd. I’ll hae the Town Officer to fetch ye there . . .’

‘As well if you came yourself, Provost. As chief magistrate . . .’

The Sheriff Officer paused, listening. Above the stir of the blustery November wind, another sound penetrated, faint but clear, within the massive walls of Crieff’s ancient Tolbooth. It was pipe music, thin and high. Not such a strange sound to hear in the streets of the capital of Strathearn, on the very edge of the Highland Line, at some times, no doubt. But strange on a November day in the year 1713, with the Union Government supreme, the Jacobites in eclipse, and the clans in disgrace for having lately preferred James Stewart across the water to Queen Anne in London, and weapons proscribed by law to all but the Queen’s forces. Not that bagpipes actually ranked as offensive weapons, of course – but when they played martial music they could be equally dangerous in Scotland, a barbarous challenge to sound order and authority. And the present strains sounded martial enough, in all conscience.

Soldier and Sheriff looked at each other. ‘What is that?’ the former demanded sternly.

‘I . . . I dinna just ken,’ the Provost muttered. Which was less than honest. For whether or not these two knew it, he and everyone else in Crieff – except for the dragoons outside, probably – recognised the stirring strains of My Race is Royal, the MacGregor march, when they heard it.

‘Who would blow the devil-damned pipes in front of Her Majesty’s dragoons?’ Captain Plowden went on, angrily.

‘God kens, Captain!’ the little man quivered. And again, though undoubtedly true enough, his statement lacked fullest candour.

The soldiers outside had moved forward, to gaze up the climbing High Street of hilly Crieff, pointing and gesticulating. Their commander barked an oath, and turning, stamped out of the room and down the steps to the cobbled street, spurs jingling. After him hurried the soberly-clad Sheriff Officer, clutching his parchments. And, less eagerly, the Provost followed on.

They were not alone in their interest, needless to say. All up and down the street, heads were thrusting out from windows and doors and close-mouths. Many of the good folk of Crieff had already been keeping a discreet eye on the scarlet-coated dragoons, undoubtedly – but this latest development was of the stuff to temper discretion. Miraculously people appeared on every hand, staring.

What they stared at was not, in itself, spectacular. A mere three men – and two of them far from impressive. But people’s breath caught in their throats nevertheless – and more than one goodwife hurriedly turned to whisk children and self safely in behind a shut door.

Coming down the very centre of the High Street walked these three men. The first two went side by side, and a comic pair they made; one small, deformed and twisted, with a hunch to his back; the other long and lean and lame; both filthy and unshaven, both clad in tattered rags of tartan so stained as to be unrecognisable, and both puffing away strongly at the bagpipes, hirpling and hobbling. Comic indeed – but no one in all that street so much as smiled. Save one. Obvious to all, they were gangrels, Highland tinks, strolling pipers, routed at a moment’s notice out of some back-street den or other, and scarcely sober by the looks of them. But at least they both could play My Race is Royal, and approximately in time.

Behind them, a good dozen paces behind, strode another man, alone. And there was nothing comic about this one, save perhaps in his astonishing length of arm, so that his hands hung down to his bare knees – though, again, few would have found that cause for laughter. He was an extraordinary figure of a man, in more than his arms, not seeming so tall as he was in fact, owing to his enormous breadth of shoulder and very slightly bowed legs. But the impact of him had nothing of deformity about it, nothing freakish nor apelike – only strength, a notable and singular impression of personal strength. Those near enough to meet the shock of brilliant pale-blue eyes knew another and still more potent strength, as of a smouldering explosive energy only just held in leash – eyes that many could only look at askance. But they were smiling now, those eyes – for the man was laughing as he walked. His hair a fiery red, the curling hair of his head, of his fierce down-turning moustaches and pointed short beard, the thick furring of wrists and hands and knees, that contrasted so vehemently with those startlingly blue eyes, seemed all part of the latent power of him. A man in his early forties, he was dressed in the full panoply of a Highland gentleman, in great kilt and swathed plaid of red-green MacGregor tartan, a long-skirted doublet of brown-and-white calf-skin, great jewelled clasp at shoulder, silver buttons, otter-skin sporran, woven and diced half-hose, buckled brogues, and sword-belt with basket-hilted claymore. On his head was a bonnet of blue, with a diced band, sporting a sprig of Scots pine, badge of his clan, and a single eagle’s feather. Rob Roy MacGregor was always clothes-conscious. He strode down the crown of Crieff’s causeway now, alone, apart – but never lonely-seeming – and while it would be unfair to say that he swaggered, his whole bearing and carriage proclaimed a proud and genial satisfaction with the day, the place, the good Lord’s providence, and the splendid heartening strains of the MacGregor’s march.

Down the street, at his back, but keeping a respectful distance, thronged a growing crowd.

Captain Plowden spluttered his wrath and sense of outrage, incoherent at first from sheer dumbfoundment. He pointed. ‘’Swounds – the damned insolence of the fellow!’ he got out, with difficulty. ‘It’s him – MacGregor! Look at him! Look at him . . .!’

The Sheriff Officer was looking, sure enough – and not too happily. But not nearly so unhappily as was Provost Drummond, who was twisting his hands together in major distress, and blinking fast. It was hard, hard on a peaceable man who wished no harm to anybody. Rob had certainly made strange and wicked use of the precious few minutes’ grace that he had so generously bought him. ‘He . . . he’s an awfu’ man . . . a right borach!’ he stammered. ‘Did I no’ tell ye – ye never ken what he’ll be up to? Och, sirs – this is difficult, difficult, see you . . .’

‘Difficult?’ the soldier repeated harshly. ‘It’s a scandal, sir! To add to all his other offences, he’s deliberately making a public riot. But at least, we do not need to go find him – he’s coming to us! Which will save time.’ Plowden raised his voice. ‘Sergeant – draw your men across this street. I want that man stopped, held, and taken.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The sergeant of dragoons ordered his troopers to mount, and after a certain amount of backing and sidling of horses, led his dozen men out into the centre of the street, amidst a clatter of hooves on cobbles. Hands on sheathed sabres, they turned and halted, to form a barrier of scarlet and black across it. The crowd pressed back and out of their way. All eyes turned away towards the single figure that still came striding downhill.

Rob Roy gave no sign that he had noticed the soldiers’ manoeuvre. His glance lingered right and left, rather than forward, as he nodded and smiled and raised a hand to townsfolk at door and window.

The pipers, undoubtedly, were less unconcerned. Though they continued to puff and blow, they were getting very near to the dragoons now, and their heads tended to turn a little, so that their glances could flicker backwards towards their temporary employer. Their unease was patent.

The Town Cross of Crieff rose just a few yards uphill of the Tolbooth and Town House, and therefore stood in front of the line of stationary dragoons. As they neared it, Rob Roy barked a word or two in the Gaelic, and with most evident relief his two instrumentalists swung left and right, to turn and face inwards, stationary as the troopers now, but tapping each a foot to the beat of his music.

The red-headed man strolled on, still at one with the world apparently, right up and on to the three steps of the Cross itself. These he climbed, and swung round, presenting a broad back to the soldiers who sat their restive mounts a mere dozen yards further on. The chatter of the crowd had died away altogether.

There was a shouted command from the sergeant. One of the pipers, the hunchback, stopped his blowing, and his instrument hiccuped and wavered sadly. Rob Roy’s hand jerked out at once in a peremptory and eloquent gesture that most clearly indicated that a work of the virtue and nobility of My Race is Royal was not to be interrupted and cut short in mid-verse under any circumstances. The sergeant bellowed again – but the human voice, however military, is at a distinct disadvantage when in competition with two pairs of bagpipes at close range, and willy-nilly all present must listen to the final triumphant and sustained bars of the MacGregors’ march.

Rob Roy, of course, had the advantage of knowing at just what point the recital would end, and it was his great voice therefore that was able neatly to fill the throbbing void the moment that the instrumentalists had bubbled and wailed to an ultimate close, the sergeant being seconds late. His rival did not so much as glance at him, anyway. He was looking towards the Tolbooth doorway.

‘Aha, Provost!’ he cried gaily. ‘I call it civil of you to accord me a civic welcome to your good town. I do so. I pledge you, and Crieff, my thanks.’

The little tanner could not even look at the speaker, in his embarrassment. He mumbled something inaudible.

Captain Plowden did not mumble, by any means. Lifting his voice to its most commanding, he shouted. ‘You! MacGregor! Enough of this foolery. Come here.’

Evidently his shouting was not loud enough, for Rob Roy went on talking to the little man. ‘If you had told me now, Provost, I’d have brought some of my lads along with me, and made a better showing of it, whatever. Just a private visit it is, you see . . .’

‘Silence, mountebank!’ the Captain rapped out. ‘I spoke to you. I said, come here!’ But he started forward himself. Less urgently, his two companions followed.

‘Would it be to myself you were after speaking, Captain?’ The Highlandman wondered, civilly, still standing on the Cross steps. ‘I am thinking you must be having my name wrong, some way. Och, it’s easy mistaken, and you an Englishman by your voice. MacGregor it is, see you – MacGregor of Inversnaid and Craigroyston, just.’

‘And that is a lie, to start with!’ Plowden returned strongly. ‘There is no man in this kingdom lawfully bearing that name, today. And the lands that you name are no longer yours, but your creditors’. But enough of this. Give me that sword, fellow – that you are carrying in defiance of the law. I arrest you, in the name of the Queen’s Majesty!’

‘Och, tut sir – what’s this?’ the MacGregor protested, but mildly. ‘It grieves me sorely to have to controvert a gallant officer of the Queen – but you cannot arrest me, Captain. You have not the authority. I am no notary, God knows – but I have enough of the legalities to know that. I am a free citizen of this realm of Scotland – and I know my rights.’

‘Fool! Quibbling over words will not serve you now. I carry you back to Stirling Castle, free citizen or none! But if you must have my authority, sirrah, the Sheriff Officer here will let you have the form of words. Read it to him, sir.’

The Sheriff Officer had stopped quite a few paces further back. He glanced behind him, and over at the substantial line of soldiery, for comfort, unrolled his parchment, and cleared his throat.

‘“To all whom it may concern,”’ he read out, in something of a hurry. ‘“Proclaimed at Edinburgh, by the Lord Justice General, at the instance of Her Majesty’s Lord Advocate for Scotland that:

‘“Robert Campbell, commonly known by the name of Rob Roy, or Robert MacGregor, or Robert MacGregor Campbell, or otherwise, being lately entrusted by several noblemen and gentlemen with considerable sums for buying cows for them in the Highlands, he did most fraudulently withdraw and flee, without performing anything on his part, and therefore is become unquestionably a notour and fraudulent bankrupt. The said Robert Campbell moreover, being treacherously gone off with the moneys, to the value of £1,000 sterling, which he carries along with him, all magistrates and officers of Her Majesty’s forces are entreated to sieze upon the said Robert Campbell and the moneys which he carries. God Save the Queen!”’ That resounding pronouncement admittedly might have been read with more of a flourish.

There was a silence over the High Street of Crieff, as the Sheriff Officer finished, nevertheless, in which the lowing of cattle from up on the Town Moor could be heard distinctly. Citizens eyed each other askance, and many a head was shaken.

Plowden spoke. ‘Are you satisfied, sirrah?’

‘Me, Captain?’ Rob Roy’s voice sounded entirely unconcerned, if a little surprised. ‘What is it to me? Who is this Robert Campbell? A terrible man he must be, indeed, to have defrauded all these noblemen. One thousand pounds sterling, was it? A fortune, no less. A strong man he must be, too, to carry it all with him, in gold pieces, whatever! Och, I’ve heard some queer-like tales of those Campbells in my day, yes – but this beats all. And to buy cows . . .?’

‘Silence!’ the Captain cried. ‘Such clowning will gain you nothing. I arrest you, now, in the Queen’s name.’ He turned to his men. ‘Sergeant – take him.’

Rob Roy’s hand came up, with a swift and strangely authoritative gesture. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That you may not do. It is contrary to the law of this land.’

‘What? God in Heaven, man – are you beyond your wits?’

‘You stand, Captain, in the town and burgh of Crieff, in the presence of its chief magistrate. No arrest may be made therein, see you, save by the Provost or by his authority – this country not being in a state of war. I call Provost Drummond and the citizens of Crieff to witness! And the Sheriff Officer likewise.’

The soldier took a further pace forward, wrathfully. Then he paused, and shrugged. ‘Very well. It matters not who says the words – so long as I take you to Stirling. Provost – arrest me this man. You have heard the proclamation.’

Drummond swallowed, and shifted his feet. ‘Aye,’ he said thickly. ‘Ooh, aye. Dearie me.’ He looked from the soldier over to MacGregor, and then to the ranks of his own watching townsfolk. ‘I hae no choice. The proclamation speaks plain. . . .’

‘Surely, surely, Provost,’ Rob acceded readily. But this time his glance was not bent on the speaker but turned uphill, away up the street that he had recently come down. It would be untrue to say that he peered, but there might have been a hint of urgency in his gaze. ‘Do what you must do, friend. But read you the form of words again, Provost, so that all is done right and in order.’

‘Nonsense!’ Captain Plowden exclaimed. ‘What folly is this? The proclamation has been read, and is clear to all. Have done, Provost.’

‘No, sir,’ the MacGregor insisted, firmly. ‘The law is the law. If the Provost is for making an arrest, he must do so as the law prescribes. Read the proclamation, Provost.’

‘Maybe he is right, then,’ Drummond said uncertainly. ‘Och, no harm in reading it again, to be safe, see you.’

‘Lord preserve me from such lawyer’s hair-splitting . . . !’

So the proclamation was read once more, even less eloquently than before.

‘Thank you, Provost,’ Rob acknowledged gravely, at the end. ‘But it is as I feared – the thing is faulty, whatever. You cannot arrest a man on false authority.’

‘My soul to God!’ Plowden choked.

‘What . . . what . . .?’ the tanner croaked.

‘Your paper is made out against one Robert Campbell. That is not my name, as well you know, Provost.’

‘Och, we a’ ken that, Rob. But . . .’

‘But, nothing. We must be accurate, in matters of law.’

‘Damnation – this is beyond belief! None knows better than you, man, that the name of MacGregor has been banished and proscribed by law since, since . . .’ The Captain swallowed. ‘Well, for years. And that every one of your wretched cut-throat clan has had to take another name. You, who prate of the law, are known as Campbell before the law. Can you deny it?’

‘Ha! As Royal’s my Race – and there you have it, my friends! I do not deny it. Before the law I may be known as Robert Campbell though my name is MacGregor, as were my forebears back to Gregor son of Alpin, King of Scots. But that is not what your paper says, see you. It says Robert Campbell, commonly known as Robert MacGregor. And there is none such in this realm – for no Campbell would ever take the name of MacGregor, for fear of his skin, whatever! The thing is faulty, as I say, and will not serve.’ That was declared like a fanfare of trumpets – but, at the same time, the speaker’s eyes flickered away momentarily to his right again, up that steeply climbing street.

Plowden actually gobbled in his efforts adequately to express his feelings. Nor was he alone in his incoherent comments. Of all the watchers, only the dozen dragoons sat silent and apparently unmoved. The crowd stirred and buzzed like a bees’ bike.

‘Silence!’ the Captain roared, at length. ‘Quiet! You!’ He swung on the unhappy Provost. ‘Say that you arrest this fool, and be done.’

‘You cannot do that, Provost – you would break the law,’ Rob Roy’s great voice carried clearly, vibrantly. ‘The law of which you are a magistrate. You must admit the paper is wrongly worded.’

‘Aye – och, maybe. But I canna help that, Rob. What can I do . . .?’

‘You can give the proclamation back to the Sheriff Officer, and tell him to go have it amended. Then he, or the Captain, can come with it to me, any day, at my own house of Inversnaid, and present it again. Lawfully.’ Rob Roy smiled. ‘They would be warmly received, I promise you!’

‘For God’s sake! I’ve heard enough,’ the sorely tried Plowden cried. ‘Not another word. Forget the proclamation. I am taking this man into custody as a proscribed MacGregor bearing arms contrary to Act of Parliament. On my own authority . . .’ He had to keep raising his voice, to be heard.

But it was a losing battle. A louder noise than his authoritative shouting was beginning to fill the air. And to turn all heads . . .