Glengyle – a Novel of Clan Gregor in the ‘45
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Glengyle – a Novel of Clan Gregor in the ‘45 Introduction. This is the story of Robert, or Rob MacGregor, second son of Gregor glun dubh MacGregor of Glen Gyle, colonel of the Clan Gregor regiment in the 1745 Rising. Rob, as an old man, tells the story of the Rising to his grandson. Beginning with a recollection of his great uncle Rob Roy he goes on to relate a largely unromantic account of the events that he and the Clan Gregor were involved in during the last civil war to afflict Britain. Rob MacGregor was a real person and lived at Stronachlachar on Loch Katrine, as were his son, a sailor, and grandson who feature as incidental characters in the introduction. Using them, allusions are made to the ‘death’ of the old Highland way of life in the aftermath of the Rising. Robert and his brothers, according to a 1747 investigation by the factor to the Duke of Montrose, did not participate in the Rising. Gregor MacGregor of Glen Gyle himself and the sons of Rob Roy, James Mòr, Ranald and Robin Og assuredly did and this novel attempts to faithfully represent the events in which they were involved. Almost all the dialogue and dramatic detail is, however, entirely invented, although I like to think that it would not be too far from the truth. Robert, Duncan and Alexander MacGregor were my ancestors and this book has come out of historical research that began with genealogy. I have written at greater length about the background and the way in which I have tried to set this story in its historical context in an appendix. The key characters in this novel were Gaelic speaking. Most of the dialogue would have taken place in Gaelic, and some of the rest in Lowland Scots rather than standard English. Their situation, on the edge of the ‘Highland line’ as it existed on the 18th century meant that many had acquired some knowledge of English. The men of Clan Gregor probably knew some English from droving contacts. An SPCK (Society for Propagation of Christian Knowledge) school had been established in Balquhidder by around 1710. The SPCK was funded by Government money and one of its early objectives was to wipe out the use of “Irish” as the Gaelic was called in favour of English, as well as creating good servile Presbyterians from the Highlanders. There is archival evidence, in the form of letters and other documents that the leading families of Clan Gregor could also read and write in English by the late 17th century. Rob himself, like his namesake Rob Roy, had received some education and would have a good command of English. To remind the reader of the Gaelic milieu of the novel some Gaelic is used in the text. It will be invariably italicised. In no case will the Gaelic interfere with understanding or the flow of the narrative. I have tried in the dialogue to maintain a simple style of English. In some places contemporary documents have been inserted. Eighteenth century spelling and grammar could be very variable and strange abbreviations were often used. Chapter 1 Stronachlachar - June 1789 The stem of the boat grounded noisily on water-worn pebbles a few yards from a ruinous pier. The boatman leapt ashore with the painter in his hand. He looped the rope around the remains of an ancient, whitened tree stump, buried in peat for centuries but now exposed at the water’s edge. The Snaid Burn sang noisily across the beach where it joined the loch. A lapwing cried out its distress. It hopped away, flapping its wings, instinctively distracting attention from the chicks that lay prone and camouflaged somewhere among the pebbles. The boatman hauled the boat further aground while his crewman lowered the single square sail. Two passengers stepped over the gunwhale of the boat onto the shore of Loch Lomond at Inversnaid. "My thanks to you both for a comfortable voyage," the older passenger said with an indefinable accent, neither Scots, English nor Caribbean, but with a suggestion of all of them. He handed the boatman a golden coin. "I would thank you to return here on Tuesday next at the hour of noon." The two passengers shouldered their packs and walked over the stony beach which the Snaid Burn had created. The older man was in his early forties with a full head of reddish brown hair gathered into a seaman's queue at the back. A few grey hairs could be seen at his temples and in his thick beard. He was a powerfully built man and almost six feet in height. His arms were noticeably longer than average and terminated in large hands, which showed the evidence of hard physical labour. Tar stains were apparent on them despite scrubbing. He walked with a rolling gait, more familiar with a ship’s deck than dry land. He wore clothes that indicated some expense but not much fashionable taste, as if he had recently acquired the means to purchase them without the sense to judge the effect. His buff-coloured breeches were fastened with buttons at the knee over brightly coloured knitted hose. His red silk waistcoat had its edges braided in gold. His bright blue topcoat had a high collar and long tail. Ivory buttons marched in a long line from his collar down the right side of the coat to mid thigh. The fourth button was missing. Over-large cuffs on the coat-sleeves were adorned with more ivory buttons. His black leather shoes had large square silver buckles. On his head sat a tri-cornered black hat. The lad was about thirteen years of age. He was tall and gangly, like a young tree recently sprung up. His young face, marked by the pimples of adolescence had the makings of a handsome man. He wore clothes similar, though less bright, to those his father wore. He was hatless, wigless and barefoot. His silver-buckled shoes hung on a string around his neck. He looked askance at the dark trees that stretched in serried ranks up the hillside. "Where do we go now? We surely cannot climb that hill, and there is no road here by the lake. You said that Grandfather would meet us here. Can we not take a carriage? This pack is too heavy." "All right, lad," said his father, "one question at a time and do not throw stones at the trees. There is a road up the hill that went to the fort at the top. The soldiers built that old pier for their supplies, but it is plain to see it has not been used in a long time. There are no carriages here. It will be necessary for you to walk and if the pack is too heavy that is your own fault for wishing too many clothes in Glasgow. Your grandfather wrote he would meet us here today at noon. My pocket watch has stopped, but the sun tells me this is the correct hour.” They walked towards the pier where they saw the remains of the road. An old man emerged from the trees and walked towards them. "Donnchadh, mo mhac, " he cried in Gaelic, "Duncan, my son.” The two men hugged each other in welcome. The old man was Robert, usually know as Rob, MacGregor. He was similar in height to his son, though grey-haired and dressed in loose, dark trousers above bare feet. A faded red plaid enveloped his upper body. “How wonderful to see you both. I was so pleased to receive your letter. Jean has not been keeping well, but she fairly bucked up when I told her the two of you would be making a visit. This must be Alasdair.” The old man turned to the lad. "Well now, Alasdair, it is glad I am to be seeing you. I thought your father would never bring you home. Jean will be most excited to see you. She always wanted to be seeing you, since you were born." "My name is not Alasdair! I am Alexander, though my father calls me Sawney sometimes," the boy said with some indignation. "And what an English tongue you have in your head, my wee man. Why your father should want to keep you at Wearmouth, I do not know. Greenock was good enough for your uncles. Has your father not told you that Alasdair is our name for Alexander? While you are here, you will be Alasdair." Greetings over, Rob led them up the track. It climbed the hill in wide zig-zags. There was little evidence of maintenance work on the track for many years. The winter floods had undermined it, gouging out water channels through the road. Great rocks, tumbled from the hillside, stood in the way and gullies cut in from either side. The three clambered over fallen trunks and avoided tree roots that threatened to trip them. They came to an area where swathes of the forest had been cleared, but secondary timber growth almost obscured the view to the west behind them, over the loch to the mighty hills of Arrochar beyond. The steep climb levelled out where the Snaid Burn joined the larger Arklet Burn. A large masonry-built structure stood on their left. The timber gates hung partly off their hinges. The boy ran over and stepped gingerly over the rank growth of nettles that surrounded the gateway. His father, shaking his head, followed. Pushing against the gate they made their way into the courtyard. Around them stood neglected buildings, their roofs collapsing and windows broken.