Chapter 14
Doune Castle - Thursday, September 12th, 1745
James Mòr and Rob MacGregor lay flat on their bellies amid the whin and bracken. “Dhia!" Rob exclaimed, withdrawing his hand from a clump of nettles. Behind them some fifty of Glengyle's most loyal Gregarach lay in the early morning gloom, wrapped in their plaids against the chill of the autumn morning.
"Glencarnaig and Glengyle will yet be abed at Dunblane,” James Mòr said, warmly, "while we are at the danger again. Balhaldie was ever the armchair plotter but I expected more of Glencarnaig and your father.”
Rob grinned. James Mòr would not have it any other way. He was the lad for the danger, right enough. "How many men are in there?" he asked, motioning at the grim bulk of the fortress ahead, its great gate tower rising almost eighty feet sheer from the ground.
"Balhaldie did not know but expected no more than thirty or so, possibly invalids. He said that there had been a full troop of dragoons there last week, but he thought that they had left." James Mòr paused, then added. "For our sakes, let us hope that they have left. No matter how many there are, if they know we are here, then we are lost."
"Balhaldie said that the gate tunnel is defended by an iron yett and a second gate beyond. There is a postern gate into the kitchen block at the other end, but it is firmly closed." James Mòr paused and then continued. "There is no connection between the lord’s hall above the gate and the retainer’s hall beyond. Nor can the lord’s hall be entered from the gate tunnel. There is a courtyard with stables where the Dragoon’s horses will be. The entry to the two halls is by open stairs from the courtyard. The doors into both halls can be defended. If we are seen in the yard then we are ducks in the pond to be picked off at leisure. When through the gate make for the nearest stair to the right. That is where the officer would choose to sleep. The doors may be unlocked."
Rob said, "There are many 'maybes' in this plan.”
James Mòr did not answer. He took out his glass and carefully examined the parapet walkway, straining in the faint light to identify the sentinels. "It is just a wee bit different to Inversnaid," he said.
Rob pointed to the right of the gate tower. "There is a man at the window there, just by the turret.”
"That may be the barrack room in the retainer’s hall,” James Mòr answered. "He must be an early riser. They will not be all abed when we greet them. See, there is the sentinel, atop the wall walk. He is walking away from the tower.” Rob, you take your men up through the cottages in front of the gate tower. I will try the walls over by Teith, the mortar-work looks none too firm over yonder."
James Mòr's men silently followed their leader to the left, through the reeds into the shallow waters of the Ardoch Burn, just above its confluence with the River Teith. Some of them carried lengths of hempen rope and grapple irons. There was cover beyond the burn almost as far as the wall foot at the steepest part of the old earthen motte. The tumbled remnants of a much-robbed outer wall impeded them. Twisted trees grew out of the rubble, almost up to the principal wall. Their topmost branches reached close to the wall-top. None grew close enough to assist in scaling the wall. Still, they afforded good cover from the attention of the sentinel in the poor dawn light.
Rob motioned the twenty men of Glengyle's Gregarach forward. They silently waded the burn and lined up behind the high garden wall that stood below the gate. "Calum,” he whispered, "go you, with these four, by the trees over there, to the right. Iain, take the left.”
They heard the sound of a door closing, followed by footsteps. "Wheesht,” Rob whispered, freezing against the wall, "Someone stirs."
In front of him was a two storey, slate roofed cottage, built some fifty yards to the north of the castle gate tower. James Mòr had said that it was the house of the castle bailiff. Around it were several thatched farm buildings. Rob had only considered these as offering cover for their assault. They had rope with them to assist in scaling the walls but if they were defended, this would be a sad day for the Gregarach before it was over.
A man stepped through of the door of the house. He stretched his arms. He took several deep breaths of the cool morning air as he stood on the step. Rob stood, no more than ten feet away, watching through a crack in the masonry of the wall. "As royal is our race," he breathed. "He has the keys.”
True enough, the Earl of Moray's bailiff had preferred his own soft bed to the rigour of this grim medieval castle. It was now time to start the tasks of the day. The castle was busier today than it had been for thirty years. Indeed it had last been occupied during the '15 rising. Once this place had been a palace, a near Royal palace when Robert, Duke of Albany, younger brother of the feeble Robert III, had ruled. He had been the real power in the land, when his brother was nominal king. The Duke had built this palace with its massive curtain walls to flaunt his power.
The bailiff stepped along the path towards the castle gate, keys jangling at his belt. The sentinel had not yet returned from his walk around the wall. Rob, silently, stepped behind the bailiff. Rob’s muscular left arm encircled the bailiff's throat, the dirk in his right hand at the bailiff’s chest where the man could see the gleaming fourteen-inch blade. Rob's forced him to his knees. “Man, there’s nae need for this,” he cried. “I have been expecting ye, if ye wad just let me free.”
Rob loosed his grip, keeping his dirk unsheathed and allowed the man to stand and turn around.
“Here are the keys. All I ask is that you should bind me and leave me in my ain comfortable chair whilst ye gae aboot your business in yonder. Here is the hemp that will bind me.”
“Are you Edmonstoun?” Rob asked.
“Aye, lad, that is my name, but keep me and mine out of the ears of yonder dragoon officer or we shall pay for’t hereafter.”
This man was prepared to betray the castle but anxious not to have to pay the price of his treachery. In Rob’s view, there was right and there was wrong; for and against. This politicking approach, aiding one side while anxious to appear loyal to the other was no way for a gentleman to behave. None too gently, Rob tied the bailiff up with his own hempen rope and left him in the chair in the house.
Rob emerged with keys in hand. He looked about. No one stirred in the early dawn, apart from his own men still lying under cover. He quietly moved the thirty feet to the gate, followed by the rest of his men. They lined up, backs to the wall as closely as they could, invisible to the sentinel unless he leaned over the wall above them. There was still no sound from the castle. Rob looked at the bulky bunch of keys. The great key had to be for the outer door. He gently turned it in the massive lock. Praise the Lord! Or more likely the bailiff, for the lock had been well greased. The gate swung open, almost silently. The iron yett beyond had been left ajar, its massive iron bar left home in its slot. Luck was with the Clan Gregor! The gateway tunnel was some forty-five feet in length, its roof was pierced by slots for the defenders above to rain death on any assailants. Pray God that they were all asleep. Almost half way along, on the right was a guardroom. Rob, crept towards it. The keys clinked. He stopped, silently cursing. He moved on with his men, one by one, following.
The guard chamber door was ajar. Rob listened intently. Nothing. No, he could hear snoring. More luck. He indicated that Alasdair Roy should check the storeroom opposite It appeared empty. Rob edged his way into the guard chamber where a fire glowed in the corner. There was just one man in here. Rob drew his pistol, levelling it at the sleeping guard. He motioned Calum Og forward. Calum clubbed the guard with the metal butt of his pistol. The man shuddered and lay quiet again, still breathing. "Lash him up and put him in there,” Rob ordered, pointing at the lock-up cell at the back of the guard-chamber.
They slipped out of the chamber and carefully edged along the wall to the solid timber gate at the other end of the tunnel. It was closed. Gregor glanced at the keys at his belt. There were six in all. "Which one,” he wondered. He pushed the door. It was unlocked and the hinges greased too! More thanks to Edmonstoun!
Ever so smoothly, Rob opened open one side of the great double door. He peered in. There were some thatched buildings up against the wall opposite. Stables most like. There was a well in the centre of the courtyard. Still there was no sound. This luck could not continue. He waited. Where was that sentinel? Then he saw him, standing over by the bartizan on the southwest corner of the curtain wall. He seemed to be looking intently over the wall. Rob drew his breath. The sentinel must have spotted James Mòr, or at least had seen something suspicious. The bartizan protected the sentinel up to his shoulders from an external threat, but he was clearly exposed from where Rob stood.
Rob slipped back behind the door. “There is a sentinel over yonder. He may have seen James Mòr. Fearchar,” he whispered, summoning a tall, powerfully built man. "Bring your bow."
The bow had not been used as a serious weapon of war by Highlanders for more than a century. It remained an ideal instrument for the poacher who wished to work in silence. Fearchar was an expert at his craft. He had often provided for the pot on Glengyle’s travels. Now was the chance for him to strike a blow for Clan Gregor and the Prince.
Fearchar, looked through the door, he glanced around the interior behind the high curtain walls, then up at the sentinel, still standing at the bartizan. The sentinel started to straighten up. He seemed to have come to a decision. The light was strengthening. Fearchar drew his bow of Fortingall yew, notched the arrow and let fly. "Sweesh" the arrow winged its way across the diagonal of the courtyard, some hundred and forty feet horizontally and sixty feet vertically. The sentinel had turned and was about to pick his way over the drainage channels on the wall top to where James Mòr must have been hiding below the wall. The arrow took him in the throat. The force of its impact, turned him and pushed him outwards. He disappeared over the time-worn crenelations of the wall top. There was no sound of his fall. He must have landed in the long grass and scrub at the base.
"That will stir James Mòr," Rob said to Calum Og. "Go tell him the door is open.”
He turned to Fearchar. "Well shot. All is now clear.”
Rob made his way along the side of the outer stair to the tower. There was an iron gate. The massive padlock hanging loosely, uselessly open. Rob detailed some of his men, including Fearchar to remain here against the wall in case there were servants or soldiers in the ramshackle huts and stables on the opposite wall. There was no point in crossing the courtyard yet in case they were seen from the upper windows.
James Mòr arrived with his men. Rob greeted him, silently, exultantly. James Mòr indicated that the next step was now up to Rob. Rob motioned James Mòr to take the farther stone staircase into the retainer’s hall while his own men would take the nearer stair into the lord’s hall. Fearchar was warned to guard the entrances to the undercrofts, between the stairs. They appeared unoccupied. Two others were sent back to secure the outer gate.
Still there were no sounds from the garrison. A curl of smoke showed from atop the kitchen tower. Someone was awake.
Rob climbed the outside staircase to the door to the lord’s hall closely followed by his men. The door to the lord’s hall was locked. Curse it. Rob checked the keys at his side. He tried one, a second, the third fitted. The door creaked as it opened. An omen? He looked over to where James Mòr and his men were entering the door to the retainer’s hall.
Rob’s Gregarach filed in. There was a short passageway. The sound of men breathing steadily could be heard beyond. Rob looked into the room. It was a large, barrel vaulted hall. The walls were of hewn stone. There were signs of ancient splendour, though badly decayed. Twenty or more men slept on the floor. Muskets were neatly stacked near where Rob stood. Nobody stirred.
Rob motioned his men forward. They drew their pistols, covering their enemies. At Rob's signal they kicked the sleeping men into life. Most were too surprised to resist. Only one attempted to cry a warning, but he was quickly clubbed into silence. There was a muffled pistol shot. Rob looked at Calum. "That was James Mòr in the retainer’s hall.” Surprise was over.
Rob ordered that the prisoners should be taken down the stair and guarded in the undercroft vault below.
He and Calum rushed across the hall to the stair way opposite. The door was open. He took the steps two at a time. At the top was another door. It was closed. He stepped back and kicked. It flew open and crashed against the wall inside. Rob ran in. A man, naked, tumbling out of the bed, grasping for his sword and dragging the bedcover onto the floor. His companion of the night was on the bed. She clutched her ample dark-tipped breasts and drew in her long legs beneath her. She screamed. Rob raised his broadsword and the man attempted to parry. He cried out as Rob's sword, on the down-stroke cut through the flesh into the bone of his sword arm. The sword dropped with a clatter. He collapsed on the floor, sobbing. Rob picked up the sword and handed it to Calum. He lifted up the bedcover, giving it to the terrified woman cowering on the bed. "Your servant, madam.”
Rob and Calum continued up the stair. Other Gregarach followed. They came to a narrow curving passageway. On the right was another chamber. It was empty. Ahead of them was the upper hall.
Here was another great room, larger than that downstairs. Rob feared if the garrison turned out to be larger than Balhaldie had indicated, their stupendous luck would run out here.
There were just six men in the room. They had been awakened. "By gad sir, we are invaded,” a tall man shouted. He was in early middle age. His paunch shook. He was bald. He would have presented a distinguished appearance if he had had time to dress. Instead he looked ridiculous. He grabbed his sword. He must have been conscious that it was his only attire. Several women rushed to the oratory recessed into the far wall and curtained off as a dressing room. Rob had a sight of quivering well-rounded buttocks as they disappeared behind the curtain.
There were straw mattresses and coverlets on the floor. The tall man rushed at Rob but fell headlong before him with his feet entangled in a cover. Rob dunted him on the head with his sword hilt. Eight Gregarach pistols covered the other men in the room. The dragoon officers flung down their weapons. "On the floor!" Rob ordered. "Calum, check the recess!"
Calum rushed across to the oratory recess, tearing the curtain down. There were screams. One of the women had a pistol in her hand. A shot rang out. The ball ricocheted off the wall and through the window. She dropped the pistol as the flat of Calum's broadsword stung her hand.
"Find your clothes and dress. We do not make war on women" Rob said.
Rob looked round. He motioned to his men. He sent four to the upper floor and tower top and from there onto the crenelated wall-top. One man was found cowering in the privy chamber. He was no threat. There were no others.
The Gregarach collected up the weapons and herded the prisoners down the spiral staircase. The task was almost complete. What luck! thought Rob, If only Rob Roy had been alive to see this.
Rob made his way downstairs. He met the woman whom he had so rudely awakened a little time before. She was decently dressed now. "Madam,” Rob bowed slightly to her. "Forgive my unseemly intrusion. How is your paramour?"
"Him?" she answered, "well enough, forsooth, he deserves no better. He claims to be an accomplished swordsman. I had never seen him fight before. You are the better man by far.”
Rob flushed, "His name, madam? And yours?"
"He is Captain Edward Mannering of Gardiner's dragoons. I am Helen Forsyth from Edinburgh. My husband was a merchant and a burgess. He bored me. The gallant Captain was charming and exciting. Now I have no home. I have no protector. I seem to be in the hands of wild Highlanders. Pray, sir, who are you?"
"Robert MacGregor of Stronachlachar, second son of Gregor MacGregor of Glen Gyle," Rob responded.
They crossed the lower of the halls in the lord's tower as they spoke. Two of Rob's men were stationed here. One soldier lay on the floor still groaning. Rob asked Helen about the remainder of the dragoons who had been here.
"There were
more than a hundred here until yesterday. They went, I believe, to defend the Fords of Frew against the Rebels. Your pardon, sir," she flushed. “I meant to say, Prince Charles’s army.”
"Granted, Mistress Forsyth,” Rob responded.
Helen continued. "Captain Mannering remained with a lieutenant and six of his dragoons. The others are of the local militia. It suited the Captain's comfort to remain here. His reason was that he had divided his troop into three parts and he required a secure base to command them. Really, he preferred the bed here with me. He told me that he had no desire to sleep in the mud for the sake of ill-disciplined cattle thieves and robbers." After a pause she asked, “Pray sir, how did you enter. This fort was proof against any siege that the Highlanders could mount, or so said the Captain.”
"Oh, we just let ourselves in,” Rob responded, jingling the heavy ring at his belt.
Helen looked surprised for a moment, "Of course, Edward threw the bailiff out because he had the only comfortable bed in the place. He has a perfectly good house outside the walls but the Earl of Moray had commanded him to remain in the castle during the present disturbance. He did try to argue with Edward, but got short shrift, so he went back to his own house. I do not think that Edward realized that the bailiff had taken the keys with him."
By now they were standing in the courtyard. Fearchar had found four stable attendants, but they had no desire to fight. Indeed one seemed quite willing to join the Prince's army. James Mòr came down the other staircase.
"Well then, Rob,” he exclaimed, clapping him on the back. “You have a fine achievement. You just walked through the door, left me to deal with the kitchen scullions and found yourself a beautiful lady, to boot."
Rob flushed. "Yes, I had a lot of luck."
He began to stammer a little, something he had not done in years. The reaction to the furious action, now over, made his knees tremble. He drew himself up. Took a deep breath. “Yes, it went well,” he said, with assurance again. "How were the scullions?"
James Mòr appeared not to notice his temporary weakness. “The great hall was empty, but we found the cook and four servants in the kitchen. They had no fight in them at all. There are two chambers above. We found two clerks in the lower. They had no stomach for our steel. Above was a dragoon lieutenant. He was roused by the commotion and came at me as I entered. He had the advantage, so Calum Dubh shot him dead."
"So,” Rob said, "we have killed two of the garrison, left three with headaches and one with a cut arm. The remainder are confined in the vault there. Have we any losses? I saw none."
It appeared that there had been none. Rob ordered two of his men to secure the bailiff's house outside. Others were instructed to inventory the provisions, military supplies and horses that had been captured. Rob sat in the lord’s upper hall and wrote a message to the Prince’s army headquarters in Dunblane. His father and Glencarnaig, who were spending the night at Balhaldie's house guarding the Prince, would be well pleased with this day's work.
“Alasdair, take you this to Balhaldie’s house in Dunblane and deliver it to Glengyle. Then return here with his commands,” Rob instructed then he disposed of his remaining men. “Calum and Iain, take you the officers and imprison them in the vault below. Place a guard on them. Fearchar and Domhnall, lock the militia men in the upper hall.”
James Mòr entered the room. “There are some fine wines in the cellar. These dragoons know how to look after themselves. Will you join me in celebrating the Prince’s health, Rob?”
Later, about noon, the Army staff arrived from Dunblane, led by Glengyle, Glencarnaig and Lochiel, escorting the Prince on horseback. Behind them, well guarded, came Glengyle’s prisoners from Inversnaid and the officers from Kilcumein that Lochiel and Glengarry had captured almost a month earlier.
“Well done, Glengyle,” the Prince said, looking at the soaring ramparts, which despite the weeds growing out of the cracked masonry still looked daunting. ”You should be proud of your son, even if Miss Edmonstoun had prevailed over her father on our behalf.”
The prisoners were herded through the pend and into the courtyard of the grim fortress. Rob and James Mòr disposed of them into the more secure chambers. A guard of twenty-five, mostly older men, was detached to remain here as garrison.
“Now then, Rob” Glengyle said, “We have more work for thee. Detachments have been sent down to Stirling to reconnoitre the bridge, which we believe to have been cut, and then to try to pass the River Forth. There are sloops of war stationed at Alloa and they may intend to oppose our crossing. The Prince wishes our doughty clan to pass by Thornhill to the Fords of Frew. Though it is conceived that the dragoons may wish to contest the crossing, you and James Mòr are to try their resolve.”
So it was that in the mid-afternoon, Rob and James Mòr were on the road once again. They crossed the Teith by the bridge of Doune and quickly covered the four miles through the dry and fertile farmlands to Thornhill. From the edge of the escarpment, they looked over the watery wastes of the carse of the meandering Forth. Open sheets of water, interspersed with copses of oak and hazel, stretched upstream as far as they could see. Three miles south of their position, the flatlands ended at Kippen. Beyond rose the Fintry and Gargunnock hills. Nine miles to the southeast stood the formidable ramparts of Stirling Castle on its sheer rock. Beyond it lay the tree covered mound of the Abbey Craig, masking the hill of Dumyat beyond.
Through the wetlands they splashed, keeping to the known route towards the Fords. On the occasional patches of drier ground they were able to identify the marks of heavy cavalry horses. The copses of oak, rowan, alder and willows on these drier islands were interspersed with dense reed beds in standing water. Rob led the column, well dispersed and wary of surprise. Their powder was dry, though their plaids were not. Broadswords and dirks held easy in their scabbards.
At last they reached Frew. The water moved sluggishly over the broad shallow ford. Its gravel bed provided reasonably firm footing for a crossing here. Elsewhere the bog and treacherous swamps were capable of swallowing an army. Rob disposed of his men among the alders and willows whose branches hung down, leaves trailing in the water. Across the stream they observed the dragoons. There was a full squadron, at least. Their horses tethered in a line beyond. Several colourfully dressed officers stood by idly. Their men laboured, some of them knee deep in the water. Among the trees, woodsmen toiled. A considerable number of labourers manhandled roughly dressed timbers on the embankment. A tall oak crashed to the ground on the dry, rising ground beyond the ford. The axeman moved along it, severing its branches.
“What are they doing?” Rob asked of James Mòr.
“If I am not mistaken, I believe they are manufacturing wooden calthrops to deny us passage of the ford. They join sharpened stakes together in order that, however they are thrown down, a point is uppermost. They are the devil for mounted horsemen to pass. They slow dismounted men so that they can be picked off by musketry. Beyond the horse lines they are building a barricade as a firing position. Protected behind it they could hold off many times their number. We should thank the Lord that they are not yet prepared for us. It is my opinion that a good volley of musketry just now might give these such a fright that they would run. At this range we would hit some of them. Aim for the dragoons. We do not wish to harm their labourers.”
Quickly but quietly Rob gave the command along the line. When all was ready, he fired his piece as the signal. At once a volley crashed out and, momentarily, their vision was obscured by dense smoke. As it cleared, it was apparent that James Mòr had been correct in his opinion. The labourers were running in all directions. The dragoons were mounting their horses and soon furiously galloping away towards Stirling. A few lay still. A single horse flailed its legs. In a short time the scene had been transformed. The powder smoke blew away. The waters ran quietly. The horse died.
Pausing only to detail a messenger to return to Doune with the news of their latest success, Rob and James Mòr se
nt their men into the water to clear the obstacles.
“Take care, Rob, “James Mòr called out. “They have sown metal crowtoes in the water. They, too, will have to be cleared.”
The crowtoes were metal versions of the large, wooden calthrops. Much smaller but designed to tear the feet of unwary horses and men. Fortunately, the dragoons had concentrated on the larger wooden obstacles and had positioned very few of the crowtoes in the water. Most were ashore, still in their boxes. The heavy calthrops took three or four men to manhandle into the deeper water downstream of the ford. They probed carefully looking for other obstacles. Making use of the timbers and ropes so thoughtfully provided by the dragoons, they erected guide rails to assist the army in its crossing. Other logs they placed in the mire leading up to the ford to ease the passage of the army carts.
After some time their messenger returned. The Prince sent his warm congratulations and advised them that the army would cross tomorrow. It was the Prince’s pleasure that they should remain there that night in order to guard the crossing in case the dragoons should return.