Rob Roy Read online

  ‘Well, sir, but as it is no impertinent curiosity of mine, but real necessity, that obliges me to make these inquiries, I hope you will not be offended at my pressing for a little farther information. I have to deal, on my father’s account, with several gentlemen of these wild countries, and I must trust your good sense and experience for the requisite lights upon the subject.’

  This little morsel of flattery was not thrown out in vain.

  ‘Experience!’ said the Bailie, ‘I hae had experience, nae doubt, and I hae made some calculations—Ay, and to speak quietly amang oursells, I hae made some perquisitions through Andrew Wylie, my auld clerk; he’s wi’ MacVittie and Co. now—but he whiles drinks a gill on the Saturday afternoons wi’ his auld master. And since ye say ye are willing to be guided by the Glasgow weaver-body’s advice, I am no the man that will refuse it to the son of an auld correspondent, and my father the deacon was nane sic afore me. I have whiles thought o’ letting my lights burn before the Duke of Argyle, or his brother Lord Ilay, (for wherefore should they be hidden under a bushel?) but the like o’ thae grit men wadna mind the like o’ me, a puir wabster-body—they think mair o’ wha says a thing than o’ what the thing is that’s said. The mair’s the pity—mair‘s the pity. Not that I wad speak ony ill of this MacCallum More—“Curse not the rich in your bedchamber,” saith the son of Sirach, for a bird of the air shall carry the clatter, and pint-stoups hae lang lugs.’

  I interrupted these prolegomena in which Mr. Jarvie was apt to be somewhat diffuse, by praying him to rely upon Mr. Owen and myself as perfectly secret and safe confidents.

  ‘it’s no for that,’ he replied, ‘for I fear nae man—what for suld I?—I speak nae treason—Only thae Hielandmen hae lang grips, and I whiles gang a wee bit up the glens to see some auld kinsfolks, and I wadna willingly be in bad blude wi’ ony o’ their clans. Howsumever, to proceed—Ye maun understand I found my remarks on figures, whilk, as Mr. Owen here weel kens, is the only true demonstrable root of human knowledge.’

  Owen readily assented to a proposition so much in his own way, and our orator proceeded.

  ‘These Hielands of ours, as we ca’ them, gentlemen, are but a wild kind of warld by themsells, full of heights and howes, woods, caverns, lochs, rivers and mountains, that it wad tire the very deevil’s wings to flee to the tap o’ them. And in this country, and in the isles, whilk are little better or, to speak the truth, rather waur than the mainland, there are about twa hunder and thirty parochines, including the Orkneys, where, whether they speak Gaelic or no, I wotna, but they are an uncivilized people.—Now, sirs, I sall haud ilk parochine at the moderate estimate of eight hundred examinable persons, deducting children under nine years of age, and then adding one-fifth to stand for bairns of nine years auld and under, the whole population will reach the sum of—let us add one-fifth to 800 to be the multiplier, and 230 being the multiplicand——’

  ‘The product,’ said Mr. Owen, who entered delightedly into these statistics of Mr. Jarvie, ‘will be 230,000.’

  ‘Right, sir—perfectly right; and the military array of this Hieland country, were a‘the men-folk between aughteen and fifty-six brought out that could bear arms, couldna come weel short of fifty-seven thousand five hundred men. Now, sir, it’s a sad and awfu’ truth, that there is neither wark, nor the very fashion nor appearance of wark, for the tae half of thae puir creatures; that is to say, that the agriculture, the pasturage, the fisheries, and every species of honest industry about the country, cannot employ the one moiety of die population, let them work as lazily as they like and they do work as if a pleugh or a spade burnt their fingers. Aweel, sir, this moiety of unemployed bodies, amounting to——’

  ‘To one hundred and fifteen thousand souls,’ said Owen, ‘being the half of the above product.’

  ‘Ye hae’t, Maister Owen—ye hae’t—whereof there may be twenty-eight thousand seven hundred able-bodied gillies fit to bear arms, and that do bear arms, and will touch or look at nae honest means of livelihood even if they could get it—which, lack-a-day, they cannot.’

  ‘But is it possible,’ said I, ‘Mr. Jarvie, that this can be a just picture of so large a portion of the island of Britain?’

  ‘Sir, I’ll make it as plain as Peter Pasley’s pike-staff—I will allow that ilk parochine, on an average, employs fifty pleughs, whilk is a great proportion in sic miserable soil as thae creatures hae to labour, and that there may be pasture eneugh for pleugh-horses, and owsen, and forty or fifty cows; now, to take care o’ the pleughs and cattle, we’se allow seventy-five families of six lives in ilk family, and we’se add fifty mair to make even numbers, and ye hae five hundred souls, the tae half o’ the population, employed and maintained in a sort o’ fashion, wi’ some chance of sour milk and crowdie; but I wad be glad to ken what the other five hundred are to do?’

  ‘In the name of God!’ said I, ‘what do they do, Mr. Jarvie? It makes me shudder to think of their situation.’

  ‘Sir,’ replied the Bailie, ‘ye wad maybe shudder mair if ye were living near-hand them. For, admitting that the tae half of them may make some little thing for themsells honestly in the Lowlands by shearing in harst, droving, haymaking, and the like; ye hae still mony hundreds and thousands o’ lang-legged Hieland gillies that will neither work nor want, and maun gang thigging and sorning1 about on their acquaintance, or live by doing the laird‘s bidding, be‘t right or be‘t wrang. And mair especially, mony hundreds o’ them come down to the borders of the low country, where there’s gear to grip, and live by stealing, reiving, lifting cows, and the like depredations! A thing deplorable in ony Christian country—the mair especially, that they take pride in it, and reckon driving a spreagh (whilk is, in plain Scotch, stealing a herd of nowte) a gallant manly action, and mair befitting of pretty1 men (as sic reivers will ca’ themsells) than to win a day’s wage by ony honest thrift. And the lairds are as bad as the loons: for if they dinna bid them gae reive and harry, the deil a bit they forbid them; and they shelter them, or let them shelter themsells, in their woods, and mountains, and strongholds, whenever the thing’s dune. And every ane o’ them will maintain as mony o’ his ane name, or his clan, as we say, as he can rap and rend means for; or, whilk’s the same thing, as mony as can in ony fashion, fair or foul, mainteen themsells—and there they are wi’ gun and pistol, dirk and dourlach, ready to disturb the peace o’ the country whenever the laird likes; and that’s the grievance of the Hielands, whilk are, and hae been for this thousand years by-past, a bike o’ the maist lawless unchristian limmers that ever disturbed a douce, quiet, God-fearing neighbourhood, like this o’ ours in the west here.’

  ‘And this kinsman of yours, and friend of mine, is he one of those great proprietors who maintain the household troops you speak of ?’ I enquired.

  ‘Na, na,’ said Bailie Jarvie; ‘he’s nane o’ your great grandees o’ chiefs, as they ca’ them, neither. Though he is weel born, and lineally descended frae auld Glenstrae—I ken his lineage—indeed he is a near kinsman, and, as I said, of gude gentle Hieland blude, though ye may think weel that I care little about that nonsense—it’s a’ moonshine in water —waste threads and thrums, as we say—but I could show ye letters frae his father, that was the third aff Glenstrae, to my father Deacon Jarvie (peace be wi’ his memory!) beginning, Dear Deacon, and ending, your loving kinsman to command,—they are amaist a’ about borrowed siller, sae the gude deacon, that’s dead and gane, keepit them as documents and evidents—He was a carefu’ man.’

  ‘But if he is not,’ I resumed, ‘one of their chiefs or patriarchal leaders, whom I have heard my father talk of, this kinsman of yours has, at least, much to say in the Highlands, I presume?’

  ‘Ye may say that—nae name better kend between the Lennox and Breadalbane. Robin was anes a weel-doing, pains-taking drover, as ye wad see amang ten thousand—It was a pleasure to see him in his belted plaid and brogues, wi’ his target at his back, and claymore and dirk at his belt, following a hundred Highland stots, and
a dozen o’ the gillies, as rough and ragged as the beasts they drave. And he was baith civil and just in his dealings, and if he thought his chapman had made a hard bargain, he wad gie him a luck-penny to the mends. I hae kend him gie back five shillings out o’ the pund sterling.’

  ‘Twenty-five per cent.,’ said Owen—‘a heavy discount.’

  ‘He wad gae it though, sir, as I tell ye; mair especially if he thought the buyer was a puir man, and couldna stand by a loss. But the times cam hard, and Rob was venturesome. It wasna my faut—it wasna my faut; he canna wyte me. I aye tauld him o’t—And the creditors, mair especially some grit neighbours o’ his, grippit to his living and land; and they say his wife was turned out o’ the house to the hill-side, and sair misguided to the boot. Shamefu’! shamefu’!—I am a peacefu’ man and a magistrate, but if ony ane had guided sae muckle as my servant quean, Mattie, as it’s like they guided Rob‘s wife, I think it suld hae set the shabble1 that my father the deacon had at Bothwell Brigg a-walking again. Weel, Rob came hame, and fand desolation, God pity us! where he left plenty; he looked east, west, south, north, and saw neither hauld nor hope—neither beild nor shelter; sae he e’en pu’d the bonnet ower his brow, belted the broadsword to his side, took to the brae-side, and became a broken-man.’1

  The voice of the good citizen was broken by his contending feelings. He obviously, while he professed to contemn the pedigree of his Highland kinsman, attached a secret feeling of consequence to the connexion, and he spoke of his friend in his prosperity with an overflow of affection, which deepened his sympathy for his misfortunes, and his regret for their consequences.

  ‘Thus tempted, and urged by despair,’ said I, seeing Mr. Jarvie did not proceed in his narrative, ‘I suppose your kinsman became one of those depredators you have described to us?’

  ‘No sae bad as that,’ said the Glaswegian,—‘no a’thegither and outright sae bad as that; but he became a levier of black-mail, wider and farther than ever it was raised in our day, a’ through the Lennox and Menteith, and up to the gates o’ Stirling Castle.’

  ‘Black-mail?—I do not understand the phrase,’ I remarked.

  ‘Ou, ye see, Rob soon gathered an unco band o’ blue-bonnets at his back, for he comes o’ a rough name when he’s kent by his ain, and a name that’s held it’s ain for mony a lang year, baith again king and parliament, and kirk too, for aught I ken—an auld and honourable name, for as sair as it has been worried and hadden down and oppressed. My mother was a MacGregor—I carena wha kens it—And the Rob had soon a gallant band; and as it grieved him (he said) to see sic hership, and waste, and depredation to the south o’ the Hieland line, why, if ony heritor or farmer wad pay him four punds Scots out of each hundred punds of valued rent, whilk was doubtless a moderate consideration, Rob engaged to keep them scaithless—let them send to him if they lost sae muckle as a single cloot by thieving, and Rob engaged to get them again, or pay the value—and he aye keepit his word—I canna deny but he keepit his word—a’ men allow Rob keeps his word.’

  ‘This is a very singular contract of assurance,’ said Mr. Owen.

  ‘it’s clean again our statute law, that must be owned,’ said Jarvie, ‘clean again law; the levying and the paying blackmail are baith punishable: but if the law canna protect my barn and byre, whatfor suld I no engage wi’ a Hieland gentleman than can?—answer me that.’

  ‘But,’ said I, ‘Mr. Jarvie, is this contract of black-mail, as you call it, completely voluntary on the part of the landlord or farmer who pays the insurance? or what usually happens, in case any one refuses payment of this tribute?’

  ‘Aha, lad!’ said the Bailie, laughing, and putting his finger to his nose, ‘ye think ye hae me there. Troth, I wad advise ony friends o’ mine to gree wi’ Rob; for, watch as they like, and do what they like, they are sair apt to be harried1 when the lang nights come on. Some o’ the Grahame and Cohoon gentry stood out; but what then?—they lost their haul stock the first winter; sae maist folks now think it best to come into Rob’s terms. He’s easy wi’ a’ body that will be easy wi’ him; but if ye thraw him, ye had better thraw the deevil.’

  ‘And by his exploits in these vocations,’ I continued, ‘I suppose he has rendered himself amenable to the laws of the country?’

  ‘Amenable?—ye may say that; his craig wad ken the weight o’ his hurdies if they could get haud o’ Rob. But he has gude friends amang the grit folks; and I could tell ye o’ ae grit family that keeps him up as far as they decently can, to be a thorn in the side of another. And then he’s sic an auld-farran lang-headed chield as never took up the trade o’ cateran in our time; mony a daft reik he has played—mair than wad fill a book, and a queer ane it wad be—as gude as Robin Hood, or William Wallace—a’ fu’ o’ venturesome deeds and escapes, sic as folks tell ower at a winter-ingle in the daft days. It’s a queer thing o’ me, gentlemen, that am a man o’ peace mysell, and a peacefu’ man’s son, for the deacon my father quarrelled wi’ nane out o’ the town-council—it’s a queer thing, I say, but I think the Hieland blude o’ me warms at thae daft tales, and whiles I like better to hear them than a word o’ profit, gude forgie me!—But they are vanities—sinfu’ vanities—and, moreover, again the statute law—again the statute and gospel law.’

  I now followed up my investigation, by enquiring what means of influence this Mr. Robert Campbell could possibly possess over my affairs, or those of my father.

  ‘Why, ye are to understand,’ said Mr. Jarvie, in a very subdued tone—‘I speak amang friends, and under the rose—Ye are to understand, that the Hielands hae been keepit quiet since the year aughty-nine—that was Killiecrankie year. But how hae they been keepit quiet, think ye? By siller, Mr. Owen—by siller, Mr. Osbaldistone. King William caused Breadalbane distribute twenty thousand gude punds sterling amang them, and it’s said the auld Hieland Earl keepit a lang lug o’t in his ain sporran. And then Queen Anne, that’s dead, gae the chiefs bits o’ pensions, sae they had wherewith to support their gillies and caterans that work nae wark, as I said afore; and they lay by quiet eneugh, saving some spreagherie on the Lowlands,whilk is their use and wont, and some cutting o’ thrapples amang themsells, that nae civilized body kens or cares ony thing anent.—Weel, but there’s a new warld come up wi’ this King George, (I say, God bless him, for ane,)—there’s neither like to be siller nor pensions gaun amang them; they haena the means o’ mainteening the clans that eat them up, as ye may guess frae what I said before; their credit’s gane in the Lowlands; and a man that can whistle ye up a thousand or feifteen hundred linking lads to do his will, wad hardly get fifty punds on his band at the Cross o’ Glasgow—This canna stand lang—there will be an outbreak for the Stewarts—there will be an outbreak—they will come down on the Low Country like a flood, as they did in the waefu’ wars o’ Montrose, and that will be seen and heard tell o’ ere a twalmonth gangs round.’

  ‘Yet still,’ I said, ‘I do not see how this concerns Mr. Campbell, much less my father’s affairs.’

  ‘Rob can levy five hundred men, sir, and therefore war suld concern him as muckle as maist folk,’ replied the Bailie; ‘for it is a faculty that is far less profitable in time o’ peace. Then, to tell ye the truth, I doubt he has been the prime agent between some o’ our Hieland chiefs and the gentlemen in the north o’ England. We a’ heard o’ the public money that was taen frae the chield Morris somewhere about the fit o’ Cheviot by Rob and ane o’ the Osbaldi-stone lads; and, to tell ye the truth, word gaed that it was yoursell, Mr. Francis, and sorry was I that your father’s son suld hae taen to sic practices—Na, ye needna say a word about it—I see weel I was mistaen; but I wad believe ony thing o’ a stage-player, whilk I concluded ye to be. But now, I doubtna, it has been Rashleigh himsell, or some other o’your cousins—they are a’ tarr’d wi’ the same stick—rank Jacobites and papists, and wad think the government siller and government papers lawfu’ prize. And the creature Morris is sic a cowardly catiff, that to this hour he daurna say that it was Rob to
ok the portmanteau aff him; and troth he’s right, for your customhouse and excise cattle are ill liket on a’ sides, and Rob might get a back-handed lick at him, before the Board, as they ca‘t, could help him.’

  ‘I have long suspected this, Mr. Jarvie,’ said I, ‘and perfectly agree with you; but as to my father’s affairs——’

  ‘Suspected it?—it’s certain—it’s certain—I ken them that saw some of the papers that were taen aff Morris—it’s needless to say where. But to your father’s affairs—Ye maun think that in thae twenty years by-gane, some o’ the Hieland lairds and chiefs hae come to some sma’ sense o’ their ain interest—your father and others hae bought the woods of Glen-Disseries, Glen Kissoch, Tober-na-Kippoch, and mony mair besides, and your father’s house has granted large bills in payment,—and as the credit o’ Osbaldistone and Tresham was gude—for I’ll say before Mr. Owen’s face as I wad behind his back, that, bating misfortunes o’ the Lord’s sending, nae men could be mair honourable in business—the Hieland gentlemen, holders o’ thae bills, hae found credit in Glasgow and Edinburgh—(I might amaist say in Glasgow wholly, for it’s little the pridefu’ Edinburgh folk do in real business)—for all, or the greater part of the contents o’ thae bills,—So that—Aha! d’ye see me now?’

  I confessed I could not quite follow his drift.

  ‘Why,’ said he, ‘if these bills are not paid, the Glasgow merchant comes on the Hieland lairds, whae hae deil a boddle o’ siller, and will like ill to spew up what is item a’spent—They will turn desperate—five hundred will rise that might hae sitten at hame—the deil will gae ower Jock Wabster—and the stopping of your father’s house will hasten the outbreak that’s been sae lang biding us.’

  ‘You think, then,’ said I, surprised at this singular view of the case, ‘that Rashleigh Osbaldistone has done this injury to my father, merely to accelerate a rising in the Highlands, by distressing the gentlemen to whom these bills were originally granted?’