Graham of Claverhouse

by Ian Maclaren

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH

It is written in an ancient book “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,” and with the brief darkness of the summer night passed the shadow from Claverhouse’s soul. According, also, to the brightness and freshness of the early sunshine was his high hope on the eventful day, which was to decide both the fate of his king and of himself. The powers of darkness had attacked him on every side, appealing to his fear and to his faith, to his love and to his hate, to his pride and to his jealousy, to see whether they could not shake his constancy and break his spirit. They had failed at every assault, and he had conquered; he had risen above his ghostly enemies and above himself, and now, having stood fast against principalities and powers of the other world, he was convinced that his earthly enemies would be driven before him as chaff before the wind. He knew exactly what MacKay 304 and his army could do, and what he and his army could, in the place of issue, where, by the mercy of God, Who surely was on the side of His anointed, the battle would be fought. What would avail MacKay’s parade-ground tactics and all the lessons of books, and what would avail the drilling and the manœuvring of his hired automatons in the pass of Killiecrankie, with its wooded banks and swift running river, and narrow gorge and surrounding hills? This was no level plain for wheeling right and wheeling left, for bombarding with artillery and flanking by masses of cavalry. Claverhouse remembers the morning of the battle of Seneffe, when he rode with Carleton and longed to be on the hills with a body of Highlanders, and have the chance of taking by surprise the lumbering army of the Prince of Orange and sweeping it away by one headlong charge. The day for this onslaught had come, and by an irony, or felicity, of Providence, he has the troops he had longed for and his rival has the inert and helpless regulars. News had come that MacKay was marching with phlegmatic steadiness and perfect confidence into the trap, and going to place himself at the greatest disadvantage for his kind of army. The Lord was giving the Whigs into his hand, 305 and they would fall before the sun set, as a prey unto his sword. The passion of battle was in his blood, and the laurels of victory were within his reach. Graham forgot his bitter disappointments and cowardly friends, the weary journeys and worse anxieties of the past weeks, the cunning cautiousness of the chiefs and their maddening jealousies. Even the pitiable scene at Glenogilvie and his gnawing vain regret faded for the moment from his memory and from his heart. If the Lowlands had been cold as death to the good cause, the Highlands had at last taken fire; if he had not one-tenth the army he should have commanded, had every Highlander shared his loyalty to the ancient line, he had sufficient for the day’s work. If he had spoken in vain to the king at Whitehall and miserably failed to put some spirit into his timid mind, and been outvoted at the Convention, and been driven from Edinburgh by Covenanting assassins and hunted like a brigand by MacKay’s troops, his day had now come. He was to taste for the first time the glorious cup of victory. He had not been so glad or confident since his marriage day, when he snatched his bride from the fastness of his enemy, and as Grimond helped him to arm, and gave the last touches to his martial 306 dress, he jested merrily with that solemn servitor, and sang aloud to Grimond’s vast dismay, who held the good Scottish faith that if you be quiet Providence may leave you alone, but if you show any sign of triumph it will be an irresistible temptation to the unseen powers.

“I’m judging my lord, that we’ll win the day, and that it will be a crownin’ victory. I would like fine to see MacKay’s army tumble in are great heap into the Garry, with their general on the top o’ them. I’m expectin’ to see ye ride into Edinburgh at the head o’ the clans, and the Duke o’ Gordon come oot frae the castle to greet you, as the king’s commander-in-chief, and a’ Scotland lyin’ at yir mercy. But for ony sake be cautious, Maister John, and dinna mak a noise, it’s juist temptin’ Providence, an’ the Lord forgie me for sayin’ it, I never saw a hicht withoot a howe. I’m no wantin’ you to be there afore the day is done. Dinna sing thae rantin’ camp songs, and abune a’ dinna whistle till a’ things be settled; at ony rate, it’s no canny.”

“Was there ever such a solemn face and cautious-spoken fellow living as you, Jock Grimond, though I’ve seen you take your glass, and unless my ears played me false, sing 307 a song, too, round the camp-fire in days past. But I know the superstition that is in you and all your breed of Lowland Scots. Whether ye be Covenanters or Cavaliers, ye are all tarred with the same stick. Do ye really think, Jock, that the Almighty sits watching us, like a poor, jealous, cankered Whig minister, and if a bit of good fortune comes our way and our hearts are lifted, that He’s ready to strike for pure bad temper? But there’s no use arguing with you, for you’re set in your own opinions. But I’ll tell you what to do––sing the dreariest Psalm ye can find to the longest Cameronian tune. That will keep things right, and ward off judgment, for the blood in my veins is dancing, Jock, and the day of my life has come.”

Claverhouse went out from his room to confer with the chiefs and his officers about the plan of operation, “like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber and rejoicing as a strong man to run a race.” Grimond, as he watched him go, shook his head and said to himself, “The last time I heard a Covenanting tune was at Drumclog, and it’s no a cheerfu’ remembrance. May God preserve him, for in John Graham is all our hope and a’ my love.”

Through the morning of the decisive day 308 the omens continued favorable, and the sun still shone on Claverhouse’s heart. As a rule, a war council of Highland chiefs was a babel and a battle, when their jealous pride and traditional rivalry rose to fever height. They were often more anxious to settle standing quarrels with one another than to join issue with the enemy; they would not draw a sword if their pride had in any way been touched, and battles were lost because a clan had been offended. Jacobite councils were also cursed by the self-seeking and insubordination of officers, who were not under the iron discipline of a regular army, and owing to the absence of the central authorities, with a king beyond the water, were apt to fight for their own hand. Dundee had known trouble, and had in his day required more self-restraint than nature had given him, and if there had been division among the chiefs that day, he would have fallen into despair; but he had never seen such harmony. They were of one mind that there could not be a ground more favorable than Killiecrankie, and that they should offer battle to MacKay before the day closed. They approved of the line of march which Dundee had laid out, and the chiefs, wonderful to say, raised no objection to the arrangement of the clans in the fighting line, 309 even although the MacDonalds were placed on the left, which was not a situation that proud clan greatly fancied. The morning was still young when the Jacobite army left their camping ground in the valley north of Blair Castle, and, climbing the hillside, passed Lude, till they reached a ridge which ran down from the high country on their left to the narrow pass through which the Garry ran. Along this rising ground, with a plateau of open ground before them, fringed with wood, Dundee drew up his army, while below MacKay arranged his troops, whom he had hastily extricated from the dangerous and helpless confinement of the pass. During the day they faced one another, the Jacobites on their high ground, William’s troops on the level ground below––two characteristic armies of Highlanders and Lowlanders, met to settle a quarrel older than James and William, and which would last, under different conditions and other names, centuries after the grass had grown on the battle-field of Killiecrankie and Dundee been laid to his last rest in the ancient kirkyard of Blair. Had Dundee considered only his own impetuous feelings, and given effect to the fire that was burning him, he would have instantly launched his force at MacKay. He 310 was, however, determined that day, keen though he was, to run no needless risks nor to give any advantage to the enemy. The Highlanders were like hounds held in the leash, and it was a question of time when they must be let go. He would keep them if he could, till the sun had begun to set and its light was behind them and on the face of MacKay’s army.

During this period the messenger came back with an answer to the despatch which Dundee had sent to MacKay the night before. He had found William’s general at Pitlochry, as he was approaching the pass of Killiecrankie, and, not without difficulty and some danger, had presented his letter.

“This man, sir, surrendered himself late last night to my Lord Belhaven, who was bivouacking in the pass which is ahead,” said an English aide-de-camp to General MacKay, “and his lordship, from what I am told, was doubtful whether he should not have shot him as a spy, but seeing he had some kind of letter addressed to you, sir, he sent him on under guard. It may be that it contains terms of surrender, and at any rate it will, I take it, be your desire that the man be kept a prisoner.”

“You may take my word for it, Major 311 Lovel,” said young Cameron of Lochiel, who, according to the curious confusion of that day, was with MacKay, while his father was with Dundee, “and my oath also, if that adds anything to my word, that whatever be in the letter, there will be no word of surrender. Lord Dundee will fight as sure as we are living men, and I only pray we may not be the losers. Ye be not wise to laugh,” added he hotly, “and ye would not if ye had ever seen the Cameron’s charge.”

“Peace, gentlemen, we are not here to quarrel with one another,” said General MacKay. “Hand me the letter, and do the messenger no ill till we see its contents.”