This party, notice of whose march was speedily brought to Portnellan by Coll MacGregor and Greumoch, who had been scouting among the hills of Buchanan, was commanded by Captain Clifford, whose residence at Inversnaid had rendered him pretty conversant with the country. The tidings filled Helen and her household with something very like dismay; but her husband fearlessly prepared for the emergency, and resolved to meet the invaders in one of those narrow passes which then formed the only avenues to the Highlands—avenues which no foreign sword had ever been able to open up.
Clifford's detachment consisted of picked men of the South British Fusiliers, all burning to avenge the late affair at Inversnaid and the loss of their regimental colour. As incentives to them, the price of Rob Roy's head, the entire spoil—cattle, arms, and goods of his adherents—were given in prospective; thus, they commenced the expedition with great alacrity; and the noon of the third day after quitting Dumbarton saw them crossing the mountains near Gartmore House, and approaching the pass of Aberfoyle, intending by that circuitous route to penetrate towards Loch Ard and the Trossachs, and then fall suddenly in the night on Rob Roy's quarters.
They required no guide, as Captain Clifford alleged that he had shot and fished over all the district, and knew it very well.
Brightly shone the steel bayonets and polished musket-barrels in the setting sun of the May evening, and the redcoats looked gay and gallant, while chatting and singing, for no fife was blown nor drum beaten when the strong detachment of Captain Clifford entered the valley of Aberfoyle; but little knew he what awaited him between the Trossachs and Loch Katrine!
Clifford, a brave, handsome officer, rode at the head of the Grenadiers, mounted on a fine white charger. He was a good horseman, and sat well in his saddle. They seemed intended for each other, steed and rider; both seemed to have high spirit and good blood in them; and, in sooth, the steep and rugged mountain path they had to traverse put both to the test.
He had a red feather in his cocked hat, and the snow-white curls of his regimental Ramillies wig flowed over the low cut collar of his wide-skirted scarlet coat. He wore fine lace ruffles, and long black riding-boots.
The Grenadiers had all conical caps of blue cloth, shaped like episcopal mitres, but with scarlet flaps in front, whereon was worked in worsted the white horse of Hanover. Their wide skirts and loose sleeves were all looped up, and they marched with their pouches open and fuses in their hands.
The rest had their bayonets fixed and arms loaded.
Ere long the silence of the vast solitude on which they were entering—the utter absence of all appearance of life or inhabitants—made Captain Clifford begin to dread a surprise. Anon, even the voices of his men died away; they began to speak in whispers, and as the purple shadows deepened amid that tremendous mountain scenery, they kept closer in their ranks, and looked anxiously about them, and at the narrow pass in front.
The arms taken at Inversnaid had, more than ever, completely equipped the Clan Gregor; so now, in the gloomy gorge of Aberfoyle, one of the greatest barriers between the Gael and the Lowlander, were posted in ambush one hundred and sixty marksmen armed with muskets. Under Alaster Roy and Coll, eighty manned one side of the pass, and as many under Greumoch were on the other.