The Rivals E-Book

Murdo Fraser

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 453

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The struggles of the Scottish Civil War of 1644-45 could easily be personified as a contest between James Graham, 1st Marquis of Montrose and Archibald Campbell, 8th Marquis of Argyll. Yet at first glance there seems to be more that unites them than separates them. Both came from ancient and powerful families; both were originally Covenanters; both considered themselves loyal subjects of Charles I, then Charles II, who in turn betrayed each of them, and both died at the hands of the executioner. In this book Murdo Fraser examines these two remarkable men, underlining their different personalities: Montrose, the brilliant military tactician - bold and brave but rash, and Campbell - altogether a more opaque figure, cautious, considered and difficult to read. The result is a vivid insight into two remarkable men who played a huge part in writing Scotland's history, and a fascinating portrait of a time of intense political upheaval.

Leseprobe

THE RIVALS

First published in 2015 by Birlinn Ltd

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.birlinn.co.uk

Text © Murdo Fraser 2015

The right of Murdo Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publishers.

ISBN: 978-1-78027-306-8eISBN: 978-0-85790-248-1

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro at Birlinn

Printed and bound by Grafica Veneta

www.graficaveneta.com

Contents

List of Illustrations

Acknowledgements

Introduction: Caesar and Pompey

Prologue: Inverlochy

  1  Chosen People

  2  Revolution

  3  Allies against the King

  4  An Uneasy Peace

  5  King Campbell

  6  Drawing Swords

  7  Annus Mirabilis

  8  Montrose the Master

  9  The Tide Turns Again

10  ‘Nothing but Jews’

11  The Covenanted King

12  The Cavalier’s Last Hurrah

13  A Better Crown

14  Post Mortem

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Illustrations

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose

Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll

Charles I

Charles II

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the generous assistance of the following people, to whom I am very grateful. The inspiration came in a series of well-lubricated debates with Hamish Mair on the respective merits of Montrose and Argyll. I am hugely obliged to Kate Wane, who spent many invaluable hours cheerfully researching and copying original sources. Harry Reid, David Torrance, Magnus Linklater, Alastair Stewart and Graeme Rose were all kind enough to read all or part of the text, and provided helpful comments. Lynne Mitchell typed the original manuscript, without complaining (much) about my handwriting. Hugh Andrew and the team at Birlinn provided encouragement, guidance and good counsel throughout the whole process. Finally, I have to thank my family for their support and patience during my frequent absences in the seventeenth century.

INTRODUCTION

Caesar and Pompey

St Giles High Kirk, or Cathedral as it is sometimes (incorrectly) known, stands on the Royal Mile at the heart of Edinburgh’s Old Town. For centuries this magnificent church has been at the heart of Scottish public life, and has provided the setting for innumerable public events. Within its walls lie memorials to great figures from Scottish history, among them James Graham, 5th Earl and 1st Marquis of Montrose.

There could therefore have been no more appropriate venue for the memorial service to mark 400 years since James Graham’s birth, held on Monday 21 May 2012. It was on the 21st of May that he was hanged at the Mercat Cross of Edinburgh, just outside the east wall of St Giles, 362 years before. Organised by the 1st Marquis of Montrose Society, which exists to keep alive the memory of this great Scottish hero, the service was attended by a Scottish Government minister, members of the Scottish Parliament, representatives of many of Scotland’s ancient noble families, historians, writers and academics. At the close of proceedings the Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the current Duke of Montrose, laid a wreath at the elaborate Victorian tomb of his illustrious ancestor.

On the opposite side of St Giles, a little away along, stands another ornate memorial to a Scottish hero of the seventeenth century. Archibald Campbell, 8th Earl and Marquis of Argyll, lies in effigy in the church, although his physical remains rest many miles to the west in the Campbell family mausoleum at Kilmun in Argyllshire. Many of those attending the memorial service took a moment to pay their respects to the man who was Montrose’s great rival. For a decade these two noblemen fought for the soul of Scotland. This is the story of the rivalry between them, and how it shaped a nation.

Both Montrose and Argyll had been, in their own way, loyal to the Stewart Kings Charles I and II. Both had been honoured by the older Charles; both were betrayed to their deaths by the younger. Both would declare themselves supporters of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland, both champions of the Covenanting cause. Both were heroes, inspiring leaders of men. Both were vilified and condemned as traitors, both died brave deaths and were celebrated as martyrs.

In their day both Montrose and Argyll could lay claim to the title of being the most powerful man in the realm. Today Montrose is undoubtedly the better known of the two, mainly for his genius on the battlefield – his great campaign of 1644-45 is still studied by military historians. Less is now known of his adversary. Until very recently the only biography of Argyll was John Willcock’s The Great Marquess from 1903, now long out of print, although this omission was righted by Professor Allan Macinnes with the publication of his meticulously researched The British Confederate in 2011, which focusses on Argyll’s role as a British statesman. In contrast there are numerous biographies of Montrose, perhaps the most famous being that of the great Scottish writer John Buchan from 1913.

The Civil War historian Edward Hyde (1st Earl of Clarendon and Charles II’s Lord Chancellor) compared Montrose and Argyll to Caesar and Pompey, in that one could not endure a superior while the other would not have an equal. Buchan extended the comparison to Pym and Strafford, Fox and Pitt, ‘secular types of conflicting temperaments and irreconcilable views’. Buchan claimed that in every national crisis there is some personal antagonism where the warring creeds seem to be summed up in the persons of the two protagonists. Certainly there are stark contrasts between Montrose and Argyll, in terms of their political and religious views, in terms of character, and in terms of temperament. And history is brought to life when seen through the lives of the personalities involved, rather than in a dull narration of dates and deeds.

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose

The parallels between the rivals are striking. Both came from ancient and powerful Scottish families. They were not far apart in age, Argyll being five years older than Montrose. They both studied at St Andrews University and both demonstrated prowess in archery. Both would have considered themselves loyal subjects of Charles I, although ironically it was Argyll, as the young Lord Lorne, who was the royal favourite. And in the conflict which developed between Charles and the Presbyterian people of Scotland, both sided initially with the Covenanters against the King.

The struggles of the Scottish civil war of 1644-45 could easily be personified as a contest between those in Argyll’s camp and those in Montrose’s, although it was only at Fyvie in Aberdeen-shire that the two sides actually met in combat (it ended in a draw). In time both would declare themselves loyal to Charles II, who in turn would betray each of them. Both were executed in Edinburgh, some eleven years apart, and while Montrose suffered the ignominy of a commoner’s death by hanging, Argyll at least had the nobleman’s privilege of beheading by the Maiden. Both had their severed heads displayed on the same spike on the Tolbooth. It would not be until Victorian times that suitable memorials to both would be erected in St Giles.

The rivals were very different in terms of their personalities. Montrose was the gambler, bold and brave, but rash; Argyll was more cautious and considered, but ultimately more influential and successful. Allan Macinnes, who states that Argyll can be deemed second only to Cromwell as a British statesman of the mid-seventeenth century, draws an amusing comparison with another Scottish obsession (other than religion and fighting) – football. Montrose is the stylish team playing with elegance and flair, a joy to watch, but in the end falling at the last hurdle. Argyll is the team playing ‘ugly’ football, grinding out results, and finishing on top. (If this makes Montrose Celtic, and Argyll Rangers, then some might say that there is an even more striking parallel based on levels of debt and unpaid bills!).

Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll

Modern day references to the two Marquises tend to favour Montrose over his rival. For those with little understanding of the complex politics of seventeenth-century Scotland, it is easy to concentrate only on the military records of the leaders of the time. And judged in these terms any contemporary of ‘The Great Montrose’ is bound to come out poorly in comparison. Montrose’s abilities as a soldier and a leader of men were second to none. His brilliant military skills are remembered and commemorated today. Three times on the battlefield he defeated armies which included Argyll, who on each occasion – at Inverlochy, Alford and Kilsyth – had to flee ignominiously from the scene to save his skin.

Montrose is celebrated in song, while Argyll appears in ballads (such as The Bonnie Hoose o’ Airlie or The Execution of Montrose) only as a scoundrel. While the romantic Cavalier Montrose was writing poetry, the faithful Covenanter Argyll wrote sermons. At least if the Church of Scotland were ever to create saints of Presbyterian martyrs, Argyll would be a prime candidate for canonisation (the thought of which would have him turning in his grave). But it is unlikely to make him a popular hero for a secular Scotland in the twenty-first century.

Where the chivalrous Montrose is an obvious heroic figure, Argyll, with his more obvious ambition and opaque motivations, is harder to admire. Even Presbyterian writers have found him difficult to fathom, one saying: ‘His nature is complex, involved, and difficult at times to read’.1 In fiction he has often been portrayed negatively. Walter Scott, who as a Tory was always inclined to the Royalists, wrote of Argyll: ‘Something there was cold in his address and sinister in his look … all dreaded the height to which he was elevated’. There is a more sympathetic portrayal in Neil Munro’s novel John Splendid, where the tensions between Argyll’s conflicting roles as Highland chief and British politician are highlighted. The Marquis’ chaplain, Alexander Gordon, says of him: ‘It is the humour of God Almighty sometimes to put two men into one skin’, while the eponymous warrior, a loyal clansman, in the aftermath of the Battle of Inverlochy, vents his frustration at his chief: ‘You’re for the cloister and not the field … I’ll find no swithering captains among the cavaliers in France’.

One recent historian, while praising Montrose as ‘a much adored and courageous leader, a poet and a patriot’ damns Argyll as ‘a most unpleasant man, cowardly, cruel, dishonourable in his dealings and entirely without compassion’, leaving little room for doubt as to the writer’s leanings.2 A recent BBC/Open University resource described Argyll as ‘a cynical opportunist whose overt political ambition created divisions in the Covenanter ranks and caused former colleagues to take up arms for the King’.3 Even amongst those who would concede that Argyll was on the right side of history with his political views, there are many who would appear to apply the descriptions borrowed from 1066 and All That – Montrose would be ‘wrong but wromantic’ and Argyll ‘right but repulsive’.

It is convenient to see history in black and white terms, with every story having a hero and a villain. In a Hollywood treatment of their lives (Boldheart?), Montrose, principled, dashing and brave, would be played by the star, with the scheming, cowardly, devout Argyll making a fine part for a character actor used to portraying the black-hearted villain. But this is all far too simplistic. Whatever Argyll lacked as a soldier, he more than made up for as a politician. He skilfully led the Covenanting faction in their disputes with Charles I, uniting the nobility, clergy and the people in a great national crusade. It was Argyll who was the defender of the populist cause, who was the people’s champion, not Montrose. In mid-seventeenth-century Scotland it was Argyll who was regarded by the populace as the real hero. And it is Argyll’s political ideas, and his championing of the power of Parliament against the unfettered rule of the King, that have better stood the test of time.

In reality both were heroes; both, at times, villains. Both were capable of courage and generosity, and equally capable of great cruelty. Both were military commanders and statesmen, although Montrose excelled as the former and Argyll as the latter. Both have left remarkable legacies and played a major role in shaping Scotland’s history. Any history of the period needs to tell both their stories, and of the extraordinary rivalry between them.

Why does any of this matter to us today? This is not just a tale of two aristocrats from long ago. The rivalry between Montrose and Argyll, reflecting the greater national conflict between Royalists and Covenanters, was a struggle for the soul of the nation. Would it be the King’s rule which determined how his subjects would live their lives, how they would worship their God, how their civil affairs would be conducted, as the Stewart monarchs desired? Or would the King rule only with the people’s – or at least the upper and middle classes’ – consent? It was this essential question which tore apart the nations of the British Isles in a bloody civil war.

Argyll and his allies might not have considered themselves as the progenitors of Parliamentary democracy, and Montrose certainly would not have been comfortable at being seen as the defender of autocracy, but the history of Britain would have been very different if the outcome of their rivalry had been other than it was. A victory for the Royalists would have meant no Presbyterian church in Scotland, and a monarchy out of step with the ambitions of the people. It is unlikely that their demands could have been suppressed indefinitely, and the outcome might well have been a much bloodier revolution – as happened in France – than the one which eventually transpired.

Our current constitutional settlement, with a sovereign Parliament and our monarchy having no more than a ceremonial role, owes its birth directly to the conflicts of the seventeenth century. It may not have been until 1688 that the principle that Parliament could choose its King would be established, but the arguments were made and fought over in the time of Montrose and Argyll. And the conflicts between the two ensured that it would be the people who decided how to organise the Church, not the monarch.

We neglect the study of our history at our peril. In Scottish schools today, the history of our nation that is taught (such as it is) tends to focus on a few key periods – the Wars of Independence, the Jacobites, the Highland Clearances. These are all significant in our nation’s story, but it is quite wrong to ignore the struggles between King and Covenanters, between Montrose and Argyll. Arguably these conflicts were of far greater significance in our country’s development than the adventures of the Old and Young Pretenders, but it is Bonnie Prince Charlie who still gets all the attention.

And just as we should not neglect our history, we should not forget our heroes. Both Montrose and Argyll were flawed personalities, as we all are, but no one could argue that they were other than great men who played a huge part in writing our nation’s story. It is depressing how little is known about them today. As our country continues to debate its future, it is more important than ever that we understand where we have come from, and that we remember – and celebrate – those who were such an important part of that journey. If all this short volume achieves is to help stimulate interest in a neglected period in our history and its two principal characters, then it will have contributed to that objective.

PROLOGUE

Inverlochy

1–2 February 1645

‘This disaster did extreamlie amaze us.’Robert Baillie, Letters

In all his years of campaigning, he had known few nights as cold as this one. Wrapping his great plaid ever tighter around him in an effort to keep out the winter chill, Sir Duncan Campbell of Auchinbreck picked his way in the darkness through the groups of men encamped beneath the grey walls of Inverlochy Castle. Some were still awake, and as he passed he caught snatches of conversation – here a word or two in English, there a soft prayer or lines from a psalm recited in Gaelic, for the army of the Covenant held both Lowlander and Highlander, and all were devout Presbyterians. Most men slept, some in tents, hardier ones in the open air with only their kilts or cloaks pulled around them, but keeping close to the still-burning camp fires.

The young scout who had summoned Auchinbreck from his quarters within the castle walls led him carefully to the edge of the camp, where the view to the east was no longer obscured by the light from the fires. It was a clear, cloudless night, and the moon was up. The scout had reported movement on the hillside barely a mile distant, on the lower slopes of mighty Ben Nevis. It did not take the veteran soldier long to see that the youngster was right: dark shapes cast shadows as they shifted about. No friendly force would have come so close and then stopped to make camp, Auchinbreck knew. Whoever these men were, they were intent on doing him and his army harm.

Even with the bright moon, in the darkness of the night the strength of the hostile force could not be made out. The Covenanter army was 1,900 strong, made up of 500 experienced warriors from the Marquis of Argyll’s regiment which Auchinbreck had recently commanded in Ireland, 1,000 additional Campbell clansmen freshly levied, and 400 Lowland soldiers. Auchinbreck could be confident in his numbers; the only force in the land capable of posing a threat to his camp was that of the rebel James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, and it was more than a day’s march to the north, at Kilcumin at the south end of Loch Ness. The roads between there and here were well guarded, and no reports had been received of Montrose moving towards the Covenanters. But the presence of this unknown company so close at hand, and so obviously intent on attack, was a matter of the gravest concern.

His head full of questions, Auchinbreck made his way back to the castle to report to the man who was in one his military general, his clan chief, and his political leader: Archibald Campbell, 8th Earl and Marquis of Argyll. At the age of 37, the red-haired, squinting Argyll headed not just the mightiest clan in the Highlands, but also the Covenanter cause which had taken control of Scotland’s government and gone to war against the country’s king, Charles I. The outstanding political operator of his age, he had manoeuvred himself into the position of the most powerful man in the land, and was now in personal command of an army assembled for revenge. That winter the Campbell lands of Argyllshire had been devastated by Montrose’s marauding army of Irish and Highlanders, spoiling and burning as they went, and leaving not a man alive who was capable of bearing weapons. Now Argyll was taking his troops north through the Great Glen in pursuit of his enemy, and this new development was an unwelcome distraction from the urgent task in hand.

A hasty council of war was convened when Auchinbreck returned with his news. The likelihood was that the strangers constituted only a small force under MacDonald of Keppoch, or another chieftain who was a hereditary foe of the Campbells. Nevertheless the threat was one which had to be taken seriously. Argyll was himself an experienced soldier, but disabled following a fall from a horse a few weeks before, and ‘unable to use either sword or pistol’. He was not just MacCailein Mor, Chief of Clan Campbell, but the effective leader of the nation, and the risk of him being killed or captured was one deemed too great to take. The Marquis was ‘compelled by his friends to go aboard his barge’1 – his galley, the Dubhlinnseach (the Black-sailed) – which lay at anchor nearby in Loch Linnhe. With him went his entourage of Sir John Wauchope of Niddrie, Sir James Rollock of Dincrub, Archibald Syderff, Bailliff of Edinburgh, and the Reverend Mungo Law, whom Argyll had invited along ‘to bear witness to the Wonders he purposed to perform in that Expedition’.2

It was only with the greatest reluctance that the proud Argyll consented to this withdrawal. Just weeks before he had suffered the humiliation of being forced to abandon his seat at Inveraray in Argyllshire when surprised by Montrose, escaping by boat down Loch Fyne and leaving the town to be sacked and burned by the invaders, and here he was again taking to the water to avoid potential capture, or worse. It did little for the morale of his clansmen, facing an unknown enemy, to see their chief put himself out of harm’s way and leave them to defend his honour. In place of MacCailein Mor, command was given to Auchinbreck, ‘a stout soldier, but a very vitious man’,3 who was more than up to the task.

Throughout the remainder of the night there were inconclusive skirmishes between the Covenanter scouts and the strangers facing them, but it was only at daybreak, on Sunday 2 February 1645, Candlemas Day, that all became clear to Auchinbreck. This was no mere raiding party which faced him. On the slopes of Meall an t-Suidhe, below the great Ben, a considerable army of 1,500 men was gathered. To his dismay he saw the Royal standard raised, and heard the pipers playing a tune which denoted the presence of the Marquis of Montrose as the King’s General, followed by Clan Cameron’s distinctive pibroch: ‘Sons of dogs come and I will give you flesh’. Here was the very man whom the Covenanters had been pursuing – and now he had turned the tables on them. It was simply unimaginable that he could be here with his entire force, when they should have been many miles away to the north.

Three days before, James Graham, 5th Earl and 1st Marquis of Montrose, had been camped at Kilcumin (now Fort Augustus). Since raising the King’s standard in Scotland in opposition to the rule of the Covenanters (and more particularly their alliance with the English Parliamentarians in their war with King Charles) the previous September, he and his Irish and Highland troops had seen spectacular success, destroying two Covenanter armies. Handsome, athletic, and charming, the 32-year-old nobleman was every inch the dashing Cavalier, and already fulfilling every expectation that his Royal master had for him. But now he was at risk of being caught in a trap. Ahead of him at Inverness was one force of Covenanters under the MacKenzie Earl of Seaforth; somewhere behind was another led by his former ally, but now bitter rival, the Marquis of Argyll. Seaforth seemed to present the easier challenge, so the plan was to head north by Loch Ness-side to meet him.

Never good at gathering intelligence on the enemy, Montrose was unaware of just how close Argyll was to him, until Iain Lom MacDonald, the celebrated Gaelic bard of Keppoch, arrived at his camp to give warning that Argyll’s army was less than 30 miles away at Inverlochy. Montrose was astonished at the news and the outbreak of boldness in his adversary, whose dealings until now had been characterised by caution. ‘Argyll dare not pursue me through Lochaber,’ he had asserted.4 Suddenly dealing with Seaforth was no longer the priority; Argyll presented the much greater danger, and opportunity. Montrose had the clan chiefs loyal to him sign a bond at Kilcumin, swearing to fight to the death for the King against the ‘present perverse and infamous faction of desperate rebels now in fury against him’. Having thus reminded his men of the cause for which they fought, he set out to tackle his rival head on.

Montrose had a smaller force than Argyll, and the Campbell clansmen, thirsting for revenge for the harrying of their lands by the Irish, would be a far tougher nut to crack than the Lowland levies whom his Royalists had faced in their previous victories at Tippermuir and Aberdeen. Marching back down the Great Glen for a frontal attack on Argyll’s army was therefore out of the question. Instead Montrose determined on a surprise attack from the rear, which meant outflanking the Covenanters. And so he took his men through the hills on a remarkable journey which has gone down in history as one of the great feats of Scottish military leadership.

This route march took Montrose’s army from the morning of Friday 31 January to the evening of the following day. It was the middle of a particularly bitter winter in a time when the whole country was suffering severe temperatures, and the ground which the marchers were crossing, up to a height of 2,000 feet, was blanketed in snow. With hardly any supplies it was a gruelling experience even for the hardened warriors at Montrose’s disposal. Most had ‘not taisted a bitte of bread these two days, maircheing high mountaines in knee deepe snow, and widdeing brookes and rivers up to there girdle’.5 A few, very few, had horses or ponies, the rest made it on ill-shod foot, with nothing to see but white hills all around, a sudden flash of powder snow erupting as a disturbed mountain hare took flight, a solitary wolf watching suspiciously from afar, and relentlessly and endlessly the back and legs of the man in front toiling his way forward in the footsteps of the men ahead of him. They drove one another on through the vicious cold, the stronger helping the weaker, pushing forward in a superhuman effort out of loyalty and love for their gallant commander, who walked with them every step of the way. Up beside the River Tarff they went, on to Glen Turrett and Glen Roy, then across the River Spean, always trying to keep away from any roads which might be watched by the enemy, and on to Ben Nevis. At last the starving, exhausted men arrived at their destination overlooking the enemy camp, and tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep before the battle that awaited them.

Even before a shot was fired that morning the Covenanters had suffered the double blow of seeing their leader depart the field and of being taken by surprise by their great enemy, whom they had imagined was on the run. But Auchinbreck still had the advantage of numbers, and the ability to choose his position. As soon as day broke he drew up his men on dry ground a little to the east of Inverlochy Castle, facing the enemy. In the centre he put ‘a strong battaillon of highlanderes with gunes, bowes and axes’6 – probably Argyll’s own regiment, seasoned fighters all. Behind were the Campbell levies, and on each wing the Lowlanders, one under Lieutenant-Colonel Lachlan Roughe of the Earl of Tullibardine’s Regiment, and the other under Lieutenant-Colonel John Cockburn of the Earl of Moray’s Regiment. 50 musketeers were positioned in the castle itself.

Montrose’s men had spent a cold and uncomfortable night, and with nothing but raw oatmeal to eat and cold water to drink, they prepared for battle on empty stomachs. Catholic priests blessed those facing death with the sign of the cross, the very sight of which both dismayed and enraged their Presbyterian opponents. Then Montrose set out his forces for the fray, dividing them into three. He personally led the centre, comprising Highlanders from Atholl, Appin, Lochaber, Glen Garry and Glencoe, and put the Irish on the flanks, commanded by his Major-General Alasdair MacDonald on the right, and Colonel Magnus O’Cahan on the left. Montrose’s few cavalry were commanded by Sir Thomas Ogilvie.

The battle began with Montrose ordering the advance. He had great confidence in the tactic of the Highland charge, sending his wild Highlanders and Irish towards the enemy at a run, an approach which had been devastatingly effective in his two previous encounters with Covenanter armies. The Irish on both of the Royalist wings rushed forward. They had been commanded ‘not to giue fyre till he gaue it in there breastes’, and held off from discharging their muskets until at very close range, where ‘they fyred there beardes, both winges make a cruell hauoke of the enemies; leaping in amongst them with swords and targates, they quickly put them to disorder, and disperses them all over the fields’.7 The Lowland troops, despite the battlefield experience many had gained with the Covenanter army in England, were simply no match for the furious onslaught of the Irish, and Auchinbreck’s wings disintegrated.

The same pattern was repeated in the centre, where Argyll’s regiment buckled under the ‘strenth and furie’ of the main Royalist charge. A wave of bright swords and sharp Lochaber axes broke upon the Campbells, the ferocity of the attack driving them back; everywhere men falling with blood gushing from gaping wounds, and all around the dreadful cries of the wounded and dying. The front lines were forced to retreat towards the reserves behind, but rather than make a stand of any sort, these, having witnessed too closely the fate of their more experienced comrades, ‘queit there standing, brakes their ordour, and flies confusedly towards the castell’8 seeking the illusory protection of the fortress’s stout walls; men running in panic, pushing their comrades out of their way in their desperation to save their own skins. Montrose sent forward Sir Thomas Ogilvie with his small company of horse to set about the fleeing Covenanters, forcing them away from the castle and down to the shore of Loch Linnhe.

The battle proper was over in a matter of minutes, and then the bloody rout began, with the remnants of the defeated army pursued by the Royalists in all directions. Many fled into Glen Nevis where they were overtaken and cut down; others headed south towards what is now Fort William; some in desperation threw themselves into the Loch, whose cold waters quickly claimed even the strongest swimmers. The pursuit continued for seven or eight miles from Inverlochy, and ‘if they [Montrose’s men] had not beene wyried with a long mairch, standing all the night after in battell, and fanteing for want of food, there had been few or non eschaped’.9 In total 1,500 of Auchinbreck’s army lost their lives. While quarter was granted by the victorious Royalists to the Lowland troops who surrendered, for their ancient enemies the Campbells there would be no mercy from the Highland and Irish clansmen, and not a man escaped the sword. Only in the centre did the Campbell chieftains make a stand, ‘stout and gallant men’; but surrounded and outnumbered they had no chance, and one by one they fell and their standards tumbled to the ground. Auchinbreck himself came face to face with the mighty Alasdair MacDonald, who gave him the choice of dying by means of hanging or beheading. The veteran Campbell soldier had faced death on many occasions, and replied coolly, ‘dha dhiu gun aon roghainn’ (two evil alternatives that give no room for choice). MacDonald decided for him, with one swing of his great sword removing the top part of his head. It was less trouble than building a gallows.

From his position on board his galley Archibald Campbell had a limited view of the battlefield, but as the fleeing, terror-stricken Covenanters reached the loch shore it became quickly apparent what had happened – ‘the Day lost, and most Part of his Friends cut off’.10 There was no prospect of rescuing even a few of the survivors, for as the pursuing Royalists came within range they started to open fire on the Dubhlinnseach. The risk to the life of the Marquis of Argyll was such that the order had to be given to withdraw. The sturdy rowers strained at their oars, the galley turned and, slowly gathering speed, slipped out towards the safety of the open sea and away from the horror unfolding on the land behind.

On his side, the Marquis of Montrose lost perhaps as few as four men killed, although amongst them was his captain of cavalry, Sir Thomas Ogilvie, who suffered a wound in the leg and died a few days after. In his summary of the victory Montrose praised the bravery of his opponents: ‘A little after the sun was up both armies met, and the rebels fought for some time with great bravery, the prime of the Campbells giving the first onset, as men that deserved to fight in a better cause. Our men, having a nobler cause, did wonders, and came immediately to push of pike and dint of sword, after this first firing.’11 His respect for the Campbells had not led him to ensure that mercy was shown to them in the aftermath, but to be fair the ancient hatreds between the clans were such that neither side would have expected quarter, and the Campbells were themselves just as capable of atrocious behaviour.

The MacDonalds and other clans celebrated the rout of their old enemies, the eyewitness Iain Lom MacDonald writing a famous poem to mark the occasion:

Through the braes of Lochaber a desert be made,

And Glen Roy may be lost to the plough and the spade,

Though the bones of my kindrid, unhonour’d unurn’d –

Mark the desolate path where the Campbells have burn’d –

Be it so! From that foray they never return’d!

Fallen race of Diarmid! Disloyal, untrue,

No harp in the Highlands will sorrow for you:

But the birds of Loch Eil are wheeling on high,

And the Badenoch wolves hear the Camerons’ cry –

‘Come feast ye! Come feast, where the false-hearted lie!’

The mood could not have been more different aboard MacCailein Mor’s black-sailed galley as it cut its way through the dark, still waters of Loch Linnhe, past the snow-clad hills of Ardgour; no noise aboard to disturb the funereal hush but the grunts of the oarsmen, the creak of the rowlocks, and the repetitive splash of wood hitting water. Standing white-knuckled at the rail, alone in his thoughts, Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll, Scotland’s most powerful man, who had just witnessed not merely the destruction of his army but a devastating, desperate reverse for mighty Clan Campbell the like of which it had never before experienced, the loss of friends and kinsmen, with his personal reputation in tatters, accusations of cowardice from his enemies for fleeing the scene of battle set to haunt him, and his political career now in serious jeopardy, was turning over and over in his mind one burning question:

How had it come to this?

1

Chosen People

1607–37

In the spring of 1633, Captain David Alexander of Anstruther in Fife, of the ship Unitie, was contracted to lead an expedition in search of a new land. Seafarers had reported the sighting of a previously unknown island lying in the Atlantic Ocean to the west of the Outer Hebrides, and there was great excitement as to the opportunities that this might present. The Captain was to be paid £800 Scots in advance and £400 Scots on his return for his expenses, which included the cost of providing his ship fully equipped, and a crew of a skipper, mate, and ten sailors. By the 20 April of the following year he had to travel from Anstruther to the Hebrides, and from there ‘searche, seek, and use all utter and exact diligence’1 to locate the island, make full note of its size, assets and population, and report back by 1 August.

In addition to his costs Captain Alexander was to be rewarded with an undisclosed sum, for his ‘aine paynes’, should he be successful. His employer in this venture, putting up the reward, was the young Archibald Campbell, Lord Lorne, the eldest son and heir of the 7th Earl of Argyll. On 13 May 1633 King Charles I granted a disposition to Lord Lorne and his heirs male of this soon to be discovered land, but leaving the name and location blank for subsequent completion: ‘that isle lying without the whole known and inhabited isles of the Kingdom of Scotland, called Hebrides Insulae, and now lately known by the name of _______, and lying ______, or of whatsoever other name or designation the same be of, with the castles, towers, fortalices, manor-places, houses, buildings, burghs of regality, burghs of barony, towns, seaports, avons, harbours, mills, woods, and the fishings of salmons and other fishes, with the lochs, cunnings [rabbits], cunningares [rabbit warrens], coals, coal heughs, parts, pendicles, and personance of the said isle whatsoever, with the mines and minerals of gold and silver, tin, lead, brass, copper, etc.’2 This Atlantis, with its unsuspecting population inhabiting their towns and castles, was to be annexed to the Sheriffdom of Tarbet and form part of Lord Lorne’s heritable office of Sheriff, and he would have power to appoint weekly markets, yearly free fairs, erect parish kirks, and create burgesses and other officers as required.

Sad to say, Captain Alexander was to be disappointed. There was of course no mystery land to be discovered, and not even a solitary rabbit could be found to repay the skipper’s employer for his investments. But the ambition demonstrated by this expedition, and the confidence being placed in him by his King, is illustrative of the 26-year-old Lord Lorne’s growing stature in Scottish society.

Archibald Campbell had been born into a powerful Scottish family holding an ancient earldom. The Campbells – Clan Diarmid as they were sometimes known – were originally from the Lowlands but had moved north and west into the Western Highlands. By the early seventeenth century they had become the most powerful clan in the Highlands, based in Argyllshire while maintaining extensive estates in the Lowlands, including in Dumbarton, Stirling, Clackmannan, Perth, Angus, Fife and Midlothian. The Chief of Clan Campbell was traditionally addressed using the Gaelic title of MacCailein Mor, ‘son of the great Colin’, in a reference to the thirteenth-century founder of the House of Argyll. The Campbells found favour with the Scottish monarchy over many centuries, and the heads of the family were ennobled first as Lords in 1445, and then as Earls in 1457. Through a combination of military might and shrewd political manoeuvring, Clan Diarmid greatly expanded their landholdings in the Highlands, swallowing up the territory of smaller clans. Their great rivalry was with the once mighty Clan Macdonald, which by the early seventeenth century had fractured into smaller factions, individually too weak to challenge the Campbell might.

The Stewart Kings of Scotland had taken great strides in bringing the once lawless Highlands under their rule. Royal authority was exercised by local clan chiefs, answerable, at least in theory, to the monarch, but with substantial local autonomy. Someone holding the dual offices of a powerful and wealthy earldom such as Argyll and the leadership of a large clan like the Campbells was in effect a ‘mini-king’, able to pursue his own expansionist policies at the expense of weaker neighbours. Clan society was still highly patriarchal, and with every able-bodied man expected to be a warrior, the chief of Clan Campbell had a ready-made standing army at his disposal, waiting to do its master’s bidding. Much more so than a Lowland nobleman, the Highland chief had a force of men always at his back, hungry for a fight for clan pride, personal glory and, perhaps most important of all, plunder.

The 7th Earl of Argyll, father of Lorne, was a remarkable character with a turbulent life. He was known as Gillespie Grumach, ‘Archibald the Grim’, for his supposedly sullen nature (the nickname is sometimes also applied to his son). This appears to have been no handicap in public life, and the 7th Earl was honoured by the Scottish monarchy, carrying the crown, sceptre and sword of state at the openings of the Scots Parliament by King James VI.

Archibald Campbell, the future 8th Earl and Marquis of Argyll, was born, it is believed, in 1607, although there can be no certainty about the date. On his birth, as heir to the earldom, he was granted the courtesy title Lord Lorne. Lorne’s mother died the year he was born and his maternal cousin, William Douglas, Earl of Morton, became his guardian. Lorne, as was usual for many members of the Scottish nobility, went to St Andrews University to study at the age of 14. He left after studying for less than three years and without gaining a degree, but this was not unusual, as only those who were studying to become professionals, such as lawyers, would seek to graduate formally. For many young nobles university life was not just about formal education but also afforded the opportunity to participate in a wide range of recreations. Even then St Andrews was noted as a venue for golf, and the young Lord Lorne became an enthusiastic player of the game (which he described as: ‘That excellent recreation of Golf-ball, than which truly I do not know a better.’)3 He was also clearly an accomplished archer, winning the annual student ‘Silver Arrow’ competition in 1623.

This same medal was won some five years later by the man who would become Lorne’s great rival, James Graham, 5th Earl of Montrose, also a student at St Andrews (in the intervening years it had also been won on separate occasions by David Leslie and Lord Elcho, both of whom Graham would later meet in battle). Montrose had been born in 1612, the only son of John, the 4th Earl. Some unfortunate omens surrounded the birth of the young Lord. His mother was reputed to have consulted witches about her son’s birth, and his father was said to have commented to a neighbour that his son would trouble all of Scotland. We are also told, rather improbably, that the infant Montrose swallowed a toad.

In contrast to the Campbells who straddled both Highlands and Lowlands, the Grahams who held the Earldom of Montrose had land interests mainly in Perthshire and Stirlingshire, around the Forth and Earn valleys. Their ancestor Sir John Graham had been a follower of William Wallace and had died in battle against the English at Falkirk. The Grahams gained their peerage in 1451, and thereafter Lord Graham was made the Earl of Montrose. Unlike the still occasionally turbulent Highlands with its warlike clans, by the beginning of the seventeenth century Lowland Scotland was mostly peaceful, well settled, and relatively prosperous, although the twin threats of famine and plague were never far distant. Here English (or more accurately Scots) was the dominant language, although many Lowlanders would be familiar enough with the Gaelic which held sway in the Highlands. The backbone of the economy was agriculture with tenant farmers holding land from the nobility such as the Grahams. In the growing cities and towns there was an emerging middle-class – the burgesses – whose expanding economic power was leading to greater demands for political influence. It would be a shrewd politician who would enhance his own power by being seen to champion these ambitions.

Montrose’s mother died when he was just five, and when the 4th Earl died in 1626 the young heir inherited the title at the age of 14, having lost both parents but with older sisters at home to care for him. At twelve he was entrusted to William Farrat and studied at college in Glasgow, but on the death of his father returned to the family seat at Kincardine in Strathearn. He then went to study at St Salvator’s College in St Andrews in 1627. Like Lord Lorne, Montrose was a keen sportsman, and enjoyed not just archery but also golf and hawking. He had a particular fondness for gambling, regularly attending the Cupar races, and donating his winnings to the Church. More often than not he would lose out, on occasions squandering substantial sums at cards; it would become clear in later life that he enjoyed the risk and excitement of playing for high stakes. He was also noted for his generosity towards servants and the poor.

History does not tell us a great deal about the early life of Montrose. We do know that at the age of 17 he married Magdalen, the youngest daughter of Lord Carnegie (later Earl of Southesk), whose castle at Kinnaird was close to the Graham family seat at Old Montrose. The young Montrose had his fair share of female admirers, but the marriage was most likely one arranged for him by his family and guardians as a suitable coupling for the head of one of Scotland’s great families. In due course there were to be five children, four boys and one girl. Marriage, and the birth of heirs, were encouraged for young noblemen at an early age to ensure the continuation of the family line, and as Montrose was an only son it was particularly important that this vital matter was attended to before he set off into the wider world.

It was expected of the sons of earls at the time that they would earn their spurs in military adventure, and both Montrose and Lorne naturally fell into line. Having done his duty in producing two male heirs, Montrose left his native shores to travel through Europe, from France (where he was Captain of the Scottish Guard at the Royal Court) to Italy. He had time to progress in his studies, taking a particular interest in reading about great heroes of history. Already, it seems, he had a vision for himself as a romantic hero. Gilbert Burnet, the Royalist bishop, wrote that he was: ‘a young man, well learned, who had travelled, but had taken upon him the part of a hero too much, and lived as in a romance, for his whole manner was stately to affectation’.4

On his return to home shores Montrose arrived in London to be presented to King Charles I. Young noblemen were expected to be formally introduced to the monarch, and this rite of passage would have been eagerly anticipated. Dressed in his finest clothes, James Graham arrived at the glittering Court of St James looking forward to his reception, and the compliments of his peers which would inevitably follow. But it was all to go horribly wrong. The Marquis of Hamilton, the King’s chief counsellor in Scotland, was suspicious of Montrose and warned Charles that the young man’s ambition might present a threat to Royal authority. So when the Earl came before the King he received a chilly reception, Charles simply giving him the Royal hand to kiss, and then turning aside. It was a devastating blow for an eager Montrose. Humiliated in front of the assembled Court, who would all have observed the deliberate slight, he must have left and returned to Scotland fuming. He had from this point no reason to show loyalty to, or love for, his King.

In contrast to Montrose we know a lot more about the activities of the young Lord Lorne. In 1625 the Privy Council of Scotland issued a warrant authorising the Archbishop of Glasgow and Sir William Livingston of Kilsyth to go to Ayr to fit out a ship for a mission to subdue the rebellious Clan MacIain. Lorne was instructed to join the expedition with his forces. It was clearly successful, for shortly thereafter Lorne travelled to London where he met the then newly-installed King Charles, and, unlike the reception which awaited Montrose, he was warmly received. Charles even tried to arrange a marriage between his relative Elizabeth Stewart, sister of the Duke of Lennox, to Lorne, not realising that she had already formed a romantic attachment with the eldest son of the Earl of Arundel. Such was the King’s anger that the lovers were thrown into the Tower of London for three months. Any disappointment which Lorne felt was clearly short-lived, for within four months he was married to Margaret Douglas, daughter of his guardian the Earl of Morton. He was 19 and she was 16. The couple were to have two sons and four daughters.

By this time the relationship between Lorne and his father, who was remarried with a new second family, had become strained. There was dispute over the peninsula of Kintyre which had come into Campbell hands recently and therefore did not form part of the entailed estate which was Lorne’s rightful inheritance. Money worries were very much at the forefront of the young nobleman’s concerns, and indeed this continued to be the case throughout his life. Large estates required careful hands-on management, and the cost of maintaining military forces and upholding justice and the rule of law throughout large parts of the Highlands was high. In this respect Lorne was no different from any other nobles of his generation, but the sheer scale of the Campbell family interests made his position all the more precarious.

Relations between the 7th Earl of Argyll and his heir deteriorated further when the father renounced the Reformed faith and became a Roman Catholic, and left the country to enter the service of the Spanish king. It may simply be a later invention, but the attitude of the 7th Earl to his son and heir might be summed up in what he allegedly told Charles I about Lorne: ‘Sir, I must know this young man better than you can do: you have brought me low that you may raise him; which I doubt you will live to repent; for he is a man of craft, subtlety and falsehood, and can love no man; and if ever he finds it in his power to do you mischief, he will be sure to do it’.5 Even at an early age the young nobleman was developing a reputation as a skilled political operator. He developed an unusual habit, which served him well in later life, of abruptly leaving the room and shutting the door behind him when a conversation took a turn he did not care for.

The contemporary historian Patrick Gordon observed that Lorne was ‘of a homely carriage, gentle, mild, and effable, gratious and courteous to speak too’ and had ‘suche plaine and homely aspect, as he seemed rather inclined to simplicitie then any ways tented with a loftie and unsatiable ambition, though he proved the deepest statesman, the most craftie, subtill and over-reacheing politician that this age could produce.’6 Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, wrote of him: ‘His wit is pregnant, and his humour gay and pleasant, except when he liked not the company or the argument.’7 Burnet, hardly a political sympathiser, added that he was ‘a solemn sort of man, grave and sober, free of all scandalous vices, of an invincible calmness, and a pretender to high degrees of piety: but he was a deep dissembler, and a great oppressor in all his private dealings, and he was noted for a defect in his courage on all occasions when danger met him.’8 This accusation of personal cowardice was one which would gain currency with Lorne’s political opponents.

Lorne’s progress in public life continued despite his father’s hostile attitude towards him. In 1628 he was appointed a Privy Councillor, and thus at the very heart of national decision-making. His military exploits continued with the capture and subsequent execution of the famous outlaw Gilderoy, more accurately called Patrick McGregor, who with his band of outlaws had terrorised parts of the Highlands.

Portraits of Lorne as a young man show him attired as a courtier, with lace cuffs, tunic with slashed sleeves, cloak and knee breeches. He had long red hair, small blue eyes, and a long nose. He had a pronounced squint in one eye, which does not seem to have affected his prowess in archery. He wore a full moustache and a goatee beard in the fashion of the day. The most famous portrait of Lorne, or the Marquis of Argyll as he had then become, is David Scougall’s perhaps deliberately unflattering portrayal from 1652, showing the subject as an older man, in clerical garb with a skull-cap, and looking rather dour and severe.

Montrose is described as being of middle stature and gracefully built, with chestnut hair, keen grey eyes and a high-bridged nose. Portraits show him with long, flowing hair, and the popular moustache and small beard of the time. Unlike Lorne he is often depicted in military gear. Contemporaries describe him as strong in body and limbs and highly skilled in riding a horse and in use of arms. Montrose’s chaplain George Wishart wrote that, ‘He was a man of a very princely carriage and excellent address, which made him be used by princes, for the most part, with the greatest familiarity. He was of a most resolute and undaunted spirit, which began to appear in him, to the wonder and expectation of all men, even in his childhood.’9

Like Lorne, and indeed like most young noblemen, Montrose was ambitious. As we have seen, he was noted for his personal courage – Clarendon wrote ‘Montrose was in his nature fearless of danger’ – but also a somewhat superior attitude: ‘He was naturally jealous, and suspected those who did not concur with him in the way not to mean so well as he. He was not without vanity, but his virtues were much superior …’10 He would be a good leader, but not a man fitted to be second-in-command, or even a good team player. Fitting the image of the romantic warrior, Montrose also wrote poetry (of variable quality, it has to be said, although one unsympathetic historian probably went too far in describing it as ‘no less execrable than his actions as a member of society’!).11

By the fourth decade of the seventeenth century both Montrose and Lorne had followed a pattern in their lives that might be expected of prominent Scottish noblemen of their day. They had each benefitted from a rounded education, they had both married young and started families, they were both involved in the administration of estates, and they had both begun to make a mark in the public life of the country, a country which was about to enter a turbulent period in its history.

Scotland had already seen remarkable change in the previous 100 years. This proudly independent nation, which had for so long defined itself in contrast to its much larger and richer