Donald Mackay of Farr, a firm ally of, and related to, the Gordons, Earls of Sutherland, was through them brought under the notice of, and knighted by, James VI. in 1616. Afterwards, having raised, by licence of the King, a regiment of 3000 men, who left Cromarty in 1624, to assist Count Mansfield in his campaign in Germany, he was created a baronet.

Next year he was raised to the peerage, under the title of Lord Reay, when, with a number of other gentlemen from Ross, Sutherland, and Caithness, he served under Gustavus Adolphus in his campaigns for Protestantism. Lord Reay afterwards showed his attachment to royalty by taking up arms in defence of Charles I., for whose cause he brought from Denmark arms, ships, and a large sum of money.

Taken prisoner at Newcastle, he was confined in Edinburgh until after the battle of Kilsyth, when he was released, and shortly after he embarked from Thurso for Denmark, where he died.

He was succeeded by his second son John, who was married to a daughter of Scourie, said to have been a woman of great beauty, and of singularly fascinating manners. Brought up in the principles and opinions of his Royalist father, it was little to be wondered at that Lord Reay joined Glencairn in his rising for the King in 1654. When the Earl of Middleton took the command at Dornoch of the Royalist troops, by virtue of a commission from Charles II., thus superseding Glencairn, Lord Reay continued to serve under the new General till he was taken prisoner at Balveny, and conveyed to Edinburgh Tolbooth, where he remained during a lengthened period of the troubles of the Commonwealth, but at length effected his escape in the following manner:—

One autumn afternoon might be seen emerging from the gloomy doors of the Heart of Mid-Lothian—as the Tolbooth of Edinburgh was designated—two very remarkable forms. A lady, young and of wondrous beauty, her hair of that shade of which the poets of our land have so loved to sing—“a gowden yellow”—as seen by a few stray ringlets from beneath the plaid drawn over her head; her eyes, brilliantly blue, flashed in their glances of anxiety; her figure, straight and lithe as the lily stalk, and as she walked seemed to exhibit the very poetry of motion. Her attendant, a man of gigantic size, and stout in proportion, of fierce aspect, save when his glance fell upon his mistress, bore the Lochaber-axe, dirk, and sgian dubh—his arms, which he had just received back from the sentries or guards as he stepped into the street, and which he had left outside in order that he might be admitted to the prison. The contrast between the two was most marked, as was also the conversation. The lady was the wife of the Lord John Reay, the prisoner in the jail from which they had just stepped forth. The man was their trusty henchman, John Mackay, the favourite of his noble master and mistress, as much for his courage as for his fidelity and gentleness, and their pride in him as a clansman of enormous size and strength. If Lady Reay was anxious, John was equally so—his eyes seemed to follow every glance of hers, like an attached hound seeking to anticipate the owner’s wish.

Looking round to John, who followed a few steps behind, while she seemed to hesitate in her progress, she said, as if half communing with herself, ‘I will go, and God be with me.’ ‘Surely, my lady, but where to?’ ‘I will see Cromwell—will entreat him, he may listen to me.’ ‘Surely, my lady, and what for no?’

And away went Lady Reay to endeavour to obtain an interview with Oliver Cromwell, then in Edinburgh at the head of the Parliamentary troops.

Access to Cromwell was a difficult matter, but Lady Reay was fortunate in obtaining an introduction through an intimate friend. As she was presented, Cromwell, in his usual abrupt manner, was in the act of turning away, when her ladyship fell on her knees at his feet, and, catching the skirts of his coat, poured forth in heart-breaking, agonised supplications her entreaties for her husband’s release. Struck by her deportment, her beauty, and her language, he listened, and finally, overcome by her supplication, said he would willingly do all in his power to serve her, and restore her husband to her; but as Lord Reay was a State prisoner, the Committee of Estates could alone discharge him from custody.

On hearing his decision, she became so affected that Cromwell at last declared to her that if she could by any means get her husband out of ward, he would grant him a protection to prevent his further molestation. This protection he wrote and handed to her ladyship, who retired with heightened hopes, springing she knew not what from.

When she left the lodgings of Cromwell, she glanced hastily round for her henchman, who in an instant was by her side. ‘Aweel, my lady,’ said John, ‘what will the bodach do?’ ‘He will do nothing, John; but he has given me this pass, which would be all that would be required if we only could get his lordship outside the prison walls, and that, I fear, is impossible.’

‘Prut, my lady, ilka thing is possible.’

‘But how will it be done, John?’

‘Ah, it’s easy durkin’ the turnkey body inside, and the twa sentries at the door.’

‘Ah, John, John, we must have no blood, and still less murder, whatever happen; besides, you yourself would suffer death.’

‘Aweel, that’s little for Mackay’s sake.’

‘Promise me, John, that not a hair of these men’s heads shall be hurt, whatever we attempt; remember they are only doing their duty. Promise me.’ And John promised.

Lady Reay and her servant had free access to his lordship at all times. Outside the prison door was a wicket, guarded within by a turnkey, who generally lolled against it, or rested himself upon a form beside.

Outside the main door were two sentries placed as guards, who either crossed each other in their steady walk, or stood at ease, one on each side of the doorway. As Lady Reay was a favourite with the turnkey, on account of the politeness which she daily showed him, he did not think it necessary to lock his lordship’s cell during the time of her ladyship’s visit, and at last got into the habit of allowing his lordship to accompany Lady Reay till she passed through the wicket, on her leaving for the night.

On the day following her visit to Cromwell, Lord Reay, as usual, accompanied her ladyship, and while she was stepping beyond the wicket, he suddenly laid hold of the turnkey, and, laying him down in the passage, placed the form above him, seized his keys, and passing through the wicket locked him in. The lady having effected her part so far, of which John was perfectly aware by sound, though he could not turn round to see, he at once seized the sentries, one in each hand, and laying one down, placed the other above him, kicking their arms to a distance, while Lord Reay sprang over them and rushed down the street. Addressing the soldiers, who had ceased to struggle in the grip of their powerful opponent, he said—‘Now, lads, you will just be good and be quiet, or if you no be quiet, I will just have to shake your pickle brains out of their pans, and so you’ll see what you shall see; but if you are good, I’ll give myself quietly up to be put into the jail instead of his lordship.’

John accordingly surrendered himself, and, loaded with irons, was lodged in the Tolbooth.

In due time he was brought to trial for aiding the escape of a State prisoner, and Cromwell was present as President. Said he—‘There is no doubt that the servant has duly forfeited his life, but his conduct and fidelity, which went to release his master, and perhaps have saved his life, were of so high a character, and so heroic, that if this man were put to death for qualities so valuable and so commendable, and particularly seeing that nothing hurtful resulted to the State from his doings, it would discourage every faithful servant from doing his duty. I therefore propose that, for the sake of justice, John Mackay, the prisoner at the bar, shall be condemned to death; but that, under the circumstances of the case, the punishment shall be remitted, and Mackay shall leave the bar a free man.’

During the time that John Mackay was digesting the speech of Cromwell, the latter was taking a steady look of the former, when he exclaimed to those around him, while he remarked Mackay’s fierce aspect and athletic form—‘May I ever be kept from the devil’s and that man’s grasp.’ On the other hand, John’s remark on Cromwell, whom he had as carefully noticed, was—‘The deil’s no sae doure as he’s ca’ed.’