Highland Sunset

by Joan Wolf

  Van went over to where he was sitting and, standing in front of him, she put her hands on his shoulders. "He told me to save myself," Niall said in a muffled voice. He put his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her breast.

  Van's heart ached with grief, for him and for her father. "You did well by him, Niall," she repeated, and felt him shudder under her hands.

  "He was in the front," he said. "He was always in the front."

  "He was Mac mhic Iain." Van's voice was slightly muffled.

  "Aye." Niall dropped his arms and Van stepped back. "He was a chief." He drew a deep, sobbing breath. "Van, I am Mac mhic Iain now."

  "There is nothing you can do here in Morar, Niall," she said in answer to his unspoken question. "You must go to France. Father did that once, after Sheriffmuir. There will be an Act of Indemnity one day, and then you can come home. But you have a wife in France, and a bairn soon too. Go with the prince. I will do all I can here in Morar."

  He looked up at her out of darkened eyes. His shirt was filthy and he had not shaved in days. "If it becomes necessary," he said hesitantly, "could you not send to Linton?"

  Van's face closed. "Go get a bath and a shave," she said. "You are not likely to get another for quite some time."

  Niall left Creag an Fhithich under cover of darkness to walk over the hills to Borrodale to join the prince. After he had gone, Van sat down at the harpsichord. It was the first time she had been near an instrument since last September, when they had left Morar to join the prince in Edinburgh.

  Seven months, Van thought. Seven months, and the whole world had changed.

  She began to play, but after only a few notes she stopped. All her life, music had been the great healer for her; it was frightening to realize that it could not help her now. She sat for a long time looking at her still fingers on the keys. It seemed as if there were no music left in her at all.

  Seven months.

  Edward was lost to her. Father was dead. Niall and Alan were in hiding. Seven months.

  For the first time since she was eight years old, Van bowed her head and cried.

  The news of the victory at Culloden was brought from Inverness to London in eight days' time. Church bells rang in thanksgiving. The Duke of Cumberland was toasted in every household. Civilized society had been saved from the savage Highland menace.

  The government met and had only words of praise for the Duke of Cumberland and his work. Edward sat in stony silence and listened to the advice that was offered to the prime minister on how to deal with the Highlands.

  "Starve the country by your ships, put a price on the heads of the chiefs, and let the duke put all to the fire and the sword," said Lord Newcastle.

  The Duke of Richmond agreed. "I own I had rather the duke should destroy the rebels than that they should lay down their arms. The dread example of a great many of them being put to the sword, and I hope a great many of them hanged, may strike a terror in them and keep them quiet."

  "We have been at war with France for years," Edward said quietly, "and we have never behaved in the fashion you are presently advocating. May I remind you, gentlemen, that we are a Christian country living in a civilized century."

  "That is precisely it, Linton," Lord Newcastle said in a hard voice. "The Highlanders are not civilized. They must be dealt with as the savages they are."

  "What you are advising is wholly outside the recognized rules of war," Edward said sharply. "If you turn Cumberland's army loose on the Highlands, it is not merely the rebels who were in arms who will suffer."

  "We all know you have a weakness for Highlanders, Linton," someone down the table said acidly.

  The prime minister, Lord Pelham, spoke. "The clans have shown themselves to be the only available reservoir for a Jacobite army. It is our duty to see to it that they never rise for a Stuart again."

  Lady Linton was waiting in the drawing room of Linton House when Edward arrived home.

  "What happened, darling?" she asked when he was standing in front of the chimneypiece facing her.

  "It's as I thought. They were terrified by that invasion. They want vengeance." His eyes were burning with a cold blue light.

  Lady Linton clasped her hands together tightly. He frightened her when he looked like this. "What will you do?" she asked.

  "I resigned from the government, of course. I spoke to Pelham after the meeting." His lips were tight. "In a nutshell, they are giving Cumberland carte blanche to do what he will."

  "What of Morar? Do you know, Edward? And Niall?"

  "There are few details, except that the prince escaped. Damn him. The battle was a rout. The rebels had upwards of two thousand killed."

  "Dear God," Lady Linton breathed. "Edward, what of Frances and Van? Will they at least be safe?"

  "No one will be safe, Mother," came the grim reply.

  "But what can we do?"

  Edward looked at her. His blue eyes glittered. "Tomorrow at dawn," he said, "I ride north for Scotland."

  PART III

  May-October 1746

  From the lone shieling of the misty island Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas— Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

  —David Macbeth Moir, The Canadian Boat Song

  CHAPTER 22

  Niall discovered the prince in a small cottage not far from Borrodale House. With him were several of his Irish officers and young Clanranald and Lord Elcho. When Niall arrived he found the group in the midst of a strategy discussion.

  The prince greeted Niall warmly and pressed him to join the loyal gathering in front of the smoky fire of the small cottage. Charles, it seemed, had resolved to try to return to France. "I am of little use to you on this side of the water," he told Niall. "In France, however, I can certainly engage the French court either to assist us effectually and powerfully, or at least to procure you such terms as you would not obtain otherwise. My presence there, I flatter myself, will have more effect to bring this sooner to a determination than anybody else."

  It never even crossed Niall's mind that the prince might be flattering himself. "Aye," he agreed wholeheartedly. "And the French are certain to send a ship for your royal highness."

  "That is what we were discussing before you arrived," Lord Elcho said. "I also think that the French will send a ship to take off his highness. And what is more, I think they will send it to Arisaig, where they landed him a year ago."

  The stubborn look they had all learned to recognize crossed Charles's face. "I do not agree, Elcho. Arisaig is too obvious and too unprotected. I think we will all stand a better chance of escaping if we cross over to Skye or the Outer Isles."

  For three days Charles Stuart and his loyal followers stayed in Borrodale debating their future course. The prince's final decision was aided by two events. The first was the arrival in Borrodale of Donald MacLeod of Skye, an old man of nearly seventy years of age. Donald was a seaman and had access to a boat. The other event was a rumor, to which Cumberland listened, that the prince had already escaped and was hiding on faraway St. Kilda. Accordingly, Cumberland ordered the fleet to St. Kilda to investigate, and the Long Island—that is, all the Outer Isles from Barra to the Butt of Lewis—was left unguarded.

  At nightfall on April 26, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, fleeing for his life, left the mainland of Scotland for the Outer Isles. With him were his Irish officers; Donald MacLeod, his pilot; and Niall MacIan.

  On May 3, two French frigates landed in Loch nan Uamh to rescue the prince. Learning that they had missed him, they instead took off the Duke of Perth, Lord John Drummond, and Lord Elcho. After a brief confrontation with a British naval contingent, the French ships returned home without their royal quarry.

  Edward rode from London directly to Inverness. He wished to speak to the Duke of Cumberland personally before he rode to Morar.

  The reality of Inverness was worse than he had imagined. The prison was packed and every time he passed it Edward
could hear pitiful voices crying out for water. The prisoners who could not fit into the prison were being held on ships in the firth, packed together like cattle, with nothing to lie upon but the stones and earth of the ballast. There was no medical treatment available and little food or water.

  Edward was granted an interview with the duke in Lady Mackintosh's house, which still served as the commander-in-chief's headquarters.

  "Well, Linton," the duke said in exaggerated surprise when Edward was bowing before him. "What brings you into this unhappy part of the world?"

  Edward looked at the king's son and made a heroic effort to refrain from speaking his mind on the subject of this "unhappy part of the world."

  The Duke of Cumberland was not nearly as handsome as his cousin Charles. He was dressed, as befitted his role of commander-in-chief, in a magnificent scarlet frock coat with blue lapels edged with gold, but he was undeniably fat. His heavy face above the white foam of lace at his throat was very red, in contrast to the white curls of his wig. His dark eyes protruded noticeably and just now they were staring at Edward with unveiled suspicion.

  "Your royal highness," Edward said respectfully, "I have come to beg you for a favor."

  The protuberant black eyes glittered. "Oh? And what is that, my lord?"

  "I wish to secure from you the safety of the Earl of Morar's tenants and property," Edward answered calmly, his blue eyes very steady.

  The duke laughed. "The Earl of Morar is a proscribed traitor, my lord, and the king's enemy. His land as well as his head are forfeit to the crown." Edward did not reply and Cumberland added curiously, "The old earl is dead, did you know that? Killed at Culloden."

  Edward's grave, attentive expression did not change. "I did not know. And the son?"

  "Running for his life, like my cousin Charles."

  "Is there any news of the young pretender, your highness?" Edward asked, and Cumberland slammed his fat, powerful hand down on the table behind which he was seated.

  "He is believed to be in the Outer Isles," he answered angrily. "The navy is patrolling the Minches but we can get no word of him. I have offered thirty thousand pounds for his capture. It is my hope that one of these miserable wretches of clansmen will give evidence against him."

  "It would certainly be in their interest to do so," Edward replied. "The Stuart pretender has brought nothing but sorrow and grief to those who support him."

  Cumberland grunted. "And I am here, Linton, to make very sure that no one in this benighted country ever supports him again." His bulging black eyes glittered at Edward. "And that includes the Earl of Morar," he added coldly. "I shall do to Morar exactly what I did to Lovat's estate of Castle Dounie last week—pull it down stone by stone and lay the glen waste from the loch to the hills."

  A muscle flickered along the line of Edward's jaw. When he spoke, however, his voice was quiet and respectful. "Have you sent men to Morar yet, your royal highness?"

  "No." The duke leaned back in his chair and the wood creaked in protest. "Tomorrow I am sending three battalions of foot to Fort Augustus," he went on. "From there we will carry fire and sword throughout the whole of the Great Glen. Then we will move west." The duke's face was a shade more red than usual. "I mean to stamp out this Jacobite disease for good, Linton."

  Edward went down on his knees. "As your royal highness knows," he said softly, "the Romney family has never supported the House of Stuart. My grandfather was one of those who escorted William of Orange to England, and since then the Earls of Linton have ever been among Hanover's chief supporters in Parliament."

  "I am aware of all this." The fat red face of the king's son was unmoved. "Why do you want Morar, Linton?"

  "I wish to marry Morar's daughter, your royal highness. I wish to save her home for her"—one golden eyebrow rose slightly—"for a wedding present," he finished. He bowed his bright head. "I beg this from you as a personal favor, your royal highness. A personal favor to your good and loyal subject."

  The duke did not ask him to rise. "Morar's daughter," he said.

  "Yes, your highness." Edward raised his eyes to the duke's face. "I love her, you see."

  The fat red face was hard. It was evident the duke did not like being put in the position Edward was putting him in. "Morar was one of the worst of the traitors," he said. "It was his decision to join that made the rebellion possible."

  "He has had his punishment, your highness," Edward replied soberly. "He is dead."

  "The son is not dead." The duke stared grimly at the man on his knees before him. "I will not extend my protection to Morar's son."

  The blue eyes before him were perfectly steady. "I understand, your highness."

  "Have you spoken to the government about this matter?" Cumberland demanded abruptly.

  "Yes, your highness. Lord Pelham has agreed to accept my surety for the loyalty of Morar and its people to his majesty King George—provided, of course, that this is acceptable to you."

  There was a long hard silence. If Edward were finding his position uncomfortable, he gave no sign of it. "I cannot allow my cousin Charles to escape," the duke said at last.

  "If it were ever in my power to capture Charles Stuart, I should do so unhesitatingly," Edward replied. "It would be best for everyone in this entire kingdom were he dead."

  "Very well." The duke looked suddenly annoyed. "Get up, man, for God's sake. You can ride south tomorrow with the battalions going to Fort Augustus."

  Edward's eyes were brilliant as he rose easily to his feet. "Thank you, your royal highness," he said. "You are very kind."

  On the following morning, three battalions of the King's Foot, Cumberland's advance party, marched south halfway down the Great Glen to Fort Augustus. Edward accompanied them, and all during the long ride which took them along the shores of Loch Ness, he saw not one single human soul. The only native living creatures in sight were the red deer on the brae and the eagle on the mountain wall.

  The weather was chill and cold, more like February than May, Edward thought.

  At Fort Augustus he parted company with the English army and, with a MacDonald guide and one other essential companion, he struck west toward Loch Arkaig and the braes of Morar.

  They buried the silver from Creag an Fhithich down near the shores of the loch. They carefully wrapped the most valuable paintings from the castle—the Giorgione, the Titians, the Veroneses—and brought them out to the cave in the mountains Van and Niall had discovered as children. Frances also put together a box of the most important family papers, and this too they buried.

  The men of the clan who had survived Culloden began to trickle home to Morar. Frances and Van rode around the hills and the braes that were home to so many MacIans and left word that if the "red soldiers" were seen, the men were to take to the heather.

  "English soldiers will not molest women and children," Frances said. And she believed that until word began to filter through to Morar of what was happening in the area around Inverness.

  "They are burning the cottages and driving off the cattle," Lachlan MacIan told Frances and Van. He had been injured in the battle but had managed to crawl off the field and a kind Macintosh family had taken him in. "The hills are full of women and children who have nowhere to go and nothing to eat."

  "Dear God in heaven," said Frances, truly appalled.

  Van looked grimly determined. "Is there nowhere we can hide some of the cattle?" she asked Lachlan.

  "The English are everywhere," came the somber reply. "And where they do not go, there are the Campbells."

  "The Campbells," Van said with loathing.

  "Aye. But the Campbells are better than the Sassenach, Lady Van. They are enemies but they are still Highland. They do not rape women."

  "Rape?" Frances said faintly.

  "Aye." A look of extreme anguish crossed Lachlan's face. "I saw it happen once. God help me, I was skulking in the heather high up on the hill when the soldiers came to the Macintosh's cottage. They burned the house and then
they raped Mrs. Macintosh. Five of them. Her children were watching."

  Van had not known it was possible to feel such anger. "You are right, Lachlan," she said in a low and trembling voice. "They are worse than Campbells. They are worse than the lowest vermin that crawl upon the earth. I would like to take a knife and personally geld every one of them."

  "Van!" Frances was very pale. "Evidently it is not enough that the men hide from the soldiers. The women too must take to the hills. And the children."

  "Aye. But if they burn our homes and drive off our cattle, what will we do, my lady?" Lachlan asked despairingly. "We will starve."

  "We will think of something," Frances said with more confidence than she felt.

  "Think of what, Mother?" Van asked after Lachlan had gone.

  Frances closed her eyes briefly. "I don't know, Van." She pressed her hands to her face. "Your father would know what to do. We must try to think like him."

  Van's face was bleak. "We are the conquered, Mother, and the Sassenach are the conquerors. I don't think even Father could change that. We are at their mercy. And may their souls burn in hell for all eternity for what they are doing to this country!"

  The following day Van was oiling the few guns left at Creag an Fhithich when a clansman brought her the news that a party had been seen coming over the mountains toward Morar.

  Van felt fear clutch her throat, but she managed to speak calmly. "Soldiers?" she asked.

  "Na," came the reply. "There are three of them only, and one is a Highlander. The other two are dressed like Sassenach."

  Van frowned. "Just three men only?"

  "Aye, Lady Van. Only the three. Angus and I made certain of that."

  Van was confused. She did not know if she ought to give the signal to hide or not. Three men hardly sounded dangerous, but suppose Donald and Angus were wrong and they were an advance party of some sort.