Sookin' Berries

by Jess Smith

  The chance that they might meet parties of Redcoats from the enemy army marauding throughout Skye put them in extreme danger. Their escape went smoothly in the end: the Betty Burke disguise certainly proved its worth in securing the safe departure of the country’s would-be monarch. He sailed off and was swallowed up in a swirling mist, never to set foot on Scotland’s shores again. Sad and dejected, he settled on the continent and thereafter lived out his life in obscurity.

  Here is the story about these events that Mother told us. Are you sitting comfortably? Good. Then let’s rewrite history, for our own enjoyment.

  Jeannie Macarthur stood at her gate on the island of Uist, head covered by a shawl of greenish-grey, waiting and watching. Her brother Donald hadn’t come home from the Battle of Culloden. News had trickled back to Uist that many had fallen. Defeat soon followed. People were dashing this way and that, like headless hens. The enemy were coming to burn and murder, according to the news carriers. The Duke of Cumberland, the leader of the Redcoats and second son of King George of England, had won – to him went the spoils.

  Like red lines of adders, his bloodthirsty troops searched through every inch of Highland homes. Spirals of black smoke wound upwards to mingle with the fog that shrouded the sky. It was a time of terror, a time to run and hide. The cause of the Jacobites was lost forever. Culloden Moor was soaked in their blood, and the victorious Duke of Cumberland raised the flag of St George for all Highland eyes to see. Bonny Prince Charlie had stood his ground until the last clansman fell in his defence, before being smuggled away amidst weeping and wailing.

  Flora Macdonald, from Milton on South Uist, lived in Edinburgh, but was visiting her father on the island when these events took place. Suddenly a young boy rushed into the house. Her father, who was a tenant farmer, recognised Jamie Macdonald. ‘What ails you, boy?’ he asked, grabbing him by the shoulders to stop him shaking. ‘What is wrong, son?’ he asked again.

  Without answering him, the lad rushed over to Flora and said, ‘Mistress, your brother needs you right now!’

  ‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘what a terrible state you’re in. I’ll get my cloak.’

  In no time she was half-running and half-stumbling over runrigs, falling over rocks and finding it very hard to keep up with the wide-eyed, pale-faced boy. Soon they stood at her brother’s low-roofed cottage, soaked through by a heavy shower of summer rain.

  When she opened the door and stepped inside, her brother rushed over. ‘Thank God, sister, you have come.’

  ‘What is the matter?’ she asked him. ‘This youngster wouldn’t tell me!’

  ‘Come over and dry yourself at the fire, and meet our visitor.’

  Flora darted her eyes around the corners of the small house, and from a shadowy recess a man stepped out who needed no introduction. In thick plaid of the finest Stewart tartan and a deep purple bonnet with a white cockade fixed among feathery plumage, stood the Jacobite monarch himself, Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  Flora fell back into a small armchair, hardly able to breathe. When eventually she found her voice, she whispered to her brother, ‘If the Redcoats know his whereabouts we shall all be put to the sword!’

  ‘Look, Flora, this may sound like madness, but the only way we can save the Prince is to disguise him. Have you a spare dress?’

  Her mouth dropped open at his suggestion. Panic-stricken and in fear that at any moment the enemy would burst in and kill them all, she answered, ‘I stand here before you in the only dress I have. My wardrobe is in my house, and that, as you know is in Edinburgh. I don’t even have a spare yard of tweed.’

  The Prince, who had stayed silent until then, spoke quietly without the slightest sign of fear. ‘Madam, a boat waits near Portree in Skye to carry me to France. Word is that if we can get there by the weekend, I shall be able to sail from Scotland. Cumberland will kill and murder until he finds me, so the quicker I leave the better for all. Please, milady, can you think of a way? So much depends on my departure.’

  Flora could see the desperate state of affairs and thought hard. Suddenly an idea came to her. ‘Wee Jeannie!’ she shouted.

  She called Jamie, who’d been sitting quietly on guard by the window. ‘Go and fetch Jeannie Macarthur, the seamstress. If anyone can conjure up a dress to fit the Prince then I know no other. Uist folk say she can sew the wings back onto a seagull. Tell her to fetch every spare piece of plaid she can find, and her sewing box.’

  She was excited and frightened at the same time: it was such a fantastic idea, but if the Prince was to be saved, then this surely must be the way. ‘Brother, strip your bed. If Jeannie can sew together the dress, then our prince must be disguised as my maidservant.’

  In less than an hour, the young lad came panting back into the house, Jeannie Macarthur at his back. She laid a bag of plaid cuttings on the floor, sat a rickety old box next to it and said, ‘Well, Mistress Macdonald, this had better be important. I’ve left my poor mother standing at the end of our path. She’s in an awful state because our Donald hasn’t come home from the battle. I’ve heard tell the young Prince is hiding someplace in the great glen with nothing more than a couple of worthy men to save him, and Cumberland’s butchers are trailing every inch of the Highlands and islands searching out Jacobites and running them through. Blood is soaking our land, so I’ve more to worry about than mending a frock! Now, what is it you want of me that has turned young Jamie near hairless?’

  Softly, as the others looked on, Prince Charlie laid his hands on Jeannie’s shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘You, I’m informed, can sew the wings back onto a gull and let it fly off whole?’ He stared into her eyes, and like Flora she knew immediately who he was. She fell hard on her knees as the sight of him sent shock-waves through her body. ‘Well, I’d not go to that extent, your Royal Highness, but I’m a keen seamstress.’

  ‘You’re the best there is,’ said Flora, helping her onto shaky legs. ‘Now, Jeannie, what is needed – and remember time is not on our side – is a frock to fit the Prince. He will sail across to Skye with me disguised as Betty Burke, my maidservant from Ireland. We shall travel over Syke to Portree, where a boat waits to take him to France.’

  Without a word, Jeannie began pulling strips of plaid from her rag bag. She pushed feet out of her way as she laid the strips side by side on the floor. Flora’s brother laid sheets and blankets before her. Then, as if by magic, her fingers were sowing and cutting. On and on, as if in a trance, her little fingers jigged and jumped, scissors cut and tore. The onlookers were fascinated as the garment began to take shape.

  One hour passed, then two, three and four, and by the sixth hour a dress lay on her lap. Sweat trickled from her brow. ‘Here,’ she said, handing the dress to the Prince, ‘away you into the room and try that on!’

  What an amazing transformation: gone was the man, and there for all eyes to marvel at was Betty Burke, Irish maidservant to Flora Macdonald.

  ‘I’ll challenge anyone to find the man in that woman,’ laughed Jamie, before he left to head home. He’d no idea if his own father and brother, who had set off the previous month to take arms for the Jacobite cause, were alive or dead, but with the work complete, he’d a contented look on his face, knowing he had played his part. Prince Charlie thanked him warmly.

  Flora’s brother set four bowls on an old pine table, and ladled a helping of broth into each. The soup with some bread was shared between them. Flora and Charlie went over their stories if they should be stopped by Redcoats, before leaving to row across from Benbecula to Skye. Jeannie was already halfway down the sheep path leading from their house to hers when the Prince called her back. ‘Jeannie,’ he asked softly, trying to speak with a feminine tone, ‘where are you going?’

  ‘Home, Sire, to see if my mother is alright and to see if there’s any news of my brother Donald,’ she told him.

  ‘Would you consider taking this journey with us? I think three women would fare better than two, don’t you agree?’

  F
or a moment she thought how helpless they looked, Flora with her Edinburgh-pale skin, and him – she couldn’t at that moment make up her mind what he looked like – but he was right, another woman might be an advantage if they should catch the attention of enemy soldiers, especially if they’d been drinking.

  ‘Skye, ye say? Well, after all I am the daughter of Donald John Macarthur, a true-blooded Jacobite, and even if he be dead in his grave, I know he’d not rest in peace if I did not see the prince of the line of the Stuarts to safety.’

  ‘Even if you lose your life in the process?’ asked Flora.

  ‘My life is not important, and come to think of it, compared with seeing the Prince to safety, neither is my blessed mother. Can you tell her I’m away to help with the cause?’

  She dropped her sewing box at the feet of Flora’s brother, who nodded. Tying a coarse wool shawl around her shoulders, she linked arms and said, ‘Come now, you two fine lassies, let’s get ourselves over the sea to Skye.’

  Thankfully, brisk winds filled the sails of the little boat, which allowed them to make speedy progress, and carried them from Benbecula on Uist to Skye in relative safety. It was 27 June 1746.

  Night was falling as they waded onshore. Flora and Jeannie knew the paths well, having been many times on the island. Even with darkness engulfing them, they were able to push on with speed. At around four in the morning, the darkest hour, they found a rocky cleugh where they could curl up and rest. They’d brought dried strips of beef to eat, which were soon downed with a drink of fresh water from a small stream.

  Halfway through the day, a frightening sound drifted from a small ring of thatched cottages nearby. It was a band of unruly Redcoats. They were armed with flaming torches and were about to set fire to the houses. With torches held high, they began shouting orders that all inhabitants had to flee or be burned inside. Horrified, the threesome saw women and children rushing around trying to salvage what little they could before the fire took hold.

  ‘Help, help!’ A young woman who was heavily pregnant ran to one of the Redcoats. ‘My little girl is still in her bed, she has a fever – please get her out!’

  An officer pushed her roughly aside, ignoring her pleas. ‘She can burn among all the rest of the rubbish,’ he snarled like a dog. He spat at her feet and stiffly strode off.

  Jeannie couldn’t stand by and watch. Picking up her skirt she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. Ignoring the enemy soldiers, she rushed through them and into the house. Flames roared round her among black smoke; inside the heat and fumes were unbearable as she felt blindly for a bed. At first she thought her lungs might give in, when a tiny hand found hers. In seconds she had the child, face blackened with smoke, resting, barely alive, in the arms of her grateful mother.

  A soldier stormed over and slapped her hard across the face. ‘I’ve a good mind to throw you into the flames,’ he yelled as she lay on the ground. An old woman threw herself onto Jeannie’s body and took the full force of a powerful kick aimed for her. She gave a painful sigh and rolled over, eyes flickering in her time-ravaged face. Jeannie, ignoring the onslaught of abuse from her tormentor, held the old woman until she breathed her last, then screamed, ‘You evil pig! You’ve killed her.’

  The officer, who obviously had a busy day ahead, smartly intervened and ordered his soldiers away. The days that followed for the Highlands and islands were as dark and blood-spattered as any in their history.

  After the soldiers had gone, Flora scolded Jeannie and said, ‘Are you forgetting whose life is at stake?’ She pointed to the Prince who was sadly watching the line of broken families wending their way over the old drove road. He told Jeannie that she had been very brave, and then he said something that astonished both women. ‘As I’m to blame for all this, is there time to bury the old woman?’

  Flora, only 21 years old, was already taking control, and showing the wisdom of a woman twice her age. ‘No, Sire, not a minute can we spare. But she lived the hard life, and will be content to know her thin frame shall feed the crows and the gulls. God will catch her soul!’

  The battle on Culloden Moor had reduced the Prince to a poor wretched creature. He slumped down and dropped his head. ‘What has been done in my name is too awful to contend with,’ he said. Aware of the sacrifices that had been made throughout the land for the Stuart cause, he cried, ‘Madam, I am a total failure and do not deserve to live, but allow me to complete one task.’ He stood up and went down to where the still form of the dead woman lay.

  ‘At least let me drape her body with bracken!’ he said. Jeannie and Flora dashed around pulling clumps of heather and handfuls of bright green fern, and in less than five minutes they had completely covered the body. After saying a few prayers in Latin, they were soon striding onwards. As the clock ticked on, no one, friend or foe, barred their path.

  That night it was decided each should take a turn guarding the others as they slept, and by early morning they had replenished their energies. After more strips of cold beef and fresh water, they were once again on their treacherous road. All that day went by without incident, and they had another night of relative peace.

  Next morning, as they washed at the burn, Jeannie noticed Charlie’s chin. It was a real giveaway – his beard was well sprouted. This posed a big problem, for they had no razor, nor any other way of removing the offending growth. Both women advised him to cover the lower part of his face, which he did.

  It was Sunday, and the final stretch lay ahead. Each prayed that the cruel Redcoats would keep clear, as every step brought them nearer to Portree where a sturdy boat waited for Charlie. With the town in their sights, and only another mile to go, a sound made their hearts stop. Drums were beating loudly from within the scattered thatched cottages of the Braes, followed by spirals of thick black smoke. They halted in their tracks.

  As if by magic, a wave of Redcoats descended on them, brandishing rifles with fixed bayonets. By the look and the noise of them, it was easy to tell that a night of drinking and pillaging had just taken place.

  Flora froze, then she reached down to grab the Prince’s hand and squeezed it tight. Quickly he covered a now healthy red beard with the shawl. They were in full view of the drunken soldiers, who wasted no time in circling them. Flora’s heart was beating louder than the drumbeats booming from around the burning houses. ‘This is the end,’ she thought, as one man reached up to pull the shawl from Charlie’s head.

  Jeannie had other ideas, and wasn’t giving up, after travelling all that way, without a fight. As hard as she could bear, she bit down on her tongue. Blood oozed and trickled profusely from each corner of her mouth. The Redcoats saw her, and now she had their attention she threw herself on the ground and arched her spine. With the blood oozing and back curved, she made sounds that could only be described as terrifying. She was gargling, groaning and frothing. Flora dashed forward, saying, ‘She has the sickness! Don’t touch her, flee for your lives!’

  If the soldiers had been sober, then perhaps Jeannie’s play-acting wouldn’t have had the same effect, but in their intoxicated state, each one feared catching the dreaded disease, whatever it was, and took to their heels.

  Flora helped Jeannie to her feet, and with skirts at knee level the small band ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Not once did they stop to look back, until, almost breathless, they stood on the shore at Portree.

  Out to sea, waiting in silence, stood the ship ready to ferry Charlie away. A small rowing boat, with one solitary oarsman, rolled from side to side on the incoming tide.

  Charlie removed his Betty Burke disguise and hastily dressed in his own clothes, while Jeannie and Flora grew sadder by the minute.

  ‘Madam,’ he said to Flora, ‘perhaps one day we may meet again. I will think of you every day of my life and of what might have been. The clans will never be reunited; Culloden and King George have seen to that. Cumberland, his butcher of a son, has only just begun his march of death. I am profoundly sorry that my time in Scotland
has been so short. I shall go back to France and write letters to all Europe to save Scotland from the impending reign of the sword, this I promise you.’

  He went onto one knee and kissed her small hand, pressing into it a gold locket containing his portrait. Turning to Jeannie, he said, ‘Ah, my little heroine, the bravery I have witnessed this day gives me hope that if all Scotland’s mothers and daughters have your strength, then she will survive without any monarch at her helm. I want to give you so much, but alas I have only one thing.’ He reached into a small pocket in his tunic and retrieved a gold coin. Gently he took her trembling hand and laid it on her palm. ‘Take this, Jeannie Macarthur. It is the gold of Scotland and I give it to you!’

  Opening his arms, he beckoned them both to him, and for a few moments they held each other until the impatient oarsman reminded him of the Redcoats nearby.

  Jeannie and Flora watched as the waves carried their king who never was away. Through the sea mist he could just be seen climbing aboard the sailing vessel, and then he was gone. They would never see him again.

  Word of their escapade and the part they played in it reached enemy ears. Flora was arrested two weeks later, and taken from her father’s home to be imprisoned in Dunstaffnage Castle, before being sent to the Tower of London. She was released in 1747 under a general amnesty which freed many of those who had fought against the government. (Prince Charlie had promised to write letters to every ruler in Europe, and perhaps it was his efforts that brought about this turn of events.)

  Flora married a Uist man named Alan MacDonald and then emigrated to North Carolina. Her husband joined a regiment of Royal Highland Emigrants, and took part in the American War of Independence. He was captured at the battle of Moore’s Creek and for a time was imprisoned before being sent to Nova Scotia. In 1779 the couple returned to Skye where they lived out their lives. Flora died in Kingsburgh in the same bed in which Bonnie Prince Charlie had slept during his short attempt to unite the clans and give Scotland a king.