The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  Charles was about to address the Scotsman when he heard a murmur of discontent from his crew who raised themselves from the sand at the Macdonald’s approach. “The army that the king of France promised me has, unfortunately, failed to be raised. There is no army following. The king is afraid of setting his troops upon the sea with the potential of storms and bad weather.”

  Again, the enormous Scotsman burst into laughter. “You’re talking shite, boy! The French haven’t sailed with you because they’re terrified of the British Army. And you, my bonnie young Italian, would best serve yourself and us if you were to get back onto your tatty wee boat and return to your hame the way you came. Without an army, you’ll never get the Scots lairds to agree to rise up against King George. Nobody’s going to risk their bollocks for a naïve boy who arrives in a row boat with barely enough soldiers to scratch his arse.”

  “Sir,” said Charles. “I am come home. I shall not be leaving.”

  The Scotsman looked at the prince, then at the group and sniffed contemptuously. For weeks, it had been rumoured that the invasion was coming. Now that it had arrived, it was even more farcical than any Scotsman would believe.

  “No, laddie,” he said, “This isn’t your home. You were born in Rome, so put away these ideas of ruling Scotland and return to a sunny land where the ladies are welcoming and the wine flows freely. For years, you’ve been spreading the word about coming here to rule Scotland and England, but that’s all it’s ever been, boy; just pish from a soft cock and wind from a bellows. By heavens, but you’re an arrogant fellow. You arrive and expect us to follow you when we’ve all heard of your reputation for drinking and womanizing. You’re no king, Charlie, and we Scots need none of your sort on our land. Go home, boy, and play at being a prince.”

  The crew behind him began to rise angrily and Prince Charles heard the sound of swords being withdrawn from scabbards. “Master Macdonald,” he said, knowing that he had much to accomplish in these next few words, “this is my home. It was stolen from my grandfather James II and from his son, my beloved father James III. I am here to reclaim this land in the name of the Stuarts in order to place my father as rightful heir onto the throne of both Scotland and of England. If you will join me in throwing off the yoke of oppression and ridding England and Scotland of these damnable Hanoverians who have usurped the throne and the royal succession ordained by God Himself, then we shall succeed faster. But if you refuse to join me then I shall still succeed, but the task will be harder, the journey to London longer, and you will lose out on the spoils of the victor.”

  The Scotsman looked at the young man long and hard, his face wearing an inscrutable mask, his thoughts indefinable behind his thick glistening beard. The wind suddenly arose and the Scotsman’s kilt fluttered against his muscular legs. But it was the corners of his eyes that crinkled fractionally that told Charles that the Scotsman was more bluster than fearsome and his aggression had been nothing more than testing Charles’ resolve. Suddenly the Macdonald’s mouth beamed a welcoming smile.

  “You’ve got balls, laddie. That I’ll say for you. You’ve come here without the king of France’s men yet you’re still puffed up like a cock partridge; I have to own that it takes guts to land on these shores and think of raising an army. You may be a bully-rook, but you’ve a pretty turn of phrase, and I’ve no doubt but that you’ll turn the heads of some lassies as you roam the Highlands. But it’ll be a damnable hard job winning over the Lairds of Scotland with words alone. We’ve no great love for the fat sausage eaters down in London, and God only knows we want rid of them, but its guns and cannon and an army we need to fight them, not your playmates yonder,” he said gesturing to the prince’s crew.

  “But these are strange times, and who knows, Charlie, maybe you can turn the lairds’ heads as easily as you seduce the Italian lassies, so you may have a chance. But I’ll not join you, Charlie, though no doubt there’ll be some who’ll happily seize the opportunity. And I’ll not stop you getting to the mainland, though God knows if it becomes known that I’ve assisted you, Chubby George will come looking for my bollocks.”

  The prince knew that it was as much as he could expect, and in gratitude, he shook the Scotsman’s hand. “Thank you, Alexander Macdonald. I’m sorry you won’t be joining me, for I’d like to have one such as you by my side when I take to the field against King George. But knowing you won’t oppose me is a benefit that I won’t reject. Now, my Lord of the Islands, perhaps you could see me to a house where we can rest and eat and prepare for our journey further on to my realm.”

  Again, the Macdonald burst out laughing. “Your realm! Only by the good grace of the Almighty, all the lairds of Scotland, and your ability to defeat King George II, will this ever become your realm. You’ve an uphill struggle, laddie, and you’re beef witted if you think you’ll open up anybody’s ears without ten thousand Frenchies behind you.”

  Then he pointed to the prince’s Italian and French supporters who stood and listened in amazement at the way in which the ruffian spoke to their prince.

  “And especially when half your crew are dressed like flax wenches going to a fling. Still, it’s your problem, just as long as you don’t make it mine.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, laughed, turned, and led the way up the beach to where the small island village was situated.

  MR. CASAUBON’S COFFEE HOUSE EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

  A MONTH AFTER THE BONNIE PRINCE’S LANDING, 1745

  Despite the condensation that obscured much of her view through the small window panel, she knew him from the pamphlet she had picked up inside the apothecary’s shop just the other day. The caricature on the pamphlet showed him as fat and pampered, with what appeared to be a ruddy face and wearing a wig askew as though he were a pisspot incapable of walking a straight line from drinking a glass too much of malmsey. Yet from the words he’d written, she knew him to be the very cleverest of men, and although he dealt in moral philosophy, whatever that was, he would have a better understanding than anybody within her society of how she should greet the news. She had read and re-read the pamphlet he had written, and on the third or fourth time, she finally understood what point he was striving to make.

  She had been directed by the apothecary to where he and his friends normally met in the mid-morning, but now that she stood outside the very windows of the very coffee caravan in which he sat drinking with his friends, her courage failed her. How could she just walk up to one of the most brilliant men in Scotland and simply introduce herself?

  It was all so easy when she was a young girl, growing up on her island in the Hebrides, running around naked in the cool summer air with her friends, boys and girls, and feeling as if nothing in the world could stand in her way. In those days, she could go up to anybody, speak to anyone, dare to do whatever she wanted. Her mother Anne had said that she was a wild free spirit, and could never be tamed. But in her fifteenth year, she’d changed and become introvert, preferring to be alone with her dreams, isolated in her thoughts. And she seemed to be continually angry; angry with the way Scotland was controlled by the English, angry with the failure of the Scots to rise up and free themselves of the yolk of English suzerainty, and angry with the men and women of Scotland who just accepted their lot without rising up to fight for their rights.

  In the years since, while she’d been in the employ of the wife of the laird of the Macdonalds as friend and companion, she’d grown and had come out of her shell, but still burning in her, now more like embers rather than flames, was her desire to see Scotland free. One day, she thought, one day . . .

  Some of her mid-teenage shyness was still with her and she was diffident about approaching such elevated gentlemen. She knew that ladies in polite society, especially ladies in England, were very reticent and their manners were precise and they showed themselves as coy. Yet she was not just Scottish, but from the Islands, and women from the Western lands were known to be forward and to speak their minds with an honesty that was generally not prese
nt in the high society of Edinburgh and Glasgow and the other towns and cities of Scotland. For Edinburgh was a University town, and contained some very clever people.

  Although a Gaelic speaker, she was well educated and spoke passable English and French and Latin and could easily read the newspapers and journals, and she sang beautifully and played the harp and the spinet. But she was bedevilled because of her station in life. She was little more than a companion to Lady Margaret Macdonald, wife of Sir Alexander Macdonald who was one of the most important men of her clan, though in her dreams, she saw herself as both a lady in society and a woman who discoursed on weighty matters with men.

  Yet without more of an education, how could she approach a man of his brilliance and ask him the question that was on the lips of all Scotsmen from the Highlands, and to which she could not find an answer within herself? But now that she was here, soon having to return to Skye, this was her only opportunity to hear the opinion of a truly clever man, so approach him she must. She knew in her heart that she couldn’t return to the Islands without an answer, though as matters stood today, she didn’t know whether to side with Sir Alexander, who was against the Young Prince Charles Edward, or to support Lady Margaret, who was a Jacobite and favoured the replacement of the Hanover interlopers in London with the Catholic Stuarts.

  She saw through the misty window that he was seated with two other gentlemen, all drinking coffee; on tiny plates beside the cups were little cakes that the gentlemen picked up and relished with each mouthful of the coffee. They were in earnest discussion, embroiled in some matter of impregnable discourse. Her heart thumping, she pushed open the door and heard the bell tinkle. Some looked around at the newcomer but not the three men seated at the far side of the room, for they were too engrossed in their discussion to concern themselves with who came into and who left the establishment.

  As she entered the coffee shop, she was immediately affected by the warmth and the smells of the food and drink, but repelled by the stench of the tobacco smoke rising from all the pipes, as though they were peat fires in the gloaming. Beneath the roof of the shop hung a low cloud of brown-gray pipe smoke. Trying not to cough, she stood close to the door and then sauntered along the walls so that she could glimpse his face. It was a kindly face, and the ruddiness that she’d perceived from the caricature was in reality a redness of the cheeks and the forehead, brought about by a good life and lots of laughter. She breathed a sigh of relief, for his eyes twinkled like those of Caleb Macdonald when he told a story late at night around a fire, and Caleb had a good temper and was kindly and open. Maybe Mr. Hume would be just as kindly, just as open, and accepting, despite having the narrow set eyes and the large nose of a footpad. Yet still she held back, waiting for a breach in the men’s conversation that would provide an entry point for her.

  At last, they seemed to take a break from their debate, and Flora Macdonald walked as boldly as her legs, though not her heart, allowed and stood before the table, looking each man in the eye. Each glanced up at her and smiled, seemingly bemused by her sudden appearance. Women were a rare sight in a coffee house, especially one so young, comely, and rudely dressed.

  “Good day, Gentlemen. My name is Flora Macdonald. I am from the Outer Hebrides Island of South Uist. I have come to seek out Mr. David Hume. Might I know which one of you gentlemen is Mr. Hume?”

  The men remained silent until one spoke and asked politely, “Tell me, Mistress Macdonald, does this Mr. Hume owe you money or any other debt or a service that has been promised but not delivered?”

  She caught the twinkle in his eye, and shook her head. “Mr. Hume is unknown to me as I to him. He owes me nothing, but if he’ll speak with me, then it is me who will owe him a debt of gratitude.”

  One of the men stood, and pulled a chair from another table, offering it to her. She sat.

  “Mistress Macdonald, I am Mr. David Hume,” he told her. “I have the honor to present myself to you.”

  He held out his hand, and she shook it. Hume noticed that she had a slender, delicate, and warm hand. For an instant, he’d imagined that the hand from a Hebrides woman would be as crude and rough as the skin of a goat, but hers was like a silk glove. And she was a handsome lass, buxom with a fresh and lovely skin, beautiful glistening black hair, and a sunny smile.

  “These other gentlemen are my good friends and confreres, some members of their School of Common Sense, a school where I am not a pupil. May I introduce Mr. Adam Smith and Mr. Thomas Reid.”

  She knew their names vaguely. When she’d lived in Edinburgh, she had read of their names in newspaper articles, but she knew nothing about them other than they were at the University and were acquiring a reputation throughout England and France. She turned her attention to Mr. Hume, but before she could ask her question, he asked her, “Might I persuade you to take a cup of coffee with us. It’s really very good.”

  She smiled and nodded. Hume turned and indicated to a servant, who immediately brought a cup of the steaming black liquid. Flora sipped it and grimaced at its bitterness. “Dear God in heaven, is this what you spend your days drinking? I wonder at all the fuss. If I’d wanted to drink tanning acid, I could have stayed at home!”

  The three men laughed, and Mr. Smith said hurriedly, “It’s an acquired taste, Miss Macdonald, but once it’s acquired, it’s very hard to reject.”

  She sipped it again under the amused scrutiny of the three men, and found that the second taste was marginally less bitter than the first, and she could indeed begin to perceive a flavour that was unnoticeable in her first sip. But regardless, she could never see coffee becoming as popular as ale or whiskey.

  “Now, ma’am, perhaps you could tell us why you’ve sought out our illustrious companion, Mr. Hume,” asked Mr. Reid.

  She breathed deeply, as though about to breast a mountain, and said, “The other day, I read a pamphlet containing your thoughts, and I would favour your advice concerning the landing of Prince Charles Edward Stuart. You’ve written on the causation of one event happening after another. In your pamphlet, you said that when an event follows after another, most people think that there is a connection between the two events and that the first event makes the second event follow on from the first. But you dispute that. You say that even though we perceive one event following the other, we don’t perceive any necessary connection between the two and that we can only trust the knowledge that we acquire from our perceptions.”

  The three philosophers looked at her in amazement. She continued undaunted, “Yet surely the event of Prince Charles landing will cause the English to attack Scotland, or so my stepfather Hugh believes. Will it, or won’t it? I mean, the very fact that he’s here will lead to England sending their troops up into the Highlands and there’ll be a slaughter, won’t there? Yet in your writings, as far as I understand them, you say that because one event follows another, it doesn’t mean that they’re connected.”

  Hume smiled and nodded. “You’ve read A Treatise on Human Nature?”

  Flora shook her head. “No, I’ve read the pamphlet that tells something about it.”

  “I’m afraid, Mistress Macdonald, that matters such as the future of events are a great deal more complicated than that. Causation and consequence determine a particular event that follows upon another. If you stand and scream out that I’m a thief and that I’ve just stolen your purse, we can be well assured that as a consequence of the event of your shouting, a guard from the Castle will enter these premises and arrest me. If I light a taper and put it to my pipe, we can confidently expect, as a result, that the tobacco will burn. But these are matters that are ascertainable from evidence that comes from our experience. What you’re asking is whether or not a particular event will lead ipso facto to another event, and when we’re dealing with the nature of human decision, experience cannot be relied upon.

  “The landing of young Charles may or may not lead to the English sending up their troopers, although as your father suggests, it’s highly likely. If
they do, the Scotsmen in the Highlands will undoubtedly rise up and there’ll be a terrible battle. This, though, has little to do with my treatise. If you want an answer to what will happen now that the Young Pretender has landed, I’m sorely afraid that you’ll have to have coffee with King George, rather than a dullard like myself.”

  She burst out laughing. Her laugh amused the three men. It was a tinkling laugh and had once been compared to the water of a stream tripping over the stones of a brae. “Dullard? It’s told that you’re the cleverest man in Scotland.”

  “Were I that clever, I shouldn’t have been passed over for a professorship in Moral Philosophy at our very own University,” he said.

  “You were passed over, Hume, because you wouldn’t recant your treatise and everybody thought that you were an atheist,” said Adam Smith.

  Hume turned to Smith and then back to Flora. “My young friend, Mr. Smith, is profoundly influenced by his studies at Oxford University and its God fearing Professors. He has lost his keen eye for what is happening in his native country of Scotland,” he said. “We are governed not by man’s or God’s law, but by the dictates and whims of the clergy. I have always feared living in a theocracy. Had I been alive at the time, I would have cheered loudest and longest when old King Henry told the pope to go hang himself. Regrettably, hatred for the papacy has given birth to fanatical men such as Mr. Luther and Mr. Calvin and Mr. Knox. Now, it appears, our protesting Presbyters have turned into incarnations of popes, and we Scots are, in all but name, governed by the Church. Soon we will be suffering under the bony outstretched hands of a Scottish Savonarola.”

  Flora had no idea what he was talking about and sipped her coffee again. She was beginning to warm to its bitterness. “So you and your friends are unable to tell me what will happen now that the Stuart has landed.”