The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  In desperation, the prince had sent letters and messengers to all of the lairds and clan leaders of the Highlands, informing them of his presence and asking them to meet with him at Glenfinnan. But he’d been here four hours, and not one man had arrived. The laughter and expectation amongst his small party who had traveled with him slowly diminished as the time wore on and now was completely muted. They sat there, looking at the ground or each other, not daring to look Charles in the eyes. Soon, their confidence in the venture would evaporate completely with the warmth of the day, and then there would only be the silence of defeat in the air. He was lost without having fired a single shot.

  Now that they were at the meeting point, there was nothing to do other than sit down and rest. The Macdonald escort quickly made themselves at home around their campfires drinking whiskey and ale, commenting softly so that he couldn’t hear what they were saying; but he knew right well what their conversation was all about.

  By the time the late of the afternoon had arrived, Prince Charles was prepared to admit that the Highlands would never rise to his call to arms. Without a French or a Scots army, there would be no fight, no conquest, and no throne. He sighed deeply, wondering what to tell his father, and what to tell the French king. To return in ignominy was more than he could bear. As soon as he was able, he’d escape to Italy and bury his head in the bosom of a young woman.

  The prince, resplendent in his black silk shirt and black trousers, wearing a Stuart tartan scarf that had been woven for him especially for this day by a Scotsman in Rome, drank a dram of whiskey to fortify his courage in what he knew he now had to announce to his friends, the laird and the escort. But as he recharged his glass from the flagon, he noticed a movement high up on the hill overlooking the Loch. Thinking it must be a stag or a bird in flight, he drank another glass, but then looked up and saw that it was a man who had climbed and was now standing motionless on top of the ridge. It was a Scotsman wearing a particular tartan, but too distant for the prince to make out to which clan he belonged.

  In interest, the prince stood and looked up at the lone man. It caused others to stop their quiet conversations, and to follow the prince’s eyes. Others stood, and joined the prince, looking upwards.

  If he’d come at the prince’s behest, then he would be first of what might be many. He wore the MacLeod tartan except for the beret that was MacCrimmon. He stood on the hilltop looking down into the valley, not moving a muscle. Then he reached around his back and pulled forward bagpipes, took a deep breath and blew air into the skin. For long moments, all that could be heard was the moaning of the pipes as they filled with air. Then the piper lifted the tube to his mouth, pushed on the skin with his arm, and started playing. It was too distant for his face to be seen so the prince didn’t know whether he meant good or ill by his tune. But when Charles looked about him he saw some of the few men of his honor guard smiling and nodding, and he knew that the lone piper was an omen of good things to come. One of the party of Macdonalds stood and walked over to him, whispering, “He’s a MacCrimmon, the pipers to the MacLeods of Skye. This is a great honor, sir. When he’s finished his tune, you must go forward and hail him thanks.”

  “But what does it mean?” asked the prince.

  The Macdonald smiled. “It means, Charlie, that the MacLeods are coming.”

  The piper stood on the hilltop for several minutes until he’d finished playing “The Gathering of the Clans.” His music had filled the vale with the voice of the pipes and the hope that the piper brought with him. As the last notes faded from the hills and drifted over the smooth inlet of the sea, the prince walked forward, and shouted, “I thank and commend you, Piper, for the honor you have bestowed on me. Come join me, sir, and I’ll drink to your health.”

  The piper stood there for several moments; then he tucked his pipes away over his shoulder, and slowly descended the hill. But he was not alone. For after him they came in their twos and threes, climbing over the crest of the hill and descending toward the gathering on the shores of the inlet; then they came in their dozens; and as the afternoon progressed into dusk, they came over the hills in their hundreds.

  Then came the Clan Cameron, and by the count of them there were at least eight hundred fighting men, with the Laird Lochiel at their head, marching proud and defiant. His men advanced down the side of the loch in two columns of three men deep, and beside them in chains, marched English prisoners who had been recently taken in a small battle at one of the many Forts the English had built to constrain the Highlands.

  The sight of them filled his heart with such a joy as he’d not previously experienced. His father had failed to land on Scotland’s shores when he and France had tried to take back the Scottish throne for the Stuart. But the son was now standing on the hallowed ground that God Almighty had ordained that he and his father rule and as the men gathered around him, looking at him as though he was some exotic beast from a distant jungle, he knew in his heart that his moment had come at last.

  He could barely breathe as he stood and watched the Highlanders continue to come over the hills in their brilliantly colored tartans, their swords and daggers gleaming in the last of the afternoon sunshine. He felt that the very God Himself was telling him that this time the shame of the Stuarts would be avenged, the Hanoverians would be sent packing home to Germany, and Scotland and England would again be his family’s realm. The long exile would soon be over. He and his father could return to their Island and all would be back to the way it should always have been.

  The Laird Lochiel marched to where Prince Charles was standing and bowed his head. It was a curt nod, in no way subservient but a sign to all the men gathered that Charles was recognized as the rightful Regent of Scotland, here on behalf of his father the rightful Stuart king, and that the battle with the Hanoverians was about to commence.

  “I come with my men to fight by your side, Your Highness. There are hundreds and hundreds more on their way. But midday tomorrow, there will be thousands of Highlanders gathered to march on the English encampments and claim Scotland for ourselves and the Stuarts.”

  His men shouted in approval, and Charles Stuart walked forward and grasped him by the hand. Then he hugged him and said, “I am resolved to raise the Standard of my family on this Glenfinnan spot and declare war against the Elector of Hanover and all of his adherents. We men of Scotland will rid our island of these usurpers and once more, the blood of the Plantagenets, the Tudors, and the House of Stuart, as determined by God Almighty Himself, will course through England and Scotland like a cleansing river and put an end once and for all time to foreign interference in the ruling of our great nations. Today, gentlemen, we meet in peace in the majestic hills of Scotland, but tomorrow we will march in fury and war toward the enemy, and he shall know of our zeal and righteousness. This I swear in the name of the House of Stuart, your rightful kings.”

  A huge roar erupted from the assembly, and one of the prince’s party unfurled a silk blue, white, and red flag that he thrust into the ground, eliciting another roar of approval.

  As the men of the Cameron were cheering, the prince looked up at the darkening sky and saw torches breasting the hilltops. There was sufficient light still to determine from their colors that these were the Macdonald of Keppoch, and he estimated that there were at least three hundred of them. Behind them came the Macleod, then some of the MacDougalls, and finally, despite the dark, came some MacEwans and then some MacGregors and then men of the Wallace clan.

  What had in the early afternoon been a cold, solitary and silent glen had suddenly turned into a meeting of the clans, with fires up and down the hillsides, thousands of men shouting and laughing, and pipes competing with each other for dominance of their voice.

  The young prince stood for long moments looking at the gathering and wondering how his father might have felt, had he been fortunate enough to have landed in Scotland all those years ago. His heart was nearly bursting with pride as he re-entered his tent and sat down to drink
a glass of wine with the Laird Lochiel.

  The two men, different in age by thirty years, looked at each other in satisfaction. “Why did you come,” asked the young prince. “I landed on these isles and was rebuffed by almost everybody I spoke with. I was forced to write letters asking you to meet me here. I fully expected you to reject me, as did everybody else. Yet you and the other lairds have suddenly presented me with an army and the likelihood of a resounding success. But why? Why did you suddenly change your minds?”

  The Laird Lochiel sipped the Madeira and smiled. It was such a simple question and such a simple answer. “The fact is, son, that you shamed us all. You arrived to claim your heritage and we all treated you as though you were carrying the pox. Your letters made us realize how far we’ve fallen under the rule of the damned Germans in London. And truth to tell, our wives and loved ones told us that we were unmanly to allow you to stand alone and face the English; that you were fighting for your crown, and it was our duty to fight beside you.

  “Look, lad, we have no love for the Union with England. It was imposed upon us by Queen Anne because she died without an heir and she just wanted to ensure that the damned Hanoverians ruled the land so that a Protestant arse would warm both the thrones of Scotland and England. And for years we’ve lived under the rule of fat George and his father before him. They speak neither English nor Gaelic, but a German language that is like listening to two dogs barking at each other.

  “So when you landed and wrote your letters, you made us feel guilty that we had been sitting idly in these Highlands all these years suffering the heavy foot of those in London. And when your letters roused our wives and they started digging us in the ribs to join you, well . . .

  “Laddie, you made us realize that we should be ruled by one of our own and that the kings of Scotland go back beyond the time of Robert the Bruce. And because our wives, all of our wives, seem to have come out in your support, well, that’s something that we Scotsmen can’t ignore. You have much to prove to us, laddie, but you’re a Stuart, one of us, and for that alone, we owe you our allegiance and our swords.”

  Charles nodded and sipped his wine. “I shall not let you down,” he said softly. “Nor shall I let down your remarkable wives.”

  The Laird Lochiel smiled and said, “The time for words is now. The time for deeds is tomorrow. Then will we know whether or not you’re fit to be king.”

  The prince slept well that night, and as dawn broke on the following morning, he made a special point of visiting the fires of every clan and paying his respects to every laird and leader. During the day, he and the men he now considered his generals discussed the tactics for taking on the English. The questions were apparent to everybody, but the answers were speculative. Should the English be drawn to the Scots Army or should the Scotsmen march to where the English were encamped? Should the forts be attacked first to rob the English of the ability to stab the advancing Scots Army in the back? How should the army be fed? Was it right to steal the food and animals from the fields of honest Scotsmen and women, or should it be first paid for, and if so, how without the French treasury to support their venture?

  But the most pressing question was one concerning weaponry. The English had munitions, cannon, horses, and cavalry and highly trained artillery. The Scotsmen had little more than dirks, broadswords, mismatched guns, Lochaber axes, pitchforks, and a particularly nasty double-edged dagger that the Highlanders concealed in their socks called a mattucashlass.

  “This has been our problem all along,” said the Donald of Lochiel, the Laird of the Camerons. “We have men of courage who are used to fighting in the hills and valleys, but we’re not a regular army, and taking to the field against the mouth of a battery of cannon is likely to lead to a slaughter of our good men. If only the French had sent over artillery, we could have met them on equal footing.”

  “Then we’ll have to use subterfuge,” said the prince. “We’ll have to draw them to us and ensnare them in a trap. There are enough valleys in the Highlands for an army of thousands to fall prey to a hundred Scotsmen high on a hillside raining gunshot down on them. How valuable will their artillery and cannon be to them if they can’t raise them higher than the height of their shoulders?”

  The others around the council table nodded. They all knew it had to be done, but the question was whether the English Army would simply fall into a trap and allow themselves to be led to the slaughter. And knowing the English, the likelihood was that their tactics would be to draw out the Scotsmen from the Highlands and slaughter them on their terrain. It wasn’t a happy prospect.

  ARMADALE ON THE ISLAND OF SKYE IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES

  SEPTEMBER 10, 1745

  Her stepfather looked at her in increasing anger, and her mother feared that Flora would go too far and provoke him to such anger that he’d hit her. If that happened, and knowing the girl’s temper, she would hit him back, which would likely cause him to do something that they would both regret. She’d not seen her daughter or her husband this angry at each other since Flora was a young girl who’d run away to the mainland for some fun and laughter, despite the prohibition of her father; and when he’d dragged her back kicking and screeching like a barn owl by the scruff of her neck from a boat about to leave the Island’s dockside, she’d sworn oaths at him, which would have terrified even the Lord God Himself.

  Annie Macdonald’s only option was to intervene, although she loathed doing so, knowing the pride that grew in both of their strong heads. And knowing husband and daughter as well as she did, the likelihood was that they’d turn their anger against her, a prospect she didn’t relish. But she had to do something to take the sting out of the air.

  “Now listen to me, husband Macdonald. And you too, daughter. I’ll have none of your shouting in my house. Whether you’re for or against the coming war, you’ll maintain a civil tongue in your muttonheads, or you’ll find that you’re walking around with my boot in your backsides, and neither of you will relish that prospect, I’ll be bound. So lower your voices and mind your tempers. Is that understood?”

  They looked at her in astonishment, but she drove the point home. “Hugh?”

  He nodded. She turned to Flora, who nodded reluctantly.

  Hugh continued to look at his wife, then at his stepdaughter, and knew the perils open to him unless he calmed down. Only rarely did Annie lose her temper, and when she did, he knew that he was in rare trouble. But he had to make the situation patently clear to both of them in case they still nurtured hopes that they could turn his head and make him run with the rest of the hounds of the Islands. Deliberately lowering his voice, he almost growled, “Let it be understood by both of you that by reason of my position as Commander of the Royal Militia of the Western Islands, it is my sworn duty to prevent the young prince from advancing through our land. I have to prevent his success. If my actions insult your sensibilities or your emotions, then I’m sorry, but it’s something you’ll have to accept. It’s the price I’m willing to pay for our security. A security, I might add, young lady, which you have severely compromised by encouraging Lady Margaret to write all those damnable letters to the clan leaders. That was an enormous folly, girl, and I just pray that we don’t live to rue your actions.”

  “It was the right thing to do. It’s roused all Scotland and it’ll be the death of England. And yes, you may have your duty, father, but in your heart, you’re a Jacobite and you know it. How can you command your troops to kill your very own fellow Scotsmen, brothers you’d follow if you had a choice?”

  Hugh Macdonald breathed deeply in a brave attempt to retain control of his anger. He remained seated at the table and ate some more of the breakfast oatmeal. He was about to answer, but instead took another long draught of his ale. There was so much to do this day, now that the Stuart was marching on Edinburgh, and the last thing he had time for was an internal disputation with his willful stepdaughter.

  “Flora, darling, let me try to explain something to you so that you can un
derstand it from my position. All the men of the other Macdonald clans have rallied around the young man. He’s marching with a couple of thousand Highlanders. He’s full of bull and bluster, and nothing spurs a man on to exaggerated heights like being at the head of an army preparing for battle. He’s rallied our brethren and men from the other clans and they can smell the sweet perfume of victory.”

  “So shouldn’t you be joining them instead of supporting that fat German bastard in London who . . .”

  “Listen to me, Flora, for the sake of sanity. All the Prince of the Stuarts has done is raise an army. He has yet to raise an arm. Don’t you understand, girl, that King George won’t allow an assault against him in Scotland or England or anywhere else. He’ll move heaven and earth before he allows a Stuart to take what the Hanoverians own. If George allows the Stuart to take Scotland, it’ll give too much encouragement to the Tories and the Jacobite sympathizers in England who hate the Germans and who only need the barest of excuses to rise up against them. They hated his father, the first King George, and they hate this one even more. He’s fat like you say and indolent and stupid and since his wife died, all brains seem to have left the palace. But like any king, he’ll fight tooth and claw to retain what he’s got.

  “If he allows any Stuart success on English territory, then the movement against him and his clan will grow stronger and stronger until he’ll have to go scuttling back to Hanover. His father might have loved Hanover and taken his mistresses there for fun, but this George is more settled in England, and he’ll want to stay. Which means that he’ll throw everything he owns against the attacks of Prince Charlie, and Charlie simply doesn’t have the men or the guns or the armaments or the treasury to meet such a challenge. The young man may win a skirmish or two, but he’ll lose the war, as sure I’m sitting here right now, and when he does, there’ll be hell to pay for any who supported him. You women don’t understand war, nor appreciate the deaths that will result. But let me promise you that if this young chevalier has his way and is all puff and glory, then there’ll be thousands of widows and fatherless children in the Highlands come next Christmas.”