The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  In her heart, the name William Wallace kept recurring. William Wallace, hero of Scotland, true man of the people, and one of the greatest lords of war that her nation had ever produced. Even after his capture by the English, when he was about to face death for treason, Flora had memorized his immortal words, “I could not be a traitor to King Edward, for I was never his subject.”

  How grand and glorious, she thought. And now her prince, her Charles, had come to Scotland and like William had fought and won, invaded England, and retreated to the safety of Scotland where he would become king and all would be well. And yes, she would travel across Scotland, just to see him.

  A cormorant wheeled in the sky high above her head. She looked at it and envied its freedom. All it had to do was to head east, and it would be over Inverness in a day and would look down on the looming battle. Yet she had to brave an English army on the move, as well as Scotsmen and women who were suspicious of strangers in a time when marauders were on the prowl.

  And again, the questions invaded her mind. Why was it imperative that she risk her life just to glimpse at the man who would be king? Was it because she detested being ruled by the English and wanted a Scottish king to rule over the land she loved so dearly? If that was the case, then why Bonnie Prince Charlie or his father the Old Pretender who hadn’t even bothered to land in England the last time he invaded the country? How could men such as these be of the bloodline of Robert the Bruce or Alexander or William?

  Charlie was more Italian than Scottish, more French than English and more Angle than Celt. Yet her mysterious and breathless passion for him to be her king was what drove her to the heights of joy at his successes and the depths of despair when she was told of the frustrations and difficulties he was experiencing. So maybe the reason she felt such affinity was because of the fact that a young man had come to reclaim that which had been taken from him. Here he was, the son of a man who by all rights should have been king of England and Scotland as well as Wales and Ireland, fighting not just for treasure and possession and land and religion, but for justice.

  Yes! That was why she and so many Scotsmen and women had rallied to his cause when they heard that he’d landed all those many months back. Not because of his looks or the awe of his majesty, but because he was seeking justice for himself, his father, and his family. And that was why she would travel from Skye and across the mainland, north to Inverness, where she would stand on a hilltop and look down on Bonnie Prince Charlie and wave to him as he strode manfully forward into his battle for justice. And maybe, if she were truly lucky, he’d have time and the presence of mind to turn around before he encountered the English and look up to the hill upon that Flora would stand, and see this Scottish lass in the distance, dressed in Macdonald tartan, her hair and dress gently wafted by the April breeze; and maybe he’d have the presence of mind to smile in gratitude and thanks that she’d come all the way just to wish him God speed.

  CULLODEN MOOR SOUTHEAST OF INVERNESS ON THE EAST COAST OF SCOTLAND

  APRIL 16, 1746

  His Royal Highness, William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, British hero of the battles against the French, third son by birth, yet most beloved of the children of George II and Caroline of Ansbach, was ready. As were his men. Hardened in battle, rested, fit, keen, and with new techniques he’d taught them in their use of the bayonet, volley firing, and cannon assault, all was in readiness for a great victory. He sniffed the mid-morning air and looked over the flat and desolate field upon which the battle would shortly take place and felt a peace and confidence that had been absent from his spirit since the moment he’d heard of the landing of this young upstart Pretender who dared to call himself Prince Regent. The Duke of Cumberland held him in utter contempt, knowing him to be a fop and a dandy and a man who preened himself in the courts of Paris and Rome, telling everybody who’d listen that his effete father and he were the rightful heirs to the English throne and that God was on his side. Well, the duke thought, soon the world would see whether God would arm the silly young prince with cannon and shot or whether he’d side with Hanover and blow the Pretender to pieces?

  The duke had issued an edict that forbade any officer or soldier to refer to Charles Edward Stuart as either “The Prince” or “The Prince Regent,” for that inferred that he had some valid claim to the throne of his father, and such a claim was and always would be bogus. The edict stated that Charles Edward Stuart was to be known now and for all times either as “The Pretender” or as “The Usurper.” The duke had even instructed his chronicler to draw up a paper that was to be circulated to all Officers in his army showing the legitimacy of King George’s hold on the throne and the illegitimacy of the claim made by the Stuarts.

  But these were minor distractions compared to the coming battle. After days of practicing, waiting, marching, drilling, and more practicing, the duke knew for certain that he and his army were ready. And not only were the English soldiers primed to engage with the Highlanders, but many of the duke’s soldiers in the front lines were Lowland Scots, here to join and fight with their English brethren in the defeat of a usurper who was attempting to divide Scotland from England. How would this bonnie young man feel when he took the field and found that he and his Highlanders and their French and Irish cousins weren’t only fighting the English, but their own countrymen as well? William Augustus smiled at the thought of Charles’ face when he saw not just English uniforms on the other side of the battleground, but Scottish tartans as well. He wondered how many of the wild Highlanders would turn and run when they realized that the fearsome Lowlanders, their eyes ablaze with hatred, were also against them.

  Since the Duke of Cumberland had arrived at Edinburgh at the end of January to take command of the Royal Army from the incompetent General Hawley following his disaster at Falkirk, the duke had worked hard to ensure that no more disgrace fell upon the name of England. Prestonpans was unforgivable, but in fairness to General Cope, the Highlanders had crept like cowardly rats around the flanks and rear of the army in the middle of the night and at first light had shot Cope’s men in their backs. Some judiciously placed sentries should have been positioned to warn of such an eventuality, but the damage was done, Cope had been court-martialed for cowardice and fleeing the field of battle, and justice had been served.

  The loss of Falkirk to the Pretender, however, was a military disgrace and needed to be redeemed for the sake of English pride. In the three months since he’d taken personal command of the royal troops, the Duke of Cumberland had used those military skills he’d honed in fighting the French to ensure that nothing that the damned Highlanders could use against him would either surprise or throw his men into turmoil.

  His army had marched north from Edinburgh to Aberdeen, supplied by ships of the Royal Navy. They had spent weeks in military exercises and training. In the meantime, the Pretender had been unable to take Stirling Castle from General Blakeney, and the duke was informed that the Highlanders had managed to capture two forts and were harassing English troops. Minor victories, he’d sneered over dinner with his commanders. Wait for the real battle, he’d assured them. And now the time had come.

  When the duke had taken personal charge of the English military, it seemed as though a new spirit had infused the entire army, from his general staff all the way down to the lowliest of foot soldiers. He knew many of them by sight and had stood tall and proud with them when they’d fought together not three years past at the Battle of Dettingen. They’d called him Tommy Lobster in those days, and the affectionate name had stuck. He never knew why he should have earned that sobriquet, other than the fact that he’d been wounded in the leg and the bottom half of his body had been covered in red blood.

  So here, on this desolate stretch of moorland, was where the duke was soon to meet the impertinent fellow who laid claim to the throne of the Hanoverians. Just because he was the grandson of James II, this young Pretender believed that he could take by conquest that which the English people had so sensibly removed
as a right from his family.

  It was already late in the morning when the Duke of Cumberland, seated high in the saddle on his favorite white charger, Mars, arrived at the head of his many regiments to inspect the field on which the battle would shortly take place. And what he saw shocked him. It was an open moorland, enclosed on two sides; one wall was to the north and on the south side was the wall enclosing Culloden Park.

  Now why had the silly Pretender chosen such an unlikely ground on which to fight? It put the Scottish Highlander troops in terrible danger, because the field of battle was completely open to the Englishmen’s artillery, and he knew from his scouts and spies that the Scot’s army had almost no artillery. He shook his head as he rode Mars around the southern side of the battlefield, muttering to himself, The Scots will be slaughtered.

  Yet here the Pretender had set down his army, and so here the duke would fight, taking every advantage of his enemy’s stupidity! The duke shifted uncomfortably on his horse. He was still merry from the effects of the celebration of his birthday the previous night, and although it was getting to be late in the morning, he could still feel the wine dulling his mind. Too much alcohol and he’d eaten far too much pheasant and deer to feel comfortable. He felt a heaviness in his chest and had been unable to relieve himself before dressing for the engagement. But he knew from many previous battles that he’d feel better the moment the first volley was fired and the first sword was unsheathed.

  Suddenly a messenger approached him, riding quickly from the left flank of the duke’s command line. The man galloped swiftly up the hill to where the duke, now joined by his general staff officers sat mounted on their horses, watching the preparations. The regiments were forming in columns on the battlefield below. The duke noticed that Cobham and Kingston’s Dragoons were well to the right flank, as agreed, but that for some reason Barrel’s, Campbell’s and Munro’s Regiments had exchanged positions. Quite why, he had no idea.

  Distracted, he noticed that the messenger had spoken to General Daubney, who was now approaching the duke.

  “Sire, intelligence has been received that during last night, while we were celebrating Your Royal Highness’ birthday, the Pretender’s Highland Army tried to approach our camp and attack us. However, their maneuver was a disaster as the men became separated in the dark of the night and were bogged down in the mud. That was why our sentries reported nothing, because they didn’t even come close to our lines. Having failed so miserably, they returned to their lines only very early this morning, and according to my spies, it appears that those many who attempted to attack us are now exhausted, filthy, and most have deserted in search of food and sleep, even before a single shot has been fired.”

  The duke shook his head in disgust. “So, Gentlemen,” he said in a voice sufficiently loud for his commanders to hear, “they attempt the same trick as they used on General Cope at Prestonpans. I wonder when these dogs will have the courage to fight an honest engagement, like gentlemen.”

  As the English formed up into regimental attack columns, the duke and his commanders noticed movement on the opposite side of the field. Taking out his spy glasses, he focused on the last minute preparations the Scotsmen were making. After some moments of scrutiny of the enemy, he turned and looked at his officers.

  “Is this a joke?” he asked.

  They looked back at him and shrugged.

  Again, he studied the Scottish lines and searched in vain for what little artillery he knew they had. He looked for the cavalry, the cannon, and other weaponry. There were a few cannon scattered amongst the Highland regiments, but a body of artillery that could mount a devastating assault on the English cavalry or infantry seemed to be absent.

  He wondered whether it could have been hidden behind bushes or secreted somehow in another way as a surprise, but looking around the entire area with his spy glass, he saw that there was nowhere within cannon shot to hide an artillery regiment. It appeared that the Scottish enemy had failed to bring all but a few of the cannon they possessed to the battle.

  And what was even more surprising was that despite the Scots having been there all morning, there seemed to be some dispute about who should be stationed on the left and right flanks. Whole regiments of men were still being moved hither and thither at the whim of their commanders while the English were setting up permanent positions for an engagement following a carefully planned strategy. What on earth was this pretender prince doing, the duke wondered.

  Colonel Maxwell rode up and said to the duke, “Sir, if I might be so bold as to explain the deployment of the enemy.”

  The duke gave his permission for the colonel to speak.

  “From the color of their tartans, it’s simple to see who has joined the Pretender. In the front line, Your Highness will note that the Atholl regiments are placed next to the Camerons, then the Stewarts of Appin, then the Frasers, the Mackintoshes, the Macleans, the Maclachlans, the Farquarharsons, the Stuarts and then the Macdonalds.

  “In the second line, Sire, the prince has placed his mounted regiments as well as a handful of regular Irish and French foot soldiers who have come over to join him. The rest are a motley crew of clans and mercenaries and freebooters.”

  “This is very good, Colonel. Please make a note of it, so that I can visit some of these clans when I’ve put an end to the Pretender’s ambitions, and make known England’s displeasure at their treason. But I don’t understand Charles’ tactics. Where is his cannon, Colonel? Where has he put his artillery?” asked the duke.

  “It would appear, Sire, that what you can see is all the cannon that the Pretender has at his disposal. It’s a sorry day for the Scots when they can’t even fire cannon at us.”

  “Nonetheless, Colonel, we are both experienced enough in military matters to know that anything can go wrong on a field of battle. I want you to ride down and tell the commanders of each of the regiments that the Duke of Cumberland said that if there is any man who does not wish to fight the Highlanders, I beg him in God’s name to go. I would rather fight with one thousand resolute men than ten thousand half-hearted. Kindly go now, Colonel, and pass on my words to my men.”

  Maxwell saluted and rode off. As he did so, the heavy April sky suddenly opened with a peal of thunder, a flash of lightening, and a soaking downpour began. Without being ordered to, the English dragoons and infantry hid their muskets and rifles inside their coats in order to keep their powder and firelocks dry. But the downpour was so heavy that the English commanders lost sight of the Scottish army on the other side of the Culloden field.

  At midday, the duke ordered his commanders to ride down onto the sodden field of battle and prepare to engage the enemy. As though the arrival of the Duke of Cumberland was a signal for something monumental to happen, there was a terrifying roar. It sounded as though the very gates of hell had opened up, and the screams of a thousand men shattered the peace of the field as they rent the air. But even these were drowned out by a series of deafening booms heralding the Scottish artillery’s cannon fire from its position. The balls screamed through the air. The target was the duke himself as well as the members of the general command. The shots, however, landed uselessly at least fifty yards short of their target and made a squelching noise as they sank into the boggy land.

  “Load cannon with grapeshot and ball,” shouted the duke.

  When the gunners raised their flags of readiness, the duke shouted out “Fire!” and within moments, a cacophony of thunder exploded into the air and the entire battery of English guns was loosed upon the Scottish lines, fire spitting out of the gun barrels as grapeshot and balls flew into the Scottish lines. They, too, aimed for the commanders, but unlike the effete Scots gunners, these men were led and instructed by General Belford, England’s finest cannon marksman who had trained his artillery regiment to be both deadly fast and lethally accurate, and dozens of Scottish Highlanders were instantly killed and wounded in the first three volleys that finished before the Scots had a chance to complete the reload
ing of their cannon from the first assault.

  For half an hour, the cannon barrage continued. Only occasionally did the Scottish cannon fire back, and when they did the balls rarely hit their target. The English onslaught, however, was murderous, and Prince Charles looked on as his casualties mounted, men screamed in agony, and to his left and right, he could see Highlanders deserting the slaughter on the battlefield, wandering away in their twos and threes back to their homes and farms and highlands.

  Now that the rainstorm had eased somewhat and the field became more visible through the cannon smoke, the prince waited for Cumberland to make the first move, so that he could study the technique of his approach, and judge his own tactics accordingly. But there was no attack, no move forward. Only the terrifying flames from the mouths of the cannon, followed moments later by the deafening sound of balls and grapeshot screaming through the air and finding their targets in the arms and legs and chests of the brave lads who had rallied around his flag.

  Suddenly, Lord George Murray rode up, his face gray with anxiety and frustration. “Sir, we must attack. We’re being slaughtered. The men are beginning to leave in droves. For our morale and to save what’s left of us, for God’s sake, we must move forward.”

  The prince nodded, raised his sword, and gave the order for the infantry and cavalry to advance. At the same moment, he sent his Aides de Camp to the other commanders up and down the line that they were to move forward at once.

  When the Duke of Perth ordered the leader of the Macdonald’s contingent to move forward at the charge, the Macdonald Laird flatly refused, telling Perth that he wasn’t going to subject his clansmen to certain death in the face of the English cannon. Other parts of the battlefield, however, followed the orders of the prince immediately because it was judged to be more dangerous to stay where they were and be helpless victims of cannon fire, than to charge forward and come to grip with the enemy.