The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  She looked at him. He was an attractive man. In age, he was between her son Jamie and herself. It was difficult to tell, because by the looks of him, he couldn’t be much above forty, yet he had the eyes of a man who had seen and thought much.

  “Tell me, Mr. Henry, would it be considered a gross breach of propriety as a woman if I asked you to buy me and my son Jamie an ale at a nearby Inn. After my speech, I’ve a powerful thirst, and I’d like to continue talking to you.”

  He laughed again. He had a delightful laugh. “It would give me great pleasure. And it would be an honor.”

  They walked across the street, avoiding horses and wagons and the muddy pools from the recent shower to an Inn where the smoke was so thick that it seemed like a cloud hung beneath the ceiling. She was immediately transported back to her youth, when she’d dared to enter an Edinburgh coffee shop to speak to a philosopher about the implications of Bonnie Prince Charlie invading Scotland.

  Her thoughts of Charles had diminished steadily in the many years since the birth of Jamie in the Tower of London until she barely thought of him at all. But in the past two years, since Mr. Franklin had gained knowledge of her deeply held secret, she’d thought about him more and more. Perhaps it was because Jamie was now at the same age as Charlie when he came over to Scotland to take back his family heritage, or perhaps it was because her own marriage to Alan was so stressed because of their different ways of viewing their new home, or perhaps it was because Mr. Franklin had told her about the way in which Charlie had been driven to drink by the frustration of not being supported by the kings of France.

  But whatever the reason, she had thought of him with an increasing fondness and affection, even though he’d abandoned her despite his promises to remain in contact.

  Mr. Henry found them an empty spot near to a window. He ordered three ales and asked Jamie how much he was enjoying his new life in America.

  “Just wonderful,” said her son. “I miss Skye, but I don’t miss either the weather or the brutality of the English.”

  “Did you suffer much brutality?” he asked.

  “Not personally, but you always knew it was there. English soldiers were often on the Island, and English landlords had taken over the ownership of our lands. When they came to inspect what we were doing and assess how much they’d tax us, they always brought a dozen or more soldiers for protection. It made me feel as though I was in prison.”

  “And is this the same type of brutality you expect in America if we take a stand against the English?” Flora asked.

  Mr. Henry took a long draft of his ale. Slowly he nodded his head. “I’m afraid so. The king, the Parliament, and the East India Company will never allow us to secede without a very serious fight. There will be many deaths and much suffering, but if a cause is worth living for, it’s surely worth dying for.”

  “Dear God in his heaven,” she said in exasperation, “I’ve heard enough battle cries from the mouths of the Scots to last me a lifetime. I never thought I’d hear it in my new country. Surely, there’s another way, Mr. Henry. Surely we can talk and negotiate and compromise. Why make widows and orphans when we can all live together in peace.”

  “Because, Flora, the peace which we want will never be acceptable to the king of England or his Parliament. We want representation in the English Parliament because the king and his prime minister Lord North are taxing us and there’s nobody in England to speak on our behalf. Just last year, as you know, Lord North passed the Tea Act, and now the East India Company has complete monopoly powers over our tea and honest businessmen have been put into bankruptcy because of a stroke of the pen. No nation, colony or not, can live under these conditions. The English treasury is empty because of squandering and waste and especially because it’s forced to carry a vast army and navy to protect itself from invasion from France or other nations of Europe. Yet much of its army is stationed here, to keep control of us Americans. And we are expected to fill the English treasury from money we’ve earned so it can be spent on an army controlling us. It’s absurd, especially when we need the money here to build schools and roads and everything that a new nation requires if it is to meet the needs of its people. Why should we send our money overseas without having representatives in the English Parliament to determine how much of it is spent on the welfare of its colonies?” he said.

  “So there’s no way we can avoid war?” Jamie asked.

  Patrick Henry laughed. “Only by cutting off the king’s head again. Getting rid of the whole damnable monarchy.”

  “Cut off the king’s head?” said Jamie, shocked by the notion. He wasn’t a student of history and knew almost nothing about the past.

  “It’s been done before. Over a century ago, England’s King Charles I lost his head on the chopping block because he was an evil autocrat. Following him was a commonwealth, which gave great hopes to all of England and her colonies. Unfortunately the lord protector of the Commonwealth, Oliver Cromwell, was as much of a brute and a tyrant as Charles, and the English couldn’t wait to bring back their king.”

  “What’s a commonwealth?” Jamie asked.

  “It’s a republic. It’s a form of government that gives power to the people to rule themselves through properly elected representatives. People rise as a result of ability and not a result of the luck of their birth,” he said.

  Jamie shook his head, not understanding the term “republic” or the idea that people could rule themselves! Comfortable with the concept of a king ruling a nation, Jamie had never fully understood what was meant by any other kind of government.

  While he was coming to terms with the different forms of government, Flora’s attention was transfixed by the conversation but from a different perspective. It was as though a key had been turned, a door opened, and an entire vista had suddenly been revealed upon her eyes.

  Softly, Flora asked, “But why can’t all the colonies join together as a commonwealth? England could be father to the family of Wales and Scotland and Ireland and America and Jamaica and all the other nations of the empire. If each governed itself, had its own parliament, yet looked toward the king for guidance and trade, then it would relieve the king of having to employ such huge armies which are denuding his treasury, and each nation in this commonwealth could pay a levy or tax each year to the king for its membership.”

  He looked at her strangely. “But if each nation had its own Parliament and independence, what value or reason would there be for continuing our relationship with Britain? Why would we need a king?”

  She became increasingly animated as she formulated the idea in her mind. “Don’t you see, Mr. Henry. There would be enormous benefits which could accrue if the king of England became the king of a commonwealth of nations, all joined together in brotherly love as is preached by the Quakers. You say that a hundred years ago, England beheaded its king and suddenly became a commonwealth of citizens. But why not a commonwealth of its colonies? Surely, the king could understand that Scotland and Ireland, Wales and America and all the other British possession and territories would prosper if they were independent, yet England would prosper most of all if they all joined together in such a commonwealth. A small and impoverished country like England can’t possibly hope to retain its control over all the lands and nations it once did. But if the king and Lord North could be made to see that, can’t you see all of our lives would be more prosperous. Surely he could be shown that if he released his grasp and let each of his colonies prosper in its own way, each acknowledging him as their king, yet each independent, it would no longer be force which held his empire together, but it would be the love and friendship which he would merit by setting us free—just like a father frees his sons and daughters to start life on their own when they’re old and mature enough.”

  Patrick Henry looked at her in amazement. “A wonderful Utopian dream, Flora. A commonwealth of nations in the British Empire. And the chances of King George or his prime minister allowing it to happen are precisely nil. Why shoul
d Britain give up its possessions and the products and goods, the crops and furs and the taxation they provide? Without the taxes and the trade which come from us, England would be on its knees. Do you think Spain or France or Portugal would give up the vast wealth which flows to them from their possession across the sea? Then why England?”

  “Because it’s much less costly than finding itself in a war in all parts of the globe, Mr. Henry. Britain is bankrupt because for the past seven and more years, it’s been fighting wars in Europe. It can’t hope to finance a war against its own colonies. And to avoid bloodshed and expense, maybe the king can be persuaded to create such an association of like-minded colonies, a commonwealth of empire nations. Just maybe?”

  Patrick Henry smiled, “But then he would be king of just a small island and not of a large part of the world. And who would rule these nations? America already has its king, and if we lose George, I can’t see us crowning one born in this land. Frankly, ma’am, I could never see us as anything other than a colony or a republic. So who are you suggesting would be king of America or the king of Scotland and the king of Ireland?” he asked. “And in this Utopia of yours, Mistress Macdonald, why would you have such an ancient and debased system called monarchy, when you could institute a brave new world by revisiting the republics of ancient Greece or Rome?”

  She nodded, having anticipated the question, and looked at her son. She reached over and held Jamie’s hand. “America will be a republic if the king agrees. And it can still be a part of a British Empire. But Scotland wants a monarch. We’ve had monarchs since the beginning of time. King George is filling Scotland full of rich Englishmen and sheep, but there are still enough remaining Scotsmen and women to want their own king. And if the king of England agrees, then Scotland will have a monarch of its very own,” she said. She finished her ale in silence and stood.

  “Come Jamie. Mr. Henry, if you’ll excuse my son and me, we have to leave. I must go back to my rooms and make myself ready for my return to North Carolina tomorrow morning.”

  “But I thought you had other speeches to give,” he said in surprise.

  “I had, but I shall be writing to Mr. Franklin, begging him to excuse me. After our talk, I have had an idea which I must discuss with my husband. And my son. In the fullness of time, you will get to hear about it. And you will be both surprised and I hope pleased by what I think I shall do.”

  They shook hands with Patrick Henry and left the Inn. As they walked in silence along the roadway to their lodgings, Jamie asked his mother, “What’s the idea you wish to discuss with me, mother?”

  She smiled and reached for his hand. She hadn’t held his hand in public since he was a small boy in Scotland, but somehow, when she told him, she wanted to be touching him.

  “Jamie, darling. You and I need to go on a very long journey. We need to return to England. This is going to come as a shock to you, my darling boy, and I would never otherwise have told you, but I have an idea which, if properly executed, will prevent bloodshed and countless deaths of Americans and others. I have seen far too much death in my life, darling, to risk causing more deaths when men fight for their cause. If I can prevent those deaths by inconveniencing myself, then it’s my duty to do so. But first, I must discuss it with your father, and if he agrees then I shall tell you and ask your permission. If you grant it, then you will become part of what I intend to do.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  There was a lightness in her step, an energy that had been missing since she’d begun her long trips around the country. “Darling, you and I are returning to England to reclaim your rightful heritage. Your father did the same when he was about your age, and now you’re going to do it. And in the process, we’re going to convince King George that instead of fighting and killing, a far better way would be to create a commonwealth of nations of the British Empire, a true and proper family of old England and its fledgling sons and daughters. No longer colonies but proper nations in a family of nations, with Father England at the head of the table. The question, Jamie, is whether King George will agree.”

  “King George? Agree? And what heritage? What in God’s name are you saying?” he asked, beginning to think that his mother had suddenly gone quite mad.

  HMS PENELOPE

  OCTOBER 24, 1774

  The captain of the Penelope was well satisfied that the sails were set correctly to take advantage of the breezes that blew strongly at this time of year. While not as efficient as a good wind to push the ship along at full knot, the breeze was sufficient to fill the mizzen, the cross sail, and the crossjack until they were in deeper waters and could benefit from the full force of the gusts that followed the North Atlantic current. Right now, they were still in the grip of the current that came down from Labrador and was trying to push them south into the warm waters that flowed out of the Gulf. But soon, in a hundred or so nautical miles, they’d be released from that current’s grip and then the winds of the middle Atlantic Ocean would steal up behind them, fill the ship’s sails to billowing, and blow them nicely toward England.

  His holds were full of a cargo of tobacco, maize, and sugar, and if the prices on the London Markets of Exchange held good, he should make a handsome profit for his masters and that meant a nice bonus for him that would see him well-endowed for the months leading to Christmas so that he could buy his wife a beautiful new dress and his children all the gifts they desired.

  His attention was caught by the middle-aged lady walking the upper deck. She was grasping the railings, obviously not yet in possession of her sea legs. At least she wasn’t heaving her guts out over the side, as were many of the occasional travelers who bought passage on board his vessel.

  Captain de Villiers had been introduced to her when she and her son, a tall and strapping lad called James, came aboard in New York Harbour. He assumed that she was a newcomer to the colony, discontented with what she found and intent upon returning home. Or perhaps she was a widow of a Britisher murdered by the Indians or the locals, a woman who had decided to return to England now that events in the colony were starting to become unsettled. He’d heard that because of these new taxes and the general unhappiness with what the Parliament in London was doing, there was a militia walking around the streets with guns . . . Redcoats arresting anybody they thought looked suspicious . . . the colony was a disturbed place to be. Not even de Villiers, who had sailed these waters for the past ten years, was confident he’d ever sail into a peaceful American harbor again.

  Captain de Villiers smelt the air and looked up at the sails. It would be a good run, provided that no October storms suddenly blew up. The air didn’t feel heavy enough for a squall or a storm, but the Atlantic Ocean was a troublesome mistress and he’d often gone to his cabin at night in a lullaby sea to be woken up during the witching hours by a raging tempest.

  He looked again at the woman who stood by the railings with her son. He didn’t like carrying passengers at the best of times, but she’d paid good money and accepted the meagre accommodation that was offered by the trading packet, rather than wait for a passenger boat due to reach America in four days’ time. But something about her told him that she was trouble. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but normally when passengers came aboard, they were either very excited about returning to England or heartbroken at leaving America. Yet both she, and her son, had been still and stiff when they’d come on board, hiding any emotions of happiness or sorrow. They mounted the gangplank, nodded politely to him, shook his hand, thanked him, and retired to their cabin. Now that he was twenty miles off the American coast, they had come up on deck, where the woman and her son seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation. Well, he thought. That’s their business, so long as they mind it and keep out of his.

  “It’s time you told me?” Jamie said to her sternly. “I’ve waited in ignorance long enough. Now, what’s this great secret?”

  Flora nodded and smiled. “Yes, darling, this is
the time. I’ve delayed cruelly and caused you much anguish, but I had my reasons which I’ll explain. I told Alan that I wouldn’t reveal the secret until we’d sailed a sufficient distance that we could no longer see the American shore for fear that you’d refuse to come with me to England. He was very angry with me and told me I had a duty to tell you first so that you could refuse to travel with me. But I had enough confidence in you to ensure you’d travel with me, whether you knew or not, and so I made a pledge with myself that I’d reveal all when the coastline disappeared and we were in no man’s land between the New World and the Old World.”

  “Mother, you’re frightening me. For God’s sake, tell me what this secret is,” he demanded. The concern and anger in his voice was lost in the wind. But Flora knew all too well. What she didn’t know was the reaction he would suffer.

  “Darling boy,” she said, “many years ago, nine months before you were born, I ushered to safety the Young Pretender to the Throne of Scotland, Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  He laughed. “I know that. Everybody knows that. You’re a hero because of . . .”

  She put her finger to his lips. “We were thrown together for two weeks of terrible danger and gripping fear. The crossing from Uist to Skye was against a horrifying storm which nearly saw us drown; then we had to dress him in women’s clothing and walk the entire length of the Island to Armadale, spied on by men of the MacLeod as well as hundreds of English soldiers. Every step of the way was almost certain death. Yet we arrived having evaded the entire English Army and he managed to escape to France. But someone on the Island told the English of my part in his escape, and I was arrested and locked up in the Tower of London, which is where you were born, my darling boy. Had it not been for the Prince of Wales, the man whose early death tragically prevented him from being the king of England today, God rest his soul, I’d have suffered terribly.”

  Jamie began to frown. Whenever he’d tried to ask his mother about her experiences, she’d always made an excuse not to tell him. And now she was treating him like one of her audiences.