by Alan Gold
“I have come to England in order to fulfill Prince Charles’ destiny, though God knows not for himself, but for his heirs. It is my intention to have my son crowned as the king of Scotland in the tradition of John de Balliol, Robert de Bruce, Duncan, and Malcolm. Then Scotland will become independent under its king and with the consent of the lairds of Scotland, will join with King George to become a part of the English Commonwealth.”
Johnson and Boswell stared at Flora as though she was a lunatic. But in her eyes, they saw an intensity and honesty that made them wonder who was sane and who was mad.
For many long and embarrassing moments, neither of them said a single word, until Dr. Johnson said softly, “And the name of the next king of Scotland? Will it be your son’s name? Will he be King James?”
“That is something which will become known to the entire world when he is crowned,” she said.
Johnson looked at him, still trying to come to terms with the enormity of what she had told him. “And you believe that King George will welcome your son with open arms?”
She shook her head. “No, I understand that he will perceive him as a threat, just as George I saw Prince Charles’ father as a threat and after him, George II saw the prince as a threat. But the difference, Dr. Johnson, is that my son will be presented to the king as the rightful heir to the throne of Scotland. He will be crowned king on the Coronation Chair. He will sit on the Stone of Destiny, and a man of the church will pronounce him rightful king.”
“Are you aware, Flora, that the Coronation Chair is in Westminster Abbey; that it is kept in the Chapel of Saint Edward the Confessor and that every day, dozens of priests attend that church. Every monarch of England since the time of Edward III has been crowned in that chair during his coronation. What possible reason would you give for your son to be seated in the chair and a ceremony performed around him, without the guards and priests shouting out and stopping the coronation?”
“I shall enter the Abbey in the dark of night, and the ceremony will be performed when the church is empty. I will have witnesses to attest to its validity, though my son will be the first king crowned in the dark and without his subjects being present.”
“But . . .” For the first time in his life, Dr. Johnson was lost for words.
Flora continued, “I know it’s very unusual, sir, but these are unusual times. Rather than my son gathering an army and taking what’s his by force, he is instead using stealth and guile. But unlike Bonnie Prince Charlie, there will be no bloodshed. Of that, I promise. And anyway, the moment Jamie sits on the Coronation Chair and the Stone of Scone, he will be known as the rightful king. There’s a phrase in Latin which I believe is carved into the Stone which means that any lawful pretender who sits on the stone and is crowned becomes king. And my son, the male heir of Charles Stuart, is a lawful pretender to the House of Stuart.”
“The phrase, ma’am, is Ni fallat fatum, Scoti, quocunque locatum; Invenient lapidem, regnare tenentur ibidem, which in translation means ‘if Fates go right, where’er this stone is found, the Scots shall monarchs of that realm be crowned.’ But phrases don’t make a king, and your son will never be accepted for the role of monarch of Scotland for the simple reason that you and the prince were never married. Despite the fact that you have a husband in America, your son is a bastard of the House of Stuart. I deeply regret, ma’am, that you have had a wasted journey,” said Dr. Johnson, still shocked to be in the presence of the illegitimate offspring of Bonnie Prince Charlie.
“But we were married, Dr. Johnson. In the eyes of God, we were married. We gave each other vows of love and formality, and we exchanged gifts. In the ancient Salic tradition, we were wed, even though our marriage wasn’t formally recognized. But understand clearly, sir, that it was a marriage, and my son is no bastard.”
“Then you’re a bigamist,” said Boswell, “for you have another husband called Alan in America.”
“No, for according to the ancient Salic laws of France, I could divorce my husband within the year simply by declaring him to be gone and returning each other’s possessions. I gave birth to Jamie in the Tower of London, and before my Alan and within the year, I declared myself to be divorced. As neither Charlie nor I had exchanged any property, the divorce became final at that moment, and I was free to marry Alan, and I did so when my son was two years of age. So my Jamie is the legitimate heir, and . . .”
“Damn me, ma’am, but Scotland isn’t governed by the Salic Laws,” said Dr. Johnson.
“No, but France still operates under those ancient laws, and my first husband Charles Edward Stuart resided in France before he invaded England. It was under those laws that I married him,” she said.
Again, Boswell and Johnson looked at each other, then at Flora, and then at her son Jamie, who had sat through the entire interchange with a bemused look on his face, understanding virtually nothing of what had been said.
“You’re wasted as the wife of a farmer, Flora. You should have been a lawyer,” said Boswell.
“And did Bonnie Prince Charlie know about all this when he was undergoing this ceremony of marriage in the Crofter’s hut?” asked Johnson.
She smiled and shook her head. “And I knew nothing about it until I discussed the entire matter with Mr. Benjamin Franklin, and he told me of my situation. He’s checked it out with Mr. Patrick Henry, who is an American lawyer, and Mr. Henry concurs.”
“But the divorce? You said that you divorced the prince within the year. How did you know to do that if you’ve only met Mr. Franklin recently?”
She laughed and said, “That was both luck and my Alan’s genius and particularity. For he needed to know that I entertained no residual feelings for Prince Charlie. Just days after Jamie was born, in the privacy of my apartments in the Tower of London, Alan asked me whether the birth of the babe had in any way re-ignited any feelings that had been dormant since the Charlie went to France. I assured him that there were no such feelings. He joked and told me that as I had supposedly married Charlie in the Crofter’s Hut, it was appropriate that I divorce him in the Tower of London. So I told my husband that as far as I was concerned, I no longer wished to be married to Prince Charlie, and I dismissed him. Neither of us had heard of the Salic Laws, yet somehow we applied them as though we were lawyers in the ancient tradition.”
Johnson took in a long breath and said, unsurely, “Then I should rise and pay obeisance to His Majesty James, the uncrowned and unknown king of Scotland.”
Flora burst out laughing.
Johnson told her, “I hope that this present King George can see the humor in the situation, for if his grandfather George II was still alive, both you and your son would be locked in the Tower and would never see the fruits of your endeavors. But if we prosecute the idea of a commonwealth, and if James here is presented as king of Scotland, who knows what’ll happen? Eh, Boswell? Eh, Flora?”
They sipped their tea. A peace descended on the room. Everybody had run out of things to say. Until Dr. Johnson muttered to himself, “Now where in London am I going to find a clergyman who is a covert Jacobite and who would be willing to risk imprisonment for treason by crowning the next king of Scotland? And how on earth do we burglarize Westminster Abbey?”
Chapter Seventeen
WESTMINSTER ABBEY LONDON, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 20, 1774
The winter had been penetratingly cold, but despite the previous day’s temperature, it was noticeably warmer today than on previous days. Nonetheless, the cold still caused thin ice to form in the banks and shallow margins of the River Thames and killed a dozen vagrants throughout Southern England who stiffened in death as they lay in roadsides and beneath hedgerows. And the cold of the night was still so intense that even thieves and footpads who normally preyed on drunken revelers returning home from Inns as well as prostitutes with bulging purses servicing late night clients were at home or in bed to protect themselves from the ravages of the longest and coldest winter in living memory.
Eve
n the many layers of clothing in which Flora had swathed herself to protect her body failed to shield her from the numbing icy fingers creeping beneath the folds of cloth and assaulting her flesh. Jamie, younger and heartier, was burdened by the weight of two jackets and two capes in an attempt to stave off the bitter chill, but his face and hands felt as though they were being cut by knives. He’d known many severe winters in Skye and North Carolina but none as wicked and unremitting as this.
It was nearing two o’clock in the morning, and London was pitch black. The occasional street lamp that hung high on a wall barely cast more than the most feeble glow in the winter haze that blanketed the immediate area, leaving dark and menacing the large spaces between the lights.
The black River Thames was like a ribbon in the Stygian gloom with only the occasional lantern from a rowing boat carrying a wealthy passenger home, casting tendrils in the water and showing that it was, indeed, a river and not a bottomless void between the two halves of London. Boatmen who normally charged sixpence to ferry passengers up or down river used the excuse of ice and cold to double their charge to the fury of travelers. But when the boatmen told aspiring travelers that if they didn’t like the increase, they could walk home, few resisted paying.
The Palace of Westminster, foreboding against the meager river lights, entertained a few still-lit candles and lamps in its windows from officials working late into the night and the nearby Abbey was in almost complete darkness, its vast oaken doors firmly locked for the night against intrusion.
Flora stood in the darkened pools, invisible between the guttering flames of the street lamps, invisible to any eyes that might have been looking. Beside her, also undetectable in the night and shivering like herself, stood Jamie. With him was the Very Reverend Daniel MacPherson, Dean of St. Clair’s Church in Cricklegate, who had been meeting with Flora and her son on and off for three days before agreeing to conduct the coronation ceremony. Accompanying him was his wife, Mrs. Angelica MacPherson and Mr. James Boswell and Dr. Samuel Johnson. Two others, both Scottish lords, had promised to meet them, but the cold had obviously prevented them from stepping out into the streets.
So it was these four witnesses who would attest, in the right place and at the right time, that her son was the rightful heir to the kingdom of Scotland and that he had truly been crowned as lawful king. But as Dr. Johnson had been pointing out for many days, merely being crowned didn’t make a man into a king. To be a monarch, he had to be accepted and followed by his people, and the Scots were notorious for being diffident at best and combative at worst when it came to a question of who would rule them. Whether or not they would accept a young Scottish-American man called Jamie, even if he styled himself as King James IX of Scotland, was something that nobody but the Scots would decide.
The Rev. Dr. MacPherson took out the huge iron key that the inventive Dr. Johnson had secured from a pickpocket of his acquaintance who had been paid to steal the key from the Abbey’s chancellery, and once he’d checked again that there was nobody other than them in the road, he walked surreptitiously across the silent street toward the Abbey’s front door. He was followed by his terrified wife, then by Dr. Johnson and Mr. Boswell, with Flora and Jamie at the rear.
The key turned in the lock, made what sounded to the nervous party like an alarm to the authorities, but was only a loud scraping noise in the silence of a central London where all but hopeful prostitutes and returning footpads were asleep in their beds. They entered the Abbey, closed the door quickly, and stood in the freezing and gloomy vestibule, peering down the dark nave toward the choir stands, the Sanctuary, and the Chapel of Saint Edward the Confessor. It was bleak inside the vast building, the only feeble light coming from the moon shining through the high windows that barely illuminated any aspect of the Abbey. And there was a still, deathly cold about the place.
Dr. Johnson took out the lantern secreted beneath his cloak and used a flint to light the wick. Even though it glowed blindingly bright after the darkness, it only managed to illuminate their immediate surroundings and cast monstrous and ethereal moving shadows that danced from the high vaulted ceiling to the columns and pews as they moved forward.
“Come quickly,” said Dr. MacPherson. “The Coronation Chair is kept in the very end of this building in the Confessor’s Chapel.”
He paced quickly forward followed by the party along the Nave, their footsteps echoing through the empty church. Even though they were alone, it took them several minutes to walk to the end of the building, past the Altar, up the stone steps that led to the sanctuary and then into the ornate surroundings of the Confessor’s Chapel where the Coronation Chair was plainly visible against the eastern wall.
“It’s beautiful,” said Flora, gazing at the intricate carving and inlaid gilt. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but the urgency of the moment settled upon them, and they realized that the ceremony had to be performed quickly and they had to leave as soon as possible to avoid capture.
The Coronation Chair, on which kings and queens of England were crowned, had been specially created for King Edward I in 1300. It was painted gold, and inscribed in it were pictures of birds and foliage. The chair rested on four golden lions, and at its base, positioned between the lions, was a huge stone, the famous Stone of Destiny that had been taken from Scone in Scotland by King Edward in his unification of the kingdom. For nearly five hundred years, the Stone of Destiny and the throne which housed it had stood alone and proud, divinely inspired and awesome in Westminster.
The six stood looking at it in wonder, lost in its power. Only the Reverand MacPherson understood the need to proceed immediately. Fully knowing the dangers and understanding the historical and personal importance of the moment to Flora and Jamie, despite his fears of exposure, he said softly, “There, my friends, is the Stone of Scone. They say that this is the stone upon which the patriarch Jacob rested his head when he came to Bethel. The Book of Genesis tells us that ‘Jacob rose up early in the morning, and took the stone that he had put for his pillows, and set it up for a pillar, and poured oil upon the top of it.’
“It’s said that Jacob’s sons carried it to Egypt and then it found its way to Spain, then Ireland where it sat upon the sacred Hill of Tara and the Irish kings were seated upon it for their coronations. The stone was supposed to groan if the monarch was of royal blood, but remained silent if he was a pretender. Fergus Mac Erc carried it to Scotland and gave it to the monks in Scone for safekeeping. Since the conquest of Scotland by King Edward and until now, the monarchs of the joined kingdoms of England and Scotland have been crowned sitting upon it. Pray God that we’re not committing a blasphemy by doing what we’re about to do,” he said.
He turned to Jamie and said gently, “James Stuart, son of Flora Macdonald and Charles Edward Stuart, please sit upon the throne of ancient ways.”
Jamie sat down on the ancient throne and settled into the seat. He grasped the arms as though he was insecure and looked to the others for approval. Dr. Johnson smiled and said softly, “It suits you, young man. You are no less entitled to sit there, bearing in mind your parentage, than was King James VI of Scotland, who became our own King James I of England. Pray God that this moment in destiny fulfils its purpose and prevents bloodshed and misery.”
Flora looked at her son and shuddered, overwhelmed by the weight and gravitas of the history she was writing. It had all seemed so clear and simple in America and then in London; but now, in the heart of this awesome Abbey, seeing her son imitating the rites of kings and queens throughout time, she was suddenly wracked by doubt. She held her silence, but her mind was screaming. Was all this nothing but a mother’s hubris for her son? Was this little more than nonsense, the fantasy of a silly old woman, a naïve episode from a hapless event a lifetime ago? What had been so clear to her yesterday now became muddied and uncertain. She looked at her lovely Jamie and saw not a king but a simple and honest farmer, cutting down trees and plowing the landscape. A sudden and unremitting instinct shouted
at her to stop this process immediately, and for her and her son to return to America and forget the nonsense that had driven her for the past months.
For how could a simple man like Jamie, child of a farmer’s daughter, possibly be crowned king of the Scots as though he was a Duncan or a Malcolm or an Alexander or a Robert? Her son, just weeks ago, had been nobody and nothing but Jamie Macdonald, a simple young man farming a small block of land in North Carolina, and now he was sitting in the womb of England on a sacred Coronation Chair about to be crowned king of a people who hardly knew him. She had come so far, yet where had she arrived? The doubt was threatening to overwhelm her.
She looked at Dr. Johnson, who smiled at her and nodded encouragement, as though he could fully understand the doubts assaulting her mind. Did he understand that she was in the depths of her winter, yet within her burnt an invincible summer, a prayer that this moment might just be the spark that would generate a new world of peace between England and America and Scotland?
Flora bit the inside of her mouth to feel pain in case she was in the middle of a dream, but she winced, telling her that it was no dream. Her son, the heir of The Pretender to the throne of Scotland, was about to be crowned king in ancient rite. His destiny, the destiny to which he’d been conceived all those years ago in a crofter’s hut in the north of Skye, was about to be made manifest. The pain in her mouth reminded her of the reality that she had created. She knew she had to put her doubts aside and deal with them in the privacy of her room. For she couldn’t and wouldn’t allow her sudden misgivings to affect the ceremony.
The minister turned to the others in the dim light and said, “Friends, I present unto you King James Stuart, the Ninth of that name, your undoubted king of Scotland. Wherefore all you who are come this day to do you homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”
