The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  The Highlanders charge, accompanied by fearsome screams and clan war cries, put the fear of God into the English. First away was the Mackintosh, led by Colonel McGillivray of Dunmaglass. He and his clan were followed by others who drew out their claymores and broadswords, target shields and dirks, and yelled evil and vicious oaths at the tops of their voices at they ran headlong into a battery of musket and rifle fire and grapeshot from hastily repositioned cannon.

  But as though the power and superiority of the English forces wasn’t enough, the ground was a bog from the rain, and in order to maintain the momentum of their charge, the leading Highlanders were forced to turn to their right and follow the road that passed tangentially across the moor. But this forced them into a wedge and obstructed other clans running behind so that soon the advance stalled into a crowded melee in which clansman pushed clansman into Culloden Park’s wall, arguing furiously with each other as to who should proceed first.

  Some clans did manage to get through and attacked the regiment of the King’s Own, commanded by General Barrel. However, noticing the confusion and crowding in the flank, the artillery was trained on those who had managed to break through, and they were cut to pieces by canisters of ball and grapeshot.

  Soon soldiers of both sides were engaged in hand to hand fighting, and the troops of the royal regiments used the new techniques of right-hand thrust and parry with their bayonets that had been taught to them by the duke. The Scotsmen resorted to their traditional method of swordsmanship but found that as they raised their arms to bring their swords crashing down on the enemy, their undefended bodies were pierced by the murderous points of bayonets and they dropped down dead without striking a single blow. This newly developed and shattering use of the bayonet was just as devastating to the Scotsmen’s assault as had been the accuracy of the cannon.

  Vicious and continuous attacks by the artillery and troopers under the command of Barrel, Munro, Wolfe, Bligh, and Sempill finished any hope that the Highlanders might have had of victory. In a matter of an hour, the hopes and aspirations of the Prince Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, were shot to pieces and left in the mud and gore of Culloden Moor, along with many hundreds of the men who had rallied to him.

  The prince, transfixed by the enormity of his loss and incapable of moving from his place, was virtually manhandled off the field to safety by his commanders when the result of the battle became obvious to everybody. It was urgent that he be moved far away, for the duke’s revenge on any Scottish commander would be swift and terrible.

  Looking around him at the death and destruction, the Duke of Cumberland took out a rag and wiped the blood and gore off his sword before sheathing it. He was experienced enough to know even before casualty reports that his victory had been overwhelming and that unless the Highlanders were foolhardy enough to raise another army, it was the end of the Pretender’s dream.

  And it had been as crushing a victory as he’d predicted. Few men on the English side had been killed, although Munro’s regiment had sustained the heaviest losses of all the English regiments; yet from the numbers who had attacked, and now were straggling back, it would appear that at least a thousand Highlanders had met their maker by courtesy of the Duke of Cumberland.

  He spurred his horse forward to examine the battlefield and was joined by Lieutenant James Wolfe, a pleasant and affable and very capable young man. As they rode together in silence, with the smoke of cannon and gunshot still heavy in the rain-sodden air, the duke noticed that a Highland man lying on the ground was struggling to stand up. His leg had been blown off, and he was whimpering, but his musket was close at hand and so he still posed a threat. The duke turned to Wolfe and said, “Lieutenant, would you kindly shoot that enemy soldier.”

  The young officer looked at his commander in horror. He swallowed before speaking but then said softly and deliberately, “Sire, my commission is at your disposal, but not my honor. I shall not kill a wounded man.”

  In fury, the duke was about to reprimand him, when a soldier some distance away noticed the movement and without thinking put a musket ball into the Scotsman’s chest.

  “A common soldier, Mr. Wolfe, has done what you failed to do, despite a direct order from your commanding officer. I think you might have damaged your career by your damned impertinence. I suggest that you retire to your quarters, sir, and do not join us in celebration of today’s victory.”

  The duke spurred his horse onward and up the hill.

  On a further distant hill to the right of the battlefield, a young woman dressed in the Macdonald tartan tried to peer through the fog of smoke and mist to see what was happening. She had been on the high side of the approach to Culloden Moor since early morning, eager to be a spectator at the prince’s victory. But since the battle began, and especially with the pouring rain, she’d sat blinded under her oilcloth, and the scene before her had been clouded in mystery.

  But now, by its silence and the cries of the poor wounded Englishmen, Flora Macdonald assumed that the battle was well and truly over. She had waved to the prince when he had ridden around inspecting his troops before the arrival of the English army, and she could have sworn, although she wasn’t certain, that he’d smiled and doffed his cap.

  So now she would trudge the long miles back to Inverness, go back to her room at the Inn, and see whether some kind soul would invite her to a party in celebration of the enormity of Scotland’s success.

  THE PALACE OF ST. JAMES, LONDON

  APRIL 24, 1746

  The journey from the northern approaches to the City of London had taken him much longer than he anticipated. When last he rode out of London ahead of a column of soldiers in order to deal with the rebellion engendered by the Young Pretender, the streets had been almost empty, as though every citizen was cowering under his bed. Only the occasional gallant had come out onto the street and shouted a patriotic wish of God’s speed and good luck.

  Today, on his return as hero of Culloden and the man hailed as the redeemer of England, the crowds were five and ten deep in places, cheering and shouting and throwing garlands of leaves in imitation of a triumph in the time of Julius Caesar. But he knew the difference. In ancient times, the Roman Senate had decreed that to counter-balance the hubris a military champion might feel, a slave should stand behind him in the chariot and while the crowd of Romans was adoring him, whisper into the hero’s ear, “Remember, you are only a man.”

  The Duke of Cumberland, third son of the king of England, needed no such reminding. He had defeated the damned Highlanders and quelled the Pretender who was now scurrying like a dog with mange through the thistles and thickets and bracken of Scotland, hiding while the duke’s army sought to bring him to trial in London and then execution on a public gallows. Soon the duke would return to Scotland and teach the rest of the rebels and clan leaders a lesson that they would remember for the rest of eternity. But his return to London, greeted with such relief and joy by the populace, would be a cause for fury and despair by his brother Frederick, the Heir Assumptive and with many in Parliament who would happily have seen an end to the rule of the Germans and their replacement with the French-backed Stuarts.

  Parliamentarians, men of low birth and no breeding were not of concern to him. They were worth two pence each and could be bought and sold according to whim. But the Royal Heir Assumptive, Frederick, hated and detested both him and his father and had set up a rival monarchy in Leicester House where politicians and literary types were visiting him and his awful wife Augusta of Saxe-Gotha and plotting and planning against the rightful king. And it wasn’t as though the hatred was just on one side, for the duke himself, as well as the king and his late wife Caroline, detested the lazy, malicious, heir. In private, the duke knew that the king had consulted with lawyers and his ministers about the rights of the first born to inherit the throne but had been told in no uncertain terms that primogeniture was absolute and invariable, no matter how awful the succeeding monarch was. They had pointed out the case of the s
uccession of Edward II, an effete lover of men and the first monarch to be removed from the throne. Despite his wicked ways, and against his father’s wishes, Edward had succeeded his father Edward Longshanks, one of history’s bravest men and known throughout history as Scottorum malleus, the Hammer of the Scots.

  So even the most unworthy of successors like his brother Frederick couldn’t be removed from his position as heir, despite his open rebellion against his father, the king. And that meant that despite the Duke of Cumberland having laid his life on the line for the sake of England and returning as a national hero, history would soon forget The Battle of Culloden Moor and the name of the Duke of Cumberland and instead would revere forever the name of King Frederick of England.

  His friend, the Duke of Rutland, rode up to him as he led his detachment into White Hall on route to St. James’s Palace.

  “How is Your Highness? A great day for England.”

  “I’m in need of distraction, Rutland.”

  “Distraction? Surely not. This is great day for you and a great day for England. Look at the crowds. They’re beaming with love and gratitude for your great victory.”

  “Crowds of common folk don’t interest me. They move with the wind. No, what concerns me is Frederick. I’m vexed in my mind because of my despicable brother.”

  “Frederick? The man’s a numbskull and a coward. He couldn’t have contemplated doing what you did to the Scots, my lord.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but my father can’t have much longer on this earth, and then Frederick becomes king, and as younger brother, I’ll exchange my dukedom for a title of prince of somewhere or other, but then what? Do you think he’ll allow me to remain in control of the army? What? So I can raise an insurrection and remove him from the throne. No, he’ll have plans for me, like the governorship of some remote part of our empire. Or he’ll send me to Scotland to sit in Edinburgh Castle in daily fear of assassination.”

  Rutland shook his head. “But you’re the hero of England. The people will never allow it.”

  Cumberland laughed. “The people? They’ll have forgotten the danger by the time they’re sitting in their inns tonight and drunk on ale and brandy. No, Rutland, I’ll be finished when my brother ascends the throne. You see if I’m not.”

  But then he perked up and said, “Perhaps the best idea would be for me to allow my fat and incompetent brother Frederick to rule and ruin England and to force his return to our ancestral home of Hanover in the hope that he could make his name and reputation there. Or perhaps when the House of Commons had enough of Frederick’s bungling, they’ll remove him as they removed Charles Stuart and beg me, the Hero of Culloden, to return and save England from itself.”

  Rutland began to interrupt, but the Duke of Cumberland was in no mood to listen. He continued, “But these are matters to consider when my beloved father has died and George II is no more. In the meantime, we have the gratitude of all England to receive.”

  The duke arrived at the steps of the palace. The crowds were confined to the street and the courtyard was full of functionaries, guards, and courtiers who had come to greet the returning savior of England. He dismounted, shook numerous hands, said for the umpteenth time to anybody who asked that while it was a great victory and England was again secure, he had much work to do to ensure that the Scots never rose again, and forced his way through the adoring throng to the inner sanctum of his father’s power, the audience chamber.

  Like the courtyard and the corridors of the palace, this was full of courtiers and functionaries. Relieved that the war was over, they had returned in their droves, laughing at the fears of others, assuring everybody that they weren’t for one moment frightened but had been forced by circumstance to leave London and attend to domestic duties in their country estates.

  All bowed low as William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, walked the long audience chamber toward the throne of his father, King George II. An aisle parted and George stood to receive his magnificent son. The king began to applaud, and immediately the entire audience chamber resounded to the thunder of acclamation. “Hurrahs” and “huzzahs” were shouted in his honor. Somebody yelled out “three cheers for the Duke of Cumberland,” and voices were raised in respect for his achievements. When the noise lessened, somebody began to sing a new anthem that had been hastily penned in George’s honor, “God Save the King.” Few knew the words, but those who did, sang loud and clearly.

  Eventually, the duke reached the king’s podium and walked up the few steps where he bowed and kissed the king’s outstretched hand. He stood and embraced his father on both cheeks. Turning and being theatrical, he shouted out, “Majesty, I bring good news of the destruction of the Pretender’s claim to your throne. His army of Scottish traitors and miscreants, of Irish and French mercenaries, has been destroyed. After such a victory, no man in Scotland will ever dare raise his fist to an Englishman again. Shame upon all of Scotland who supported the impertinent Charles Edward Stuart and his ambitions. He acquitted himself poorly on the field of battle and now he is in hiding, and my officers and men are hunting him down throughout the Highlands and Lowlands until he is caught, when he will be brought to London for trial and execution for crimes of High Treason. God Bless Your Majesty George II and all of England. God preserve the king and save His Majesty from all of his enemies.”

  A thousand miles north, having just returned to her home of Skye and before she entered her father and mother’s house, Flora Macdonald breathed deeply. She would have to tell them of the disaster, as the news would not yet have reached the Isles. And when she did, she had no idea what would be the reception. She sighed. She’d done her crying; now she must get on with her life. She breathed deeply before whispering to herself, God preserve and save Scotland from its enemy, England.

  Chapter Five

  IN THE MOUNTAINS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND NORTHEAST OF INVERNESS

  APRIL 27, 1746

  His legs were aching fiercely; his arms and shoulders felt that they were carrying an iron cannon, and his mouth was as dry as the bones of a skeleton. The horses they’d stolen thirty miles north of Culloden Moor made them all too visible, and so now, and for the past week or more, they traveled on foot. Slow, painful, and exhausting but safer.

  Trudging over Scotland without horses meant they had to carry everything on their persons. And worse, they couldn’t use roads or tracks that would have made them visible for miles around, so instead, the party had to scale heights through the untamed heather and traipse across bogs and trudge through uncharted wilderness. Where cattle, rabbit, foxes, and deer went, so went they.

  And it seemed as though the land would never end. Every time they climbed from the embrace of a valley up its steep hills to breast its precipitous heights, they’d stand on the loftiest point gasping for breath and look all around them for sight of the Englishmen. But at the same time, Charles was looking onward, ever onward, as one valley folded into another, one hill revealed the peaks of more and even more hills and mountains in the distant and as far as his eyes could tell, there was nothing ahead but what they had traversed behind. A never-ending vista of more and more hills and higher and higher mountains that they had to climb to avoid being arrested by the Englishmen who pursued the prince and his companions with a vengeance and sense of purpose as though they were demons from the jaws of hell itself. Their refusal to quit the chase told him in uncompromising terms what would be his fate were he to be caught.

  It was the eleventh day and night since the disaster and he and his party were too exhausted and starving to continue another footfall. Yet his guide, who hailed from this area, insisted that he must scale at least the next two peaks before they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the English; then, and only then could they take a rest late in the evening, well after dark, in one of the valleys beyond. Somewhere ahead, his companion guide assured him, was where there should be at least a few Catholic houses whose owners might allow the party to rest in one of their barns . .
. even in the house itself if they didn’t recognize the prince.

  As his aching legs and thumping heart somehow carried him higher, he used the method he’d created for himself to lessen the physical pain. He distracted himself by thinking of alternative strategies he could and should have used in the battle against the English on Culloden Moor. Placing the Macdonalds on the right instead of the left as they’d insisted; choosing a different location to the moor, one that offered better protection for his troops instead of the vast and open area that led to the slaughter of a thousand of his gallants; waiting until the French supplied him with artillery instead of thinking that he could repeat his success at Prestonpans. All so obvious now, but in the noise and fog of a battle, when so many voices were competing for his approval, it was so easy even for the best of commanders to make an error of judgment. And all that was needed was a single mistake and a man like the Duke of Cumberland would spot the weakness and exploit it with disastrous consequences.

  Had it really been just eleven days since the catastrophe of the battle close to Inverness? Eleven long days of misery and grief, of confusion and panic, and still he was running like a terrified dog. Still the duke’s men chased him over mountain and through valley. Every time he stopped running, confident that the English were no longer in pursuit, their telltale red coats, and tall white hats were spotted far into the distance, always heading toward him. As he and his men rushed to a new place over the difficult terrain, they’d arrive to find that a large party of English soldiers was already in the vicinity, having traveled openly and easily by horse on the major roads that were barred to the prince and his supporters for fear of them being exposed by traitors and turncoats eager to profit from the vast reward offered for the prince’s capture.

  Every time he rested overnight in a cave or a hut or under canvas in a field, he’d awake from the nightmares of his dreams and as he stretched and rubbed the morning dew off his face, he’d see the thin column of smoke on a distant hilltop telling him that the regiment was still chasing after him and that he’d have to leave immediately to prevent being caught.