by Alan Gold
“Well,” said Le Comte de Vergennes, “you have every reason to be happy. America today is an independent nation, free of British control. Do you smell the air of liberty, my friend?” he asked.
“I smell liberty out here, but in there,” said Franklin, pointing to the Salon of War, “I cut my tongue on the frigid air. I’m afraid that my old friend, David Hartley, feels that King George shouldn’t have given up the colony quite so easily.”
Comte de Vergennes rattled a laugh and coughed. Even he knew that he had little time left on this earth in which to assist the French king meet the coming deluge and more importantly in which to intrigue so that he would be remembered as a truly French rascal. “The English king is a fool to have imposed the Stamp Tax and the Tea Tax on you. The youth and strength of America demands that it must be treated with respect. We French have failed to treat our own people with respect and soon this will be our cost also.”
Franklin nodded. He wondered how long the French monarchy could survive with all the undercurrents of anger among the people. Perhaps America’s declaration of independence would presage a revolution throughout the entire world or ordinary citizens against their repressive overlords?
“The present King George III might be a fool, but he comes from a long line of fools,” said the Count. “His grandfather, George II was just as much of a fool, as was his Great Grandfather who ruled the men and women of England, but spoke not a word of English,” He laughed again, his chest rattling as he convulsed at the absurdity of the Germanic Hanoverians sitting on the British throne.
Franklin sipped a glass of claret and said, “God help England when this George bids his farewells to this troubled world of ours and is replaced by the Prince of Wales. It’s said that whenever the young prince dips himself into the well of a woman, he demands a lock of her hair and keeps it in an envelope in a private room. He’s only twenty-one, but they say he already has over a two hundred envelopes. When he becomes the next King George, if his current form is a guide to his future, then Britain will have yet another fop and a dandy, a libertine and a numbskull for a monarch. Your neighbor across the channel will be lucky if it retains Scotland and Ireland, let alone its other colonies when an idiot like him places his backside upon the throne.”
The old diplomat shrugged and said “France has had its fair share of libertines and idiots.” He sniffed and thought for a moment. Then, after further consideration, de Vergennes said, “Yet despite our monarchs, France has survived quite well, though the time of the monarchy seems certain to be coming to an end. The people of France will soon follow America’s lead. Our streets are noisy with protests and demonstrations. Our forces put them down quickly, but it’s like a plague which is spreading into the dark corners of our cities. Soon, we’ll all be washed away in a deluge of righteous anger. Thank God, my time has passed and I won’t be here to see it.
“But as to Scotland and perhaps Ireland, I don’t see them abandoning their English father. Scotland especially had its chance to leave England’s side when the young Prince Charles Edward of the House of Stuart attacked and tried to regain the throne. He failed just as his father before him failed, and now there are no male Stuarts left to claim either Scotland or England,” said de Vergennes. “That adventure is well and truly over.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Benjamin Franklin.
Sublimely attuned to the slightest nuance in a conversation, de Vergennes, France’s most experienced diplomat, instantly sensed new and exciting information. “And what does my American friend mean by that?”
Franklin smiled and said, “I mean precisely what I say. You stated that there are no male heirs to the House of Stuart. I warned you not to be so certain.”
“Tell me the entire story immediately, Benjamin, or I shall order the guards to skewer you with their bayonets.”
Franklin leaned forward conspiratorially, even though there were only the two elderly men in the vast hall and said, “Well, some years ago, shortly after Prince Charles left France on his quest to conquer England and Scotland . . .”
The Final Epilogue
THE PETIT PALACE DE LUXEMBOURG PARIS, FRANCE
JULY 2, 1803
Charles Edward Alan Macdonald, son of Jamie and Bessie, grandson of the late Flora Macdonald and His Royal Highness the late Pretender King Charles Edward Stuart, felt fear grasping his heart as he walked between the soldiers toward the library door in the palace that was home to Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of France.
Why he felt fear was a mystery to him. He had been born for this moment. Although he’d only known his destiny recently, something about his upbringing, even from his earliest moments, informed him that he was born differently to other men. Perhaps it was the glances and the comments whenever he’d asked about his grandfather and grandmother. Perhaps it was the reason that Grandmother Flora and her children had left America and returned to Skye in the old country when Grandfather Alan had been arrested for fighting on the side of the English; or perhaps it was the fact that whenever he traveled in Scotland and people found out that he was the grandson of Flora Macdonald, they looked at him as though he was the Christ child.
Of course, it might have been none of these reasons; instead, it might have been the way his father Jamie treated him during their play together. They were always playing make-believe, and Jamie always played the king and Bonnie Charlie (as his father always called him) played the prince.
Charlie was a bright boy, and he knew that there was an untold story. It was only recently that the mystery that he’d known existed had been revealed to him. When he was a small lad, sitting on his father’s knee in their home in Skye, his grandmother Flora had sung him songs of the Highlands and the Islands and told him of the story of a handsome prince and the brave Scottish lass who’d saved the prince’s life. He’d grown up knowing the words but had only recently come to understand that they applied to his grandmother.
It was Grandmother Flora who’d joked with him when he was a small child and told him that one day he might be king of England and Scotland. He’d loved her fairy tales and asked her to repeat them time and time again. And when she’d died two days after his tenth birthday, his father Jamie had taken up the role of storyteller, repeating Grandmother Flora’s narratives until Charlie knew them so well that they took on a reality.
And then, two years ago, on his twenty-first birthday, his father Jamie had sat him down and told him the extraordinary truth—that many years previously, Jamie had been crowned King James IX of Scotland and that one day, just as America had gained its independence from England so too would Scotland gain its independence; and at that moment, the Stuart family would claim its inheritance.
When Napoleon Bonaparte turned the horrors and the executions and the nightmare of the French Revolution into the conquest of all of Europe, Jamie told his son that it was now time to approach the emperor and reveal to him the truth about who he was and the Stuart’s claim to the throne.
“I can’t do it,” his father had said, “for although I was born in the Tower of London as a prisoner of King George II, I have spent too much of my life in America to be accepted for a king of Scotland, and will never be recognized for my claim. So you, Charlie, who were born in Scotland, must represent me. Are you willing,” he’d asked. And Charlie had immediately said that he was willing and eager to go.
That was a year ago. A year in which correspondence had flowed between the Island of Skye and the City of Paris involving ever more important officials within the French government and circles that revolved around the emperor. And as the likely date for Napoleon’s invasion of England drew ever closer and more certain, the need to meet with the newly crowned emperor and present his case to be crowned as rightful heir to Scotland grew increasingly important.
Knowing that a meeting must come soon or be too late when French troops stationed themselves in the streets of London, Charlie had been working in the fields when his father came running up the hill, carrying a le
tter that had just been delivered by messenger. As his father shouted his name louder and louder and told the whole world that Napoleon would grant Charlie an audience, the lad threw down his spade and knew that his moment with destiny had arrived.
Three weeks later, Charles, son of James, grandson of Flora and the Pretender to the Scottish throne, was walking with military precision between tall Imperial guards, wearing a new serge suit that itched mercilessly, new shoes with delicate buckles, and a dark blue silk top hat purchased in Bond Street just before he left London.
As he neared the door, the liveried servants opened it, and to his surprise, he saw the emperor of France, dressed in his blue and white military uniform, kneeling on all fours over a huge map of Southern England and Northern France. The entire floor was covered in maps, as was his vast desk, the walls to his library, and the chairs. Kneeling with him were two men in military uniforms, as well as a man dressed in his shirtsleeves. Under other circumstances, they could have been playing a nursery game, but these were men who were preparing for a war. He had begun his journey full of confidence, but as he’d entered the Petit Palace de Luxembourg, his courage and self-belief quickly began to disappear.
When the door opened, Emperor Napoleon looked up and with great agility sprang to his feet. He was much shorter than Charlie had thought. The guards stood still, enabling the young man to walk forward toward the emperor, hand outstretched in greeting. He realized that his hand was shaking. And sweating. He was pleased that he was wearing gloves.
Napoleon shook his hand and surveyed him. “So, young man, you claim to be the heir to the Stuart family and are rightful king of Scotland and England,” he said.
“No, Highness, I am the son of the heir. My father was crowned King James IX of England and Scotland in Westminster Abbey. He is the true heir.”
There was a glint of amusement in Napoleon’s eye. “But I was under the impression that King George III, despite his recent episodes of insanity, was still the lawful king of England and that his heir was the Prince of Wales.”
“With respect, Majesty, I said that my father was the true heir to the throne. As Your Majesty knows, the Crowns of England and Scotland were unfairly taken from King James II of the House of Stuart by . . .”
One of the generals who was kneeling stood up and said caustically, “Young man, His Majesty is well aware of the history of your family.”
“Forgive me,” said Charlie, his courage having vanished entirely now that he was inside the emperor’s private sanctum.
“I have examined your letters and given them to my ministers of State. They have reported back to me that you do indeed have a claim to the throne of England and Scotland if you are who you say you are. Whether or not it’s a valid claim is something that needs to be determined. Come, young man. I’ll take time off from my duties and have a cup of coffee with you. You may be the heir to the thrones of England and Scotland at the moment, but whether or not you are when I’ve finished my coffee, depends on what you have to say for yourself.”
Napoleon led him over to the far end of the room where the scene was more orderly. There were no maps spread out on the floor, but instead exquisite furniture of a fineness that Charlie had never before seen. Compared to the crude chairs and tables in his own home in Skye, these were superbly delicate.
Napoleon noticed him looking and said, “I took these from the palace at Versailles. I don’t think that what remains of the Bourbon dynasty will have any further use for them. Now, sit and tell me why I should assist you in your claim to England and Scotland.”
“Majesty,” he said, remembering the words instilled into him by his father. “My dear Grandmother, Flora Macdonald, assisted Prince Charles, my grandfather, to escape the clutches of the king of England in 1746 . . .”
“Yes, it was after he’d lost the Battle of Culloden Moor. A disastrous battle fought by an incompetent.”
“My Grandmother Flora and Prince Charles had an issue. It is my father, James, who was born in the Tower of London, where my Grandmother Flora was imprisoned for assisting Prince Charles to escape.”
“But your father is illegitimate, so what is his claim to the throne?” asked Napoleon.
And Charlie explained the marriage ceremony that under Salic law made the contract legal, and made her son legitimate. And, he stressed, the legitimate heir to the thrones after Prince Charles’ death in Rome in 1788.
Napoleon nodded. “And has King George and his Hanoverian family been appraised of your claim?”
Charlie shook his head. “Thirty years ago, my father was crowned in a very private ceremony in Westminster Abbey. But the prime minister and the king found out about it, and my Grandmother and my father only just managed to escape to America with their lives. Some years ago, my grandmother wanted to return to Scotland to end her days, and so my family returned with her. She is buried in Kilmuir on the northern coast of Skye and has a winding sheet in her coffin; she asked to be wrapped in the sheets in which Bonnie Prince Charlie slept when he was with her. She had kept these sheets all her life. Because of the danger of being arrested for treason, we have kept this family secret to ourselves,” he said.
Napoleon shook his head. “This doesn’t demonstrate for me the bravery of a monarch, young man. This shows me the timorousness of a coward. A true king would have gathered his people and would have put the Hanoverians to flight, as your grandfather attempted and as your grandmother bravely assisted him. But for your father to have buried his ambitions for half of his life doesn’t augur well for a man who would be king,” he said.
“I know that’s how it seems, Majesty, but my father spent almost all of his life in America. He is asking that when you cross the English Channel to attack England that you unseat the Hanoverians, remove them and their successors from the throne, and repair the damage to history which has been done. My father and I are the rightful heirs to England and Scotland.”
Napoleon burst out laughing. “Oh, just like that? Simply cross the Channel and attack England? My boats are outnumbered five to one by the English Navy. My army is the bravest in all of the world, but unless I can transport it across to England, it is tethered to France. And if I attempt to cross the Channel, my ships and my army will be sunk. Britannia truly does rule the waves between our nations. I and my generals are working day and night to try to find a way to cross the waters. Until I do, young man, neither you nor I will gaze upon the throne of the king of England, let alone replace its current occupant.”
“But if you do, Sire, then my family is the rightful claimant to that very throne,” said Charlie.
Impressed by the young man’s courage in speaking so forcefully, Napoleon said softly, “but why should I make the House of Stuart into the kings of England and Scotland when I’ve put my own family and my generals onto the thrones of half of Europe? Why shouldn’t I simply conquer England and place one of my cousins on the English throne so that I have complete control?”
Charlie steeled himself for his answer. “Because then you will have not just the English to fight, Majesty, but me and my father and those Scots who will rise up against you. Believe me, sir, that unless a Stuart replaces a Hanoverian, all England and Scotland will oppose you. You may conquer the English armies, but the only way you’ll conquer the English people is by capturing their hearts and imposing a foreign king on them will not do it. They have spent years hating the kings from Hanover; they will never accept a king from France. Whereas if you put my family back on their rightful throne, France and England will be as one. Surely you can see the wisdom of supporting the legitimate heirs to the throne, who will then become your closest of allies and who will then end all costly wars between our nations.”
He sat back and waited for the sky to fall in. But he had to have taken the gamble. Napoleon looked at him with narrowed eyes, summing him up. Then miraculously he smiled and said loudly for all to hear, “At last. I’m dealing with a man who speaks like a monarch. Come over here, Prince Charles, and
I’ll show you the maps that will define the coming war with England. Once I’ve worked out how to beat Admiral Lord Nelson and the British fleet, my soldiers will cross the Channel, and England will be mine. Then, perhaps, I will consider putting your family back on the throne, where you think that you belong.”
- END -