Highness in Hiding

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The quashing of the Jacobite Rising of 1745 saw an end to the ambitions of the exiled house of Stuart. But somehow the young pretender, Prince Charles Edward, otherwise known as Bonnie Prince Charlie, manage to avoid arrest. For six extraordinary months the handsome young prince, often starving, sometimes barefoot and in rags, ranged the Western Highlands and the Outer and Inner Hebrides, hiding, lurking, fleeing. Despite dire threats of punishment to all who might aid and abet him, the royal fugitive was hidden by brave and trusty supporters, each of whom could have betrayed him for the massive £30,000 reward offered by the English. This story stands as a tribute to the loyalty and staunch courage of the Highland clansfolk. 'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 250

Sample

The talking died away in that overcrowded and untidy room of the humble cottage in the birch wood of Glenbeasdale as the young man at the head of the rough board which served as table raised head and hand. He had been silent for some time as men had discussed and argued, with so much in the balance. Now he spoke.

“I have decided,” he declared. “We go. Or, I go. Whence I came. We dare not wait longer here. Every day, every hour, ma foi, endangers us, endangers all. That I will not have. You all, and so many others, endangered further. There has been a sufficiency of hurt, to over many. I go to France, God willing, to return hereafter. Maintenant, it is enough!”

His hearers gazed at him, expressions varying on their faces, mainly tired faces, few welcoming that statement, however much it expressed concern for them. It was Young Clanranald who spoke first, as he was entitled to do.

“But, Highness – no!” he protested. “To go now would be to lose all. To throw away all the great endeavour. All is not lost – not yet! But if you go, all will be. The Lord George, Cluny Macpherson, Keppoch and the rest, they will be assembling at Ruthven in Badenoch. Others elsewhere. Lochiel is gathering more of his Camerons. Clan Donald will rally again. To leave all now would be . . . disaster. You must see it, Highness.”

“I see disaster, yes, my friend – but not in this of my going. And I bade you all to cease naming me Highness. I am Dumont, Monsieur Dumont, a French visitor. Disaster for you, and for so many another, is what I fear. Already too many have suffered on my behalf, le bon Dieu forgive me! I must not, I will not, have more to lose all, their freedom, their homes and families, their lives, for my father’s cause. I came to bring freedom, justice, good for his realm, not hurt, pain, sorrow. It is enough.”

The speaker rose, as though to indicate conclusion and, weary as he was, garbed all but in rags, he still bore an air of inborn authority. His were handsome features, pleasingly attractive rather than strong, however drawn now with fatigue, stress and disappointment, grief indeed. High of forehead, under uncombed fair hair, with expressive and sensitive brown eyes, cheek bruised from a fall, above a firm mouth and unshaven chin, he held himself, as always, gracefully, a well-made if slender young man of twenty-four years, Charles Edward Stuart.

One standing near, older, a solid, heavy man, John William O’Sullivan, lately adjutant-general of the Jacobite army, nodded.

“You choose aright, Charles.” As the prince’s close associate, he could and did so name him. “You say to go, yes. Go now. On the morrow, to be sure. That is best.” He spoke with the tongue of Ireland overlaid with a French accent. “To France, yes. But . . . the going? That will not be easy, I fear.”

It was another Irish voice which was raised, that of Captain Felix O’Neill, of the French service. “How to win to France from this wilderness of mountains and waters? We have reached the tide’s edge here, have we not? After our travail of these last days. But – the English ships, which Borrodale tells us patrol these narrow seas to keep away French aid for us. How to reach France without a French ship to take us?”

“We must sail by night, my friend, in some small boat. Out from this loch, out to beyond where the English ships wait. To the Long Island, the Outer Isles. There we shall not be looked for, I think. In some harbour there we will find a vessel, no?” The prince spread his hands.

“Highness . . . Monsieur!” That was Aeneas MacDonald of Borrodale, their host, although this was not Borrodale House but a hidden cottage nearby in which the fugitives would be safer. “I beg of you, see it otherwise. Your place is still here, in Scotland, not in France. Your army has suffered defeat, yes, at that Culloden Moor. But the cause is not lost. Your people are only dispersed. But there are still thousands who will flock to your royal cause.”

Young Clanranald supported that. “After Falkirk, sir, many of the clansmen made for their own glens after all the months of fighting and march. They are still your men, and would rally. There are others, who never rose, who delayed. Even, to my sorrow, in Clan Donald. Murray, Cluny and the rest, those who won free from Culloden, reassemble at Badenoch’s Ruthven Castle. Go there, I say, and rejoin them. They will take up arms again. Go to them, sir, not to France.” The speaker was a red-headed, vehement young man with a flashing eye, who had led the Clanranald regiment throughout; his elderly father, Clanranald, chief of one of the greatest Clan Donald septs, was dwelling these difficult days over on his properties in the Outer Isles.

“You say go to Badenoch, man,” O’Sullivan charged him. “How? How many miles through your endless mountains? Hundreds. And Cumberland’s troops everywhere. Searching for us. How far would we get?”

“We would guide the prince by little-known paths and passes which no Cumberland’s men would know. Rest, after our weary passage here, a couple of days. Then south by east, by Sunart and Ardgour and Mamore to Glen Spean, and so up Laggan to the Spey and Ruthven. Four days, I will have you there.”

“I agree with my kinsman, Monsieur.” That was Father Allan MacDonald, a young priest and the prince’s chaplain. “One defeat, even two, is not a war lost. You came to free your royal father’s people from the English yoke, from the usurping Elector and his German brood. You can still do it. Free Scotland, at least. Later England, perchance. But Scotland, yes. A summer campaign of attrition and raid and sally from our trackless mountains, and then a winter offensive in force. Cumberland and his English and Lowland levies will not face a winter war in Scotland, nothing more sure. They will depart for kinder climes, I say. As will their ships in these Hebridean seas. One year hence and you could be sitting again in Holyroodhouse, King of Scots, secure! Or your father could.” For a cleric, that one seemed to have a fair grasp of matters military and strategic.

Charles, eyeing him all but lovingly, bit his lip as though his resolve shaken. Then he shook his fair head.

“Father Allan, you say that I came to free my people, or my father’s, from the usurper’s yoke. That was my wish and aim, yes. But not to bring them pain and hurt and death. As I have done. The slaughter and bloodshed and savagery of Culloden Moor taught me the price that I was demanding for my cause. It was enough. More than enough. Every day that I remain in this land now more will suffer. Cumberland showed us back there what he could do. Shooting the prisoners. Slaying the wounded. Burning men alive. Torturing. Even flaying men’s skins! It was beyond all belief! He is worse than any animal! Now, while I remain, he will be wreaking the like inhumanities on all whom he thinks support me, shelter my men, recognise my father as king. Men, women, children. No – I will not have it, I say! I go. When they learn that I am gone, and the threat to their Elector over meantime, they will leave it, leave Scotland, return south. A man of God, you must see it so, Father?”

That silenced the priest, but not his MacDonald cousin. “Wait you here a day or two, Monsieur, until we know the true position. Learn what Cumberland does now. Where he is. Learn how many flock to the Lord George and the others. I will send out running gillies, scouts, north, east and south, to discover the situation. You . . . we are all weary after four days’ travel through the mountains from the battle, unfed, dispirited. Give me two or three days, then decide. You are safe here, I swear, in Clanranald country. You could not leave, anyway, to the Outer Isles, until we have found a suitable craft and crew to take you. Give me, give Scotland, those days, sir!”

Sighing, Charles Stuart inclined his head. “As you will, meantime, my good friend.”

“You will at least have a bed to sleep in this night! As will all. May I lead you to it, sir?”

They left that table with its broken meats and empty flagons having precious little consumable left therein, the first real meal they all had eaten for days, for the Borrodale maids to clear away, none seeking to linger. Young Clanranald had to go and issue orders for his running gillies to prepare.

In the morning of a showery late April day of scudding clouds and fitful burst of brilliant sunshine, rested, Charles was in more cheerful mood, although not enlarging upon his intentions as to the future. He was now wearing more suitable garb, provided from the Borrodale wardrobes, in place of the humble, ragged clothes the fugitives had picked up at the Lord Lovat’s Gortuleg cot-houses after the battle to disguise their identities on their secret flight westwards. Bathed and shaved and hair combed, in fine tartan trews and doublet, he looked much more like the handsome representative of the ancient royal Stewart line who had landed nearby those nine months before, with the Seven Men of Moidart, to proceed to set up his standard and proclaim his father King James the Eighth, at Glenfinnan, none so far off. Then to march southwards to the Lowlands, to take Edinburgh with acclaim, to win the Battle of Prestonpans and so to head on to enter England, victorious. As far as Derby he had won before he had turned back, persuaded against his will not to go on to London on the advice of his lieutenant-general the Lord George Murray, with the English failing to rise in his support and fears of government forces massing behind them, back to Scotland, a hungry, disappointed and dispersing army. Admittedly they had won a small victory at Falkirk, and then disaster at Culloden Moor.

After a late and hearty breakfast, Charles announced that he would like to go down to the loch shore, to revisit the spot where he had landed from the French vessel, the Du Tellay, with such high hopes those nine months ago with his seven companions, the Seven Men of Moidart, of whom only two were with him now, having survived the campaign, O’Sullivan and Aeneas MacDonald, the treasurer, brother of Kinlochmoidart.

It was not far down to the very lovely loch’s indented coastline, with all its colourful weed-hung reefs and skerries and offshore islets, a feast for the eye however much of a hazard for navigation. Loch nan Uamh, the Loch of the Cave, opened out into the Sound of Arisaig, itself opening on to the great Inner Sound of the Sea of the Hebrides, with the large islands of Muck and Eigg blocking most of the horizon, and the jagged mountains of Rhum just appearing above the Arisaig headland to the west.

That stupendous vista brought a lump into Charles’s throat, whatever it did for his companions. This had been his first introduction to mainland Scotland, his ancestral Stewart homeland – even if he did spell it now in the French way, Stuart – and a dramatic initiation it had been, such as he had never before viewed nor imagined. Beauty, grandeur, spectacle it presented – and challenge. Challenge to him who had come to meet a different challenge, to win back for his father his ancient kingdom and throne. And now, viewing it all again, having failed in that challenge, he knew a great and aching sorrow. And yet, and yet, the challenge still there, an urge, an exhortation, to come back one day and try again.

Young Clanranald pointed. “See, sir – there! Yonder, between us and the cliffs of Eigg. One of the English ships of war. See it? They wait. For you! And for the French. There are always one or two off this Moidart coast, my people tell me. A curse on them! They keep well offshore, as well they may, for this coast is a graveyard for shipping.”

“They do not send men ashore, in boats? Searching for us?”

“Not yet here, sir. They have sent their longboats to land on various isles and headlands, but not here. There are over-many reefs and traps for their liking, their safety.”

It was certainly a very wild coast, however beautiful. Charles counted eight islets immediately offshore within a mile or so, not to mention the innumerable rocks and skerries, great and small. With the mountains coming down so close, and only the mouth of Glenbeasdale opening inland, it was no welcoming haven for mariners. And yet, here the Du Tellay had brought him those months ago. He was recounting, somewhat ruefully, how the Marquis of Tullibardine, one of the original seven, elder brother of the Lord George and heir to Atholl, had seen an eagle hovering over that ship for almost an hour, perceiving this as an excellent augury for their endeavour, the king of birds come to welcome the prince to Scotland.

With dramatic suddenness, one of the rain-squalls blew up from the south-west, blotting out the seascape, and their host hurried them all into a quite large cave nearby, for shelter. This, he declared, he had haunted as a boy, convinced that he would eventually see the spirit of that ancient Celtic Church missionary, Saint Boisel, after whom some said Glenbeasdale was named, and whose retreat this cavern was said to be. Father Allan took the opportunity to offer up a prayer for St Boisel’s intervention with the Almighty on behalf of the royal cause, and that the prince might be persuaded to remain in Scotland until victory was won, Charles wagging his head.

The rain-shower over, they returned to Borrodale House.

That evening the first of the running gillies arrived back from a visit to the Morar area to the north where, at Mallaig’s haven, only five miles from the Isle of Skye across the Sound of Sleat, he had gained the word that the Campbell Earl of Loudoun, one of the enemy commanders, had reached Skye, searching for the fugitive prince on that island.

This was, of course, grievous news, coming from so comparatively near at hand, and indicating that Cumberland knew or suspected that Charles was somewhere on this area of the west coast; and that they could therefore expect the search for him to narrow and intensify. Also the messenger brought the extraordinary story that the Skye fisherman who had told them about Loudoun, said that the Duke of Cumberland was offering the vast reward of thirty thousand pounds to anyone who would deliver up the prince to him.

Such a sum was almost beyond all Highland dreams of avarice, and greatly alarmed O’Sullivan, O’Neill and other non-Scottish members of the party, but not, strangely, the MacDonalds and other clansmen, who declared that no Highlander, however unsympathetic to the cause, would ever dream of selling the prince for English gold.

But it was a vivid indication as to the urgency of the government’s determination to lay hands on Charles Stuart. It sent all to bed in thoughtful frame of mind.

The following day brought a significant development. One of Young Clanranald’s scouts had met in Glen Spean two travellers and their escort heading westwards from Badenoch, Secretary John Hay and Lockhart, Younger of Carnwath, both prominent in the Jacobite cause, and now seeking the prince, being sent from Ruthven Castle. They were brought to Glenbeasdale. Lockhart, a Lowlander from Lanarkshire, of ancient line, because he felt that his place should be near to Charles; but Hay brought a letter from the Lord George Murray, lieutenant-general. And the letter was of consequence. As Charles read it, his features set.

It started well enough: “May it please Your Royal Highness . . .” But please him it did not, even though Murray went on to say that he was greatly concerned for the prince’s safety and well-being, and sorely distressed over the disaster of the recent battle. Then he craved His Highness’s pardon if he mentioned a few truths. And these truths were blunt, he declaring that he personally had ventured more frankly in the royal cause, and in his position had put more at stake, than all the others put together. He held, first of all, that the prince had been wrong to raise the standard as he had done without firm assurance of French major aid in men and moneys. Then he wrote that His Highness had burdened his cause with incompetent aides, in especial the man O’Sullivan, unfit for trust, and who had committed gross blunders and issued confused orders as to battle, which were no concern of his as adjutant-general. He should have been no more than in charge of the baggage-train! Then the secretary, John Hay, who would deliver this letter, was little better. He had served the cause ill, neglected his duties and caused the starvation of the army. If they had had a sufficiency of provisioning, as was his province and concern – for he had had moneys enough, five hundred gold pieces of which was still at Ruthven Castle – the outcome could well have been quite different, empty stomachs being no help in warfare. O’Sullivan’s and Hay’s names had become odious to all the army, and indeed had all but bred mutiny.

Charles Stuart, reading thus far, put his head in his hands, to the concern of the watchers.

But there was more. The Lord George went on to say that he had no desire to continue as lieutenant-general of the army. He had not resigned earlier because it could have prejudiced the cause at a critical time. But now he hoped that His Royal Highness would accept his demission, while being assured that he remained his loyal supporter and friend.

It took some time for the prince to compose himself. His was a sensitive and perceptive nature, and all this from his principal commander in the field and adviser on things military was a dire blow, with its implicit criticism of himself and his judgment.

At length, looking up, he asked John Hay if he knew of the contents of this letter. The other said that he did not, whereupon the prince folded up the paper and pocketed it in his doublet. Since he had to make some comment thereon, he said that the Lord George was reconsidering his position. What was the state of the assembly over there in Badenoch? What of its morale? Who was in fact in command? And what was the intention for the immediate future?

Hay said that spirits were scarcely high, but that all saw the fight as going on, the cause by no means lost. The Duke of Perth, the Lord Elcho and Cluny Macpherson were strong for a summer campaign, saying that large numbers of men could still be raised from the glens, Lockhart adding that few saw their recent defeat as more than a temporary setback. The royal cause would triumph yet.

Charles rose abruptly, and said that he would retire to his room for a space, leaving all wondering.

When, after a while, he returned to his host and companions, the prince was in control of himself and quietly resolved.

“I have made my decision, my friends,” he said. “My final decision. It is as I said earlier. I go. To France. The Lord George’s letter, what he says therein, confirms me in my judgment and conclusion. Here, meantime, I can do nothing to effect. In France I can, I hope and believe, raise the French aid in men and moneys which we need. And which, perchance, I should have ensured before I set out on this great venture. To return in due course. So – I go.” He turned to Young Clanranald. “You, my friend, must seek out a suitable boat and crew to take me to the Outer Isles, where I shall seek to find a sea-going vessel to win me to France. How long will that take, think you?”

“Highness, I beg of you . . .!”

Charles held up his hand. “No more, I pray you. I see my course. How long, think you?”

“It will require a sturdy craft. These seas are strong, treacherous, with currents and down-draughts and undertows. No inshore fishing-boat will serve for the Outer Isles. A six- or eight-oared craft, with square sail, will be necessary. None such will I find nearer than Mallaig, I fear.”

“Very well. Can you have one here by tomorrow night, then? Since it seems that we must sail in darkness, to avoid the English ships.” The prince was all decision now, summoning up his inherent authority. He turned to Hay and Lockhart. “Meantime you, my friends, return to your Badenoch, and declare that I order the dispersal to their own places of all presently assembled there, conveying my most grateful thanks to one and all for their aid and service. But to be ready to muster again to my royal father’s standard in due course, pray God before very long. I go – but to return. The stronger. Best thus, I swear. And none to be told whence I go, save eventually to France. And that for aid. It is understood?”

When the prince spoke thus, none would say him nay, even O’Sullivan.

“How long a voyage to these Outer Isles, Charles?” that man asked nevertheless. “When we came first, we landed first at Eriskay, did we not? That is one of the Outer Isles?”

Young Clanranald answered him. “Direct, it is some ninety miles, I would say. To the nearest of the isles, which would be Barra. But there will be no sailing direct, see you. It will be necessary to dodge and shift and hide amongst the Inner Isles, to hide from the Englishmen. And that only by night. So the distance could be doubled, and more. And some pilot will be required, who well knows these seas and sounds.”

“You will find one such, for me?” Charles asked.

“I can think of one, Highness. You have already met him. Donald MacLeod of Gualtergill in Skye. We saw him at Inverness when Your Highness was there, before the battle. He was there shipping barley to Skye, for his own purposes. We know that he knows these waters like the palm of his hand!” He mustered a smile. “He distils and delivers whisky to all who have not his art themselves! All along this coast. And Aeneas, here, says that he was at Kinlochmoidart when he left there. If he is still there, with my kinsman, he would be best. You have tasted some of his wares here!”

That at least met with approving nods.

The prince retired again. He too had a letter to write.

The letter was to the chiefs and chieftains of clans, and his lairdly supporters, active and otherwise. Charles pondered long before putting pen to paper, for this epistle and declaration was intended not only for those who had raised men for his cause but also for those who had, for one reason or another, failed to do so, usually because they feared for its success without major French involvement. His present failure would only confirm these in their reluctance; so it was necessary to try to convince all of betterment in the future, regrets and sorrow for present defeat and loss, yes, but as near to promise as he could make it of a better effort to come.

He headed it “For the Chiefs”, and wrote that he had come to Scotland with the best of goodwill towards his father’s ancient kingdom, meaning to bring it only benefit and weal. If he had failed them all, this on account of insufficient backing from the Auld Alliance with France, he accepted the blame, and laid it at the door of his inexperience in the field. But now he was wiser, having learned the sore and hard way, and at whatever cost to others. So he was for France again, this time to win the backing in men, ships and moneys, which was required, and which he was assured the King of France would provide as promised. It was necessary that he went in person to gain this, as they all would understand. Moreover there was little that he could do meantime this side of the water. But he would, God willing, be back, and in better case.

He went on to suggest the formation of a Council of Chiefs, to prepare the way for his return, and to choose and appoint a new commander of the forces, on the advice and guidance of the Duke of Perth and the Lord George Murray, with the Lord Elcho, Master of Horse.

He ended by urging that his departure be kept secret meantime as far as was practicable, for the sake of all concerned. And might the Almighty bless and direct them, and himself.

He made out a number of copies of this writing, to be distributed as widely but as secretly as was possible.

With Young Clanranald gone north to Mallaig, on horseback, as could be possible here, and Aeneas MacDonald southwards to Kinlochmoidart to seek to enlist this Donald MacLeod, the remainder of the company had little to do but rest and eat and sample more of the recommended Skye whisky. But Charles himself was restless and chose to go walking alone, well aware that the course he had decided upon was less than popular with most of his companions. But he saw this as essential, his simple duty and personal responsibility. One day, God willing, he would be king of this people. He had to take the far-sighted course, the more so as it seemed that he had failed to do so hitherto.

Late that night Young Clanranald arrived back from Mallaig, a dozen miles away, with the news that he had persuaded a crew to bring their eight-oared craft round the coast to Loch nan Uamh this very night. It should be here by the dawn. The men were sworn to secrecy as to their passengers and destination. Two of the boatmen had, in fact, been with the army throughout the campaign, in his own Clanranald regiment.

When he arose next morning, Charles found the boat crew eating breakfast in the kitchen, seven of them, one having apparently called off at the last moment, youngish men all, and distinctly embarrassed when they found themselves being addressed and thanked by the prince himself, even though he was insisting on them addressing him as Monsieur Dumont, a visiting Frenchman. They said that they had clung as close to the shoreline on their way here as the reefs and rocks would let them. It had been too dark for them to have glimpsed any of the English warships out in the sound, but all had seen them patrolling previously.

It was mid-afternoon before Banker Aeneas arrived back from Kinlochmoidart and, thankfully, he had the distilling and piloting expert, Donald MacLeod, with him, an elderly, massively built man with strong features and a very direct gaze. He was respectful when presented to Charles, but far from subservient, indeed not being long in declaring that he strongly advised His Highness not to embark on this voyage to the Outer Isles, which he saw to be hazardous in the extreme, both in respect of avoiding the English warships and in the perils of the seas themselves, the most dangerous, he averred, of all the Scottish seaboard, in any small vessel. Moreover, he had a fair judgment of weather, and he feared that the next day or two would see poor conditions for open boating. There were none of the famed and usual captive clouds on the Isle of Rhum peaks, which was a bad sign, apt to presage high winds, even gales. He advised against the expedition.

Charles shook his head, not censoriously at being thus counselled by a mere stranger of no great standing, but making clear his determination to go ahead with his chosen course, and forthwith, that very night. Cumberland’s troops were reported to be at Fort Augustus and heading in this direction, and Loudoun was in Skye, only a few miles away. It was time to be gone, for all their sakes. Tonight let them sail.

The other shrugged, but did not refuse to collaborate, their host shaking his head also.

They went down to inspect the boat drawn up on the shingle. It was of open construction, sturdily built with high prow and stern posts, some twenty-five feet in length with a central short mast and four oar-holes on each side but no decking, and indeed little room for passengers, scarcely a sea-going craft in appearance, although probably not unlike the ancient traditional birlinns of these parts. Presumably these boatmen knew what they were at.

MacLeod reckoned that, sailing only by night, even in favourable weather conditions, it would take them two days to reach Barra, so they would need something in the way of provisioning, for they certainly could not rely on picking up food at islands on the way. Oatmeal was best, which eaten uncooked and mixed with water, or indeed whisky, would sustain them sufficiently – scarcely princely fare, bu. . .