By Ray E. Lipinski
The sound of cavalry charging, musket fire and exploding cannon thunder once again rocked the prince from his sleep. His forehead was covered in sweat and his sheets damp with perspiration. It was the third time this week he had experienced the same deafening dream with its haunting visions, and he could not get them out of his head. The prince waited a few moments, clutching a homespun blanket, with the images of a unicorn and a lion stitched on it— ironically, the symbol of Scotland and England. He waited another few minutes for his heartbeat to slow before getting out of bed and going to the wash basin to calm himself. He poured the cold water into the bowl and splashed it over his stubbly face. Looking in the mirror he grimaced at his reflection with a look of utter defeat. The rain had stilled to a quiet trickle and with the household still asleep, he decided to go outside. Looking out over the glen, the once distinguished and glorified Charles Edward Stewart, nicknamed the Bonnie Prince, wept.
“How can I be delivered from this folly? How can I ever take my throne?”
“Your highness, you will catch your death if you remain outside, for there is a chill in the air,” a voice from behind exclaimed.
Charles turned around and gave a half smile to the image of what had become his savior and champion over the last few days, Flora Macdonald. Standing like a Greek goddess in a pale-yellow chemise, barefoot, her dark hair slightly blowing in the wind, he had been swept away by her beauty from the moment they met. The prince had been on the run after the defeat of Culloden hiding in barns and pantries and hidden locations offered from those that still believed in his cause and right to the British throne. Flora had been one of those loyal followers and came to his rescue when he was an hour away from capture on the Isle of Lewis. With government forces closing in, Flora helped him escape by disguising himself as her maid, “Betty Burke,” and they sailed across the sea to Skye where they were currently staying.
“I find this my favorite time of day, the morning, the sunrise in all of its glory as if God is granting the world another chance from the mistakes of yesterday, a chance to do good again.”
“Yes, a new day with new promises, my lord,” said Flora.
Charles sighed. Even though there were still brave men that would never let the dream for an independent Scotland wither away and would fly his standard from any rampart, the horrors of Culloden and its aftermath infested his mind. Try as he might, he could not shake the grief that weighed on his soul. Retaliation from the British government had been swift and merciless, its force almost like a biblical plague. The Jacobites that had not been captured were quickly hunted down and shown no mercy. Patrols were a menace and now a familiar scene as they were stationed in villages and seen traveling constantly on the roadsides. Search and seizure without provocation was rampant, and anyone suspected of treason, even women and children, were imprisoned. Speaking Gaelic was forbidden, Highland dress was outlawed, and talk of clearances was sweeping across the land. The Highlands had been raped and scourged by its British parents, and their punishment was far from over.
Flora had gone inside and reemerged with a woolen blanket that she wrapped around the prince. “Come back inside, my lord. I believe today we should hear from Captain O’Neil about your departure.”
“I wish to go to the village today, for at the inn, there will be music, drink and conversation.”
Flora scoffed. “Are you daft, my lord? Such drink will do you in and such conversation will lead you to the British gallows.”
The prince raised his chin in defiance. “I am their prince, their rightful sovereign, their royal—”
“You are not prince to everyone. To some, you are a charlatan that has brought about wrought and ruin. Not to mention the bounty of 500 gold liveries for your capture that would tempt the most loyal of your subjects that are now mostly destitute,” Flora reprimanded.
The prince held Flora’s gaze. “You wound me, madame.”
He turned around and gazed out over the rising sun. The purple thistles that were spread across the field now seemed to glow as the rays of the sun revealed their beauty, and they danced in the wind singing of a new day. Turning back around, he protested, “I once… I once held the mountains in my hand, from Ben Nevis to Glencoe with the victories of Prestonpans and Falkirk. We marched gloriously to Edinburgh, where the throne was in my grasp.”
Flora softly replied, “Yes, my prince, and all is not lost in the dream of a free Scotland, but not in the rabble of a tavern.”
“My beautiful Flora, how you make me want to go on.”
With that notion, they agreed not to go into the village and Flora took his mind off things with a stroll by the lakeside. In the distance Charles could see the Scorrybreac mountains, their majesty towering gracefully above like angels’ wings frozen in time.
He stared longingly and again repeated, “I once held the mountains in my hands, my army was great, my men noble, and Scotland was mine.”
“My lord you are still a mighty prince whose quest is not lost. There is still talk of hidden Jacobite gold on the Isle of Chaney, and there are many noblemen in France and Italy that would see you on the throne. This is just a minor setback. Come inside and I shall make some of those honey and oat cakes you have come to enjoy.”
“My stomach leaps in anticipation, sweet Flora,” replied the prince.
After their sumptuous feast, the rest of the prince’s day was spent in his room, reading Chaucer, and going over the conversations he would have with his cousin James, the Duke of Liria, to regain support in Spain and the eastern provinces. He would also have to speak to the Paris bankers, John and George Waters, friends he had acquired before he landed in Scotland that had helped with financing the rebellion. Would they still assist him? Did they still have the confidence in him they once showed at the dinners and parties he hosted along his hilltop chateau in Montmarte in what seemed so long ago?
A knock on the door broke his contemplative thoughts and Flora appeared. “Your Highness, I bring news from Captain O’Neil. The fog coming from the western sea has settled over the bay, so he cannot attempt passage until the mid-morning, but a safe transport awaits you on the island of Raasay.”
“And you will accompany me?” asked the prince.
“If it pleases Your Highness,” Flora responded with a slight courtesy.
“Yes, you bring great comfort to me,” said the prince with a smile.
By the evening, after another familiar rain, the prince’s restlessness got the better of him, and he dressed to go to The Dog and Lady, the tavern and inn that had peaked his attention so many days ago. Flora argued with him for well more than an hour, citing what would happen to himself, her, and in fact the entire village of Portree if he was captured. He dismissed her warnings and, borrowing a set of clothes from the owner of the house they were staying at, announced he was ready to attend the activities of the tavern. The prince stood there, quite proud of himself in his tan colored breeches, pale green shirt, and a stained white cravat that was not tied the right way.
Walking over to fix it, Flora scoffed. “You look ridiculous, my lord. You will not pass as a poor tenant farmer. Your cheeks are too delicate, and you look like you are about to address Parliament. I fear this night will end with us as fodder for the Kelpies.”
Flora was of course referencing the old Scottish folklore of the aquatic half-horse/half human spirits and their attraction to those in distress. The stories always ended deadly with some helpless hero or heroine being dragged to the depths of the sea at the hands of the tempestuous, disdainful creatures.
It was a short walk to The Dog and Lady, and other than running into the parson locking up for the night at St. Mila’s, the village was as silent as the grave. Down a short cobblestone pathway and around a wooded corner lay the tavern, its two chimneys smoking away and bright lights welcoming any wayward stranger seeking shelter for the night. Flora and the prince ducked in quietly and immediately found a table far off in the corner. It was a typical two-story tavern with a staircase off to the side guiding patrons to their lodgings, and one immense open room with a large hearth in the middle with a double fireplace. Animal heads lined the walls along with family coats-of-arm plaques on the back wall along with a rather large skin of what looked like a Highland coo with a map of Skye etched on it. There were large wooden wagon wheels hanging from iron chains with pillared candles burning bright and a huge Scottish flag, the cross of St. Andrew tattered and worn inside a wooden frame with about twenty names, all men listed on it, with the Gaelic words “I Gcuimhne” … In remembrance, being guarded vigilantly by two wooden stags on either side of the main wall.
The couple ordered drinks and cottage pie and settled down in each other’s company, the prince telling Flora of his exploits at the siege of Gaeta in central Italy and coming under fire at the wee age of fourteen. A familiar voice startled Flora and she turned around in apprehension. Just as she had dreaded, on the other side of the hearth was Lacroix Duncan and his older brother Thaddeus. Flora and Thaddeus had briefly courted many years before and realized a friendship was far more preferable to marriage. Lacroix was the town mischief-maker and also sweet on Flora and she hoped he would not see her tonight and keep his distance. The prince was already on his second brandy and seemed to be enjoying taking in all the sights and sounds of the general merrymaking.
“Do you think a card game could be had with one of these gentlemen, sweet Flora?” asked Charles innocently.
“My lord, this is one step away from a village hovel, not a Parisian social club entertaining the Duke of Savoy. And besides….”
Their conversation was cut short when they heard the sound of breaking glass. The couple looked around just as Lacroix Duncan swiped two pints across the table, lunging at a lad sitting directly in front of him, broken glass and beer flying everywhere.
“I don’t care about the cause. I hope they capture that bastard prince and burn him in a barn like a dirty rat.”
The lad leaped across the table and was about to throw a blow at Lacroix until Thaddeus intervened, placing himself in between the two men.
“David, let it go. My brother is a drunken fool, but he is still my brother,” exclaimed Thaddeus, giving David a deadening stare.
David took a few steps back. “Aye, it was those bloody redcoats that did this to us, blame them.”
Lacroix screamed, pushed Thaddeus away and grabbed David by the shirt slamming him up against the wall.
“We were all there David, do you remember? Do you remember? General Murray told that halfwit prince to wait, to wait! Even if we had gone around through Culloden woods, we could have stood a chance, but no, that drunk Stewart waded us across that stinking field to our deaths. The wee bastard put us on a silver platter and delivered us right over to Cumberland to devour.”
Tears swelled in Lacroix’s eyes. David and Lacroix held each other’s gaze for a moment. The room was silent. David placed his hand on Lacroix’s shoulder and gave him a nod and both men embraced. Time stopped for a moment as two soldiers acknowledged a bond they would never forget. David exited the doorway, and the tavern came alive again with music and laughter.
“Come on brother, let’s go home.” replied Thaddeus as he led Lacroix towards the door. He caught a glimpse of Flora and then looked at the prince. For a moment it looked like Thaddeus was going to walk over to Flora but thought better of it. He gave Flora a hard stare and shook his head with disdain before going after his brother.
“We should make haste to the house, my lord. We have had quite the excitement for the evening.” The prince agreed, and the “strange” couple left out a back door.
They walked in silence until they again came upon St. Mila’s and the prince spoke. “It quite distresses me that my fellow subjects and compatriots think of me with such contempt.”
Flora stopped dead in her tracks. With her back facing the prince, she exhaled sharply and turned around. “Lacroix’s men were with Cameron’s regiment. They were the first to lead the charge. Lacroix, Thaddeus, and Dennis, their wee brother of eighteen. Dennis died of cannon fire with his intestines falling out with one arm already having been blown off. When his wife, who was pregnant, came to collect his body the day after, she was run through by a British patrol. So yes, with all due respect, Charles, if I was one of them, I’d want to see you in a burning barn as well. Men talk of war with such gallantry, making it sound so grand and noble, but it is just a senseless game that little boys play where no one wins. Yes, my lord, I will be in rebellion against English tyranny until the day I die, but oh, if you had just waited and listened to Lord Murray, I believe we would not be in this predicament.”
Flora turned back around and gasped as David was standing right in front of her.
“Flora Macdonald, what…. why…?” David looked past her at the prince. Flora stammered for something to say but could not think of any words. David walked closer to the prince. “I fought with Clan Cameron that day, Your Highness. I was on your left flank.” David stepped back and gave a slight bow and then disappeared across the church yard.
“Thank you, soldier,” the prince whispered. The couple continued their journey back to the farmhouse without another word between them.
It was just before midnight when the prince heard a slight knocking at his door. He opened it, and there was Flora, in a cream-colored chemise this time, hair falling by her shoulders, carrying a single candle holder and a wee knapsack asking to come in.
“Are you ready for your final leg of the journey, my lord?”
“Yes, in three days’ time, I will be looking down from the Grampian Mountains and expect to be walking the halls of Versailles by September.”
“A worthy goal, my lord,” Flora replied as she placed the candle on the nearby table. “I have made some honey and oat cakes for your journey and this, for you to remember me by…”
Flora handed him a white handkerchief with blue thistles embroidered around the edges.
“‘Tis beautiful like you, Flora. I will cherish it always as I will cherish you and the memory of these last few days. But I need no reminder of you. I will keep these days in my heart forever.”
The prince took her hand and pulled her into a close embrace, kissing her softly. He paused, not wanting to offend her, but she guided him closer to the bed and blew out the candle.
Flora had left the prince’s room shortly before daybreak not wanting to confuse or complicate any more emotions that had flooded both her and the prince over the last couple of days. He walked out of the house under his guise of Betty Burke and walked over to the chicken coup where Flora was waiting. She held her stomach as she looked away trying not to laugh.
“I am so glad I can offer you a source of amusement, my kind lady,” mused the prince.
“Oh, my Lord, I told you that your… disguise would not fool anyone. You still look quite ridiculous.”
“Nonsense! Little Katie added just enough rouge on my cheeks, and this straw wig makes me a beautiful dame indeed!” chuckled Charles.
“Hmmm, whatever you say… my queen,” responded Flora.
It was a short ride to the dock at Portree and Captain O’Neil was already waiting with the skiff that would take him to the ship bound for Raasay. With a good wind and strong tide, they would reach their destination by nightfall. At the dock, the prince removed his hood and kissed Flora on the cheek.
“Perhaps you will be my queen longer than a night when I return to take up the cause again,” suggested the prince.
Flora smiled. “Just remember, my lord, you once held the mountains in your hand.”
She stepped away, gave a deep curtsey, and then watched as the boat with the ‘Young Pretender’ disappeared over the sea from Skye.
The prince would have a few more adventures before he finally escaped from Scotland. British spies along with a certain anonymous tip about a tavern brawl would keep him on the run for a few more weeks. Playing hide-and-go-seek among the isles and mountain encampments kept him in flight, avoiding near capture in the glens. Then, on September 29, he found himself on the French frigate L’Heureux where he said a final goodbye to a Scotland he would never return to. Looking out over the deck, he pulled his waistcoat closer to him as a cold breeze blew in from the south. The ship’s sails were full, and as the vessel sailed past the shores of Loch nan Uamh, the Bonnie Prince Charles Edward Stuart hummed a song from his childhood of a noble warrior in a far-off land that slayed a dragon, rescued a maiden, found a treasure, and was crowned king by a grateful nation.
He smiled and said to himself as the last view of Scotland dipped beneath the horizon, “I once held the mountains in my hand.”
The Skye Boat Song
Robert Louis Stevenson (1892)
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.
Mull was astern, Rùm on the port,
Eigg on the starboard bow;
Glory of youth glowed in his soul;
Where is that glory now?
Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that’s gone!
Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone.
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye.