I've had this story on my hard drive for a LONG time, probably over ten years. I come back to it now and then, and honestly, I just need some feedback whether I should finish it. It's written in a
completely different style then I write my fanfic, but I promise, it's all mine.
Some background for the story... I got very much into Scottish history after reading Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, but let me stress --
this is not fanfic! This is straight up historical fiction. I actually can trace some of my family to Duart Castle on the Isle of Mull and the MacLeans, which are settings for the story. I started this fic as a sort of homage to the heroism and romanticism of the Jacobite rebellion, which was pretty much the final attempt at Scotland gaining independence from England in the mid 18th century. I was also very much inspired by the
Jacobite Reliques by James Hogg. These are an amazing collection of songs, stories, and poetry that he (theoretically) collected door to door, on foot, in the early 1800's to preserve what was left of the romanticism of the Jacobite era.
Anyway, I trust these boards to give me honest feedback. It hasn't been beta-ed, but if anyone likes the style and feels up for it, I'm happy to have someone look at it. Just PM me. I have no idea about a posting schedule, but I have around 30k written. And this is just sort of a test to see if this story is worth finishing.
~~
Culloden Moor, Scotland
April 16, 1746 Eight clan regiments fought side by side, 1,500 strong. The men were tired from marching all over Scotland and from their aborted attempt to storm enemy Cumberland’s camp the night before. Even more than being tired, they were hungry, most having eaten only a dry biscuit, if that over the last few days. In nearby Inverness there was food that Prince Charlie’s incompetent secretary John Hay failed to get to the men before the battle, and it had cost them men, for some had deserted for the lack of food. So between starvation and the men still sleeping from the aborted raid on the enemy, only about a third of the Scots army was fighting that day.
Besides the lack of men, the terrain itself hurt the odds of a successful campaign. It seemed a joke had been played on the Highlanders, as here they were, in the heart of their own country, yet fighting on a moor that was flat and foreign to both their way of life and fighting methods. Where in the past they had taken to charging down hills, flailing weapons and shouting war cries, they were now on even turf with an enemy who rode cavalry, an element any sensible Highlander would rather do without in battle.
Yet the men were ready to face death; more because honor to their chief bade them do it, but there were those who felt strongly for the Stuart cause as well. Among the ranks were clan regiments, but also motley regiments of English deserters and Irishmen who believed in the cause. Other clansmen had come out of pure coercion, as it would be unthinkable to defy one’s laird. But however they got there, now on the field of battle, they were all ready to die under Scotland’s banner.
Despite all the odds against them and despite whatever means had brought them to Culloden, they were banded together and fought with fierce honor when none was afforded back to them; they fought with courage when savage acts of cowardice were aimed at them. The Highlanders swung their ancient claymores, which in ages past easily cut down many foes, and yet this tried and true fighting tradition seemed a mere parody against the English use of modern muskets and cannon fire. Old and new ways of life were being battled for and against, matching sword for musket, kilt for redcoat, in a battle that made the angels weep with the helplessness of primeval claymores against modern gun smoke. As each man fell, it seemed the inevitable wiping out of a generation of men firmly rooted in honor, pride, and vain hope. Book OneBeginnings “What an utterly lost cause, and yet how bravely they fight,” said the English Lieutenant Commander to Lord Cumberland. The battle was raging far ahead across the flat field, a blur of swords, kilts, and cannon smoke, and yet the fierce war cry of Highlanders carried through the muckle to the ears of high British command.
Lord Cumberland sneered at the sight in front of him. Yes, the heathens fought furiously, but he could see they were tired, and his men were refreshed and ready to fight. He had passed a message along to his top men to “give no quarter,” words that would haunt many Scots for generations. But Cumberland cared not about the repercussions. He was doing his duty to the Hanover Crown. He was at last stopping the “Scottish problem” and hopefully sending the young Stuart usurper a message he would never forget.
~//~
Sir John Maclean, Laird of Clan Maclean of Duart, charged alongside crofter and soldier alike. He too wanted to be free from English tyranny. And if it meant putting that cocky French boy on the throne, so be it. At least he was of Scottish blood and would be a damned sight better than that Hanover pig lording over Scotland in far away London…
The cannons thundered around him, smoke filled the air, but through the haze he could still see the Duke of Perth’s standard, which was his for the battle, and it gave him a small ray of hope. Nearer at hand, he saw a man stumble towards him, making him grip his sword, ready to execute a deadly arc if need be. With relief he set it down as he realized it was his clansman, Robert Maclean. He murmured a prayer of thanks for such a welcome sight, as he preferred none other beside him, unless it was his son himself. But Hector had stayed home this day, prepared to guard Castle Duart if the conflict extended as far as the Isles, or prepared to flee with as many of the clansman that were left should the battle fail.
“This smoke will be the death of us. I canna see how many of us are still fighting,” shouted John Maclean over the din of gunfire.
Robert nodded, his eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger. “Aye, it’s horrible. And I dinna think our men can hold out much longer---“
A shot rang out in the air, fired at close range. John Maclean stumbled and grabbed at Robert’s shirt while Robert looked down in horror. “Uncle?” he cried, looking around. Then, swinging his sword in a fatal sweep as he shouted out to the blurry surroundings, “Show yer face, ye English coward!”
But no redcoat appeared to claim the gunshot, and Sir John beckoned Robert to follow him to the far edge of the field, far enough away from the heat of the battle. John sat and rested against a stone, calling Robert to sit near to him. “Dinna fret, my son. I am old. It’s best. I dinna know if I could fight many more battles anyway.”
“Uncle! Dinna speak so! Surely we’ll win this battle. Aye, it looks impossible, but-“
“Stop raving lad, and listen to me. I have a charge for ye. You have always been my most trusted man, and I mean for Hector to reward ye for it. You are newly married, aye?”
“Aye, my lord. Nearly a year,” answered Robert, wondering at the strangeness of looming death making John speak of such sweet things as his darling Mari.
John nodded, looking wearily out across at the vicious bloodshed going on before them.
“Aye, well, there is a rumor---no, more than a rumor. I’ve had word of it myself from a French emissary. There is to be a sum of money deposited in Airsaig any day now. It is to help the Stuart cause. But if today should fail, I charge ye to take it and make a life for yourself with it---“
“But sir---“
John winced. He was fading fast. “Dinna argue with a dying man, lad. My brother, yer father, was wise to have ye live with me. Your place is to be Hector’s right hand man. For surely, this will all end someday.“ He heaved a big breath, making a last effort to speak. “Take my ring and bring it to my son. Then he’ll know----“
“Does Hector know these plans, my lord?” Robert asked quickly, but John’s eyes had suddenly glazed over with the pallor of death. Questions were left unanswered, but Robert had been given an important charge, one that must be kept.
His Papist leanings and Christian heart bade him say a prayer over his fallen laird. Then he stood up and took stock of what was happening on the field. The smoke had mostly cleared, and he realized they had stepped off the field of battle farther than he had thought. He gazed around to see how many of his comrades still stood.
What he saw made his gut wrench with disgust. He saw redcoats swarming about the field, gathering prisoners among those who appeared to be of rank, and as for the rest, killing them where they stood. Not only killing, but desecrating and dishonoring brave and worthy men. He realized with agony that he, one man alone could do nothing to stop the evil about him, but he could do something else. He could fulfill the wish of his dying lord and find Hector Maclean and tell him about the French gold; the gold that was so often talked about in excited whispers around the campfire throughout this campaign, the gold that really existed and could perhaps save the Stuarts after all. Despite the desolation about him, he was still enough of a youth to believe that hope could come out of lost causes. So, clutching his laird’s ring, he fled Culloden Field, desperate to find a horse to speed him on his way home to Mull.
Isle of Mull, April 20, 1746 Robert arrived on Mull four days after the disastrous Battle of Culloden. All throughout his ride, he fought to hide himself from English soldiers. At the few places he had stopped briefly on the way, he had heard horrible news about the English hunting down every last Jacobite they could find and either killing them or sending them off to London to be tried. This news only made him travel faster in hopes that no one had reached Mull to do harm to his beloved Mari.
Robert was frightened to his soul when he arrived in Oban and realized that most people had fled. Surely the English hadn’t been so far west as of yet!
The usually busy port city was near deserted except for a few brave souls who weren’t to be frightened off by the English. Had anything happened to Mari? Had she been forced to leave? For he knew in his heart that she wouldn’t leave unless coerced, and heaven help the man that had forced her to leave her home!
He found an old fisherman to ferry him across to Mull, who had said he was too old and sick to try and hide from the English now. Robert’s destination, Duart Castle, sat on a hillside on the Isle of Mull, set back from the sound by only about two hundred feet. It was a garrisoned castle, a testimony to able men in the midst of utter natural beauty.
Robert had hoped that it would be the safest place for Mari to stay while he went to fight for Charlie. He prayed to God he hadn’t made a mistake, that she was still there and well.
He reached Duart Castle late in the afternoon. The place had seemed deserted, and he feared the worse had happened. Swiftly he climbed the stone steps, noting that nary a soldier stood by at the gates. He felt his heart in his throat as he pushed open the door.
“Mari?” he cried. “Is anyone here?”
He heard steps in the shadows and drew his sword. “Put that thing away. It is I, husband,” said Mari as she stepped into the light of the doorway. She was swollen with child, but it hindered Robert not. He clasped her to his chest and kissed her fiercely.
“What has happened? Where has everyone gone to?”
She clutched him tighter. “I had to wait for you, and thank God you are here….” she said, as if to herself. Then, stroking the cheek of her beloved man, she said, “Sir Hector received news yesterday that the battle outside Inverness failed miserably. People have fled to seek sanctuary. Some went north to Skye, and others to Edinburgh. Sir Hector went to Edinburgh. He didn’t explain himself, but evidently he thought it would be safer there. He begged me to come along, but I told him I promised you I would wait for you here.
Besides, I am awfully pregnant…” She said this last with a slight blush and Robert kissed her for it.
“Brave lass. But did no one stay with ye at all?” he asked, his voice incredulous.
“Oh, aye. Catriona is here. She went to get firewood not an hour ago. But---Robert, what are we to do?”
Robert sighed, “I am not sure, love. My uncle died---he died in my arms…. But he told me something extraordinary.” He stood and began pacing the room as he recounted his fallen lord’s words. “The fabled French gold is evidently no’ such a fable. It is supposed to arrive any day now. He—well, he told me something interesting. He said it should go to help the Stuart cause, but if the battle we fought should fail---“ his eyes leveled with hers, and he grabbed her hands as if to brace himself, “he wants me to keep it and use it to make a life for us.”
“Oh, Robert! How generous!”
“Aye, and yet what a responsibility.” He turned from her and stood looking out across the sound of Mull. “For, assuming this gold does show up, how am I to decide if the cause is really lost? I heard rumors all throughout my journey here that Prince Charlie hasn’t left Scotland yet, and there are those who have hopes of renewed fervor. What if this money is what the cause needs to get restarted again?”
“Blast the cause, Robert! ‘Tis over---I heard it from Sir Hector himself. Sir John obviously thought highly of you to bestow such a gift. Why not take it----“
“Aye, and then have every Scot and Englishman hunt me for it for the rest of my life? It’s awful dangerous, love.”
She smiled sweetly at him, her eyes aglow with love. “Aye, tis dangerous. But what hope it could bring for our wee bairn,” she whispered, cradling her stomach lovingly.
“My lady!” came a cry from outside. Robert and Mari rushed to see who it was. It was Catriona. “Tis a boat! And they are waving the King of France’s Standard!”
Robert and Mari looked at each other. Could the gold have arrived already?
“Robert, at least promise me ye’ll consider it,” she said entreatingly, tugging at his arm.
He looked at her a moment, and then turned to Catriona, “I’ll be right there!”
~//~
The boat was a small wooden vessel, sent over from Morvern, just north of Mull. The gold had been split up, sent to different areas of Scotland, in hopes that if it were found, there would still be other amounts of it elsewhere to support Charles Stuart.
Robert met the men on the north shore of Mull, about a mile up from Duart itself. Three men rode in the boat, two Frenchman and Alexander Duggan, who served as interpreter and guide for the Frenchmen.
“Are ye a Maclean, lad?” asked the Duggan with no preliminaries. Alexander may not have known Robert, but Robert sure knew him. Alexander Duggan, Laird Duggan, was supposedly supporting the English. Robert was nigh on speechless to realize that he had been secretly for the Stuarts all along. He recalled that there had been Duggans on Culloden field, but the Duggan clan had teetered on a knife’s edge as to who they were loyal to.
He stared in disbelief a moment before he found his tongue. “Aye, my lord Maclean’s own man, as it were--- until his son returns home.”
“Oh, aye?” asked the Scot, a bit of disbelief in his eyes.
“Aye. I have my lord’s ring and scars from Culloden to prove it,” said Robert, revealing a healing wound from a bayonet that had glanced off his side in the heat of battle. Then he showed the Duggan the late John Maclean’s ring.
The Duggan revealed a bit of emotion at seeing his good friend’s ring, proof of his death upon the field that he had fought on as well and watched so many of his kinsman die.
He then turned to the Frenchmen and said to them to remove the chest and give it over to this man. The two foreigners looked askance at the young Scot, not sure they trusted their guide’s decision. Duggan simply nodded authoritatively, with all the forthright power of a laird.
So the Frenchmen obeyed, and Robert nodded at them, “Merci, pour le Stuart.”
Their respect for him went up a few notches at hearing their native tongue, and they pushed off the shore.
“Godspeed, Maclean!” cried Duggan.
“Godspeed,” said Robert, waving with his free hand, the other holding tight to the chest at his unwounded side. Then he turned toward the castle, marveling at the fortune in his arms and the heavy responsibility upon his shoulders.
~//~
“My God, Robert,” said Mari, fingering the solid gold
louis sent in good faith from France. “This could buy us and our wee bairn passage to the Americas!” Then she turned to him abruptly, “Robert, why don’t we?”
“Huh?” said Robert, mumbling to himself as he thumbed through old maps of Duart under the firelight. His lush brown hair was iridescent in the light, tied back in a queue. He had the look of his ancestors, fair and bold of feature. Mari loved to look at him and wonder at his lineage. She pictured the ancient ones and saw her husband among them, brave, strong, noble. And yet she knew the face of Scotland was changing, even as it was molded by the sons of Picts and Gaels. The old ways could not last forever. She held the proof of the future in her belly and she wished Robert would acknowledge the significance of it. But he was absorbed at the moment, digging through old drawings of the floor plan to find a place to hide the Stuart gold. “I know there is a secret passage in this place. It would make a hell of a hiding spot for all this…”
Mari grabbed on to his arm. “Will ye no’ listen, man? Yer chief gave this to you on the field of battle and bade ye use it for yer own. Why no’ take him up on it?”
Robert stopped fumbling and turned to her. “Because, as tempting as it is, I also promised to bring word of its appearance to Hector. And there are still rumors about that the Prince is still in Scotland. There is still a chance, Mari.”
Then, seeing the look of frustration and helplessness on Mari’s face, he rushed to her and held her. He gently stroked her beautiful locks of burnt amber and whispered, “My love, don’t ye see? Even if I took the money, the right of my claim on it would be my word against a dead laird. No one would believe me, even with the laird’s ring in my possession. I get the feeling John did not even tell his son of his intentions. If Hector didn’t know what John intended for the money and I claim it, it will look like I stole it and am tryin’ to steal the whole clan out from under him, right or no’. Don’t ye see, lass? I am a traitor if I do and a traitor if I didna. And I’d much rather be considered a traitor to England than one to Scotland.”
“Aye, well,” said Mari, tears in her eyes as she stroked her full belly, thinking of what could be.
He sighed, seeing that she still didn’t quite understand. “Mari, if it were only you and I and the wee bairn in ye, I would say, ‘let’s go.’ But I have to keep the respect and honor of my clan alive. If I do nothing, then it’s as if Culloden never happened and all those men---all those brave men, lass--- it’s like they never lived, that their unfailing honor never existed. I have to keep that alive, lass.”
She held him tighter, “I am glad, Robert, that ye are here, safe.”
“Aye, lass, me too.”
Mari remembered how terribly worried she had been when Robert had followed the call to duty nearly six months ago, when they were yet newlyweds. She had been also newly pregnant and dreaded the thought of Robert not returning. Her own clan, the Macleans of Lochbuy, had suffered much in the Jacobite cause. She had lost her brother in the ‘successful’ battle of Prestonpans---a victory to all except her family. But she had felt safe with Robert. She knew he was fiercely loyal to his clan, but he hadn’t seemed as taken with Prince Charles Stuart as the rest of the clan had been. She thought he was safe from the lure of Jacobitism. She should have seen the danger, for he hero-worshiped Sir John Maclean and followed his every move. It was inevitable that when John Maclean bade Robert follow him behind the prince, he would obey. She had felt slightly usurped by the laird in Robert’s heart, but she had to, at the time, trust that the laird knew what was best. And yet that fear had gnawed on her soul, as she thought about her dead brother, dying bravely under the Jacobite flag. And now too, John Maclean had sacrificed himself under it. So she held on to Robert in this moment, thankful for his presence and wishing away all his thoughts about making an effort for the Stuarts again.
They turned suddenly as they heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind them. Catriona, Mari’s servant girl, had packed her few precious belongings and had the frightened look of a lass who was about to defy authority and feared the consequences.
“Where ye goin’, Cat?” asked Mari, her voice raised in surprise.
Catriona sat her bag on the landing and came to her lady’s side, a look of dread in her eyes. “My lady, the English are coming west, to the Isles. I heard word of it from Oban today, and it’s terrible what they have done to our people so far. I’m sore afraid, my lady!” She took out a handkerchief and wiped her nose, sobbing her heart out.
Robert looked to Mari and then back again to the young girl. Both of them knew her history. Her mother had died of rape at the hand of English dragoons, and the poor girl feared the same fate.
Robert patted her hand, “Where do ye want to go to, child?”
She looked up, a wee bit of hope shining in her green eyes. “My lord, I heard word that a great many of the Macleans were heading west and taking refuge in the Treshnish Isles. Please, come with me. With my lady so far along, it would be dangerous to go any further and even more so to head inland.”
Robert thought a moment, then nodded. “Aye, the lass is right, Mari. You should go with the girl and be safe. I’ll head to Edinburgh---“
“Edinburgh!” cried Mari in horror. “They’d kill ye soon as look at ye!”
“Not if I know what I’m doing. I dinna plan on announcing my presence to the guard. ‘Here I am, ye English cur! A ripe ol’ Jacobite for the killing!’ Please, Mari. Understand I will be fine. I must do this. I have to find Hector.”
Catriona wisely saw this would be a touchy topic and went back upstairs to fetch the rest of her belongings. Mari sighed in utter frustration as she wondered at the stubbornness of her own race.
“Robert, please don’t go. I will have the baby any day. Just wait till then. Perhaps all the problems will settle a bit by then and we can both go.”
“Aye, and ye being jostled across all of Scotland after birthing a child? I dinna think so, Mari. Besides, Mull could be crawling with English soldiers by tomorrow morning. I have to get word to Hector that I have this gold! It’s my duty to my laird and to my country.”
Mari stood up, a wee bit too fast and rocked back, but Robert was there to catch her. But she was angry and shirked his help. “Leave me be then, man! Go! Do what ye think ye must! I’ll stay here and worry for ye and then die in childbirth, birthin’ yer bairn, for all ye care!”
“Lass, please. Try to understand….” She let him take her in his arms this time, and she let the tears flow. He stroked her hair and tried to sooth her. He was about to say that he would stay until the bairn was born, but then she whispered into his shoulder, “I’m going with ye.”
“Lass, it’s too dangerous.”
She pulled a bit back from him, enough to look into his grey eyes, “Aye, tis so. Then ye have no business going either. Remember our vows, man? ‘Til death do us part.’ I mean to go with ye, with child and all.”
He loved her for her bravery, but knew the foolishness of it.
“Mari, tis irrational what yer saying. Time is running out. I have to get word---“
“Then do I not matter to ye? Is that what you are saying? That you’d rather die under a lost cause than stand by your wife who is about to birth your child? Is this what I am hearing from you, Robert?” She stood proud before him, her face shining with tears and yet as beautiful as an angel. He could have wept with the love that she stirred in him. And yet, he felt horribly torn. He should stay by his wife, whom he vowed to love and protect. And yet, are a clansman’s vows any less honorable? Could he forsake his friends and family, nay, his country for her? He felt utter frustration inside of him, and couldn’t decide what to do. If he took her with him, then he risked her birthing the bairn in the middle of nowhere and without a midwife---no. That was too dangerous. But, if he could leave her here, send her to the Treshnish Isles, perhaps she would be safe. But would she ever forgive him for leaving her alone in her hour of need? And what if the English sent soldiers over to the Treshnish Isles? What then? Could he bear the guilt that would come if something happening to her? And yet, he also tried to consider the bigger picture. He wanted to help Scotland, so that his children could grow up free from English rule. Wasn’t this the bigger sacrifice?
“Mari, I love ye with all that I am, know that. I think you should go with Catriona to the Treshnish Isles. Your mother is probably already there, aye?” He nodded to Catriona who confirmed with a nod. She had been standing on the stair during this drama for a while, not sure if she should stay but not able to bring herself to leave.
“Aye,” said Catriona. “I spoke with her this morning. She left for Treshnish this afternoon.”
Mari could feel herself losing the battle, and was weary of it anyway. She was too heavy with child to try and follow him herself.
“It’s late. Why don’t we get some sleep, and I’ll find passage for you to the Isles tomorrow morning.”
Catriona nodded, “Aye, well, the last boat for today left a half hour ago, anyway. Tis best if we wait till tomorrow.”
She headed up the stairs, a bit disappointed to delay the trip one more day, for she had rarely been off the Isle of Mull. To an isolated sixteen year old, going to the next island over is indeed an adventure.
Mari watched Cat go, feeling very much beyond her twenty-three years. She turned to her husband, loving him and hating him for his stubbornness. He leaned down to kiss her nose, and she held his face close to his as she whispered, “I’ll kill you if you don’t come back soon and in one piece.”
“Don’t worry, love, I’ll return. Just keep the bairn safe…”
~//~
Comments? Come on over
here.
