A ROYAL FUGITIVE.
“Ye trusted in our Hieland men,
They trusted you, dear Charlie,
They kent your hiding in the glen,
Death and exile braving.
English bribes were all in vain,
Tho’ poor—and poorer we maun be,
Siller canna buy the heart
That beateth aye for thine and thee.”
Whenever you make up your mind to come and explore these islands, I
advise you, before starting, to rub up your Jacobite lore; for you will
find stories about Prince Charlie springing up from every rock and cave;
and the Highlanders will think you sadly ignorant, if they find you
wanting in knowledge on so important a topic.
Being myself one of the ungifted many, with scant memory for biography,
and less for history, I took the precaution of reading up all manner of
Jacobite books; and from these (more especially from Browne’s History of
the Clans), managed to trace Prince Charlie’s wanderings from island to
island; and I think it may save you some trouble, if I give you a short
sketch thereof.
Of course you remember how, after the terrible defeat of Culloden, 1745,
Charles escaped first to the wilds of Ross-shire. This being too
hazardous a hiding-place, he embarked in an open boat for the Hebrides.
A violent storm arose; rain pouring in torrents, and vivid lightning,
which only revealed the blackness of raging waters on every side, while
thunder crashed over the heads of the little company. They had no
compass, and had to drive before the wind, fearing lest the fury of the
waves should dash them on the coast of Skye, where the Government had
troops watching for the Prince.
To their intense relief, when the day broke, they found themselves on
the coast of Benbecula, a small island lying between North and South
Uist, and connected with both by fords, through which at low water you
can drive or walk. These, together with Harris and Lewis, form the Long
Island; though, in point of fact, the Sound of Harris completely divides
the two latter from the former. Here for awhile Charles found safety in
a deserted hut. Meanwhile his pursuers, stimulated by the promised
reward of £30,000 for his apprehension, were not idle. Being convinced
that he had found refuge in the isles, they adopted the plan of taking
the furthest point first, and sailed to St. Kilda. The terrified
inhabitants fled, and concealed themselves in their rocky caves and
cliffs. Some of them were, however, captured, and brought before General
Campbell, who inquired what had become of “The Pretender,” to which they
replied that they had never heard of such a person; but they believed
that their laird (Macleod) had lately been at war with a woman at a
great distance, and had overcome her. This, they said, was all they knew
of the affairs of the world.
Meanwhile in the hut on Benbecula, the bonnie Prince, taking the old
sail of the boat as his only bed, slept the sleep of the weary on the
hard earth; and two days later, he and his little party sailed for
Stornoway, hoping to pass themselves off as the shipwrecked crew of an
Orkney boat, and so be able to hire a vessel, under pretext of returning
home, and thus escape to France. A violent gale, however, compelled them
to put in at the small island of Scalpa (or Glass), near Harris, where
they assumed the name of Sinclair, and, in their character of Orkney
merchants, were hospitably entertained by a farmer, who insisted on
their remaining with him while one of the party went on to Stornoway to
hire a vessel. This being done, Charles again sailed; and again the wind
was contrary, and he was compelled to land in Loch Seaforth, in the
island of Lewis, whence on a dark and rainy night he had to walk over a
wild and trackless waste. The young Highlander who acted as his guide,
lost his way, and so it was not till the following day at noon that they
reached Stornoway; a fortunate accident, inasmuch as the Presbyterian
minister of South Uist had sent information that the Prince had landed
with 500 men to burn the town and carry off the cattle; in consequence
of which, the inhabitants were all rising in arms to oppose him.
As it was, a trusty friend came to meet him at the Point of Arynish,
half a mile from the town, bringing provisions, which the wanderers
sorely needed, having tasted nothing for eighteen hours, during which
they had been drenched to the skin. Here a shelter for the night was
procured, and a cow bought and slaughtered, the Prince taking his share
in the rough cookery, mixing oatmeal with the brains of the cow, and
making cakes, which he baked before the fire.
The captain of the vessel which they had hired now positively refused to
stand by his engagement; so the Prince had once more to sail from these
inhospitable shores, and take refuge on the smaller islands; a desolate
rock called Iffurt, or Euirn, being his next hiding-place for a few
days. A roofless hut was his sole shelter; one of the little band
keeping watch while the others slept.
This becoming unendurable, it was resolved to return to Scalpa. Not
daring to remain there, they started once more. A hard night’s rowing
followed, the sea being dead calm; but towards morning the wind rose,
and they scudded along the coast of Harris.
Now a new danger threatened them. They were detected by a man-o’-war,
and chased for three leagues, till they escaped among the rocky inlets
about Rodel. After this, they kept close in shore, along the creeks of
North Uist, when they were espied by another war-ship, which was lying
in Loch Maddy. This also gave them chase, when they again narrowly
escaped, and once more landed on Benbecula, when such a storm arose as
drove away the ships, and gave the fugitives breathing-time.
All this time their sole food consisted of oatmeal, mixed with salt
water—as they had no fresh—and washed down with a dram of brandy which
they fortunately had on board. Great was their rejoicing when they
succeeded in capturing as many crabs as filled a whole pail, which
Charles himself carried to a miserable hut two miles distant. The door
was so low that they could only crouch in on hands and knees till they
dug away an entrance.
Here they remained for several days, during which a welcome present of
half a dozen shirts, shoes, and stockings, and needful food, was sent by
Lady Clanranald, whose husband, Macdonald of Clanranald, was lord of the
island, and faithful to his Prince for whom he contrived a more secure
hiding-place in the Forest House of Glen Coradale, in South Uist. The
house not being water-tight, two cow’s hides were placed upon sticks to
prevent the rain from falling on him when asleep.
On this island there was abundance of game, by pursuit of which Charles
wiled away the weary hours, as well as kept the pot boiling. Here he
remained for upwards of a month in perfect confidence, although his
hiding-place, and the promised reward of £30,000 for his apprehension,
were alike known to upwards of a hundred of the poor islanders.
Meanwhile every creek and ferry along the shore was guarded by cutters,
sloops of war, and frigates, and upwards of 1,500 militia, as well as
some regular troops, were landed in different parts of the Long Island.
At length the peril became so imminent that he dared remain no longer in
South Uist, and again fled, in an open boat, first to the tiny islet of
Ouia, thence to Rossinish, and again to Loch Boisdale, backwards and
forwards, always in imminent danger. At one time no less than fifteen
sail were in sight. There were days when they were so hard pressed that
all hope seemed lost, and when no food could be obtained save the
limpets and sea-weeds which they gathered on the rocks.
At last they had to disperse their little band, and Charles, keeping
with him only one companion, O’Neil, returned to Benbecula, where
happily he found a kinswoman of Clanranald, namely Flora Macdonald, a
name thenceforth honoured among women. She was the daughter of Macdonald
of Milton, in South Uist; but her father died in her infancy, and her
mother married secondly Macdonald of Armadale, in Skye, who commanded
one of the militia corps now in pursuit of the Prince.
Flora was at this time aged four-and-twenty, a woman fair to look upon,
and as wise and loveable as she was fair. Her own description of the
Prince, whom she now met for the first time, is that he looked thin and
delicate, utterly worn out by fatigue, yet “showing such cheerfulness
and fortitude as none could credit but those who saw him.”
Now came the celebrated plan for his escape to Skye, disguised as her
tall Irish maid Betty Burke—a difficult matter, as even she and her
man-servant were taken prisoners by the militia while attempting to
cross the ford on their return to Ormaclade (Clanranald’s house), where
she was to procure the necessary feminine raiment. They were detained
all night, and next morning were taken before the commanding officer,
who, happily, turned out to be Armadale, her step-father, from whom she
procured the necessary passports, including the name of “her
spinning-woman.” There is little doubt that he more than suspected who
the Irish maid really was.
Flora Macdonald now sent a message to bid the Prince join her at
Rossinish; but how to do so was the difficulty, as both the fords were
guarded. At length a small boat was procured, and, after many
difficulties, he arrived, drenched to the skin and exhausted with hunger
and fatigue. Here he was rejoined by Flora Macdonald, Lady Clanranald,
and Mrs. Macdonald. They found him roasting the heart of a sheep on a
wooden spit, and he met their commiserations with cheery words and jokes
at his own expense. They all dined together, and afterwards Betty
Burke’s homely dress was produced. It consisted of a flowered linen
gown; a quilted petticoat, white apron, and cloak of dun camlet with
hood, as worn by the Irish peasants.
In the evening they went to the sea-shore, near where the boat lay, when
a messenger rushed down to say that a large party of soldiers was at the
house in quest of Charles. Lady Clanranald at once returned home, and
was cross-examined as to the cause of her absence. She said she was
visiting a sick child.
While the Prince and Flora were waiting on the shore, four boats full of
armed men sailed close past them, happily without detecting them, as
they lay hidden behind the rocks. As soon as the darkness covered their
escape, they set sail, and during an anxious and stormy night, made more
anxious by having no compass, Charles inspirited the crew with songs and
stories.
When morning broke they were thankful to find they were off Skye, near
the point of Waternish. Here, however, they were fired upon by MacLeod’s
militia, who called to them to land, a summons to which they paid no
heed, and continued to row on, but slowly, so as to prevent suspicion.
The MacLeods continued to fire till the boat got out of range, no one,
however, being hurt; and in due time the fugitives reached Monkstadt,
where they landed.
Monkstadt, or Mogstat, belonged to Sir Alexander MacDonald, then serving
with the Duke of Cumberland at Fort Augustus. His wife, Lady Margaret,
was a daughter of the Earl of Eglinton, a true Jacobite, as her husband
also was at heart, though too timid to declare himself for the Prince.
Flora went at once to the house, fortunately accompanied only by her
man-servant, for there she found an officer commanding a detachment of
militia, who questioned her closely about her journey, but was satisfied
with the simplicity of her account. Lady Margaret, on hearing of the
arrival of the Prince, left Flora to keep the officer in play, and
taking Macdonald of Kingsburgh into the old garden, confided to him the
state of affairs, and it was agreed that his house would be the best
hiding-place for the present.
He therefore went down to the shore to seek for Betty Burke, and they
started together on foot. To disarm all suspicion, Flora dined with Lady
Margaret, and helped her to entertain her military guest. Afterwards she
started on horseback, accompanied by a Miss Macdonald, who was returning
home escorted by two servants. The latter, on overtaking the
pedestrians, were struck by the tall woman stalking along beside
Kingsburgh, and exclaimed that it must either be an Irishwoman or a man
in woman’s dress. “Bless me,” said the maid, “what lang strides the jade
takes, and how awkwardly she manages her petticoats!” Flora quickened
her pace and soon distanced the walkers, rejoicing when she reached the
turn of the road where Miss Macdonald and her prying maid were to turn
aside. Then she turned down the path to Kingsburgh, to which a short cut
across the hills had brought the Prince at the same time, that is, about
11 P.M.
The lady of the house had gone quietly to bed, when her daughter ran up
to tell her that her father had brought to the house the “most odd,
muckle, ill-shaken-up wife that ever she seed, and taken her into the
hall too!”
The good wife hastened down to welcome her husband’s guest, but when the
strange Irishwoman rose and gave her a kiss of greeting, according to
the old Highland custom, she suspected that it must be some nobleman or
gentleman in disguise, and, going aside to her husband, asked if he had
any tidings of the Prince. On hearing that he himself stood before her,
the anguish of having only such homely fare as bacon and eggs ready to
offer him, and the overwhelming pride of being made to sit down at table
with him, were almost too much for the good woman. She was greatly
horrified on hearing that the boat in which he had come to Skye had at
once been sent back to South Uist, as she said there was great risk of
capture and of the boatmen being tortured to make them confess what they
knew. And this proved to be precisely what did happen, and resulted in
the men even giving a minute description of his disguise.
To the infinite satisfaction of the Prince it was decided that he should
resume the garb of Old Gaul, his host giving him a Highland dress of his
own, which he was to put on when safely out of the house, and out of
danger of being discovered by the servants. As the women were fastening
on his cap Mrs. Macdonald of Kingsburgh bade Flora ask for a lock of his
bonnie hair. This she refused to do, but the Prince, gathering the
meaning of the request which was made in Gaelic, laid his head on
Flora’s lap and bade her cut off a lock herself, a precious relic, which
the ladies dearly treasured. His hostess likewise treasured the sheets
in which he had slept, and vowed they should never be washed or used
till her death, when they should serve as her winding sheet, to which
use they were accordingly put.
Meanwhile it was decided that the Prince, with a little gillie for his
guide, should walk across the hills to Portree, while Flora rode round
the other way. The object was to get to the isle of Raasay, which was
then clear of troops, but it was impossible to trust a Portree crew, so
how to reach the island was the next question. At length the young
MacLeods of Raasay, one of whom had been sorely wounded at Culloden,
recollected that a small boat lay on a fresh-water loch about a mile
inland from Portree, and these brave brothers, with the help of some
women, contrived to drag the boat over soft bog and rocky ground till
they reached the shore. The boat was old and leaky, but the two
brothers, with only the help of a little boy, rowed it over to Raasay,
where they found their cousin, and having got a seaworthy boat they
returned to Portree.
By this time Charles had arrived across the hills, thoroughly drenched
by the pitiless rain, as many an English tourist has since been while
trying the same route, only much as they occasionally grumble at the
lack of refinement of the Portree Hotel, it is a very different story to
what it was in those days, when the Prince could not even get a drink of
milk, nothing but whiskey and water; and the only substitute for a
tumbler was a dirty-looking bucket, used by the landlord for baling out
the boat. Not even one of those large cockle-shells out of which spirits
were commonly drunk, seems to have been forthcoming. These shells are
alluded to in old Gaelic, when Ossian’s banquet-hall is called “the hall
of shells,” the host “the chief of shells,” feast “the joy of shells.”
Charles for once did stare at this obnoxious drinking _cuach_, but a
whisper from Donald Roy reminded him of caution, so he took a great gulp
of water, lest his over refinement should excite comment. The faithful
Donald Roy Macdonald was also alarmed at Charles’s extravagance in
refusing the change for a sixpenny bit, in payment of four pennyworth of
tobacco, and equal carelessness in refusing silver change for a guinea.
The Prince had now to bid farewell to the leal woman, who, at the
imminent risk of her own life, had rescued him from so many perils, and
whom he was never to meet again. He presented her with his own
miniature, and departed before daybreak, carrying his own meagre store
of provisions, a cold fowl and some sugar in one bundle, four shirts in
another, a bottle of brandy and one of usquebaugh hanging from his belt.
Notwithstanding this Robinson Crusoe-like appearance, Donald Roy was
subjected to close questioning by his landlord, who said he thought it
must be the Prince in disguise, for he looked so noble. However, he was
put off the scent by a feigned confidence, and the Prince, having lain
concealed on the shore till midnight, escaped to Raasay with the
faithful MacLeods. Here they found the forsaken hut of some shepherds,
and soon gathered masses of heather as bedding, no bad couch when
closely packed with the fragrant blossoms upwards, and (this was in the
month of July) a more springy mattress could hardly be desired.
In this little island there seemed to be comparative safety, but Charles
could not rest, and insisted on crossing over to Trotternish in Skye, a
distance of fifteen miles. The sea was very rough, and his men sorely
demurred, but Charles, as usual, encouraged them with stories and Gaelic
songs, which he had picked up, together with some knowledge of that
language during these wanderings.
The men rowed with a will, and though the waves were boisterous, and
there was a very violent surf along the shore, they contrived about
midnight to land at Nicholson’s Rock near Scorebreck, drenched, of
course. A steep and difficult scramble led them to an old cow-house, the
only shelter they could obtain on the bleak, desolate coast. Here they
divided a wretched meal of mouldy oat-cake and cheese, and then, soaked
as they were, slept till daylight. In addition to other discomforts the
luckless Charles was tormented by toothache, no great wonder.
In the morning he dismissed all his companions save Malcolm MacLeod,
whom he desired to conduct him to Strath, Mackinnon’s country, a long
and perilous journey across the island, in continual risk of meeting
soldiers. They chose the wildest and most mountainous route, and having
agreed that the Prince should pass as MacLeod’s gilly, they exchanged
clothes, and Charles kept up the character by walking some steps in the
rear, carrying their joint bundle, and touching his bonnet when
addressed by his master in presence of any chance passer by. As they
neared Mackinnon’s country they feared the disguise would prove
insufficient, whereupon Charles pocketed his bonnet and wig and bound
his head with a handkerchief; he also tore the ruffles from his shirt
and the buckles from his shoes, which he fastened with a string.
Nevertheless, his graceful mien and carriage betrayed him to two men of
Mackinnon’s clan, who, on recognising him wept bitterly. They were sworn
to secrecy on a naked dirk and kept their oath.
A weary march of twenty-four Scotch miles, equal to thirty English,
brought them to Ellighiul near Kilmaree, where MacLeod’s sister, in her
husband’s absence, gave them a cordial welcome, and such a supper as
seemed to the famishing creatures kingly indeed. Charles showed due
reluctance to sit down at table with his supposed master, who, of course
insisted on his doing so. But when a stout Highland lass brought water
to wash MacLeod’s feet, and he bade her do likewise for the sick lad,
Lewis Law, his servant, her pride revolted at such a suggestion, and it
needed much coaxing to induce her to obey, which at last she did, but so
roughly that Charles had to cry for mercy! Utterly exhausted the
travellers now lay down for a few hours’ sleep, but the restless mind
would not suffer the weary body to lie still, and Charles arose and
busied himself nursing Mrs. Mackinnon’s wee bairn.
Her husband was now seen approaching the house, and on hearing who his
guest was, he was transported with joy, and wished at once to make his
obeisance. MacLeod, however, reminded him of the danger of being
observed by servants, So he entered the room, determined to pass by
“Lewis Law” without notice, but the faithful Highlander had counted too
much on his strength of will, for on seeing the Prince he burst into
tears, and had to leave the room.
The laird of Mackinnon was now informed of the presence of the loved
fugitive, and the old chieftain could not rest, till he had done him
homage, and conducting him to a neighbouring cave, presented him to Lady
Mackinnon, who had prepared a dinner of cold meat, bread and wine.
Towards dusk he embarked, accompanied by the two Mackinnons, and, having
narrowly escaped capture by the men-o’-war, succeeded after a rough
voyage in reaching the coast of Loch Nevis in Moidart.
His further adventures on the mainland continued to be as perilous as
those in the Hebrides, but being foreign to our present object, it is
unnecessary to follow him further.
Of the friends who had hitherto shared his danger, the majority were
shortly captured on suspicion of having aided his concealment, but for
the most part, were released after a term of imprisonment. Flora
Macdonald was amongst the number; her beauty and her wit brought her
favour with her jailors, and after a term of honourable captivity, she
was released at the special request of Frederick, Prince of Wales; and,
being invited to the house of Lady Primrose, in London, became an object
of considerable interest to the great folk there.
In due time she returned to Skye, and married young Macdonald of
Kingsburgh, whom she accompanied to America twenty-five years later,
there making a home for her family which consisted of five sons and two
daughters. Having suffered sore privations during the American war, she
once more returned to her native island, and there peacefully ended her
days.
She was buried in the old kirkyard of Kilmuir (the cell of Mary), on the
high ground overlooking the Long Island, and the sea; across which she
had, amid so many perils brought her Prince in safety to the old house
of Monkstadt, on the shore below. At the time of our visit to Skye, a
little mound of earth, half hidden by rank weeds and tall grasses, alone
marked the spot where sleeps the dust of one, whose honoured name is now
a household word. Now an Iona Cross of grey granite has been erected:
and the Highlanders willing to atone for having left this tribute so
long unpaid, have taken care that the modern cross shall overtop the
highest of the ancient monolith crosses. The best known to us of these
are MacLean’s and St. Martin’s crosses at Iona, which measure
respectively 11 and 14 feet. The new cross on Kilmuir is a monolith of
18 feet 6 inches in height, placed on a basement 10 feet high. The old
kirkyard in which it stands, lies 300 feet above the sea, so that Flora
Macdonald’s grave will henceforth become a landmark for every ship that
sails these stormy seas.
“Far over the hills where the heather grows green,
And down by the Corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing her lane,
The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e’e.
“She gazed on the bark, on the breezes that swung
Away on the wave, like a bird of the main,
And aye as it lessened, she sighed and she sung;
Fareweel to the lad I maun ne’er see again,
Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and true,
The crown o’ thy Fathers is torn frae thy brow.”