THE LAST FLICKER
It is an error to suppose that the Jacobites were ready to surrender
all hope of resistance without a last bid for terms, if not for
victory. Culloden was lost, but a large body of the clans had not
come up in time to engage in the battle. An ignominious flight spelt
utter ruin to the chiefs and unquestioned submission to the
Government, whereas a stand in the hills was eminently suited to
Highland warfare. Cavalry were useless in rough country and southern
soldiers easily outwitted and confused.
Had Prince Charles not lost his head in the debacle of Culloden he
might have remained King of the Highlands if not of Scotland itself.
Unfortunately, the strength of the Jacobite army was also its
greatest weakness. Quick to mobilize and equipped by centuries of
warfare for the field, they were also unaccustomed to a prolonged
campaign. The quick fight and the swift retreat, the raid by night
and the tireless pursuit were their notion of war. They cared little
enough for the rights or wrongs of a quarrel so long as they could
kill a man or two, and make home again with a few head of cattle.
For this reason the delay and confusion following hard upon Culloden
played havoc with the Jacobite army. Once their faces were set
homewards no power on earth could stop the clans. They were weary of
campaigning on scanty fare and small pay. A few short days and the
Children of the Mist were gathered into their own mountains and the
army had melted into a few scattered remnants waiting for a leader.
On the shores of Arkaig a few futile conferences took place, and then
followed hard the inevitable dispersion.
Lord Lovat, on whom the chiefs still laid a certain trust, was
carried to Muirlaggan, where Lochiel, Glenbucket, Murray of Broughton
and others awaited him.
They rose as he was carried into their midst, moved by a kind of
reverence for infirm old age.
Murray of Broughton shivering with illness, with flickering agitated
eyes, stood tapping with his fingers upon the rough table. He knew
Lovat of old, and had suffered at his hands; Lochiel, pale from his
wound, looked liked a man more heart-broken than anxious. Of all the
Jacobite leaders he was the great gentleman and one whose life and
motives were of the purest.
Lord Lovat was perfectly at his ease. He took the head of the table
without question, scrutinizing each face from under his shaggy brows
unconquered as ever.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I take it ye have not accepted Culloden
day as your _coup de grâce_?"
Lochiel shook his head.
"No, no," he said vacantly, "it is our poor people that we are minded
of," at which Murray nodded, avoiding Lovat's stony stare.
"I too, have a clan," said the old man sombrely, "I have never
forgotten that. There is also my son."
They had in common courtesy to acknowledge that he was as deeply
involved as any.
"It is our duty to prevent Cumberland taking a ruthless vengeance on
our people," he continued; "rather than leave them to Hanoverian
justice, we should be prepared to die sword in hand."
Murray of Broughton stirred uneasily.
"I fear your lordship does not know how scattered our forces are--the
Prince flying for his life--the clans unwilling to mobilize again."
Very slowly Lovat raised his face, and stared Murray down. Then
turning to Lochiel he said: "Is that not true?" as though the
Prince's secretary had not spoken at all.
"I am ready to sacrifice everything if we can make a stand," replied
the chief of the Camerons simply.
"I think your lordship did not catch my meaning," broke in Murray in
a fluster.
"I think," corrected Lovat with composure, "I caught it finely."
"Your lordship's pardon if I seem to take a liberty," said Roy
Stuart, "but what can we do more than we have done during the last
few months? We have been promised French aid--none has come. We
have looked for French gold--there has been little enough of that.
The English Jacobites have lain like rats in a hole."
"And we--those of us who can run," retorted Lovat, "are like rats
without a hole. There are occasions, Mr. Stuart, when even rats can
face the cat--and rout him too."
"The Prince has ordered us to disperse," bleated Murray in a flutter
of nerves and tepid anger.
"The Prince," barked Lovat, "gave his last order on Culloden Moor.
We are done with princes and Irishmen and grand French promises; we
are men with everything to lose and something to gain. Maybe your
profession, Mr. Murray, or is it your Lowland blood, has made you
unacquainted with the lengths that despair may drive a man."
"You are pleased to sneer, sir," blurted out Murray.
"I trust," replied Lovat, in a melancholy undertone, "you may never
have a chance to repay the compliment."
"Come, come," broke in Lochiel, "this is no time for contentions. If
it is decided that we shall raise the clans we must make speed. I
take it that we are of one mind upon that?"
Lovat nodded his head before any could speak.
"Could we but raise a few thousand men," he said, "and we shall show
the Duke what Highland warfare may mean. Let us meet again in ten
days' time each with his people. Send out the summons, Lochiel. Let
the Prince take ship to France if he will--so long as we do not
betray each other" (and here he looked hard at Murray) "we are as
safe as wild-cats in Argyll."
There was a loud murmur of approval from those about him. Now, as
always, Lovat had carried the day. He had come, an old sick man,
coughing in his litter, facing a dozen men fairly eaten up with fear
and perplexity. In one short hour he had them at his heel. With a
body as sound as his mind he would have raised the Highlands himself.
Still Murray of Broughton, that creaking door, must have his word.
It was more his habit of mind than any real evil in the man. He was
the soul of method, and concise as the Lord President himself.
Perhaps he suspected Lovat, as Lovat in all sincerity suspected him.
Perhaps he was influenced by such reason as he possessed. It may be
that he foresaw what was ordained, and knew Lovat for what he was.
"My lord," he said in his hesitating voice, "I have little influence
here--I have no people to consider--I am not a soldier, only a man of
business who has tried to serve the cause."
They waited while Lovat watched him as a snake watches a rabbit.
"Supposing, my lord, that the clans are persuaded to rise again, what
kind of campaign can you carry on? Where can you obtain your
supplies, your ammunition, or money to pay our troops? Already the
coast is patrolled--the Highlands surrounded and the roads to the
south cut off--what kind of mercy will the isolated places
receive--the very places where you hope to obtain provisions? They
will so harry the country, my lord, to starve you out that the very
sight of women and children coming to you in the direst starvation
will make you regret this step. It is starvation, and not defeat,
will give you your answer, my lord."
"There's truth in what he says," murmured a man behind Lochiel.
"Mr. Murray," said Lovat, "I doubt not you speak with sincerity, but
this is a matter on which we must take our own counsel. Look to your
own safety, Mr. Murray, and no gentleman here will say you acted
unbecomingly."
It had become a contest between these two--Lovat forcing the pace to
save his neck, and Murray, knowing what was behind it all,
struggling, who can say why, to dissuade them from further bloodshed.
He moistened his lips and played his last card.
"As you will, gentlemen," he said suavely, "It is for you to decide.
But as a man of business, since your lordship has discounted any
finer qualities in me, might I suggest that perhaps a memorandum of
this meeting, a pledge to bind us together, would give adhesion to
such a proposal. It is only natural, and in desperate straits where
all must live or fall together, a prudent course to take."
Lovat gripped the edge of the table with his hands. This was a blow
indeed. His face changed colour. He seemed for a moment to quiver
as though he were icy cold, his head commencing to shake from side to
side.
"I agree to that entirely," said Lochiel.
"No, no," came from Lovat in a whisper.
Murray watched him with all the relish of a weak man scoring a rare
triumph.
"Did your lordship speak?" he asked.
"I did," said Lovat, rising to his strength again, "I see nothing but
danger and needless formality in such proceedings. We are not men of
business, Mr. Murray--we are Highland gentlemen."
It was a bold throw, but it won the hearts of many there, who hated
Murray and his fiddling Lowland ways. Only Lochiel said nothing,
swayed two ways at once, and ready to faint with the pain of his
wound.
"I think," broke in Roy Stuart, "we should defer signing until we
meet again."
"Bravely spoken," remarked Lovat, "let us meet with our men in ten
days' time. I can promise three hundred Frasers, if not more."
They all rose at that and conferred together before parting, each one
promising a regiment, and that word should go through the hills.
Only Murray stood alone, and only Murray saw a man enter with a
package and hand it to Lovat. He watched the old man open it--he
noted how he started and frowned. More than that, he read the sudden
terror in his face.
"Bring that man back!" cried the Fraser, but none heard him (save
Murray), and when he learned at last that the messenger was nowhere
to be found he groaned and a kind of despair settled upon his face
like a mask.
But the thing that puzzled Murray was the nature of the package. For
it held no paper (that he could see) but only a strip of Fraser
tartan, and that very stained in one corner like the discoloration of
blood.