The fate of the Chevalier and his devoted Highlanders forms one of the
most romantic and darkest themes in the history of Scotland, so rich in
historical narrative, song, and tradition—
Still freshly streaming
When pride and pomp have passed away,
To mossy tomb and turret grey,
Like friendship clinging.
In the contemplation of their misfortunes, their faults and failings
are forgotten, and now that the unfortunate Chevalier’s name and memory
have become “such stuff as dreams are made of,” every heart throbs in
sympathy with the pathetic lyric “Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie.”
In the present day, when it is not accounted disloyal to speak kindly
of the Prince, or of those who espoused his cause—one cannot help
indulging in admiration of the courage and cheerfulness with which he
bore trials, dangers, and “hairbreadth ’scapes by flood and field,” nor
wonder at the devotedness of the poorer Highlanders; their affection
to his person; the care with which they watched over him in his
wanderings; and, above all, the incorruptible fidelity which scorned to
betray him, though tempted by what, in their poverty, must have seemed
inconceivable wealth.
The history of the rising, and particularly of what followed after
Culloden, relating to Prince Charlie, although generally minute, gives
but little idea of the wonderful dangers he incurred, and the escapes he
made. One should, in order to form a moderately correct idea of his
hardships, have listened to those who had been out with him, as they,
in the late evening of their days, talked of the past, and of the “lad
they looed sae dearly,” or heard their descendants, who were proud of
their forbears, having been out in the ’45, when—
The story was told, as a legend old,
And by withered dame and sire,
When they sat secure from the winter’s cold,
All around the evening fire.
His capabilities of enduring cold, hunger, and fatigue prove that his
constitution was of a very high order, and not what might have been
expected from the descendant of a hundred kings brought up in the
enervating atmosphere of courts. The magnanimity was surprising with
which he bore up under his adverse lot, and the very trying privations
to which he was subjected. The buoyancy of spirit with which he
encountered the toils that hemmed him round, seemed to gather fresh
energy from each recurring escape while wandering about, a hunted
fugitive.
His appearance when concealed in the cave of Achnacarry as described
by Dr Cameron, who was for a time a companion of his wanderings, is not suggestive
of much comfort, but rather of contentedly making the most of
circumstances. “He was then,” says Dr Cameron, “bare footed; he had an
old black kilt and coat on, a plaid, philabeg, and waistcoat, a dirty
shirt, and a long red beard, a gun in his hand, a pistol and dirk by
his side. He was very cheerful and in good health, and, in my opinion,
fatter than when he was at Inverness.” His courage and patience during
his wandering drew forth even the admiration of his enemies, while
his friends regretted that one capable of so much was so wanting in
decision of character when it was urgently required by his own affairs,
and the fortunes and lives of those who had perilled all for his sake.
His friends, rich and poor, “for a’ that had come and gane,” were
staunch in his favour to the very death; while his enemies, hounded on
by a scared and vindictive Government, and earnestly anxious to enrich
themselves by obtaining the reward offered for his capture, left no
means untried to secure his person.
Among the many who signalized themselves in these attempts was one
Ferguson, who, in command of a small squadron, cruised round the coast
in search of the Prince and his fugitive friends, but in reality
sparing none on whom it was possible or not dangerous to vent those
feelings of oppression and worse, which the cruel Cumberland had
made a fashion as regards Highlanders and the Highlands, and a sure
recommendation to the notice of Government.
Soon after Culloden, Ferguson appeared off the coast and dropped anchor
in Loch-Cunnard. A party landed there and proceeded up the strath as
far as the residence of Mackenzie of Langwell, who was married to a
near relation of Earl George of Cromartie. Mackenzie got out of the
way, but the lady was obliged to attend some of her children who were
confined by small-pox. The house was ransacked, a trunk containing
valuable papers, and among these a wadset of Langwell and Inchvennie
from the Earl of Cromartie, was burnt before her eyes, and about fifty
head of black cattle were mangled by their swords and driven away to
their ships.
Similar depredations were committed in the neighbourhood, without
discrimination of friends or enemies. So familiarized were the west
Highlanders and Islanders with Captain Ferguson, his cutter and crew,
that they were in the habit of jeering him and them by calling after
them—“Tha sinn eolach air a h-uile car a tha na t’eaman”—(We are
acquainted with every turn in your tail)—a source of great irritation
to the annoyed commander, who knew well the fugitives were hiding
on the West Coast of Inverness-shire, and consequently resolved to
adopt every species of decoy to entrap the Prince and his companions.
To deceive the inhabitants of this wild and extensive coast,
Ferguson pretended to give over the search and leave for Ireland.
The Highlanders, wondering what would be the next move, were not
deceived, nor did they relax their watchful precautions. The dwellers
at Samalaman, the most western point of Moidart, had been especially
harassed, as it was suspected they were in the confidence of Prince
Charles. The suspicion was correct, and therefore, although they went
about their usual employments they kept many an anxious look towards
the ocean—many a lonely watch and walk was taken for the protection of
the hunted wanderers.
To those who are not oppressed by anxiety the look-out from this
headland is of surpassing beauty. Few scenes are equal to that
presented in a midnight walk by moonlight along the sea beach, the
glossy sea sending from its surface a long stream of dancing and
dazzling light, no sound to be heard save the small ripple of the idle
wavelets or the scream of a sea bird watching the fry that swarms along
the shores! In the short nights of summer the melancholy song of the
throstle has scarcely ceased on the hillside when the merry carol of
the lark commences, and the snipe and the plover sound their shrill
pipe. Again, how glorious is the scene which presents itself from the
summits of the hills when the great ocean is seen glowing with the last
splendour of the setting sun, and the lofty hills of the farther isles
rear their giant heads amid the purple blaze on the extreme verge of
the horizon.
Nothing of all this, for they were sights and scenes of continual
recurrence, did Mary Macleod feel. Mary was a bold, spirited, handsome
girl, who, in company with her father and two brothers forming the
boat’s crew, knew well all ocean’s moods, and often braved the storms
so common on that coast, and so fatal to many toilers of the deep.
On the morning of the fifth day after the departure of Captain
Ferguson, Mary arose as usual to prepare the food for the family, and
in going outside for a basket of peat fuel was surprised to observe a
strange looking little vessel at anchor in a dark creek in the opposite
island of Shona which partly occupies the mouth of Loch-Moidart. Time
was when a circumstance, so apparently trivial, would have created
no wonder nor left in the mind any cause for suspicion; but now Mary
carefully scanned the low long dark hull of the craft, and her tanned
and patched sails, which ill agreed with the trimness about her, and
which at once spoke against her being a fishing craft or smuggler.
“Cuilean an t-seann mhadaidh” (cub of the old fox) sighed the girl
as she returned to the house to communicate the circumstance to the
rest of the family, each of whom on reconnoitring the vessel confirmed
her opinion. “Well then,” said Mary, “let us advise the neighbours to
betake themselves to their daily employment without seeming to suspect
the new comer, and above all let us warn the deer of the mountain that
the bloodhounds have appeared.”
As the Moidart men were about to go to sea they were visited by a
couple of miserable looking men from the suspected craft. One of them
who spoke in Irish made them understand that they had lately left the
coast of France laden with tobacco and spirits, some of which they
would gladly exchange for dried fish and other provisions of which they
were much in want, having been pursued for the last three days by an
armed cutter, from which they had escaped with difficulty, and from
which they intended to conceal themselves for some days longer in their
present secluded anchorage. The fishermen, pretending to commiserate
their condition, replied that they had no provisions to spare, and
left only more convinced that Mary’s suspicions were well founded.
Matters remained in this state for a few days, the craft lying quietly
at anchor, and her six hands, being, it was said, the full complement
of her crew, sneaking about in all directions, in pairs, on pretence
of searching for provisions. At last, after an unusually fine day the
sun sank suddenly behind a mountain mass of clouds which for some time
before had been collecting into dense columns, whose tall and fantastic
shapes threw an obscurity far over the western horizon.
The coming storm was so apparent that the fishermen of Samalaman
secured their boats upon the beach just as some heavy drops, bursting
from the region of the storm clouds, showed that the elemental war had
begun.
The Atlantic rolled its enormous billows upon the coast, dashing them
with inconceivable fury upon the headlands, and scouring the sands
and creeks, which, from the number of shoals and sunken rocks in
them, exhibited the magnificent spectacle of breakers white with foam
extending for miles. The blast howled among the grim and desolate
rocks. Still greater masses of black clouds advanced from the west,
pouring forth torrents of rain and hail. A sudden flash illuminated
the gloom, and was followed by the crash and roar of thunder which
gradually became fainter until the dash of the waves upon the shore
prevailed over it.
Far as the eye could reach the ocean boiled and heaved in one wide
extended field of foam, the spray from the summits of the waves
sweeping along its surface like drifting snow.
Seaward no sign of life was to be seen, save when a gull, labouring
hard to bear itself against the breeze, hovered overhead, or shot
across the gloom like a meteor. Long ranges of giant waves rushed in
succession to the shore, chasing each other like monsters at play.
The thunder of their shock echoed among the crevices and caves, the
spray mounted along the face of the cliffs in columns, the rocks shook
as if in terror, and the baffled wave returned to meet its advancing
successor.
By-and-bye there came a pause like the sudden closing of a blast
furnace, or as if the storm had retired within itself; but now and
then, in fitful bursts, proclaiming that its power was but partially
smothered. During the conflict of the elements Mary Macleod seemed to
suffer the most acute agonies of mind; and no sooner did it abate than,
wrapping herself in her plaid, she sallied out and proceeded towards
the sea shore. There, straining her eyes over the dark and fearful
deep, she thought she saw, by a broad flash of lightning, a small speck
on the wild waters, pitching as if in dark uncertainty, about the mouth
of Loch-Moidart. With the speed of frenzy away flew the maiden to the
nearest cottage, and grasping a burning peat and a lapful of dried
brushwood, she, with equal speed, retraced her steps to the shore. In
an instant the beacon threw its crackling flame far over the loch,
and in an instant more the small black craft at Shona had cut from
her moorings and stood out to the entrance of the bay. Now rose the
struggle in Mary’s mind. There stood the maid of Moidart in the shade
of the lurid beacon, listening to the fitful blast, like the angel of
pity. Something was passing on in the troubled bosom of that dark loch
over which she often looked, that drew forth all the energies of her
soul; but what that something was, was as hidden to her as futurity.
She was startled from this state of intense feeling by a momentary
flash on the water, instantaneously followed by a crash among the rocks
at her side, and then came booming on her ear a sound as if the island
of Shona had burst from its centre. “A Dhia nan dùl bi maile ris” (God
of the elements be with him) ejaculated Mary as she bent her trembling
knees on the wet sand, and then, like a spring from life to death, a
boat rushed ashore, grounding on the shingle at her feet. A band of
armed men immediately sprung on land, one of whom, gently clasping the
girl, pressed her to his heart. “Failte ’Phrions” faltered Mary, giving
a momentary scope to the woman in her bosom, but instantly recollecting
herself, she whispered, “Guide him some of you to the hut of Marsaly
Buie in the copse of Cul-a-chnaud, and I shall meet you there when the
sun of the morning shall show me the fate of the pursuer.” By this time
the intrepid girl was joined by the villagers, who extinguished all
traces of the late fire, and carried the stranger’s boat where none but
a friend could find it. The storm had again broken from its restless
slumber, and the rain and sickly sun of the following day showed the
pretended smuggler scattered on the beach. She appeared to have been
well armed, and the easily recognised body of Captain Ferguson’s first
mate was one of the twelve who were washed ashore.
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