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rebellion, Allan? Is it over?"
"Aye," he said, "'tis over. Six days ago we made the crossing of the River
Spey just beyond Ruthven, intending to catch Prince Charles before he gained
the sanctuary of Inverness. But he turned, and the
Highlanders came down upon us from the heights beyond the river before we'd
had the opportunity to form up, let alone bring our artillery to bear."
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Flora could see the scene: the flood of screaming men, unbreeked, unwashed,
undeterred, armed with swords as tall as themselves. No surprise they
overwhelmed soldiers bought by pay, not principle.
Soldiers who had only the one shot before their muskets were rendered nothing
more than props for bayonets. That tactic had defeated Generals Cope at
Prestonpans and Hawley at Falkirk. Now it defeated William Augustus, Duke of
Cumberland, King George II's third son and a general who had proved himself in
the Continental wars.
"If only the prince had delayed his attack until we reached smoother ground
near Inverness. If only he had refused in his pride to take the advice of Lord
George Murray, who is by far the superior strategist.
If only two French ships had not slipped through the blockade and landed money
and supplies . . ." Allan shook his head. "Well, such exercises in supposition
are best left to historians."
With that Flora could only agree. "Cumberland and his army are retreating
toward England, I suppose."
Allan's laugh was edged with bitterness. "The MacPherson levies denied His
Grace the river crossing and the road south. He has fled west into the
mountains, running like a rabbit rather than honorably surrender his sword to
the victor."
"Perhaps he feared for his life."
"His life is hardly in so much danger as the prince's life would have been,
had the situation been reversed.
Charles has put a price on Cumberland's head, in a fit of mordant humor, I
wager, but still he ordered his men to spare the wounded and release the
captives. And so you see me here, at your mercy, cousin."
How have the mighty fallen
, Flora told herself, thinking more of her crestfallen cousin than the English
duke. Handing the reins of the horse to Donald, she guided Allan inside and
sat him down before the aromatic warmth of the peat fire in the parlor. To the
maid waiting in the hall she said, "Betty, bring bread, cheese, and porter."
Then Flora took the coat, its brave scarlet stained and torn, from Allan's
shoulders. He folded his long, lean limbs into a chair and rested his head
against its back. "The Pretender the Prince Regent, I should say has entered
Edinburgh, to even greater applause than last year's acclamation. Strange, is
it not, how many who kept back a welcome then are now flocking forward with
one?"
"Is it so strange that few would commit themselves to Charles's rash
enterprise until that enterprise became victory?" And rash it was, Flora told
herself. Even if during the forty years since the Union
England had dealt with Scotland as though it were a backward colony, to go to
war seemed far from sensible. "Even supposing Prince Charles to have the
right, it might have been very generous for one to support him at every risk,
but it was not wise. Not until now."
"And now he has received the surrender of the castle, had his father
proclaimed king at the Mercat
Cross, and called a parliament. That will not last, he and his kind, they have
little use for parliaments.
Soon the old days will be back again, tyranny at home and a hostile neighbor
assuring our poverty."
Betty brought food and drink. For several minutes Allan refreshed himself,
whilst Flora admired the play of the firelight on his unshaven cheeks and the
lock of black hair that hung forlorn over his brow. At last he set aside the
empty cup, wiped his mouth, and asked, "Where are your mother and her
husband?"
"He is commanding the government militia on Uist. She has gone to visit Lady
MacDonald at Monkstadt and your mother at Kingsburgh and intends to return
tomorrow."
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"Ah." Allan summoned a smile, less radiant than his usual one, tense and
uncertain.
She let him hold her small, clean hand in his large, rough, dirty one. It
seemed the least she could do for a warrior so grievously disappointed.
Armadale, Isle of Skye, April 19, 1746
Marion MacDonald sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, her countenance
knitted in thought. "Well then. Did the prince proclaim his father James VIII
of Scotland only, or James III of Britain as well?"
"Does it matter?" Allan asked. Cleaned, rested, and in a new suit of
clothes Flora's stepfather's shirt and breeks fit him tolerably well he had
reclaimed some of his usual ease of manner. Still, Flora sensed that her
spirited cousin writhed beneath the unaccustomed mantle of defeat.
"Aye, it does matter," her mother said. "James might well overreach himself if
he claims the throne of
Britain entire."
"The Stuarts have never hesitated to overreach themselves. But perhaps the
prince learned by his swiftly aborted incursion into England that he has
little support outwith our own Highlands."
"Indeed, the present ruling family, of Hanoverian origins or no, has the
possession of the united Crown and with it, perhaps, as much right as the
deposed Stuarts. But this issue has been decided. It no longer concerns us."
Marion's maternal eye moved from one to the other of the young people before
her. "Now.
Allan, I spoke with your parents at Kingsburgh . . ."
Flora's ear caught the sound of hoofbeats and voices from outside. Quickly she
put down her sewing and went to the door.
Unlike yesterday's tender spring evening, this evening was coming on dark and
swift. A cold chill wind churned the sea. White gulls looked like flecks of
paper swirling up against the clouds massed in the northwest, clouds colored
the deep purplish-black of a bruise.
One last fragile ray of sun illuminated the approaching party, a lad from the
village walking before three men on horseback. All three wore red coats like
Allan's, save these were decorated with bits of gilt braid. And the heavy-set
man in the middle was bedecked with medals. " . . . the edge of the world," he
was muttering, his face set in a supercilious scowl. "Beastly country, savage
mountain passes, not a decent inn to be found . . ."
Allan's hand grasped Flora's shoulder and his voice whispered in her ear,
"I'll be damned I beg your pardon, Cousin, but it's the duke himself."
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