The Reluctant Rebel Read online

  BARBARA HENDERSON is an Inverness-based children’s writer and Drama teacher. Her energetic school visits take her across the length and breadth of Scotland, and sometimes beyond. As a teacher, she loves to get young people on their feet as they respond to stories. ‘Writing is like magic,’ she says. ‘I see something in my imagination, and I try to capture it by writing it down – nothing more than black marks on white paper. Much later, young people see these black marks on white paper and suddenly they see something too, feel something of their own. I cannot think of anything more special than that.’ She shares her home with her teenage son, her long-suffering husband and a scruffy Schnauzer called Merry.

  First published 2022

  ISBN: 978-1-80425-030-3

  The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

  Typeset in 11.5 point Sabon by Lapiz

  Text © Barbara Henderson 2022

  Images © Sandra McGowan 2022

  Dedicated to my good friend Finlay MacLellan who first led me to Roderick Mackenzie’s grave, and to the late Donald MacMillan (known as Dolan) who showed me his collection of Jacobite musket balls, all found in the river behind his house in Glen Shiel.

  History is beneath our feet.

  The very soil is steeped in stories.

  Contents

  PrologueGlenfinnan, 19 August 1745

  CHAPTER 1Culloden, 16 April 1746

  CHAPTER 2Flight from Culloden, April 1746

  CHAPTER 3Ruthven Barracks, April 1746

  CHAPTER 4Old Seamus and the Long Ride Home, April 1746

  CHAPTER 5Borrodale, April 1746

  CHAPTER 6The Surprise, April 1746

  CHAPTER 7A Plaid for a Prince, April 1746

  CHAPTER 8The Boat in the Storm, April 1746

  CHAPTER 9Mother’s Time, April 1746

  CHAPTER 10The Mars and the Bellone, May 1746

  CHAPTER 11The French Gold, May 1746

  CHAPTER 12The Battle of Loch nan Uamh, May 1746

  CHAPTER 13The Hour of Fools, May 1746

  CHAPTER 14HMS Furnace, May 1746

  CHAPTER 15Captain Fergusson, May 1746

  CHAPTER 16The Burning of Borrodale, May 1746

  CHAPTER 17After the Flames, May 1746

  CHAPTER 18The Price of a Prince, June 1746

  CHAPTER 19The Knock in the Night, July 1746

  CHAPTER 20MacKinnon’s Charge, July 1746

  CHAPTER 21Flora MacDonald, July 1746

  CHAPTER 22MacKinnon’s Farewell, July 1746

  CHAPTER 23The Cordon, July 1746

  CHAPTER 24The Rough Bounds, July 1746

  CHAPTER 25The Gully, July 1746

  CHAPTER 26The Moonlit Ridge, July 1746

  CHAPTER 27Master John’s Return, August 1746

  CHAPTER 28Roderick’s Last Stand, August 1746

  CHAPTER 29The Tartan Cloth, September 1746

  CHAPTER 30Master John MacDonald’s Gift, September 1746

  Glossary

  Timeline

  Who is Who?

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  The Author

  PROLOGUE

  Glenfinnan, 19 August 1745

  We hear the bagpipes first.

  Excitement pulses through the crowd and Father places a hand on my shoulder. We waited long enough for it, but finally they have begun to arrive: The Morar MacDonalds and the Gordons first, a handful of MacGregors. Once the afternoon sun is high, a larger number of Camerons. ‘About 700 I reckon,’ Father whispers into my ear before shaking hands with Iain Mòr, our master’s oldest son. Smiles slice the tension away. Three hundred Keppoch MacDonalds next, with their leader ahead on his chestnut stallion. At last: here is an army.

  Father ruffles my hair and rushes off to give the standard-bearer a hand to unfurl a large banner. The priest blesses the cloth and then it flutters in the wind, majestic with its crimson and white, high above the heads of the assembled Jacobites.

  The Prince raises a hand and immediately, a hush settles. Not the awkward hush of a funeral. Nor the good-natured hush of a nursery. No, this is a hush of hope.

  The Prince’s speech is short, and not even in Gaelic, but it rouses the masses, this much I can tell. Shouts and cheers echo up and down the glen, the like of which I have never heard, and probably never will again. I myself yell until my voice gives out. I cannot help it.

  Wait till I return tonight to tell Mother about all of this! I am so grateful that I was here, to take word of the raising of the standard home. Imagine I had missed it!

  Our country will never be the same again.

  Of that I’m sure as I run, mile after mile, towards Borrodale and home, even as my father marches south for the Cause.

  CHAPTER 1

  Culloden, 16 April 1746

  ‘THE BATTLE IS about to begin! Our boys are in a bad way, may the Lord help them. All night they walked, and now the enemy is upon them… ’ The messenger shakes his head and rushes on. Of course, he can’t stop to explain further; he has more important tasks. Young ones like us aren’t worth stopping for.

  We hear the bagpipes in the distance. Drumossie Moor should be just over that hillside. All tiredness forgotten, Meg and I move as fast as our legs will carry us. The ribbons of her white cockade, symbol of the Jacobite rose, blow in the wind and get tangled in her hair.

  ‘Why did our Jacobites set out overnight?’ Meg pants. ‘Do you understand it, Archie?’

  ‘Not really. Didn’t he say something about the Duke of Cumberland’s birthday? Our clansmen must have tried to surprise the enemies as they celebrated with their commander. But… ’

  The rest of the sentence sticks in my throat. We have reached the end of the bend and I can see them – the Prince’s men. Our men. But they’re not assembled at all! And there is a scarlet line of government forces forming at the other end of the expanse. Our Jacobite soldiers are barely awake, scrambling to their feet. There is anger, impatience and fear in the air.

  Meg bends over and heaves. We’ve run most of the way from the bridge at Inverness, and a twelve-year-old maid has every right to be tired. It’s easier for me, a stable boy of thirteen who runs ten miles a day. I stretch high on my toes to see.

  ‘That way, Meg! The MacDonalds always fight on the right.’ I strike out south, away from the road where the Jacobite soldiers are hurriedly handed a biscuit each, and where weapons change hands. The wind is strong and, incredibly, there is snow in it, although it’s April.

  Where are our kinsmen?

  ‘There!’ Meg points the opposite way. Our clansmen are scattered, struggling to assemble for battle. In the distance, a Jacobite leader on a horse is pointing. ‘Is that the commander?’ Meg asks, before answering her own question. ‘He must be. It looks like he’s in charge.’

  Our clan chiefs seem to be arguing with him, but he yells something I can’t understand and rides off.

  ‘Are our MacDonalds going to fight on the left after all?’ Meg asks. ‘How are we going to get the message and the supplies to them now?’

  I am too distracted to think about that – my eye is drawn to the unwelcome sunrise of red government uniforms in the east. There must be less than a mile of open moorland between them and us.

  The wind whips our faces with sleet. The ground is wet, and I worry about how boggy it might be for our men’s charge. They will know what to do, after all the victories they have already achieved. But the long journey, and all night on foot while Meg and I slept on a hay cart…

  ‘How many government soldiers, do you reckon Meg?’

  She strains to see. ‘Hard to tell. But more than ours.’

  I was afraid she’d say that, for my heart already knows it’s the truth. Stragglers in plaids are running to join our side. The shouting tears into my brain like musket balls, hurting and dulling my wit. The enemy soldiers have risen like a wall on the horizon, the sun above them hazy in the grey sky. Snowflakes dance jerkily in the air before melting into the drenched earth beneath our feet.

  I try to catch a passing Highlander’s attention. ‘Sir, must there be a battle today?’ He ignores me and marches on, awkwardly dragging his broadsword with tired steps.

  ‘Where’s the Prince, Meg?’

  Meg shakes her head at me. ‘Open your eyes, Archie! There he is, at the back: Tearlach!’ Despite the tension, her voice skips with excitement at the Gaelic word for the Prince’s name, or ‘Charlie’ in the English. ‘I hear he speaks all the languages, Archie,’ she continues. ‘Just wait until he has claimed the throne!’

  I stay silent rather than quarrel with her. I wish I shared my cousin’s confidence.

  We are not the only bystanders. Women and old men have gathered, mostly on the Inverness-bound road opposite us. Some servants are holding horses for their masters as they mount; others carry ammunition and muskets hither and thither to their clansmen. The drums and the pipes drown out most of the clatter of broadswords and targes. We are too far away to make out our men’s faces as they stand unhappily on the left, a long way across the field, but Master Iain Mòr’s black mare Stoirm catches my eye, even from such a distance. I loved brushing her shiny coat at home, on the few occasions she let me near her.

  The commander gives some sort of sign.

  Both Meg and I crumple as the earth beneath us shakes, twice. Our eyes water – the cannon that were fired were ours, and the wind carries their smoke back into our eyes. Coughs from the ranks of our soldiers are j
oined by us bystanders at the side.

  The enemy cannon reply, but louder and longer. Was that ten shots I counted? Meg stands beside me again, holding her ears – and I am glad to have my cousin close. Her dark hair has come loose and blows in the wind, and her eyes weep, whether from the wind or the smoke or the distress, I cannot tell. Gunfire from both sides rises into the air and darts into enemy lines like gannets into the sea. The Highlanders near us push forward in disarray, slowly.

  Our own MacDonalds in the distance move, too, clinging close to the walls.

  ‘They don’t want to be outflanked,’ Meg observes as if she was some sort of hardened soldier. I smile wryly, but only for a second – I have just spotted the red jackets of government soldiers – moving behind the walls. NO!

  ‘Watch out!’ I shout as loudly as I possibly can. ‘The enemy is forming at the back! Hark!’

  But the shouting and clashing of metal against metal is more than a match for my voice. Even Meg, who has moved sideways to keep sight of our men, hasn’t heard me.

  ‘Forward!’ someone bellows. The Atholl men near us charge. I shade my eyes to keep track of our own clan in the distance – they are trying to move, but the ground is too boggy. Yells like ‘forward, ye dogs’ are mingled with yelps of pain.

  ‘They can’t charge!’ Meg screams in my ear. ‘Look, Archie! The water is halfway up their legs.’

  Volleys of musket fire tear into the Jacobite rows near us and we stagger back. Several men are down, sinking into the sodden ground and I lunge forward to help, but Meg yanks me back hard. ‘What in the world are you doing?’ she hisses. ‘Stay back!’

  I want to point out that I am a year older than her, but then it dawns on me – I am responsible for her. She is in as much danger as I am. We need to go!

  ‘Meg come on!’

  ‘Wait! Oh, Archie, look at Keppoch!’

  He is a MacDonald like us, but I only recognise him from afar because of Glenfinnan and his distinctive chestnut horse. He is urging his troops forward to where the Atholl men are already engaged in fierce combat. He rides ahead alone, his horse struggles in the mud, and he is hit and then…

  He falls.

  Suddenly, everything happens slowly: shrieking birds fleeing their ground nests, trampled down by muddy boots. The deep, guttural cries of man and beast. Wind and smoke and loud booming noise, and Gaelic and English curses together and apart. Slow stabbing of bayonets, slow sparks from swords and targes.

  ‘COME ON, Meg.’

  I catch hold of her arm and pull her after me, stumbling up the hillside – away from here; away from all this. Only Meg and me. We can’t help turning to look back as we run. A Jacobite standard falls; I can’t even make out which clan anymore, so blurry are my eyes. It rises again as someone else attempts to hold up the honour of their people, falls, rises once more, falls and stays trampled into the heather, its cloth ripped by many government bayonets.

  We scramble up the hillside, up, up. The noise is less deafening here, but the sights are more terrifying. We have a view of it all – the endless, rigid, unrelenting line of scarlet government soldiers and the scattered, limping remains of our army, ducking cannon fire and running for their lives. At the back, our commanders argue; even from this distance I can see many raised hands. A small group at the rear turn their horses and gallop away southwards.

  ‘Is that… ’ begins Meg, shading her eyes and slowing.

  ‘The Prince and his friends are leaving,’ I say in disbelief. Far in the distance, our MacDonald army, too, begin to flee.

  Tearlach is leaving.

  He is leaving them behind.

  ‘Archie!’ Meg elbows me hard. ‘Quick!’

  She’s right. A small division of government soldiers has broken off and is heading in our direction, cutting us off from the road.

  Meg and I exchange a panicked glance.

  ‘Run!’

  And with that, both of us sprint into the wilderness.

  CHAPTER 2

  Flight from Culloden, April 1746

  ROUNDING THE TOP of a hillock, we throw ourselves down into the heather.

  ‘Are they coming for us?’ I whisper to Meg.

  ‘Don’t think so. See, they are scattering the Prince’s army. They mean to finish off as many of our Jacobites as they can.’

  I can’t look. Below us on the moor, many on the ground are helped along to heaven by government weapons. Unfeeling snowflakes dance above them. So many souls. I taste bile at the back of my throat.

  ‘Shhhh!’ Meg suddenly elbows me. ‘Listen!’

  Horses, a whole group of them. Close by, too, though I can’t see which direction. Friend or foe?

  ‘Take your white cockade off, Meg!’ I hiss. ‘It’s too dangerous. It gives away that we’re on the Jacobite side.’

  ‘I’d rather die,’ she spits back.

  With a groan, I pull Meg close, squint my eyes shut and hold my breath.

  Heavy hooves squelch over the wet bracken and stop.

  A mere yard from our faces. We have been discovered.

  Meg pulls me to my feet, and I begin to take it in. These riders are wearing plaids like our men, and one of them looks startingly like…

  I bow. ‘Your Royal Highness!’

  The young man shakes his head, his lips tight. ‘No, not me. I’m just Roderick Mackenzie. But I’ve been told I bear a strong resemblance to the Prince. Now, we need to move. Who were you with, young ones?’

  I swallow. ‘I’m with no-one – my father was killed at Prestonpans in September last year.’

  They exchange a glance, clearly remembering the battle near Edinburgh. Most of them would have been there that day. The famous Jacobite victory which cost me so dearly.

  ‘But we’ve come all the way from Borrodale.’ Meg’s face is flushed. ‘We were sent with a message concerning Master Angus MacDonald’s health, to his sons who are fighting with the Clanranalds. We only just arrived when the fighting began.’

  I shift uncomfortably. It isn’t exactly the truth: I was the one who was sent with the message that Master Angus had recovered from his illness. Meg caught up with me on the road and simply insisted on coming. By the time I realised she was serious, we were too far gone to turn back. I had expected the Jacobite army to be much nearer. We had no option but to carry on to Inverness. To be honest, I was glad of her company, walking, running, and begging for lifts on carts in turn.

  A blond man with a bleeding cut on his face speaks impatiently: ‘We don’t have time for this, Roderick. We need to move on. Didn’t the Prince say we should make for the barracks at Ruthven when he dismissed us?’

  Suddenly Meg points. ‘I know who you are! You were guarding the Prince. Earlier. You’re his bodyguards!’ She sounds awestruck, despite our dire situation.

  ‘They’re coming!’ interrupts a young lookout who stayed back from the group to keep watch. ‘They’ll try to cut us off at the river.’

  Most of the men turn their horses, but Roderick and his blond friend hesitate. ‘What about these two?’

  There is a short, heavy silence.

  After that, everything happens so fast: Roderick and the blond man stretch out their hands and lift Meg and me onto their horses behind them. They break into a gallop before I can even think a straight thought, over the hillside, and south, south, guided by the midday sun which shines dimly visible through the fog. I cling onto Roderick as I wish I could have clung to Father. Father who is not here anymore to keep me safe.

  As we splash through the mud and churn up the soil, I realise that I recognise some of the men’s faces from way back in Glenfinnan, when our clans chose to throw their lot in with the Prince and his rebellion to regain the throne for the Stuarts.

  Much good it has done me! My father is dead, my mother distraught, and pregnant too, and the men who should protect us are dying on the battlefield behind us.

  I resolve not to think anymore, rocked into a stupor by the horse’s movement and the memory of the things I have seen this day. Every now and again, I catch sight of Meg, her hair flying in the wind, her eyes closed tight against the back of the injured blond soldier. Her cheeks glisten with tears.

  Before long, the horses slow to a trot as we approach the river and ford it with difficulty in the sleety rain. The young lookout keeps turning back, checking, but it seems that we are in the clear for now. These men are riding for their lives, and they have taken us with them as an act of service. Without them, we would be dead now.