Flora McIvor Read online

  That should have been a rout, a greater triumph than the Pans, but something went wrong in the wind and rain. We couldn’t see from one side to the other. Their left was swept aside but our left thought they were still coming on and moved back. Murray was the great general to be sure, but he threw it away. We could have destroyed them and taken Edinburgh again. We gave them a sore check whatever – Hawley smarted for it – but we had not won outright. Still it was another victory for a ragtag army that won at Edinburgh, Prestonpans, Clifton and now Falkirk. Let the chroniclers remember that and ponder. Yes, sir, John William O’Sullivan is no callow trooper but a seasoned campaigner, honourably retired. Your good health, sir.

  Back to the doocots. Tearlaigh is at Bannockburn House again, being cosseted by Clementina – the returning warrior right enough. What can’t he do now that his fortune has turned? Truth to tell, it hadn’t been for turning since Derby and Himself was sunk perpetually in gloom. Which made Her would-be Leddyship all the more useful, though many named it indulgence and spat from their cups. But Clementina buoyed him up and fed his hopes, as I did myself, for sure what had we else other than his hopes, our Tearlaigh. Clementina and I understood that, which was a kind of bond between us.

  So, sir, consider, I ask you, my feelings when they came that night with news of a secret Council. I should explain that the Prince’s Council had not met since Derby. He would not have it, for he said it was a cabal to deny his legitimate authority as Regent to his father, and thwart his will as supreme commander. Which was the bare black faced truth. Now they had met without him and resolved on further retreat, back into the mountains whence we had come, to be sure.

  Secretary Broughton came to me with the paper, duly signed by Murray and all the Chiefs remaining. But he advised leaving the Prince till morning. Himself was already in Clementina’s embraces, and besides we both knew the squall to come. That was the Broughton who turned king’s evidence and helped hang his old comrades. Scotch duplicity at its worst. As I should know, right enough. John William retired.

  For Tearlaigh this new reverse was worse than Derby. He replied formally, denying their case, as the record shows, sir, but for him this was the end begun, and to be sure, he was right once more. Even the retreat was bungled by Murray who God knows it tried to blame the shambles on myself, Major-General O’Sullivan. They straggled off in disorder, leaving Tearlaigh and Murray still asleep. The last away were exposed to the guns of Stirling Castle and to cap all we blew up St Ninian’s Kirk by accident. Aye, it was a damnable guddle, a fiasco right enough.

  Now Murray and his crowd said they had secured the north for Tearlaigh, ready to fight another day. But Cumberland was ready for us now and came on with full supply. Culloden was waiting. We tried to fight on other ground, marching by night for a surprise attack, but time ran out. We fought with half an army, those who were not asleep in the ditches from hunger and exhaustion. We fought on the Butcher’s slab and paid a heavy price.

  The Prince refused to leave the field, courage undaunted to the last was Tearlaigh. Do not believe the lies, sir, I saw it with my own eyes. I was there, right enough. The horse was shot from under him amidst the slaughter, but he demanded another. We had to turn the horse’s head and drag him from the scene. Himself was true. He did not cut and run there or the next day at Ruthven. The thing was finished and it was every man for himself, whatever the Highlanders claim. There was not another day for Scotland to restore her honour, nor ever has been. It was done with, as sure as I am sitting here today, John William O’Sullivan at your service. Aye, to be sure, I was there.

  But listen now, if you think this an idle tale to spin out the afternoon, you have me wrong, sir, you don’t have Willie’s measure, right enough. You see we can’t escape our own natures. We’re born as we are and the tree grows straight or crooked. Each one turns out as they must be, king or commoner. If you don’t believe an old soldier, look at Cumberland and Tearlaigh after Culloden. The Butcher is what they called this Prince of Hanover and butcher he proved name and nature, killing and burning without restraint or pity. Like some heathen savage, he laid the country waste. Another Cromwell to be sure.

  But for Tearlaigh, it was his proudest moment. He was the young Prince again as on the march south, as if some dark cloud had lifted, some weary burden from his shoulders. He wandered on sea and mountain, hunted like a beast of the wild. A bad business you might say, but no thirst or hunger, not hot pursuit or near discovery, not cold rain or wind, could damp his spirit. Dressed in rags or in disguise, nothing could conceal that royal nature, generous and free. Though the price on his head was wealth beyond their dreaming, not a single Highlander betrayed him. Finally he was lifted off to a French ship, as I was myself, exhausted but victorious. He came a Prince and left as king of all their hearts, right enough.

  To Tearlaigh, I say, our true Prince and to be King, Charles Edward Stuart. Your very good health, sir.

  Yet it was a failure all the same. The French came too late. The English didn’t rise. Just those damned bare shanked Highlanders. I call it an expedition, for there was no campaign, no army to speak of. Only his spirit carried the day. And Europe saluted the gallant Prince. As I do, sir, to this day and hour, and every hour left to me beneath the sun.

  Yes, so what next, you may wonder? The intrigue, the politics, the backstairs business. Not a soldier’s work. But I was left with Clementina in my care, and Flora McIvor after a time. Herself escaped Scotland first to support the cause, whatever might come of it, and then she sent for Flora. But Paris was too hot and we regrouped in Boulogne, waiting the call. But it didn’t come. A bad business.

  We had to make shift for ourselves; that was the truth of it right enough. Tearlaigh himself was bundled out of Paris when the Peace was signed; they didn’t want him around disturbing their precious peace. So he went into the dark, incognito, leaving us to do as we might. Until, well, that is another story altogether. John William will not tangle with her again. No, sir, my troth is pledged to Bella.

  We got embroiled in English business in Boulogne. And Glengarry arrived. Young Glengarry, but he was the elder son, you know. Enough said. It was not soldier’s business, not at all. Better leave it for today. Enough said, but never trust a Highland Chief. I learned the hard way. Believe me, I was there, John William O’Sullivan saw it with his own eyes. Rum business, Tearlaigh sent for her eventually, his true love right enough. Still, less said, sooner and so forth.

  Tomorrow the sun will shine again. I am a soldier by profession. My pleasure, sir, I served my Prince without regret. I’ve earned my place. Don’t believe the lies. Indeed, not at all, I was there. Your good health, and mine to be sure. John William retired. Yes, our health, right enough.

  Flora McIvor

  Young Glengarry is a traitor. I swear in peril of my soul that what I write is true, and beg loyal servants of the House of Stuart to take warning. This man of noble blood and reputation is false, a despiser of virtue. Young Glengarry, elder son of McDonell, Chief of Glengarry, has used the lineage and honour of his name to betray our cause.

  I am writing this in sickness and in sorrow, but in full possession of my mind and pen. I beg you who read, conscious of my family’s own service, to believe what is written here and take warning, for all our sakes.

  There is no enmity between McIvors and McDonells. Our houses are related by kin and marriage, without any ancient feud. I bear no grudge or prejudice. I was brought up by my parents to respect all those of the name McDonell. When I was under the protection of Clementina Sobieski, I heard the Chiefs of Glengarry praised for their loyalty to the true line and for their Catholic faith.

  The grandfather of Young Glengarry, Alister Dubh McDonell, led the clan at Killiecrankie and at Sheriffmuir. In that first battle he lost his brother, Donald Gorm, and at the second, his kinsman Clanranald fell by his side. Though of advanced years, Alister Dubh cast his bonnet in the air shouting ‘Revenge today but lament tomorrow’. Then he led the charge that gained
one side of the field. This is what I heard as a child.

  Some say that McDonells have never lost lands or position on account of their loyalty. By keeping friends on both sides they avoid the fate of others. But it is the duty of chiefs to look after their people by holding the land for the good of all. It is different for each clan according to their neighbours and kin. McDonell kept his oldest son in France while the clan went out led by his younger son, Aeneas, and his cousin Lochgarry. The McDonells fought courageously till Aeneas’ death sent them home from Falkirk. Due to the early loss of our parents, we could only commit Clan McIvor body and soul to the Rising.

  After the expedition was underway, Young Glengarry sailed from France, where he was serving in the army, with reinforcements and supplies. But they were caught at sea, and he was imprisoned in London till the affair came to its desperate end.

  I was sheltered after Culloden by the remnant of my clan. Due to the kindness of Edward Waverley, my poor people were saved the worst excesses of the Butcher Cumberland. However I was not reconciled to a life of concealment at Castle McIvor. Fergus had left no heirs, so was I not his successor?

  Though captured in open fight, Fergus was treated as a common criminal and we were not allowed to bring his body home to rest amongst his kin. Nor was I permitted to visit him before the execution. But I know that he died as bravely as he lived, and I was resolved to continue the struggle. I wanted to follow his example in the cause of McIvor, not to be a retired gentlewoman dependent on others, or a religious. Fergus’ death would be avenged.

  I received a message from Clementina Walkinshaw, urging me to come to France. This letter was delivered by the hand of a McDonell clansman. I was to join a party of loyal Jacobites that had gathered to strike another blow, this time in England. I found Clementina at Boulogne, where other sympathisers including Colonel O’Sullivan were gathered. Young Glengarry was of their number, though when I arrived he was in England preparing this new assault.

  When Alister Ruadh returned, he insisted on the strength of our connection that he should be my personal protector. Our relationship grew close, and he proposed that we should marry when things were more settled. I agreed to this as an honourable alliance for the daughter of McIvor.

  Glengarry was our leader. Elegant, tall, domineering; he had the capacity to command and inspire. We were all in some sense under his spell, but I more than others. In my grief and anger I saw him as the instrument of our revenge. He could inflict harm on those who had so brutally and effectively destroyed us. Or so he persuaded me. I was drawn by that conviction to his side, his service. Where Charles Edward had failed he could succeed.

  I am writing frankly to prove that I am honest, and to prevent others from discrediting my name. It was a time of war and we were a clandestine force, designing to overthrow a complacent enemy from within.

  There were two sides to our hidden endeavours. In London a party led by Murray of Elibank planned to kidnap members of the royal family as a signal for English Jacobites to rise. At the same time the loyal Highland clans would break the chains which bound them after Culloden. The messenger between these parties was Glengarry, and we were assured by him that Prince Charles had given assent to our actions.

  Delays were reported, but we had no suspicion of Alister Ruadh. He was the moving spirit, keeping us in thrall. Cut off in Boulogne we had few other sources of information. Rumours spread that blame for our setbacks lay with Clementina Walkinshaw. Not only was she close to Charles Edward, but her sister was lady in waiting at the Court in London. I knew this was wrong – none has been truer to the cause than Clementina. All this time Glengarry was undermining the venture while pretending to be its mainspring.

  The action in London did not take place. Twice I went to England with Glengarry, providing cover for his travels as the well born Highland wife. The plan was to strike that blow against the Hanoverian dynasty in their own palace in London. These visits were taken up by inconclusive rumours, and muddled assignations with Jacobite sympathisers. We stayed openly in prosperous inns, which Glengarry said would avert suspicion. He was always in funds.

  From these visits I learned that Prince Charles himself had been in London consulting his supporters and inspecting the defences of the Tower. He had even pledged to change his religion in order to win over the English Protestants. But abduction and assassination should have given me pause. If Charles had granted permission, then disappointment had changed his nature.

  Glengarry did not divulge his inner calculation, or what progress was being made. Perhaps because there was none – none at any rate favourable to the Stuart cause. Alister Ruadh was accomplished at being importantly secret, of knowing things too risky to share. Meanwhile he spent his time between assignations resting and enjoying the comforts of city life. Did he take delight in his own cleverness, his deceit?

  Likely it had been all along a trap for the plotters, flushing out the actively disloyal while putting off moderate sympathisers. Murray of Elibank appeared beside himself, fixing everyone with piercing stares while boasting of what explosives would achieve. The gamble of a reckless few were cruelly exploited with a double hand. Cold malice, even while I shared his bed and table.

  The renewed campaign in Scotland was also betrayed, still born. The brave and honest Archibald Cameron, Lochiel’s own brother, was seized. O’Sullivan told me that Dr Archibald stood accused of using the French money concealed at Loch Arkaig for his own selfish purpose. The accuser was Young Glengarry. This became the means by which the whole failure in Scotland could be blamed on someone else. It did not ring true even as I heard the insinuations. Dr Cameron was a man of principal and soul, as he later proved on the scaffold.

  When O’Sullivan had gone I looked about the narrow rooms which Glengarry rented in Boulogne. It was an old house with wide chimneys, twisting stairs and panelling blackened by centuries of smoke. I had seen Alister Ruadh handle papers from a wooden chest, and found it beneath the window seat. Below the panel below was set forward, leaving a hidden chamber behind. Now I had my hand on the matter. I took a short sword and broke the lock and chain.

  I was trembling as I laid out the contents – folded letters, rolled papers, lists and maps. Yet I sat through the night reading by candlelight. There was correspondence from and to London, Scotland, Rome, and His Royal Highness Charles Edward. Some were in cipher, mainly letters for the Duke of Newcastle in the English Government. But the code was also in the chest with numbers substituted for names and places. Glengarry himself used the name Peregrine, Peregrine Pickle, a supposed hero of Romance. It was bizarre and even laughable, were the effect not so deadly.

  Everything had been laid bare from the start, everything that was planned in London and Scotland. Even the list of clans pledged to rise, with the numbers each could bring again to the field, had been passed on to Newcastle. This had been gathered by Glengarry’s own cousin but that had not prevented its exposure. This was treason dark and near.

  As my mind slowed, I felt an icy chill creep around my heart. Pickle had sent Archibald Cameron to his death. And here was a letter written by Glengarry to King James’ secretary in Rome, accusing Dr Cameron of using the Loch Arkaig Louis d’Or for his own purposes. At the same time the writer pled his own loyalty and usefulness. In these last months it had been Glengarry who had been able to travel widely, and to keep these rooms in which I sat. In the kist was a small bag of gold coins – Louis d’Or.

  The ashes had died in a cold grey dawn before my mind turned to what I could do. My pulse began to race again but this time with fear. Clementina had been called away to Charles’ royal presence. O’Sullivan and others were still around me in Boulogne, but in whom can I confide? Everyone here is linked to Glengarry. What if he returns to find his secret papers disturbed? I replaced them as best I could and hid everything again behind the hollow panel.

  A few days later, revolving everything constantly in my brain without rest, I have sat down once again in this fearful room a
nd written my account. I am sending it to a name and holding address that I saw used by Glengarry for correspondence with His Royal Highness, Prince Charles. Forgive me if I have done wrong, but I have no other person to whom I can turn to prevent further treachery. What further harm? Before more lives are lost.

  I continue feverish and anxious. I beg Charles’ advisers and trusted friends to read these words and credit me. I cannot find rest before committing them to your care. If Clementina is at hand, she can vouch for my faith and honesty. I am no Peregrine, false in name and nature.

  I bear no spite at Alister Ruadh for dishonouring me and the name of McIvor. God will see justice done for such pitiless wrong. But I charge Glengarry as a black traitor, a twice deceiver. He is a child of Satan who looks and speaks fair, while devising mischief. This place is haunted by his poisoned secrets. I must leave these rooms and never return.

  Please believe me, and act for the best,

  Your servant,

  Flora McIvor

  Clementina Walkinshaw

  Sir, I write to you as a faithful servant of the House of Stuart, Clementina, younger daughter of the late Chevalier John Walkinshaw, and niece of Sir Hugh Paterson of Bannockburn.

  The service of my family to the good cause is well known, both in the late expedition of Prince Charles Edward to Britain, but also long since in the assistance rendered by my father to the household of King James, and in particular to her late Majesty Clementina Sobieski, whose rescue he attended bringing Her Majesty across Europe to His Majesty at Court. It is for Queen Clementina that I was named.

  My purpose in writing is to plead the cause and the necessity of Miss Flora of the House of McIvor in Scotland, sister to the late Chief Fergus McIvor who was executed in England for his part in the invasion of 1745. She as you will know was a child in ward of the Court of King James in Rome, and later in the service of Queen Clementina who provided in her will for Miss McIvor’s education by the Sisters of St Teresa of Avila, until her return to Scotland to join the household of her brother.