The Last Jacobite Heroine

By Euan MacPherson

SCOTLAND’S FORGOTTEN HEROINE...

Daughter of The Chief of Clan Farquharson, young Anne was the envy of her peers... until she made the mistake of marrying for love!

The man she married was Angus Mackintosh – 22nd Chief of Clan Mackintosh and one of the most powerful men in the Scottish Highlands. At first, Anne was blissfully happy. But the year was 1745 and Bonnie Prince Charlie was about to step off a boat on the west coast of Scotland and plunge the nation into war.

Angus Mackintosh was a serving officer with the British Army and joined the brutal ranks of troops hunting the young prince down. To her horror, Anne realised she would have to choose between her husband and her country.

She raised a regiment of 500 men and joined the prince. This young woman, with little experience of combat, led her men into battle against regiments of the British Army led by “Butcher” Cumberland. As her clansmen fought their way through the fog at Dornoch, “Colonel” Anne Mackintosh was suddenly reunited with her husband... but not in the way she wanted.

Everything Anne did, during her hectic life, was for love. She married for love and then she picked up the broadsword for love. This novel follows her adventures through the chaotic events of the last Jacobite Rebellion on a sometimes heroic, sometimes tragic, journey that led her clansmen into clouds of sulphurous gunsmoke at The Battle of Culloden with bullets coming thick as the rain falling from the dark skies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Euan MacPherson
• Release date: May 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912750016

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The two flintlock pistols were large in Anne’s small hands.

Peggy halted as she came into the kitchen. Her jaw dropped involuntarily. She paused, slowly pulling the green tartan shawl from her shoulders. There’s a man riding hard for Moy Hall. He’s dressed in black like The Devil Himself.

A confused expression crossed Anne’s face. Is he a soldier?

He’s dressed in black. You never listen to a word I say.

Then he’s not a soldier; I told you to look out for the soldiers.

A wicker basket sat on the wooden table. A thin layer of eggs speckled with faeces and dirt barely covered the bottom of the basket. Anne plonked the pistols on the table with a thump. One by one, she lifted the eggs out of the basket and put them on the table. They rolled backwards to rest against the basket.

Peggy went over to the fireplace and looked into the big, black iron pot that gurgled as it hung over the fire by a hook. You promised me you would stir the broth! she shrieked.

We don’t have enough eggs, Anne said.

Peggy picked up a long wooden spoon and dipped it into the pot.

Anne put the pistols in the bottom of the basket and carefully tried to cover them with eggs. But however she arranged the eggs, there was always the tell-tale glint of metal showing through. I told you not to eat so many eggs.

I can’t make the hens lay.

You’re too fat; you’ve always been too fat. A green tartan shawl lay over the back of a wooden chair. Anne picked it up and pulled it around her shoulders.

That’s my shawl, Peggy said.

I need it. Anne put the basket over her arm.

You do all these things for Ewan, Peggy snapped. What does he do for you?

I don’t do it for Ewan.

You don’t know anything about men.

And you do?

I’m the one who makes their heads turn when we go to market on a Friday.

Because your bodice is never laced... Anne suddenly stopped herself when she realised her younger brother James had come into the kitchen. Both his hands were clutching the handle of a broadsword. He rested the tip of the sword on the floor.

You’ll blunt the sword doing that, Anne said.

Is that all you have to say? Peggy’s horrified voice screeched.

He’s a growing boy; he’ll have to learn how to use it.

Are you going to let him go with you?

Of course not!

Iain Roy said… James began.

I don’t care what Iain Roy said, Anne barked. Brushing past her sister, she marched out of the kitchen and through the house to the front door. Lifting the hem of her brown skirt, she hurried down the earthen, pock-marked driveway. A solitary goat munched on the grass.

Anne! Peggy shouted from the doorway.

Anne turned back briefly to look at her sister.

Peggy pointed to the tall oak tree that stood across the road on the banks of the River Dee. Ewan Shaw will be hanging from yonder tree before the year is out, she shouted in a burst of frustration mixed with anger. And you’ll be hanging with him.

The goat looked up, its jaws moving from side to side. The iron gates, tall and austere, seemed to frown upon Anne as she pushed them open and stepped onto the road. She looked east and west, her eyes following the contours of the road as it wound its way into the distance.

The road was quiet and empty. The flat grey stones had been warmed in the summer sun; they felt hot against her bare feet. A loose thread from the flapping hem of her skirt snagged on a stone.

She was marching east with the sun high above her head. On her right, the frothing waters of the River Dee gurgled and rushed. On her left, the hills rose towards the clouds. Ahead of her lay the arched stone bridge, hidden by the woods.

The tiny figure of a man came out of the forest and gradually grew bigger. Anne waved to him.

His dark hair looked black from a distance but turned to brown as he approached. He had a muscular body, a confident gait and eyes that were green as the leaves on the trees in the forests of Glen Feshie. It was Iain Roy Farquharson.

Did you see the horseman? Iain Roy asked.

No, Anne said.

Something has happened.

It makes no difference to us, Anne said.

Then give me the basket. Iain Roy reached out a hand. But his countenance changed when he looked inside it. What’s this? He jabbed a finger at her. If your sister didn’t eat so many…

She can’t make the hens lay.

Iain Roy carefully lifted the pistols out of the basket and laid them on the stones. Then he stepped off the road and gently tipped the eggs out of the basket, letting them roll onto the soft mattress of heather. Anne picked up the pistols and put them back in the basket as Iain Roy tried to cover them with eggs.

We’ll have to cover the basket with a cloth, he said.

You said it would look suspicious if I covered the basket with a cloth.

We’ve got no choice.

I don’t have a cloth.

Iain Roy was looking at Anne’s smart brown skirt that matched the colour of her hair and her white bodice, open at the neck to expose the hint of a cleavage. I told you to wear something old, he said.

She had a torn, stained skirt that she could not get clean. She might have worn it, but for the thought that she could not let Ewan see her in it.

Two men - Alasdair MacLean and Ewan Shaw - came out of the woods. Ewan Shaw began waving his arms urgently. In the distance, a glistening column of red was moving along the road.

I’m calling it off. Iain Roy’s deep voice carried through the air.

Anne bent down and picked up the basket.

Iain Roy made as if to take Anne’s arm but she jerked her shoulder to avoid his grasp and ran onto the road.

Anne! Iain Roy shouted at her back.

But Anne was already in sight of the soldiers. They were small in the distance, like toy soldiers. Their red coats gleamed brightly and the points of their muskets glinted in the sunshine.

Anne! Iain Roy shouted again but his voice seemed faint and far away. If Ewan Shaw had shouted, she would have turned back but it was Iain Roy who shouted and so she kept walking with the basket over her left arm and a pistol in her right hand. The tartan shawl, now draped over her right arm, hid the pistol.

In front of her, the soldiers gradually grew bigger. The tramp, tramp of their black boots on stone gradually grew louder. Already they were beginning to look formidable: their white-gaitered legs were striding out briskly and their black tricorn hats were bobbing up and down as they marched.

Anne turned and glanced behind her. A solitary heron stood on a rock at the side of the river, looking for fish. She was half-hoping to find Ewan Shaw there, ready to defend her to the death. The branches of a birch tree offered her some shade as they reached out over the road; her eyes were on the river rushing through the shallows. A yellowed oak leaf was gliding along the surface of the water, speeding up to ride the rapids and then disappearing from sight within moments.

This was where Ewan Shaw had gashed his cheek against a rock when they were children. He was showing off, hopping about on one leg, when he lost his balance and fell into the river. How she had panicked when he scrambled up the bank with blood pouring from his face!

Anne smiled at the memory. But when she glanced at the soldiers again, they were almost upon her. They were big men who dwarfed her but, as they approached, their faces looked drawn and tired. There were six of them and they trudged past her like sleepwalkers, without bothering to lift their caps or even look at her.

Anne turned around, her eyes on their retreating backs. The hills were staring down at her disapprovingly with tributaries spitting and slithering down their slopes like serpents about to strike.

As carefully as she could, Anne put the basket down on the road. Some crows watched from the branches of a birch tree as she lifted the pistol and drew back the hammer, taking aim at the broad back of the last soldier. The pistol was heavy in her extended arm.

She squeezed the trigger. There was a loud bang and the pistol jumped up in her hand. A scattering of crows burst out of the trees and into the air. There was a whiff of gunpowder in her nostrils and one of the soldiers stumbled forwards coughing up blood that dribbled over his chin and down his tunic.

Three more shots came out of the forest in a stuttering rattle. A cloud of gunsmoke was hanging in the air above the trees. The two soldiers at the front bent forwards as if hit but the third shot missed its target and Anne felt the draught of the musket-ball fizzing through the air as it went past her ear. Then three men were out of the trees and bounding across the heather amid whooping and shouting with their broadswords held aloft.

Anne dropped the pistol on the ground and picked up the other one, pulling back the hammer and taking aim. The soldiers did not panic but followed the drill they had practised on the parade-ground, taking their muskets from their shoulders and loading them as quickly as they could. Standing together with the butts of their muskets resting against their shoulders, the soldiers carefully took aim.

Anne’s finger touched the trigger and the pistol fired: the shot went over the soldiers’ heads. There was no time to reload. Anne drew back her pistol and threw it. She hit one of the other soldiers on the back of the head, making him stumble forwards and discharge his shot into the ground.

Shots rang out, their echoes clattering chaotically around the valley and ricocheting from one mountain to another. There was more gunsmoke in the air. A soldier turned to face Anne, his face red with anger.

Anne bent down to pick up a stone, scraping at the road with her fingernails. The stones all seemed too big, too heavy, but then she found one about the right size for her hand. She got her fingers around it and pulled but it would not come out and she was aware of the soldier lifting his musket to aim at her. Then the stone was in her hand and she threw it.

It went spinning through the air and the soldier flinched as he fired and there was a puff of smoke and a bang as the gun went off followed by the sound of a musket-ball singing through the air. Then Anne was scrambling about on all fours looking for loose stones. She was bending over and breaking her nails, pulling desperately at the stones. But the dry earth seemed to be gripping them hard.

Then there was the sound of the broadswords slicing into soft flesh and the ripping of cloth as the steel went in and was pulled out again. The soldier facing Anne turned around in time to see one of his comrades crumple as a claymore swung into his ribs and stuck there. But suddenly the sword was free again and the man had no time to fix a bayonet so he held out his musket to block the next blow as Iain Roy swung the sword into his body again. There was the sound of a clatter as the blade met the barrel and then the sight of severed fingers jumping up into the air.

The soldier dropped the musket and Iain Roy swung the sword into his ribs, putting all his weight into the blow and then letting go of the sword as it sank into bone. The soldier fell backwards and collapsed on the ground with the hilt of the broadsword standing up straight like it was standing to attention.

Twisted, broken bodies lay across the road like discarded dolls. Alasdair MacLean prodded one in the cheek with the tip of his broadsword; its dead skin did not flinch. Then he was bending over it and rummaging through the pockets in the tunic.

Ewan Shaw was sitting up in the heather, with patches of bright red visible underneath his dark green plaid. He was gasping and wheezing, hardly able to speak. He lay down, as if tired.

Was that a red shirt? Hadn’t he been wearing a white linen shirt when he charged? Ewan! Anne shrieked and broke into a run.

Stand up! Anne shouted desperately. Stand up, Ewan!

Ewan Shaw’s face contorted as he tried to speak. Anne could not hear a word he said.

She knelt down beside him, taking his hand and holding it in hers. She was looking him up and down, trying to see where he was wounded.

Can’t… stand… up…

We’ll take you to Invercauld, Anne said. Iain Roy and I, we’ll help you.

Anne leaned forwards, stroking Ewan Shaw’s forehead with her free hand. Iain Roy will take one arm and I’ll take the other, she said. She turned and shot a pleading look at Iain Roy and Alasdair MacLean. There was a small pile of money on the road and they had stacked the muskets together with the cartridges alongside them. Iain Roy had pulled a pair of boots off the feet of one soldier. He had also pulled the coat off another soldier and was already thrusting his arms into it.

Iain Roy! Anne barked, go to Invercauld for my father’s cart.

Alasdair MacLean looked Iain Roy up and down, at his bare legs with a red coat over his dark green kilt. If you want to look like a soldier, you should try a pair of breeches, he said.

His comment had been meant as a joke but Iain Roy took him seriously, bending over and unbuttoning a pair of breeches from a corpse. They feel comfortable, he said. The material’s soft.

Iain Roy! Anne shouted, more urgently this time. Go to Invercauld for my father’s cart.

No time, Iain Roy said as he pulled a pair of breeches off the stiff legs of a corpse.

But Ewan can’t walk!

The breeches came away from the corpse and its legs dropped onto the ground. Iain Roy walked over to Anne with the breeches still in his hands. He looked at Ewan Shaw. He always runs straight at the soldiers, he said. You have to jump from side to side; I tell him that every time.

Alasdair MacLean was taking the musket from the body of a soldier that was still fully dressed. He came striding over, cradling the musket in his arms, and looked at Ewan Shaw.

She fired her pistol too early, he said to Iain Roy, his voice accusing. I told you not to bring her!

It wasn’t Anne’s fault, Iain Roy answered.

She’s too hot-headed. One day, she’ll get us all killed.

Ewan can’t walk, Anne pleaded. We will have to go to Invercauld for my father’s cart.

You run too slowly, Alasdair MacLean barked at Iain Roy. I’m always telling you to keep up.

Ewan Shaw’s quicker than me; he always has been.

You let him run ahead, knowing that he’d get hit before you do.

Will you go to Invercauld for my father’s cart? Anne shouted.

We have to move the muskets and the gunpowder to Braemar, Iain Roy said. I’ll find a physician and bring him back with me.

Another patrol will pass this way, Alasdair MacLean said. We can’t leave him here for the soldiers.

Then go to Invercauld! Anne screamed at them.

There was a loud bang that made Anne jump. Something wet like rain hit Anne on the cheek. Instinctively, she put a hand to her cheek and wiped it. When she pulled it away, it was smeared with red.

Ewan Shaw’s chest was a wet mess of red. Anne looked on with a detached disbelief. Alasdair MacLean stood there with smoke rising from the barrel of the musket and said We haven’t finished stripping the corpses.

You killed him! Iain Roy stammered.

The redcoats killed him, Alasdair MacLean said.

Ewan’s dead eyes stared up at the cloudless blue sky. He was so always so big and strong, so full of life: it had never occurred to Anne that he might get injured. She kept on looking at him as if she was waiting for that broad chest to start rising and falling once more or those motionless lips to break into a smile.

We couldn’t leave him here and we couldn’t take him with us, Alasdair MacLean said.

Anne gripped Ewan Shaw’s hand more tightly.

You’ve ruined her bodice, Iain Roy said to Alasdair MacLean. She looked beautiful in it.

Then you should have told her to wear something old, Alasdair MacLean said before turning his attention to the corpses again. He was systematically going through them. He would pick their pockets first and then strip them from the bottom up, always starting with their boots. Already he was accumulating a large hoard of plunder: muskets, cartridges, bayonets, coins, rings, leather belts, boots, hats and clothes…

Iain Roy walked the short distance to the road. Beyond the corpses, the basket of eggs was sitting on the road with Anne’s shawl neatly folded on top of it. He walked over to the basket, picking it up and her shawl. As he did so, he spotted a young boy running as fast as he could along the road.

Alasdair MacLean dropped the boot he was holding and walked over to stand at Iain Roy’s shoulder. He knew immediately that something was wrong. It’s Anne’s brother, he whispered.

Iain Roy turned to Anne. It’s James! he shouted.

Anne was still sitting in the heather. Her eyes were on Ewan Shaw’s long, dark hair, his almost-perfect nose that was perhaps a little too big and the small scar on his cheek that he got when he had lost his balance and fallen against a rock in the River Dee.

Anne, it’s your brother…

But Anne carried on gripping Ewan Shaw’s hand and paid no attention.

CHAPTER TWO

What is it?

James was panting hard, bent double. He put a hand on his side.

What is it? Alasdair MacLean shouted.

James forced out the words The… Mackintosh… is… dead.

Alasdair MacLean looked at Iain Roy. Iain Roy turned to look at Anne.

I always said he would die in his bed like a coward, Iain Roy said.

He...had… a… fever.

Who told you? Alasdair MacLean demanded.

A…mess…en…ger.

The horseman! Iain Roy announced.

You know what this means? Alasdair MacLean turned to look at the scene behind him. Seven dead bodies lay on the road. Four of them were naked.

Angus Mackintosh is the new chief.

The Mackintosh will know we did this, Alasdair MacLean said. The old chief was a beaten man who spent his time at the card tables, gambling with the Edinburgh gentry. The new chief was a soldier who had served with The British Army in North America.

No, he will not. Iain Roy stared hard at Alasdair MacLean and James, challenging them to defy him. None of us were here today.

A crow settled on the nose of one of the corpses and thrust its beak into its eye.

We’ll hide the bodies in the woods, Iain Roy said. The foxes will make short work of them.

James pointed to the body of Ewan Shaw. What about him?

The three of them walked over to the spot where Ewan Shaw was lying. Anne was still sitting by his side, holding his hand.

Anne, Iain Roy said gently, we’ll take you home.

Alasdair MacLean looked the body up and down. He had a good pair of brogues, he said. Black leather with silver buckles, made in Braemar by Davidson the Shoemaker. He shot Iain Roy a sideways glance. They’ll be too big for you; I’ll have to take them.

Ewan Shaw’s dirk lay in the heather where he had dropped it. James looked longingly at the long blade and horn handle.

* * *

Oh Charlie he’s my darling, my darling, my darling; oh Charlie he’s my darling, the young chevalier…

A fiddler was standing in the corner of the dining-room, playing furiously. Peggy was standing beside him singing.

A huge log fire was roaring in the fireplace and a large leg of mutton sat on a silver platter on the heavy oak table along with finger-bowls of water and whisky poured into wooden quaichs. The long wooden table dominated the room and people stood around it, cutting lumps of flesh off with their dirks. In the centre of the table sat one of the black tricorn hats that the soldiers wore. It was upside-down and, inside it, could be seen a collection of gold and silver coins and rings.

John Farquharson lifted his quaich. To the King, he said. But before he drank, he passed the quaich over a bowl of water.

Iain Roy Farquharson also picked up a quaich. To the King, he said in a loud, confident voice. Then he passed his hand across the top of a finger-bowl of water and added, equally loudly, over the water!

Over the water! James echoed. Then he pulled Ewan Shaw’s long-bladed dirk out of his sock and cut off a leg of mutton.

Upstairs, Anne lay on her bed and stared at the rafters and the thatched roof. Through the shadows and the candlelight, she could see the frothing waters of the River Dee and Ewan Shaw with his hair wet and water dripping from his naked skin.

You should come downstairs, Anne. Jane, Anne’s stepmother, half-hidden in shadow, had appeared in the doorway.

Anne turned her face to the wall. I’m not hungry. Beneath her were the sounds of Peggy singing, muted conversation and the fiddler playing.

Leave her alone. Now Eliza’s face pushed its way into the doorway.

She should come downstairs; it would do her good.

She’ll come when she wants to, Eliza said. She tugged at Jane’s arm.

Jane reluctantly let Eliza lead her back downstairs. Nobody can understand what she saw in him.

She’d known Ewan a long time, Eliza said.

It’s all for the best, if you want my opinion, Jane’s fading voice receded down the stairs. Her father would never have allowed her to marry Ewan Shaw.

* * *

And Charlie he’s my darling, my darling, my darling… The chant arose around the room, in praise of the exiled king who was tall like a tree and handsome and strong.

Iain Roy waited for Eliza to come downstairs, and then nodded to her with his head.

She followed his broad back out of the room. They walked across the hall where they were saluted by the row of claymores that were nailed to the wall. He pushed open the big, oak door: the evening was cool, the birds were settling in the trees and there was a sense of peacefulness about the night.

Where are you going? That was James’s voice.

Eliza turned around. Go back into the dining-room.

James’s pleading eyes looked to Iain Roy.

Now! Eliza barked. Before I tell your father!

James’s shoulders sagged. He turned back to the dining-room.

Eliza felt for Iain Roy’s hand and he took it, enveloping her fingers. Then the door was shutting behind them and they were striding across the grass till they reached the front gates. They turned westwards, following the road to Braemar. The river, black like the night, wound its way through the hills and disappeared into the distance.

She looked up at him, his dark hair framed by the darkening blue of the evening sky. Had he taken her out here to bathe with her in the river under the moonlight?

A voice said Let’s go for a swim.

Eliza realised that was her voice. She loved the river with its deep pools and still waters coloured black by the peaty soil or its rocky shallows where the rushing waters frothed white. Black then white, busy then still...that was the river.

But Iain Roy seemed not to hear. I must ask a favour from you.

What? She turned her face to his, inviting him to kiss her. She waited for him to plunge his lips onto hers.

The patrols will out on the roads now. We need a woman to carry messages across the Forest of Mar.

It took Eliza a few seconds to realise what he had said.

A woman in the forest with a basket, Iain Roy continued. She’s gathering berries – it would not look suspicious.

So he only wanted to spend time with her because she might be of use to him? Eliza hid her disappointment behind a fixed smile. I understand.

Then you’ll ask Anne to do it?

"What?"

It would be good for her.

"What?"

It will help her get her mind off things.

CHAPTER THREE

Iain Dubh Mackintosh had spotted someone in the forest. He quietly pointed with a finger. Then he drew his sword from his belt.

It was dark under the canopy of branches. The mossy floor of the forest, sprinkled with pine needles, was so soft and damp that a man could pass along it silently.

Anne was lying on her stomach, her chin resting on her folded arms. There was a sharpness in the air and she sensed the chill of winter coming on. Grey clouds were creeping up from the south, enveloping the hilltops and casting the glen into shadow.

The ground fell away in front of her and she had a good view of the river and the glen that snaked into the distance. Beneath her, the deer had gathered along the riverbank to drink. The stag drank warily, reaching down to sup the water but always watching for predators.

A wood pigeon whistled from the branches.

There was a sudden rush of movement. The deer scattered, following the stag as it galloped hard towards the hills. Anne looked about her. What had startled them? She looked behind her into the forest and then forward into the broadening glen. She saw nothing.

There was that whistle again. What if…? Suddenly Anne’s heart was racing. What if the whistle was human? There was a glimmer of movement to her left. And to her right. Anne’s fingers searched for the broadsword that was by her side.

A dead twig snapped. Shadows were moving. Dark kilts darted through the trees. Anne’s fingers touched something cold and hard. It was her claymore. She grasped it by the handle, dragging it towards her. Then she looked up to see a man coming straight for her. There was no time to think so she jumped up, holding the claymore in both hands.

A glint of metal; the curved swing of a sword flashing through the air and the crash of steel meeting steel: a jarring vibration ran up Anne’s arms and through her whole body.

The sword was on the ground in two pieces, the blade broken like the branch of a tree. My father’s claymore! Anne shrieked.

Within seconds, she was surrounded. Men appeared in front of her almost like magic. What have we here? one asked.

Her attacker took hold of her arm. Let’s take her to The Mackintosh, he said.

They marched her through the forest to a stream that cut through the hillside. They scrambled downwards and followed the muddy, uneven banks of the stream to the floor of the glen. They came out of the trees and onto the riverbank, overlooked by the hills and trees.

The men were gripping her arms like she was a fugitive. A man on a brown horse spotted the small group and cantered towards them. He gently brought the animal to a halt, looming imposingly above Anne. Straight-backed and dark-haired,