Prince Charlie’S Dirk

By Margaret W Price

This historical novel recounts the fortunes of an idealistic young Macdonald lad,Ian,from Glenfinnan, who fought in all the battles of the Jacobite Uprising with his menfolk,supporting Prince Charles.

After the terrible Culloden defeat, he finds a silver,bejewelled dirk, at the edge of the battlefield,with the initials C.E.S. on the hilt.

Convinced it belongs to Prince Charles himself,he sets out on a determined quest across the Highlands to return it to him, with the desire to go on serving him.

This takes many dangerous months,following in the steps of the Prince,fleeing from his enemies.

Eventually he finds him and carries out several important missions for him.

As the Prince is about to set sail on the French rescue ship "L`Heureux",which is to take him to France and freedom,Ian is faced with a terrible decision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499092578

Margaret W Price

MARGARET W PRICE lives in Worcester Park ,Surrey U.K.,near London. British History-particularly Mediaeval and Scottish History-also Ancient Egyptian History-have always been a passion for Margaret,. Her debut novel,published early in 2013,"The White Boar and the Red Dragon",about Richard 111 and Henry Tudor,reflects her great interest in Mediaeval History, Her second Novel,"Prince Charlie`s Dirk", set in Scotland after Culloden,was inspired by her love of all things Scottish-as her mother had Scots ancestors-and this book is the result of her fascination with the Armana Period in Ancient Egyptian History.

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Copyright © 2015 by MARGARET W PRICE.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014921843

ISBN:      Hardcover     978-1-4990-9258-5

                Softcover       978-1-4990-9256-1

                eBook            978-1-4990-9257-8

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Rev. date: 02/10/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Endnote

CHAPTER ONE

A Metallic clatter of hoofs was approaching on the wet cobbled street below, waking me from the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. I heaved myself up and over to the tiny window of the attic to stare down into the street. At first I was dazzled by a watery stream of sunlight which somehow found its way through the dusty pane into my eyes, then the clouds covered the sun, and I was able to focus more clearly. What I saw made me start back quickly, wide awake now, and, when I looked again, it was with more caution.

A squad of redcoat cavalry had just dismounted below. In between the horses, guarded by several scowling infantrymen, was a tattered rabble of fugitive highlanders, the ones who could still stand holding up their wounded companions, reeling on their feet with fatigue.

A tall, tartan-clad youth about my own age, was carrying one of his badly wounded companions. Almost effortless, it looked, though he must have been worn-out himself. Blood matted his fair hair and plaid, but he ignored his own wounds as he lowered his friend as gently as possible to the ground, and tried to comfort him. The other youth lay groaning helplessly, obviously in great pain. A redcoat Cavalry officer turned him over with his foot, laughing derisively.

He’s not long for this world, I ken! he said callously. Then he turned and entered the inn opposite, followed by several of his companions, all quite indifferent to the injured youth’s pain, and that of the other badly-injured highlanders. Their flint-like features under the tricorn hats held no trace of compassion.

The infantrymen guards, in charge of at least a dozen of these captured wretches, stood, bayonets at the ready, in case any captive highlander should attempt to escape, though I thought that was very unlikely, the pitiful state they were in. The redcoats’ eyes gleamed with a menacing determination, and their bayonets seemed to reflect the same menace in the thin sunlight.

This band of highlanders, no doubt just one of many such wretched groups herded mercilessly into the small town by the Duke of Cumberland’s troops, would most likely be hung, shot or, at the least, imprisoned indefinitely, and left to rot, their wounds untended. They would probably be allowed to die in agony, denied even the services of a surgeon to make their last hours more bearable–-.

I shuddered at these terrible thoughts, and at the state of these poor men, remembering my own entry into Inverness the day before with a group of men in little better condition than these I saw below now. But we had been luckier, for we had crept in warily, unescorted and undetected by redcoats, after our escape from the battlefield of Culloden.

Already it seemed far off, yet it had been only the evening before, a bitterly cold April evening, which had brought my companions and myself, a few weary fugitives, creeping up like the mists from the Moray Firth into the outskirts of Inverness, the sleet slashing viciously at our tartan plaids. Once, the colours of these proud tartans had been bright. Now they were spattered with mud and blood, and we, their owners, were near the point of total collapse, easy targets for the Duke of Cumberland’s pursuing redcoats, but too exhausted to hurry ourselves more; some of us almost beyond caring what happened to us now.

Defeat and misery must have hung about us too, encircling us visibly, surely infecting all who set eyes on us. Everywhere, conversations had trailed off, actions ceased. In the misty silence the townsfolk had stood still, gazing, their own petty problems and private worries receding suddenly; horrified by the leaden weight of pain in the eyes of my companions – and no doubt, myself – who, but a few short months before, had left our homes with heads held high, strength in our bearing, and a burning conviction within us.

Now we were a sorry sight, like all men who had lost in battle; but we had lost more – our leader, our Prince, who had inspired us by his fortitude and determination through all the long months of fighting. It was all over. The final, terrible battle was over. And he had gone from us, rushed from the battlefield by a few loyal followers determined to save his life when they saw that everything was lost.

I will follow ye to the death, were there no other to draw a sword in your cause! one of the loyal chiefs had vowed, and every man had felt the same. His charm and gay assurance had overcome all natural doubts about the outcome; he inspired love and loyalty in his men, and made them willing to give every last ounce of their strength for glory. With him to give us confidence, success had seemed certain – but we had lost. It was all over. Culloden, shrouded in a mist of grief, was witness to that.

But, for me Malcolm Rory MacDonald of Clanranald, complete defeat was impossible. In my heart of hearts I knew that right was on our side. It was a just Cause. The Prince had escaped, untouched, many said, but he would surely return, and myself, and many like me, would be waiting, ready to take up arms once more.

I knew that most of those with whom I had entered the town yesterday had given up completely now, especially the older men: they had risked everything to follow glory, that willow-the-wisp, their families, their homes, and their lands – only to see it disappear from sight before they had scarcely grasped it.

Being only young compared to most of my companions, I had not, perhaps, risked so much materially by joining the Prince’s army, but I had risked my life just as many times. But now, despite the terrible defeat, I had not lost all hope like them. Though tattered and exhausted I had held my head high as we passed the townsfolk, and, if my eyes had dropped downwards at all, it was from sheer weariness rather than despair, and hopefully, discerning onlookers could see that my spirit was far from broken.

I had pledged myself to the Cause from the moment the Standard has been raised at Glenfinnan, near my father’s farm, and followed Charles, along with all the menfolk of my family. There had been my father, my two elder brothers, my brother-in-law and two young farm hands – now dead, every one. My father had been felled in that first deceptive victory at Prestonpans – so it had not seemed like victory to me. The others had all gone under in the carnage of Culloden.

Now, if I managed to return home, I would be the only one left able to do so. My family had paid a terrible price for its unfailing loyalty to the Jacobite Cause. I would have the miserable task of carrying the sad news home to my mother and young brother, my ailing grandfather, and the other women of my family.

Dougal, my younger brother, was only thirteen. He had longed to be older when the Uprising began, for he had also wished to fight for the Prince. Although he was so young and inexperienced, my father had entrusted him to be his mother’s chief helper in running the farm during his absence, for our grandfather was too old and ill to do anything now. With only two elderly farm hands to help him with the animals and crops, it was a responsible task, but he had shouldered it bravely. I wondered how he had fared during the long months, indeed, how they had all fared. He had lost an arm in the 1715 Uprising and received severe wounds in other parts of his body too. But the worst wound of all was to his mind and spirit. Though his bodily wounds had recovered well enough, his spirit had never really rallied. For him the Cause was lost forever, and all who followed it now were fools. I feared that the tragic news about his sons and grandsons, whom he had urged vehemently, with a brief flash of his old vigour, not to join the Prince’s army, would be too great a shock for him to take.

It would be a rough journey back to the farm, taking some time. Even if I managed to escape the redcoats successfully, a horse would have to be obtained, and food for the journey, before I could be away home. At the moment I could not think about travelling any more. Planning my journey home would have to wait. Other, more pressing matters engaged me.

Yesterday, as I trudged into Inverness, my only desire had been for food to fill my half-starved stomach, and a bed on which to rest my aching limbs and find forgetfulness for a while. There had seemed little likelihood of obtaining either – yet I had been lucky. One or two of the men with me who had managed to get away from the battlefield before being captured, or put to death, and who had trudged the five miles or so from Culloden Moor with me, had slipped into dark passageways and doorways, and let themselves crumple up like so many bags of kale, giving way at last to their utter exhaustion of mind and body. I had felt that I must give way like this soon also, if somewhere better (and safer), did not present itself. I could barely keep myself erect. Like the others though, I cared little for where I slept, as long as nobody interfered with me. A barn, or even a pigsty, would have been ideal – there I could have hidden myself away. Out in the open it was asking to be caught by the pursuing redcoats, who were hard behind us, no doubt, and would search the town soon for fugitives. It had been foolhardy in the extreme to enter the place at all, but the thought of obtaining a proper meal after so many months of near starvation, had proved too much for us.

The blinding sleet had become one with the haze of weariness undulating before my eyes, and I was just resigning myself to another cold night out in the open, when The Gay Highlander came into view. It did not look very gay, and it was none too clean. From the interior issued smoke and an unpleasant smell, like that of rotting refuse and bad cooking. It was hardly an inviting inn, but to me, it was a haven. If they would take me in. Surely it was not asking too much to expect one night under a good roof after the many I had spent in discomfort in the open?

The innkeeper’s slatternly wife had grudgingly admitted me, not without carefully scanning the street first to see if there was any sign of red soldiers, and provided coarse bread and meat, which tasted wonderful. A mug of indifferent ale completed the meal and then I was shown to a room high up in the roof holding nothing but two filthy straw pallets, both already occupied. My dream of a comfortable bed had not materialised, but the attic was dry, at least.

Ye’ll have to be sharing. I cannot do better than this, lad, she had mumbled, shuffling off down the rickety stairs before I could utter a word. The occupants lay in what seemed a complete lethargy, fatigued, disillusioned and disinterested, obviously fugitives of the field of battle, like me –-. One flickered his eyebrow briefly at me, then returned his languid gaze to the cracked ceiling, which seemed to offer him more interesting vistas of thought, if he thought at all, which was unlikely, for his gaze was vacant, unseeing.

I was in no condition to be hurt by this lack of greeting. I had thoughts only for the end of one of the pallets. There I could at least lay my head and sleep, and sink into nothingness for a few hours - - - -. Spreading out the top part of my belted plaid on the dirty floor, which was covered with mice droppings and the dust of years, I removed my sword, belt and dirk and then lay down flat.

Outside, all night, flurries of sleet hurled themselves at the little window in a wilder and wilder dance, as the blustering wind harried them, buffeting an icy draught into the low room. At first my mind had seemed too tired to sleep, and I could think of nothing but the battlefield I had so recently fled, now still and silent; the bitter sleet drifting in whitening clouds over the torn, tartan-clad bodies, stiff with death, not cold, and forming on each a pallid shroud –-. The wind and sleet became waves of mist engulfing me completely, and I abandoned myself to the unbelievable exhaustion now flowing over me in ever-increasing darkness –-.

For a few hours then, I had escaped the ever-present horror of Culloden, but now, below in the street, were the fugitives, guarded by vigilant redcoats, who watched with surly frowns and alert bayonets, while their fellows searched the inn opposite—and this scene brought back reality.

A furious anger surged up in me suddenly as a soldier directed the butt of his weapon at the chest of a wounded man who had staggered to his feet and was begging water from him, and jerked it roughly into the wretch, so that he fell, with a sharp cry, on another of his companions lying on the cobbles. I wanted to jump from the window, grab the bayonet, and run it through the callous brute, if it had been possible. But the smallness of the attic window, and its height from the ground made it impracticable.

Just then I saw the group of Cavalry appear from the door of the inn, pushing four or five more Highlanders before them, in ragged plaids, unshaved, unwashed and unshriven, and, even as the fugitives picked themselves up from where they had been roughly thrown, the infantry ran them all through with their bayonets.

There were horrified gasps at this brutality from the onlookers who had gathered in the street to see what was going on. The men were unarmed and defenceless, dragged out to be slaughtered like pigs. My fury was boiling over. Hadn’t the Duke of Cumberland satisfied his hunger for killing on Culloden field, without sending his filthy redcoat dogs to savage its pathetic remnants?

I saw an elderly shopkeeper in the crowd reach for a carving knife in his belt, anger contorting his ruddy, good-natured face. He seemed about to throw it at the nearest redcoat, but was constrained by his wife’s hand on his arm. Fear was written all over her face – fear for her husband’s safety, and loathing for these brutes who murdered men as thoughtlessly as they would tread on ants.

The Captain of the Cavalry raised his sabre, flashing silver and red as it reflected the silver buttons and bright red of his uniform, and began to shout at the assembled crowd.

Now you have seen what happens to those who resist arrest! Understand this. All rebels caught hiding in the town are to be executed immediately, also anyone harbouring them deliberately. Those are my orders. You have been warned!

He raised his sabre again, and the reflected red on its shiny surface seemed like blood to me, for this man had given the infantry orders to dispatch the fugitives and was therefore guilty of their deaths, just as if he had thrust his gleaming blade into their bodies himself. Now, as he mounted his rearing black stallion, a column of light shot up, flashing from sunlight on his gorget, and the squad moved off down the street, herding the men they had captured on the battlefield, and leaving the others dead upon the cobbles, where they had fallen. It halted again at another small inn a short way off. It was clear that the redcoats intended to search all the inns and houses systematically, one by one.

I wondered how many of my weary companions who had escaped death at Culloden had perished that morning instead, perhaps caught in their sleep, or half awake, too tired and befuddled to defend themselves? The anger welled up even more, almost choking me with its intensity.

Inevitably, the soldiers would reach The Gay Highlander soon. Something had to be done, and quickly, otherwise I too would feel the point of a bayonet before the morning was out, or see the smoking musket end ahead of me as I dropped into blackness.

My room companions, so lethargic and uncommunicative the night before, had roused at the noise in the street, as I had, and they crowded round the small window. Now they were hastily gathering up their few belongings in the hope of escaping in some way before this inn was searched. They seemed eager to talk to me. As I put on my sword-belt again, and buttoned my stained tunic, they started to make plans to escape the redcoat search.

To me, escape seemed unlikely, but help was to come to us from a most unexpected source.

Even as we debated the best course of action, the unkempt innkeeper’s wife, who had shown so little interest in us at first, came rushing into the room carrying smocks and leather aprons.

Quickly, get ye into these and away down to the kitchen! she hissed urgently. Give me your swords! I’ll hide them in my own room! They’ll not find them there!

Wonderingly, we did as we were told, and, after a few moments, looked very good imitations of kitchen hands. Then the old woman led us down a dark back staircase which went directly to the kitchen regions. I was put to mind the spit, upon which roasted the carcase of a whole sheep. Within a few minutes I was streaming with sweat from the heat of the fire; my hair hung in damp, oily tendrils over my forehead, and I was splattered from head to foot in sticky, hot fat – I looked for all the world as if I had been at my hot, greasy job for a very long time indeed. No one, seeing me for the first time, and looking at me casually, would have guessed at the recent transformation.

The three other men were given jobs too. One was sent to carry in water; another was instructed to keep an eye on the simmering kale broth in a big pot and to stir it regularly. The third man was sent out to work in the stables.

Ach, they’ll never know you’re not my own men here, and I’ll swear ye are if they do ask. That Cumberland’s red butchers will not get the better of me! the woman asserted, then went on muttering to herself. Most of the words seemed to be obscenities concerning the redcoats, which she threw out every now and then, meanwhile hacking up more cabbage viciously for the broth.

’Tis a pity I cannot get at them! she cried suddenly. Ach, I’d show them!

I was amused at her viciousness with the cabbages. It was obvious that, in her mind, they had become King George’s men.

Barely had everyone got down to work before there came a loud battering on the front door of the inn. The squad had been even quicker than expected.

The innkeeper’s wife wiped her hands on the edge of her spattered apron, grumbling to herself, and shuffled off to unlatch the door, for the soldiers had now started to hammer on it furiously at finding it locked.

Open, in the name of King George! shouted the Captain who had spoken to the crowd in the street.

Well, give a body a chance then, man! called the old crone, taking down the inside bar across the door. It’s early yet the while or the door would’ve been open to ye all!

Where’s your husband, woman? barked the Captain, striding into the hall, closely followed by six of his men. Bring him here! I have a warrant to search this hostelry for escaped rebels from the Pretender’s rabble!

He’s coming now, Sir! she answered, suddenly meek as she caught sight of the naked sabre in his hand, still glinting red. He was away cleaning the stables and seeing to the beasts’ feed.

The officer looked very impatient, but, luckily for her, the innkeeper appeared almost immediately, coming straight from the stables, boots thick with mud and dung.

You took your time man! the Captain cried. I wish to be conducted at once through every room and outhouse in this inn, and I warn you, if so much as a hair of a rebel is discovered here, you’ll both pay heavily for it!

Nay, Sir, Ye’ll not find any rebels here, whatever! said the old man firmly. We be all good subjects of the German Lairdie Sir-begging your pardon – King George, Sir! God bless him!

He touched his forehead in a gesture of deference to the name he had just uttered, and his small eyes flickered nervously. He was obviously trying to hide his anxiety in an unctuous excess of loyalty.

Aye! lied the wife. Search all ye wish. Ye’ll find none here! Now, despite her earlier words, she was joining in her husband’s hasty assurances with fervour.

We will, woman, you may be sure of that! And, if you’re lying, it will be the worse for you! the Captain warned harshly.

I cringed within as the man strode purposefully into the kitchen, which led directly off the hall, followed by the innkeeper and his wife, both still swearing vehemently against the possibility of rebels being hidden in their inn. But I did not show my inner fear by the slightest movement, not even by the flicker of an eyelid, as the Captain looked each kitchen ‘hand’ up and down with a shrewd eye. At one point I was sure the man had noticed something odd, because he stood staring thoughtfully at the hands of the disguised Highlander who was stirring the broth. Did those hands betray, by some lack of knowledge or sureness, that they were unused to their occupation? But the Captain passed on eventually, and went from the room, outside first, then mounted the stairs to the upper regions with his men. My companions and I looked at each other thankfully and sighed with relief. But we did not dare to speak yet. I prayed that our swords would not be discovered in the old woman’s room. Even if they were not, escape was certainly impossible before nightfall, as things stood. There were too many watchful redcoat eyes around the town. With the coming of night, most of them would depart to their camp; the officers going to the various inns to sample the drink, and it would be easy enough, I thought, to get past the few sleepy guards posted on watch. Once out of the town and into the open countryside, I was confident that I could reach my home safely – after all, I knew the hills, moors and glens intimately, whereas the English soldiers had little knowledge of the country. I was also aware of many convenient hiding-places-caves and clefts in the rocks; old deserted crofts – the English would never find me if I made up my mind to evade them. But I would have to scrap my original idea of getting stores for the journey, and set out just as I was, unless the innkeeper’s wife was kindly disposed to give me some food for the journey. With a little bit of luck, though, it might be possible to get hold of a horse –-.

Whilst these thoughts chased each other through my head, in a lightning jumble, yet somehow coherent, I industriously turned the spit, closing my eyes every moment or so to escape the hot, spitting fat. Soon, the clumping feet of the soldiers were heard descending the narrow wooden staircase, and then the raised voice of the Captain again.

Very well, it seems that you are telling the truth. But remember, if you are tempted to harbour any rebel, of the dire consequences of such an action!

With these warning words he strode out through the kitchen, followed by the six other soldiers, without even turning his head to glance at my companions and I, and, very soon, we heard the front door slammed on the departing searchers.

I was very glad that the Captain has not taken it into his head to have a really good look at us. If he had wanted to search us thoroughly, then he would surely have discovered our plaids hidden under the enveloping smocks.

As soon as the redcoats had left, the four of us rushed to the window to note the direction they took, and saw them continue up the same side of the street on which "The