Culloden to Sydney Town

By T. J. Lovat

Culloden to Sydney Town is a work of historical fiction. It covers the century from the Lovat family's move from the Scottish Highlands to its arrival in New South Wales. The story begins with the defeat of the Jacobite army at Culloden on the 16th of April 1746, a day of devastating loss for the Highlander cause for freedom from English rule. It is also a day of death and rebirth for this Scottish family. The story ends with the arrival in Sydney Town of two brothers, great grandsons of a fallen Jacobite hero, in 1837.

Members of the family move to England, Ireland and Persia, where their Highland culture is challenged by prejudice and religious difference. One child joins the British Army and serves in the Americas in the period leading to the War of Independence, struggling between loyalty to the British cause and sympathy for the American quest for freedom. Another family member joins the Royal Navy and travels on the Third Fleet to New South Wales in 1791, challenged by the spectre of an alien force invading other people's lands and the plight of the convicts. It is his own sons who make their way to New South Wales half a century later to establish themselves as pioneers in the colony, one as a teacher, the other as a clergyman.

The story covers issues of love, loyalty and betrayal, as well as cultural and religious difference. The key characters are inserted into historical events and the lives of real people, including Scottish nobles, American founding fathers and early governors of New South Wales. The novel captures a slice of history marked by exploration, the discovery of new lands and the clash between old and new cultures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228875017

T. J. Lovat

T.J. Lovat is a retired Australian academic. His scholarly interests have been mainly in education and religion, principally Islam. He has travelled widely across all continents. His two novels, Son of a Jacobite (Matador 2019) and this one, capture his distant heritage between Scotland and Australia, and also his interest in Islam. 

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by T J Lovat

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Culloden to Sydney Town is a work of historical fiction. While it draws on historical events and names some figures of history, any resemblance to their character, motivations or events surrounding them is entirely coincidental.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-7500-0 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-7499-7 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-7501-7 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Book I

Thomas

b. 1746

Book II

Edward

b. 1776

Book III

Thomas & Charles

b. 1796   b. 1799

Epilogue

Scottish English Glossary

Scottish Gaelic Glossary

Acknowledgements

As with all novels, there is one named author but many unnamed helpers. I acknowledge here those family members, friends, and colleagues who played some part in shaping this book through reading earlier versions. Also, Tom, for your work on the graphic features.

Book I

Thomas

b. 1746

FAMILY TREE

1

Emma stood on the porch of her Tarradale home peering towards Culloden. There was nothing to see for the mist and drizzle, nothing to hear because the battle had not begun.

She remained there longer than she should have in her condition. The fine spray was moistening her pale, freckled complexion. It went unnoticed until the small droplets falling from her abundant eyelashes began to blur her vision.

By the time she retreated inside, she was drenched and the fire in the hearth was dying.

She felt more uneasy than ever before.

‘May he be safe; let them all come home safely,’ she muttered in prayer, glancing at the small crucifix that adorned the dresser. ‘And buadhach - victorious.’

***

Emma had tried to busy herself through the morning in the hope that Edward would be home by late afternoon or nightfall at the latest. She had felt so good these last two days, able to be the wife she had rarely been for her Jacobite hero husband. The birth of their first child was only weeks, maybe days away.

Theirs had been an ecstatic but difficult marriage. There had never been anyone else for either of them. Any time they had spent together was idyllic in an almost fantasy-like way. And that is just how it had been these past two days.

‘I just adore being with ye, Edward Lovat,’ she said when he had apologised for not taking her out for a ride or a walk. ‘I nay care where we are or what we’re doing. As long as I’m with ye.’

‘What did I ever do to deserve ye, my darling?’

She knew there was no need to answer that.

For all its idyllic nature, their relationship was encased in the rebellion from its beginnings. Endless talk and preparations had prevented them from spending the time together they would have wanted, the intrusion only increasing as the years rolled on.

When they were children, it was mainly in the form of games, single-minded play with one storyline, defeating the English. As adults, it steadily became more serious, and the seriousness was peaking today with the pending do-or-die battle just a few miles away.

Emma had taken more time than normal with her hair that day, golden auburn in the best Highland tradition. She wanted to look her best for Edward’s return. He loved her hair, even when she did not take particularly good care of it, as had often been the case lately. He had played with it more than ever in these last two days, slipping in and out of a particularly pensive mood and occasionally, almost absent-mindedly whispering.

‘I just love yer hair.’

It always lifted her spirits when he said this because, years before, it was an unexpected compliment about her hair that made her realise the admiration was mutual.

His unusual pensiveness had alarmed her slightly. Edward was always so confident, so in control but something had been worrying him about this battle, a topic neither of them entered upon lest it spoil the bliss of those rare days together.

‘Gu cinnteach the English will ken brawer than to take on such a force as these feargach Highlanders,’ she thought as she tried to console herself. ‘The English are just doing it for the pitiful wage they collect. A bought army can be nay match for a Scottish force fighting for aur.’

This is the way things had gone so far in this treacherous revolt, as the English called it, and how good can this Cumberland be that he could turn it all around today?

Emma held this hope in her heart throughout the morning as the weather deteriorated to the point that surely no battle could be waged anyway.

***

Ever since Lord Lovat’s regiment had formed at Glenfinnan in the previous August of 1745, it had enjoyed remarkable success. Edward was second in charge with a rank of Lieutenant Colonel, under the leadership of his second cousin, Simon, Lord Lovat’s eldest son. They were cousins through Margaret MacLeod, wife of the 9th Lord Lovat and a grandmother to them both.

Edward and Simon were inseparable. Even as small boys, they had regularly spent long days together, having run or ridden the short distance between Tarradale and Beauly, where Simon lived at Castle Dounie. Castle Dounie was the ancestral home of the Frasers of Lovat, the grandest castle in the Highlands that dated from the early 1400s. It was noted for its blackstone, four-storeyed twin towers that dominated the landscape of the Lovat Estates on which the two villages of Tarradale and Beauly were situated.

Edward was a year or so older than Simon, a little taller, darker in complexion and quite a bit bolder. Too bold for the likes of some in the area who thought him overly rebellious. Even Lord Lovat, himself sporting the dishonourable title of Old Fox for his cunning, had warned Simon about spending too much time with his cousin.

‘He’s trioblaid, lad. And he’ll get ye into trouble.’

Simon took it with a grain of salt because everyone knew that the Old Fox and Edward’s father had fallen out in 1719 over an earlier rebellion. The Old Fox had sided with the English, an unforgiveable act for Edward’s father who thereafter threw off the Fraser surname and named himself Thomas Lovat.

While a first cousin to the Old Fox, Thomas was far from being a Lord or living in a Castle. He was a hard-working farmer, a self-made man and a fiercely independent Highlander who would never have taken up with the English. As a result, there had been some feeling between these two cousins that lasted a quarter of a century until Lord Lovat finally nailed his colours to the Jacobite mast.

Edward was not really the troublesome boy the Old Fox deemed him to be. All the same, he certainly had not had the same cushioned upbringing as his cousins. This was part of the attraction for Simon. Edward had learned to survive the roughness of Highland life. He was naturally suspicious of nobility of any kind, other than Simon. Most especially, he had inherited his father’s despising of the English.

Hence, Edward normally devised and led the many campaigns he and Simon waged in their playtime wars against the English. The open fields and hills between their two villages, in the shadow of the noble old hill known as Ben Wyvis, offered endless opportunities for surprising the imaginary English forces, and inevitably overcoming them.

More-often-than-not, the enemy forces were pretend ones. On occasion, other friends would join in the games. When that happened, they were quickly relegated to the ranks of the soon-to-be vanquished English. Overall, Edward and Simon preferred the pretend option because it created less fuss and protest about ‘isn’t it our turn to be the victorious Highlanders?’ For them, the very idea of slipping into the persona of the English for the sake of a turn was as unthinkable as it got.

Theirs was an endless and tireless game of victory so when the real war began, they expected no different. They were battle-hardened beyond their years and actual experience.

***

One of the not-so-annoying companions to their war games was Emma Simpson, three years’ Edward’s junior.

Edward was about fifteen when he had his first experience of finding a girl something other than annoying. While she tended to fit in with the other players, unlike them, Emma never complained about being a perennially conquered English soldier. This was the case especially if Edward was doing the conquering. He noticed how compliant she was to his every command, how she looked at him with those adoring, jade green eyes, and how she looked through him to see even the vulnerable bits with which he was yet to find comfort himself.

‘She ken that I’m brawer than I ken myself,’ his inner self told him.

Edward surprised himself that he felt for the first time comforted rather than threatened that someone was seeing him in this way. He was used to hiding behind the moniker of being a bit of a ruffian, but here was this barely pubescent girl seeing him in a different light. He began to take just a little more care about his looks, especially if he knew Emma would be there on the day. He was a handsome boy but typical of his age and gender, cleanliness was not his forte.

‘Make sure ye wash and do yer hair, lad,’ his mother would say.

Like most mothers of teenage sons, she wanted to move him past the feral state, but all was in vain. Even when successful, the effort was a waste by the time he was over the first hill.

This all changed around the time Edward became interested in Emma and she noticed it. His jet-black hair had a shine about it now and the way his fringe fell over one eye, partly obstructing his vision, seemed less accidental than before.

At the same time, Edward began to take in her features, being careful not to make it too obvious. It was the eyes that he found so haunting but the hair that had first drawn him in.

‘Like yer hair’ was the first slightly intimate thing he flung at her as he raced off one day to prepare a trap for the English blighters.

It was Emma’s best day ever.

2

When he was sixteen, Edward moved to a military college in Inverness. It served as a finishing school for those who could afford it but also provided some basic military training. It was ostensibly a British college, in the spirit of the Union of 1707 between the English and the Scots.

This so-called union had been negotiated between the English and the Lowland Scots without even bothering to ask the Highlanders what they thought. That was a mistake if ever there was one. The British Army oversaw the college, but the military trainers were mainly Scots, the majority Highlanders. That was another mistake. While overt loyalty was to the Hanover Crown in London, not so far beneath the surface the rebellion was fuelling.

Edward learned much about military strategy there but also had his grounded beliefs in Scottish independence reaffirmed. There was an abiding sense that he knew exactly how his newly honed military skills would apply down the track.

Even though Inverness was only about ten miles from Tarradale, Edward only came home on rare occasions, especially in the first year. He preferred spending downtime with his new friends, often plotting and planning the rebellion. When he did come home, he would re-connect with Simon but then spend most of his time with Emma, his first and only love. This increased steadily as his commitment to her grew.

By the time he came home for good, he was eighteen and Emma a striking fifteen-year-old, the belle of Tarradale who had eyes only for Edward.

***

They began courting when she turned sixteen, the delay being at the insistence of the Simpsons, especially James the father who detested the Lovats, seeing them all tarred with the same brush of nobility. As a crofter on Lovat land, he had a history of tensions and disagreements, most directly with Thomas, his immediate landlord.

Emma was happy enough to abide the compromise of waiting for her sixteenth birthday. It was a benevolent result compared with the first response when James heard that his precious daughter and a dreaded Lovat were seeing each other.

‘I nay want ye spending any more time with that Lovat rogue, lassie. They’re dona stock, the lot of ‘em, the Da especially.’

For his part, Thomas was not especially impressed at the match of his son with a Simpson, but this son was now a soldier readying for the noble battle that was to come. As such, he was beyond guidance in matters of the heart. The two mothers, Hannah Simpson and Margaret Lovat, were quietly happy with the arrangement. They offered their progeny support and discreet advice, including about how to handle their respective fathers.

Things moved quickly once courtship began, as it does when lovers’ stars align. Edward and Emma were engaged nine months after their intentions were made public. They were married within the year, in late 1744. He was nineteen, she still sixteen.

The marriage was conducted in the small Catholic chapel in Beauly. St Mary’s stood in the shadow of the ruins of the Valliscaulian Priory, once a thriving monastery for French monks dating back to the 1200s.

The lavish affair was hosted by the Lovat Estates. Simon, heir to the Lordship, was best man. His entire family was there, as were several other Highland nobles. Most of those living on the Estates were invited, at least to the ceremony. The chapel could only hold a small portion of the crowd, so the rest spilled out into the Priory grounds and its surrounding graveyard. Fortunately, it was a mild winter that year.

Emma looked resplendent. She had insisted on wearing the simple wedding dress passed down by her mother who had also woven her handiwork onto its edgings. Simon’s sisters provided French lace as an additional adornment for the old veil.

As for the hair, the custom at the time was to have it pulled back tightly and covered almost entirely by the veil. Emma was insistent that this tradition be broken and as much of the hair as possible be on show. She knew Edward would want that and what he wanted was more important than what her mother or anyone else might think about it.

Edward did want it, even if he had not realised it until he saw her walking down the aisle on the arm of her father. Emma’s hair looked to him like ribbons of gold hanging daintily from the veil and flowing onto her snowy white dress. He could not believe his luck at that moment that she was his and his alone.

‘Love yer hair,’ he whispered as James Simpson handed over his daughter with a semi-appeasing acknowledgement.

‘It’s for ye,’ she whispered, blushing.

They were so happy. Life could only be good from there.

The wedding party ate and drank into the night, the feast provided largely by Simon’s family. They had turned the resources of the Castle over to the event. Several fowls had been sacrificed for the occasion and most of the produce came from somewhere on the Estates. There was no shortage of wine, most of it imported from France.

Both sets of parents were unaccustomed to the lavishness. They would have happily settled for something far simpler. Nonetheless, they entered-into the spirit of things and James Simpson and Thomas Lovat took the opportunity to settle any lingering differences between them.

For their part, Edward and Emma could not have asked for more. They were delighted with the occasion and deliriously happy with each other.

At the end of the evening, they took a carriage to Eskadale, a few miles down the river. One of the cottages there had been vacated and set up for them for the short holiday that would mark their first days as a married couple. There they sealed the troth they had pledged on more than one occasion.

‘At last,’ Edward said as they slipped into the bed prepared for them.

Emma responded with a shy smile.

3

By the early weeks of 1745, the seeds of rebellion among the Highlanders, having sowed for years, were beginning to produce a rich crop. The newlyweds were by this stage set up in their own home in Tarradale, just a few hundred yards from Edward’s family home and not much further from Emma’s. Edward’s father had agreed on the place, as had Lord Lovat in his absence.

The Old Fox was already in the sights of the English for his now-known collaboration with the Stuarts and the French King and so would be arrested if he made an appearance anywhere near Inverness.

This all added to the intrigue and excitement the Highlanders felt for the impending rebellion, an excitement indulged in no better than by Simon and Edward, the two warriors of endless war games that had always had only one ending, the defeat of the English.

Hence, the first few months of Edward and Emma’s marriage were times of excitement in more ways than one. While the two lovers indulged in each other as much as possible, their love seemingly one of those magical gifts of which they would never tire, there were also multiple interruptions as Edward would slip out at night for long meetings with Simon and others as they prepared for the battle that they all knew was coming. Partly resulting from his absences, but with two false starts in between, Emma’s first successful pregnancy did not begin until July of 1745.

***

Though Edward was away more often than he was home during the first year of their marriage, nonetheless everyone, including Emma, understood what he was doing and the importance of it. Such was the commitment to what they saw as a God-given cause to overthrow English rule.

Since the marriage, James Simpson had done a complete turnaround. He was now immensely proud that his new son-in-law was destined to be such an important commander in the battle that was to come. A month after the Battle of Glenfinnan, two of his boys were under Edward’s direct command at the Battle of Prestonpans, near Edinburgh. It was there that Edward’s reputation as a fearless warrior commander was sealed. They all regarded him as the mastermind of the routing of the English in that battle, as well as having killed three enemy soldiers single-handedly on the day.

In January of 1746, he led the regiment to another victory at the Battle of Falkirk outside Stirling.

At every turn and skirmish since then, from Edinburgh through Carlisle, Preston, Manchester and then Derby, little more than 100 miles north of London, the regiment advanced the cause of the revolt that would go down in history as the Jacobite Rebellion. Its goal was to re-install the Catholic Stuarts, of proud Scottish lineage, to the throne in the form of Charles Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charlie), grandson of the last Stuart King, James II. King James had been deposed in 1688, with his Protestant daughter, Mary installed as Queen. In turn, the Stuarts had lost the throne entirely in 1714, replaced by the Hanovers, another Protestant dynasty.

The Jacobites were all about setting right these wrongs and, by December of 1745, having overcome the forces at Derby, they were close to London and achieving their goal.

It should have been easy from there.

The English, however, responded by calling on one of their old warriors, the Duke of Cumberland, who began marching north with his army. The Jacobites retreated but today, 16th April 1746, they would make a stand at Culloden, just outside Inverness.

The force they had gathered was far larger and more experienced than anything the English had faced. They also had the advantage of being on their own land with plenty of support all around.

They had reason for feeling confident.

***

Emma’s fragile calm was shattered by the sound of cannon-fire late in the morning. Interspersed were muffled sounds of rifle-fire and the odd squeal and roar breaking through the constant din of howling wind. It was impossible to see anything but every now and again the unmistakeable odour of gunpowder was in the air. Emma now felt more apprehensive than she had experienced before – ever. There was an emptiness inside as though someone had left the house never to return.

Under the strain of it, she collapsed and lay motionless on the floor, conscious but not able to move.

It must have been close to an hour later that her mother, Hannah, arrived at the house and found Emma in an almost catatonic state. The loaf of bread she had been slicing lay beside her, the knife still impaled in it. The pot on the stove had boiled dry. Hannah was beside herself. As if having the worry of a husband and two sons at war today is not enough.

‘What is it darling?’ she pleaded, sobbing as she rushed over and knelt next to her. ‘Emma, Emma, can ye hear me, darlin’?’

‘He’s marbh. Is he nay marbh?’ Emma moaned, lifting her head. ‘I ken he’s marbh.’

She fell back, hitting the back of her head on the floor.

‘Careful darling,’ Hannah said. ‘We nay ken whether he’s dead or nay. We nay ken anything.’

***

Regardless of what had or had not happened on the Culloden field, there was another battle going on in the house. Having dragged Emma onto a bed and ensured her comfort, Hannah ran to get help. Things were not going well with Emma’s pregnancy, and perhaps with Emma herself.

‘I could lose it all today,’ she thought to herself as she rushed down the sodden track.

There were no doctors around, even for the families of Scottish nobles, on a day like this. Hannah went first to the home of Edward’s mother, Margaret, and then solicited the help of a couple of women with known birthing experience. She raced back and set about preparing for whatever might transpire.

During the afternoon, pieces of news began to filter through from the field of battle. None of it was good. Around mid-afternoon, Hannah heard that her husband, James, and their two sons were dead.

‘I’m gle dhuilich, my dear,’ the woman said at the door. ‘Is nay there anythin’ I can do?’

‘Aye, if ye ken anything at all about birthing, ye’d be very welcome to join us.’

In normal circumstances, Hannah might have collapsed, but she knew that Emma needed her undivided attention at this time. Grieving could come later.

Margaret moved to console her.

‘Thank ye,’ Hannah said without emotion.

Soon after, news came that Thomas, Edward’s father, had been killed.

‘Oh Laird; oh, my Laird. What’ll become of us?’ Margaret screamed.

Most of the women helpers received similar news about their menfolk, either killed or wounded. It was as though nobody would be spared grief that day.

***

The stream of tragic news was kept from Emma, or so they thought. She was delirious at times while at other times entranced. Throughout, it was clear she was in some form of labour, but the normal signs were missing. Something was not right. Whether she would give birth to a live baby or stillborn, or survive the ordeal herself, was on everyone’s mind. There seemed to be no signs of life inside her and little from Emma herself beyond the odd bout of delirium.

‘It’s as though her soul’s gone to some other place,’ Margaret said.

‘Aye,’ Hannah replied. ‘And I nay ken it’ll come back.’

Without warning, Emma came to life. She bore down with a guttural, soulful keen. In what seemed like seconds, those around her beheld a healthy baby boy. Thomas Edward Fraser Lovat had entered the world, wailing in what could have passed for an ancient Pictish war cry.

Hannah picked up the baby while one of the women cut the umbilical cord. Attempts to abate the wailing were futile until he was placed at Emma’s side. She held the boy, and he went to sleep

Early that evening, word came through that Simon was wounded and Edward was missing in battle. Whether Emma heard the news being passed discreetly at the door or just knew in the way of her Pictish ancestors, there could be no certainty. When they told her that Edward was missing, she responded calmly.

‘Aye, I ken. He’s marbh.’

When all the news was in, the women reflected that Emma’s coming to life and the moment of birth would have coincided with the time of Edward’s fate. If he was indeed dead, then not only was his son born on the same day as his death but at the same instant as well.

This is the way Emma seemed to understand the events of the day. It was as though the baby was dead inside her until his father breathed his own life into him.

These understandings were deeply embedded in the Indigenous spirituality of the Highlands, an underlying mystical ripple that infuriated the rationality of the English.

4

The women sat in the wagon, stunned, sobbing, wondering where to begin their gruesome task.

‘Oh, my Laird, nay. Nay!’

The first glimpse of the devastating scene was preceded by the stench that hit them as they neared the top of the rise overseeing the field of battle. Even the smell had not prepared them for the assault on their eyes as they peered over the field. Some of them had never even seen a corpse in the best of circumstances, much less hundreds whose lives had been ripped from them so mercilessly.

Little did they know that the light fog and lingering smoke of gunpowder was shielding them from the spectre at its grisliest.

Hell could be no worse.

Emma’s mother and the others had tried to dissuade her from coming but she insisted.

‘And my bairn’s coming as well.’

Steeled to the task, the baby suckling at her breast, Emma surveyed the scene in the vain hope that Edward might appear as he had so often surprised her in the past, sometimes when she was least expecting it.

Despite the resignation that came with the scene, it was still hard to accept that someone so large in life, especially in her life, could simply not be there anymore. She had even found time to do her hair that morning, vainly hopeful that this and the sight of their child might bring even a deceased Edward back to life.

‘I need to do my hair’, she had shouted as the others were mounting the wagon. ‘He can nay see me like this.’

Nothing could have prepared them. The fifty or so dead English and wounded had been evacuated, along with any Scottish weapons, rifles, swords, pitchforks, or knives. This left a thousand dead Scots on the field, many of them mangled beyond recognition. About half that number again were writhing in agony from their wounds, many of them in the throes of death.

The English in their hateful red coats ringed the field, rifles, and bayonets to the ready. No care was being offered, not even from the army surgeons.

There were just three doctors and a dozen or so nurses and volunteers, all Highlanders themselves, checking for signs of life and tending to the wounded. A couple of elderly priests and pastors were offering the last rites and whatever consolation they could. Most of the more erstwhile able-bodied priests and pastors, and several Highland doctors, were among the dead and wounded.

There was nobody to assist other than those in equal confusion and grief. The English soldiers encircling the scene were there merely to ensure there were no vestiges of rebellion. They had orders to shoot and ask questions later should there be the slightest suspicion of a rifle or knife appearing from underneath a body. They were, by order, stony-faced and dismissive of any appeals for help.

Emma was the first to pull herself together, jumping down from the wagon, babe still in arms, and beginning the short journey to the execrable scene. The others quickly followed. Emma made a feeble attempt to solicit help from a soldier who looked surprisingly innocent.

‘Could ye help me, sir? I’m looking for my husband; I’ve a newborn and would love him to see the bairn.’

The pale, frightened looking teenager simply pushed her away.

Unaided, they began the gruesome task of picking their way through the bloody mess, searching for a familiar face. When the face was not an option owing to its damage, they searched for anything that might offer a clue about identity, perhaps a hat, a glove, a coat, or shoes. As they mingled with others, they came across some neighbours from the Lovat Estates. They were able to point out roughly the area where Lord Lovat’s regiment had fought and, for the most part, been slaughtered. They moved to it.

Finally, they could pick out some signs of familiarity, this moment quickly turning to a new round of wailing as their worst fears were realised.

‘Oh, Laird, nay,’ Hannah screamed, rushing towards a mangled mess that shed some hint of familiarity.

It was one of her sons, Emma’s nineteen-year-old brother. His throat had been cut, almost severing his head, the startled and anguished look that accompanied the event frozen on what was left of his face.

‘I nay ken it is him,’ Hannah sobbed, the last shred of hope evident in her voice. ‘I ken it’s his coat, but he might’ve loaned it to someone. He’s a fialaidh lad, ye ken.’

She rolled up his right trouser leg to see if the familiar scar was there. He had suffered the wound as a small boy when he stumbled on the ploughshare.

‘I can nay see it,’ she sobbed, rubbing the mud away. ‘I nay ken it’s him.’

The others saw the scar before Hannah did. They watched as she stopped rubbing, staring at the wound.

‘Oh, nay,’ she screamed. ‘Laird, nay.’

There were no more caverns in Hannah’s head where the awful truth could hide. Her beautiful teenage boy had his life snuffed out at Culloden. Emma stepped forward, babe in one arm, resting her hand on her mother’s shoulder.

‘Oh, Ma. Oh, Ma.’

Time for consoling was brief. There were too many other hopes waiting to be snuffed out that day.

The rest of it was easier somehow, for Hannah at least. The sting of death had been blunted; the hope of a miracle evaporated. It was now just a matter of finding the others and getting them out of this hellish place.

It did not take long because their loved ones had all fairly-much fallen together, James Simpson and his other son, as well as Thomas Lovat, Edward’s father. The short distance between them merely signalled how far they had managed to advance before being cut down by cannon, rifle, or sword.

It seemed that Emma’s nineteen-year-old brother had advanced the furthest, sufficient to be the only one to engage in hand to hand, or hand to throat, combat. The others had all been cut down before reaching that point.

The other brother, a mere thirty feet behind his sibling, had been blown apart by an exploding cannon ball. There was little left of him but somehow his face was intact, the explosion behind hurling him forward, leaving body parts in its wake. His face had landed in a muddy patch of ground and Hannah, now hardened to the task, was able to lift and turn it to confirm her worst fears. Unlike his brother’s, this face was eerily serene, as though the mud had provided some momentary relief from the pain of feeling one’s body being ripped to shreds.

Between the two brothers, lay James and Thomas, both shot and seemingly dying instantly, one in the throat and the other from a bullseye through the heart. They had fallen where they had run, a mere three feet apart, probably from the same volley of shots.

So, Hannah grieved over her husband and two sons, Margaret over her husband and son yet to be found, and Emma over her father and brothers. Still, her Edward was nowhere to be found.

***

Using blankets and quilts they had brought from home, together with a small barrow, they were able to retrieve the bodies and pile them into the wagon. Simon’s nine-year-old half-brother, Archibald, was assigned the grisly task of driving the wagon, filled with the bodies, home to the Lovat Estates. Archibald had gladly accepted the advice that he should stay in the wagon rather than come down to the field. The shock was beyond anything that tears could appease so he simply sat stunned and frightened throughout.

The tears came when he saw the mangled bodies of the Simpson boys who were childhood heroes to him.

Margaret accompanied and consoled him on the trip home.

Meanwhile, the others, including Emma, one-day old baby still wrapped up in her arms, stayed around the field of battle, looking for Edward and Simon. Simon’s family being there offered some consolation for the grieving widows and mothers, especially those from the Fraser of Lovat Clan.

Though still short of thirty years of age, Georgina, the Old Fox’s eldest daughter and Simon’s older sister, was a matriarchal figure. She was a tall, dark, and especially handsome woman. Her own mother had died when she was only twelve and her stepmother, not that much older than her, had separated from the Old Fox some years before. With her father in exile in recent years, Georgina was the virtual Lady Lovat, matriarch of the Clan. She played the role with grace, dignity, and largesse. Her presence was therefore important to the others. She and her sisters spent time moving among Clan members and other Highlanders, offering practical help or, when none could be provided, their condolences.

Condolences were in no short supply that day.

***

Emma was visibly weakening as the day wore on. The hair she had spent more time on than warranted was dirt-ridden and bedraggled. Her normally bright jade eyes were hidden by black circles and her dress was bloodied. Still, she clung to the babe she had occasionally stopped to feed, wherever she could find a place to sit or lean.

‘There, there, wee one,’ she would whisper as Thomas suckled. ‘We’ll find yer Da; he’ll be air bhioran to see ye.’

Hannah supported her daughter as best she could.

‘I’m cinnteach he’s alive. I ken we’d have found him if he nay were.’

The lack of assistance from the soldiers was not helping. Emma risked all by confronting one of them again.

‘Could ye please assist me, sir? I’m looking for my husband. He was with Lord Lovat’s regiment over there, but we can nay find him.’

The young soldier looked frightened. He said nothing but began poking his rifle at the mother and child. Hannah rushed across and stood in his way.

‘Please, sir. My daughter means ye nay harm.’

Georgina was close by and saw the scene playing out. She hastened to their side.

‘Sir, I am Laird Lovat’s daughter. He is the Macshimi of all these lands. I demand to speak to yer commanding officer.’

It was a risky strategy, but it worked. The soldier went to speak with a corporal who, in turn, agreed to escort them to meet the colonel in charge.

They walked some 400 yards across the soggy, muddy, and bloodied field. Hannah and Georgina’s sisters took it in turns to hold the baby. They arrived within a few yards of a large white tent.

‘Wait here,’ the young corporal commanded them.

They watched as he approached a soldier standing guard in front of the tent. The guard stepped inside the tent before exiting and speaking with the corporal.

‘The colonel will see you in a moment,’ the corporal said. ‘Just wait here.’

After a few minutes, an officer emerged from the tent. He made no attempt to hide the small flask in his hand. He began to approach the women, stumbling on the rough ground.

Arthur McWilliam had seen better days. He was only in his mid-forties but held himself like a much older man. His uniform was hanging off him without pride, his stubble looked days old, his greying hair mussed, and he reeked of a mixture of gunpowder, sweat and whisky. Nonetheless, Georgina could see from the anticipatory smirk that he fancied himself as a lady’s man. While he was still making his way towards them, she quickly pulled her hair back and straightened her dress as best she could.

‘Ladies. I’m Colonel McWilliam. How may I be of assistance?’

‘Dear sir,’ Georgina said, looking up at him from lowered eyes and smiling. ‘We ken how busy ye must be and am so very grateful for yer time. We’d be even more in yer debt if ye could provide just a wee bit of assistance in helping my cousin here to find her husband. As ye can see, she’s just given birth to a bairn and is very weak and in need of some help.’

Georgina’s stepmother, Primrose, had been in the theatre in London, Paris, and New York before marrying the Old Fox who was some fifty years older. She was wealthy so it was a case of cash for title as she became Lady Lovat, and the Old Fox found a source of wealth to fund his newly acquired Jacobite sympathies. Being not so much older, Primrose had mentored Georgina in the ways of the world and, especially, how to get out of men whatever one wanted at the time. Her tutelage was on full display in this moment.

McWilliam knew who she was and that could well have worked against her. He had been instructed after all to give no help or even the most basic information to any Highlander, whatever their status. As fortune would have it, however, he had no time for his pretentious commander, Cumberland. He was relishing the chance to be his own master for a change and clearly out to make the most of it in front of these vulnerable women.

‘Why certainly, Madam,’ he replied. ‘I know you’re a woman of great standing in this district and it’d be my pleasure to put the English Army at your service.’

They could scarcely believe how quickly it took effect. Within no time, they were being escorted to Inverness in an army wagon, McWilliam himself assisting them as they mounted it. Emma saw, with disgust, him eying off her mother, before turning to help Georgina.

‘And please do let me know if I can assist in any further way.’

‘Thank ye so much, Colonel. We’ll be forever in yer debt,’ Georgina replied, rolling her eyes at the women as she took her place next to them.

***

As it happened, everything they wanted was in Inverness. Simon was in the hospital under guard and being treated for his wounds. He was the only vanquished member to be honoured in this way but the English reasons for it were anything but magnanimous. As the future Lord Lovat, they wanted him out of sight in case he became a focus for a follow-up rebellion. He was even more important in this respect because the current Lord Lovat was under lock and key. The Old Fox had turned up on the day, though being all of eighty years it was more a symbolic than military gesture, leaving his son to do the commanding with Edward as his deputy.

The Old Fox had tried to escape when he saw the slaughter unfolding before him but Cumberland’s main quest that day, beyond beating the Highlanders into the ground, was to ensure the capture of the elusive and now despised Fraser of Lovat Clan Chief. One of the reasons Cumberland had hastened back to London was to announce this capture personally, as well as begin proceedings for the public trial that he believed needed to follow. He had left his most reliable officer, Major Calderstone, and twelve of his most able soldiers in charge of guarding the Old Fox. This left the riff raff, including McWilliam, to oversee the field of battle.

Seeing Simon alive gave Emma the first real flicker of hope on the day. Wherever Simon was, Edward was never far away. That is the way it had been so long as she could remember. And it was true even now, except that Edward was not in a hospital bed.

He was in the morgue.

5

When finally told of Edward’s fate, the other women gasped and began wailing. Even Georgina, who had been so strong, fell about crying. It was a final blow. They gathered around Emma and the baby, clutching her where they could and inviting her to rest her head wherever she chose. But her head remained erect. No tears. Just a steely determination as she began to speak.

‘I ken he was marbh. Ye see, he had to be or Thomas’d nay be here. My Edward had to pass on his spiorad, ye ken?’

One of the doctors they knew confided that Edward had survived the battle but been executed by the English as a traitor after a hastily convened court martial. They would find out later that the fact he had attended a British military college meant he was technically deemed a traitor in a way that did not apply to Simon. Edward had been given one last chance to recant his Highland fervour and commit to the Hanover Crown as it was deemed any British military college graduate should do.

He refused and was shot.

Edward’s body had been taken to the morgue rather than left where he fell for fear it might become the centrepiece of a protest or to fuel a follow-up rebellion. The English knew of his reputation. Sometime later, it would become apparent that his hurriedly convened court martial and execution had been carried out by Colonel McWilliam without the full knowledge and consent of the Duke of Cumberland. Its legality was dubious in the extreme, as was the real reason for wanting the body out of sight, out of mind.

Georgina was physically sick when she found out about this detail, feeling she had virtually prostituted herself in front of the English lowlife who had murdered her cousin.

Regardless, McWilliam was the most senior officer in the district at the time. Hence, when Georgina, aided by a frail but determined Emma, pleaded for Edward’s body to be released for a family burial, they were told they would have to ask the same lowlife.

‘Ye nay have to do this,’ Emma said to Georgina.

‘I ken but I must,’ Georgina replied. ‘Edward’s part of the Clan.’

Georgina combined the best of nobility, as learned from her own mother, with the craft of woman worldliness modelled by her stepmother, Primrose. When Emma first came into the family, she found Georgina daunting. She was the older woman that Emma felt she could never be but, as Edward’s wife, she would have wished to be. She was now not so overwhelmed as in awe of her for her courage and her integrity. Clan Chiefs owed everything to Clan members.

‘And he’s teaghlach,’ Georgina concluded. ‘Family.’

She wrote a hurried note to McWilliam, requesting she be able to see him again.

Three days later, she set out to meet him.

***

McWilliam’s response had included an invitation to have one of his adjutants pick Georgina up in a carriage he had procured – meaning stolen – as was the residence where they were to meet. It belonged to a vanquished rebel’s house at Raigmore, between Inverness and Culloden. Emma’s stomach was churning as the carriage bumped its way along the pot-holed road. She wondered if she could stoop so low.

‘Lady Lovat, I presume,’ was McWilliam’s greeting.

Georgina noted that he had cleaned himself up from the last time. Washed, shaven and sporting a fresh uniform, she could see for the first time how he could be attractive to women. Though not to her, least of all now she knew what he had done

‘Why, thank ye, kind sir. I’m cinnteach ye ken I’m nay Lady Lovat. My Da’s wife is the true Lady though she’s now living in France. They’re separated, ye ken?’

‘Ah, well, you can be my Lady Lovat, anyway,’ McWilliam replied, a lascivious grin flashing across his face.

Their eyes met. He maintained the gaze. She smiled and turned away.

‘Ye’re far too fialaidh, sir.’

Georgina noted the quizzical look on his face.

‘Too generous,’ she said. ‘Too kind.’

‘Not at all, I assure you, Ma’am.’

They sat at table to a feast, as it appeared to Georgina, rather than the lunch she was anticipating. It seemed that McWilliam had spared no effort to impress. The fowl, no doubt belonging to the vanquished rebel, was cooked to perfection, along with an array of steaming vegetables. There was even a fine French wine. As proceedings unfolded, her feelings ranged from discomfort to vulnerable and even a tad whore-like.

‘Keep yer eye on the prize,’ she thought to herself.

McWilliam talked about himself, mainly about his many earlier military victories. Georgina listened, as the soldier would want of a compliant woman. Only once did she steer the conversation.

‘Oh, let’s nay talk of Culloden. I ken I’d like to hear more about yer victories over the French.’

While taking some delight in the food – after all, she had not eaten much for days – Georgina was careful not to imbibe. She would sip just a little wine so as not to draw attention to the fact that she was carefully monitoring McWilliam’s over-imbibing. She wanted her wits about her, and his to be absent, when she made her move. McWilliam continued talking and drinking, interspersed with shouting orders to his adjutant, the cook or another soldier who occasionally came in to disturb him with army business.

‘Oh, that is all so very fascinating,’ Georgina said on more than one occasion.

‘Yer family must be so proud of ye,’ was another regular refrain.

‘The Duke of Cumberland was so fortanach to have ye as one of his officers,’ she said, looking into his eyes.

McWilliam looked back and smiled. He placed his glass on the table and was about to speak. Georgina spoke first.

‘Dear sir, could I ask just one more thing of ye?’

‘Of course, Ma’am. What is it?’

‘My cousin is so distressed about losing her husband, and on the very day their first bairn was born; I ken ye could nay ken how tragic that is for her. I ken if it’d be possible for ye to have his body released so we can at least give him a bonnie burial.’

She noted the change of mood. McWilliam’s face became ashen, the constant smirk all but evaporated. She feared all was lost. He opened his mouth to speak. She jumped in first.

‘I ken the duke has ordered that there be no public funerals and we would abide this but I’m nay so cinnteach the duke ken how devastating things are, especially for young folk like my cousin. On the other hand, I ken ye’re a man of braw compassion. I ken if this’d be possible. We’d all be forever grateful to ye if so.’

McWilliam was by now well under the influence of the wine, if not of Georgina.

‘Oh, please call me Arthur, my Lady. Look, I’m sure this can be done. I’m after all in charge of operations here and the dear old duke is by now knocking on London’s door. As you say, he doesn’t appreciate what it’s like for people like you and me. Arrogant fellow has spent more time in his Castle than fighting on the ground.’

For Georgina, the idea that she and McWilliam had anything at all in common was detestable to say the least. He also seemed to have forgotten that she had also spent more time in a Castle than anywhere else. Nonetheless, this was not the moment for pondering on such things.

‘Oh, thank ye so much, Arthur. That’s most fialaidh,’ she said as she stood up. ‘If I could have something signed by you to that effect, I’ll be able to have his body moved before it deteriorates. I’ll be forever in yer debt and so will our whole family.’

‘Oh, can’t you stay, Georgina?’ he said as he staggered to his feet.

‘I’d love to, but I’m most anxious about my cousin and her bairn. I ken I need to get them home as quickly as possible. I’d love to meet again, however, when we’ve more time.’

Georgina edged towards the door, smiling, and fluttering her eyes while signalling that the matter of her staying no longer was settled.

McWilliam lowered his head and stared at the table, propped up by his arms. Georgina stood, stranded between the table and the doorway, uncertain what would come next.

McWilliam raised his head and smiled at her. He let out a heavy breath then lifted his arms from the table and called out to his adjutant.

‘Lieutenant.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the adjutant responded from the next room.

‘A pen and paper please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

In no time, Georgina was hurrying out of the house with the letter she needed. She reflected that Primrose would have been proud of her.

She hastened back to Inverness to collect Edward’s body. When she arrived, she was told that McWilliam had sent a despatch hot on her heels instructing the officer in charge of the morgue to arrange for an escort for Lady Lovat and the carriage carrying the body back to the Lovat Estates.

‘I ken I’ve started something with McWilliam that might nay have a bonnie ending,’ she shared with her sisters.

The one thing McWilliam had insisted on, no doubt watching his own back despite his slurring of the duke, was that any funerary services be very low key, in the way Cumberland had instructed. The family’s first idea had been to inter the men at Beauly, the seat of the Estates. There was no way this could be done discreetly, however, so they settled on burials at a small cemetery at Eskadale, the same isolated place where Edward and Emma had spent their first night as a married couple.

Some decades later, a church would be built there, and later generations of the Clan Chiefs would be buried in its grounds. For now, it was the perfect place, still in the Estates but on its edges and even many of the locals did not know about it. On 21st April 1746, just five days after the devastation, Edward and his father, along with Emma’s father and two brothers, were laid to rest in low-key, humble yet fervent circumstances.

Edward’s five-day old son, Thomas, was there, his birthdate forever a reminder of the tragedy of Culloden.

***

Culloden would forever thereafter come to mean so much more than just another Highland destination. The word would shriek for generations to come on both sides of the battle. For the English, it would shriek delight for on that day the Jacobite Rebellion was quelled. For their Highland foes, the shriek would be of the loss of a precious cause and of the thousand or so mostly young Scottish men left lifeless on the battlefield.

6

What became known as The Highland Clearances began in some ways many years before the Jacobite Rebellion. No doubt, these prior events played their own part in frustrating the Highlanders to the point that a rebellion was inevitable. From the time of the 1707 Union, the English had initiated a series of land taxes over Scotland that became progressively worse until, in the decade or so before Culloden, they were so reprehensible that more and more landowners were forced to sell or abandon their properties. This affected crofter families and even many nobles, especially among the Highlanders where the taxes were applied in a more severe way than normal.

Little did the English understand the Highlander.

After Culloden, the Clearances became even more punitive, in many cases involving expulsion by order of courts and, if necessary, with the army doing the dirty work. And where armies are involved, dirty work can mean very dirty work, especially when under the command of officers like Colonel Arthur McWilliam.

***

Georgina had been expecting the message when it came. McWilliam, now installed in an even more salubrious former noble’s property just outside Inverness, was inviting her to tea. She made an excuse that held him at bay but not for long. McWilliam persisted until, one day, he arrived at the door of Castle Dounie, no less than the seat of the Clan Chief of the Frasers of Lovat. One went there by invitation only.

McWilliam’s niceties persisted until it became clear that Georgina’s immediate use for him had been expended. At that point, he became insistent, and it took the whole family of three girls, two boys and two of the house staff to stand together and demand he leave the house.

‘I wish to thank ye sincerely, Colonel, for yer fialaidh support but I nay wish any more of ye,’ Georgina said, standing tall, her inner trembling well concealed.

‘Very well Miss Lovat,’ McWilliam replied. ‘You realise this might well be a mistake.’

He was crest-fallen and angry but knew he would be pushing his luck to take on the family of a Clan Chief, even one as vanquished as this one. There was after all still the issue of Edward’s questionable court martial hovering in the air. Word was that the Old Fox had brought the matter up in a very public way in one of his pre-trial statements and Cumberland, for one, was not happy.

At this point, the rumour-mill had it that the Old Fox would probably squirm his way out of the treason charge, granted his reputation for squirming out of tight situations. He might even come back to the Highlands and wreak some revenge. Hence, McWilliam needed to be careful on two fronts. He was also aware by this time that Simon had offered his allegiance to the Hanover Crown and been offered a commission in the King’s Army. For McWilliam, this could represent a third hostile front.

The matter of Simon joining the enemy was a survival arrangement that did not sit well with Georgina or, least of all, Emma, who felt that Edward’s best friend had sold his soul. But such were the times and matters of survival were not coming easily for anyone. For his part, Simon had learned a trick or two from his Old Fox father. He knew that, as heir to the Lovat Lordship, the English would want to be careful in how they treated him. In the circumstances, the shrewdest course of action was to change allegiances and hunt with the hounds instead of to run with the foxes, just as his dear old father, the original Fox, would have done. While his siblings were initially disenchanted with Simon for his choices, they forgave him nonetheless and, in time, came to appreciate the protection it afforded them.

For all these reasons, McWilliam gave up any hope of satisfying his lusty intentions with Georgina. He pressed his case elsewhere.

***

Hannah, Emma’s mother, was a healthy and still pretty, albeit heartbroken widow of thirty-six years of age at the time of Culloden. She had bestowed her auburn hair, jade eyes, and fair, daintily freckled complexion to her daughter. While Emma and the baby had stayed with her for a short time after the devastating day, they were spending more and more time with Georgina and the Old Fox’s family. Having had a short taste of the better life, including mixing with the nobles, Emma found it difficult to go back to the crofter house.

The difficulty in being in the old house was exacerbated by Hannah’s lingering depression and her inclination to blame the association with the Lovats for everything that had befallen them. Sadly, for Emma, her mother had reverted to the worst hatreds that James, her husband, had harboured towards the Lovats all those years. In her desperation, she had also fallen into the habit of securing help from men in return for favours rendered, making life in that house impossible for Emma and her infant. This was an old behaviour on her mother’s part about which Emma had slowly become aware, one not entirely unusual among the poorer classes in the Highlands.

***

McWilliam had recognized Hannah on one of his self-appointed rounds of keeping an eye on and, where possible, bullying and harassing the Highlanders. McWilliam was one of those characters who should never have been given power over others but invariably is, especially in invading armies.

It was not long after his rejection by Georgina. His self-image as being irresistible to women needed some healing. Hannah, for her part, was desperate for attention of any kind. The toxic mix began bubbling that day at the Tarradale Markets. While not well-dressed, Hannah cut an attractive figure that made her stand out. McWilliam remembered her from the day after Culloden when he had helped her into the wagon.

Hannah appeared bereft as she haggled with the marketeer. McWilliam had lots of experience with women in these circumstances. He made straight for her as she was bartering over some vegetables.

‘Are you having any trouble here, Miss?’

‘Oh, nay, thank ye, officer.’

‘Are you sure?’ McWilliam said, casting a stern eye towards the seller. ‘Make sure you give this young lady a fair price, do you understand?’

‘Aye, sir,’ replied the seller.

‘What are you asking for these vegetables?’

‘A penny and a half, sir,’

‘I’ll give you half that. I’m sure it will be sufficient.’

The seller acquiesced, knowing there was no comeback. McWilliam took the parcel and handed it to Hannah.

‘There you go, good woman. Please accept this on behalf of the English Army and me personally.’

Hannah was not sure if fear, embarrassment, or gratification was the chief emotion at the time. Before she could find any words, McWilliam looked into her eyes and spoke.

‘Don’t I know you? Were you not with the Lovat families at Culloden?’

‘Aye, sir, I was.’

‘I thought as much.’

McWilliam could see the look of hesitation in Hannah’s eyes. He smiled and took her arm, leading her away to where his horse was tethered.

‘I’m so sorry for your losses, Ma’am.’

‘Thank ye, sir.’

‘I have to say I find it remarkable that you’re able to bear your grief yet carry on with such dignity and grace.’

By the time they reached the horse, she was putty in his hands.

McWilliam began making regular visits to Hannah’s house, normally after dark. He would share a meal and have other urges satisfied before returning to the Inverness mansion that he had forcibly possessed. Every time he came to the house, he brought food, items of clothing and tools of the sort that Hannah could not possibly afford. He