Culloden: Blood on the Moor

By Joshua C Wells

As Bonnie Prince Charlie lands in Scotland, intent on regaining the British crown for the Stuarts, Gregor, a young, ostracised Highlander, has fallen in with a gang of murderous outlaws, whose actions lead him ever closer to a date with the hangman…

Meanwhile, Flora, a young, beautiful Scottish girl, finds herself visited by a ghostly and sinister hag, who wishes to involve her in the fate of the prince.

Both Gregor and Flora find the paths of their lives dramatically altered by the Bonnie Prince, and their futures dependent on the success or failure of the Jacobite rebellion. Futures which would ultimately be decided at the battle of Culloden…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398458031

Joshua C Wells

The author is 56 years old and lives in the south-west of England. His interest in military history has led him to writing novels based upon historic military campaigns.

Book preview

About the Author

The author is 56 years old and lives in the south-west of England. His interest in military history has led him to writing novels based upon historic military campaigns.

Dedication

For all those who fought and died at Culloden.

Copyright Information ©

Joshua C Wells 2022

The right of Joshua C Wells to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398458024 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398458031 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2022

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Culloden

Blood

on the

Moor

Joshua C Wells

He appeared.

Materialising out of the mist.

A ghost from a time long past.

Clad in dark plaid.

Striding through the heather.

A giant, powerful figure.

Long black hair flowing wild.

Armed with sword and targe.

Ready for battle.

Ready to fight and to kill.

And ready to die.

For his clan.

For the Highlands.

For a Bonnie Prince.

For Scotland.

And those who witnessed his passing

shrank away in awe and terror.

And did tremble before him.

Chapter 1

Glenfinnan

August 19 1745

There was a tenseness about him. It showed in the way he endlessly paced the length of the room; head bent forward, hands tightly clasped behind his rigid back; his steps deliberate, echoing.

Oh yes, there was much of a tenseness about him. It showed in his young, flushed face and in his troubled brown eyes. And it showed in the crease that furrowed his brow.

There was a tenseness about him because his name was Charles Edward Stuart and today, here at Glenfinnan, on the banks of Loch Shiel, he hoped to finally raise his standard. If only the clans would come…

The prince halted near the centre of the room and turned towards a man seated over by the door.

Time?

John O’Sullivan took out his timepiece, the fifth time he had done so that afternoon and looked at it for several long seconds.

Tis almost a quarter before four, Sire, he finally replied in a strong Irish drawl.

They are late, William Murray, Marquess of Tullibardine, added sharply. The fifty-eight-year-old deposed Duke of Atholl was leaning against the wall with one foot resting on the other. He was suffering from gout and was of a mean temper. That is if they are coming at all.

The prince looked at him and forced a smile.

They will come, William. I am sure of that.

Let us hope so, my prince, Murray said. Raising the standard with so few to raise their swords would hardly be the most auspicious of beginnings. Not for one who has in mind regaining the throne in the name of the Stuarts.

Again, Charles managed a smile, though it was weak in nature.

They will come, he repeated. They have to.

He recommenced his endless pacing of the room and more minutes passed; minutes that stretched on as if time itself had become inexplicably elongated. And the tension in the room built as the anxious wait continued. Until…

Charles Stuart abruptly stopped his pacing and cocked his head to one side. John O’Sullivan pushed himself up out of his chair and stood rigid. William Murray remained where he was, but his eyes were wide and his breath he held in his lungs.

Prince Charles span on his heels and now the smile on his face was unforced and his cheeks were suddenly a radiant red. As the sound, faint at first, grew slowly louder, there could be no mistaking its source, for the swirl of the pipes were unique of sound.

They are here, he said softly, his face like that of a beaming child.

About bloody time, Murray said, finally letting his breath out and easing himself away from the wall to stand, albeit painfully, on both his feet. And even he, despite his discomfort, had the flicker of a grin on his face.

O’Sullivan visibly relaxed from his tense rigidness and let go an extended sigh of relief. Seconds later, they heard footfalls outside and then there came a forceful knocking on the door.

Come! Murray called and the door immediately opened. In stepped the Young Clanranald, eyes alight with excitement.

It’s Lochiel, he announced with passion. He has brought the Cameron’s; hundreds of them. And the MacDonalds are following behind!

Charles exchanged glances with Murray and O’Sullivan.

Well, gentlemen. Shall we go outside? He said, with a quickly regained royal calmness.

Indeed, O’Sullivan replied. Indeed, we shall.

Grouped on and around a knoll behind the cabin they had exited, the three hundred men of Clanranald were cheering and waving their swords and muskets. The prince looked about, once again marvelling at the magic of this place. What a place it was for a prince to raise his standard and what romance it lent to the historians of the future, who would doubtless recount this tale.

Here, at the head of a glistening Loch Sheil, with the blue of a near cloudless sky above them and the green of the mountains that loomed around them. And down from those heights there were, at that moment, streaming hundreds upon hundreds of men…

Men of clan Cameron and clan MacDonald.

Scotsmen.

Highlanders.

His men…

Now, Sire, O’Sullivan said. Now, Sir, you have an army.

An army of Highlanders, John, the prince returned. I could wish for nothing more.

Colonel Francis Strickland had joined them while the prince was speaking. He was an Englishman but a staunch Roman Catholic.

Well, my Lord, Strickland interjected, Perhaps you could wish for a greater number.

Others will come, the prince said, cheerfully. Once we are on the march, others will join us. When we landed, we were only a handful? Now, we are already over a thousand. And don’t forget the French.

Rather, your Highness, said Murray. Let us hope the French don’t forget us.

Charles Stuart smiled.

They will not. And neither will God. And God, my dear William, is why we will triumph in this great endeavour. Can you not feel his presence here?

All I feel right now is the Devil’s presence in my blasted foot, Murray replied, flinching from the throbbing pain caused by his gout.

The prince nodded in sympathy.

Pain is a terrible thing, William. But suffering is a part of the human condition. Without it, we would never come to know a true sense of joy.

Well, right now, I would settle for neither, Murray said, flatly.

Then settle for this, the prince said, turning and gesturing with wide, lifted arms towards the Highlanders who had come to support him. Let our grand cause be the rock on which your pain breaks.

Well, I think it’s time we got this grand cause of yours properly started, your Highness, John O’Sullivan said. The banner?

Charles Edward Stuart looked at O’Sullivan then at the Duke of Atholl and nodded.

Make ready the standard, he said softly.

Chapter 2

Cumbria

England

Most men hated the mountains. Most of the men he knew, anyway. To them the mountains and Lakeland’s of the north-west were wild, inhospitable places where no true gentleman would care to tread. Here, there was only the promise of discomfort; only the weight of hardship to encumber the sophistication and refinery of those used to the snugness and security of more luxurious surroundings. Yet for him, Sir William Wigginstone, this open, rugged landscape offered so much more than any of his many acquaintances could ever comprehend.

It offered him that peculiar sense of freedom which only wild places possessed. It offered his lungs the chance to breathe in the clearest air and the gushing streams offered his lips the taste of the purest of water. It offered him beauty in abundance, the splendour of majestic view and sweeping panorama, the stark contrast of lake and high mountain, of towering peak above picturesque valley. It offered him ever-changing skies and ever-changing moods. But most of all it offered him a chance to clearly think. To cleanse his mind in a place empty and uncluttered, away from roads and buildings and noise and… And people.

And was that not the most valuable thing of all that this part of the great country of England had to offer? The chance of solitude. The chance to be completely alone with one’s thoughts. Was that not what every great writer and poet so desperately needed? For could any great work ever be written within the bustling confines of city life and by a soul deprived of such scenic inspiration? Sir William thought not.

Ahead of him a crow squawked and flapped away, rising swiftly up towards some unnamed peak. Sir William stopped and looked around. He had been long lost in some lofty and idealistic rumination, his mind muddling through an unchartered galaxy of thought. Now, for some reason, he felt a coldness creep over him, a very real and much more basic sense of alarm.

He was in a broad, sloping valley, mountains rearing up far ahead and to either side. He had been walking through an expanse of long grass cut through by a meandering stream. Around him, huge grey boulders jutted out of the ground as if some maddened giant of a forgotten age had hurled them down from the surrounding peaks in a raging fury. The place undoubtedly had a sense of foreboding about it and Sir William wondered if it were that, combined with the disturbance of the crow, that was the cause of his sudden alarm?

For a while he stood still, haversack slung over his scrawny shoulder, pale green eyes probing the valley. Finally, seeing no evidence that anything was amiss, he shrugged and trudged onwards again, tilting his face towards the flagging heat of the late summer sun. But he had gone no more than a dozen paces before he abruptly halted once again.

A noise!

The rasping of metal upon rock; clear and unmistakeable. It had come from his right, from somewhere behind a great, jagged rock. Sir William felt a rush of panic. Immediately, he recalled a local telling him to take care; that the mountains were a harbour for rogues and knaves; warning him that these parts were dangerous for a man travelling alone. Sir William had been dismissive of the man, too dismissive. Now, he felt vulnerable and afraid.

A figure suddenly appeared out from behind the rock and came bounding through the grass towards him. Two others quickly followed, and it was obvious that their approach was not friendly. The leading man held a pistol; the other two had long knives. They were scruffy, dirty looking fellow’s, their hair wild and unkempt, their clothes ragged and torn.

They were closing on him fast and Sir William, stricken with fear, turned to run. But he found his way of retreat already blocked, for two more men were behind him, having risen from the long grass in which they had lain silent and hidden as he had passed by. Sir William froze, sucking in breath as the men surrounded him like a pack of starving wolves that had trapped a witless and unwary prey.

Well, well, lads. Look at what the good Lord hath delivered unto us on this fine day.

It was the man with the pistol who had spoken, not only his weapon but his leering face and brazen manner easily identifying him as the leader of the group. The two men who had followed him out from behind the rock laughed mockingly at his words. Sir William said nothing, his eyes concentrated on the bulbous forehead and thick powerful frame of the man with the pistol.

Now what might your name be, stranger?

I am Sir Wil… William Wigginstone. A gentleman and poet, Sir William responded, having to try hard to force out his words.

And what brings you to our land, Sir.

Your land? Sir William questioned…

Our land. The rogue confirmed, his eyes glinting with a mischievous evil.

Sir William glanced around at the faces of the other men. The two who had cut off his retreat were hardly men at all. Their gaunt, dirt-streaked faces revealed they were little more than boys, though the knives in their hands were compensation enough for their lack of years. The two men who had followed behind the leader of the group were much older. One looked well into his thirties, with wispy hair and a beard. The other was approaching fifty, a wiry grey-haired man with eyes that betrayed an unbalanced mind.

As I said, I am a poet, come to gain inspiration from this land.

You hear that, lads, the leader sniggered. Its inspiration he’s after. Well, Sir, it seems like you’ve found a little more than that, wouldn’t you say, lads.

Again, the two older thugs laughed and the one with the demented eyes took a step forward, raising his knife.

My dagger is feeling real inspired, right now, Rufus. And it doesn’t mind sharing that inspiration. Don’t mind at all.

Careful now, Luke. It might be this gentleman is armed and dangerous, Rufus said with a smirk.

I do not carry arms, Sir William replied. I am opposed to violence. My weapon is the written word, not the blade.

Well then, lets down to business, Rufus said. First, we’ll take your bag, Sir. Throw it over here, if you would.

Sir William shrugged off his haversack and tossed it forwards on to the grass.

And now your purse, Sir.

My purse?

Your purse, Sir, Rufus repeated with a humourless smile.

With a groan, Sir William reached inside his jacket, produced a small bag of coins and threw it over by his haversack.

That’s good, Rufus said. Very good.

Can I go, now? Sir William asked, head bowed and eyes downcast. I have nothing more to take.

Go? So soon? But we were just getting acquainted, Rufus said. To want to leave so quick might lead me and the boys here to think you don’t like our company. Is that it, stranger? You find our company distasteful?

Sir William did not answer, remaining with his head lowered, staring at the ground.

Turn yourself around, Sir, Rufus said. Take a look at the two fine young lads behind you.

Sir William did as he was asked.

Them two are Scotch lads. The one on the right there is a Lowlander but the one on the left is from the mountains in the north. That’s right, a real Highlander. As he spoke, Rufus closed the distance between him and Sir William until he was standing directly behind him.

They joined up with me, Luke and Henry here not two months back. So, you can see how friendly we are. We’re accepting of any man, even them that ain’t English. But a man who wants away from us so soon makes us feel disliked. Or maybe it’s that you don’t trust us on account of this old pistol here? Rufus raised his gun and pressed the end of the barrel against the back of Sir William’s head.

Is that it? You think I might shoot you with my trusty gun?

Sir William said nothing, trying desperately to stop his body shaking.

No, my fine fellow, Rufus said, softly, stepping back from Sir William. I would do no such thing. Why would I waste a ball when Luke here holds a dagger, that’s cold and hungry.

A split-second later Sir William felt a strong hand grab his shoulder and a savage, explosive pain in his back, as Luke cruelly rammed home his blade. Sir William felt himself falling, landing breathless in the grass with one hand twisted behind him, slick and warm from his own blood. His eyes immediately clouded, and he could not breathe. Yet his hearing seemed of an incredible clarity, like a sense never before awoken.

Above him, one to either side of his prostrate body, he could make out the blurred images of two figures. But as vague as they might have been, their voices were clearer and more distinct than any he had ever before heard. One, the northern English voice of Rufus; the other, a young, strong accent, unmistakeably that of a Scot.

You did not have to kill him.

Watch your tongue, Gregor, else I might let old Luke cut it out of that big mouth of yours, said Rufus.

But why kill him? He gave us all he had, the young Scot called Gregor protested angrily.

Don’t you question me, boy. Ask yourself why we should have left him alive. To run to the nearest town and set the militia on our tails?

Once they know he’s missing they’ll be on our tails anyways. The man was a gentleman and a writer of words. You should have let him go.

Hah, you talk like you had respect for him, Rufus sneered. You think he had any respect for the likes of us? You think he cared about some poor Scotch boy, exiled from his clan?

Sir William lay there as if he were in some surreal dream; listening to the two of them argue about him as if he was already a corpse. And for sure he was dying but his brain was still working and with a superhuman efficiency. An efficiency that he wished he could have somehow tapped in too long ago…

I may have been exiled, Gregor retorted. But I’m no more an exile than you, Rufus. And I may be a thief and a robber but I sure ain’t no murderer.

Thieving; killing. what’s the difference, lad? They’ll hang you for one, sure as the other.

Perhaps. Maybe I’ll hang. Maybe we’ll all hang. But I’d like to feel the noose about my neck knowing I was better than a common, cold-blooded murderer.

Let me gut the brat! Luke shouted, moving alongside Rufus, brandishing his bloodied knife.

Rufus swept out an arm and pushed him back.

You’ll be killing no one else today, Luke, Rufus said, threateningly. Get yourself away and keep quiet. We’re all on the same side here. Us and Gregor just have a little disagreement, is all.

Luke retired, grumbling and for a few seconds Rufus and Gregor stood silent, glaring at each other. Eventually, Rufus spoke. His words were calm and reasoned.

What’s done is done, lad. Can’t be changed now. Best you forget it and start thinking straight. Right now, you got no one in this world save us. Remember that. Climb your way over the next mountain and do you think anything will change? Do you think some miracle will happen that’ll make folks friendly and acceptable of you? Use your head now, boy. The only friends you have are us. Best not push that friendship too far.

"You may be right about that, Rufus. Maybe I don’t have no friends, but I’d still resent hanging from a rope with folks screaming murderer at me."

Sir William suddenly felt himself floating. Floating in some strange sea of cushioned waves that gently buffeted his body. His eyes dimmed and the figures above him dulled. Yet he felt an odd sense of inspiration; a story yet to be told. And the image of a Scotsman on one side and an Englishman on the other, in direct confrontation, was central to that story. Two men; two nations, at odds with each other. The Scots and the English fighting each other like they had over the centuries, whilst death laid claim between them…

Chapter 3

"… Hast not enough blood been spilt in the name of the Stuart’s?

Has the heather not been soaked red too many times in the Jacobite cause?

Have not enough tears been shed in the Highland glens?

Have not enough wailing widows been heard across the mountains?

Besides, who is this Roman Prince, this young pretender?

Who is he to think he knows the Highlands?

Who is he to think he knows the minds of the Clans?

And who is he to think we would flock to his banner as we did for his father…"

Unnamed man of Clan Chisholm—

DUART CASTLE

ISLE OF MULL

So, it has begun again.

Charles Maclean of Drimnin lowered himself slowly into the chair and rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.

The prince has raised his standard at Glenfinnan, his son, Alan, said with excitement. ClanRanald and the MacDonald’s are with him, and the Cameron’s have come out in force. We have word that James Drummond has already raised a strong force at Perth and the Maclachlan’s are mustering in readiness. Father, the clans are rising. We, too, must make ready.

Charles nodded.

It is what Hector would want, he said.

Hector Maclean, Chief of Clan Maclean, had always been a stout Jacobite; the cause of the Stuarts never far from his mind. He longed for the day a Stuart would return to claim his rightful place on the throne of Britain and that day had come at last. But Hector was not here to see it.

Two months earlier, the Chief, along with his two sons, had gone to Edinburgh to garner support for the anticipated arrival of the young Stuart Prince. Whilst staying in lodgings in the Capital city, the three of them had been arrested; betrayed by their unscrupulous landlord who hoped to gain financial reward for his treachery. He had received none and his future would be blighted by his own actions, actions that even his own wife would never forgive.

In his absence, Charles Maclean of Drimnin, had stepped up to help with the general overseeing of the lands of Clan Maclean and it would be he who would lead Hector’s men in service of the Stuart Prince.

Leaning back in the chair, Charles stared up at the high ceiling and thought for a moment.

Many of the clans will come out for the prince, he said, thoughtfully. There is no doubting that. The Cameron’s and MacDonald’s are only the first. The Maclachlan’s, the Stewarts, Clan Chattan, all will follow. And so will we. But there are those who might not be so willing, the MacLeod’s, the Frasers, the Chisholm’s. They will be more cautious, more careful. They will wait to see which way the wind is blowing; wait to see how the rising progresses. They have much to lose should they back the wrong side.

And much to gain if the prince gains the throne, said Alan, eagerly.

Aye, that is true as well, my son. But at first, they will wait and watch. And only if things go well for the prince, will they pin their colours to his standard.

Father, said Alan. You are not suggesting that we do likewise?

A more canny man might, said Charles. But when it comes to the cause of the Stuarts, I am anything but that. I and Hector are of one mind when it comes to the throne of these islands. And our good King George has no right to sit his fat arse upon it.

Alan laughed.

Well, this is our chance to move his royal arse off of it.

Charles grinned.

It is a chance and that is why we will come out for this young Stuart Prince. But don’t think that it will be just the English we will face. It will be our fellow Scots as well, the Campbells for starters. And they’ll be others besides. Mark my words, Alan, this will be a civil war and a clan war, just as much as a war between would-be monarchs.

That might be true, Alan replied. But the word is that this young prince has promised there will be help from the French. Think of that, father. Imagine a French army and a Highland army joined together!

"Promises are one thing, seeing them kept are another. In nineteen, the clans were promised the help of