Prince Across the Water (6 page)

I went back close to the redcoats again and said to one of them in English, “Dinna worry. We're no going to eat ye. Yet.”

He was a fair-haired man with cold blue eyes, and a dirty bandage on his right arm. He seemed as startled to hear the words from my lips as he would have been if a dog had just spoken them. Then he pulled himself up stiffly, his eyes going even colder.

“Worry about yourself, youngster,” he said. “Worry about what will happen to you when King George catches up with you.” His accent was strange to me, though I understood his words well enough.

I was aware that Granda was watching me and suddenly I knew how to answer. “German George is no my king,” I said boldly. “And he should start packing his bags now. It's a long road back to Germany.”

At least I thought it was a long way. I had no idea where Germany lay. It hadn't been on Granda's dirt map.

The Englishman didn't reply to me. Instead he turned his back and began talking to his comrades in a low murmur.

“Come away,” Da said, walking over and taking me by the arm. “Dinna shame me by blowing yerself up like a bladder. Yer granda has been filling ye with false ideas about war. I hope this is the last ye see of those redcoats and hope, too, that this war is quickly done.”

8 GLENFINNAN

It took us another five days to reach Glenfinnan, through two days of sunshine and two of rain that fell as thick and hard as arrows. We marched in two columns, three abreast, the prisoners in the middle herded along like cattle.

“Och, why carry them along?” called out Uncle Dougal to the Keppoch when he came to inspect how the redcoats were doing. “Why no just kill them all and be done with it?”

The Keppoch shook his head. “Because we're no savages,” he said, raising his voice so we could all hear, “nae matter what the English think. And I willna have these men mocked or mistreated.”

In fact, he had them fed as well as us, which by this time was little enough. It had been days since the beef feast at the Keppoch's house and all our stomachs had shrunk to the size of dried peas. Feeding three hundred men on a couple of deer and a bevy of quails was hard enough, though Granda had given me his wee share, saying, “I have no the belly for this. I prefer porridge myself.”

We passed by small huddles of villages along the loch, and large farms, where cattle and sheep grazed side by side in green fields. And though the farmers waved as we went by, and many even joined us in our march, they were all sparing with their food. We were too many for any one farm to feed and the Keppoch wouldn't let us just take a bullock for a roasting.

By the fifth day, walking from dawn to dusk, my legs were as soft and wobbly as curds of cream. Even some of the men looked grim and there was much grumbling.

“Are we still in Scotland?” I asked Granda. “Surely we've walked far enough to have reached London by now.”

Granda laughed though I could see he was more tired than I. “The world's a good sight bigger than ye think, Duncan. There's room enough for a man to walk and walk and still find himself nae place at all.”

“Nae place at all? I hope my feet are no bruised for nothing.”

“Glenfinnan is close by,” Granda assured me. “Just past yon hill.” He pointed ahead. “I was there once as a boy.”

There were doves—
cushie doos
—cooing in the trees, and a blank blue sky above us. The day seemed fair and promising. A small wind riffled the dark waters of Loch Eil, turning over little white-capped waves. It was hard to believe that all this marching was to end in war.

Suddenly our whole column came to a halt.

“What's going on?” Granda asked, though he seemed relieved to have stopped.

“Maybe another ambush,” said Jock, speaking eagerly, as if such a thing would be welcome.

I stood on tiptoe trying to get a glimpse of what was happening to delay us, but there were too many men in the way.

Just then the white-maned Keppoch stood bolt upright in his stirrups and
that
we could all see.

“Even the Keppoch's stopped,” I told Granda. Then I added, “Wait!”

A small bit of sound came threading back toward us.

“Listen,” I said.

It resolved itself into the unmistakable skirl of pipes.

“I know that pibroch,” said one of the men standing near us, a narrow-faced smith with forearms as big as small trees. “It's Lochiel's pipers. The Camerons of Lochiel are ahead of us. They are at Glenfinnan already.”

Jock made a fist and shook it at the soldiers. “I knew it! I knew the British prisoners would slow us down and let Lochiel get there first.”

“Pipers,” the Keppoch yelled, still standing up in his stirrups, but turning his body halfway around to look at them, “give us a jig so we can join the dance!”

Our pipers filled their bags with air and started a low drone, like the buzzing of angry bees, drowning out the doves and the sound of our own cheers. The piping rose in pitch, then flowered into a warlike march that set us on our way, arms swinging, heads held high, as if this were the first hour of our journey, instead of the last.

We passed down a narrow glen lying between high craggy mountains and emerged into Glenfinnan, where the sun flashed off the surface of Loch Shiel like a shimmer of silver coins. The loch was a great, long finger of water pointing westward toward the sea, with green hills rearing up on both sides dotted with prosperous farms. The summer's wheat was golden in the fields.

Some boats had been dragged up onto the shore, where they'd been turned over, to keep any rain out of them. Men posted on the hilltops as lookouts waved and yelled when they saw us, and we shouted back cheerily.

Only the prisoners, huddled nervously together, took no part in the celebration.

To the north, rank upon rank of Camerons were marching down the hillside to form up in a great colorful mass along the shore. I thought they were more than twice our number, six or seven hundred at a guess. Beyond them, on the higher ground that overlooked the loch, another tartan-clad band of three hundred was assembled outside a small, stone chapel. I supposed that was where the prince would be, though I couldn't pick him out from the crowd.

The number of men overwhelmed me. We were a vast army of kilted Highlanders covering the hills. I saw the cold-eyed Englishman gape at the sight and that made me smile.

“Granda,” I said, “is he here? Is the prince here?”

“Yer eyes are better than mine, Duncan,” he answered. “Ye'll have to tell me.”

Once all the clansmen had formed a rough crescent in front of the chapel, the Keppoch and his chief attendants joined those at the chapel door. As they arrived, the raucous cries stilled to a babble, the babble to a whisper, the whisper became a hush.

Once again I could hear birdsong, though this time the singers were gulls, white and wheeling over the loch, calling out in raucous voices.

Granda and I were stuck in the middle of a boil of men. How I wished I could run right up to the prince and present myself. Give him my hand. Maybe even beg him to let me stay and fight for his throne. But I knew that would only get Da in trouble, and me in worse. So I stayed where I was.

“What happens now?” I whispered to Granda.

The smith was the one who answered, his voice as quiet as mine. “We wait for the raising of the standard, lad.” Then, seeing that I looked puzzled, added, “The king's banner.”

“Aye,” Granda added. “And it will be glorious to see King James' banner fly over Scotland once more.”

“Wheesht …” cried another man, a small man with a beard down almost to his belly, “look who comes.”

On my tiptoes again, I looked. “That's no the bonnie prince.” In fact it was a man so ancient, so weak in the legs, he needed an attendant on each side to support him.

Granda smiled. “That's Duke William of Atholl, by tradition the royal standard-bearer.”

“But Granda,” I said, meaning to keep my voice small though it boomed out louder than I expected, “he's older than yerself.”

“He was with us in the '15,” Granda said, his finger to my lips to hush me. “A braw fighting man in his day.”

“But where's the prince?”

“He's somewhere,” Granda said. “They wouldna raise the standard without him. Duncan, lad, can ye see him now?”

I looked around again, but Prince Charlie still was nowhere in sight. Shaking my head, I turned back to watch old Atholl trying to unfurl the banner. It took him two tugs to get it loose and I was afraid he was going to fall over and go rolling down into the loch before it was freed. But at the second try, the banner whipped out into the breeze with a loud snap. It was red with a white square in the center surrounded by a thick blue border.

With a great cheer, the whole Highland host tossed our bonnets high into the air so that they looked like flocks of blue birds startled out of their nests.

“Long live King James!” we cried as the bonnets rained down among us. My voice was as loud as anyone's.

“And Prince Charlie!”

“Down with England. Down with the Union with England!”

When the shouting had faded away, Duke William unrolled a document and began to read from it. As it was in Scots-English, it meant nothing to most of the men, who spoke only Gaelic. Even I had trouble understanding, for his voice was so faint and the words were hardly simple. Besides, another brisk breeze—nearly a gale—had suddenly blown up off the loch, making it even harder to hear.

What he read seemed to be a letter from King James appointing his son as Regent of Scotland in his place until he could come over in person. The letter listed the king's various grievances, spoke of the justice of his cause, and went on so long, I—and everyone else—stopped listening. In fact, I spent much of the time looking around, trying to spot the prince, aching for a sight of him.

By the time Duke William came to a close, there were sighs and grumbles in place of cheers, as if all the men were as tired of the delay as I.

Standing by me, Jock put it best. “All talk, no action.” And the men around us took up his complaint, sending it forward.

But then the bonnie prince stepped out from the huddle of men. All at once everything changed, as if the sun had suddenly burst through grey clouds. An excited buzz rippled through the Highland host.

“The prince!” Granda whispered.

But I already knew. He could have been no one else. Perhaps twenty years old, he was dressed in a dun-colored coat, with scarlet laces through his waistcoat, and a yellow bob on his bonnet. He held himself proudly, his head high, and in that moment I knew he was a man I would gladly follow into war.

The wind died as suddenly as it had begun, and the prince began to speak in the Lowlander's Scots-English. Although his voice was stronger than Atholl's, there was something queer in his accent.

Poor prince
, I thought,
to have lived all his life among foreigners
.

“Duncan, tell us what he's saying,” Granda urged.

“Aye, tell us,” said Da, giving me a prod.

I did the best I could and from the buzz around me I could tell that others were doing the same favor for their own comrades.

“He says he's sure of our loyalty—and our courage,” I translated. But immediately after that I became confused. As soon as I had started speaking, I missed the prince's next words and so quickly lost the thread of what he was saying.

“Er … his cause is righteous …” I stumbled on, sometimes just making things up when I missed the prince's meaning, sometimes guessing at what he'd just said. “And he says in the end … we'll all be … happy,” I finished.

I was glad the speech was over, for the effort of concentrating had started a dull ache behind my eyes and my mouth was going dry. I worried that I might have a fit right there, right in front of the prince.

The prince waved, turning right and left to face all of his army. Then he waved, looking right at me. That single wave, that look, raised my spirits once more. And when the men let out another whoop and tossed their bonnets up so high, they filled the air like a vast blue cloud, I sent my bonnet flying up with the rest.

Had I gotten the speech right? Had he really promised to make us happy? Could his coming really mean an end to our failing crops, to our hunger, to the sicknesses that beset us? If so, this was surely the most wonderful day that Scotland had ever known.

9 NIGHT

As usual, we set up camp in the open with only the sky to cover our heads and our plaids to keep us warm. But this night I fancied the stars were burning a wee bit brighter overhead. The air was clean, crisp, cool. Breathing it in was like drinking from a mountain stream.

The prince had seen to it that our prisoners were lodged in a byre where they were well guarded, though their officers were put up in a nearby cottage.

“I suppose it's because they're English and too soft to sleep in the open air,” I said as I stared up at the stars.

For once Da had set himself down by my side, perhaps because he knew that Granda and I would be going home the next day. After all, we had seen the prince and that was all Da had promised.

Shaking his head, Da said, “Nae, lad, the prince wants to demonstrate his nobility by treating his enemies better than his own men.”

On my other side, Granda chortled. “Yer da's putting a sour face on it as usual. But I think it's a fine ploy. If the prince's enemies know how kindly he treats his prisoners, they'll be better minded to surrender instead of fighting.”

Sitting in front of us, Jock would have none of that. He banged his right fist into the cup of his left hand, declaring, “Better he should stake them out on the hillside and give the clans the byre.”

All around us men grunted in agreement.

“We Highlanders who came out for him deserve better,” Uncle Dougal added.