How The Scots Invented The Modern World Part 5

Families lived in a one-room hut of mud and stone, called a bothy. The typical Highland village was a collection of bothies; to visitors at a distance, it looked like heaps of dirt in a field. It was only when they grew closer that they saw that these heaps of dirt housed human beings, with dogs, goats, and half-naked children roaming among the huts and peat fires. In poorer clans the only way to tell a chief's children from the other half-naked urchins was that they were the ones who could speak English. In fact, these were people much poorer than Plains Indians or the other pastoral-nomadic peoples civil-society theorists knew about. Poverty was the keynote to everything in the Highlands. It even determined who was loyal, and who was not, in the Forty-five. Twenty-two clans joined up with the Stuarts; ten remained loyal to the British. But the ten who stayed loyal were the most prosperous, including the Clan Campbell. By contrast, many who joined the revolt, such as the MacDonnells of Keppoch and the MacDonalds of Glencoe, were either landless or on the edges of bankruptcy. One contemporary estimated that the total yearly income of all the clans that marched for Prince Charlie did not add up to 1,500 pounds.

The Highlander's poverty was compensated by one thing: his pride as a warrior. The crucial distinction in the clans was between those who worked and those who fought. Peasants and women did the former; men, the clansmen, did the latter. Visitors found this hard to fathom. In the early nineteenth century an Englishwoman became fed up at the sight of a Highland woman laboring wearily on her family's meager plot of ground while her husband, in full Highland regalia, sat and watched. She upbraided the man's mother: How could she allow her son to sit idle like this, while her daughter-in-law did all the work? The old woman stoutly replied that if her son lifted his hand to till the soil, he would cease to be a gentleman.

As Dr. Johnson observed, in the Highlands "every man was a soldier." The clansman was trained to fight from boyhood. Armed with his double-edged broadsword,14 which measured a yard long and two inches wide; his dagger or dirk; and his shield or targe, and screaming his clan's motto as he rushed headlong at his opponent, he was a formidable sight. But he was no Iron Age throwback, the "bare-a.r.s.ed banditti" of English legend. He could be as familiar with handling a musket, and fighting in formation, as any British grenadier. For generations the princ.i.p.al export of the Highlands had been its surplus males, as soldiers and mercenaries for the armies of Europe. In the Middle Ages, Irish chieftains had hired them: nicknamed which measured a yard long and two inches wide; his dagger or dirk; and his shield or targe, and screaming his clan's motto as he rushed headlong at his opponent, he was a formidable sight. But he was no Iron Age throwback, the "bare-a.r.s.ed banditti" of English legend. He could be as familiar with handling a musket, and fighting in formation, as any British grenadier. For generations the princ.i.p.al export of the Highlands had been its surplus males, as soldiers and mercenaries for the armies of Europe. In the Middle Ages, Irish chieftains had hired them: nicknamed gallogla.s.ses gallogla.s.ses or or redshanks redshanks because of their exposed knees below their kilts, Scottish mercenaries had kept the Gaelic parts of Ireland safe from the English for four hundred years. They fought for the Dutch against the Spanish as the Scots Brigade, and served the princes of Germany and central Europe in their frequent internecine conflicts. Clan Mackay kept Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus supplied with a Scottish regiment during the Thirty Years' War. The men who fought at Culloden were in large part seasoned, hardened professionals, led by men with commissions in various European armies. because of their exposed knees below their kilts, Scottish mercenaries had kept the Gaelic parts of Ireland safe from the English for four hundred years. They fought for the Dutch against the Spanish as the Scots Brigade, and served the princes of Germany and central Europe in their frequent internecine conflicts. Clan Mackay kept Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus supplied with a Scottish regiment during the Thirty Years' War. The men who fought at Culloden were in large part seasoned, hardened professionals, led by men with commissions in various European armies.

So, if poverty was one keynote of Highland life, war and violence was another. It is what made the Highlander admired, and feared. Daniel Defoe watched them walk the streets of Edinburgh: "They are formidable fellows. . . . They are all gentlemen, will take no affront from any man, and insolent to the last degree." But he also noted the incongruity of one of these proud men with his weapons and tartan (another myth: genuine Highlanders wore plaids in any color that pleased them, regardless of their clan) walking "as upright and haughty as if he were a lord," while driving a cow in front of him. Duels, murder, and feuding were constants in the Highlands, as was "scorning," or taking food and shelter by force from tenants of other clans when a feud was under way. Lairds routinely burned down the houses and seized the livestock of tenants who displeased them. When Lord Lochiel brought the Camerons in on Prince Charles's side in 1745, his brother Archibald pa.s.sed through Cameron country warning villagers that "if they did not come off directly he would burn their houses and cut them in pieces." When some Cameron males refused, he beat them with his whip. When another hesitated, he killed four of the man's cows until he agreed to join him.

It was a way of life most Lowlanders had not known for generations, and they avoided it as much as they could. Contact could be dangerous, or even fatal. Once a member of Clan MacDonald of Glencoe pa.s.sed a Lowlander on the road near Achnacone and gave him a traditional Gaelic greeting: "Beannachd Dia duit, a duine!" "Beannachd Dia duit, a duine!" (G.o.d's blessing on you, sir!) The Lowlander knew no Gaelic, but replied nervously it was indeed a fine day. "Foolish man," said the Highlander, "do you despise the word of G.o.d?" With that he drew his sword and killed him, and then robbed the body, taking his shoes, his musket, and a guinea piece he found in the man's coat pocket. Later he told his laird what he had done, "adding that to his mind it had been a profitable morning." Big Archie MacPhail, as he was known, was a famed cattle stealer and was never prosecuted for the murder. But he did worry at night, he told others, about being haunted by the dead man's spirit. (G.o.d's blessing on you, sir!) The Lowlander knew no Gaelic, but replied nervously it was indeed a fine day. "Foolish man," said the Highlander, "do you despise the word of G.o.d?" With that he drew his sword and killed him, and then robbed the body, taking his shoes, his musket, and a guinea piece he found in the man's coat pocket. Later he told his laird what he had done, "adding that to his mind it had been a profitable morning." Big Archie MacPhail, as he was known, was a famed cattle stealer and was never prosecuted for the murder. But he did worry at night, he told others, about being haunted by the dead man's spirit.

The English usually dismissed Highlanders as "savages" and barbarians. Enlightened Scots could be more understanding, although just as censorious. One such was Duncan Forbes of Culloden, Lord President of the Court of Session in the 1740s and friend to Lord Kames. From his estate in Inverness-shire, overlooking Drummossie Moor, he watched the clansmen around him with a critical, if sympathetic, eye. They were, he wrote, "unacquainted with industry and the fruits of it, and united in some degree by the singularity of dress and language, stick close to their antient way of life." They "depend generally on the Chiefs, as their sovereign Lords and masters; and being accustomed to the use of arms, and inured to hard living, are dangerous to the public peace." He noted that their isolation left them "the prey of their accustomed sloth and barbarity," and made enforcement of the laws impossible.

Like other enlightened Scots, what Forbes wanted for the Highlands was civilization, of which the chief beneficiary would be the Highlander himself. The key to this, according to Forbes, was to take away their weapons. "Their successors . . . must be as harmless as the commonality" in the Lowlands. When the Highlander "could not longer live by Rapine," Forbes wrote, he would be forced to "think of living by Industry." The other key was roads. "The want of Roads . . . [has] proved hitherto a bar to all free intercourse between the High and Lowlands," and prevented the spread of civilizing influences to the north.

Beginning in the 1720s, after the failed Jacobite revolt in 1715 and another in 1719, the government began building roads. General George Wade was dispatched with garrison troops to lay out an ambitious network of roads and forts. Between 1725 and 1740, General Wade boasted of having constructed 250 miles of highway, designed to link Fort William and Fort Augustus in the west to Inverness. Communication, along with military fortification, was supposed to counterbalance the Highlanders' chief military advantage: numbers.

In 1715 the Earl of Mar, a man with no military experience, had a.s.sembled a Highland force of nearly six thousand warriors in a matter of weeks. MacDonnell of Keppoch alone boasted of being able to raise five hundred fighting men. The Campbells could summon up two or three thousand. Duncan Forbes calculated that if all the Highland clans joined together in a single enterprise, they could raise more than thirty thousand troops. There was no military force in Britain capable of standing up to an army such as that. The possibility of a general rising in the Highlands frightened government officials, just as it frightened Duncan Forbes. But in 1745, Wade's network of roads was still not finished. Even worse, other events, very far away from Scotland, had drawn away the bulk of his garrisons. The roads that were completed would enable soldiers to move with speed across the heart of the Highlands, just as Forbes predicted-except that they were soldiers in the army of Prince Charlie. And Drummossie Moor, beside Forbes's house at Culloden, would become the b.l.o.o.d.y ground on which the struggle for Scotland's future would be played out.

CHAPTER SIX.

Last Stand To wanton me, to wanton me, Ken ye what maist wad wanton me?

To see King James at Edinburgh Cross, Wi fifty thousand foot and horse, And the usurper forced to flee, Oh, this is what maist wad wanton me!

-Traditional Jacobite song

I.

Officials in the Spanish West Indies were at their wits' end. For years, English and Scottish traders had been carrying on an illegal trade along their coasts. They collected salt in the Tortugas, cut timber in Honduras, and smuggled black-market slaves to plantation owners in Trinidad and Santo Domingo. So Spanish officials began issuing warrants to local captains to act as costa gardas costa gardas or coastguard cutters, allowing them to stop and search any vessel they suspected of violating Spanish law. If any English smuggler found himself roughly handled as a result, he had only himself to blame. or coastguard cutters, allowing them to stop and search any vessel they suspected of violating Spanish law. If any English smuggler found himself roughly handled as a result, he had only himself to blame.

On April 9, 1731, Captain Juan de Leon Fandino was patrolling the coast of Cuba with his ship the San Antonio San Antonio when he spotted an English sloop, the when he spotted an English sloop, the Rebecca, Rebecca, under the command of Captain Robert Jenkins. Fandino ordered the under the command of Captain Robert Jenkins. Fandino ordered the Rebecca Rebecca to stop and submit to a search. Jenkins, who was bound for London from Jamaica, allowed Fandino to come aboard to examine his log book and his cargo hold. According to Jenkins, the Spaniards then proceeded to tear the ship apart, including stealing his nautical instruments. When Jenkins remonstrated, Fandino had him tied to his own mast and cut his ear off as a final warning, before letting Jenkins and his crew go. to stop and submit to a search. Jenkins, who was bound for London from Jamaica, allowed Fandino to come aboard to examine his log book and his cargo hold. According to Jenkins, the Spaniards then proceeded to tear the ship apart, including stealing his nautical instruments. When Jenkins remonstrated, Fandino had him tied to his own mast and cut his ear off as a final warning, before letting Jenkins and his crew go.

Seven years later, Jenkins had his chance to tell his story before Parliament. He brought with him his severed ear, still wrapped in a ball of cotton. He told the stunned House of Commons how Fandino had told him to give it to King George, and how the arrogant Spaniard had said that if His Britannic Majesty had been present, he would have cut his his ear off. An MP rose to ask Jenkins what his feelings had been at this dreadful moment. "I recommended my soul to G.o.d," he replied stoutly, "and my cause to my country." ear off. An MP rose to ask Jenkins what his feelings had been at this dreadful moment. "I recommended my soul to G.o.d," he replied stoutly, "and my cause to my country."

The phrase reverberated through the press and nation, and triggered a ma.s.sive outcry. English public opinion demanded that Britain send a fleet to punish the Spanish. Prime Minister Robert Walpole tried to deflect the tide of war hysteria, much of it fomented by his political opponents, but in the end he could not hold it back. The official declaration of war came on October 19, 1739, with the ringing of bells and the Prince of Wales toasting the London populace outside the Rose Tavern near Temple Bar. "This is your war," Walpole told his rival the Duke of Newcastle, "and I wish you joy of it."

After a quarter-century of peace, Britain was about to enter into armed conflict with a fellow European power. It would not know peace again for a quarter-century more. The War of Jenkins's Ear, as it inevitably became known, had reverberations far beyond Spain and the West Indies. It embroiled Britain in the political crisis simmering in central Europe, and by 1742 the kingdom found itself at war with Spain's allies, including France.

Britain desperately needed soldiers for fighting on the Continent. Whitehall stripped garrisons in northern England and Scotland to the bare minimum. Realizing this, and examining its own options, France decided to take a new look at a plan it had not considered since 1719: dispatching an expeditionary force to land in Britain as a "second front" in support of James Stuart, now living in exile in Rome. What had seemed a permanently lost cause, restoring the Stuarts to the throne, now enjoyed a new lease on life-thanks to Captain Jenkins and his ear.

Jacobitism15 and the effort to bring "the auld Stuarts back again" is forever linked to the history of Scotland and the Scots. But in fact Jacobitism was as much an English problem as a Scottish one. In Scotland it served largely as a vehicle for anti-English feeling, and xenophobia in general. Until 1745, however, the truly fanatical Jacobite supporters, those willing to throw their lives and fortunes away for a vanquished political ideal, tended to be English. and the effort to bring "the auld Stuarts back again" is forever linked to the history of Scotland and the Scots. But in fact Jacobitism was as much an English problem as a Scottish one. In Scotland it served largely as a vehicle for anti-English feeling, and xenophobia in general. Until 1745, however, the truly fanatical Jacobite supporters, those willing to throw their lives and fortunes away for a vanquished political ideal, tended to be English.

The Stuarts were, of course, originally a Scottish royal house. By 1688, though, when Parliament had deposed James II, the father of Queens Mary and Anne, who would succeed him, and of James, Prince of Wales, who would not, they had become very much part of the English scene-certainly far more so than their German cousins the Electors of Hanover. But Elector George, who barely spoke English, enjoyed one key virtue: he was a Protestant, whereas James Stuart (his father had died in 1701) was a Catholic. So, when Queen Anne died in 1714, Parliament gave George the crown.

Despite what English historians would later a.s.sert, it was not a popular decision. The late Anne's leading ministers had to be driven into hiding in France in order to secure the Hanover succession. With French help they set about trying to undo what was, from the perspective of many, an illegal coup d'etat. Their original plan called for landing at Plymouth, not in Scotland at all, and for James to raise his army in southwest England.

It might have worked, too, except for the British amba.s.sador in Paris. This was none other than John Dalrymple, second Earl of Stair, son of the Lord Stair who had ordered the ma.s.sacre at Glencoe and had died saving the Act of Union. The younger Stair established an efficient network of spies and sources at the French court, including someone who shared his mistress with the leading Jacobite conspirator. Thanks to Stair's information, the government rounded up the ringleaders in England, and the revolt of 1715 began in Scotland instead, under the ill-fated and incompetent Earl of Mar.

Even after the collapse of the Fifteen, pro-Stuart sentiment in England remained strong, although harshly muzzled. Northwest England in particular was a bastion of Jacobitism, thanks to its active Catholic minority. It was not just Catholics who remained loyal to the Stuarts, however. Government spies managed to foil another serious plot in 1722, this one involving the Anglican bishop of Rochester, Francis Atterbury. Indeed, a large cross-section of the clergy of the Church of England leaned toward the Stuarts, as did many landowners and members of Parliament who described themselves as Tories, in opposition to the pro-Hanover Whigs. Historians are only now beginning to realize how important a political movement Jacobitism really was in eighteenth-century England, and how for nearly sixty years it remained a serious threat to the Whig regime.

What drew people to the Stuart cause? It certainly was not the diffident, lethargic figure of James Stuart-deemed James III of England and James VIII of Scotland by his supporters. Nor was the typical Jacobite a crude reactionary, as their Whig opponents liked to claim. Samuel Johnson, no friend to tyranny, expressed private support for the Stuart claim. So did Alexander Pope.16 Lord Kames felt the pull of Jacobitism-it was probably the violence of the Forty-five that killed any lingering sympathy he had for it. Allan Ramsay wrote poems as a young man supporting the deposed Stuarts. When Prince Charlie's army marched on Edinburgh in 1745, Ramsay chose to flee the city. But he did leave his house, with its strategic view of the walls of Edinburgh Castle, open to the Highland army when it occupied the town. It later provided a useful spot for snipers shooting at the royal garrison. Lord Kames felt the pull of Jacobitism-it was probably the violence of the Forty-five that killed any lingering sympathy he had for it. Allan Ramsay wrote poems as a young man supporting the deposed Stuarts. When Prince Charlie's army marched on Edinburgh in 1745, Ramsay chose to flee the city. But he did leave his house, with its strategic view of the walls of Edinburgh Castle, open to the Highland army when it occupied the town. It later provided a useful spot for snipers shooting at the royal garrison.

So what compelled sensible, law-abiding, and enlightened individuals to admire and sometimes even support a conspiracy to overthrow the existing government? In a word, nostalgia. Jacobitism reflected a nostalgic yearning for a traditional social order in which everyone supposedly knew his or her preordained place and stayed in it. It satisfied a deep utopian longing for the perfect society-except that it looked backwards, rather than ahead, for its model of perfection.

The average Jacobite wanted to return to a community that was stable and harmonious, two qualities that eighteenth-century Britain notoriously seemed to lack. He extolled the virtues of a rural-based society and the authority of a traditional landowning cla.s.s. He detested the new rising compet.i.tive capitalist society, with its getting and spending, its greedy merchants and vulgar upstarts, its contempt for the old rules, its creative destruction, as much as any Marxist. And like the Marxist, he cared deeply about "justice," which in his mind meant inferiors willingly obeying their superiors: tenants obeying their landlords, the middle cla.s.s obeying the n.o.bility, the people obeying the king and the Church.

In England, and in much of the Scottish Lowlands by 1745, this longing for the security of a stable, hierarchical social order was largely, even self-consciously, a matter of nostalgia. Just as today we still have sentimental Marxists who put b.u.mper stickers on their cars that say "No Peace Without Justice," so eighteenth-century Englishmen were aware of sentimental Jacobites among their Tory neighbors, who secretly toasted "the king across the water."

In the Highlands, though, Jacobitism was not nostalgia but reality. The Stuarts were not symbols of "a world we have lost," but emblems of a power that existed here and now. For a century they had sh.o.r.ed up and strengthened the authority of the clan chiefs-none of them needed rea.s.surances from the Roman Catholic Church (very few chieftains or clans were Catholic anymore, anyway) to see the Stuarts as the only real kings they had ever known. A Stuart uprising in Scotland made sense, not just as good strategy but as an attraction of like to like. There was one person who understood that, and in the end he was the one who mattered.

II.

Just before dawn on January 9, 1744, James Stuart's son and heir, Charles Edward Stuart, left his house in Rome on the pretense of going boar-hunting north of the city at Cisterna. This was to throw English spies off the scent. Instead, his younger brother Henry went to Cisterna, while Charles made his way in disguise to the Tuscan coast. There he picked up a boat bound for Genoa, and then Savona, where a Spanish fishing smack slipped him past the watching British fleet to Antibes. Lyons was his next destination, and then on January 29 he reached Paris.

Prince Charles was twenty-three years old. In contrast to his father, he was charming, handsome, and personable. In normal circ.u.mstances he was exactly the kind of person one might want to succeed to a royal throne. That was how the French saw him: in February 1744 he had a big place in their plans.

The War of Jenkins's Ear had gone well for the British, then badly. They had scored a major success against the outmanned and outgunned Spanish fleet in the Caribbean, which had satisfied the English thirst for revenge. But then things got stuck. Spain had found a capable ally in France, which was able to launch an invasion of Germany, threatening King George's home territory in Hanover. Suddenly Britain had found itself drawn into a European land war it was neither prepared for nor wanted. As Britain's war effort began to bog down, the French saw an opportunity to smash their ancient rival once and for all. This included putting their Stuart allies back in power.

By the end of the month, the French Crown put together an expedition of seven thousand men on transports at Dunkirk under the Marshal de Saxe to take Charles across the English Channel. The British, realizing what was coming, had put together a fleet in the Straits of Dover to block them. But then a storm scattered the French fleet and sank several of the transports. Charles himself managed to escape harm, but any invasion of England was now on hold.

The Dunkirk storm, "the Protestant wind" as gleeful English commentators dubbed it, did not just sink Charles's transports. It also sank French confidence in Charles. New ministers stepped in, who believed de Saxe would be better employed fighting the British on land in Flanders rather than at sea in a risky amphibious landing on the English coast. Charles refused to give up hope, and for the rest of the year he continued to lobby for French help, but without results. In November he wrote to his father that his debts amounted to some thirty thousand crowns. "The more I dwell on these matters," he confessed, "the more it makes me melancholy." Isolated, frustrated by inaction, and furious with his French hosts, Charles had formulated a new plan: to land in Scotland with a small and trusted band of followers, and raise an army himself.

No one knows who first came up with the idea of Charles going to Scotland with no troops or resources, and with no real way out if the enterprise failed. But the notion of failure apparently never entered Charles's mind. From the very beginning, a kind of headstrong, heedless optimism seems to have possessed him, goading him on when other, more experienced heads sensed disaster. When the first hint of his plan reached Scotland in the spring of 1745, even loyal supporters called it "the mad enterprise." They hoped he could not be serious.

But he was serious. By May he had cobbled together enough money and arms from the French government to outfit two warships, the Du Du Teillay Teillay and a sixty-four-gun frigate, the and a sixty-four-gun frigate, the Elisabeth. Elisabeth. On July 12 they set sail from Belle ile for Scotland. Bad luck dogged them from the start. A British man-of-war spotted them off the Lizard, and nearly sank the On July 12 they set sail from Belle ile for Scotland. Bad luck dogged them from the start. A British man-of-war spotted them off the Lizard, and nearly sank the Elisabeth, Elisabeth, forcing her and her consignment of seven hundred men, 1,500 muskets, and twenty small field pieces to turn back. The forcing her and her consignment of seven hundred men, 1,500 muskets, and twenty small field pieces to turn back. The Du Teillay Du Teillay resolutely sailed on, carrying Charles and seven companions-two English, two Irish, and three Scots-for their destination on the Scottish west coast. resolutely sailed on, carrying Charles and seven companions-two English, two Irish, and three Scots-for their destination on the Scottish west coast.

On July 23 they landed on the tiny island of Eriskay off South Uist, at a point still called Coilleag a Phrionnsa, or the Prince's Sh.o.r.e. It was the first time Charles Edward Stuart had ever set foot in Scotland.

News of his arrival brought not joy and celebration, but shock and dismay. His first visitor was the chieftain Alexander MacDonald of Boisdale, who told him "there was nothing to be expected from the country" and that "not a soul would join him." One of Charles's companions noted that "everyone was struck with a thunderbolt, as you may believe, to hear that sentence." They began to urge Charles to leave before it was too late. He refused, convinced that the Highlanders would stand with him. When Charles finally landed on the mainland at Borrodale, he organized meetings with the other branches of the MacDonalds. Charles asked about the strange Highland dress, which he had not seen before, and about the Gaelic language. He told them he intended to raise the royal standard and claim the crown of his ancestors.

The MacDonalds, like the Camerons of Lochiel and the Murrays of Atholl, listened with mixed emotions. For nearly one hundred years they had watched the Highlands, for all its continuing poverty and problems, grow more peaceful and secure. Incidents such as the Glencoe ma.s.sacre notwithstanding, serious interclan feuds were largely a thing of the past. The British Crown left them alone to enjoy themselves as Scottish aristocrats and gentlemen. Now, Charles's arrival endangered it all.

But they could not evade the thrust of his appeal, that if he returned empty-handed, he would be humiliated in front of a pack of foreigners (meaning the French), who would see that he had no friends. Out of a sense of honor, they reluctantly agreed to summon their clans to battle. But from the start they sensed their doom. Charles, and Charles alone, believed they had a chance of success. And to everyone's amazement, the government of London, out of sheer incompetence and poor planning, was about to give it to them.

On August 19, at the northern end of Loch Shiel at Glenfinnan, Charles and the clans met. Cameron of Lochiel had summoned together seven hundred men; McDonnell of Keppoch fulfilled his boast of nearly five hundred. Charles ordered casks of brandy opened to allow the Highlanders to drink King James's health. Then the a.s.sembled warriors cheered the royal standard of blue, white, and red silk and hailed their commander, Thearlaich mac Sheumais, Thearlaich mac Sheumais, or Charles, son of James. or Charles, son of James. Thearlaich Thearlaich would sound to non-Gaelic ears like "Charlie." Thus, the sobriquet that Charles would carry throughout the revolt and which history remembers as a dashing diminutive, Bonnie Prince Charlie, was in fact his name to the Gaels who now rallied to obey a prince they had never met, in order to serve a king who had never sat on any throne. would sound to non-Gaelic ears like "Charlie." Thus, the sobriquet that Charles would carry throughout the revolt and which history remembers as a dashing diminutive, Bonnie Prince Charlie, was in fact his name to the Gaels who now rallied to obey a prince they had never met, in order to serve a king who had never sat on any throne.

Charles waited two days until the MacDonalds of Clanra.n.a.ld arrived. Then he sent messages to the other clans between Glencoe and Glengarry to join him, and on August 21 started off to the east.

When news reached Edinburgh that the Highland army was on the march, the inhabitants, in David Hume's words, were seized with a "universal Panic," and, he added, "that not groundless." The military situation could not have been worse. The government had stripped available troops down to fewer than three thousand, most of whom were inexperienced or "invalid" garrisons stationed in towns such as Edinburgh and Stirling, or Highland regiments such as the Black Watch, whose loyalty was suddenly very much in question. The English commander was General Jonathan Cope, who, despite warnings from Duncan Forbes in early July that something was up, had done nothing until it was virtually too late. By the time Cope decided to move his troops to block Charles's line of march, the prince had already joined up with Stewart of Appin, MacDonald of Glencoe, and Grant of Grandiston, crossed Corriearrack Pa.s.s by Wade's military road, and taken Perth. Edinburgh, the capital, was clearly next.

Cope decided his only option was to avoid Charles's army-which he believed to be twice the size it actually was-and withdraw to Inverness. This, he believed, would give clans loyal to the government a chance to rally and allow him to send reinforcements by sea to Edinburgh. There was only one problem: the Disarming Act of 1725, which had outlawed weapons and firearms in the Highlands after the last Jacobite rising, was widely ignored by disloyal clans such as the MacDonalds, but obeyed by the loyal. It in effect disarmed precisely the Highlanders Cope now needed to have armed.

Meanwhile, Edinburgh would have to fend for itself. Its reputation as a bastion of Whig and pro-Hanover sentiment began to wilt as the Lord Provost and the town council met. They showed no interest in opposing the advancing Highland army, and temporized about taking any emergency measures. Instead, organizing the defense of the city fell to two private citizens, a merchant and former provost named George Drummond and a professor of mathematics at the university, Colin Maclaurin. They immediately called for volunteers to help the undermanned royal garrison in Edinburgh Castle. Their summons brought forward a host of young volunteers, many of them students. One was William Robertson, future author of The History of Scotland, The History of Scotland, who was serving as pastor at Gladsmuir. Behind him came William Wilkie and John Home, both probationers awaiting their first a.s.signments as ministers. Theology student Alexander Carlyle signed up, as did William Cleghorn, who would later beat out David Hume for the chair of moral philosophy at Edinburgh. Clerics and intellectuals, they were the future stars of the Edinburgh Enlightenment, who now put their lives on the line for the House of Hanover and the Union. who was serving as pastor at Gladsmuir. Behind him came William Wilkie and John Home, both probationers awaiting their first a.s.signments as ministers. Theology student Alexander Carlyle signed up, as did William Cleghorn, who would later beat out David Hume for the chair of moral philosophy at Edinburgh. Clerics and intellectuals, they were the future stars of the Edinburgh Enlightenment, who now put their lives on the line for the House of Hanover and the Union.

They drilled twice a day. Cannon of various sizes and from various eras were a.s.sembled on the city walls. Professor Maclaurin drew up designs to modernize Edinburgh's defenses, and vigorously supervised the building and repair work. One of his a.s.sistants was the seventeen-year-old Robert Adam. In the meantime, citizens anxiously watched the weather vanes, hoping for a change in the wind and news that Cope's army would be under sail to rescue them. On September 15 they learned instead that the Jacobite army was only eight miles from the city and closing fast.

It was the moment of truth for Edinburgh's bands of volunteers. The result was one of those episodes that epitomizes the contrast between a culture that is prepared for war, whether it wants it or not, and one that, however willing, is not. Drummond hastily drew up his four hundred volunteers at the Lawnmarket for the march down the Bow, a long, winding street through the heart of what is now the Old Town, to the West Port. Students and other citizens set off in serried ranks through the crowds, drums beating and flags flying, to meet the invaders.

To their dismay, however, the crowd sent them off not with cheers but jeers and insults, while the rest of Edinburgh quickly shut up its houses and barred its windows. The volunteers, with Drummond at their head, marched on. When they got farther down the Bow, Alexander Carlyle remembered later, "the scene was different, for all the spectators were in tears, and uttering loud lamentations."

Still they marched on. Finally, as the volunteers neared the West Port, Drummond turned around to review his troops. To his shock, they had almost all disappeared. One by one, his brave young volunteers had reconsidered their position and, with the help of neighbors, quietly melted away up a convenient wynd or into a nearby tavern. Only Carlyle, Robertson, Home, and a few others still stood sheepishly with him, muskets in hand.

Their humiliation, and Drummond's, was not yet complete. Bearing down on them was the Princ.i.p.al of the University, William Wishart, and a gathering of local clergy appealing to Drummond not to expose "the flower of the youth of Edinburgh" to certain death at the hands of the fearsome Highlanders. Turn back and send them home, Wishart begged him. The crowd added their entreaties, cheering and applauding. Drummond was furious, but with no troops left, his options were limited. He finally gave the order to withdraw, and the West Port gates were closed. The volunteers were to see no action that day.

Carlyle, Robertson, Home, Cleghorn, and another student volunteer, Hugh Bannatine, retired to Turnbull's Tavern to restore their pride and spirits. A couple of gla.s.ses of claret put them in a better mood, and together they swore an oath to carry on the struggle for "the security of our country's laws and liberties," as Carlyle put it, even if Edinburgh surrendered, as now seemed very likely.

In fact, the end came even more swiftly than they had imagined. The next day Prince Charles camped at Gray's Mill, two miles from Edinburgh, and sent a note asking the city to surrender. Deputies from the town council met him to discuss terms, but the two sides could not reach any conclusion. As the deputies returned to the Bow Port and ordered the gates opened, however, a detachment of Camerons that had set out earlier to reconnoiter the city walls dashed as quick as lightning through the opening and seized the guard. With a triumphant shout, the Highlanders pelted up the street to the city guardhouse, taking possession of it and then the other gates to the city. Edinburgh Castle, with its garrison of six hundred men, remained secure. But the city had fallen before most people knew it was under attack. The next morning a citizen out for a walk noticed the strange-looking soldiers standing guard on the walls. He asked a Highlander who was leaning on a cannon and smoking a pipe, surely these were not the same soldiers as yesterday? "Och, no," the man answered, "she pe relieved."

On the morning of the seventeenth, John Home and the others watched as Charles and his troops paraded in the King's Park, just below Arthur's Seat and out of range of the Castle's guns. Alexander Carlyle remembered them as "short and dirty, and of a contemptible appearance." John Home had a more appreciative eye. The prince himself "was in the prime of youth, tall and handsome," while the Highlanders "seemed to be strong, active, and hardy men," armed with muskets, fowling pieces, swords, and even scythe blades on pitchfork handles. Their "stern countenances, and bushy uncombed hair, gave them a fierce, barbarous, and imposing aspect." Then he, Carlyle, and William Robertson slipped away to find General Cope.

They found him and his army at Dunbar, some forty miles east of Edinburgh, where he had just arrived by ship from Aberdeen. They managed to give him a detailed description of the Highland army, and Cope ordered them to act as forward scouts as his forces closed on Haddington from the west, while the rebels marched east. The two armies collided at Prestonpans, eight miles east of Edinburgh on the Firth of Forth, on September 21.

The result must have been secretly gratifying to Home and other ex-Edinburgh volunteers, however disheartening at the moment. At the first charge of the Highlanders, Cope's dragoons ran away so fast that Charles's generals thought it must be a feint. The Highlanders then lashed the royal infantry with musket volleys and, grabbing their broadswords and dirks, charged them headlong. The soldiers-professionals this time, not amateur volunteers-broke and ran. Cope and his fellow officers chased after them, calling "For Shame, Gentlemen, behave like Britons," but to no avail. It was a stunning victory, and at one stroke, to everyone's amazement, Charles found himself master of Scotland.

In Charles's mind, still unclouded by any doubts or reflections, his next move had to be southward, into England and on the road to London. Again, there seemed to be little to oppose him. The government was frantically recalling troops from Flanders because there were virtually none in England; Charles had the promise (which ultimately proved empty) of nearly five thousand armed volunteers from the northern counties of England, as well as the hope of French a.s.sistance now that the revolt had caught fire. But his generals, who understood the military realities, were less sanguine. Their troops were melting away with constant desertions, as many Highlanders, pleased with their success and their booty, simply packed up and went home. Even with additional volunteers from the Gordons, Mackinnons, and MacPherson of Cluny, Charles had no more than five thousand foot and five hundred horse. Eventually they would have to face a British force of at least six times that number.

Charles's lieutenants also doubted the likelihood of further French help (here they were mistaken; reinforcements did arrive, but too few to make any difference). In the end, they and Charles worked out a compromise. They agreed to take the army south through c.u.mberland, where the rough, mountainous terrain would help to disguise their maneuvers from the English. On November 3, in a dense fog, they set out from Dalkeith in two columns, one commanded by James, Duke of Perth, and the other by Charles and Lord George Murray. On the eighth, Charles's force crossed the River Esk into England. As they crossed, "the Highlanders without any orders given," according to an eyewitness, "all drew their Swords with one Consent upon entering the River, and every man as he landed on tother side wheeld about to the left and faced Scotland" to raise a salute to his homeland.

Once again the Hanoverian forces, this time commanded by old General Wade, now a field marshal, were outdone by the rebels' boldness. Charles's division of forces drew Wade east, while Charles and Perth reunited their forces and closed on Carlisle in the fog and driving rain. The royal garrison withdrew to Carlisle Castle while the city itself surrendered. The Highlanders then marched into what, in less than fifty years, would become the heart of the English industrial landscape. Kendal, Lancaster, Manchester, Macclesfield, Derby-at each town the response to Charles's coming, while not overtly hostile, was far less warm than he had been led to expect. By December 4, however, they were less than 130 miles from London.

The English natives were as amazed by the appearance of these Scottish invaders as if they had been Eskimos or Watusis. They were certainly just as ignorant of who they were and what to expect. Most could not distinguish between Highland and Lowland Scots. Since many of Charles's Lowlander volunteers chose to wear kilts and bonnets, English obervers simply described them all as "Highland savages" and let it go at that. Fears ran high that they intended to plunder their way to London, "which according to Ancient Customs will be the murdering of people of all s.e.xes and Ages, the Burning of Houses, and Cutting of Cattle to pieces, with Swords and dirks. . . ." When Charles and his staff stopped at one house, according to Murray of Broughton, its owner begged the soldiers not to eat her child. But as Murray said of his troops, "There is no instance in the history of any times in whatever Country where the Soldiery either regular or irregular behaved themselves with so much discretion, never any riots in the Streets, nor so much as a Drunk man to be seen."

In one sense it is idle to speculate what might have happened if Charles and his little army had decided to press on to London, but the temptation is overwhelming. Could Charles really have taken the city, proclaimed his father king at Westminster, and then crafted a political settlement that would have put the Stuarts on the throne again?

It does seem indisputable that if Charles had marched farther south, he never would have made it. Not just one, but three British armies were now converging on him, including the one commanded by King George's son, the Duke of c.u.mberland, recently arrived from campaigning in Flanders. Thirty thousand troops were now available for action against the Stuart army of barely five thousand. From a military point of view, those who counseled Charles to abandon his plan to march on London were right. He never had a chance.

But this raises a more interesting point: that the odds against Charles in November of 1745 were more military than political. In other words, if if Charles had somehow evaded c.u.mberland (very unlikely), and Charles had somehow evaded c.u.mberland (very unlikely), and if if he had made it to London, it is hard to see how anyone could have stopped him from carrying out his plan. Despite the hopes of English Jacobites, the great majority of their countrymen were not going to rise up in support of the Stuarts; but the same majority was not ready to risk life and property to keep the Hanovers. A compromise between Parliament and the Stuarts was not only possible but probable. As early as 1739, when the War of Jenkins's Ear was starting to heat up, Robert Walpole had sent secret letters to James asking what his intentions were regarding the Church of England and the personal safety of the members of the House of Hanover, he had made it to London, it is hard to see how anyone could have stopped him from carrying out his plan. Despite the hopes of English Jacobites, the great majority of their countrymen were not going to rise up in support of the Stuarts; but the same majority was not ready to risk life and property to keep the Hanovers. A compromise between Parliament and the Stuarts was not only possible but probable. As early as 1739, when the War of Jenkins's Ear was starting to heat up, Robert Walpole had sent secret letters to James asking what his intentions were regarding the Church of England and the personal safety of the members of the House of Hanover, if if the Stuarts should come back to the throne again. the Stuarts should come back to the throne again.

If they had, the English const.i.tution would never have been the same. The notion, enshrined since 1688, of the sovereignty of Parliament would have died on the spot. But in 1745, not only sentimental Jacobites but most Englishmen would have willingly traded it in to avoid a civil war and have a little peace and quiet.

So who had the most to lose if Charles succeeded? The answer is not the English, but the Scots.

This seems shocking, especially in view of the revolt's b.l.o.o.d.y aftermath. Yet it gets to the heart of what really mattered to key political players at the time, and to two very distinct and different groups of Scotsmen.

The first group were Charles's allies, the Highland chiefs. They had joined their fortunes to his out of a rash sense of honor and pride. To their amazement, they had succeeded. Now, as they a.s.sembled at the prince's headquarters in Derby to discuss what to do next, they realized what success might actually mean. Having a Stuart at Whitehall was not, and would never be, the same thing as having a Stuart at Holyrood. The influence of his Highland allies would inevitably shrink away in the vast labyrinth of competing and conflicting interests of Great Britain. They had every reason to help Charles secure his position in Scotland, but they had no interest in seeing him win his father's crown in England and Wales. So, military necessity apart, returning to Scotland served their larger political agenda. No wonder, then, that they stood foursquare together against going any farther.

When Lord George Murray broke the news to Charles that "it was everybody's opinion that the only party that was to be taken was to retire," the prince "was astonished at this proposition," and said, "why the Clans kept me quite another Language and a.s.sured me they were all resolved to pierce or to dye." The debate took place at Exeter House, even as clansmen lined up outside to sharpen their swords in preparation for battle. Although Charles argued and pleaded, the chieftains remained unmoved. Provoked by their intransigence, Bonnie Prince Charlie "fell into a pa.s.sion and gave most of the Gentlemen that had spoke very Abusive Language," according to an eyewitness, "and said they had a mind to betray him." A second meeting that evening produced no change. Finally the prince gave up and ordered the retreat.

The retreat from Derby was a low point for the Jacobites in more ways than one. Charles fell into a pout and a funk, and refused to talk to his subordinates. His troops were equally furious. They quickly lost their earlier discipline and fell to looting the locals, leaving a trail of resentment and rage behind them. Outside Penrith they clashed with some of the Duke of c.u.mberland's advance dragoons, who, unlike the raw recruits at Prestonpans, stood to fight rather than run away. Rumors that the Highlanders had cried "No quarter!" and killed some of the British wounded circulated among the duke's troops, with ugly repercussions later on.

On Christmas Day the army entered Glasgow. As Charles's chief Irish adviser noted, "the Prince was resolved to punish the Town of Glasgow, who shew'd a little too much Zeal to the Government." He demanded 5,500 pounds in ransom, as well as supplies and food, including "6,000 pair of shoes, 6,000 bonnetts, and as many tartan hose. " City merchants paid up with a bad grace, and it was with difficulty that some of the Highlanders were restrained from burning the city down. Nowhere else, Charles said bitterly, had he found so few friends as in Glasgow.

This was his first full encounter with that second group of Scots who had no interest in seeing him succeed: Scotland's growing middle cla.s.s of merchants and professional men, as well as improving landowners. Like Robertson, Carlyle, and the other Edinburgh student volunteers, they were Whigs, but less from conviction than out of practical self-interest. Union had brought them affluence and prosperity. Just as its architects had calculated, it secured their loyalty to the new government. Union, and the Hanovers on the throne, implied a Scotland with expanding horizons and possibilities; growing commerce and trade; the rule of law; the good things in life. Returning the Stuarts meant returning to the old Scotland. In the minds of Scottish Whigs, this was not an option.

In the sharpest sense, the Forty-five was not a war between Scots and Englishmen, but a civil war. The split that divided Scots transcended cla.s.s or religious divisions, or even the division between Highlander and Lowlander. (According to one recent scholar, Murray Pittock, perhaps as much as 40 percent of Charles's army consisted of Lowlanders.) It was in fact a cultural split, between two competing visions of what Scotland should be and where it could go. Charles's supporters could not afford for Scotland to move forward, and so they were prepared to fight and die to topple the existing Whig regime. Scottish Whigs could not afford to go backward, and so they were willing to do anything and make any sacrifice to keep the Stuarts off the throne.

Charles's march south had given them a chance to catch their breath, and as he returned to Scotland to gather reinforcements, they began to mobilize against him. What they may have lacked in martial valor, they made up for in deep pockets and political skill. The city of Glasgow had already raised a regiment of militia which attached itself to the royal forces converging to retake Edinburgh. With them was a diehard company of volunteers commanded by John Home. On January 6, 1746, they retook the capital. Charles's army, meanwhile, was bogged down in a pointless and ineffectual siege of Stirling Castle, which critically divided his forces and depleted him of resources such as artillery for the rest of the campaign.

More decisive intervention came from two Scottish Whig politicians. One was Archibald Campbell, the former Lord Islay and Francis Hutcheson's old patron, who was now Duke of Argyll. He brought the powerful Campbell clan firmly on the side of the government, thus securing most of the western Highlands-although, ironically, Argyll's success in making agriculture more prosperous in the clan area made his followers less than willing to leave their farms to risk their lives on the battlefield.

The other, even more important at the moment, was Duncan Forbes of Culloden. After Prestonpans he found himself, as he remembered later, "almost alone, without troops, without arms," and "supported by n.o.body of common sense or courage." Nonetheless, he knew he had to act to "prevent extreme folly." Single-handedly he waged a campaign to keep the clan chieftains of the northern Highlands loyal to the house of Hanover. MacLeod, Sutherland, Munro, MacDonald of Sleat-Forbes cajoled, persuaded, and with his own money bribed them into pa.s.sivity. Other clans he managed to divide, including the Grants, Gordons, Mackenzies, and Frasers. By his efforts Forbes prevented the one thing that might have saved the Stuart cause: a general rising of the clans. If any single individual can be said to have defeated the Forty-five, it is not the Duke of c.u.mberland but Duncan Forbes.

Of course, Scottish Whigs could use their money and political smarts to prevent Charles from winning, but they still needed a military solution to crush him altogether. Ten days after they retook Edinburgh, royal troops had another disastrous encounter with the Jacobite clans at Falkirk. Once again, British cavalry and infantry flew into a panic as the Highlanders attacked. John Home, stationed with his volunteers on a hill, watched incredulously as the redcoats broke and ran, just as they had at Prestonpans. Yet Samuel Johnson could understand the professionals' distress. "Men accustomed only to exchange bullets at a distance," he wrote, "are discouraged and amazed when they find themselves encountered hand to hand, and catch the gleam of steel flashing in their faces." It was all over in less than twenty minutes. The Jacobites took more than three hundred prisoners, including Home and his volunteers (although he led his men in a daring escape a few nights later and rejoined the royal army). "By my soul, d.i.c.k," one prisoner was heard saying to another, "if Prince Charles goes on in this way, Prince Frederick [the Prince of Wales] will never be King George!"

He was wrong. The end of Charles's hopes was at hand, in the person of the new British commander in chief, Prince Frederick's brother William, Duke of c.u.mberland. Despite c.u.mberland's later sobriquet of "Butcher" and his gross rotund appearance, he was a skillful and experienced soldier, and only four years older than Bonnie Prince Charlie. He soon set about restoring the royal army's morale. He brought them fresh artillery, something sadly lacking at Prestonpans and Falkirk, and a new technique for their new weapon, the bayonet. By training his soldiers to lunge with their bayonets not at the charging Highlander in front of them, but at the one to their right as he raised his arm to strike and thus exposed himself to a lethal thrust, c.u.mberland now had the tactic that could counteract the violent shock of the clansmen's charge. His troops sensed for the first time that they could beat the Jacobites in a pitched battle.

They had their chance to prove it on April 16, 1746. Charles's situation had now deteriorated to the point of collapse. His war chest was empty; his men had no pay; supplies were gone; worst of all, he and his field commander, Lord George Murray, were no longer on speaking terms. He and his troops had been on a long line of retreat for weeks from c.u.mberland's much larger army, toward Inverness. Most of his soldiers had not eaten for two days. On the sixteenth, the sorry ragtag force reached Culloden House, overlooking Drummossie Moor-the home of Duncan Forbes, the man who had doomed Charles's last chance for a Highland uprising. Charles's officers, "sullen and dejected," according to one eyewitness, lay down to sleep in the deserted house, "some on beds, others on tables, Chairs, and on the floors." The Jacobites had drained Forbes's private supply of sixty hogsheads of claret on an earlier visit: the prince, weak from a recent bout with pneumonia, had to be content with a dram of whisky and some bread.

With c.u.mberland close on his heels, Charles decided the only way to reverse his fortune was by offering battle. Murray and the other commanders were appalled by the suicidal plan, and Charles again lost his temper. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it! Are my orders still disobeyed?" he cried. Walter Stapleton, commander of his Irish volunteers, now ventured his opinion: "The Scots are always good soldiers till things come to a crisis," he said contemptuously. This silenced the other commanders' objections. Now they had to fight, to prove their manhood. At the end of their enterprise as at its start, honor compelled them to take a position they knew to be a mistake. They and their clansmen were about to pay for that mistake in full measure.

The next day, as the clans and other Jacobite contingents wearily drew up their line of battle, c.u.mberland's army marched onto the field, with flags, drums, and the squeal of the Campbell pipes. His army outnumbered Charles's by two to one. Three of his fifteen regular battalions were Scottish, in addition to Lord Loudun's regiment of Highland volunteers and Campbell's clansmen. As rank after rank of redcoats moved slowly but inexorably into position-the two armies were only five hundred yards apart-the hearts of the Jacobite commanders sank. "We are putting an end to a bad affair," George Murray muttered to Lord Elcho. Even Prince Charlie's optimism faded, and for the first time he "began to consider his situation desperate."

Numbers, discipline, and technology now took over. c.u.mberland opened the battle with an artillery barrage that pounded the Jacobite line for half an hour, killing, wounding, or scattering nearly a third of Charles's effectives. Charles himself narrowly escaped death when a solid shot decapitated the groom holding his horse. Meanwhile, a contingent of Campbells had seized the low stone fence that was supposed to secure the Jacobite right, and began to pour a deadly fire into their flank. Charles's troops still had not fired a shot, and yet the battle had been largely decided.

However, the clansmen did not realize this. While their commanders had steadily lost their nerve, they were eager for battle. They had scattered their enemies not once but twice, and a.s.sumed they could do it again. At last, maddened beyond endurance by the sh.e.l.ling, the Mackintoshes, who held the center of the prince's line, could no longer be held back and charged. Without waiting for orders, Cameron of Lochiel, sword and pistol in hand, led his "sons of the hound," as the Camerons called themselves, after them.

Then the rest of Clan Chattan-Mackintosh, MacGillivray, and MacBean-surged behind them, coming up "very boldly and fast all in a cloud together, sword in hand," as one English soldier described it; "like wildcats," said another. Most came on too fast to use the muskets they were carrying; in their bloodl.u.s.t, they threw their firearms away. The British laid a withering fire into them as they came on, forcing the charging Highlanders to swerve to the right, as if to evade the hailstorm of lead and shot. "Making a dreadful huzza, and even crying 'Run, ye dogs!'" they broke onto the British line.

But this time the British did not run. Even the Scots of Munro's regiment, which had disgraced itself at Falkirk, stood their ground. It was vicious hand-to-hand combat, with the clansmen blindly hacking and thrusting as the choking gunsmoke closed around them. "It was dreadful to see the enemies' swords circling in the air as they were raised from the strokes," said one eyewitness, "and no less to see the officers in the army, some cutting with their swords, other pushing with their spontoons, the sergeants running their halberds into the throats of the opponents, the men ramming their fixed bayonets up to the sockets."

Meanwhile, the British fire continued undiminished. The smoke became so thick that the Highlanders had to feel rather than see their way to the enemy. Clansmen were shot down in heaps three or four deep as they climbed over the bodies of cousins and brothers and "hacked at the muskets with such a maniacal fury that far down the line men could hear the iron clang of sword on barrel." Those who were not mowed down by musket fire and grapeshot died on the points of the Britishers' bayonets. "No one that attacked us, escaped alive," said one of Munro's officers afterwards, "for we gave no quarter, nor would accept of any."

The last head-on clash between a modern army and a premodern one on European soil ended when the clansmen could no longer stand up to the slaughter. First in ones and twos, then in clumps of ten or a dozen, they broke off and headed to the rear. Some, "in their fury and despair, threw stones for at least a minute or two, before their total rout began." Now the Campbells rose up, tearing down the stone wall and shouting "Cruachan!" "Cruachan!" as they fell on their ancient foes. Within minutes the Jacobite center and right turned and ran. The MacDonalds, holding down the left flank, soon followed. as they fell on their ancient foes. Within minutes the Jacobite center and right turned and ran. The MacDonalds, holding down the left flank, soon followed.

Some chieftains refused to give up. MacDonnell of Keppoch cried out, "Oh my G.o.d, has it come to this, that the children of my tribe have forsaken me!" and charged, sword in hand, toward the enemy. He fell when a ball struck him in the arm, just as his brother Donald was shot down at the head of his company. Keppoch struggled on and took a second wound before dropping to the ground in front of the advancing line of British grenadiers. James MacDonald of Kilchonat tried to help him up, when another bullet hit the chief in the back. Kilchonat left him for dead and fled. But Keppoch was not dead, and when his natural son Angus Ban found him, he was unable to speak but still breathing. Angus and some of his soldiers (he had single-handedly rallied what was left of his father's regiment and led them off the field) managed to carry Keppoch to a small bothy filled with wounded and dying MacDonnells. There the old chieftain, who had once boasted of having five hundred warriors at his beck and call, expired, surrounded by the clansmen he had led to defeat and death.

The slaughter among the clan leadership was heavy. Grapeshot had shattered both of Lord Lochiel's ankles, and he had to be carried off the field. The only regimental commanders to escape unwounded were Lord George Murray, Lord Ardshiel, and Lord Nairne-although Nairne's brother, Robert Mercer of Aldie, was killed, as was Mercer's son Thomas. Their bodies were never found. Only three of the Mackintosh officers survived. But if the Jacobite chieftains and their tacksmen paid a heavy price for their misplaced loyalties, it was their followers who suffered most from the retributions of c.u.mberland and his soldiers.

We can try to make various excuses for their behavior. We can say war and its aftermath is often very nasty, and that the killing of prisoners and noncombatants is more common than most of us care to admit. There were the rumors that the Highlanders had ma.s.sacred their prisoners at Penrith, which inflamed many British spirits. There was the desire on many soldiers' part to settle scores for the humiliations at Prestonpans and Falkirk. Then there was a political culture that treated rebels as traitors and the lowest of the low, undeserving of mercy or pity. And so on. But the bitter truth is that the British at Culloden behaved monstrously, in violation of all the accepted conventions of warfare at the time, and that c.u.mberland himself set the poorest example.

When riding across the battlefield, he came upon the twenty-year-old colonel of the Fraser regiment, Charles Fraser of Inverallochy, standing wounded and b.l.o.o.d.y in front of him. c.u.mberland asked him to whom he belonged. "To the Prince," Fraser replied. Furious, c.u.mberland turned to an officer, Major James Wolfe, and ordered him to shoot the boy on the spot. In less than twelve years, during the French and Indian Wars, Wolfe would be the conqueror of Montreal, and would himself make the commander's ultimate sacrifice on the battlefield. Now, to his everlasting credit, Wolfe refused to obey the order, and offered to resign his commission. Instead, c.u.mberland gave a signal to a pa.s.sing soldier, who raised his musket and shot Fraser through the head.

c.u.mberland did show great solicitude for his own troops, giving twelve guineas for every wounded man, and ordered up rum, brandy, biscuit, and cheese for their provision. He praised "my brave Campbells" and the Scots of Munro's regiment. But there was no mercy for the rebels, either on the battlefield or afterwards. For two days the wounded were left unattended on the field, with sentinels on guard to prevent anyone from helping them. Soldiers went from house to house in the area, rounding up rebel stragglers and executing them by the dozens. The hut in which McDonnell of Keppoch had died was set on fire, consuming his body and those of his followers, those still alive screaming horribly until they were "scorched to death in a most miserable, mangled way." A nearby hut containing eighteen clansmen was also put to the