A Virginia Highlander's Tale

A VIRGINIA HIGHLANDER'S TALE

By Jay Williams

Unpublished, written 1998

I am told by me uncle, Seamus, that America is a land of escape. People escape to these green shores. Escape debts. Escape the law. Religious intolerance. My clan escaped too. We escaped from the famine and bad growing seasons in Scotland that nearly wiped out my family. However, little did I realize until a cool, September day in 1772, that we also escaped the clutches of the tyrannical king of England.

I say me family escaped, but really only a few of our families settled here in Virginia. Although I was already 16, being without a wife or land of me own, I still lived with me father. Aye, I’m sure you’re thinkin’, “James Douglas, you should be on yer own by this time.” Aye, and I can’t say you’re wrong. But I’ll be plain with you, although I could work as hard as any man, I still hadn’t gained the desire to strike out on me own. Uncle Seamus said I lacked direction ‘cause I wasn’t Highland bred, as we escaped the mists while I was still a wee lad.

So there I was, chopping away at a few trees on the edge of our farm when my life forever changed. Me ax had just made a deathblow to another of those abundant Virginian pines, when I spied a bloody hand lying across a fallen tree from yesterday and not moving a might. At first thought, I believed a savage had sneaked up and intended to do me harm, but on closer look, I noticed a man’s shirt sleeve covering an unmoving arm. A shirt no savage would wear. As I crept closer, me ax ready for anything, I realized it was another settler.

“You there! Come out!” I demanded, a safe distance away.

“Help me,” a weak voice answered.

Drawing closer, I learned that more than his hand was bloody. He looked to have been in a terrible fight. One he surely didn’t win. When I drew beside him, I discovered not a man, such as meself, but a mere lad, surely no more than 14.

“What happened to you?” I asked, laying down me ax and kneeling beside the lad.

But he answered me no more, and instead rolled his eyes back into his head and fainted straight away. Sure, I hated to abandon the fun I had been enjoying, clearing away those cursed trees, but the boy obviously needed help. Luckily, me father had allowed me to use one of the horses, so after packing in the tools, I laid the poor lad across Bonnie Charlie’s back and led him home.

“I’m Paddy Connor,” the boy said the next day. His vigor had grown quickly after his wounds were patched and he got some sleep.

“Connor?” me dad questioned. “You from the Connors over on the ridge by the river?”

“Aye. And sure’n I was.”

“Was? What do you mean lad?”

“A year ago, we moved in with some of our clan after the English had run us out of Ireland. Sure’n as if the same bastards didn’t follow us and do the same to this farm,” he said, and I noticed a tear came to his eye. He quickly wiped it away, trying to act like it was merely an itch.

Uncle Seamus, who had ridden over from his farm on hearing of my brave rescue, jumped up from his seat by the fire. “What? The English!”

“Aye. The King’s men.”

Me father looked at Seamus quite stern and then at Paddy Connor. “And why would the English attack yer farm here, lad?” he asked, and I could tell he was nervous. Why, I didn’t know—at first. But through the years, I’d learned to know his mind just by the manner he spoke, the way he held his head.

The boy tried to sit up, but his aching body didn’t allow it. “A few days ago, they came to the door of our house. An officer announced that me brother had “taken the King’s Schilling” and was obligated to join them in service of the King. Father yelled at the man that no sane Irishman would ever knowingly agree to serve the King.”

“My God!”

“Quiet, Seamus!” Me father ordered. “Go on, lad.”

“Well, then the officer motioned to two men behind him, who moved toward me brother,” the lad paused and thought about this, then crossed himself. “And before you could whistle a tune, me brother pulled out his dirk and stabbed one of the Red Coats in the stomach!”

My father was clearly agitated now, but I wanted to hear more. I inched closer to the bed, which seemed to make me dad a little angry.

“The other soldier swung the butt of his gun at Sean and then the whole place came alive with fighting. Me father bowled over the officer with a ferocious punch and the rest of me kin joined in.”

“Glory be, lad!” Uncle Seamus broke in. “Were you all mad? Attacking the King’s men with barely a weapon?”

“Aye, perhaps so,” the boy continued, trying to be polite, though I could see he didn’t like his story being interrupted. “But you must understand that the clan’s blood still stood aboil over the sore treatment we had received at home. The next thing I knew, I heard shouts from the soldiers still outside and more and more of ‘em began to pour into the house.”

“How could you escape that, lad?” Father asked, concerned.

“I only escaped ‘cause me father picked me up and threw me out the back window while yelling for me to run. I had been bloodied a might by one of the soldiers who had stormed in, so the fall didn’t feel that bad. Unfortunately, I landed at the feet of another of the bloody Red Coats, who straight away flailed at me with all his might.”

The boy winced and felt his shoulder at this thought, but didn’t hesitate to continue. “I guess he thought I was dead, or at least not much of a bother, for he left to join his friends in the massacre inside. I crawled away unnoticed and when I hit the treeline, got up and ran. Ran? What am I saying? ‘Twas more like a drunken stagger, as I barely had me wits or feeling in me legs. I got to the top of the hill overlooking the farm and saw that the bastards had set fire to the house.”

This time, he didn’t make any attempt to hide the tears that fell from his sad eyes.

“There, there, lad,” me father said, touching the boy’s shoulder.

“The next thing I know, I’m awoke here in this bed.”

“This is outrageous!” Uncle Seamus said, no longer able to keep his peace. “They have no right to invade a person’s home. This isn’t Bloody Culloden!” Father shot him a fierce look, and I could tell that something was afoot. Something that touched me father deeply. “Just last week they bludgeon Henry Smith, searching his house without cause. Now, this butchery!” Seamus said angrily.

“What is Bloody Culloden?” I finally broke in.

“Keep yer tongue, Seamus!” father yelled. “We must remain loyal.”

“Are ya blind as well as daft, man? Can’t you see that this is nothing more than the Highlands all over again? We cannot allow it to just happen to us!”

Father shook his head and ran a trembling hand through his long locks of hair. “Just like there, we would fail. And then who knows where they’d send us—if we lived. No, we must learn our lesson and remain loyal to the King.”

The two stared defiantly at each other. Scottish stubborn the both of ‘em. I decided to try again.

“What is Bloody Culloden?”

“Tell the lad, Angus. He has a right to know.”

Me father stepped to the fire and poked it a might. Stared at the burning embers in thought. The lad, me uncle and I held our tongues as he lost himself in some distant memory.

“I've told you some of our history, lad,” he finally began. “The history of our family, our clan. But not all of it. Nor all of the story of the Highlands.” He looked up at me. “Maybe the most important part of our history. You see, James, I knew, with yer mother’s temper inside ya and all, it’d drive you to join The Troubles here,” me father said sadly. “But if yer mother had survived the trip here she never would have wanted you to do so.”

I looked at Uncle Seamus, and like me dad, he seemed to be in some sort of dreamy, reflective state. Staring blankly at the ground. He must have noticed my attention, as he nodded slowly.

“You were named after a great Scottish warrior, son.”

“I know father. A close friend of King Robert the Bruce,” I broke in.

“Aye, but since that time, long ago, there were many more valiant Scotsmen who shed their blood for our freedom.” He paused a long moment. “The last of them died at Bloody Culloden. A mere 26 years ago.”

He suddenly turned and walked toward me and Paddy, pulling up a stool to sit between me and the bed the injured boy rested on.

“Bonnie Prince Charlie had returned to Scotland to reclaim the crown stolen from him. Early on he had great success. With his band of loyal Highlanders, he retook much of Scotland from the English. But by 1746 the tide had begun to turn against Bonnie Charlie. So he returned to the Highlands where most men still remained loyal.”

“The rest of Scotland wasn’t loyal?” I asked.

“Be still, lad,” Seamus added. “Let him speak his story.”

Father nodded his head toward his brother then looked at me. “No, many of the lowlanders remained loyal, but as they had been conquered by the evil English forces, there was little they could do.”

“Yer father’s being generous again, lad. Just because they called themselves Scotsmen, he feels he should show ‘em kindness. But the truth be known, many a lowlander were traitors and served with the bloody Red Coats!” Seamus said, his face turning an even brighter shade of crimson than its usual glowing self.

“Aye. It was so,” father confirmed. “When the Bonnie Prince lined up at Culloden, more Scotsmen faced him with weapons drawn then stood shoulder to shoulder with him.”

“And the English and the cannon,” Seamus added.

Father looked askance at his brother. “And here was me thinkin’ you wanted me to tell me son the story.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Aye, with the English, the Duke of Cumberland had close to 9,000 men to Prince Charlie’s 4,000. And the Duke had artillery, the likes of which Prince Charlie could only dream of. Although the Prince had a few pieces, they were small and of little use compared to the mighty cannon of the English. So this mighty English army and the small, but brave forces of the Prince arrived at Culloden, just outside of Inverness, in April of ‘46. A time in the Highlands when snow still covered the land and cold winds drove hard off the Moray Firth. Far unlike the comfort we have here in Virginia.”

“I was quite cold this April,” I broke in.

“Ha! An almost balmy sort of weather compared to the Highland’s spring,” Seamus said, smirking.

“A little after noon on April 16,” me father continued, acting as if he didn’t notice the interruption. “Bonnie Prince Charlie fired the few cannon he had. In a matter of moments the English replied with a torrent of lead cannon ball that sent many a Scottish leg, arm and head aflying. The slaughter was ghastly. But the Highlanders remained brave and did the only thing they knew how. They charged. Charged across an open field with their swords drawn and but a few muskets between ‘em to help. Cumberland’s forces were armed to the teeth with muskets, and the Highlanders again faced a wall of lead in the shape of musketball. They gallantly carried on however, and a few drove into the English line, sending the cowardly Red Coats arunnin’. But what little glory may have been gathered from that briefest of moments ended with a new surge by Cumberland’s men. With muskets ablazin’ they overwhelmed the Highlanders easily and in a matter of minutes, half of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s loyal men lay dead on Bloody Culloden’s battlefield.”

Father paused for a moment, to catch his breath, but also to regather his nerve. I could see this tale hurt him deeply. For although no tear came to his eye, his heart was as heavy as one of Cumberland’s cannonballs. As if he had been hit by one himself. He looked at the ground, then from Paddy to meself.

“The Duke lost a mere 300 men to the Prince’s loss of 2,000,” and he paused again to give me a hard stare. “But that wasn’t the worst of it, lad.”

I looked in shock at me dad. “Wasn’t the worst? The Highlanders faced a hail storm of cannon and musket fire and it wasn’t the worst?”

“Aye, lad, and be calm when I tell you this. The Duke had ordered no prisoners be taken! So the Red Coats went about the battleground and used their bayonets to murder the wounded Highlanders who couldn’t escape. Too many of the clansmen, unarmed, bleeding and helpless, could do nothing as the cowardly soldiers came up with drawn swords and chopped off their heads!”

“Jesus Christ above!” I shouted and jumped up. I quickly crossed meself to try to avoid God’s wrath, but I don’t think it placated me father.

“Keep a civil tongue, boy!” he shouted. “And sit down again. For sure and there’s more, and you’ll be just as angry. But you must still yer heart and learn from this.”

I frowned and sat down. “Yes, father.”

“Many a Highlander escaped, including Prince Charlie. But some of those who escaped from Culloden only lived long enough to take refuge in Inverness. The bloody Red Coats raided the town, and killed all who they found who they suspected of taking part in the battle. Some they killed in the houses they found them in. Others were taken to the cemetery at the church and shot. Not just the Highlanders who fought at Culloden suffered though. For often the English would find a lad or old man who they suspected of being a Jacobite, and just as surely they’d murder the poor soul.”

“No, can’t be,” Paddy finally said. “The English treated my clansmen right sore in Ireland, but this, this is unspeakable.”

“Aye, it is, lad,” Seamus said. “But true.”

“True it is, for some of this we learned from members of the cloth,” me father said. “A Reverend James Hay told the tale of poor Eavan McKay, jailed in Inverness by the English for delivering mail. He had the misfortune of carrying letters written in French, and as France supported the Prince, this man was judged to be a Jacobite. Because he wouldn’t translate them, tell the English who wrote ‘em, or who they were for, they whipped him with 500 lashes. After a few days, he still refused to tell, so they gave him 500 more. He died while tied to the pole. The poor lad’s father, so afraid, couldn’t claim the body, and so some beggars had to take it and bury it straight away.”

“And a reverend told this tale?” I asked.

“Aye. And as his body was being dragged away, a bloodthirsty Red Coat thrust his bayonet into the lad’s heart, just to be sure the poor man was dead!”

Paddy lay aghast, wiping away tear after tear, and I must be honest, it had the same effect on me. How could such barbarity be? I’d heard other colonists talk about some shameless behavior by the Red Coats, but had assumed this to be more from rum than “rumbunctiousness.” These stories only told of breaking into a house to search for a thief or of a rough arrest for someone yelling offenses about the King. This, this horror had I never imagined!

“Other tales were just as severe,” me father continued. “Tales of throats slashed, wounded clansmen burned alive in houses, hangings for the mere appearance of being a Jacobite.”

“Did any of the clansmen at Culloden survive?” I asked.

“Aye, many. As did the Bonnie Prince. But life only became worse. I told you that yer granddaddy died in a fight with an Englishman, but I never told you it was at Culloden.”

“Oh, my, no!” I said, and it was all I could do not just to blubber away.

“He died in that futile charge across the frozen field. Many of our clan died there. But not all. Seamus, meself, and many others were on our land a wee distance from Loch Ness. Although we didn’t suffer in battle, we suffered in the after affairs. In the following days and months, the English drove our clan and most of the others off our God-given land. Stole it so they could bring in sheep to make more money for their noblemen.”

“Aye, the Clearances,” Seamus said, still lost in a distant thought.

“The clans, those left, were driven deeper into the Highlands. The land yer uncle and me settled, in Wester Ross, could barely support us. When the famines began to hit Scotland, we felt it too. It was 16 years after Culloden, and you a wee lad of six when I gathered the family and we sailed to these shores. The rest of the story you know too well.”

“I don’t,” Paddy said weakly from bed.

“Me mother died on the voyage,” I said, continuing for me dad. I think he may have been glad of it, as I knew he never got over the death of his beloved. “The family settled in Carolina, where a large group of Scots had settled years ago.”

“They were the ones forced to leave directly because of Culloden, lad,” Seamus broke in. “After that terrible battle, the English forced many a Scotsman to flee or die. Some came here, others to India and some to a God forsaken land called Australia. I’m told that many were also sold into slavery. A few were sold to Englishmen in the Caribbean for a scant few barrels of rum!”

“And here was me thinking the Irish had a sore deal alone,” Paddy said.

“Our family did well enough in Carolina to buy some land up here in Virginia. Not the good land that the rich English colonists have, but still fertile land. And our own. Not any we have to share with others.”

“James! Watch yer mouth, lad!” Me father ordered, apparently back from his thoughts about his wife. “The Scots we settled with did us well.”

“But now we have our own land,” I said, trying me best to explain.

“See?” Seamus said wide-eyed toward me father. “This comes from leaving the Highlands. The lad has lost his sense for the clan.”

Father sighed. “I fear all of Scotland has, Seamus. The clans were dying even as we left. The tartan banned. Even our pipes!”

“Aye,” Seamus said, looking down at the ground dejectedly. “Even the pipes.”

A sudden, loud knock on the door brought us all back from our dejected thoughts. Me first thoughts were of Red Coats acomin' for Paddy, and from the way me dad and uncle jumped up, it surely crossed their thoughts as well. However, before we could even think of looking for a weapon, we heard the voice of Jonathan Thomas, our neighbor from over the hill.

“Angus! Seamus! Let me in, boys! I’ve got news!” he shouted excitedly through the door.

Me father opened the door and Jon, wide-eyed as a wild hog and sweating up a storm came rushing in.

“My God, man. You’re a fright,” me father said.

“Angus, Seamus, you won’t believe the news,” he repeated.

“Calm down, lad. Take a seat and catch yer breath,” me uncle said, offering his own for our friend.

“An English ship was set afire in the harbor at Providence!”

“Glory be!” Seamus said, smiling broadly.

“This can’t be?” father said, shocked and frowning.

“Yes, yes. I just got word from William Taylor, who’s got a brother who lives there. It happened a month ago!”

I could tell this news bothered me father. He was so torn between his Scottish heritage, but also his enforced loyalty to the crown. However, I knew from many a talks with Jonathan’s son, that although his father had settled here from England some 20 years ago, he believed like Seamus that the King had no place in this new land.

It wasn’t long before we were joined by Trevor Hastings, who owned a farm a few miles away. The word had spread quickly around the valley and was now all the rage. We invited them to join us for dinner and talked into the night. Talked of our various histories, talked of this fertile, green and new land. Talked of The Troubles. It was during all this talk that I finally found me direction.

I must find me fortune, and me future, away from our farm.

After our neighbors left, I told me father me plan. I would go north, perhaps even to Boston—where two years ago the English massacred innocent colonists—and find me way. I’d join with others in the struggle to let the King know he couldn’t push us around in this new land. I’d lived here longer than I’d lived in the Highlands, so although I couldn’t fight for me father’s old home, I sure could fight for mine.

When I mentioned Boston, Paddy got excited, as he said he had kin there. He swore he would tag along. And although he was not quite a man such as meself, I thought it would be good to have the company. Me father forcefully said no, but I had made up me mind. For once, I knew what I would do with me life. Uncle Seamus, on the other hand, slapped me on the back and smiled broadly.

“It’s good to see you still got Highland blood in ya, lad,” he said.

Two weeks later, me father gave me Bonnie Charlie, and helped me pack him up for me journey. I think his brother talked him into parting with his prized horse.

“It’ll be good to know that Bonnie Charlie will once again lead a Scot to glory and honor,” Seamus said as I climbed upon the horse’s back.

Paddy had a horse too. Got it from his land, he said. Under the Red Coats’ noses. The ones who confiscated his family’s land for payment to the King for damages.

Seamus even wore his kilt to see us off. He said he didn’t care if the Red Coats spied him with it. On this occasion, he must wear the clan’s tartan. Me father didn’t like this, but in his eyes, I swore I could see a feeling of remorse that he didn’t do the same. He may have tried to portray himself off as a loyalist, but in his heart I think he really agreed with his brother. I doubt that there were really any Scotsmen who could honestly claim to be a loyalist. Especially if they were like me father and uncle who had such strong memories of Bloody Culloden.

As Paddy and meself rode off to seek our fortune in other places, me father waved and a tear came to his old, stubborn Highland eyes.

“Remember yer Clan, lad. Bring honor to our name,” he said in goodbye.

I knew then that he truly supported me and sure’n wasn’t a loyalist. As Paddy and I rode off, I swore that I would honor me father and our new land. Would make sure that our escape to this land would prove to be for the bright future me father dreamed of. Once and for all, these lush lands would be ours and not the King’s.

From Wikipedia: The Battle of Culloden (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Culloden) was the final confrontation of the Jacobite rising of 1745 and part of a religious civil war in Britain. On 16 April 1746, the Jacobite forces of Charles Edward Stuart were decisively defeated by loyalist troops commanded by William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, near Inverness in the Scottish Highlands.