Muckle John

All the world knows the tale of the Rising of 1745. It is a story that each generation cherishes with undiminished affection. Some have called it the last burst of chivalry in modern history, and doubtless for that reason when other more vital aspects are forgotten, the campaign of Prince Charlie will sustain its fascination and its glamour.

In an age peculiarly commonplace and sordid, it carried the spirit of romance well-nigh to the throne itself; in a period almost destitute of loyalty and patriotism it glorified the reckless gallantry and self-sacrifice of devotion.

That Charles Edward Stuart could land with only seven followers and carry all before him into the very heart of England is wonderful enough. But that in the days of his misfortune and flight no one was found to claim the reward for his life is finer still. That poor, unarmed, uneducated men were ready to die in hundreds is a testimony not easily forgotten.

Of those great days when the Jacobite army marched south much has been written, and the facts are familiar to all. But of those grey days following Culloden Moor less is known, and in the last fluttering of the Jacobite Cause there is much that must necessarily baffle and perplex the casual reader.

The Highlands were to a large extent divided in opinion. There were Jacobite clans, and Hanoverian clans, while between the two were men like Major Fraser of our story, anxious to keep clear of both. There were devoted chiefs like Lochiel, scheming chiefs like Lovat, chiefs who wavered and trifled like Macleod, or were downright traitors like Glengarry and Barisdale, and there were the tragi-comedians like poor Murray of Broughton, who was more hated than he deserved.

Finally there were, like poppies in the grain, the adventurers, men with nothing to lose and something to gain (such as Muckle John himself), serving no chief, nor clan, marauders more Jacobite than Hanoverian, like birds of prey hovering for the kill. It is of this side of the '45 that I have principally treated.

Clan jealousies again must not be forgotten, and the universal hatred of the Campbells played, as always, its miserable part. Those who condemn Cumberland and his troops must not forget that in the persecution after Culloden the hunting down of the fugitives was ardently pursued by the Highland militia and the men from Argyllshire.

The story of a campaign is but a lightning flash in the history of a nation. Long after, the thunder rolls into silence. The Rebellion of the '45 was only the fuse that destroyed at a blow the clan system of centuries. From Culloden onwards the transit of the old into the new was swift and tragic in its coming.

FREDERICK WATSON

MUCKLE JOHN

CHAPTER I

HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS

It is often your stupidest boy who is most likeable in a helpless sort of way. Not that Rob Fraser was a nincompoop, but there was a confiding innocency in his shadowless blue eyes that only a rascal could have turned to his own advantage.

Rob was not accounted promising at school, and during the study of such subjects as Latin and Greek his mind appeared to be focussed upon the next county, nor was he regarded as reliable at games, for his movements were in tune with his thoughts, which were more often on the trout in the pool than on the ball in his hand.

It was this abstraction that divided him from the other boys of his age, not because he was unpopular, not because he lacked pluck, but just because he was silent for days at a time, and made no confidences. It was a state of mind that drove his aunt, good woman, to a kind of arctic fury. For years she strove to beat it out of him, but it served no purpose except to send him upon the hills for days together.