1746
How Father O'Rourke and I met with the Duke of York, who charged me with a secret mission towards Prince Charles; of our voyage to Scotland, and the dismal tidings that there met us.

The next morning Father O'Rourke's words came true, for there were many aching heads amongst us, of which my own was one, and the jolting of the Paris diligence did not in any way improve their condition nor their owners' tempers. It is surprising how mightily the hot enthusiasms of overnight will cool down by daylight—and here was an example. Last night there was not one of us but would have embarked to the Prince's support without a second thought of the chances, and not one would have admitted that the chances, if any, were aught but rose-coloured; but with the morning everything took on a different complexion, and the whole of our way to Paris was filled with nothing but the most dismal forebodings.

I addressed myself to Mr. Sempil, and found that the Duke would expect me in about a week at Boulogne; and in the mean time I did what I could to raise the spirits and determination of my companions.
At length we had a general consultation, and, much to my disgust, they one and all began to plan, not for our joining the Prince, but for offering the most excellent reasons why they should then and there return: "the Prince had retreated from England; the passage was dangerous on account of the English fleet; the French could not be relied upon for any material aid; and, lastly, Spring was approaching, and they would lose their chances of promotion in the ensuing campaign," and so on.
"In short, gentlemen," I said, out of patience at last, "you all came here prepared to sing the same song, and you do it to perfection. Your arguments do more credit to your heads than to your hearts. If the Prince were safe in London you would be the first to flock after him; but now, when he most needs your assistance, you are like a pack of old women inventing terrors to excuse your cowardice."
There were some of them who pretended to take exception to my words; but as I assured them I would be only too pleased to make any or all of them good, and the sooner the better, they did not go beyond their protest.
But if they found my words unpalatable, Father O'Rourke gave them something more difficult to digest.
"I object to the gentleman's manner of putting it myself," he began; "he is altogether too mealy-mouthed, which comes no doubt from his diet in boyhood. If he were only a blathering Irishman like the rest of you, he would be shouting Jacobite songs, and guzzling Jacobite toasts, and whispering Jacobite treasons, and never venture an inch of his precious carcass, until the moon turned into a Jacobite cheese and was ready to drop into his mouth. I'm ashamed of you all! Go back to your macaroni and polenta, and brag about Cremona and other battles you never fought, and see if you cannot breed some mongrel mixture that will make you ashamed of the way you have behaved this day. There! that's what I say to you; and if any of you don't like it, get down on your marrow-bones and thank Heaven that the rules of his Church prevent Father O'Rourke, late Chaplain of the Company of St. James, wearing a sword, or, by the Powers! you would go back like so many pinked bladders!"
And to my surprise, these men, who were wont to smell an insult afar off, and whose courage in the field was unquestioned, received this intolerable tirade as quietly as school-boys after a whipping—and so the matter rested, and they went their way and we ours.

I wrote to Mr. Constable, then Secretary to the Duke of York, of the resolution of my comrades, and, by return of post, I received orders from His Royal Highness to repair to Boulogne, which I immediately complied with, accompanied by Father O'Rourke.
On reaching Boulogne, we enquired our way to Mr. Constable's lodgings, and upon knocking at his chamber-door it was opened by the Duke himself.
"Welcome, Mr. McDonell, welcome; and you, too, Father O'Rourke. You see we are so few we have dispensed with ceremony here in Boulogne." he said, giving a hand to each of us.
"We ourselves dispensed with it, and most of our following as well, in Paris, your Highness," said Father O'Rourke, laughing, "though I don't know that we'd have been any more had we used all the ceremony of the Court of Spain;" and then, without waiting to be introduced to the other gentlemen present, he began the story of his farewell speech to the volunteers from Italy, and set them all a-laughing heartily with his impudence.
I was somewhat taken aback, but thought it best to offer no remonstrance; indeed, I could not imagine any company which would have put Father O'Rourke out of countenance. I felt ill at ease, not having shifted myself, as I had not expected to see any one save Mr. Constable; but Father O'Rourke talked and moved among them all in his rusty cassock without an apology for his condition. However, I soon forgot such trifles in my interest in the company gathered. Besides His Highness, there were the Duke of Fitz-James, son of the great Duke of Berwick, and many noblemen of distinction and general officers, among whom I was introduced to the Count Lally-Tollendal, whose unjust execution at the hands of his enemies some years later aroused the sympathies of all Europe.
The plans of the Prince and hopes of aid from King Louis were discussed with the utmost freedom and with much hope, for it was confidently expected an expedition for Scotland would be equipped immediately, which the Duke was to command, as it was on this promise he had come from Italy.

But one week went by, and then another, and yet we had no satisfaction from the Court, not even excuses, and I could not but observe that, though others still had implicit faith in some action by King Louis, the Duke began to lose heart.
"Ah, the poor young man," said Father O'Rourke, "my heart is sore for him. He has more sense than the rest of them, and faith, I think, has more heart, too, and so takes it harder. Do you know, Giovannini, 'tis a great misfortune to be born in the ranks of princes; they're the only class of men I know of that are untrustworthy as a whole. King David knew the breed well, and did not he write 'Put not your trust in princes' (Nollite confidere in principibus)? and here is the Duke eating his heart out because he is learning the bitter text King David preached thousands of years ago."
We were seated in a lonely place outside the town, overlooking the sea, and watched the lights below us gently rising and falling on the fishing-vessels and other craft at anchor, and marked among them the bright lanthorns of a man-of-war which topped all the others.
Presently we heard footsteps, and the Duke came up alone; it was not so dark but he could recognize us, which he did very quietly, and, advancing, seated himself between us, saying, "Do not move, gentlemen, and forget I am the Duke for an hour. My heart is sick of empty forms which mean nothing," and he sate in silence for a long time with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands gazing out over the sea.
At length he said, slowly, as if to himself, "I would give ten years of my life to be on board that frigate with the men I would choose and a fair wind for Scotland. To think of my poor brother longing and wondering why some support does not come, and I idle here with empty hands," and something like a sob ended his words.
Then Father O'Rourke spake in a voice as gentle as if he comforted a woman. "Your Highness, when we were children, the story we loved best to hear was the one our mother never told us—about 'The Little Red Hen.' Who 'The Little Red Hen' was, or where she came from, or what she did, we never could learn. She was just 'The Little Red Hen,' and had no story at all. But her story which no one ever heard was better than that of 'Brian Boru,' or 'Malachi of the Collar of Gold,' or 'Rookey the Water Witch,' any of whom would come out without much coaxing and parade up and down until we knew them through and through, while the very name of 'The Little Red Hen' would quiet the biggest trouble that ever broke our hearts. My own belief is that she stayed at home and kept the breath of life in the family by laying her eggs and scratching up food for the chickens; but wherever she was, there was no cackling to lead us to her. She was just doing her work, helping the tired hearts and healing the sore ones, and all these years no one ever set eyes on her, more than on the dew that falls at night on the thirsty land."
And that was all; no beginning, no end, and I wondered what he was at, with his silly stories of Red Hens, fit only for a lot of bare-legged children; but the Duke must have seen something else, for after a little he broke into a more lively humour and said, half laughing, "Upon my word, Father O'Rourke, you Irish are a wonderful people!"
"We are all that, your Highness," he returned, with great complacence. "We are a terrible convenient people to have about when everything is going right, and, for the matter of that, when everything is going wrong as well, if we only have some one with a strong hand to lead us; but make us all equal and we are no more use than a lot of chickens with their heads cut off."
 
"THEN FATHER O'ROURKE SPAKE"
"Father O'Rourke," said the Duke, suddenly, "sing me that song I heard of your singing at Lyons."
"I will with all my heart, your Highness," and, making his big voice as soft as a girl's, he began without any further words:
"Oh the water, the water."

When he had finished, the Duke sate silent a little, then he rose and said, "Gentlemen, I thank you for the first hour of quiet I have had for weeks. Come, let us go back." And at the door of his lodgings he bade us good-night, saying to Father O'Rourke, "Don't be surprised if I should come to you some day to hear the rest of the story of 'The Little Red Hen.'"

The forebodings of the Duke came true; no expedition was forthcoming, and he was obliged to send in single vessels such aid as could be procured. One left Dunkirk in the beginning of April with three hundred men and many officers, but I was still bidden to remain.
Shortly afterwards the Duke commanded me to repair to Dunkirk and there await him. He there sent me the grateful assurance that I was to start almost at once charged with considerable monies, which he was about raising, and also letters for the Prince, and at the same time confided to me that he had almost transmitted a large sum by the hands of Creach, or "Mr. Graeme," as he styled him—news I was sadly disappointed to hear, for I could not bring myself to trust the man in any particular.
In a few days the Duke arrived, and the next day was invited to dinner by my Lord Clare, then in command of the French troops in and about the place. As Father O'Rourke and I were considered to be in the Duke's retinue, we were also asked. Lord Clare, observing my uniform, enquired of the Duke who I was, and was informed I was a Highland gentleman named McDonell, a Lieutenant in the Spanish Army in Italy. After some further conversation with the Duke, he addressed himself to me, saying, without any introduction:
"Mr. McDonell, I have a company now vacant in my regiment, and if you will accept, it is this moment at your service."
I rose, and, commanding myself as well as possible under this surprise, said: "Your Excellency has my most humble thanks for your handsome offer, but I only left my late service, wherein I had gained some recognition, in order to devote myself to my protectors and benefactors, the Royal Family, to whom I am bound by the strongest ties of gratitude."
The Duke looked at me with a real pleasure in his eyes, and I was proud that I could afford him even a passing gratification.
Presently the Duke requested his Lordship to grant him a favour.
"I am sure your Highness will not ask anything beyond my poor powers," he answered.
"There are no political complications in this," laughed the Duke. "I would only ask that my friend, Father O'Rourke, be requested to sing for us a song which has been running through my head since I first heard it from him the other night."
Whereupon Lord Clare requested him to sing, and straightway he began, for the fiftieth time that I had heard him, at the same old song. And herein lies the poverty of these rhymers, for if by any chance they hit something that tickles the ear, they must be harping on it until the patience of their intimates is wearied beyond words. But I could afford to let him win his reward, for I considered I had cut no inconsiderable figure before the company myself.

Two or three days later we left Dunkirk for St. Omer, where I at last received my orders. I was to return secretly to Dunkirk and there take passage in a swift sailing cutter, lately captured from the English, and carry a sum of three thousand guineas, together with important despatches and letters for the Prince.
The Duke was very down the last night we spent together, and once or twice repeated:
        "Oh the waiting, the waiting,
        The cruel night of waiting,
When we brake the bread of sorrow and drank our bitter tears."

"Mr. McDonell," he said, "it is impossible to tell how things may turn, but should they prove against us, give me your word not to desert the Prince."
"Your Royal Highness," I answered, "I swear by my mother's soul I will not leave Scotland while he is in any danger, and neither threat nor peril will tempt me to be unfaithful to him in word or thought."
"It is enough," he said; "I can trust you without the oath."
The next morning we parted from him, embracing him like any private gentleman, as he wished to keep his incognito absolute; so he took his way into Flanders, and we to Dunkirk, there to join some twenty-five officers, all volunteers for Prince Charles. We found our vessel ready for sea, and before sunset were safely on board, meeting old friends and making new ones.

It was night by the time we ran out of the harbour, and many an anxious hour we had of it, for it was no easy matter to make the run from France to Scotland in the year '46, when every sail was looked upon with suspicion.
I need make no apologies for our anxiety when we were signalled to lay to by the first English ship we met; and the invitation was quickly followed by a puff of smoke and the boom of a gun. A sense of danger is largely quickened by unfamiliarity, and though any of us would have made little of attacking a battery on shore, this sea fighting was a new and uncomfortable outlook. But when we saw what a pair of heels our privateer, fitly named the Swallow, could show, we soon recovered our confidence, and after this it was a mere matter of speculation how long anything we met could stand up to us at all.
Our crew of about fifty was a mixed lot, French and Scotch, but they were thorough at their business, and it was curious to see how true the Captain could judge of the exact room he must give to any suspicious sail—it was a game of hare and hounds all the time, for no sooner were we rid of one than we would fall in with another to take up the running; but none of them served to do more than raise our spirits and take our minds off the discomfort most landsmen find at sea. We encountered various weather, but the worst only brought out the sailing qualities of the Swallow, until at length we made the coast of Scotland, and all eagerly looked to the end of our voyage, which was to be at Inverness; indeed, the Captain counted on making Cromarty Head before night, and to lay there till the morning.

That day at dinner Father O'Rourke gave us another taste of his song-making, which was greatly appreciated on account of the reference to the "White Cockade," always a favorite quickstep with the Jacobite Regiments:
Merrily, merrily blows the wind from off the coasts of France;
The Channel open wide before, God send us now good chance!
Give us the green seas rolling free and but way enough to steer,
And we'll leave the swiftest foe in the wake of the
            Swallow Privateer!
        Then here's to the Swallow, flying true!
        And here's to the Prince and his Bonnets Blue!
        And here's to the heart of each wife and maid
        That is beating for the Laddie with the White Cockade!
Drearily, drearily sets the wind down from the Northern Seas,
But she dips to the rollers big and black, and her bonnie
            breast she frees,
From her tapering mast she flies on the blast her signals
            fluttering clear
To the friends that pray for the coming home of the
            Swallow Privateer!
        Then here's to the Swallow, flying true!
        And here's to the Prince and his Bonnets Blue!
        And here's to the heart of each wife and maid
        That is beating for the Laddie with the White Cockade!
Mightily, mightily booms the wind out of the setting sun;
We will double the great ships like a hare, we will
            fight where we cannot run,
Till we win to land, and with sword in hand we will
            follow the Chevalier
Who will bless the winds that filled the wings of the
            Swallow Privateer!
        Then here's to the Swallow, flying true!
        And here's to the Prince and his Bonnets Blue!
        And here's to the heart of each wife and maid
        That is beating for the Laddie with the White Cockade!

It was with the highest expectations that we looked forward to landing on the morrow and joining the Prince, of whose movements we were in ignorance, except that we were to rendezvous at Inverness.
In the latter part of the night I was awakened by an ugly scream from Captain Lynch, one of the officers of our company.
"What is the matter?" I asked, in some alarm.
"I dreamed the Devil had hold of me by the heels, and about to dash my brains out."
"Perhaps the Devil is not so very far off," I returned; and then, being somewhat restless, part from the heat and part from our being so near our landing, I thought I would take a turn on the deck. No sooner had my eyes got accustomed to the light than, to my alarm, I made out the dim outline of a great ship, which must have come up during the night, unseen and unheard by our sentinels, and was lying-to between us and the entrance to the bay. I at once made my discovery known to the Captain, who, coming hurriedly on deck, swore with a great oath I had saved their lives, for she was no other than an English man-of-war on the outlook for such as we. Then, without more ado, he slipped his anchor, got up sail as quietly as possible, and, in a fever of anxiety, we waited to see whether the tide which was setting on shore or the light winds which were moving would prove the stronger. At length our sails gently filled and began to draw, so we crept round under the shadow of the land until we got the full wind, and stood out to sea with thankful hearts for the danger we had so narrowly escaped.
Great was the surprise of my comrades when aroused to find we were again making for the open instead of ending our voyage; but, as Father O'Rourke said: "Captain Lynch, your patron saint evidently thinks that even a little extra salt water is better for you than the inside of an English prison. The truth is that Irishmen are such favourites that even the Devil himself will do them a good turn at times."
Though I thought to myself there were others fully as deserving as the Irish, I said nothing.
As our intended landing was now impossible, our Captain determined to stand round the Orkneys for Loch Broom, in Cromarty, on the West coast.

We had an easy run, and as soon as we were signalled from the shore, and on lying-to, a boat was put out. In the stern there were seated two gentlemen, one of whom, the Captain informed me, was a McKenzie, and in the other Father O'Rourke and I only too soon recognized Creach.
"This means trouble of some sort," I remarked; "we would never find him so far afield if things were going right."
"I fear it, too," he answered, and before long our worst apprehensions were realized.
We withdrew at once to the cabin where I met Creach, or Graeme, as he still called himself, without remark, for I recalled my word to the Duke and felt there was something too weighty on hand for even the remembrance of a personal quarrel. In a few moments we heard, to our dismay, that Culloden had been fought and lost the very day we had sailed from Dunkirk; that the clans were scattered and no one knew what had become of the Prince.
After the dreadful news had been given time to sink into our benumbed senses, I asked for personal friends, and heard, to my sorrow, from McKenzie, that my Uncle Scottos, who had been among the very first to join the Prince, and was much esteemed by him, had died like a soldier and a gentleman in his service in the first charge at Culloden.
When the body of his clan refused to answer the signal to charge, and stood still and dumb under the insult which had been put upon them in placing them in the left instead of the right wing, he cursed and swore like one possessed, as did others. But finding it of no avail, he changed of a sudden, and, turning to his own men, threw his bonnet on the ground, crying to them, with tears in his words: "Let them go! But my own children will never return to say they saw me go to my death alone!" and with that he charged, every one of his own following him. It was fine, but of no effect, for the English swept them off the face of the earth by a point-blank fire before ever steel met steel. He was picked up and carried off by two of his men; but finding the pursuit grow too hot, he called a halt.
 
"'WILL NEVER RETURN TO SAY THEY SAW ME GO TO MY DEATH ALONE'"
"Put me down here!" he said, and quickly taking off his dirk, sporran, and watch, he sent them to his son with the message that his end had come as he had always wished, "Sword in hand and face to the foe," and bade them leave him.
And so died one of the gallantest gentlemen, and probably the best swordsman in all Scotland.

Besides, I lost many other of my friends and kinsmen, as I afterwards learned; but this was no time for private mournings, and I turned at once to the business in hand. My comrades decided there was nothing to do but return, and proposed our action should be unanimous.
"Gentlemen," said I, "in the face of such tidings as we have received, no one can doubt but your resolve is justified, and had I simply volunteered for military service, as you have done, I would not hesitate to give my voice to your decision, which I hold to be honourable in every way. But I am charged with private despatches and other matters for the Prince by the Duke of York, and I am not free until I have at least attempted to carry out my mission, for which I know I have your good wishes, and so must go on alone."
"Not alone, my son," broke out Father O'Rourke, and stretched out his big hand to me across the table. "I am curious, gentlemen, to see Scotland, and am sure I cannot do so better than in company with our friend here."
"But, sir, how can you expect to travel about here in your cassock? You would only have to meet the first loyal man to be arrested," objected Creach, the first time he had spoken to either of us.
"Thank you for your suggestion, sir, though doubtless the word 'loyal' was a bit of a slip on your part. I am too well accustomed to meeting blackguards of every description to fear even a 'loyal' man!" Whereupon every one looked at him in surprise to hear him so address Creach, who, however, thought well to make no reply; and shortly after our conference broke up, Creach returning to shore, whilst Mr. McKenzie remained with us until we had formed some plan.

Father O'Rourke arranged with Captain Lynch, who had volunteered from the Hungarian service, and was near as big a man as himself, that he should provide him with a spare uniform, and, when once arrayed, he presented so fine an appearance that we, one and all, made him our compliments upon it.
"Captain Lynch," said he, at dinner, "I have another favour to ask before we part, and that is for the loan of your name while I am playing at this masquerade. I know it is a ticklish thing to ask, this loaning of names, but as I have always been particular of my own, I can promise you I know how to care for yours."
"Faith, you can have it, and welcome, provided you are careful not to mislay it, for 'tis the only bit of property my poor father ever left me," replied the Captain, with great good-nature.
"Never fear, you'll have it back safe and sound. I'll make good kitchen of it, so it won't be worn out, and if they hang me, I'll take care they'll do so under all my true name and title."

Seeing that Father O'Rourke approved, I determined that half the sum I carried was quite enough to risk, so I did up one thousand guineas in one bag, five hundred in another, and confided the remaining fifteen hundred to Captain Lynch to return to the Duke, together with a letter explaining our intentions, and with farewells all around, followed by many a good wish from our comrades, Father O'Rourke and I clambered down the side, followed by Mr. McKenzie, and were rowed ashore. We gave the boat's crew something, and waving a farewell to those on ship-board, picked up our portmanteaus and struck inland.