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Rose for France cover 9/10/08 9:15 AM Page 1 THE WHITE ROSE AND THE THORN TREE The White Rose and the Thorn Tree ❖ R OY P UGH £9.99 €15 $18 Published by Cuthill Press ROY PUGH The White Rose and the Thorn Tree A novel of the ’45 Jacobite rebellion The rose of all the world is not for me. I want for my part Only the little white rose of Scotland That smells sharp and sweet And breaks the heart Hugh McDiarmid By the same author The Deil’s Ain: The story of witch persecution in Scotland Swords, Loaves and Fishes: A history of Dunbar Penny for the Gas: Growing up in Dunbar in the 1940s and 1950s The Prestonpans Witches: A trilogy of playsbased on actual trials Witch! The Cauldron The Devil’s Craft The White Rose and the Thorn Tree by Roy Pugh Cuthill Press First Published 2008 Copyright © 2008 All rights reserved. Copyright under international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any other form or by any other means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder. Within the UK, exceptions are allowed in respect of any fair dealing for the purpose of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. While the publisher makes every effort possible to publish full and correct information in this book, sometimes errors of omission or substance may occur. For this the publisher is most regretful, but hereby must disclaim any liability. ISBN 978-0-85011-072-2 With the exception of those named in Appendix 4, all other characters in this novel are historical and appear as themselves Cuthill Press for Prestoungrange University Press The Battle of Prestonpans 1745 Heritage Trust 227/229 High Street, Prestonpans East Lothian, Scotland EH32 9BE Cover artwork by Andrew Crummy Design & Typesetting by Chat Noir Design, France Printed & bound in Great Britain for Gordon Prestoungrange (Wills) and in memory of Margaret Cheetham (Dann) – a gracious lady Cuthill Press The Cuthill Press is the division of Prestoungrange University Press [PUP] that publishes novels and other works of fiction, including the factitious. It contrasts with the mainstream publications by PUP of non-fiction historical works in association with Burkes Peerage & Gentry. Cuthill Press nonetheless advances the same community mission as PUP, which is to honour our local history through all the creative arts for the socioeconomic regeneration of Prestonpans and vicinity. Such creativity potentially raises both the artist’s self esteem and that of the community at large and leads to the Hope and Ambition for Victory in life that Prince Charles Edward exemplified in the ’45. 1 Virginia 1796 In the year of 1796, in the month of April – the 16th to be precise – John Harrison, a young reporter working for the Boston Advertiser was sent by his editor to Fredericksburg, Virginia, to interview a veteran of the recent War of Independence against British rule in America. The editor, a Scotsman by birth, had emigrated to the former colonies in 1790 and had taken an interest in fellow Scots who had enlisted in George Washington’s Continental Army. In the course of his researches, he had encountered the name of Roderick MacDonald who had come to the colonies in 1746, the fateful year of the Jacobite defeat at Culloden. He surmised that MacDonald’s arrival had not been coincidental and that in all probability he had fought for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the son of the Pretender to the British throne. However, the editor kept the information to himself, intending to test the investigative journalistic skills of the young employee. So it was that bright April morning Harrison sat in a swaying, creaking coach taking him to Liberty Farm, a few miles north of Fredericksburg. The uneven motion of the coach made it difficult for him to read the sheaf of notes he had prepared before setting off on the journey. He had prepared questions for the man he had been sent to interview. He had begun his search in 1775, the year in which the first shots of the War of Independence were fired at Concord against the British. Harrison had been a mere child then but remembered the redcoat soldiers, the ‘lobster backs’ and their allies, the German troops of Hesse, in distinctive tall hats which gave them the appearance of giants to village children. He knew from the tales told at his father’s fireside that among the redcoat armies of George III were famous Scottish regiments. Indeed, many of the Boston men had ancestors of Scottish origin and, as Loyalists, had joined the forces of the King to fight against their countrymen. As the coach neared its destination, Harrison saw how fertile Virginia was, 1 The White Rose and the Thorn Tree its acres irrigated by rivers such as the Potomac, the Rappahannock, the York and the James. It was a rich and productive state with good harbours and ripe fields of tobacco and maize. But not even these sights of prosperity could compensate for the several days spent on the bone-shaking journey from Boston. Harrison looked forward to stretching his legs that morning. Presently, he heard the coach driver call out: “Liberty Farm! Liberty Farm!” It was welcome news. The coach shuddered to a halt and he got out. His travelling bag was tossed unceremoniously from the coach into the dirt road. The driver, his cheek bulging with a quid of tobacco, spat into the dust, at the same time pointing with his whip in the direction of a few, scattered, barely visible shacks dotted about the farmstead. The driver was keen to be on his way but as he cracked the whip above his team’s heads he shouted over his shoulder: “God be with ye, son. There be a long walk ahead o’ ye. And MacDonald ain’t a man that cares for company. No, sir, that he ain’t.” Harrison watched the coach disappear in a cloud of dust, then turned his face towards the farm in the east. As he trudged along the dirt path rutted by countless carts, he began to commit to memory the many questions he would put to Roderick MacDonald. He knew that the man had been born in 1725 and so was over 70 years of age. It was a fresh morning and as he walked the path, he could smell the season’s young growth, a heady mixture of wild flowers and newly cut grass. After about twenty minutes walk, he approached the porch of the farmstead, noting the small garden to the side. In the centre was a small, stunted rose bush whose pruned stems were showing the first red shoots. He climbed the few steps and knocked on the door. He could hear someone moving within but it was a full minute before the bolt was drawn. A tall man with white hair escaping from the sides of a blue woollen Scotch bonnet stood before him, a pistol thrust in his broad leather belt. Harrison set down his portmanteau and offered his hand. The old man looked at it almost with contempt, for it was thin and white, not the hand of a man who earned his bread from hard work. “Ye’ll not be selling wares, are ye? For if ye are, ye are not welcome. I have all that I need here.” The young man shook his head and introduced himself. “Sir, I am no salesman. I am John Harrison of the Boston Advertiser. A reporter for my newspaper.” The old man stroked his stubbly chin. “I am thinking ye are not much above a salesman, for your kind peddle 2 Virginia 1796 words instead of fancy goods in the manner of kerchiefs, ribbons and other whigmaleeries.*” Harrison swallowed nervously. “Is it possible that you are Mr Roderick MacDonald?” “Aye, it is just possible that I am, then again maybe not. Ye have not stated your business. Ye have but given your trade.” The young man swallowed hard again. “Begging your pardon, sir. I am come to interview Mr Roderick MacDonald, whose name is known to my editor in Boston for his bravery during the war that was lately fought against the British. The war that gave our nation its freedom from the tyranny of the King of England.” The old man sighed. He extended his hand and shook the young man’s vigorously. “I am forgetting my manners. Come ye in, laddie, come ye in. And bring your bag. I have seen its like before, though I cannot fathom why it should bear a lock if it carries but clothes. Unless…” And he chuckled slyly at this. “…it is siller† ye be carrying.” The young man shook his head. “’Tis but a change of clothes. Pray sir, I could not help but notice that above the door there are carved numbers and letters. To wit 17 RM and 47 AT. Do they have some meaning?” “Aye, ’tis a Lowland custom. When a man takes a wife to him and builds a house, they carve the year, which is that of 1747. Forbye, they add their initials. RM is Roderick MacDonald, AT is Anne Trotter, my sometime wife. Now, shall ye sit by the fire and take a dram with me? To lay the dust of the coach ye alighted from but a few moments ago.” At that, the old man went into the kitchen, rattling glasses.

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