Nine months before, when the Prince had landed on that island on his way
from France, the old gentleman had refused to see him, pleading old age
and infirmity. His brother, Macdonald of Boisdale, had seen the Prince
and had vehemently urged him to give up so hopeless a design and to
return to France; and, when he found that all persuasion was in vain,
had roundly refused to promise him any assistance from his brother's
clan. And though young Clanranald had, indeed, joined the Prince's
standard, it was with many misgivings and against his better judgment.
But now, in the hour of Charles's total abandonment and distress, this
gallant family laid aside all selfish prudence. The old chief, in spite
of age and ill-health, came immediately to the wretched hut where
Charles had taken refuge, bringing with him Spanish wines, provisions,
shoes, and stockings. He found the young man, whom he reverenced as his
rightful king, in a hut as big as, and no cleaner than, a pig-stye,
haggard and worn with hardship and hunger. 'His shirt,' as Dougal
Graham, the servant, was quick to observe, 'was as dingy as a
dish-clout.' That last little detail of misery appealed strongly to the
womanly heart of Lady Clanranald, who immediately sent six good shirts
to the Prince.
For the next three weeks Charles enjoyed a respite under the vigilant
protection of Clanranald and his brother Boisdale. They found a
hiding-place for him in the Forest-house of Glencoridale, a hut rather
bigger and better than most. By a system of careful spies and watchers
they kept the Prince informed of every movement of the enemy. It was the
month of June--June as it is in the North, when days are warm and sunny
and the evening twilight is prolonged till the early dawn, and there is
no night at all. South Uist, beyond all other islands of the Hebrides,
abounds in game of all kinds, and the Prince was always a keen
sportsman. He delighted his followers by shooting birds on the wing, he
fished (though it was only sea-fishing from a boat), and he shot
red-deer on the mountains.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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