Vox Meditantis

Outer Hebrides, Scotland – 23rd July 1745

When they asked me about my future travel plans that July evening, I nearly laughed aloud. Travel? With Bonnie Prince Charlie himself sat across from me in our humble cottage, dripping seawater and speaking of reclaiming kingdoms, the very notion seemed absurd. Yet here was my cousin Ailean, persistent as always, pressing me with questions as if this were any ordinary summer’s eve.

“Flora, surely you’ve given thought to it,” he insisted, his weathered hands wrapped round a cup of our precious whisky. “With all that’s happening now, folk need to be thinking ahead.”

I glanced toward the Prince, who had fallen silent at Ailean’s words. Charles Edward Stuart—barely older than myself at five-and-twenty—looked nothing like the portraits I’d imagined. His fine clothes were salt-stained and torn, his dark hair hanging in wet tangles about his shoulders. The romantic figure of Jacobite dreams sat shivering in my family’s kitchen, looking more like a shipwrecked sailor than a would-be king.

“My travel plans,” I said carefully, aware that every word might be remembered, “depend rather greatly on what others have planned, don’t you think?”

The Prince stirred at this, those keen eyes of his meeting mine across the dim candlelight. “Miss MacDonald speaks wisely. We are all of us bound by the journeys of others, are we not?”

My father, Neil MacDonald, shifted uncomfortably in his chair by the fire. I could see the war playing out across his lined face—the pull of ancient loyalty against the hard wisdom of a man who’d seen what English vengeance could do to Highland families. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of clan responsibility.

“Your Highness,” he began, and I noted how the formal address sat strangely on his Gaelic tongue, “the MacDonalds of South Uist have always been faithful to the House of Stuart. But travel plans, as my daughter says, must be considered with great care in times such as these.”

Outside, the July wind howled across the machair, carrying with it the scent of salt and seaweed. The storm that had driven the Prince’s ship to our shores three days past had finally begun to calm, but I could still hear the restless crash of waves against the rocks below our cottage. It seemed to me that the very island itself was unsettled, as if it sensed the momentous changes that had arrived with the tide.

The Prince leaned forward, his hands clasped before him. Despite his bedraggled appearance, there was something compelling about him—an earnestness that made you want to believe in his cause, even when your head told you it was folly.

“I understand your caution, sir,” he said to my father. “But consider this—what future can any of us have whilst the German usurper sits upon the throne that is rightfully mine? What travel plans can we make when we are strangers in our own land?”

Ailean nodded slowly, caught up in the Prince’s words despite himself. “There’s truth in what you say, Your Highness. We’ve felt the boot of English law heavy enough upon our necks. The Act of Union, the laws against our language and dress—”

“Exactly so!” The Prince’s voice grew animated. “And it will only grow worse. They seek to remake Scotland in England’s image, to erase everything that makes us who we are. But together, we can change that. Together, we can forge a different path.”

I found myself studying his face as he spoke. There was passion there, certainly, and conviction. But was there understanding? Did this prince, raised in Roman palaces, truly comprehend what he was asking of us? The crofters and fishermen, the clan chiefs and their followers—we would pay the price for his grand travel plans, his journey to reclaim a crown.

“And what of the MacDonalds who must travel with you?” I asked, surprising myself with my boldness. “What becomes of our journey if yours should fail?”

The cottage fell silent save for the crackling of peat in the fire. My stepmother, Marion, shot me a warning look, but I held the Prince’s gaze steadily. This was no time for Highland courtesy if it meant sending our kinsmen to their deaths without honest discourse.

Charles Edward Stuart was quiet for a long moment, and in that silence, I saw something flicker across his features—was it doubt? Fear? Or merely the weight of responsibility settling upon him like a Highland cloak?

“Miss MacDonald,” he said finally, “I cannot promise that our journey will be without peril. No honest man could make such a promise. But I can tell you this—if we do not undertake this journey now, there may never be another chance. The Hanoverians grow stronger with each passing year. This may be our last opportunity to travel the path back to freedom.”

My father rose and moved to the small window, gazing out at the dark waters of the sound. I knew he was thinking of his brother, Alexander, who held the lands at Boisdale and commanded considerable influence among the local clans. Alexander had already made his feelings clear about the Prince’s arrival—he wanted no part in what he saw as a fool’s errand.

“My brother Alexander will not support you,” father said without turning. “He believes this travel plan of yours leads only to disaster.”

“Then perhaps,” the Prince replied quietly, “it falls to others to show greater courage.”

I saw my father’s shoulders stiffen at the implied criticism, but he held his peace. We all knew the stakes. Supporting the Prince meant risking everything—our lands, our lives, our very way of life. But refusing him might mean living forever as subjects of foreign kings, watching our culture die by degrees.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, my words coming slowly as the idea took shape, “about different kinds of travel plans. Some journeys are about reaching a destination. Others are about the travelling itself—about who we become along the way.”

The Prince looked at me with renewed interest. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” I continued, warming to my theme, “you speak of travelling to London, to reclaim your crown. That’s one sort of journey. But there’s another kind—the journey we Highland folk have been on for generations, trying to preserve who we are in the face of those who would change us.”

I paused, gathering my thoughts. Outside, an owl called across the moor, its cry lonely and wild.

“Perhaps,” I went on, “the question isn’t whether your travel plans will succeed in their immediate aim. Perhaps it’s whether the journey itself serves a greater purpose.”

Ailean frowned. “What purpose could there be in failure, lass?”

“The purpose of showing that we will not go quietly into the dark,” I replied. “The purpose of proving that Highland honour means something still. Even if the Prince’s journey to London ends in defeat, it might inspire others to make their own journeys—smaller ones, perhaps, but journeys nonetheless toward keeping our traditions alive.”

The Prince was studying me intently now, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before.

“You speak like someone who has given considerable thought to the nature of journeys, Miss MacDonald.”

“Living here, you must,” I said simply. “Every day we decide whether to travel further from our old ways or to journey back toward them. Every time we speak English instead of Gaelic, every time we bow to a factor instead of a chief, we’re choosing a direction for our travels.”

My stepmother Marion finally spoke, her voice carrying the practical wisdom of Highland women. “But Flora, child, some journeys end in places we cannot return from.”

The truth of her words settled over us like morning mist. We all knew the stories—what had happened to supporters of previous Jacobite risings, the executions and transportations, the families left destitute.

“Aye,” I acknowledged. “Some journeys are final. But perhaps that makes it all the more important to choose them carefully, to make certain they’re worth the taking.”

The Prince rose and moved to the window where my father still stood. Together, they looked out at the dark waters where, just days ago, his ship had appeared like something from a Highland legend.

“My travel plans,” the Prince said quietly, “began long before I set foot on Scottish soil. They began with stories told to me as a child, of a realm where kings spoke to their people in their own tongue, where ancient customs were honoured rather than suppressed. I’ve been travelling toward that Scotland all my life, Miss MacDonald. The question is whether Scotland will travel toward me.”

I felt something stir in my chest at his words—not the wild enthusiasm that his supporters would later show, but something quieter and deeper. A recognition, perhaps, that some journeys transcend the individuals who undertake them.

“If I were to make travel plans,” I said slowly, “I think I should want them to serve more than just myself. I should want them to serve my people, my land, my heritage.”

The Prince turned from the window to face me directly. “And if such a journey required great sacrifice? If it demanded that you travel into danger, into uncertainty?”

I met his gaze steadily. “Then I suppose, Your Highness, one would have to ask whether the alternative—staying safely at home while history passes by—wouldn’t be the greater sacrifice in the end.”

The cottage fell quiet again, but this time the silence felt different—charged with possibility rather than uncertainty. In that moment, I could sense the future spreading out before us like the dark waters of the sound, full of currents and crosswinds we could not yet perceive.

Ailean cleared his throat. “So then, Flora. What are your future travel plans, truly?”

I smiled, thinking of all the journeys that lay ahead—some I could imagine, others that would come upon me like sudden storms. There would be dangerous crossings, narrow escapes, and choices that would define not just my own life but the lives of others. I would travel roads I had never dreamed of, carry secrets that could topple kingdoms, and help shape the legend of a prince who dared to believe in impossible dreams.

But in that moment, on that storm-swept evening in July 1745, with Bonnie Prince Charlie sitting in our humble cottage and the future still unwritten before us, I gave the only answer that felt true:

“I plan to travel wherever Scotland needs me to go.”

The Prince smiled then, and in his eyes I saw something I hadn’t noticed before—not just the romantic dreamer that history would remember, but a young man willing to stake everything on the hope that some journeys, however perilous, are worth taking.

Outside, the wind began to calm, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the faint sound of pipes carried on the night air—another traveller, perhaps, making his own way through the darkness toward whatever destiny awaited us all.

The End

On 23rd July 1745, Charles Edward Stuart landed on Eriskay in the Outer Hebrides, initiating the final Jacobite Rising that would culminate in catastrophic defeat at Culloden on 16th April 1746. This nine-month campaign involved approximately 5,000 Jacobite forces against 9,000 government troops, spanning from the Scottish Highlands to Derby in central England. The rising represented the last serious attempt to restore the Catholic Stuart monarchy, following previous failed attempts in 1689, 1715, and 1719. The brutal aftermath saw over 1,000 Highlanders killed at Culloden, widespread executions, and the systematic destruction of clan culture through acts like the Dress Act of 1746, which banned Highland dress and customs. Flora MacDonald, who later helped the Prince escape to France, became a symbol of Highland loyalty and courage. These events fundamentally transformed Scottish society, effectively ending the traditional clan system and integrating Scotland more fully into the British state, whilst simultaneously creating enduring romantic myths about Highland culture that continue to shape Scottish national identity today.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.