Two great mountain ranges part to lead into Loch Sheil and, in the distance, a tiny boat can be made out. As it comes closer, the crowd of men standing on the shores sees that is a Hebridean galley, a birlinn in the Gaelic. There are cheers from the men, drowning out the bagpipes and drums playing for his arrival. The ship is rowed to the banks of Glenfinnan and out strides Prince Charles Edward Stuart himself. With the flair of a wrist and a twist of the tongue, he raises his standing to rally clans from all over Scotland behind him. He proposes that they, who had been involved in clan wars with each other for generation upon generation, now unite to fight their common enemy—the English.

            In the days and nights which followed, battle after battle were fought, the Scottish Jacobite Highlanders suffering through losses and rejoicing at victories. With the joining of more and more clans, and more and more men, the Prince’s cause became not just the fight for Scotland’s freedom but the fight for Scotland’s men to regain their honor. One such man lay restless the night before the final battle at Culloden Moor, contemplating the outcome, and wondering if his own honor would be restored by fighting for the man all of Scotland rallied behind, Scotland’s Bonnie Prince Charlie.

            My heart is wi’ Bonnie Prince Tearlach, but how can it be filled wi’ him when I feel so full of fear? I would die for him tomarra, I ken that. But can the one true Prince of Scotland realla lead us to victory against the English? Is he realla the man all the Scots think him to be?

            A bit off behind me, young Willie puffs away on the bagpipes. The skirls and squeals of the song that’ll lead us into battle give my cold ears some warmth and an odd sort o’ comfort. My father, God rest his soul, was a bonnie bagpipe player. The best in our village. Young Willie canna play them verra well at all; he sounds like an ox in heat, or worse. But who else could lead us by song? Certainla not Tearlach; his singing’s only decent when he’s drunk on good ole Scottish ale and that sounds bad enough. Och, I dinna know how we are to win.

            Donald, my kinsman, sleeps loyally by my side, his rugged features shown only by the dying campfire light, though I’d know them by heart if it were darker. He’s wrapped in our colors, the bonnie red and greens and yellas my clan’s been under fer generations. I dunne ken where the rest of the clan is, or if they even made it this far after we left our village behind to slash our throats fer the Bonnie Prince.

            Save Donald, my only companion is my faithful claymore sword. Its simple handle lies loosely in my hand now out of habit; its long, heavy blade is under my plaid and up against my leg. My other hand gropes around in my sporran for, och, aye here it is—the last of the ale. It warms my chilled bones as it goes down, the taste of those days as a boy when Mother would strip me down named, give me a drink o’ ale, and send me off through the snow-covered heather to the bath house.

            I feel the sharp point of a blade at my neck and Donald’s hand is attached. His gruff voice shoots into my ear, “Aye, Laddie, thank ye fer askin’. I will have a swig, too, if ye please.” He already smells as drunk as I wish I were, but I give him the bottle anyway. His clumsy fingers catch hold and grab it away, and then he tips it towards me in a toast. “To Bonnie Prince Tearlach. The glory times are here!” The gurgle of ale burbles down into his mouth, throat, stomach, and he hands the bottle back to me empty. He lowers the dirk finally, smiling at me, triumphantly knowing I had the slower reflexes o’ the two of us. Soon after, the mood turns solemn and his smile fades into a tight frown. “Ye dinne usually shit yer mouth so, Laddie.”

            Not knowing what else to do, I confide in him my fear. “If he leads us to our deaths on Culloden field, I willna see my Mary or the wee bairns again.”

            Wi’out a doubt in his mind, and as if it were the easiest thing in the world, he reassures me. “Tearlach is the one true king, Laddie; have faith in spirit, no just heart. Back in Glenfinnan, none o’ us could ken we would beat them as badla as we ha’. Sure it took many a fight and many a highlander lost, but they died fer the cause. We’ve got those English pig-dogs on the run now and, when the sun rises, under Bonnie Prince Tearlach we will drive them from our Bonnie Scotland and we will be free. And when we are free, Mary’ll look all the better to ye and at ye for helping to make it so. Al all because of out Bonnie Prince. Dunne think about anything else but Tearlack. Have no name but his on your lips when we march onto Culloden Moor tomarra. Aye, Laddie, have faith in our man and Scotland will be victorious.”

            By the end of the next day, nay one of the Highlanders who remained at Culloden Moor could say if it had been a victory or not.  Those on the field were dead, butchered by the English in one of the bloodiest battles in Scottish history; over one thousand Highlanders were killed in less than an hour. Most remaining, almost two hundred thousand, were burned alive by a nearby cottage as traitors to the English Crown.  The Prince’s revolution was at an end, and though a large price had been placed on his head by the English, none of his countrymen betrayed him on his escape to France.

For those Scots remaining, life was difficult and faced with an abolition of weapons, clothing, and culture.  But their own honor had been restored in their minds, for they knew they were free to think their own thoughts.  Their minds raced full of Scotland the way it once was, of the fights they had initiated, and of what might have happened had they been victorious at Culloden.