‘How is it attached? As a kilt?’

  ‘No, sire. You step into it. It is an undercoat.’

  ‘What faces, and what retreats?’

  ‘It matters not; it is uniform all round. Shall I show you mine, how they lie?’ And she made to display her tails in beneath her own dark tartan dress.

  ‘Ah no, no, certainly not, Miss Flora. I apprehend.’

  Turning then, Flora suddenly added, ‘Ah, and this comes with us also.’ She handed to him a small item wrapped in cloth. ‘Disused by my stepfather, and the smith gave it a turn on his stone.’

  Not to place it down on the earthen ground of the bothy, the Prince shouldered up the petticoat against his cheek and used both his hands in opening the small cloth parcel, to remove a wooden-handled, straight razor blade. ‘A razor, to barber myself. I have one I use on occasion.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Ah. But where?

  ‘Where? Why, sire, where else but on Your Royal Highness’s face, by custom? To shed your substantial beard.’

  ‘Rightly so, yes. I shall see to it.’

  ‘To clean your cheeks. For further reassurance of your impression of womanhood, though, we have a bonnet and veil here also, to fully shield yourself.’

  ‘Certainly. Yes.’ He put down the straight razor and, resigned, now stepped into the petticoat, pulling its waistband up his person.

  ‘Good for length, sire.’ She nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘I trust all your judgements in these accuracies.’

  ‘Now to the gown, formed from a calico we had fortune enough to have supply of. An attractive pattern of blue pliant sprigs, I hope you feel?’

  ‘I am sure Betty Burke would think it a pretty thing.’

  This made Flora chuckle, obscurely. She stood at his rear, to manoeuvre the gown into true position then secure it, before she came to his covered breast. ‘Now to the mantle, which we affix encircling.’ In these mechanics, the young woman’s face came up close to the Prince’s own, with her freckled fresh skin, her cap off – hair simply held back – fresh bistre eyes, focused on perfection of the garments’ positioning. Her hands moved around him busily, adjusting matters.

  The Prince monitored the concentration, the occasional blinks of Flora’s eyelids. ‘Miss MacDonald, are you a follower of the moon?’

  Not meeting his gaze, small breaths emanating from her, as she rose and fell about his person, she spoke in a puzzled tone. ‘I beg you give me pardon, sire, but what is your meaning? The moon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To the extent that it is not to be high tonight, for the needs of the crossing?’

  ‘Ah, the danger for that sky-set illumination to reveal our ferry too clearly to observations and alarms?’

  ‘Yes, sire. Is this your meaning? I talked of the moon and weathers with Clanranald. We are prepared and aware of its influences at night, as are our sailor men.’

  ‘I am convicted that you are. Its astrology is such in these high latitudes that it can make reading a romance book at midnight a daylight task.’

  ‘It can be so.’

  ‘Miss MacDonald. A delicate question. I can only compare, and I am quite ashamed how much I am depleted here, in the area of natural bosom, while aiming at convincing womanly qualities . . .’

  ‘Sire. As we agreed one moment ago, the eyes of men must pass only swiftly across you, so modesty of charm in all given attributes is what we wish to maintain. Men can be singular and attentive in their direct appreciations. The less you possess to draw their eyes is all power to our cause.’

  ‘Quite, of course. You have the wisdom there, Miss Flora. We move on.’

  ‘Stockings, sire. Two stockings to draw on and up.’

  He took the two stockings, and Miss MacDonald had to elevate the petticoats and calico at the frontage, grabbing a firm bunch to haul them high as the Prince leaned ahead, lifting his leg and drawing the first stocking up over his toes, ankles and calves. He grunted.

  ‘Hoist them higher, please.’

  The Prince complied.

  ‘And to the other, straight, sire. Keep them straight.’

  ‘Now, Miss MacDonald. It’s of my devising that as well as my money pouch, which I can affix here, I can secure two pistols beneath these agglomerations here.’

  ‘Your pistols, sire?’

  ‘If they are well bound, I calculate that when seated, they could be very easily drawn; when standing, my removal of them might be hindered somewhat, but I am sure you or I can strap both . . .’

  ‘A little higher now, if you would please, sire, if you will. The stocking must be up a little higher there to you.’ The woman kneeled fully now, the ruffle of her own dress pushed down on his one resting foot, to monitor the operation. ‘Not for any artfulness, as of course the stockings are hidden, but your want is to have them surely pasted onto yourself, or learn it is a woman’s common derangement to endure them ever cascading down throughout a day, and I wish this on no woman. Or man. Pistol, you say?’

  ‘In my present circumstances, you will understand I keep my two pistols close, at all times, and that must be so now. I will never be taken without resistance.’

  She rose but kept the man’s skirts hitched high in both her hands as she frowned at his spindle legs. ‘It’s a poor thinking to have them in this choice of placement.’

  ‘But there they are to hand.’ The Prince nodded to the pile of his belongings, and the very two pistols lay atop his kale bag in their holsterings.

  ‘To affix them here is unsound consideration on several counts, sire. There is the matter of your true gait, for surely fixed there, like two hanging new lambs at suckling, they will influence your gait.’

  ‘My gait?’

  ‘Your feminine walk, sire. You must comport yourself in the ways of movement obvious to women, and there is the other matter, which, were you to be searched close by patrol, your primed weapons fixed here would discover yourself up to any searcher immediately.’

  The Prince laughed and held back his shoulders. ‘Miss MacDonald, if the fingers of mine enemy roam in such regions, there will be other discoveries for them than my two mounted silver pistols – there is risk they come upon a third pistol; unless we have the blessing of a very gullible searcher, the whole edifice of my disguise may be long realised well before the first hoist-up of my pretty skirts. I may as well accompany mine enemy on a happy bathing trip, au naturel, and expect myself undiscovered.’

  The young woman smiled then she too laughed at this staunch sauciness before firmly beating down the petticoats and gown. ‘Well, as a military lord, perhaps the razor blade hidden in there would be a substitute weapon?’

  ‘That could carry its own unique hazards of movement fixed in this same place. How of this cudgel? A firm wood striker? I will take that to hand, small but weighty and excellent in use. I will affix that there instead.’

  ‘As you think. These buckled shoes are to be Betty’s to put on, please. Now to your finishing, this headdress and cap is affixed.’ She placed the headdress and then enclosed it within the bonnet and lace, which when pulled forward, served to come in tight, burying the Prince’s head and face deep within its lace edging. ‘And we have incorporated a light veil, not so obscuring as to make it appear as masking, but, pulled across, it shall conceal you more.’

  ‘And better, Miss Flora, it could seal against the torment of the terror mitches. Why, I begin to wish I had travelled in this form on the hills long ago, to resist the dual plagues, of both mitch and redcoat. It is a good warm uniform also. I feel it already.’

  She smiled.

  ‘But this headdress’ – he blew from his mouth, to displace the smaller strands from around his lips – ‘it is an ill fit, made for a smaller head than my own.’

  ‘Try to maintain it straight.’

  He attempted to fiddle with the hair, but the pelt fell forever forward upon his nose, and the mop fairly obscured him, so Flora laughed.

  ‘Oh, Miss Flora. It is as to having a dead cat rest upon my scalp, instead of the crown.’

  She laughed again. ‘I think it is time to present you.’

  ‘No, no. I fear my debut to the gathered men. Could you ask Mr MacEachain to enter first, to judge my rebirth.’

  So, she called in MacEachain, who stooped to pass the low doorway. The Prince stood still before them both, dressed as a woman.

  MacEachain was silent, standing in judgement a few moments. ‘But, Flora, where is His Royal Highness? He was here a short while ago, and who is this maid, suddenly come before us? Madam, to your acquaintance know I am Neil MacEachain, a schoolmaster of these islands. I don’t believe we have met before?’

  The Prince fiddled with his hairpiece. ‘Very well, Neil, have your jest. God, this pelt. I thought me free of the terror mitches, but it replaces them.’

  MacEachain laughed. ‘A worthy transformation, sire, it is a miracle of theatre. Flora has done magic on you; you shall never be anticipated.’

  ‘I am afraid I must show myself to the rowing fellows. I am as feart as a boy first lowered on a big horse.’

  ‘Yes, let us test it upon their certitude.’

  The Prince came with his escorts out from the low bothy, but in the moment of his first step, the feminine illusion was diminished, as he moved with firm, gawky strides and muscular, clumsy turns through the doorway, perhaps in an effort to assert his real nature and combat the illusion.

  The MacDonald brothers stood with MacMerry and Campbell in silence as the Prince, in the transfiguration of Betty Burke, approached.

  MacEachain announced, ‘Gentlemen, this is Betty Burke, an Irish servant and skilled spinner to Miss MacDonald. I hope you show the civility we accustom to all.’

  The four men looked unsteady in an attempt of solidarity, to not reveal any outward mirth – but something of their look and their shuffling displayed this struggle.

  Campbell dared speak first. ‘I have a loose button here, Miss, if you are able.’

  The other men trembled at the daring.

  Roderick spoke up. ‘Well, sire, there can be nae question you have passed to the other side.’

  MacMerry let out a harsh sound.

  The Prince quietly said, ‘As a timid Irish servant to Miss Flora, I shall keep my silence.’

  ‘Sire, it is hard upon me: one thought, one strong thought.’

  ‘Speak it out, MacDonald.’

  ‘What thinks you Captain O’Sullivan would make as a speech to you at this moment, sire?’

  Both the MacDonalds and MacEachain, knowing the captain, laughed.

  The masculinity of the voice emanating from within the hood only added to the topsy-turvy of the predicament. ‘A lady present, fellows, a lady is present, and O’Sullivan’s meditations would be contrary to her decency.’

  MacMerry spoke. ‘Two ladies present, surely two, or are my eyes cross-purposed with the dram, yet I took none the day?’

  ‘Ha, what would Captain O’Sullivan say?’

  ‘Were Captain O’Sullivan here, sire, your honour and rights of privacy might be in danger, for he often spoke for want of perfumed company. And you are from his own country now, ha, ha.’

  There was more laughter.

  ‘A lady present, sirs. I remind you. But have your mirth.’

  The men chuckled openly, dissimulating that it was on O’Sullivan’s account they laughed, but they looked at one another as young boys again, set on a dare.

  ‘God’s truth though, Miss MacDonald, and the thought never crossed me, a private word, if you please?’

  ‘What is it, sire?’

  But all heard his words as he fiddled on with his headdress. ‘What when I am taken by the calls of nature, madam? On the field of campaign there are no places amongst we men for dedicated privacies; we have to let nature’s course take precedence before one another, whenever needed – as is military custom – but what now? I fear I must fast of drinking already. And when the need comes, I will require a stunning privacy afforded me for the complication of the act which is suddenly new to me.’

  All heads now turned to Miss MacDonald.

  ‘Sire, I can say the skirt will not have affected any profound change in the mechanics of what is beneath.’

  The men laughed. Roderick called out, ‘Truth well said, Miss Flora. I mind her as a little lass, aye with wit enough.’

  ‘But God’s sake, all of you, I am sure to turn myself head-over-heel in the strange requirements of this dress. Hah, I will need a team about me, as for the dressing of a parade horse with saddle. So, laugh on, my boys, but that can be your duty to me: lift these skirts and stand clear of the guns.’

  Through the long wait for dusk, to warm themselves, a fire from drift woods and lootings of bothy debris was lit back from the shoreline, angled between two higher rocks which acted to shield and delimit tightly the sweep of coordinates from which any flames could be observed.

  Roderick MacDonald took on a watch from the elevations above them, and just as well, because within an hour he came hissing down from there. Four full wherry boats were a half-mile distant, loaded with armed men, coming up the loch. MacMerry used the splashing crockery dish filled with sea water to dash and douse the fire dead, then he kicked the cinders apart before he repeated another soaking to kill any rising steam. All the party ducked low and retreated far back into the heather, the Prince’s skirts flying. Their mission seemed undone because of their boat, which was still pulled up in the small coving below, but within a half-hour, the full patrol returned and passed, without landing anywhere. And, in truth, many boats littered those shores at intervals.

  They came back down to await final nightfall, but they did not dare relight the fire.

  Chapter 8

  Under darkness to the south was the Sea of the Hebrides, and before them was the Little Minch. East was to the Isle of Skye. The man dressed as a woman was ferried onward, striking out for another land across moonless night water. The Prince often just stared ahead, like a gleeful cartographer probing some uncharted archipelago.

  In the still airs, the oarsmen were forced to row away from the Uists for hours, but well after midnight a wind and light rain came, so the sail was raised and this carried them well enough on, until a hearty debate erupted in Gaelic as to what precise direction they should be headed. With no compass taken, the humour among the men grew a little ill after this squabble. The Prince urged them forward. He had removed his headdress and cap with the liberty of being out at sea, so those items did not torture him.

  He attempted to raise the spirits on board, and to entertain Flora, by singing. The presentation was assisted that his rather sweet male voice came out from a near invisibility, so his pantomime selection of dress was unseen. He seemed to particularly sing the words to Flora, who sat so close to him.

  Whereby I can tell

  That all will be well,

  When the king shall enjoy his own again.

  Yes, this I can tell:

  That all will be well,

  When the king shall enjoy his own again.

  There’s neither swallow,

  Dove or dade

  Can soar more high, or

  Deeper wade,

  Nor show a reason from

  The stars

  What causeth peace or

  Civil wars.

  The Man in the Moon

  May wear out his shine,

  By running after Charles,

  His wain.

  But all’s to no end,

  For the times will not mend,

  Till the king shall enjoy his own again.

  Yes, this I can tell:

  That all will be well,

  When the king shall enjoy his own again.

  Later, Miss MacDonald, worn by the long journeys and the dangers of the preceding day, submitted to fatigue and slept, lying out in the bottom of the boat. The Prince took care to sit by her, ensuring the sailor men did not step on any part of her body as she slumbered, when they stood to adjust the sails. These trimmings had to be regular, as the wind was shifting round awkwardly; and when light began to show the isle off their starboard, more violent collisions and oppositions seemed to occur in the upper air, the wind and spits of rain having turned to work against them, so the men had to row into full resistance.

  In full daylight, upon the waves, they came within sight of Vaternish Point; the wind dropped, but they rowed starkly adjacent to some shoreside sentries who they had not noticed until it was all too late for it. Those still figures, one in a grey coat but one in red, observed them from the shore, waved insistently to them, then went down towards their own boat; however, the tide was so low at that time there were clumps of seaweed and humps of wrack amongst the wayward pools, and it was obvious their boat could not be launched without being physically dragged several hundred feet outward from the shore. The Prince’s boat rowed on, and they were unpursued until, in the calmer waters inland of the point, the men were given ease at last.

  The four rowers were so spent that there was no choice but to come into the lee of high sea cliffs and rest there a short while; the men leaned forward to recover their breath among the rising and falling swell. Rushes of quick water poured and broke from the wide flat tables of stone on the rippling black surfaces at the bottom of these huge cliff faces. Here, as they slowly gyrated, they quietly ate some bread and butter in the dungeon-like shelter, no one talking as any voice seemed unnaturally amplified. In that parish of water, wide rolls of ripe kelp undulated around them; beneath were vast undersea nurseries of algae.

  The magnitude of these cliffs, now so close and huge above them, was a nauseating thing, putting far away the comforting notions that among houses, formed fields, tracks and hedgeways, as we walk to church, we move in a world God fitted for us with snug accommodation, adapted to the size and shape of humankind and rightly appointed. But these were mammoth, uneven walls, uplifting, or in vertiginous lean, where miniature sky gardens of pink sea thrift flourished in the horizontal seams of stone, and nesting ledges smeared down hieroglyphics of bird lime, as if this looming barrier was once erected in attempt to dam off the ocean itself, some colossal intervention of God, who had suddenly grown disinterested and abandoned the task, all the time thinking nothing of men in his makings.

 

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