[lady Annumundowen]: 646.A Final Stand

A Final Stand

Alexander stood on the front stoop of his father’s house and took in the farm he had as a child, loathed and as he grew into adulthood had come to love. Dressed in his father’s colours he leaned against the railing and took a deep breath of the cool morning air. His father came out to stand next to him. Alexander looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
“La briagha an diugh . Ciamar a tha thu ?”
His father offered him a grunt in response. A typical Scot, but in that grunt Alexander heard all he needed to hear.
“Any words then Raichean ?” Alexander continued to look out of the farm, unwilling to miss even the smallest detail.
“What is it that ye want me to say, Mac-màthar ?” His father stared at the only tree growing in their yard, a testament to the hard times they had faced.
“Anything I suppose.”
“What is there left to say?”
Alexander straightened to his full height of six foot seven and rested his shoulder against the pillar. His father turned to look at his eighteen-year-old son and sighed heavily. He had seen so much in his short years, seen and done so much. He took in the sight of him, broad shoulders, well defined, blazing blue eyes and flaming shoulder length hair, worn clubbed at his neck.
“Ask me to stay.” Alexander faced his son with defiance.
“That I will not.” He rose and faced his son straight on, meeting his stare, never flinching.
“If not that, then what?”
“Watch your tone young man, you may be grown but I’m still yer father and don’t think I won’t be taking ye out back over the fence.”
“Stop it Raichean. We both know that’s beyond you now.”
“I don’t know what to say Alexander. Is that what ye want to hear from me? I don’t know!”
“No! Just… Anything. Say anything.”
“What is it I’m doing now then?”
“Raichean …”
Malcolm Mackenzie had not a single idea as to what knowledge he would give his son. He could think of no words of great wisdom he could pass on that would ease the separation. Gripping the railing, he took several deep breaths and spoke the first words that came from his heart. He recited the words of an old blessing his father had once shared with him. Malcolm had never forgotten a single word, having only heard it once.

“If there is righteousness in the heart,
there will be beauty in the character.
If there is beauty in the character,
there will be harmony in the home.
If there is harmony in the home,
there will be order in the nation.
If there is order in the nation,
there will be peace in the world.
So let it be ”


April 16th 1746.

The sun rose high on what would have been a lovely Scottish day, with the mist on the valley floor, Thistles in patches of violet, clouds casting shadows over the gently rolling hills, as they raced across the sky had it been for the war that waited on the morrow. South east of Inverness and a few miles south west of Nairn, Bonnie Prince Charles, and highland army of seven thousand wait on the outskirts of Culloden Park for what would be their final stand in an on going struggle for a free Scotland.

Alexander Fraser stood side-by-side with men he had known his whole life. They were the men of his clan; the Fraser’s and so many others. They were men he would give his life for. Dressed in their Clan's colors, their family's history they stood at the ready. Thick as the mist that twisted and turned low to the ground, choking off their feet from the rest of their bodies. Alexander readjusted his tartan, moving it higher on his left shoulder, taking a deep breath. The tartan was to always be worn with dignity and with an understanding and observation of the tradition it represent. It is a uniform and an icon. The men that surrounded him (himself included) had taken immense care when they had dressed with the rising of the sun. They deserved it, their ancestors deserved it and the English had need to see them as they were; Scotsmen, prepared to fight to the death to defend it. To each man, their tartan was what they deserved. What each woman at home waiting and wondering deserved. It was what every child deserved. It was a Chance. Men had died in war wearing it and had represented its long history and hopeful future. Men and women had suffered death; transportation, privation, and hardship because the tartan was theirs, and each man their stood to loose it all, and so they bore it all. Flexing his fingers he stood there, hand around his sword, pistol at the ready. A wave of nervous excitement moved through the waiting Highlanders, and blood began to boil.
Their attack in the night had not worked, and they had returned, wet, disheartened and hungry. They had warmed themselves by the small fires they were allowed, curled up in their plaids and captured what little sleep had come their way. Alexander had been wakeful the entire night, shaking watch shifts with men who had seen him grow. They spoke of more peaceful times, of gathering and family. They spoke of only that which was light hearted. There was no room for depression. It was the eve of battle and although it was easiest to fall into such states each man worked hard to bring smiles to the others face and laughter to their lips. Alexander gave a tight-lipped smile to the man beside him, and offered up a few words.
“Beannachd Dia dhuit ”
The man beside him gave him a brief nod of his head, and looked straight ahead.
“And to you son of Malcolm. Blessed be.”

With a sense of deep-rooted pride Alexander drew his blade, and held it ready. A command was given from further down the line and it reached his ears, he passed it on. What next ensued was sheer madness as the Highlanders charged and descended upon the English front lines in a wave terror. Rushing the cannons, they killed the men who armed them and wove their way through the ranks. Screaming like mad men, they defended themselves, their Honour, their pride, their families and their homeland.

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Although history records the Battle of Culloden as a British Victory, the British themselves do not. It is written by Commanders of the English that they had never in all their years seen such a display of seer force.



Alexander Malcolm charged the English, and like so many other Highlanders with him, they had become the nameless faces among the wreckage. They were the lucky ones. They were the ones who did not survive.

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(gaelic translation in order as they appear in the text.)
la briagha an diugh = Fine day today
"Ciamar a tha thu" = How are you?
Raichean=father
mac-màthar=son
Beannachd Dia dhuit=blessings of God be with you