Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Battle of Culloden — Part 2: Wrong Side of History

Chris kicked his feet on the floor impatiently as Hamish paused. "This isn't really a story about history, is it? There's no history in it so far — and it doesn't sound like a true story at all."

Hamish chortled. "I think you just need to sit it out and listen to the rest. You'll get your history — and then you can decide if you believe it."

I, on the other hand, was perfectly delighted. "This is brilliant. I love it. Please, carry on!"

---

Brian was back on his bike, riding home to Nairn. He tried to keep his concentration on the road but his mind fogged and his body grew heavy. It wasn't a great distance to Nairn, but it felt like it that night. His head lolled towards the handlebars. He looked up with a start and tried to shake himself awake.

Minutes passed. His head dipped again.

The world turned black.

When he came back to consciousness, the familiar tarmac of the A96 wasn't underneath him. Instead, he bumped and jolted along what felt like a countryside footpath. No lights. No cat's eyes. His headlights cut into nothing. Brian began to panic. He braked to an abrupt stop — all fatigue replaced instantly with adrenaline.

Where the hell am I? Nothing was familiar. The track behind him disappeared into darkness; the path ahead offered nothing, except for a faint glow on the horizon. He assumed he'd drifted from the main road — it had to be close by. He doubled back.

There was no A96. The longer he searched, the worse his anxiety became. He couldn't find a single landmark he recognised, and the situation made no sense by any measure. Eventually, he stopped the bike, scratched his head, and decided the only option was to aim for that faint light on the horizon and hope for civilisation.

As he drew closer, the glow resolved into shapes — movement, tents, animals. A campsite. Relief loosened the knot in his chest.

What in God's name is this out here? The tents were large; interspersed with what looked like wagons and carts. No motor vehicles anywhere. The human forms moving amongst the firelight were dressed in a way that made no immediate sense.

Brian cut the engine and walked the remaining distance to look before committing himself.

He ducked low as he reached the edges of the encampment — and his mind started catching up with what his eyes were seeing. Men in red coats. Historical soldiers. Muskets stacked against carts. Fires burning throughout the camp, groups eating and drinking from tin cups. He could smell broth and roasting meat. He scanned for cameras and found none.

A re-enactment, he decided. It must be. This area has plenty of them.

If so, it was the most convincing one he'd ever seen.

He made his way to a large tent near the centre, drawn by a clanking commotion from inside — the gruff expletives of a man wrestling with food preparation. Brian edged to the entrance.

"Excuse me." Too quiet. No response. "Excuse me!"

The man inside turned. His hands were covered in ground meat from a large mixing bowl; he stared at Brian with open bewilderment. "Who in God's name are you, and what are you wearing?"

Curiosity overtook his surprise. "I've seen nothing like you before. Where does that strange uniform come from? Are you a Jacobite? If you are, I'm calling the guards."

"A Jacobite?" Brian replied. "No — I'm not a Jacobite. I'm lost and I don't know where I am. Can you help me? I'm trying to get back to the main road and home to Nairn."

The man let out a great belly laugh. "My good fellow, we are just off the road to Nairn, and this is the village of Nairn. Have you lost your wits? And what is this strange round thing you're carrying — is it a new type of cannonball?"

Brian looked down at his helmet. "This?" He held it up.

"Yes! I've never seen anything like it. What is it?"

"It's a helmet — for my motorbike."

The man looked even more lost. "A what?"

"My motorbike!" And then, aware of how thin this was getting: "Is this a re-enactment? What is this place?"

There was a silence while the man stared at him. "Speak English, boy, or I will call the guards. I don't know what either of those words means."

Brian took a sharp breath. There was only one conclusion that covered all of it. The man in front of him was not acting.

'What date is it?' he asked.

The man stared at him as though he'd asked what shape the sky was. "What date is it? It's the fifteenth of April, seventeen forty-six. Why do you not know this, boy? Who are you? Where are you from?"

Rather than call the guards, the man stepped closer and ran his fingers along the sleeve of Brian's leather jacket, then up over the helmet. "I have never seen anything like these. It's leather, that much is clear — but worked in a way I've never seen before." His eyes were sharp and intelligent — he was already reaching his own conclusions. He was working something out. "My name is George. Where are you from, traveller?"

Brian did his best to explain: the motorbike, the woman, the pouch, how he had somehow arrived here from a time far in the future. George listened to all of it.

"Well," George said, extending his hand, "I don't know what riding a bike is, but I do know women — and they often lose their hats. I need to take you to the Duke. It's above my position to decide on this. Wait here, and please don't alarm anyone else. They may take fright at the look of you, and I can't have a panic in the camp."

The Duke. Brian turned the word over slowly. The Duke of Cumberland. The leader of the Hanoverian government forces. Whose birthday — he now recalled, with a creeping certainty — was the fifteenth of April, 1746.

The night before the Battle of Culloden.

Holy shit.

---

The Duke of Cumberland entered the cook's tent with the energy of someone who had been subjected to an insufficient birthday and intended to register a complaint about it.

"Well, George — this better be good. You've dragged me away from my celebrations. Dismal food, no music worth speaking of, and an impending march on Inverness in a few hours to deal with these Jacobite traitors. Are those sausages ready yet? The men need food and something to raise their spirits."

Then he saw Brian.

Like George before him, the Duke looked long and hard at Brian's clothing, trying — and failing — to make it fit into any category he possessed. "Come here, boy. Let me look at you whilst I decide if this madness I'm hearing has any truth to it."

Brian produced his phone, and a demonstration followed. The Duke and George watched, transfixed, as a small glowing screen played a game, then displayed photographs of a world three centuries from their own.

"The artists from the future are truly tremendous," the Duke breathed.

George had turned his attention to the velvet pouch. He opened it, sniffed, and looked at Brian.

"A mixture of herbs from my time," Brian said. "We usually eat it or smoke it. It can be a little spicy in food — but the main effect is that it makes people quite happy."

George's eyes lit up. "Happy, you say." He turned to the Duke. "Your Grace, this sounds like exactly what you need to bring the men's spirits up on your birthday, ready for the battle ahead. Perhaps this man was sent from the future as a birthday present?"

The Duke dismissed this with a wave. "Don't be a fool. Until we know whether this man is a spy, we do nothing with that pouch." He paused. "But if we determine he is telling the truth — yes, George, we may consider it." He glanced at the sausage preparations behind him. "Lord knows, my men need something to pick them up before the battle ahead."

Brian said nothing. A slow smile crossed his face.

"Best leave that motorcycle of yours where it is," the Duke added. "Some of the men may shout witchcraft, and I haven't the stomach for that anymore. A terrible business, setting all those attractive women on fire." He shook his head with what appeared to be genuine regret. "A waste of a good woman. I always thought one with magic might come in handy." He brightened. "George — have those herbs mixed in with your sausages. They may hide the taste of the foul meat."