Prologue
Abbotsford, the Scottish Borders
September 1832
Some say Iโm a hero. Some call me a traitor.
My time grows short now. I feel nothing in my right side.
My hand lies inert on the bedclothes. The apoplexy has
robbed me of any useful employment. I tried, but I cannot
hold a pen. Not that it matters. Those exertions are behind
me now.
Some will say that I, Sir Walter Scottโauthor of Waverley
and Rob Roy and Red Gauntletโinvented the new Scotland.
That I was the unfailing champion of the noble traditions
of the past. That I revealed the Scottish identity that all
now wear with tartan-emblazoned pride.
What they say is a lie.
My family has brought down my bed and propped me up before
the open window of my dining room. In the meadow outside,
the yellow of the rock-rose, the scarlet of the campion
flower, the pure white of the ox-eyed daisies nearly blind
me with their reckless brilliance. The water scratches over
the pebbled shore of the Tweed at the end of the field, but
instead, I hear the haunting voices of hungry, homeless
Highlanders, dying by the thousands.
How many have died as the ancient hills continue to be
cleared of their tenant farmers in the name of progress?
Pushed from their homes, driven to the sea, to the cold,
hard streets of our cities, to lands far away . . . if they
could survive the journey. All to make way for a few more
sheep. All in the quest of a few more shillings.
I did what I believed at the time was right for Scotland. I
convinced myself I could not let my country descend into
the lawless chaos of bloody revolution, the throat of
civility ripped out by the mob. It happened in France. The
guillotineโs dread machinery flew out of control, splashing
far too much innocent blood into the streets in its
ravaging thirst for the guilty. And the cobbled lanes of
Paris were not yet dry when a new terror arose in the form
of their arrogant tyrant Napoleon. I told myself I could
not let that happen here. Not here. Not in my homeland.
But now I see the truth clearly, and the bitter gall of
that knowledge rises into my throat. I spent a lifetime
creating an image of Scotland that I knew was not real. I
closed my eyes to the suffering and the deaths of my own
people, and instead told stories depicting the grandeur of
an imagined Highland past. And as I worked, I held my
tongue about the bloody decimation of the clans and their
way of life. Men I dined with daily were profiting from the
killing, and I said nothing. Worse, I, too, made money from
it with my romantic tales.
Many are those who see me clearly. To them, I am Walter
Scottโturncoat, bootlicking lackey of the British Crown.
They say I sold the independence of Scotland for a shabby
box of tawdry and meaningless honors. They say that because
of me, the Scottish people will never be free again. That I
betrayed them for a wee bit of fleeting fame and the price
of a few books.
Now, after all these years, I find myself forced to agree.
And that is all the more difficult to bear because I lie
here with Death stalking the shadows of Abbotsford.
Heโs been dogging my faltering steps for some time now.
This fever struck me as we returned from our travels. Rome
and Naples, Florence and Venice. Those places had offered
no relief. Death was coming for me. London was covered in
yellow fog when we arrived, but the rest is a blur. They
tell me I lay close to death for weeks. I donโt recall. And
then the final journey home. The steady rumbling rhythm of
a steamboat remains in my mind, but I remember very little
of that. I only know that I am home now.
Two of my hunters have been turned out into the meadow.
Fine mounts. The golden sun glistens on their powerful
shoulders as they begin to graze. I wish I could be as
content, but life has buffeted me about, and the choices
Iโve made give me no respite. Nor should they.
My mind returns again and again to the upheaval of 1820, to
the โโRising.โโ
We called those men and women radicals, when all they
wanted were the rights and freedoms of citizens. In the
name of equality and fraternity, they cried out for
representation. They demanded the vote. Some called for an
end to what they saw as the iron fist of Crown rule. They
wanted to sever our northern kingdom from England and
restore the ancient parliament of Scotland. In my lifetime,
those men and women were the last chance for Scotlandโs
independence, and I blinded myself to their cause. And when
Westminster made it treason to assemble and protest, they
willingly gave their lives. The heroic blood of the Bruce
and the Wallace flowed in their veins. I see that now. Too
late.
That same year, that same month, as the blood flowed, I
returned to Scotland from Westminster bearing my new title.
Even now, I feel the weight of the kingโs sword on my
shoulders. But as I reveled proudly in my accomplishments,
the cities across the land were tinderboxes, threatening to
explode in a wild conflagration of civil war. The weavers
and the other tradesmen in Glasgow and Edinburgh had just
brought the countryโs affairs to a halt with their strikes.
Some of the reformers had courageously marched on the
ironworks at Carron to seize weapons.
Scotland teetered on the brink of anarchy. I was afraid. So
I took the well-worn path of weak men.
I feel the feverโs heat coming on again. The colors outside
my window grow more brilliant. I hear the sound of voices
singing an old Scots ballad. Or is it thunder?
My single moment of courage came when I saved a woman who
would help change the course of history.
Isabella Murray Drummond. A marvel of this modern age. A
doctor, no less, whoโd studied at the university in
Wurzburg, where her eminent father held a professorโs
chair. When he passed away, she married an Edinburgh
physician whoโd gone to further his studies under the
tutelage of her father. He was a widower with a growing
daughter. She was a single woman left with a younger sister
and a small inheritance. It was a marriage of convenience.
Isabella, who had the loveliness of Venus and the bearing
of a queen. She saved me from losing my legโlame since my
childhoodโafter the carriage accident in Cowgate. Carried
to her husbandโs house, I was fortunate he was not at home,
for she was the very angel of mercy I needed at that
moment, and her skill as a physician saved my life.
Some will always think me a traitor. I know now that I have
helped in giving away Scotlandโs chance for independence .
. . perhaps forever . . . in return for a peace that was
profitable for a few. But if I have one thing in my life
that Iโll never regret, it was my action on that womanโs
behalf when the time came.
The news spread across the city. Isabella Drummondโs
husband was dead, and she was in hiding with her sister and
her stepdaughter. The government had declared her an enemy
of the Crown, placed a bounty upon her head. Her husbandโs
rebellious allies wanted her, as well, believing sheโd
inform on them.
I succeeded in helping the women escape from the city, far
to the north where they would board a ship bound for
Canada. She was to join all those Highlanders who were
journeying to a new life. But she would never board any
ship. She would never reach the shores of that far-off
place.
It was there on the rugged coast of the Highlands that she
disappeared . . . and lived a truer adventure than ever
flowed from my pen.
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