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Jamie Fraser is on track to becoming one of Scottish rugby’s most-capped players with an impressive try scoring record. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife Claire, a surgeon, and his daughter Brianna. He knows very little about his family history, but is keen to find out more so that he can pass it on to Brianna.
Jamie Fraser is sitting on his living room settee with Claire, while Brianna plays on the floor with some blocks. His smile is wide as he watches her play.
“My mother sadly died in childbirth when I was only a young lad. My baby brother with her,” he says.
Claire takes his hand in hers and gently squeezes it in a show of support. It may be years ago now, but it’s never an easy thing to talk about.
“I have fond memories of her, but I was so young. She was beautiful. Thick, curly hair. Brown, though.” He chuckles and tugs at one of his curls. “Not like mine. Or hers,” he says, pointing at his daughter’s own riot of red curls.
“My father died when I was a teenager. He came to watch my first Six Nations game at Murrayfield and collapsed halfway through. It was awful,” says Jamie, his voice already thick with tears. “I didn’t even know until after the match. I’d scored my first try, we won the match. We won the Calcutta Cup, in fact. But none of that really registered,” he pauses, swallowing hard. “N-none of that… It didn’t matter. A week later we buried my Da, next to my Ma, and then it was just me left. An orphan.”
Brianna has stopped playing and looks at her dad, clearly sensing the tension. She toddles over, clutching her teddy, dressed in a rugby jersey and holding a rugby ball.
“Da no sad,” she says, thrusting the teddy into Jamie’s hands. “Murray hug, Da.”
“Aye, lass, thank you,” says Jamie, accepting Murray the teddy and picking his daughter up, settling her on his lap. “Named after the grounds, of course,” he says, smiling and gesturing to the bear.
Jamie starts by looking into the family history he does know, the stories his father told him. He’s come to the National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh to meet Scottish historian Hamish Kennedy.
“Jamie, welcome to the National Library of Scotland. Where would you like to start?”
Hamish Kennedy is a friendly looking man in his fifties, dressed in a tweed suit. His half glasses hang round his neck by a cord, ready to be placed at the end of his nose, should the letters become too small to read. He leads Jamie over to a table with a number of books and papers on it.
“Now, I have no idea how much of this is true,” Jamie says, hedging a little, “but I believe my family fought at Culloden. We didn’t talk about my family history much, but my father did tell me I was not the first Fraser to take on the English.”
“But on the rugby pitch rather than the battlefield,” laughs Hamish.
“Aye,” agrees Jamie. “Although it does sometimes feel like a battle.”
Hamish picks up one of the books.
“Now, this is a book about the history of Culloden. It contains a number of lists,” he says and flicks the book to the page marked with a bookmark. “These lists contain the names of soldiers who fought on either side of the battle, English and Scottish.”
Jamie nods, looking at the page in question. It is labelled Officers in Charles Stuart’s army.
“Officers?”
“Yes,” says Hamish, pointing about halfway down the list. “Take a look at this.”
“Fraser of the Master of Lovat’s regiment. That’s a start, I suppose,” says Jamie. He looks closely at the list. “Look, here. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. What a name!”
He grins up at Hamish.
“Is this my ancestor?”
“Yes, it would appear so. Your many times great-grandfather. And he’s listed as being an officer in the Master of Lovat’s regiment.”
“So presumably attached to the family regiment?”
Hamish picks up another piece of paper. It’s a printed family tree showing the Master of Lovat’s line. There’s one unbroken line leading to a row of names.
“This shows the family tree of Simon Fraser, 11th Lord Lovat. Now, his son, also Simon, was present at the Battle of Culloden. His father was not. But,” says Hamish, pointing at a second, dashed line, “this is where it gets interesting for you.”
Jamie follows the line with his finger. It leads away from the 11th Lord Lovat and down to a single name.
“Brian Fraser. Who’s he?”
“Ah, well, that would be James MacKenzie Fraser’s father.”
“So he is directly related to Lord Lovat? I mean, he wasn’t just a clansman following along.” Jamie looks excited at the connection. “And what does the wee line mean? I mean, it’s different to Simon Fraser and Margaret Grant’s.”
“Unfortunately, it means that while Brian Fraser is Lord Lovat’s son, he could never be his heir. He was a bastard.”
Jamie sits back and looks at Hamish. It’s a harsh reality.
“Really?”
“I’m afraid so, yes,” says Hamish. “But he was at least acknowledged, or he wouldn’t have been given the name Fraser.”
“D-do we know anything about his mother?” asks Jamie, still a little gob smacked.
“Well, not much. We do know her name because it was on this next document.”
Hamish picks up another book, turns it to a marked page and points out a specific line.
“This is a copy of the parish records of the time. Here’s one that might interest you. It’s in Gaelic and I have a clearer copy and an English translation, should that be necessary.”
Jamie picks up the paper and reads out the English for the benefit of the programme.
“Record of the marriage of Brian Fraser, natural son of Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, and Davina Porter, maid, to Ellen MacKenzie, daughter of Jacob MacKenzie, Laird, and Anne Grant MacKenzie, Lady, 1716.”
Jamie sits back amazed, paper loosely clasped in his hand. He smiles widely at Hamish again, who smiles widely back.
“Laird? The illegitimate son of a maid married the daughter of a laird?”
“He did indeed,” says Hamish, lifting up a final piece of paper. “And was granted some land of his own, by the next laird, his brother-in-law, to settle down.”
He hands the paper to Jamie.
“This is the deed to Broch Tuarach, a plot of land not far from Inverness, where your ancestor settled.”
“Then I suppose that’s where I should go next. Thank you, Hamish.”
Jamie’s next stop is the archives at Inverness, where he meets local historian Shelagh Innes, who has found more information on Jamie’s ancestral home, Broch Tuarach.
“Thank you very much for meeting me, Shelagh,” says Jamie, as he shakes her hand.
They’re in a small room in the Inverness archive, where they sit down at a table with some books and papers laid out before them.
“Now, I know my many times great-grandfather Brian Fraser got married and was given some land, and obviously that he had a son, but that’s all I know so far,” he says. “Can you tell me anything more about that?”
“I can indeed,” says Shelagh, smiling, as she picks up a big, old-looking book. Her warm smile matches her look of a gentle local librarian. “This is a copy of the records which cover the period of your ancestor Brian Fraser. If we look here, you’ll see the marriage is recorded.”
“Aye, to Ellen MacKenzie,” says Jamie, picking up the piece of paper Hamish had given him. “Daughter and sister of a laird.”
“Aye, and here we see the land grant, signed by her brother, Colum MacKenzie, shortly after the marriage is recorded in 1716, do ye see?”
“Aye.”
“Now, here’s where it gets interesting. We have managed to find the baptismal records for the area which covers Broch Tuarach. And we found the children of Brian and Ellen Fraser listed.”
Jamie’s head shoots up. A smile on his face.
“Children? They had more than just James, then?”
“Aye. Now, it’s certainly not uncommon to have more children, but look at the date here. Do you see anything?”
Jamie does and the camera clearly shows the date of the baptismal record.
“Also 1716! But that would mean…” Jamie trails off for a moment. “Not another bastard…”
“No, look, his mother is listed as Ellen MacKenzie Fraser. They were married,” says Shelagh, finger trailing along the line in the record. “Just about.”
Jamie laughs, eyes twinkling.
“Just about is right. But at least they were married in time. But that’s not James, that’s William.”
Shelagh nods and moves to the next page marked.
“William in 1716, followed by a daughter, Janet, in 1719, then by James, your ancestor, in 1721. May 1st.”
“What, really?” Jamie laughs again. “That’s my birthday!”
“You and your great-grandfather share more than just a name,” says Shelagh.
“Were there any more children?” asks Jamie eagerly.
Shelagh doesn’t say anything, closes and moves the book of baptismal records, and picks up a different old-looking book. She opens the book to a marked page and places it in front of Jamie. He looks at the page and his smile drops.
“Death recorded of Ellen MacKenzie Fraser, wife of Brian Fraser, at Broch Tuarach, 1729.”
Jamie’s voice catches as he reads out the next line in the record.
“Death recorded of Robert Fraser, son of Brian Fraser and Ellen MacKenzie Fraser, at Broch Tuarach, 1729.”
The camera clearly shows the two lines in the book. The date of birth recorded for Robert Fraser is the same.
“He lost his mother?”
Shelagh nods sadly.
“It was not uncommon at the time for women to die in childbirth. Or for children to die at a young age.”
She turns the pages back to an earlier page in the same book and points at a line. It reads Death recorded of William Fraser. The date is 1727. Jamie sits back in his chair. There are clearly tears in his eyes.
“So his older brother died, he must have been what, 11? James would have been six. Then less than two years later, not only does he not get a baby brother, but his ma dies? And he was no more than eight at the time.”
He rubs a hand across his face.
“I guess we do share more than just a name,” he says. “I lost my own mother at about the same age, also in childbirth.”
He sits in silence, just staring at the record book for a moment. Shelagh equally quiet. Then he sits upright, as if shaking off this devastating revelation.
“Is there any more bad news?” he asks Shelagh.
“Not immediately, no, thankfully,” says Shelagh, turning to a page a lot further into the book. “There is however one more death worth looking at.”
The camera shows one further name. Death recorded of Brian Fraser, 1740. James Fraser’s father.
“Well,” says Jamie. “Did he… Did he ever remarry?”
“No,” says Shelagh, picking up yet another book and turning to one of the pages. “This is a book of marriage records for the parish, and while Brian never remarried, as you can see here, Janet Fraser marries Ian Murray in 1740. Not long after her father died.”
“At least she found some comfort, eh?” says Jamie with a smile. “What about Jamie, is he in that book too?”
Shelagh shakes her head and closes the book again.
“Alas no, but I do have something else…”
From the bottom of the pile, she pulls a piece of paper and hands it to Jamie. It’s clearly a printed copy of some records.
“Record of prisoners held at Fort William, 1740. What is this?”
There is a highlighted line about halfway down.
“Prisoner record, Fraser, J.A.M.M., October 1740, charged with obstruction.” Jamie looks shocked. “My ancestor was in prison?”
“That would seem to have been the case.”
“Well… Thank you, Shelagh, thank you for all this.”
“You’re welcome.”
They shake hands and Jamie leaves. He walks through the hallway clutching at the papers Shelagh has given him, two pages of particular interest. The shot cuts to him standing outside the archive.
“So I found out that my many times great-grandfather and I not only share a name and a birthday, but also the loss of our mother at a young age in childbirth. I was not expecting that at all.” He laughs. “Nor was I expecting him to have gone to prison! I wonder what that was all about. Guess that’s the next step…”
To discover more about his ancestor’s arrest and imprisonment, Jamie has come to Fort William, where James Fraser was imprisoned in 1740. Nowadays, it’s a museum.
As Jamie walks through the courtyard at Fort William, he looks up at the high walls.
“I can’t imagine much will have changed in the fort,” he says. “I suppose this must have been what it looked like when James Fraser was brought here. I really wonder why, and what obstruction means?”
He’s meeting Georgian legal historian Richard Greeves to find some answers.
“Welcome to Fort William.”
Richard Greeves is a young man, only a few years older than Jamie, and crucially, English.
“Thank you. Now, I hear you’re the man to ask about prisoners.”
Richard smiles. They’re sitting at yet another table in an archive with books and papers spread out on top.
“Indeed, and I hear you’ve found one you’d like to know about.”
“Aye, what can you tell me about this man?”
Jamie hands Richard the paper that Shelagh left him with, the prison record from October 1740.
“Well now, let’s see. I found that record of your ancestor in the archives and what you have there is incomplete.”
“In what way?”
“What you have there is the initial arrest and prisoner registration for obstruction.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I suppose it means whatever the English say it is. I couldn’t find a clear cause in the records, but they were notorious around these parts at the time, the Redcoats.”
Richard picks up an old book of prison records on the table. He carefully turns to a specific page.
“This is the prison record for Fort William for 1740. You’ll see here that James Fraser is listed, as you saw on your piece of paper, charged with obstruction. But look a bit further down.”
Jamie follows Richard’s finger to the right line. The camera shows an old record with excellent, old-fashioned penmanship. In amongst the spindly, joined up writing a few words can be made out, including ‘Fraser’ and what looks like ‘punishment’.
“I have a clearer print out here, if that helps,” says Richard, handing Jamie a page of printed lines.
“Prisoner record, Fraser, J.A.M.M., October 1740, recaptured after escape.”
Jamie looks up at Richard.
“He escaped?”
“Yes, but he was caught, I’m afraid. Not the best, under the circumstances,” says Richard, gesturing to the next line.
“Punishment due the said Fraser, 100 lashes,” reads out Jamie. “He was flogged. 100 lashes? That sounds like sae many, was it?”
“Oh yes, it was a lot. But it gets worse, I’m afraid. Keep reading.”
The next line on the page is another charge for James Fraser, this time for theft.
“Punishment due the said Fraser, 100 lashes.” Jamie sags in his seat. “That’s 200… They gave him 200 lashes? That’s barbaric. Did he survive?”
“Barely,” says Richard, picking up another piece of paper. “This is a copy of a broadsheet, like a wanted poster, issued not long after. Take a look.”
It is indeed a wanted poster, offering £10 sterling for the capture of James Fraser, charged with murdering a soldier of His Majesty’s Army. Jamie looks horrified.
“He killed someone?” Jamie asks Richard.
“Well, that’s what this would seem to imply, but if you look at when it was issued, and if you look at this record from Fort William, it would seem highly implausible.”
Richard hands yet another piece of paper over, this time a transcription of several days from the daily log of activities at Fort William.
“You’ll see here it records the earlier escape by James Fraser, followed by his recapture,” says Richard, pointing at the top of the page. “Slightly further down you’ll see the punishments carried out on various prisoners, including a flogging.” More gesturing at specific lines. “Same with the theft and second flogging, all in the space of a week. But here, see here, where it says Fraser escaped and then lists the death of a soldier?”
Jamie nods and looks a little closer.
“You’ll see that happened very shortly after the second round of flogging,” Richard points out. “Now, we know your great-grandfather was strong enough to survive two brutal floggings, but I doubt, and I have no concrete proof, mind…”
“But you doubt he would have been well enough to kill a man,” interrupts Jamie, nodding grimly. “Aye, that feels like a stretch. But still, he’s a wanted man now. Do we know what happened to him?”
“As a matter of fact, we do. Not here at Fort William, but after four years of no records, we find the name James Fraser listed at Wentworth Prison, which is not too far from here,” says Richard.
This time it’s a photocopy of a document, with another printed transcription to help with the spidery letters. There’s a clear letterhead at the top of the page, right above where it says ‘James Fraser of Lallybroch’ in large letters.
“They really did have a wonderful way with words back then, didn’t they?” says Jamie as he looks through the document. “Like this, ‘a very extraordinary and abominable crime and most atrocious injury against us’! So, what is this exactly?”
“This is essentially a death certificate noting the criminal, his crimes and his punishment, including when and where it was carried out. Now, you’ll notice all that information is present apart from one crucial piece.”
Jamie looks carefully at the whole document when his eyes finally come to rest at the bottom of the page.
“It’s missing a signature,” he says, confused. “Does that mean…”
“It means that while this certificate was drawn up, the sentence was never carried out. For whatever reason, your ancestor, James Fraser, had a stay of execution and was not hanged that day.”
“Wow.” Jamie puffs his breath out in surprise and relief. “Not hanged. And so, he lives to see another day.”
“Yes, quite,” says Richard. “Now, if you look closely, you’ll notice that the certificate does say he was married. So somewhere between 1740 and 1744, he got married, which would lead to your next ancestor.”
Richard picks up one final book to be handled very carefully. It’s another book of prison records.
“This book,” he says, opening it to the first of several marked pages, “contains the prisoner records for Ardsmuir Prison. The prison itself closed in 1756 and any remaining prisoners were moved. But as you can see from these records…”
Richard points to a line on the page that clearly lists ‘James Fraser’ as a prisoner at Ardsmuir in 1752, and on the next page in 1753, and on the next page in 1754, and on the next page in 1755. Finally, on the last page Richard turns to, it lists him as paroled to Helwater in 1756.
“…he was here for a number of years after Culloden.”
Jamie stares intently at the records, and at the photocopies Richard has provided, but says nothing for the moment.
“Now, I wasn’t able to find any mention of him between the battle of Culloden and these records at Ardsmuir, so I can’t tell you anything about that. But what I can tell you, and what the parole would also imply, is that they had stopped hanging Jacobites by this point, which is what most of these people were. Do you know much about the Rising in 1745 and the Battle of Culloden?”
“Only what I was taught in school and learnt in songs and stories,” says Jamie. “But I think that will be my next port of call, because I wonder how involved James Fraser really was, or whether he was just another officer.”
He gets up and shakes Richard’s hand.
“Thank you so much for this, Richard.”
“My pleasure.”
Jamie leaves the room and walks back to the courtyard. He stops in the centre and stares up at the walls again. It is clear that he’s seeing them in a very different light after all the things he has been told. The next shot is still of the courtyard, although more to the side and with Jamie once more facing the camera.
“I canna imagine the horrors James Fraser must have faced here. Two hundred lashes in the space of a week. It’s barbaric. This place gives me the chills.”
He shudders.
“I am glad that the murder charge seems unlikely, but still… It canna have been easy to live as an outlaw. I’m sae glad he married, though, that he must have managed to build a life, somehow.”
He looks down at one of the papers Richard has given him, one of the Ardsmuir records.
“And I’m more and more intrigued by his part in the Battle of Culloden. Clearly, family history wasn’t all wishful thinking.”
Jamie has come back to Inverness, where he has been joined by his wife Claire. They’re on their way to Culloden Moor, to find out what part Jamie’s ancestor, James MacKenzie Fraser played in the Jacobite rising of 1745.
Jamie and Claire are in a car, driving from Inverness to Culloden Moor. Claire looks over at Jamie.
“So, what are you hoping to find?” she asks. “You told me he was listed in a book as one of the officers. Do you know how high up the chain of command?”
“Not a clue. All it said was officer in the Master of Lovat’s regiment, and Lord Lovat was a Fraser. His grandfather, in fact. But other than that, I don’t know anything, really,” says Jamie. “Although, I do know that he went to prison for being a Jacobite.”
“Oh yes, his illustrious career as a criminal. That was his second brush with the law?”
“His third, actually. Although it seems to have been the one where he suffered least.” Jamie grins. “No hanging and no flogging, and a parole at the end of it.”
They park the car and walk up to Culloden Visitor Centre, where they are met by a friendly looking, older woman, who shakes their hands with a smile and welcomes them into the building.
Jamie and Claire have come to meet Moira Graham, a historian who specialises in the Jacobite Risings. She has found something important to show Jamie.
Inside the museum, Jamie, Claire and Moira are sitting at a table. They are surrounded on all sides by artefacts from the Battle of Culloden. Spread out in front of them is an original document, which Moira has carefully unrolled.
“This, Jamie, is a declaration by Bonnie Prince Charlie,” she says. “It declares a Stuart's divine right tae the throne of Britain, supported by the chieftains of the Highland clans, signed by those pledging loyalty tae Charles Stuart.”
Jamie looks intrigued; Claire looks fascinated.
“Oh, Jamie, look. Look!” she says, pointing to the signatures. “MacKinnon, Oliphant, MacDonald of Glencoe…”
“James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.”
“Aye,” says Moira. “Your ancestor. He wasna just an officer in his grandfather’s regiment.”
She gestures at the whole document.
“This was published and distributed as Charles Stuart left France tae land in Scotland. Your ancestor would have tae have given the prince personal assurance of his loyalty tae be sae prominently featured on this declaration.”
“Wow,” breathes Jamie.
Claire is silent, speechless. But only for a moment.
“So, are you saying that this James Fraser,” distinguishing between the historical Fraser and her own Jamie, “was an important figure in the Rising? Or just a name attached to a document?”
Moira smiles, carefully rolls up the declaration and unrolls two further original documents, placing them side by side.
“Hopefully this will tell you how important James Fraser was,” she says with a smile.
In front of them lie two posters, greatly yellowed with age and very fragile looking. Written large across the tops of both is the word WANTED.
“This,” says Moira, pointing to the poster on the left, “is the Young Pretender, Charles Stuart. Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
She then points to the poster on the right.
“And this is James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.”
Jamie’s jaw drops. He’s looking at a drawing of his many times great-grandfather, who despite being made entirely of lines and shading, has a strong jawline and a piercing gaze.
“Well, I can see why they wanted him,” he hears Claire say beside him. “What a handsome man!”
“Sassenach!” hisses Jamie and Moira laughs heartily.
“Aye, as ye say,” says Moira. “What the poster obviously canna show us is what he truly looked like, but as he was known tae the English and Scots alike as ‘Red Jamie’, we can only assume that those curls must have been quite a distinguishing feature.”
“Yet another thing I share with him,” says Jamie, gesturing at his own red curls.
“Brianna, too,” adds Claire. “It’s nice to know that your red hair truly runs in the family. I wonder if his father had the same red curls.”
Jamie looks between the two posters and Bonnie Prince Charlie’s declaration.
“So, James Fraser was involved, clearly,” he says, gesturing to the letter, “with the Prince and the Rising, but do we know what he did?”
“Yes, we know he was an officer, but what was he in charge of?” asks Claire.
“We know from letters and diaries of the time that James Fraser was a close confidant and part of Charles Stuart's inner council,” answers Moira. “He was involved with the organisation of the Prince’s army and was, in fact, responsible for some of the early victories.”
She picks up a copy of the timeline of the Rising of 1745 used at the museum, showing when important events of the Rising happened.
“As you can see here, Charles Stuart landed in Scotland from France in July 1745. He gathered his forces and set about the rebellion from August onwards. Shortly after they captured Edinburgh in mid-September, there was a battle at the nearby town of Prestonpans.”
She pulls out a map, pointing out how near to Edinburgh Prestonpans is.
“Up tae this point, the rebellion was still building, and while the British were obviously concerned, it wasna until this particular battle that they started tae understand the true potential – and threat – of this Rising.”
Moira looks up at Jamie, who is fascinated by what she’s telling him. She reaches out to hand him a photocopy of a letter, as well as a transcript of the spidery writing, which he takes, distractedly. Some of the lines are highlighted.
“This is a letter from Sir John Cope, the British commander-in-chief in Scotland and military leader at the time of the Battle of Prestonpans. As you can see, he writes, ‘I cannot reproach myself; the manner in which the enemy came on was quicker than can be described...and the cause of our men taking on a destructive panic...’ The British soldiers fled in the face of the charge and it ultimately led tae the end of Cope’s military career.”
“Clearly, they had underestimated the Scottish soldiers to their detriment,” says Claire.
“Aye,” she replies. “Now, one of the officers leading the Prince’s troops that day, by personal request, I might add, was James MacKenzie Fraser. We know from the Prince’s private records that he put great trust in his ‘most loyal companion and friend’, and that he had been in the Prince’s confidence as far back as the Prince’s time in Paris. He writes of meetings at Mme E’s, which we historians assume is a brothel – unorthodox, but not uncommon – but more importantly, there are accounts of personal invitations tae dine at the residence of Laird Broch Tuarach, ‘his James’.”
“He really was right at the heart of it all, wasn’t he?” says Jamie, exhaling sharply. “It’s not just the fantasies of every true Scot, to say they were there to fight the English. Not famous, as such, not a prominent lord, not even known, generally, but a central figure, nonetheless. I… It’s just sae…”
He runs his hands down his face, trying to take it all in. He moves the documents aside to look at the wanted poster again, silently, solemnly, as if accepting the weight of responsibility that his namesake must have been feeling.
“And then months later, it all ended, all for naught.”
Moira nods.
“Culloden. Right out there, in less than an hour, the British, led by the Duke of Cumberland, overpowered the Prince’s army and effectively ended the Rising. Between 1,500 and 2,000 Scottish soldiers killed in battle, hundreds captured only tae be killed later, including many of the officers and commanders, not tae mention the subsequent ruthless oppression of the Highlanders, the clans, everything.”
It’s harrowing to hear it described so succinctly. The event that ultimately led to an immense cultural loss felt for generations.
“Bonnie Prince Charlie evaded capture, famously fled tae the Isle of Skye and then tae France,” Moira carries on. “He never managed tae raise another army, never returned tae Scotland, never became king. He died in France in 1788.”
“And James?” asks Jamie. “I know that he survived. I’ve seen his prison records and his parole. Do we know what happened to him?”
“Well, no’ exactly.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
Moira smiles.
“No, I dinna suppose it does. But the fact of the matter is that we dinna know exactly what happened tae your ancestor after Culloden. He isna killed, we know that, but he isna mentioned in any way definitively until his arrest and subsequent imprisonment at Ardsmuir.”
Jamie sits back, somewhat deflated.
“So, now what? Nothing?”
“Well…” says Moira, carefully, as she pulls out one last item. “Definitive or no, I do have one last lead that might be of interest.”
It’s a book of local legends. There is a page bookmarked, the title of which reads ‘The Dunbonnet’.
“Dunbonnet? What’s that?” asks Claire.
“It’s the name given tae a man who lived in a cave for seven years following the Battle of Culloden,” Moira explains.
“A cave? For seven years?!”
“Aye,” says Jamie, who has started skimming the page. “A cave. And look.”
He points at the page. A close-up shows the word clearly: Lallybroch.
The camera cuts to Jamie standing on Culloden Moor, staring out over land, next to stones in memory of the clans that fought and died there. Claire takes his hand as he looks down at the stone marked FRASER. He looks deep in thought, then draws her in under his arm, kissing her temple.
The shot changes to Jamie standing back outside the museum.
“To think that my ancestor was here, stood here, fought here,” he says, still slightly gobsmacked. “More than that, even. To think that he was an integral part of the Rising, a leader… It’s still so unbelievable.”
He runs a hand through his curls.
“And that he didn’t die. It was always such an achievement that Bonnie Prince Charlie escaped, dressed as a woman, smuggled in a boat, ‘over the sea to Skye’ and all that. But to think that there was another… That not all his officers were killed in battle or executed for treason… And that he’s mine. I…”
He sighs.
“After all that I’d learnt about his life, about how much he lost as a child, all he suffered as a young man. It was so hard to hear. And to think he then went to Paris and stood side by side with a prince. And now he might be a local legend! I just can’t believe it.”
He looks down at the documents in his hand.
“Lallybroch. Well, I suppose that’s my next step.”
After learning that his many-times great-grandfather was a highly ranked officer in the army of Bonnie Prince Charlie and survived the end of the Rising at Culloden Moor, Jamie and his wife Claire are on their way to James MacKenzie Fraser’s ancestral home of Lallybroch, to meet folklore historian Robert Wallace, who has more information on the Dunbonnet, the legend of a man who lived in a cave.
The car driving Jamie and Claire to Lallybroch stops at the top of a slope, allowing them to get out and admire the clear view of an old manor house surrounded by outbuildings and a wall with stone archway. The section of wall to the left of the archway has clearly been removed to make room for car access.
The shot changes to the car pulling up outside the door of the manor house, then Jamie and Claire exiting the car. There are two men waiting outside for them. One must be Robert Wallace, the other is currently a mystery.
“Welcome, Jamie, to Lallybroch,” says the man on the right, holding out his hand to Jamie.
This is Robert Wallace, the folklore historian, a grey, long-haired man dressed in a comfy brown cardigan. He looks like he has spent many years trawling through accounts of fanciful tales such as Robin Hood to find any nuggets of truth.
“My ancestral home. My clan land. Mine, I can feel it,” laughs Jamie, as he looks at Claire. “Thank you for meeting me.”
The other man, wiry and blond, laughs with him.
“Well, not exactly yours,” he says, then holds out his own hand for Jamie to shake.
“Indeed,” says Robert, smiling. “Allow me to introduce the owner of the estate, Ian Murray.”
Jamie heartily shakes Ian’s hand, but Robert hasn’t finished speaking. His smile widens as he reveals the biggest surprise. Jamie’s jaw drops when he hears it.
“He is your cousin.”
Ian Murray, the owner of Lallybroch, is a descendent of James MacKenzie Fraser’s sister and Jamie’s many-times great-aunt, Janet Fraser, who married Ian Murray in 1740. While much of the land around Lallybroch has been sold over the years, the manor house itself has been in the hands of the family since it was gifted to Brian and Ellen Fraser in 1716. It was passed to James Jacob Fraser Murray by his uncle, James MacKenzie Fraser, through a deed of sasine, and has belonged to the Murrays ever since.
Ian leads Robert, Jamie and Claire into a study, where a table has been prepared with Robert’s books and papers. Jamie has his own small pile of papers that he carefully puts down on the table.
“Now, this is Ian’s family tree,” says Robert, unrolling a large roll of paper, “and you can see that he has been able to trace it all the way back to the 1700’s.”
The camera focuses on the line, tracing through the generations until we come to some familiar names. The family tree is also peppered with numerous Ians and Jameses.
“You might recognise some of these names near the top,” he continues.
“And also throughout,” adds Ian. “Our family history was certainly honoured down the generations. I am only the latest in a long line of Ian Murrays.”
Jamie looks fascinated by this unbelievable connection to a complete stranger, but it’s right there in black and white: Janet Fraser, daughter of Brian Fraser and Ellen MacKenzie, sister to James MacKenzie Fraser.
“This… I canna believe it…” he says, tracing the lines between the names. He looks back up at Ian. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid, although there is something of a family myth that says James must have known what was coming. Or at least that he was intent on looking after his family’s land.”
Carefully, he picks up an old document and points to one particular line at the bottom of the page.
“Dated at Inverness, 1st July 1745. The Rising didna start until August.”
“So why would he have signed away his lands to his nephew before then?” asks Claire.
“James Murray would have been a child at the time,” Jamie responds. “Maybe he thought to cover his bases, and that he’d be able to get it back when the Rising succeeded.”
“Or so that it wouldna be lost to the Crown should the Rising fail…” adds Ian. “Either way, it was passed to his nephew and he was never heard of again. Or at least, I have no more stories about James Fraser that I know of.”
“I know James MacKenzie Fraser was arrested and sent to Ardsmuir,” says Jamie, fishing through his papers to show Ian the prison records. “But that was a number of years after the Rising. I don’t know what happened between the two.”
At this point, Robert hands Jamie the same book of Scottish local legends that Moira had shown him at Culloden, open to a marked page.
“This is where I come in, I think,” he says. “There’s a local legend, although nobody is entirely sure whether it’s true, nor where the cave is rumoured to be. But according to the legend, in the years after the Rising, the Redcoats were looking for a traitor to the Crown known only as the Dunbonnet. So called, because of what he wore: a bonnet to help him blend in to the surroundings.”
“And this Dunbonnet, he lived in a cave?” asks Jamie.
“Well,” says Robert, “as you know, just after the Battle of Culloden, the Scottish people were heavily oppressed and there was much hardship and starvation. However, the people of this area seem to have been less affected by all that than people in similar situations elsewhere. We don’t know if that’s because the Murrays and their tenants did not fight on the side of the Jacobites or, if the legend is to be believed, because they were bolstered by the efforts of a skilled woodsman and hunter.
“Despite all the efforts of the Redcoats stationed in this area, they were never able to find him. They even scoured the woodlands surrounding Lallybroch, but to no avail. I believe there are still marks by the door left by the Redcoats.”
“Yes, so the story goes,” says Ian, nodding.
“And nobody knows where the cave is?” asks Jamie.
“Well,” says Ian, “certainly not definitively. I know of a handful of caves in the surrounding area, any one of which could have served as a hideaway.”
“Can we go and see them?”
“I can take you to the nearest one, if you don’t mind a bit of a walk.”
The shot changes to the Ian, Jamie and Claire walking through the woods surrounding Lallybroch. The path is quite steep and Jamie makes sure to help Claire when she needs it. Eventually, Ian stops by a tree, which looks much the same as all the other trees, and points just beyond it. The camera moves to show the mouth of a cave. If it hadn’t been pointed out, there is no way it would be visible.
The shot changes again, this time to inside the cave. There is not a lot of room for Jamie to stand, especially with the unseen camera crew needed for filming. Around the side of the cave there are thin ledges of rock and the floor of the cave is fairly flat.
“I canna imagine this would have been a comfortable way to live,” says Jamie, carefully positioned so as not to bump his head. “Not for days, never mind for years. If the Dunbonnet really lived, if he spent time in this cave, or any cave, really… What he must have gone through, after his home and his way of life was lost…”
While the legend of the Dunbonnet and the cave where he dwelt may be just that, a legend, Jamie’s ancestral home, Lallybroch, holds still more for him to discover. Jamie’s distant cousin Ian Murray has one more thing to show him.
Ian has led Jamie and Claire to a small walled-off area. It is somewhat overgrown, but there are clearly headstones in amongst the plants.
“I canna show you anything of James Fraser’s, as nothing was passed down in the family, but I thought you should see this,” he says, leading Jamie to a particular spot.
The headstone he’s pointing to is surprisingly clear, for being over 250 years old.
“Brian Robert David Fraser, born in Inverness-shire, Scotland, 1691. Died in the 49th year of his age at Fort William, 1740,” Jamie reads out, then turns to Claire, shocked. “At Fort Wiliam? Where James Fraser was flogged? When James was flogged?!”
“Maybe,” she replies. “And what does that mean, dubh?”
“It means dark, or black,” says Ian. “Black Brian.”
“So not red, like Red Jamie,” says Jamie. “He didn’t get his red hair from his father.”
“We can only speculate…”
The camera lingers for a while on the headstone of Brian Fraser, the bastard son of a laird whose son went on to play such a central role in the Rising. Then it changes to Jamie, his distant descendant and namesake, looking out over the yard outside Lallybroch, taking in the woods, the outbuildings, the manor house, his heritage.
“When I started this, I had no idea I was going to find anything like this. A man brutally flogged, a Jacobite officer, a legend, even a cousin! It’s beyond my wildest dreams. I’m an only child, with no parents or grandparents left, no other family and now I canna wait to tell my daughter Brianna all about her family history. Maybe even show her where we came from.”
He sighs.
“I just wish I knew where he got his red hair from, where I get my red hair from.”
Then he laughs.
“I don’t suppose I’ll find out. It was before photography was invented and I can’t imagine there were many portraits painted of Jacobite prisoners.”
Jamie Fraser has returned to his hometown of Edinburgh, where there is one final surprise for him. As part of an exhibition on Scottish amateur portraiture, the Scottish National Portrait Gallery has put together a selection of portraits painted by Scottish artists throughout the centuries. Jamie has come to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery to see one particular portrait.
Jamie walks through the highly decorated hallways of the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, the camera following his progress past many different styles and types of portrait. He finally stops in front of a heavily carved, ornate gilded frame. Held in the frame, there is a portrait of a woman, long-necked and regal, a high forehead and a round chin. However, her most distinguishing feature is her hair, curling round her face – lush red hair.
Jamie stands in front of the painting in silence, taking in every little detail. He seems lost for words, although he has clearly made the connection, as he runs his hand through his own lush red curls and smiles.
The shot changes one last time, focusing on the little plaque next to the portrait. It reads: Ellen MacKenzie Fraser, circa 1716, self-portrait.