,
to remote St. Kilda! This disconcerting news was brought by young
Clanranald and Mr. Aeneas Macdonald of Kinloch Moidart, the Parisian
banker who had accompanied Charles from France. The latter had just
returned from an expedition to South Uist, where he had more than once
narrowly escaped being taken by some vigilant English cruiser. It was
impossible, he urged, for a ship of any size to escape through such a
closely-drawn net; the idea of starting directly for France must be
abandoned, but could the Prince escape to the outer islands and there
secure a suitable vessel, he _might_ be out upon the wide seas before
his departure was discovered. It was therefore decided that the little
party should cross the Minch in an open boat and make for the Long
Island. For this expedition the very man was forthcoming in the person
of the Highland pilot who had accompanied Mr. Macdonald to South Uist.
This was old Donald MacLeod of Guatergill, in Skye, a trader of
substance and a man of shrewdness and experience. In spite of being a
MacLeod he was a staunch Jacobite, and had joined the Prince's army at
Inverness. He had a son, a mere lad, at school in that place; this boy,
hearing that a battle was likely to take place, flung aside his book,
borrowed a dirk and a pistol, and actually fought in the battle of
Culloden. More lucky than most, he escaped from the fight, tracked the
Prince to Borodale, and arrived in time to take his place as one of the
eight rowers whom his father had collected for the expedition. The boat
belonged to the missing John Macdonald, for the Borodale family gave
life and property equally unhesitatingly in the Prince's service.

On April 26, in the deepening twilight, the party started from
Lochnanuagh. Hardly had they set out when they were overtaken by a
terrible storm, the worst storm, Donald declared, that he had ever been
out in, and he was an experienced sailor. The Prince demanded vehemently
that the boat should be run on shore, but Donald, knowing the rock-bound
coast, answered that to do so would be to run on certain death. Their
one chance was to hold out straight to sea. It was pitch dark, the rain
fell in torrents; they had neither lantern, compass, nor pump on board.
Charles lay at the bottom of the boat, with his head between Donald's
knees. No one spoke a word; every moment they expected to be overwhelmed
in the waves or dashed against a rock, and for several hours the vessel
rushed on in the