The last formal pitched battle involving British soldiers on British soil – I choose my words carefully to avoid bringing in the brawls between black and white GIs in WW2 which are a whole other story – was a tawdry affair of 1746 that has been elevated to a romanticism that it does not deserve. It was a well-organised force raised by the Hanoverian George II under the command of his son William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, set against a rag-tag army raised, often on pain of loss of land, livestock and home, by Highland chiefs still loyal to the Stuart monarchy. Cannon and musket against broadswords, fought on a foul April day on a boggy moor between Inverness and Nairn with a bitter east wind blowing sleet and snow into the faces of the Highlanders. It was a rout; the moor afterwards littered with bodies of Highlanders many of them broken by grapeshot. It was also the end of serious resistance to the triumphant Whigs, who like all big winners went on to write the history of the times as self-righteous, self-justifying truth. The aftermath of Culloden isn't generally part of that history; it's not much taught in British school history and it's a shameful blot on the nation. What followed the events on Drumossie Moor was an act of genocide.
John Prebble, working in the 1950s and early 1960s (the book was published in 1961, just a year after Macmillan's "Wind of Change" speech) dug up the dirty truth of Culloden and its aftermath from accounts and journals of people who took part on both sides as ordinary soldiers. He is sympathetic those on both sides, they were the hapless pawns of history after all, but not to their leaders. Charles Edward "Bonnie Prince Charlie" Stewart, the hero of the romantic version, is only ever a shadowy presence in the background, flitting from one bolthole to another as the slaughter went on.
Prebble gives a clear and detailed account of the battle itself but that is less than half of the book and, for me, the least interesting part (although I'm sure those interested mainly in military history would be fascinated) but from the common soldier's perspective. The triumphant Whig soldiers, many Lowland Scots amongst them, marched from the battlefield into Inverness slaughtering any hapless civilian they met on the way, unrestrained by their officers. Inverness was occupied and prisoners crammed into the town's Tollbooth and, when that would take no more, into any available cellar until the stench of death and neglect became unbearable. From Inverness the Whigs spread out over the Highlands and Islands with a scorched earth, slaughtering, burning and pillaging the lands of the clansmen, driving off and selling the cattle into the Lowlands and England, starving the Highlanders, who were regarded as savages much as the Indians in the American colonies were, into submission. Unrepenting Highland chiefs were taken to London to be eviscerated for the entertainment of the Tyburn mob. The wearing of tartan and Highland dress and the speaking of the Gaelic language was proscribed; the law was repealed forty years later but by then it was much too late. The clan system was broken, the clan chiefs who survived were assimilated and their landholdings consolidated so that they could finish the job of clearing the Highland people so the land could be sold to English sheep-farmers. And all was safe for the romanticising of the Highlands, the invention of "clan tartans" made possible by chemical dyes and the Yorkshire woollen industry, and the whole shortbread-tin, tartan-tat Scottish tourism industry.
Culloden isn't an easy read; it's intensely harrowing in places as befits the subject matter. But it really ought to take its proper place in the history syllabus just to teach the point that national history and myth isn't all as glorious as some would have us believe. The winds of change are blowing once again, not through Africa this time but through Scotland itself, a Scotland which is waking up to its own history and regaining its self-confidence. The kilt – the authentic, homespun, vegetable-dyed version – is being worn with pride once again outside the tourist areas. There are Gaelic road signs in the Highlands and Islands and bilingual station names on the railways even in places where Gaelic was never much spoken. The true story of Culloden is not being forgotten.