Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Battle of Culloden — Part 3: The Butcher of Cumberland's Birthday Sausages

Brian accompanied George back to the tent to help with the sausages whilst the Duke rejoined his men for his birthday celebrations.

George began cutting and slicing at the large bench. "Come and get your hands dirty — help me pack these skins." He passed Brian a tube with string attached.

Brian turned it over in his hands. His face betrayed him.

George's brows drew together. "Have you never made a sausage? Do you have sausages in your time?"

"Yes," Brian said, "but I usually get them from the supermarket in packs, or I nip down the butcher."

"I know what a butcher is — glad not everything changes. And this... supermarket?" George was already leaning forward.

Brian grimaced. "Awful places. Full of people crashing trolleys and blocking aisles in pointless gossip. They have a sport where they block up the self-service tills because they've forgotten their glasses, can't see the screens, and even if they could, their computer skills are approximately as good as Donald Duck's. Huge buildings full of tasteless, bland food made from a mushed-up soup of the kind of meat you have here."

The meat wasn't the best. Long past its ideal date — not rotten, but the kind of waste that might otherwise have become dog food.

George nodded, absorbing this. "The future sounds strange — with people running amok and causing blockades in the shopping process. I'll take your word for it. Can't say I know this Donald Duck. Now — can you show me how to use this thing?" He held up one of the tubes.

George demonstrated with efficient expertise: sliding the skin over the stuffer, packing the meat steadily, leaving a little room so the sausages wouldn't burst. He twisted the end and moved along the string until he had half a dozen perfectly formed sausages. "One string! See?"

Brian took a breath and went to work. He found it easier than expected — so much so, he had an idea.

"Do you know what a Cumberland sausage is?"

George looked blank. "Can't say I have."

If George hadn't heard of one, it hadn't been invented yet. Brian shaped his next string into a loose spiral. "Voilà — a Cumberland sausage."

George inspected them. They weren't the perfect specimens he'd produced, but they were passable. "You're a talented sausage packer. The Duke is going to be happy with these. Right — the Cumberland sausage it is. I'm sure the Duke will be over the moon we've put his name to a new one."

They made quick work of the rest — a tray piled high with the newly christened Cumberland Sausages, generously seasoned with George's new favourite herb. Brian passed over the velvet pouch. He kept his face neutral.

---

"Are you both enjoying the story so far?" Hamish inspected us with a keen eye. My enjoyment was plain enough to read. Chris was practicing his poker face.

Finally, Chris smiled. "Yes, I'm enjoying it. I'm not sure there's a sliver of truth in any of it, but imagining the Cumberland Sausage was originally a weed-infested space sausage is worth a few laughs."

Hamish was also amused. "After Culloden, many tried to replicate the Cumberland Sausage eaten by the Duke's soldiers on the eve of the battle. It won't surprise you to learn that nobody succeeded — on the basis that nobody would have thought to put cannabis in their sausages. It was rarely used in this country through the eighteenth century, which is why it was replaced with the herbs we find in Cumberland Sausages today. The spiral was likely a later addition by a chef putting his own twist on it."

"I prefer this version," I said. "Does anyone need another drink?" Chris and Hamish nodded as I scuttled off to the bar.

---

Brian and George carried the tray of sausages towards a circle of men seated outside the grand tent at the centre of the camp. The Duke looked up from a letter as they presented him with the platter.

"Sausages! Wonderful. George, get those on the fires. Ah — and it looks like we have a visitor. Men, meet my cousin Charlie. He's recently returned from travels overseas. Good to see you, boy!"

Brian replied, "Yes — glad to be home."

"Your Grace," George announced, "these sausages have been named in honour of your birthday. We have christened them the Cumberland Sausage — with a unique herb flavour to mark the special occasion."

The Duke surveyed the feast with satisfaction. "Simply wonderful, George. Get them on the fires."

Sausages spat and sizzled in cast-iron pans across several fires, and when ready, they were distributed to the men, who packed them between bread or ate them straight down. There was a fierce hunger — and little care for the quality of the meat beforehand. Rum was thrown down throats, and conversations grew louder and more animated as the night deepened.

Brian watched the campsite.

At the first opportunity, he quietly disposed of his own sausage into the waiting mouth of a camp dog. Sorry, mate. Hopefully you enjoy yourself as much as these men are about to. He couldn't afford to lose his wits. Not tonight.

Within the hour, the Duke's men had moved well past good cheer and into somewhere far beyond it. Men fell from their seats unable to contain their laughter. Some wandered the camp pointing at ordinary objects with expressions of pure wonder, as though seeing them for the first time. Others lay on their backs mapping the stars with their fingers, plotting imaginary journeys through the cosmos.

One officer, seized by a sudden burst of inspiration, leaped onto a podium near the Duke's tent and bellowed for everyone's attention. In the hush that followed, he delivered a toast so full of patriotic fervour — naming the Duke the Butcher of Cumberland with every ounce of affection — that the men leaped to their feet in a roar which seemed to shake the trees. They laughed, they hugged, they danced. Some wept without quite knowing why.

Brian sat quietly, utterly gobsmacked.

He had never thought much about Culloden before tonight. History lessons at school, dull visits to the site, half paying attention. But sitting inside it now, he saw something different. He did not see enemies. He saw passionate, good and moral men fighting for what they believed in. Men who had families and dreams. This wasn't a simple story of England versus Scotland — it was a war of politics, and the army around him was made from accents gathered from every corner of the British Isles.

He already knew what happened tomorrow.

If this energy — this extraordinary, herb-aided, unshakeable morale — followed the men onto Culloden Moor, was he responsible for the massacre that awaited the Jacobites? A battle that stripped Scotland of its tartans, silenced its clans, and changed the course of a nation. Had he, through a careless prank, made himself a traitor to the country he'd grown up in?

The questions spun. The men became a blur.

And then, through the maelstrom, beyond the fires and the tents, he saw her.

She moved through the camp with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at once — dancing just slightly, to a rhythm that existed only for her, her hat glinting under the clear moonlit sky. She was entirely, unmistakeably not supposed to be here.

Brian was on his feet before he'd decided to stand. He crossed the camp and stood before her, unable to find a single word from the long list of questions he needed to ask.

It was the mysterious lady in the magnificent hat who took the lead. "I see you've caused quite the commotion in the Government army camp?"

Brian's mind offered exactly one response: Oh God.

She stepped forward and placed two silk-gloved fingers on each of his temples. She hummed, circling her fingers — and his mind settled.

"What is happening?" he managed.

"Is it not obvious?" She smirked, head cocked to one side. "You have travelled in time, and isn't it wonderful? You knew what to do with the pouch — I knew you would."

"I may have caused a massacre tomorrow," Brian said. "How can you be happy about this?"

The mysterious lady in the magnificent hat patted his shoulder. "Dear Brian — the tales of history are not always told accurately. Will you continue this adventure to its end, or shall I send you back now?"

He thought about it. The truth was, he already knew the answer. He couldn't leave this story unfinished, and he couldn't prise the woman in front of him from his thoughts.

"I want to continue," he said.

She smiled. "Then you must go now, while the men are celebrating and their minds are clouded. Take your motorbike and follow the track towards Inverness. You'll find the Jacobite camp the same way you found this one." She held out an envelope, closed with an intricate seal. "Give this letter to Charles when you reach him. Do not break the seal. Hurry — there isn't much time."

Brian took the letter and tucked it into his jacket. He looked up to say farewell.

She was already gone.