Page 60 of Of Heather and Thistle
H eather stood at the massive stone entrance of the Scottish National Museum, the weight of history pressing against her chest. In her hands, she carried a carefully packed case that contained not just a fragile piece of cloth—but a piece of her family’s past. The Jacobite battle flag, the scrap of Mackenzie tartan, and the parchment had already been authenticated.
Now, it was time to decide their future.
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. This was the right thing to do.
The doors swung open, and she stepped into the museum’s grand hall.
The air was thick with the scent of aged paper, polished wood, and the faint, metallic tang of preserved artifacts.
The vaulted ceiling stretched high above her, and the towering walls were lined with relics of Scotland’s past—armor from the Wars of Independence, faded battle maps, and weapons that had witnessed the rise and fall of kings.
She approached the reception desk, where a young woman greeted her with a polite smile.
“I’m here for Dr. Henderson. She’s expecting me.”
The receptionist nodded and gestured toward an office behind the main exhibit halls. “Of course, right this way.”
Heather followed her through the quiet corridors until they reached a modest but cozy office filled with books, historical sketches, and carefully labeled artifacts.
Dr. Flora Henderson, a woman in her mid-fifties with sharp blue eyes and the kind of quiet intensity that made you sit straighter without realizing it.
“You must be Heather Campbell.”
Dr. Henderson stood, offering a warm handshake. “I’ve been eager to meet you in person.”
She returned the handshake, her grip firm despite the nerves swirling in her stomach. “I still can’t believe everything you and your team have uncovered.”
Dr. Henderson smiled. “It’s truly remarkable.” She gestured to the chair across from her desk. “Please, have a seat. Let’s talk about what comes next.”
Heather sat, carefully placing the case on the desk between them.
With gentle precision, she unlatched it, lifting the lid to reveal the faded battle flag, its fabric worn but still striking, the St. Andrew’s cross stitched into the cloth.
The Mackenzie tartan lay beside it, frayed at the edges but still vibrant in its green and blue pattern.
The same note she had found tucked away in Glenoran:
April 16, 1746.
Culloden.
Dr. Henderson let out a soft breath, reverence flickering in her expression.
“It’s one thing to read about history,” she murmured, “ but quite another to hold it in your hands.” She looked up at Heather, her expression serious but kind.
“The authentication process is complete. We’ve confirmed that the flag is an original battle standard from Culloden, likely smuggled away after the battle and hidden for generations.
The tartan matches records of Mackenzie’s regimental colors.
And the parchment…” She exhaled. “It’s an eyewitness account.
A firsthand letter written by one of the men who fought that day. ”
Heather’s breath caught. “Someone in my family?”
Dr. Henderson nodded, pulling out a document and sliding it toward her. “Yes. We traced the handwriting back to Harris Mackenzie—your direct ancestor. He was there at Culloden. He fought and survived.”
Heather’s fingers trembled as she reached for the letter—Harris’s words, folded in time like a secret waiting for her. Faded but still legible, carrying the weight of a battlefield lost to time. A desperate plea to a loved one. A vow to return home. A promise never fulfilled.
What must it have been like for Harris, and how must it have felt to ultimately lose a fight he believed so strongly in? Yet his voice was reaching out from the shadows of history, bridging centuries with tales of valor and sacrifice.
She swallowed hard as the weight of history settled in her chest. The thought that she’d nearly left all of this behind—nearly gone back to Millhaven—felt impossible now.
The thought now seemed unimaginable, as if this discovery was a calling she hadn’t yet realized. Dr. Henderson watched her carefully.
“This is a significant piece of Scotland’s past, Heather. The museum would be honored to house it, to ensure that it’s preserved and shared with the world.”
Heather nodded absently, still staring at the letter.
“You don’t have to decide immediately,” Dr. Henderson continued. “But given its historical value, we’d like to create an exhibit around it—around the flag, the tartan, and Harris Mackenzie’s account.”
Heather exhaled slowly. She’d come here thinking she was handing these things over. But now, as she sat there, holding the letter of an ancestor who had fought and bled for his beliefs, she realized she wasn’t just giving away artifacts.
She was telling a story.
Not just Scotland’s.
Not just history’s.
Hers.
She looked up at Dr. Henderson. “I want that too,” she said firmly. “I want people to see this, to know what happened. But I’d like to stay involved. To help tell the story.”
Somewhere, her mother was smiling.
Dr. Henderson smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
A lightness settled in Heather’s chest. She thought she was closing a chapter, but instead, she’d found a way to carry it forward.
“One more thing,” Dr. Henderson added, reaching for another folder. “We’ve also been working on additional genealogical research into the Mackenzies of Glenoran.”
Heather’s heart pounded. “And?”
Dr. Henderson slid the folder toward her. “It seems your family’s connection to Culloden and Scotland runs even deeper than we thought.”
Heather stared at the folder, her hands steady now.
She had come here expecting to let go.
Instead, it felt like she was just beginning.