The Fanatic. James Robertson
like tae see the place. It’s a curiosity.’
‘It certainly is. But ye micht no be wise tae disembark there, John. There’s a touch o the rebel aboot ye, as I mind. Yince they had ye in the Bass, they micht no want tae let ye back hame again.’
It was a kind of joke, but he neither laughed nor smiled as he made it. He noted that his son-in-law was at least sensible enough to show some humility in response.
‘I hae learned a lesson frae the advocates’ affair, my lord. I canna pretend that we dinna differ on that maitter, but I am mair inclined tae compromise these days. I’d hae thocht that would be enough tae distinguish me frae the recusants and guarantee my return tae North Berwick.’
It was an even drier joke than Sir Andrew’s. The older man grumphed.
‘Weill, ye’re probably richt. But it’s a grievous dull place, John. There’s naethin there but solans and sneevillers.’ He reached for the decanter of brandy, refilled his own glass and poured one for Lauder.
‘I’m tellt the birds are in such numbers that they’re a marvel o nature, my lord. I would like tae see that, tae step amang them.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And mebbe, if I was there, I would tak anither keek at this fellow Mitchel, that’s been the cause o such grief tae the Privy Cooncil. He’s the only yin that still has a chairge hingin ower his heid, I think. Aw the rest has been convictit.’
‘Mitchel,’ said Sir Andrew, his brow lowering. ‘A vile and dangerous fanatic if iver there was yin.’
‘Aye,’ said Lauder. ‘That’s whit I would like tae see – the worst kind o fanatic. There was hardly onybody got tae see him aw the years he lay in the Tolbooth, as ye ken. But I would like tae see him noo, him and Prophet Peden and the ithers. They hae a kind of philosophic interest tae me.’
‘Ye philosophise ower much for yer ain guid, John. Ye may gang tae study Mitchel, but be assured he will study you harder. He will mark yer face in his een and yer words in his lugs and if ye dinna come up tae his impossible mark – which ye’ll no, no bein a Gallowa Whig or an Ayrshire rebel – and he should iver win free o that place – which he’ll no, if guid coonsels prevail, unless it’s tae mak a journey tae the end o a short tow – he’ll seek ye oot wi his pistols jist as sune as he’s fired a better shot at his grace the Archbishop. Stay awa frae him, and ye’ll no run that danger. Ye can dae nae guid there, and he can dae ye hairm.’
‘His leg is destroyed by the boots, my lord, and his brain is hauf gane as weill, by whit I hear. He’s no fit tae hairm onybody but himsel.’
‘A wild beast is maist dangerous when it’s caged,’ said Sir Andrew. He had picked up his glass, and now, staring hard at Lauder, he brought it to his lips. He took a long, slow mouthful of brandy, the stare never shifting as the stem of the glass rose. With his round drink-bludgeoned face it might have been the blank look of a soft-brained bully, but the eyes were cold and hard like a bird’s, and the large hooked nose was a bird’s beak. He looked as though he had spotted something shiny in the dirt.
‘Speakin o beasts,’ he said, after swallowing noisily, ‘wasna Mitchel an associate o that auld hypocrite Thomas Weir? Perhaps it would be interestin, eftir aw, tae see if he shared ony o his, eh, recreational tastes.’
‘I imagine that connection’s been explored,’ Lauder said, ‘by His Majesty’s law officers. Onywey, Weir’s been deid seiven year noo. There’ll be naethin tae discover there, I doot.’
Sir Andrew regarded his son-in-law gravely. ‘Ye had a terrible affection for Weir’s sister, gin I mind richt. That’s whit vexes me aboot ye whiles, John. Ye will get ower close tae bad company. Fanatics, witches …’
‘I was hardly close tae Jean Weir,’ Lauder said, his face reddening. ‘I didna ken her at aw. I felt sorry for her. It was a bad business awthegither.’
‘Major Weir the yaudswyver,’ Sir Andrew mused. ‘Dae ye mind we visited him in the Tolbooth? No a bonnie sicht … Even you wi yer odd sympathies, John, I think would find it no possible tae imagine hoo onybody could get pleisure oot o carnal relations wi a horse.’
‘We’re gettin waunert, my lord,’ Lauder said.
But Sir Andrew was enjoying himself. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘hoo exactly dae ye manage it wi a muckle craitur like a horse? Ye could mebbe ask Mitchel if he kens. Dae ye get it tae lie doon, or whit? And when it’s doon, hoo dae ye persuade it no tae get up again when it sees ye approachin wi yer dreid weapon furth o its scawbart? Or mebbe ye let the beast staun, and approach it wi a ladder. It’s a mystery, is it no, John?’
Lauder smiled, to show that he was not too strait-laced to appreciate his father-in-law’s humour. ‘Aboot the Bass …’
‘The Bass is nae langer mine tae say ye can or ye canna gang ower,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘That’s Lauderdale’s domain noo. Ma advice tae ye’s this: bide in Edinburgh. Leavin it’s nae guid for ye unless there’s plague.’
‘I thocht,’ said John Lauder, ‘that wi yer auld interest in the Bass ye micht hae speired o his lordship for me.’
‘He’s the Secretary o State, laddie. He’s mair important maitters tae occupy him than issuin warrands tae would-be philosophers. Onywey, we’re no sae chief as yince we were.’
‘That may be true, my lord,’ Lauder said, ‘but surely it was by yer ain guid offices that the Bass fell intae his hauns? Athoot yersel, he wouldna hae it noo as a prison for the rebels.’
Sir Andrew sat back, wiping his mouth. ‘Ye dinna want tae hear that auld tale again, surely?’ But Lauder sat back too, nodding, while Sir Andrew, who could never resist reliving one of his greatest coups, stroked the tresses of his wig and got into his stride.
‘Lauderdale owed me a favour. It’s peyed noo, that’s the difficulty. The Bass Rock was yin hauf o the bargain atween us, and the tither … weill, the tither was the port o Leith.
‘Ye would only hae been nine or ten, John, so ye’ll no mind this, but when Cromwell occupied us in the fifties, he fullt the port o Leith wi English and had a muckle fortress biggit there, a citadel they cried it, the object being baith tae hae English sodgers watchin ower us and tae set the place up as a tradin rival tae oor ain guid burgh.’
‘Ye can still see bits o the stanework doon there,’ Lauder said encouragingly.
‘Aye, but they’re scant, for it was maistly made o turf. Onywey, the English settlers wantit the port freed frae Edinburgh’s grup, a thing that would hae had the maist grievous repercussions on oor finances. I hadna been a twalmonth in ma first term as provost, but I could see the only wey tae retain oor superiority ower Leith was tae invest in it. Cromwell’s commander in Scotland was General Monk. I had the Cooncil gie five thoosan pund tae the construction o the citadel, and that satisfied Monk – I think he could see Cromwell wasna lang for the warld, and that mebbe it would be silly tae lose aw favour wi us for the sake o a wheen English brewers and glessblawers. Sae naethin changed, and of coorse as sune as the young King wan hame at the Restoration the citadel was ordered tae be dismolished.
‘But noo comes Lauderdale, His Majesty’s new Secretary o State, upon the scene. He’d managed tae get the site o the citadel gien intae his chairge. He was fain o the auld plan and got a charter o regality tae raise Leith intae a burgh. It was a ludicrous notion – hoo could sic a clarty boorach be a burgh? – but Lauderdale had set his mind on it, sae it behooved me tae find a wey roon his plans, jist as I had afore wi Monk, or he would hae broke the trade o Edinburgh. Aw the duties on wines and ale that the Toun levied frae Leith my lord would hae acquired for himsel, and in my capacity as a public servant I couldna let him deprive us o oor richtfu taxes.
‘Sae I says tae him, where’s the sense in fallin oot ower a puckle bawbees? Ye want tae mak a profit oot o Leith – I’ll spare ye the bother o administerin the levies, suppressin corruption amang yer officials and the like. I’ll buy the citadel back frae ye for Edinburgh. And tae compensate ye for the loss o income, I’ll