The Fanatic Page 14

  ‘He is reckoned a great orator,’ said Mitchel. ‘Rotterdam would be lucky tae hae him.’

  ‘He certainly has a very oratorious style at preaching. Somebody once told him as much, a man frae Kilmarnock if I mind richt: “God forgive ye, brother, that darkens the gospel of Christ with your oratory.” But ye shouldna be intimidated by him, James. A young man of promise such as yourself will, I’m sure, be of interest to Maister MacWard. And there will be others keen to hear frae ye, since ye have so lately been in Scotland.’

  When Mitchel arrived the ministers were sitting around a long table on benches, drinking modest amounts of ale. They were pushing a small pamphlet around the table, giggling gruffly at it. He was introduced and took a seat at the end of one bench. The pamphlet was laid aside and the conversation shifted to a general discussion of the latest bad news from home. Questions were put to him, many of which he was unable to answer.

  When the debate became overly theological he felt a panic coming on, but did his best to keep up. He was overawed by their combined intellectual muscle: an assemblage of the most educated, influential and respected men ever to have fled out of Scotland. Most of them were growing old. From their accents they might have arrived off the Marcus with him: it was easier, perhaps, to hold onto your Scots voice in Holland than, say, in England.

  MacWard, who had not yet spoken directly to Mitchel, finally turned to him. ‘Maister Traill tells me ye were oot wi Colonel Wallace and the rest?’

  Mitchel shook his head. ‘I wasna at Rullion Green itsel. I was sent back tae Edinburgh in the mornin, afore the fechtin started.’

  ‘Dootless it was urgent business that engaged ye?’ This was Mr John Nevay, the man Weir had warned him against. He was about sixty, a Christian so unbending that he opposed all forms of set prayer including even that suggested by Christ. He had made a translation of the Song of Solomon into Latin verse, which seemed to Mitchel a marvellous feat of scholarship; and he had, during the war against Montrose all those years ago, so relentlessly urged the despatch of the captured Irishes that even the soldiers carrying out the executions objected, asking if he had not yet had his fill of blood. They had not his zeal and fortitude, and Mitchel, recalling the minister at Linlithgow, who had shown similar resolve and put him on the path of righteousness, could not help but admire him.

  ‘Ye are correct, sir,’ he replied. ‘I cairrit urgent messages tae the Toun.’

  ‘Sayin whit?’ said Nevay. ‘That the day was winnable if the Edinburgh folk could be fashed to get oot their beds? Or that it was lost and they’d be better keepin tae them?’

  The sudden ferocity in his tone threw Mitchel into confusion. He had no idea what the letters had said; he had destroyed them. ‘It wasna for me tae ken,’ he mumbled. ‘I was obeyin an order. Forby, the day wasna lost till the forenicht.’

  Now MacWard came back at him. ‘Ye werena at the fecht, and ye werena gaun tae the fecht, and ye kenna whit for ye were gaun frae the fecht, only that it was a maitter o urgency. I think we hae the measure o ye, sir.’

  Mitchel reddened but said nothing.

  Mr John Carstairs came to his rescue. The former minister of Cathcart and of Glasgow was said to be able to move whole congregations to tears with his prayers. Other ministers said of him that though they came close in preaching, in prayer he went quite out of their reach. Now he said to MacWard, in a gentle voice, ‘Your insinuation is unwarranted, Maister Robert. Ye canna wyte a man for no bein martyred.’

  ‘I only observe,’ said MacWard, ‘that it seems a great inconvenience, gien the smallness o his pairt, that he had tae come awa frae Scotland at all. But ye’ll ken better than me aboot such social niceties, eh John?’

  This was a dig at Carstairs’s pretensions to be a gentleman. He prided himself on being able to hold polite conversation with lords and ladies, and could write a mannered letter when required. After the Restoration, when these same men now in exile first faced the prospect of being debarred from their pulpits, they had been gathered together one day, pretty cheerful in spite of things, and began to ask one another what they would do to make a living once they could no longer be ministers. One said one thing, one said another, and then John Carstairs had said, very gravely and dreamily, ‘I think I could be a laird.’

  ‘Come noo, Robert,’ said Mr John Brown. ‘We are all of us inconvenienced. And it isna worthy o ye tae cast up ae man’s pairt in Christ against anither’s. We aw dae whit we dae.’ Brown was a close friend of MacWard. There was no doubting his reputation both as theologian and stalwart in the cause. He had recently published An Apologeticall Relation of the Particular Sufferings of the Faithfull Ministers and Professours of the Church of Scotland, and, among numerous other learned tracts, was working on a study of Quakerisme The Path-Way to Paganisme.

  MacWard nodded, acknowledging that he had perhaps been over-harsh.

  ‘Oor friend here is a stymie,’ added Carstairs, indicating Mitchel. ‘He sees but he disna see weill.’

  ‘I ken, John, I ken.’ MacWard gave Mitchel a smile, which vanished almost as it appeared. ‘I am testin ye, sir, no mockin ye. There are ower mony time-servin folk in Scotland, that are aye at the edge o sufferin and never at the hert o it. Of coorse we can only be where God places us, but Scotland lacks not its Jonahs in these times, that are sent to cry against the wickedness of Nineveh, and rise and flee from the Lord unto Tarshish. Why are ye come here, Maister Mitchel?’

  ‘Because I am declared a rebel, like yersels. Like Maister Traill here, and his son that’s no been seen since Pentland.’

  ‘We are all cried rebels by them that has rebelled against the Lord,’ Traill lamented.

  ‘And if I had been taen by Dalyell’s men,’ Mitchel went on, ‘I would hae been hingit, and I canna be hingit till I hae wrocht God’s purpose. Which, sirs, isna yet for ye or me tae ken.’

  MacWard laughed. ‘He’s a wit, Maister Traill. I can see why ye thocht he would mak a guid tutor tae bairns.’

  Mitchel smiled back – it seemed MacWard was severe rather than malevolent – then wondered again if he was not being made a fool of. Traill touched his sleeve to reassure him.

  MacWard folded his arms across his chest and addressed Mitchel.

  ‘When first I came here, driven frae the wrath of Charles Stewart, I was ashamed tae call my lot a sufferin lot. Ithers had been brocht tae the slauchter, but I was spared. Why was this? Why had God rather hied me frae the storm than exposed me tae its force? Noo I realise that I was sheltered for a reason, tae sing the Lord’s song in a strange land, tae shine ceaselessly for his cause here, and no burn up in a brief and sudden blaze of glory. But you, Maister Mitchel, I do not believe you will be here long. You are still young, a footsoldier of Christ. You must return, I think, intae that darkness that is Scotland.’

  Mitchel felt somewhat reassured. ‘That is ma intention,’ he said.

  ‘James will do great things in the Lord. I am certain of it,’ Traill added.

  Mr John Livingstone was the former minister of Ancrum in Roxburghshire. Aged sixty-three, he had the longest record of nonconformity, having been deposed from his first ministry in Killinchy, County Down, away back in 1632. Like Nevay, he was against all set prayers such as the Lord’s Prayer: a man so sure of his own salvation that he had once said, ‘I am persuaded that if it were possible that I could gang tae Hell, yet Christ would come tae it tae seek me, and rake the coals o it tae get me oot.’ Now, picking up on Traill’s remark, he said:

  ‘Hae ye onythin in particular in mind, Maister Mitchel?’

  Mitchel hesitated. He did not have a plan, only an object of hatred. ‘I hae a mind tae be a sharp instrument,’ he said eventually, ‘and deliver a sharp blow.’

  There was general laughter. Livingstone lifted the pamphlet they had been looking at earlier and wagged it at Mitchel.

  ‘Are ye such a wit as penned these verses, sir? Anent …’ – he turned up a page and searched for a phrase – ‘that Judas Scoto-Britannus of whom ye s
pak jist noo?’

  ‘I dinna ken, sir,’ said Mitchel. There was more laughter. Once again he was plunged into confusion.

  ‘Ye dinna ken if ye wrote them?’ said Livingstone. ‘It’s jist fresh ower the sea, man, arrivin aboot the time ye did yersel. Is this no familiar tae ye?’ He read from the pamphlet.

  My friends I basely did reproach,

  Their cause I did betray

  By lying and by flatterie

  I for myself made way.

  At length great Primat I was made,

  I king and pastours mockt,

  And of my benefactors all

  The ruine I have socht.

  Dae ye no recognise the target, James?’

  ‘Sir,’ Mitchel said, ‘I didna scrieve thae verses. But I’m sure I ken the target.’

  The ministers were loving this. Carstairs, who was one down from him, leant round and dunted Mitchel appreciatively in the shoulders. ‘Let’s hae mair, John.’

  Livingstone shrugged. ‘Since it’s no Maister Mitchel’s, I feel I can say athoot fear o offence, it’s sinfu bad verse, but it has its virtues. Ach weill –

  Most viper like, I in the birth

  My mother’s bowels rent,

  And did cast out these zealous men,

  Whose money I had spent.

  Who from the dunghill raised me,

  These stars in Christ’s right hand,

  The giants on whose shoulders strong

  I poor pigmee did stand.’

  ‘That’s no sae bad, John,’ said Nevay. ‘That has truth in it.’

  ‘Is that richt, John?’ said Livingstone. ‘Dae ye see yersel amang the giants and stars?’

  Mitchel saw smiles and frowns flash around the assembled men. He was astonished to find such petty rivalry among the saints. Livingstone went on:

  ‘But hear this, this is baith false verse and true:

  I have made havok of the Church,

  The Godly I abhor,

  All who mak conscience of their way

  To me are ane eye sore.

  How many hundredth shyning lights

  Are put out by my hand,

  Of which might any one have been

  A glory to a land.

  Of all the blood that hath been shed,

  The author I have been,

  Of all oppression of the Saints

  And ills which they have seen.

  All men me hate, none truly love,

  I can no man beguile,

  My treacherie and my perjury

  So notour is and vile.’

  As he read, the laughter, uproarious at the first clashing rhyme, died away, and the last two stanzas were heard in silence. Livingstone closed the book and put it away. There was an embarrassed silence. Then John Brown spoke.

  ‘How cam ye here, Maister Mitchel? Dae ye want siller? We hae a fund for those in distress.’

  ‘Ma cousin John,’ said Mitchel, ‘that’s a deacon in the kirk here, has me provided for. For ma passage I borrowed siller frae Major Thomas Weir which I hope tae repay in time.’

  The name was out before he could stop himself. There were more significant glances around the table. Most of them would have known Weir from his time in the Edinburgh Toun Guard, when he had had charge of Montrose before his execution. Traill, for example, had visited Montrose – or James Graham, as the godly insisted on calling him, since they did not recognise his title – in the Tolbooth, trying to extract contrition from him for his crimes – but to no avail. But what, Mitchel wondered, was Nevay’s connection?

  ‘How is oor auld acquaintance?’ asked Carstairs.

  ‘He grieves for the sinfu state of Scotland,’ said Mitchel. ‘He is burdened wi his sister. She is wrang in the heid.’

  ‘The sinfu state of Scotland,’ said Nevay thoughtfully. ‘Aye. And did he mention masel? He kens I am here. Did he ask ye tae communicate ony message tae me?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Mitchel, grateful that the last question enabled him to answer truthfully. ‘He said naethin anent thon.’

  ‘Anent whit?’ Nevay demanded sharply.

  ‘I mean, sir, he said naethin. He had nae communication for ye that I ken.’

  The subject was not pursued. Shortly after this, Traill signalled to Mitchel that he should leave. Business had to be addressed that he could not be privy to. MacWard produced a sheaf of papers, and the ministers fluttered in around them like moths. Mitchel bowed and made his exit.

  Only when he had left the room did he realise that he had not had a chance to talk with MacWard about Samuel Rutherford. But there was something about MacWard that he did not like. He realised that he did not want to be connected to Rutherford by such a man.

  He knew that he had been assessed – weighed in the balances – but had he been found wanting? What had Nevay been angling for? And did MacWard think him stupid? Certainly they seemed to understand his insinuations about Sharp. But that would be his act alone, not theirs.

  Traill’s son was delivered safely from Scotland a week later. He had slipped across the Forth after the defeat at Pentland, and waited out his time in the fishing villages of Fife where his family had many friends, before deciding to join his father abroad. The old man was on his knees for most of a day and a night giving thanks.

  Young Robert and Mitchel had met before. Traill was a year or two the younger, but was already a rising star at conventicles. Like his father, he was open and friendly to Mitchel. They exchanged stories about the rising. Traill was particularly keen to hear the details of McKail’s execution.

  ‘Did they save the corp frae the gallows?’ he asked.

  Mitchel was not sure. He’d heard that a group of men had carried it away for burial before it could be quartered by the soldiers. I think so,’ he said.

  Traill breathed out heavily. ‘It’s a terrible thing, tae see a man murdered. But tae butcher the flesh eftir the spirit has departed frae it, is baith senseless and barbaric.’

  ‘James Graham’s heid was prickit on the Tolbooth eleven years, and a cross-prick pit in it so his freens couldna steal it awa. That wasna senseless – it was an example and a constant mindin tae the people.’

  ‘But think whase heid replaced it when it was taen doon – oor ain gracious Marquis, Argyle’s. We canna aye be skewerin flesh, James – we must leave some work for Judgment Day. But that said, I’ll no argue but that it maks for strenth o a kind. Ye’ll hae strenth in yersel for haein witnessed Hew’s end.’

  ‘Aye, I hae that.’

  ‘Ma faither’s freen James Guthrie, that suffered at the Restoration, I saw him killt. It niver leaves ye. When I falter, I think on it and it gars me gang on.’

  Guthrie had been minister at Stirling in the fifties. His had been a life of signs and signing. On his way to take the Covenant in 1638 he met the public hangman. This unsettled James Guthrie somewhat, and he went aside and walked up and down a little before going on, to think what this meeting might mean. Ah well, he judged it would mean he would pay for his act with his life, but could not think of a better cause to die for, so he signed.

  At the Restoration he’d signed the same petition to Charles that had had the elder Traill banished. Guthrie’s case was worse, however. Back in 1651 the General Assembly had passed an act of excommunication against General John Middleton, a man who had been second-in-command of the Covenanter army that defeated Montrose at Selkirk, but who had subsequently switched sides and raised a Royalist army in the north, Highland papists and malignants every one. The rising came to nothing, but the excommunication went ahead anyway, and it fell to Guthrie to deliver the sentence from the pulpit. Middleton never forgave him. When, at the Restoration, he became king’s commissioner to the Scottish Parliament, one of his first acts was to have Guthrie arrested, tried and hanged.

  On the last Sabbath before his arrest, Guthrie chose as his text the verses from Hebrews, chapter 11: And what more shall I say? For time would fail me to tell of the prophets who through faith subdued kingdoms and stopped t
he mouths of lions; and others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; that they might obtain a better resurrection; they were stoned, they were sawn asunder, they were tempted, were slain with the sword; they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. He read out these verses in full, and as soon as he stopped his nose began to bleed, so violently that he was obliged to step down and let another preach for him. It was a terrible portent of what was to follow.

  Mitchel had been in Galloway then. The way young Traill told it, the Guthrie execution had been as dramatic as McKail’s. Then afterwards the body was taken down and dismembered. Guthrie’s head and hands were cut off and stuck up on the Netherbow port, with the hands on either side of the dead face as if in prayer. Some weeks after the execution, when the remnants had long dried out, Middleton’s coach was passing through the gate. As it did, a gush of blood fell from Guthrie’s neck onto the coach. When Middleton’s lackeys tried to wash it off, they found it had stained the leather irreversibly. Nothing would remove it. Physicians and scientists were called in to ascertain why the blood should have started to flow so long after death, and at that particular moment. They could give no natural cause. In the end Middleton had to get a complete new set of covers for his coach.

  Mitchel knew this story well. It was recounted as a great and fearful marvel among the godly. The weird thing was, he could never quite rid himself of a sneaking sympathy for John Middleton. The man had come from a background as proletarian as his own. He’d been a pikeman in Sir John Hepburn’s Scots Brigade in France before joining the Covenanters in the 1640s. He was brutal and unsophisticated, but he had risen to the highest rank and office. He’d fallen from favour because he did not have the aristocratic blood or political connections of his rival Lauderdale, and had been packed off to govern Tangier. Mitchel imagined him dreaming of wet Scotland, a tall, frustrated man baking in the African sun, drinking himself to death. He was fascinated by the story of the blood Middleton had called down upon himself.