The Fanatic Page 21

  What he was asking would not be difficult to arrange. It was merely organising the most likely chain of events should the case ever come back to trial. But why would that ever happen? Why would Sharp and Lauderdale and Rothes stir up an ancient episode by bringing Mitchel into the public eye again, for a prosecution that carried such risks. Even if Sharp was obsessed with the case, the others would have nothing to do with it. They were better off with Mitchel where he was, mouldering away in the Bass, forgotten. It would come to nothing.

  ‘Aye,’ Lauder said, ‘I will – if ye tell me noo that ye saw Major Weir in the Tolbooth.’

  Mitchel nodded. ‘I confess it.’ And for the first time Lauder saw him smile. ‘Oh, Maister Lauder, ye dinna ken the tears James Sharp would greet tae hear me say thae three words.’

  Mitchel had come back to Scotland when he had been a year in the continent, working for his cousin John the merchant. He came home on a ship from Amsterdam, that let him ashore at Limekilns in Fife. He flitted around in Fife a while, where he had contacts, and then returned to Edinburgh. Aye, he was there when that thing happened, the stramash when the bishops were shot at. His name was associated with the deed and he had to flee again. He was in Ulster, among the Presbyterian planters. He went to London, that stinking bog of tolerance and vice. By now he was a travelled man, hard-footed and lean, winnowed by the weather. About the end of March, in the year 1670, he was in Lanarkshire, with old friends.

  They heard a rumour from the capital that Major Weir, that used to bide in those parts, was sick or mad, or both. The story came from a Strathaven man, an honest fellow who had attended a prayer-meeting in a house in the West Bow. Weir had opened his mouth and a stream of black filth had poured out upon the lugs of the worshippers. They had tried to hush him but the flow would not be stopped. Then Jean, that was already wandered, had lowped in and what she had had to say seemed to confirm that some at least of it was true.

  Mitchel was a two-day walk from Edinburgh. Weir had helped him in his youth – he felt he should go, to find out the truth of the stories. Forby he owed him money – a debt he had not repayed when he was there in ’68, what with all his jouking and hiding from the authorities.

  He slipped in through the west of the city one evening, a few hours too late. The Weirs had been taken by the bailies that day and were locked in the Tolbooth. He could do nothing but wait. There were places he could stay if he kept his head low.

  The whole town was claiking about the Weirs – they had knocked all other news off the street. Mitchel waited, and he listened. He was appalled. He could hardly recognise, in the snatches of scandal and gossip he heard, the man he had so respected, the woman he had so pitied. The dripping tongues of Edinburgh had transformed them into grotesques.

  Oh, he was aye a fearsome man, and she’s a shilpit, peuchlin body.—He’s no been seen sae muckle lately.—Weill, he’s gettin auld.—He uised tae gang aboot the toun wi that stick o his, wi the carvit heid at its tap like the held o a bogle.—Aye, and they say noo that he couldna pray at aw if he didna hae it in his nieve. Did ye niver see the wee deevilock face in the wuid o’t, that would change frae a grin tae a girn frae ae minute tae the nixt?—Ye would hear him chappin through the toun at nicht, ye could niver misken the soun o him, and when ye saw him, there was the stick oot in front, wi a lantren hingin frae it, guidin his wey.—Aye, the stick uised tae gang his messages for him, I ken a man that’s seen it himsel.—He couldna pray athoot it, that’s a fact. He’d bring the words doon oot o the air wi it, the Bowheid saints thocht they were haly words but they werena, they were Satan’s.

  That stick has a life o its ain, they hae tae keep it apairt frae him or the Tolbooth’ll no haud him.—It’s a force for his sinfu desires. When he striddles it it can tak him through lockit doors and sneckit windaes. It got him intae the chaumers o mairrit weemun and daicent widdaes, and they’d be bumbazed at his appearin.—Och, but they were that uised wi him preachin and prayin in their hooses, he would owercome them wi his subtleties and explanations. They trustit him on accoont o he could reconcile a man and his wife that were cauld tae each ither – jist by touchin.—But that worked anither wey, for there wasna a wumman that he’d touch, puir or gentle, that could be mistress o hersel, but would yield tae act the harlot wi him.—He liked tae see them in their nicht claes or hauf-nakit, hard and lang was his stick in the munelicht. He would touch them in their privates and when they cried oot, they ‘d turn aroon and there ‘d be nae man there, they could niver prove he’d been in tae insult them at aw.—Ken whit it was, it was like a dream tae them, a foul and shamin dream, but it wasna a dream tae him.

  And when he couldna get at them, there was his sister Jean. She’s the Deil’s ain though ye would niver ken it tae look at her, she’s rade the winds hersel but the Deil gied her up tae him and she ‘d tae dae his biddin.—He’s uised her maist foully for fifty year wi the pouer o his stick. He’s confessed it, she’s confessed it. Ye hinna heard a hundredth pairt o whit I hae done, that’s whit he tellt the bailies when they cam for him.—Aye, mebbe, but she’s nae innocent, she didna resist him, she’s as deep in the fulyie as himsel. The ither sister Margaret fund them raw nakit thegither in their faither’s hoose at Carluke, and Jean was the tapmaist, and the bed was shakin wi their sin.—And syne she sellt hersel tae a witch wumman that cam tae her when she had the schuil at Dalkeith. The wumman was frae the fairies and Jean gied her aw her siller and bocht hersel an unco skeel at spinnin. She ‘d spin mair in an oor than ony ither wife could spin in a day. Whiles she’d gang oot and when she cam hame there was the spinnin-wheel, birlin awa like a mad thing its lane.—But the skeel didna profit her: the yarn was ower brittle, it aye broke when ye tried tae work wi it. It was deil’s yarn, it had a curse on it.

  Can ye credit such wickedness? But he’s the worse. Major Weir the great sodger o Christ, that’d dip his whang intae ony flesh he could get in his hauns. His sister wasna spared, his stepdochter Meg Burdoun wasna spared, his servant Bessie Weems wasna spared.—Faith, he didna even spare the kye. A yaudswyver he is, a mutton-driver and a duglowper.—But his dippin days are ower noo; he’ll get his reward in Hell. The reid-hornit deils will prick him wi their lang pikes and sodomise him for eternity.

  On Saturday 9 April the Weirs were brought before Mr William Murray and Mr John Prestoun, depute justices, and fifteen jurors, and the charges against them read out. The court was packed with the prurient and gleeful. Mitchel, stern-faced, was among the crowd. Other stunned and mortified Christians, who until lately had counted the accused among their most devout and worthy friends, were noticeably absent.

  This was the indictment against Thomas: that he did commit numerous incests, adulteries, fornications and bestialities as specified in the dittay, all over a period of more than fifty years, in Lanarkshire and Edinburgh and elsewhere; and that he was conscious to himself of these abominations, yet he had the confidence or rather impudence to pretend to fear God in an eminent way and did make profession of strictness, piety and purity beyond others, and did affect and had the reputation of a pious and good man, thereby endeavouring to conceal and palliate his villainies and to amuse and impose upon the world and to mock God himself, as if the Lord’s all-seeing eye could not see through the slender veil of his hypocrisy and formality.

  And Jean was indicted for incest with her brother and diverse sorceries committed when she lived and kept a school at Dalkeith, and that she did take employment from a woman to speak in her behalf to the queen of fairy, meaning the Devil, and was guilty of consulting, communing or seeking and taking advice and help from the Devil or from witches and sorcerers, as well as of the said crime of incest.

  The dittays having been read and found relevant. Major Weir was questioned anent his guilt. ‘I think I may be guilty of these crimes. I cannot deny them,’ was all he said. The court took note that this was not a positive declaration of guilt. Then for the prosecution the King’s advocate Sir John Nisbet brought forth his witnesses. Four bailies o
f the town who were sent to bring the Major out of his own house, deponed that they heard him confess frequent incest with his sister Jean, and many other immoral acts, including carnal dealings with a mare and a cow. And Mr John Sinclair, minister of Ormiston, deponed that being called to the Tolbooth he heard the Major confess his sins to him – incest with his sister, adulteries and bestialities and that he had converse with the Devil in the night-time. And Margaret Weir, sister to the panel, deponed that she discovered Thomas and Jean in the act of incest when she was fourteen, when they all lived at their father’s house at Wicketshaw by Carluke in Lanarkshire, and she found them in the byre, and heard Jean say to him that she thought she was with child. And other witnesses deponed that they heard him confess on Monday last and again that morning that he was guilty of incest with Jean, and with his stepdaughter Margaret, and of carnal dealings with a mare, and also with his servant Bessie Weems these last twenty-two years.

  Sir John Nisbet then produced the Major’s own confession, taken in the presence of himself and Mr John Prestoun, depute justice, and the bailies of Edinburgh, that he did ride his mare into the west country, and near Newmilns he did pollute himself with her, and a woman seeing him delated him to Mr John Nevay, minister at Newmilns, who had him brought to Newmilns by some soldiers but then dismissed the charge, there being no proof but the woman’s word. And the woman, who was from near Lanark, was whipped through the streets of that town for raising such a calumny against so holy a man. And Mr Nevay, being in exile, could not be brought as a witness. And this was all the business against Major Weir.

  Then as against Jean Weir, since she made no admission of guilt, the advocate prosecuting produced her own declaration, made at the time of arrest, whereby she acknowledged her own incest with her brother; that she knew Margaret Burdoun, her brother’s stepdaughter, was with child in his house and that all believed it was the Major’s; that Margaret did not deny it when she asked her; and she confessed all the sorceries in the libel; and that her brother had a mark like the Devil’s mark upon his shoulder.

  Then the assize bent their heads together, and soon they with one voice found the panel Major Weir to be guilty of the said horrid crimes of bestiality with a mare and cow, and of the crime of incest with his sister Jean, and by a plurality of votes of fornication and adultery. They found the panel Jean guilty of the incest also libelled against her, but they took no notice of any other points in the libels notwithstanding of the Major’s confession before the court because it was not positive, and notwithstanding of the extra-judicial confessions of the two, which they chose to pass by.

  This was the sentence of the court: the said Major Weir to be taken on Monday the 11th inst. to the Gallowlee betwixt Leith and Edinburgh and there betwixt two and four hours in the afternoon to be strangled at a stake till he be dead, and his body to be burnt to ashes. And his sister Jean to be hanged at the Grassmarket of Edinburgh on Tuesday, being the day thereafter.

  ‘Aw this I ken,’ said Lauder. ‘I was here as weill, mind. Ye are tellin me naethin I dinna ken.’

  Mitchel sneered. ‘Whit is it ye would ken? How we fanatics are aw hypocrites under the skin?’

  ‘If it was that easy, I wouldna be here. It’s less trouble tae think Jean Weir mad than no. If ye believed her brither was jist a base hypocrite ye wouldna hae risked gaun in tae him.’

  ‘I believe he was guilty o thae crimes. I believed it then. There was nae dootin it.’

  ‘Why gang in then?’

  ‘You hae come here. You tell me.’

  ‘If it was me, it would be because ma ain faith had taen a dunt. Ye’d been sure o Weir, as ye were sure o yersel. He had been sure o himsel. Whit happens when such a man shatters in front o ye? Tae him, tae you? That’s whit I would want tae ken.’

  ‘I hadna seen him in three year. It’s true whit ye say, I niver saw a dooncome sae sair. But ma ain faith was siccar.’ He glared at Lauder. ‘It aye is. It’s taen waur dunts nor that.’

  He clapped his ruined leg, and Lauder acknowledged the gesture with a nod. But he didn’t want to get diverted.

  ‘Ye kent Alexander Weir wasna in Edinburgh, and that even if he was he wouldna gang near his faither. Sae ye gaed in his place, and young John Vanse let ye in.’

  ‘Aye, on the Sabbath. John didna look ower hard at me. Mebbe he kent I wasna Sandy. Mebbe he didna want tae ken.’

  ‘He left ye alane wi the Major?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Whit like was he?’

  Mitchel shook his head. ‘Like naethin I iver want tae see again.’

  A broken dishevelled wreck, was how Thomas Weir had appeared to Mitchel. His hair white, and matted with grease and dirt. A week’s white stubble over his lined face. Several teeth lost. The bones of his chest and shoulders projecting through a filthy thin shirt. He looked like what he was: an old man of seventy who had been condemned to death the next day.

  Mitchel took his hand and sat beside him on the bed. In a low voice he told him who he was. Weir stared ahead in a dwam. Mitchel told him again. ‘I am James Mitchel, that ye helped in the past, that fled oot o Scotland wi yer assistance. D’ye no mind me?’

  Nothing. Weir seemed unaware that there was someone in the cell with him.

  ‘I am James Mitchel, him they say that shot at the apostate James Sharp.’

  Weir turned his head, peered at him, nodded slowly. When his mouth opened it cracked with dried slavers. There was a pitcher of water by the door. Mitchel fetched it and, pouring some into his hand, wetted the old man’s mouth and lips with it. A foul stench came from Weir’s mouth. His whole body reeked. He tried to speak.

  ‘Hae …’

  His voice was barely audible. Mitchel waited.

  ‘Hae ye brocht me ma siller?’

  ‘Ye are past wantin siller. Whit use is siller tae ye noo?’

  ‘Tae buy a passage. Get me tae Leith and I’ll gang wi Forrester tae Holland.’

  ‘He’s gane. There is nae ship for ye. Ye hae further tae gang the morn than tae Holland.’

  Weir groaned. His eyes dimmed and brightened like failing candles. He took more water.

  ‘James Mitchel,’ he said contemplatively. ‘Ye crossed the sea as a rebel. How can I no cross the sea as a rebel?’

  I am nae rebel. The rebels are them that has broken the Covenant. But you are a rebel against God, and there’s nae sea sae braid it’ll keep ye frae his vengeance.’

  Weir nodded. I ken it, I ken it. It’s a dark, seik sea that’s in front o me.’ Then, with a hint of his former English-touched voice, he said, ‘Are you come to preach at me like the others, James? I am weary of preaching and praying.’

  ‘Na,’ said Mitchel. I believe ye are ayont thae things.’

  Weir’s face lit up. ‘Aye. I am ayont hope and ayont mercy. I’m glad that ye understand that, James. Ye were aye a good student.’

  Nobody had ever said that to Mitchel before. It reminded him of where he was, who he was with. It was the Sabbath. He should be in a kirk, or at prayer in his own company. He should be in hiding. He moved himself a foot or so away from the other man.

  ‘Whit has happened tae ye?’

  Weir drank from the pitcher again. He began to mumble, staring at nothing.

  I fell,’ he said. I had grace and I fell. And when I looked back I saw that I had never had grace at all.’

  Mitchel shivered. The shadows in the room felt heavy, like damp earth. Weir’s voice, stronger now but with a resigned flatness to it, droned on.

  ‘We were blessed. We were blessed and chosen. I felt God in me. I was seventeen. That was when I felt the assurance that I was saved. I felt it like a wind rushing through me, a light exploding in me. God had saved me for himself. What he had done no man could undo. I was part of God. I was Christ-like. This is how it was.’

  The words were right. They described what you were supposed to experience. If you were of the elect it was revealed to you in such a way. Then you moved ever closer to Christ’s perfection in th
ought and deed and understanding. Your goodness did not save you because it could not, you were not good, you were human and sinful: only God could save you. But the knowledge of assurance filled you with righteousness. The elect were not saved by their own works, but you could tell the elect because they walked in the way of God, with a spiritual lustre and beauty that strangers to Christ did not have. All this Mitchel knew and believed. But to hear it from Weir in this place, in his condition – it was as if as the words were uttered something in his own mouth turned to dung. Weir made words hateful that should have been full of hope.

  And yet, even here, Mitchel felt his feelings divide. He thought back to that conversation they had had on the High Street, outside, looking up at the wall of this very building and seeing the head of James Graham. The moment of rebirth, of revelation, that Weir spoke of, it had evaded Mitchel then and he still found himself desperate for such a memory. When Weir spoke of it, Mitchel hated him for having betrayed its beauty, and yet he envied him for having experienced it. He believed, he was sure, that he was chosen. But when he heard other men talk of their assurance, it made him uneasy. Why did he not have the same sense of it as they did? And now, to hear a man confess – this man who had been so important to him in his youth – that he had been mistaken after all, after so many years … Mitchel felt as if darkness were closing in upon his own mind.

  Weir was still speaking, the words muttered and indistinct.

  ‘Our nation was chosen. We were the bride of Christ. We felt this. We both felt this. We became as one with him. When we thought, when we prayed, when we felt, our thoughts and our prayers and our feelings were God’s.’

  Mitchel tried to speak. In the cell’s gloom, his voice sounded as if it came from somewhere else.

  ‘You and Jean?’