The Fanatic Page 23

  ‘It wasna an issue last week. You’re the wan talkin shite.’

  ‘Fuck off. The library’s real. MacDonald’s real. I’m no weill but I’m no fuckin crazy.’

  ‘Ye wouldna ken if ye were.’

  ‘There’s nae arguin wi you. I’m gaun tae ma bed.’

  ‘Best place for ye,’ said the mirror. ‘Strap yersel in.’

  Friday. Hugh Hardie phoned Jackie at her work.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to call you,’ he began.

  ‘Look, Hugh …’

  ‘I know, I know, and I’m not going to hassle you about not finishing the tour. But I wish you’d stayed. Something’s happened. I need your help, Jackie. I really need your help.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Carlin, of course. He’s gone missing. Completely. He did a bunk on Monday – after you went home. Hasn’t turned up at all these last three nights.’

  ‘Are you worried about him?’

  ‘I’m totally pissed off with him, since you ask.’

  ‘Ooh, sorry. Is it my fault?’

  ‘He was your contact.’

  ‘I should put the phone down on you right now for that,’ Jackie said. ‘You bullied me for an introduction. You fucking hired him.’

  ‘I’ll fucking fire him when I catch up with him.’

  ‘So fire him. It’s not my problem. Goodbye, Hugh.’

  ‘Wait, Jackie, I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. I apologise. I’m just keyed up about it. I can’t fire him even if I wanted to because I don’t know where he is. Plus he’s got all my gear – the costume. You don’t know where he lives, do you?’

  ‘I already told you I didn’t.’

  ‘You’ve no idea? Maybe he’s still wherever he was when you were students.’

  ‘Maybe. It was six years ago. I don’t know where that was.’

  ‘Shit.’ There was silence at Hugh’s end of the line. Jackie knew he was hoping she would fill it for him. To her horror she found herself doing so.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I don’t owe you this. I don’t owe you anything. I want you to be clear about that.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Maybe I could try to find out for you. He used to stay in Bruntsfield somewhere. Maybe I could track him down through the uni or something.’

  ‘God, that would be brilliant. I’m desperate, Jackie.’

  ‘I’m not promising anything.’

  ‘No, I know you’re not.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you should get yourself a stand-in anyway. I mean, whatever’s happened to him, he’s not exactly reliable.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with ghosts,’ he said.

  ‘That’s my line. Listen, I can’t do anything today, I’m too busy. And I’ve got stuff on at the weekend. So it’ll be next week before I can get back to you. Do you want to wait that long?’

  ‘If for no other reason than to find out what his problem is – yes. Even if he never works for me again. And I want my props back.’

  ‘I’m touched by your selfless concern. Well, I’ll let you know if I have any joy.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll substitute for him myself in the meantime. I really appreciate this, Jackie.’

  ‘Folk are always telling me that,’ she said.

  Edinburgh, January 1676

  These are the ployes used by the Archbischop of St Androis (whom the fanaticks call only James Sharp, for they never admit his title) to wring a confession out of Mitchel anent the shooting. The archbischop & others of the Council ware determind to bring him to the scaffold, this was their principall desire from the time they seized him at his shop Februar 1674, armed by their account wt a loaded pistol and a short swerd, and charged him wt the cryme.

  First they approached his wife but she would not treat with them saying only, Ye have tane him from me, pruve what ye say he has done else let him come back to me. Then they socht out her brother Nicol Sommervile, & dealt wt him thus: that if Mitchel would but confesse St Androis would procure his pardon. But Nicol says, I hope ye ‘ll not make me a snare to trap a man to his ruin. Sharp promises by the living God, that no hurt should come to Mitchel if he discovered all anent the acte and all that ware party to it. Nicol carried this word to Mitchel, and came back wt an answer that he would tell all for a solemn promise in the King’s name. This was debated in the Council. Some ware against all treating wt him, but Sir Archibald Primrose, the Ld Clerk Register who has always hated Sharp and saw a means to trip him, says with some pertinence, was it the truth they wanted or vengence? If the first they must forgoe the 2d, for says he, It would be a powerfull eloquence that persuadit a man to confesse only for the reward of being hanged. Then Lauderdale on the Kings behalf allows them to promise him his lyfe.

  Mitchel was taken on the 7th, this debate was on the 10th. Immediatly he is broght before my lords Rothes, Carringtoun (that is, Primrose) and Haltoun, and the King’s Advocate Sir John Nisbet to be examind, whereupon he indicates a willingnes to speak. Rothes taking him a little aside and telling him of the offer he immediatly goes down on his knees and confesses. And they wrote out two confessions, ane that acknowledged his part in the Rising at Pentland, ane that acknowledged him as the man that shot at the Archbischop. And I have seen these confessions, baith subscrived by Mitchel, Rothes, Primrose, Haltoun and Nisbet, and though in themselves they do not mention of it undoubtedly they ware got by promise of his lyfe.

  But when they pressed him for names of those privy to his intent, he said there was nane; then at last offered one name, but he was now dead. Sharp hearing of this flew in a tempest, for he hoped to catch uthir fanaticks by his word, but Mitchel would say no more. Howiver broght befoir the haill Council on the 12th he repeated his confession. Then some moved for cutting off his ryght hand, but uthirs said he will only lerne to practise wt his left. Cut them both off then, says Sharp. My lord Rothes says, How then sail he wipe his breech? And Primrose, who is ever for soft counsels and slowe methods, says, We have promised him lyfe, we risk it if we butcher him. And soe he was returnd to the tolbuith till they thought what could be done wt him.

  It was decided they must make his confession stick by having him repeat it in a court of law. So on 2nd March he was brought befoir the Court of Justiciary. Now who is one of the judges of session but Archibald Primrose, Lord Carringtoun. He was out wt Montrose and captured at Selkirk, was lucky then not to be executed for treason when the fanatick party ruled the kingdome, and was alwayes loyal to Charles II in exile. Therefor he detested those Covenanters who turned their coates at the Restoration, and most especially Sharp. So as he passed the prisoner at the bar he said from the back of his hand, Confesse nothing unless ye be sure of yr limbs as well as yr lyfe. Mitchel apprehending from this that they planned to mutilate him in any case, denied the confession. And wt nothing else in the way of evidence the King’s Advocate was obliged to desert the case.

  Sharp raged like a bull but to no effect. The Council resolved only that since Mitchel retracted his confession they would retract their promise, & should any uthir evidence come to light anent the shooting they would pursue him in extremis. Now its a point of law that he not being found guilty of any crime should have walked free, but Mitchel’s lawyers could not sway the Council to release him, Sharp protesting that no sooner was he loose than he would use him for a targett agane. And so he was put back in prison.

  There he stayed nigh on two years till all had forgot him but his frends in Holland and his wyfe. And also James Sharp, who could nayther expunge nor, without the confession, acte upoun the hatred he had for him. Till in December 1675 Mitchel did bring him selfe ance more to the Council’s attention by attempting to break out of the tolbuith. 16th Dec I find the Council appoints him to be removed to a surer room. By January it semes their patience wt him is run out. He having refused agane to make judicial confession to that which he previously confessd, they resolve to put him to the torture, to see if that will loose his tongue.

  18 January 1676. Abou
t six in the evening, lying in chains in the Tolbooth, James Mitchel was surprised by the entry of warders and soldiers, who released the fetters on him and dragged him to another room in the building, where the Town Council was accustomed to meet. Mitchel was groggy and weak from immobility and bad food. He was thin, unkempt and depressed. In this state he found himself again before the committee that had received his confession two years earlier. Some of the lesser members, clearly uneasy at what was about to take place, put their elbows on the table and hid their faces from him with their hands.

  Mitchel understood that he was in the presence of some of the worst persecutors of Christ’s people: especially George Livingstone, Earl of Linlithgow, a sixty-year-old soldier, commander-in-chief of the King’s forces in Scotland, and still fond of riding out at the head of his dragoons to break up field-gatherings; and Charles Maitland, Lord Haltoun, younger brother to Lauderdale, a sleekit, supercilious, grasping nepotist if ever there was one. Mitchel, ragged and penniless, was nothing against their power and wealth. Yet there was a weariness in Linlithgow’s voice when he addressed the prisoner. Experience had taught that one should not expect straightforward answers from fanatics.

  ‘Sir, ye are brought here before the committee, to see if ye will adhere to your former confession or not.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Mitchel, ‘ye ken, and ithers here present ken, that by the Cooncil’s order I was remitted tae the lords of the Justiciary, and indicted afore them by my lord Advocate, of my life and fortune, although, my lord, fortune I hae nane. But my lord Advocate deserted the diet, and therefore by the law and custom of the nation I ought tae hae been set at liberty, but I was returned tae prison and hae been kept there since. Sae on whit accoont I am brocht here this nicht, I ken not.’

  ‘Ye are not accused here,’ Linlithgow said, ‘but only brought to see whether ye will adhere to your former confession.’

  ‘I believe I hae committed nae crime,’ Mitchel said. ‘Therefore, I ken o nae such confession as your lordship alleges.’

  There was an explosive splutter from Haltoun. ‘He is one of the most arrogant rogues, cheats and liars I ever saw. We ken, sir, ye was up to your oxters in the rebellion of ‘66.’

  ‘My lord,’ Mitchel said calmly, ‘if there was fewer folk o the kind that ye jist mentioned in this nation, I wouldna be staunin the nicht afore ye. As tae the ither thing, I never confessed onythin anent that time, as my lord Advocate weill kens.’

  ‘If ye dinna gie us what we seek,’ Linlithgow said, ‘we will try another thing to make you confess.’

  Mitchel held his gaze. ‘I hope your lordships are Christians, not pagans.’

  ‘You, sir, are no Christian,’ Haltoun said.

  ‘My lord,’ said Mitchel derisively, ‘d’ye ken the proverb o the auld wife that would niver hae thocht tae look for her dochter in the oven if she hadna been in it hersel?’

  Haltoun, outraged, started up from the table, but was restrained by Linlithgow.

  ‘Sir,’ Linlithgow said, ‘this is the paper with your name upon it. Do you not acknowledge it?’

  ‘I acknowledge nae such thing.’

  Linlithgow made a signal. A soldier approached and deposited the apparatus known as the boots upon the table.

  ‘Sir, ye see what is there before ye. We shall see if it can cause ye to speak.’

  ‘If ye torture me wi that,’ Mitchel said, ‘ye may cause me tae dae mair than speak. Ye may cause me tae blaspheme God. Ye may cause me tae curse and speak amiss o your lordship. Ye may cause me tae cry masel a thief, murderer, warlock or whitiver, and think then tae hae me caught by ma ain words. But I protest before God, naethin ye extort frae me by torture shall hae ony force against me in law, or against ony person I micht name. I am a Christian, my lord, and if ye prove a thing against me legally, I’ll no deny it. But I am a man tae, and I niver held masel obliged by law or nature tae become ma ain accuser.’

  Haltoun snorted again. ‘By God, he has the Devil’s logic, and his sophistry. Ask him if that be his name and signature or no?’

  ‘I acknowledge nae such thing,’ Mitchel repeated.

  ‘Bid him say yea or no,’ Haltoun said.

  Linlithgow pointed to the boots. ‘Ye see what is before ye. Is this your signature? Say either yea or no.’

  ‘I say no,’ Mitchel said.

  They returned him to his cell and put the chains back on him. Nobody spoke to him. It was as if, already, he had become special, different. He lay without company for nearly a week, praying, and reading his Bible. He thought of Jean Weir, chained in the same building, six years before. He thought of the Major. He thought of Hew McKail on the scaffold.

  24 January 1676. Mitchel was brought before the Lords of Session, in the laich hall of the Parliament House. He was to be subjected to judicial torture. The executioner, masked, was present with the boots. Lord Linlithgow, in his robes of office, again acted as preses. He asked the panel once more if he would confess before being put to the torture.

  Mitchel spoke. ‘My lord, I will be brief. I hae been kept twa years in prison, mair than yin o them in irons, and in close and solitary confinement. I hae been kept frae ma freens and frae ma wife aw this time. Ye ken that ithers that hae been in prison less time hae made awa wi themsels, but I hae endured awthin in obedience tae God’s commandments. If it be God’s will I should undergo this torture, I will thole it. But again I say, whitiver ye shall extort frae me by this, I protest may not be used against me, nor ony ither, nor hae ony force in law.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Linlithgow. ‘That is why you are here. This is a court of law, and you have brought this upon yourself. All we ask is that you confess. You understand perfectly well what we are speaking of. But whether you do so or not, under torture or not, whatever happens here is lawful.’

  ‘Then,’ said Mitchel, ‘call the men ye hae appointed tae dae yer work.’

  The executioner and two assistants came forward. They seated him and tied his arms to the arms of the chair. They brought down the apparatus and placed it on a box in front of him. Then they asked the judges which leg they should start on. Linlithgow and the others conferred: they had not considered this.

  ‘It matters not,’ said Linlithgow. ‘Take either.’

  The men lifted his left leg and laid it in the open boot. Mitchel lifted it out and looked with total scorn up at the bench.

  ‘Since ye judges canna mak up yer minds, tak the better yin. I freely bestow it in the cause.’

  He lifted his right leg and the men laid it in the boot. They closed up the boot. It was a wooden case, very tight-fitting about the leg. It held the leg absolutely rigid. The executioner fetched a number of large wooden wedges, and a mallet.

  Mitchel stared at his encased leg, then at the bench. ‘My lords, I dinna ken if I will escape this wi ma life. Therefore I must say tae ye, remember whit Solomon says: he who sheweth no mercy shall have judgment without mercy. And also I say, remember whit shall befall those that hath shed the blood of the saints and the prophets, in the Book of Revelation: they shall be judged by God, and his angels shall pour out a sea of blood, and they shall be drowned in it. And now I freely forgive ye, and I do entreat that God may never lay this work to the charge of any of you.’

  Haltoun yawned and said loudly, ‘Can we not stop this flood of cant and hypocrisy?’

  Linlithgow turned to Sir John Nisbet, the King’s Advocate. ‘Begin.’

  Nisbet approached the panel. ‘Are you that Maister James Mitchel who for your crimes was excepted out of the King’s grace and favour, or no?’

  ‘I niver committed ony crime deservin me tae be excluded,’ Mitchel replied. ‘I upheld the Covenant. I should hae been included, protected and defended.’

  ‘When did ye know of the rising in arms in 1666?’

  ‘I kent o it when the rest o the citizens kent o it.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘When a messenger cam tae the Cooncil aboot it, and Dalziel marched oot at the West Port
tae face that godly army.’

  ‘Did ye not go out of the toun with one Captain Arnot? Did ye not meet with Colonel Wallace, the rebel leader? Did ye not go to Ayr, or join with the rebels there, or somewhere else?’

  Haltoun interrupted. ‘My lord, the fool never acknowledges these men to be rebels.’

  Mitchel, eyeing Haltoun, said to Nisbet, ‘My lord, I will follow Solomon’s advice when he says, even a fool by haudin his wheesht will be reckoned wise.’

  Haltoun fumed in silence. Mitchel saw Primrose smirk, and even over Nisbet’s mouth a smile flickered before he hurried on.

  ‘Where was ye at the time of Pentland?’

  ‘In Edinburgh.’

  ‘Where was ye before it?’

  ‘In Edinburgh.’

  ‘Where was ye after it?’

  ‘In Edinburgh.’

  Nisbet sighed, then tried again.

  ‘Where did ye lodge before Pentland?’

  ‘At Grizel Whitford’s.’

  ‘And where did ye stay at the time of it? Was ye still in the toun?’

  ‘I dinna ken whit ye mean by bein still in the toun. Ye might cry it oot o the toun if I was at the Windmill, or the Potterrow, or Leith.’

  ‘What, ye were never further abroad than these places?’

  Mitchel let his breath go, to show that he was bored. ‘I canna mind noo where I was, it was ten year syne. I dinna keep a diary. I doot ony man here can mind thae kind o details eftir sae lang a time. But I ken this, it is ma duty tae gang aboot ma employment and calling as God hath commanded, and be satisfied wi that.’

  Nisbet tried another tack. ‘Ye left the toun about that time. Why was that?’

  ‘I was reddin up tae sail ower tae Flanders. Tae trade.’

  ‘Who did ye sail with?’

  ‘Wi John Forrester, an Ostender.’

  ‘How long after Pentland was this?’

  ‘I canna mind.’

  ‘Can ye not give a guess?’