The Fanatic (25 page)

‘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?’

‘A month mebbe. Six weeks.’

‘Then what was ye doing all that time?’

‘Reddin up. And then there was a contrary wind.’

‘All right,’ said Nisbet. ‘Ye went to the continent. How long did ye stay there?’

‘Aboot three-quarters o a year.’

‘Ye went to trade. What kept ye so long over there?’

‘Only that I wasna ready tae return. And the war was on between the Dutch and the English. I thocht it would be safer tae wait a while.’

‘With whom did ye come home again?’

‘Wi some Dutchmen. Amsterdamers.’

‘Was there no Scotsman with ye?’

‘I jist tellt ye, I cam hame wi Dutchmen.’

‘Who was the skipper?’

‘I canna mind, but he pit in at Limekilns tae load coals frae Sir James Hacket. I mind that.’

Nisbet shook his head at this singularly useless piece of information. All his questions had been aimed at incriminating other persons for communing with Mitchel. So far he had failed miserably. He tried a more direct approach.

‘Did ye know James Stirling, one of the authors of a book called
Naphtalil
? Or William Fergusson, that was disaffected, that stayed in or about the Cowgate in this toun?’

‘Aye. I kent them.’

Nisbet asked hopefully, ‘Are they alive?’

‘Na. They are baith deid. William Fergusson here, Maister
Stirling in the Indies. He was called tae be a minister in the plantations at Bombay. I hear he had a fall frae his horse there.’

‘Never mind that. At the time that the Archbishop of St Andrews was shot at, did ye know one William Young?’

‘Aye.’

‘Did ye buy a horse from him at that time?’

‘I niver bought a horse frae him.’

‘Well, then, from whom did ye hae a horse, when ye went out of the toun?’

‘I could hae had a horse frae onybody, tae lend or hire.’

‘But from whom did ye hae a horse?’

‘If I couldna get a horse, I took tae ma feet.’

Nisbet stopped. He turned to the bench and shrugged. The judges muttered among themselves. Clearly this was getting nowhere.

Linlithgow nodded to the executioner. ‘Proceed.’

The executioner lifted the boot containing Mitchel’s leg from off the box and lowered the foot of it to the ground. He inserted one wedge at the knee, pushing it as far into the boot as it would go. It did not go very far.

The executioner raised the mallet. He looked to the bench. Linlithgow nodded again.

The thud of iron striking wood was startling in the silent chamber. The wedge shifted, surprisingly, several inches. Mitchel screamed.

Linlithgow said, ‘Do you have any more to say, sir?’

There was a gasp from Mitchel. ‘No more, my lords.’

The mallet descended again. Mitchel screamed. The wedge moved further. There was a cracking sound.

‘Do you wish to say anything?’ said Linlithgow.

Mitchel shook his head. A word that might have been ‘No’ came from between his teeth.

The mallet struck again. Mitchel screamed. Something thick and bloody began to drip from the wood of the boot onto the stone floor.

That great scolar George Buchanan, that tutored King James as a bairn, in his historie of Scotland debates the efficacie of torture as an instrument of law. Punishments extreem in their crueltie, he says, doe not so much restrain the minds of the
vulgar, by the fear or horrour they excite, as enrage them to acte as viciouslie or to thole any pain or torment themselves; nor are wicked men made good by beholding these things, but their terror at barbarities is reduced wt familiaritie.

Why must I dwell on thir matters? This world is a sair place and made na less sair by contemplatioun. But I cannot desist. The law floats on the blood of criminalls, and yet in punishing becomes its selfe a torturer and murtherer. Can law be above its makers? Gods laws are good according to his goodness, therefoir how can man, that fell from Gods grace, make good law? He may claim his law is derived from God, but how often doe we find that God and heaven hath been made from law.

Mitchel was tortured and judged according to the laws of uthir men. God kens I am no apologist for the fanaticks. It was their adherance to wrong headed principles that brocht baith Scotland and England to their sorry states in the time of Cromwell. But with Mitchel it was time to shew mercie to a man that no countrie should be feared of, unless it be not kinde or true to itselfe. Even now it is not too late to kiss farewell to controversie and lett him live.

When I was but nineteen or twenty in Poictiers I witnessd the hardest death I ever saw, which has hanted me since, for when the law kills it kills wt a coldnes that is awful to consider. A blacksmith there had strack dead one of his apprentices, who had speirt him for money, and fled to Lusignon, but was there made captive. He was tried and found guilty of the crime, but the tounes of France, being not royal burghs like ours, have not the power to pass sentens of hanging and beheading, and so in due time he was taken to Paris, whare his doom was decided in the king’s name. He was condemnd to be broken on the wheel, a foul practise commoun on the continent, but which I think was seldom if ever used here, and certanely not in recent memorie. He was returnd to Poictiers but not tauld the trew nature of his sentens till about two hours befoir he was broken, for by concealing it till then they keip the condemned from attempting escape, or from taking his own lyfe, which many a man myght do, even to the greater peril of his soul, gif he knew he was to be killt in such a way. This smith was tauld he was only to be sent to the galleys, and the man laucht and crackt anent this. They have forgot my trade, saith he, I’ll fyle the
chains and be away. But at noon on the day of his death he was publickly sentencd by the hangman, who caused him to kneel while the doom was read, then put a tow about his neck wt the words, he Roy vou salut, mon amie, to shew it was the king’s will he should die.

Thousands awaited him that afternoon at the place of execution in the Marche Vieux. There was a Scots flavor to it, as I lightly thoucht at first (tho soon I was scunnerd at the jest), for on the scaffold was a Sanct Androis cross made of two beams nailed togither. The smith was strippt to his shirt and bound wt his back to this cross, each arme and leg stretcht upoun one limb of it. They gave him a little tyme to pray, trembling in his miserie upoun the cross, assisted by two monks maist sinister in their cowels and robes. Then the hangman took a great baton or bar of iron and begun to break him. He commencd wt his armes and broke them wt two strokes to each elbuck. His knees he broke next wt two strokes. The man’s cries ware hideous to hear. I felt my bowels ryse and heize, tho the huge crowd seemed to like the play weel enough. The hangman continued with his work, striking next upon the thighs, then two great swings that smasht his ribs and stumack. All that was not smasht was his head, for that would kill him, and his chest, though commonlie, I was later tauld, a blow to crush the hart is given as the final deliverance. In this case there was no such tendernes shewn: I counted twenty blows befoir the hangman droppt his iron bar and yet the smith was not dead. The hangman then strangled him, but this I think was too delicat a job for the brute, for the tow snappt twice or it was accomplishd. Of all cruel deaths, this which I witnessd in my twentieth year I think was worst.

Yet its too easy to say this would not happen in our countrie. The French ware always a pleasant, curtious and civil people, though horridly addicted to the cheating of strangers. But they have a boot like ours, which I saw at Poictiers, and who can say we‘ll not ever throw a man upoun a wheel as they doe? All men judge things according to custom, not by a universal truth. Else why is Europe riven thir last hundred years by men who all have God upoun their side?

It was but ane month after Mitchels torture that the man he hit wt his shott, Bischop Honyman, died in his palace in Orkny.
If they could have proved it the Privy Council had broucht Mitchel up for murder, since they mayntaned Honyman never recovered from the wound receivd, but dwyned away by degries. But this no court would entertayn 8 yeirs after the event. And I think too it would have bene ower great a hurt to Sharp’s conceit of him selfe if the fanatick had bene hangd at last for hitting Orkny and not for missing St Androis.

I know not what Mitchel felt when he hard of Honymans end, but uthirs of his persuasion made much of it as a signe of Gods displesour, the bischop being but 56 yeirs old. This is how it was: going up to his chamber one night, his wyfe hard him make a noise and din upoun the floor. She caused break open the door, for it was bolted from within, and they found him as was said lying on the floor, his hat to one place, his skullcap to ane uthir, his gown all rent in pieces. They broght him down and made a bed for him, from which he never rose againe, but onely said. Something came between me and my light. Some days later he passed away. The fanatick party, hearing of his words, shook their heads wt solemn glee and said, Oh its a dangerous thing to sin against light! John Eleis and I thoght his declyne no more the work of Gods displesour than Sir Geo. Maxwells was the work of witches, but we were carefull to keip this opinion to our selves.

Can a man like Mitchel go to heaven and not I? Or Sharp and not Mitchel? Or any of us and not these poor weemen lately condemned by Prestoun in the west country, for witches? I that must in publick keep a calme colde face finde my selfe in privat in a swarf to think on these things. God keip this book from prying eyes of kirk and state alike.

A deputation of ministers filled the cell: James Fraser, Thomas Hog, William Bell. Mitchel understood that they had not come on a social call.

It was extraordinary that they were there at all. Although the garrison had become quite slack – Mitchel could hear much coming and going between cells, as the prisoners prayed together or invited one another for little walks among the solans – he was still excluded from any easing of conditions. On recent Sabbaths common worship had been permitted – for all but himself. Even some of the soldiers had been allowed to join in, if they could bear the mockery of their fellows and officers.

Mitchel kept Rutherford’s book hidden. Apart from his Bible and a few shreds of tobacco it was his only comfort, his only relief from boredom and discomfort. All his teeth were loose. His skin was flaky and constantly itchy. When he scratched he caught small moving things under his nails.

There was no letter or return visit from Elizabeth. He wondered if messages from her were being intercepted. He hoped that that was the case.

William Bell was a field-preacher of some repute. He had been arrested in September the previous year at a meeting in the Pentlands and taken to Edinburgh, then transferred a month later to the Bass. He was a poor man, like Mitchel, but he had kept his distance from him till now. He did not waste any time with formalities.

‘Ye ken the sodger cried Tammas?’ he said.

‘Aye.’ But Tammas had not been near him for weeks.

‘Whit dae ye ken o him?’

‘Whit is there tae ken? We hae smoked a pipe thegither.’

‘Whit else?’

‘Naethin else. He has been kinder than maist tae me in this place.’

Fraser said, ‘Aye, we have heard that.’

Mitchel sat up. There was something more, he could feel it.

Hog said, ‘Did ye hear about the captain’s son’s wager?’

‘I hear naethin,’ said Mitchel reproachfully.

‘He wagered ten shillings that none of the garrison would dare to debauch one of our servant-women and get her with child. All the soldiers were made aware of this, a challenge to them to vex us and to reflect the deed upon us.’

‘It’s tae be expected,’ said Mitchel.

Bell looked furious. ‘Your kind Tammas has been speirin his ten shillins,’ he said.

Mitchel almost laughed, but restrained himself. ‘Away! The man would fleg the lassies wi his ill looks, no fleetch them.’

‘There was nae enticement needed,’ said Bell. ‘He got a lass fou, and took her up on the Rock alane wi him. It was rape in aw but name.’

‘God forgie him,’ said Mitchel. He thought of Tammas’s hairy pockmarked face, his brute body forcing himself on a woman, the birds rising and screeching around them. He said, ‘God comfort her. Has he been punished?’

‘He’s been sent awa, that’s aw. We protested,’ said Bell, ‘but they only laugh at us. They brocht the man afore his officer, though, tae question him.’

‘To pay him, when our backs were turned, no doubt,’ said Hog.

‘The rogue said it was but business,’ said Bell. ‘He said it was his right tae earn whit siller he could in such a place as this.’

‘He is ignorant,’ said Mitchel. ‘The officers pit the men up tae such ploys, we ken this.’

‘He said he would hae had siller frae yersel, sir, for a service he rendered ye. But ye niver peyed him for it.’

Mitchel hesitated. It was true he had not given any of Lizzie’s money to Tammas. It was too precious, and Tammas would have despised him if he had handed it over for nothing. But how much did the ministers know? Was it known that Lizzie had been with him? He thought of her in Edinburgh where she could be found and punished.

He said, ‘If it was for tobacco and the like, he had only tae ask. Though he has had as muckle frae me as I frae him.’

‘Tobacco!’ said Bell. ‘It was for a woman, sir. He procured ye a hure and got her tae ye frae the land, and noo he complains that ye owe him for her.’

‘That is a lie.’

‘Whit is a lie?’

‘The haill o it.’

‘We ken ye had a woman here.’

Mitchel felt a surge of anger. ‘Ye ken naethin. Would ye believe a man like thon afore ye would believe me?’

‘Sir,’ said Fraser, ‘we are by circumstance associated with ye, and by our principles are in some way at one with ye, and we grieve for the treatment ye have suffered at the hands of an unclean, adulterous and oppressive government, but we have not condoned your rash act against the apostate Sharp, nor can we condone your dealings with the soldier and this woman. Ye stand separate and apart from us, sir, and your own actions have brought your solitude upon ye.’

Now Mitchel did laugh. ‘Then I am a solitary man for guid reasons. Ye accuse
me
of foul union wi a hure. Ye accuse
me
of dealin backhandedly wi the enemy. Ye must think ye are like Phinehas when Israel abode in Shittim. Ye must think ye act noo as he did when he saw the man that brocht a Midianitish woman intae the camp. He rose up frae amang the congregation and took a javelin and went intae the man’s tent and thrust baith o them through wi it, and thus he stayed the plague frae the children of Israel. And the Lord said, Phinehas hath turned away my wrath, I give unto him my covenant of peace; and he shall have it, and his seed after him, because he was zealous for his God. Ye condemn the lawbreakers that bring desolation and sorrow upon Israel but ye shrink tae act against them. But I acted. I am Phinehas, sirs, no you! So dinna come tae lecture and preach at me aboot ma solitude. I thole it for Christ, no for ony sins ye ascribe tae me.’

‘We need nae Bible lessons frae you, sir,’ said Bell.

‘The woman that was here was nae hure. She was ma wife.’

Mitchel had never had a text that fitted so perfectly the moment for which it was required. He had scoured the Testaments for justification of his action against Sharp – he had an arsenal of Scripture at his command – but the
Phinehas story struck both at Sharp and at these blackmouthed clatterers. He felt a rush of superiority over them. He believed that they would serve their time and survive the Bass, while he would not: he would die here, or he would be killed by Sharp. But they would survive precisely because they had not his zeal. He would die early but while they inherited the earth, he would inherit Christ.

The three ministers were speechless. They did not know what to do or say. They might not even have known about Lizzie – and their friend John Welsh was not there to confirm that he had married them. They backed out in confusion. Bell muttering that they would have to consult further among themselves.

A few days later a boat brought a new prisoner to the Rock. Robert Traill, the younger, had returned from Holland a year after Mitchel, but he had gone to England, and settled as a preacher in Kent. In May of that year he had come discreetly to Edinburgh to visit friends. There he had participated in house-conventicles. Somebody had got wind of his arrival and he had been arrested, and, being wanted in connection with the Pentland Rising, brought before the Privy Council and sent to the Bass. Traill knew all the ministers there. He was also on friendly terms with Mitchel. He confirmed to them that he was married. William Bell came grudgingly and apologised on behalf of the others. Mitchel received him coldly. He had got beyond them. He had no need for any of them, now that Traill was there.

And yet, alone in his cell, he felt a new and chill wind blowing, even in the height of summer. He kept thinking of the visitation of the ministers, and of Lizzie. Supposing he
had
been deluded? Supposing Tammas had tricked him? Tammas was long gone, transferred to the mainland. Supposing it had not been Lizzie at all, but a harlot from North Berwick? The woman had brought him siller, though, and Rutherford’s book – of course it had been Lizzie. Did he not ken his own wife? But these might have been sweeteners, to confuse him. How could Lizzie have saved that amount of money? And where had she found the lost book?

Tammas’s appearance – his ugliness, his half-hairy face, his scaly, unhuman skin – began to prey on his mind. Had Lizzie
really come to him? He had mounted her, been inside her. It had felt like her. But it was dark in the cell, it was always dark. Could he have miskent her?

He thought of his hands on her. He tried to mind what she had been wearing on her feet. If at any time he had seen her feet.

He tried to mind if he had seen the two of them – Lizzie and Tammas – both at the same time. There had been just the one moment – when she had passed in at the door and he had gone out. He tried desperately to see that moment again, to see them as two distinct figures.

He listened in the darkness of the night and thought he could hear Tammas laughing at him.

He took some comfort from Rutherford. And he had one other message to which he could turn, a brief, crumbling note that had been smuggled into him a day or two before the transfer from Edinburgh to the Bass. It was a letter from Rotterdam, unsigned but bearing the initials J.C. and J.B. He thought of Carstairs and Brown, the men who had spoken out for him against MacWard. Whoever had sent it, the letter had taken three months to reach him. It had been written some months after his torture.
We were much refreshed to hear how the Lord helped you to be faithful in that sharp piece of trial
, it said.
Who can tell but God may be more glorified in poor Mr James Mitchel, whom many of our wise dons may look upon as half-distracted.
That was a winning thought, but it contained its own seed of doubt. Was he half-mad? He hurried on to the last few lines:
Justice you can hardly expect, but in this you are not the first, and it may be shall not be the last. I think they thirst for blood more than ever … The God of peace be with you.

The letter itself was half sermon, half prayer. He began to wonder – because he had no real proof, no sense of anything shut up in this terrible place – whether it had come from Rotterdam at all.

He didn’t know which was worse – the possibility of having been fooled by Satan or these insane journeys of his imagination. All he knew was that he was utterly alone. Even Robert Traill disappointed him, spending nearly all of his time with the others. They had turned him against him.

Mitchel began to think almost affectionately on James
Sharp. He longed for him to make his move. He had a picture of the Archbishop, writing by candlelight at a desk in his palace in St Andrews, signing arrest warrants and planning the further suppression of conventicles. And then the figure looked up, and it was Robert MacWard in the cold Dutch morning, writing letters under his alias Mr Long, organising, controlling, sending and receiving – safe in Utrecht.

Mitchel lay between them, waiting imprisoned in the Bass, in the grey, cold sea.