The Fanatic. James Robertson

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       Edinburgh, September 1656

      James Mitchel, recently graduated from the Toun’s College, stood on the High Street of Edinburgh and contemplated the skull mounted high up on the north face of the Tolbooth. Years of wind, rain and the attentions of gulls had removed the flesh and hair from it, and the stripped bone looked now more like a part of the stonework, a defective gargoyle, than something human.

      The street was narrow at the point where he stood, between the jutting Tolbooth and the tall lands behind him. It was evening, and chilly, and the light was almost gone. Not many folk were about, but those that did hurry past had to step around him, giving him dark looks. Whit’s the daft laddie daein goavin up at the jail there? Dis he ken some puir body locked up inside? Or is he – aye, he’s lookin at the skull.—Weill, that isna worth a spit. Nae need tae look up there eftir sax year.—Awbody kens whae that was, though he isna sae bonnie noo as yince he was.—Daft loon. Get oot o folk’s road, would ye.

      A shadow fell across Mitchel’s gaze. A hand lighted like a trained bird on his shoulder. His nose twitched at the familiar smell of cheap, stale tobacco.

      The tall man beside him said, ‘That is the empty head of a vain and prideful villain.’

      Mitchel turned. ‘I ken,’ he said. Then he added, ‘But he yince held Scotland in his hand.’

      ‘For a few months only,’ the tall man said. ‘A moment – less than a moment – in God’s scale of time.’

      Major Weir was no stranger to Mitchel: they were neighbours in their Cowgate lodgings, and Weir had often spoken to him, coolly but not unkindly, in his deliberate, Englished tones. Still, Mitchel found it hard not to be in awe of the older man, who was recognised and deferred to everywhere he went, either as a preacher or as an officer of the City Guard.

      Although he ought not to have been surprised at Weir’s appearance, since the Major’s duties took him all over the town, day and night, sometimes he wondered at the frequency with which they met away from Mistress Whitford’s house. It was ridiculous to imagine that Weir followed him; and yet Weir’s eye always seemed to be taking note of his appearance or behaviour. There was something both flattering and unnerving in this assessment.

      ‘Why do you look upon that head?’ Weir asked. ‘Not with regret, nor in adulation, I can see that. What does the dead mouth of James Graham tell you?’

      ‘Naethin,’ Mitchel said. ‘It is silent. I never saw him in life, but when I was a bairn he had Scotland chitterin on its knees, and folk fleggin ye wi tales o his army. But when I look noo I’m no feart. And he disna say ocht.’

      Weir tapped the ground with his staff. ‘Or ye dinna hear ocht,’ he said. He shifted his hand from Mitchel’s shoulder to his elbow, turned him with the slightest pressure.

      ‘Walk with me, James,’ he said, once more in his clipped, careful voice. ‘I was at the Netherbow Port, inspecting the guard, and now I am on my way to a prayer-meeting. I would be obliged if ye’d convoy me to the Grassmarket.’

      They began to walk up the street, past the hulk of St Giles, Weir’s left hand cleiking Mitchel’s arm, while his right leaned heavily on the staff. His grip was tight, but he seemed to be labouring on the hill, like a man well beyond his mid-fifties. When he stumbled, Mitchel asked hesitantly if he felt unwell.

      ‘I am fine, I am fine,’ he said. ‘Just weary. It’s a hard path that we have trod since Graham was dealt with. Scotland was delivered out of his hands, it seems, only to be given over to Cromwell and his vile English army. And now they say when Cromwell and the English go, we’ll hae a Stewart back again. All this suffering, all this long dark nicht, and for what? You say you heard nothing, but when I look up at Graham’s head, I sometimes fancy I hear him laughing at us.’

      He stopped as they reached the top of the West Bow, and they stood looking down the long street, across which a few well-wrapped figures were flitting. Weir coughed and spat on the ground.

      ‘I had him in my charge the night before he was executed, did ye know that? In that very prison which his head now adorns. He laughed at us then, the savage. Combing his locks and preening himself, and brushing out his finery as if God would care a docken what he looked like when He cast him into the furnace. And he spurned the services of the ministers sent to attend him by the General Assembly – good men, strong in the Covenant that he himself had signed and then betrayed, Davie Dickson and James Durham and James Guthrie and Robert Traill. He said he, the Marquis of Montrose, would make his own peace with God. Doubtless he’d have corrected God if God didna address him by that false title. He was a proud and foolish man, James. There was a huge scaffold biggit for him, thirty feet high, and the street was tight with folk come to see him die. But when I took him out there in the forenoon, he still would not show remorse for his crimes. He climbed that thirty feet as if he were going to his bed.’

      He broke off and drew himself up to his full height, and rapped the staff hard on the stones. ‘But we are stronger,’ he said sharply. ‘We are stronger because we have God with us. The godly will prevail.’

      ‘I believe that,’ said Mitchel, as they started to walk again. ‘It is oor destiny. Principal Leighton at the college, afore oor laureation, tendered tae us the Covenant, and I subscribed tae it. Ye canna tak some and no the haill o that document. It is signing away your life tae Christ.’

      ‘The life of the haill nation, James, but you see how many who have signed it have fallen away from its principles. Beware of Robert Leighton even. His tongue speaks the right words, but he is ower tolerant. The land is full of holy wobblers like him, and they are a great danger. At least a man like Montrose, you could mark him for an enemy.’

      At the foot of the Bow, where their ways parted, Weir stopped again, but did not release his grip.

      ‘Will you not come to the meeting, Maister Mitchel? You a graduate and a man of the right party. Why do we not see you at our meetings? Do you not like my company, or the sound of my voice?’

      ‘Na, na, I hae often heard ye preach,’ said Mitchel. ‘And admired ye, tae.’

      ‘You should hear me pray,’ said Weir. ‘A sermon is a text with a wind at its back. But prayer, prayer is wind and fire together. Why do you not come?’

      Mitchel shook his head, and looked away to the bottom of the Grassmarket, behind which the last of the light was now a deepening red in the sky. ‘I am uncertain,’ he said, then added in an embarrassed mumble, ‘if I hae grace.’

      He felt Weir shift his position, heard him sigh heavily.

      ‘You are very young, James. Ye needna be ashamed. СКАЧАТЬ