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Document : 587
Title    : The Fanatic (extract 2)
Author(s): James Robertson

Copyright holder(s): Fourth Estate Publishers: With thanks to HarperCollins
Publishers Ltd. © James Robertson 2000
                     James Robertson

Text

Bass Rock, June 1677/Edinburgh, April 1670

Mitchel said, ‘Why are ye here?’

‘Tae see you,’ said Lauder.

He felt slightly sick from the crossing. It was only a short trip from
North Berwick, a couple of miles at most, but the sea was choppy and Lauder
hated being in boats. He still minded the journey from Dover to France when
he was a student: he and a fellow passenger had fought over a bucket all
night, filling it with their combined vomitings, and with every retch and
boak the other man had groaned for God’s mercy as if he was on the point
of expiring, which had only made Lauder feel worse.

Mitchel shook his head. ‘That’s no guid enough, John Lauder. Yer
guidfaither’s Ramsay, the Provost o Edinburgh. Ye’re no here tae ease
ma sufferin.’

‘He was Lord Provost,’ Lauder said. Sir Andrew had written a
recommendation, which the captain of the garrison had read with disdain
before grudgingly allowing Lauder access to his prize prisoner. Now, left
alone with him, Lauder found Mitchel equally suspicious of his family
connections.

‘He’s a Privy Cooncillor and aw. Is it by him that ye come here? They
dinna let folk see me.’

‘He had a word for me, I confess. But I’m no here on his behaw nor
onybody’s but ma ain.’

Mitchel did not look convinced. His eyes were unblinking in the
half-light.

The cell stank of dampness and squalor, and every draught of wind brought
with it eye-watering wafts from the guano of thousands of seabirds. It was
now the height of the solans’ nesting season. It sounded like all the
witches that had ever been were gathered together there in bird disguise.

Lauder tried to take shallow breaths. ‘I would like tae hear somethin
frae ye,’ he said.

Mitchel laughed scornfully.

‘Aye, awbody would like that. The Privy Cooncil would like me tae confess
tae a crime so they can hing me. Is that whit ye would hear, Maister
Lauder? Are ye come as a lawyer tae bargain wi me?’

‘No. It’s naethin o that kind. Naethin tae dae wi yer case at aw.’

‘Then why else would I speak wi a lawyer?’

‘I would like tae find oot… tae hear aboot somebody.’ Lauder cleared
his throat. ‘I would like tae hear aboot Major Weir.’

Mitchel’s brow furrowed. ‘Whit’s tae tell? The man was burnt for his
crimes seiven year syne.’

‘Ye kent him.’

‘Aye. Sae did yer guidfaither. Sae did aw Edinburgh. Ye’ll hae seen him
aboot yersel nae doot.’

‘I didna ken him tae speak tae, as you did,’ said Lauder.

‘Whit’s this tae be, guilt by association? If ye gang doon that road,
ye’ll find some kenspeckle bodies claucht up in the net. It’s ten year
or mair since I spak wi Weir.’

‘No as lang as that, James,’ said Lauder carefully.

There was a long silence. Finally, Mitchel said, ‘Whit dae ye mean?’

‘Ye saw him in the Tolbooth, afore his execution. I ken ye did.’

‘I wasna even in Scotland. I was a rebel, if ye mind, wi a price on ma
heid for the attack on Sharp and Honyman.’

‘Ye were in Scotland. Ye cam tae him in prison. I ken it.’

‘Whit maks ye think that? Did ye see him in prison yersel? Did he tell
ye?’

‘I did see him. The mornin o his death. But it wasna him that tellt me.
He was ayont speakin by then. It was his sister, Jean. She said ye’d been
in tae see him, in secret.’

‘Haivers,’ said Mitchel. ‘Weir was ayont speakin, ye say? Jean was
awa daft lang afore then. If she tellt ye I was there, she was haein a fit.
How would I get intae the Tolbooth o Edinburgh in secret? Dae ye think a
man wantit for a capital crime against a Croun servant would o his ain
volition enter that place tae collogue wi a convicted felon in his cell?
I’d as weill hae pit ma heid in a noose.’

‘Jean wasna as daft as some folk think,’ said Lauder. ‘I believe she
tellt the truth.’

Mitchel was silent. He lay back on his bed and stared at the roof. The
movement, in the gloomy atmosphere of the cell, instantly provoked a memory
in Lauder’s mind. He was transported back seven years, to the visit he
had made on Major Weir. Just fifteen months married, with a four-month-old
son, he had been in the company of his wife’s father, then Lord Provost
of Edinburgh.


Wt my goodfather Sir Andrew I was at the Tolbooth Monday 11th day of April
1670, to see the monster Major Weir. We ware admitted in the fornoon, a
cold day wt winter’s grip not yet lowst, but the sun was shyning, which
made the prison house yet mair mirk and grim when we ware within. The
provest had seen him when first he confest. Believing him insane he got his
ain doctors to him, but they said his faculties ware lucid and thereafter
witnesses ware found that seemd to prove his crymes. I wished to see this
phenomenon of wickednes, and went wt the provest and divers others,
ministers &c. The crymes of his flesh ware revolting, but it was his
spirituall backslyding and consorting wt the Devil (though this was not in
the indytment but only drawen from his sister’s testimonies) that
fascinated the ministers mair. As Sir Andrew said its seldom you get a
chance to look depravitie full in the face. But there was mockerie in his
tone which I perceived was directed at the godlie amang us, for they ware
some of them of Weir’s inclinatioun, in religion at least. See the Devil
ance and ye’ll not misken him next tyme, says Sir Andrew, bowing at them
wt a false respect, which I doubt did not fool them for an instant.

For a monster Weir was a sorry object, auld and slumpt on his bed agaynst
the wall, much changed from the muckle figure of controversie I mynd as a
bairn. There was no fire left in his eyn. The ministers presst him to
acknowlege his sin and pray for God’s mercy, but he only shook his head
and moand. When by progging and shaking him as if he ware a carnival brute
that would not do its tricks, they finally rowsed him to sit, he stared at
them blearily with a dead look and said, Wherefor do ye trouble me wt your
cruelty? They said wee do not trouble ye, Thomas, it is your soull that
troubles ye. Pray with us for your soull.

He answered, What for should I pray wt ye? I care not for your prayers and
I doe not hear them.

One said, Sir, I will pray for ye in spite of yr teeth and the deevil yr
master too.

He said to him, Doe it at your perill.

They said, Even now, Thomas, in the day of your death, seek out the mercy
of God.

He lauched and said, God, where is God? I see him not. They ware affronted
and asked, Think ye there is a God? He said I know not. Then one said O
man, the argument that moves me to think there is a God is thy self. For
what else moved thee to informe the world of thy wicked life? He said, Then
pray to him if ye will, I’ll not pray wt you. All the prayers that men
and angels can offer will not make a better man of me. Pray that to yr
God.

They conjured him as ane brother even now to repent and ask God for his
mercy.

Repent, he says, repent, whats to repent? Will repentence alter one jot of
his law? Will repentence weigh in the scayles of justice? Think ye that the
grovelings of one human ant will alter the plan and purpos of Gods
universe? What papisticall trash is this? Get back to your bible, brothers,
says he, before ye try to sell me ane indulgence.

Then when they said again,Thomas Weir we beseek ye he says, Trouble me no
more wt your beseeking. My sentence is sealed on earth as it is in heaven.
I am hardend within like a stone, brother. If I could win God’s pardon
and all the glory of Heaven wt a single wish – that I had not sinned as I
have sinned, yet I could not prevail wt my self to make that wish.

Then when they said he does not ken what he is saying, and asked him did
his heart not shrink at thoucht of God’s eternal ire he interrupted them
impatientlie, Tell me no more, torment me no more. You are not in my place
and your soull is not in my soull’s place. Gin ye ware, ye would see the
waste and delusion of your exhortatiouns, for there is no thing within me
but blacknes and darknes, brimstone and burning to the bottom of hell.  Now
let me alone, ye have deaved me ouer long, I’ll hear no more.

He fell in a kind of stupor and though they spake at him some tyme more,
there was no rousing him. Bailie Oliphant that was there began to leave the
room, saying, I have had my fill of beseeking, the man is to die and we
should leave him to redd up his soull gin he wish. Soe led by Patrik Vanse
the keeper of the prison we went back out into the licht.

The provest said to the companie, There goeth corruptioun incarnat. I am
glad he’s to burn outwith the citie’s walls. I would na like to see his
foul ashes settle on the heads of the good burgesses.

But, said the bailie, some will take a dander furth to the Gallowlee to see
him consumed.

They had better wear ther hats then, said Sir Andrew, and clapt his wig wt
much ostentatioun. Pollution the like of that will be a task to clean from
the hair. Then to the ministers, that ware still rid and peching from their
exertiouns wt the Beast, he said, Do ye think a man that was sa sure of his
ain electioun as he can be sa mistaken? Is there nae possibility of him
winning to heaven despite of all his wickednes? They ware very crosse at
this, which was aimed at their ain holinesse, and raged at him to suggest a
man can transgress God’s law sae foully and yet be of the elect. It was a
heresy, an antinomian heresy, and an English ane forby. Weir, they said,
would be brunt on earth by four of the clock that efternoon and by five he
would be burning in hell. My lord was not perturbed by them, but
congratulated them on ther impressive certainty. I’ll not be at the
Gallowlee my self, he says, but mynd and do not forget your hats.


From his bed Mitchel asked, ‘Whit did Jean say tae ye? When did ye speak
wi her?’

‘Eftir her brither was burnt. I gaed back tae the Tolbooth alane, the
next mornin. She was tae hing that day. I felt unhappy aboot her death –
I felt she was mair victim o his crimes than conspirator in them.’

‘She was a witch or else she was made mad by Satan,’ Mitchel said
flatly.

‘The jurors had rejectit the chairge o sorcery against her. If she was
mad was it the madness that had made her lie wi her brither, or the incest
that made her mad? If the former, she shouldna burn.’

‘And if she was a witch?’

‘If she was a witch… I felt pity for her. I was only twenty-three – I
was grieved for her.’

‘She’d hae easy led you intae soukin sand then. Pity is their
weapon.’

Lauder did not respond. He could almost feel Mitchel struggling to resist
asking the next question.

‘Whit did she say – aboot me?’

‘As muckle as John Vanse, the keeper’s son – as muckle and mair, and
less. Atween the pair o them I worked it oot. That twa days precedin, on
the Sabbath, a young man that cried himsel Alexander Weir, the Major’s
son, had come tae the Tolbooth. That he begged John Vanse, that had chairge
o the place that day, if he had ony compassion for yin that fund himsel wi
sae miserable a creature for a faither, tae let him see him afore he was
sent tae Hell. That John Vanse alloued him in and he sat wi his faither for
an oor. And Vanse cam tae Jean and said he was there, and she speired at
him tae hae her nephew Sandy stop and gie her his blessin afore he pairtit,
and he cam by her cell and looked in but wouldna stop, and she kent it
wasna Sandy but anither man aboot the same age. It was him that had sailed
awa tae Holland eftir Pentland. James Mitchel.’

Mitchel did not speak. Lauder strained even to hear his breathing. After a
minute he said, ‘She didna misken ye, did she?’

Mitchel sat up. ‘Ye are an advocate, sir. Ye hae a cousin John Eleis?’

‘Aye.’

‘I hear he pleads for aw kinds – witches, rebels, thieves, murderers.
Am I richt?’

‘He defends ony person he is cawed tae defend.’

‘I hear he is amang the best o yer breed. Him and Sir George Lockhart.
They are thorns in the flesh o the Privy Cooncil.’

‘They only dae their duty as advocates. But ye’re richt, they are baith
excellent lawyers.’

‘I want them for ma case, Maister Lauder.’

‘Yer case is done, Maister Mitchel. Whit for dae ye think ye’re cast on
this Rock these last months? Whit for did they crush yer leg in the boot?
They canna prove onythin against ye.’

‘They will try, though. Sharp wants me deid. And when ma case comes
again, I want thae twa men as ma coonsel. Dae this for me, siccar me their
services, and I’ll tell ye aboot Major Weir.’

‘I canna mak such a pledge. An advocate canna jist pick and choose, nor
can a panel wi nae siller elect his ain coonsel.’

‘But,’ said Mitchel, ‘choice willna be in it on this occasion. When
they bring me back – which they will, hae nae doot – nae lawyer in his
senses will dare plead on ma behaw – it’s an offence in itsel tae argue
for a traitor. I ken ma law and ma rights – I will demand a defence. The
Privy Cooncil will hae tae appoint me lawyers. Sir George and Maister John
can let the Cooncil ken they’ll compear for me if alloued and commanded
by His Majesty’s government. Sir George is Dean o the Faculty, is he no?
Naebody else will contest him for the honour.’

‘Ye ken yer law, indeed,’ said Lauder.

‘I hae plenty time tae think on it,’ said Mitchel dryly. ‘But ye must
instruct yer cousin anent this maitter – it maunna be left tae chance.
It’ll be a kittle enough business, athout findin masel in the hauns o
Prestoun or some such kiss-ma-erse.’

‘Prestoun? John Prestoun o Haltree?’

‘Aye, him. Mention o Weir pit me in mind o him.’

It was Prestoun, the hunter of witches, who had been appointed a temporary
judge for commission to try the Weirs, none of the bench being available.
Lauder recalled that Prestoun had been disappointed that he had had to
throw out the evidence of sorcery against Jean Weir.

‘He’s ower pernicketie tae pit up a fecht for a scuggie fellow like
masel,’ Mitchel said. ‘Ma case will be won on principles, no
ten-year-auld evidence, and Sir George and John Eleis are the best for
statin a principle.’

‘And if it’s lost, in spite o them?’

‘Then the testimony o ma bluid will hae mair weicht and credit. A man
like me disna win tae God like a lawyer, sir, wi wishin and wordspeakin,
but by the skailin o his bluid. There’s nae safter place tae lie than on
the altar for Christ.’

Mitchel, Lauder observed, seemed to swing violently between a worldly
humanity, tinged with regret, that was almost touching, and a kind of
inflamed righteousness which rose like a barrier between him and everything
else. It was like watching someone half-drowning, then swimming with
extraordinary power in heavy waters, then beginning to slide under again.

‘Ye unnerstaun,’ said Mitchel, ‘I hae nae fear o death. Ma soul is in
Christ whether I live or die. Death will be welcome eftir this. It will be
a new and better life, an eternal life. Did ye ken, sir, they kept me in
chains in the Tolbooth mair than a twalmonth? Can ye think whit like that
is? The iron bands skive the skin aff ye till ye’re raw tae the banes. Ye
wouldna see a dug treatit sae ill. But that’s by wi – they can dae
naethin tae ma flesh noo that I canna thole. Aw the legal pliskies that
we’ll see in coort are meaningless tae me, but for ae thing – I would
see James Sharp and his pack damned and defeated in this life as they
surely will be hereineftir. So will ye dae it for me?’

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 heid 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 – juist 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 nou; 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 9th 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 of 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 juist 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 nou?’

‘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. ‘Ay. 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 thought 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?’

‘It was his impulse that moved in us. It could not be denied. It could
not be temptation because we were moved by him.’

‘It was sin.’

‘It wasna sin. It couldna be sin. It was God.’

Mitchel thought of what it was like. Sin. How it had felt with the
gardener’s wife. That had been sin – he thanked God now for showing him
what sin was. How it would feel each time. How beautiful it would be if it
were not sin. He was listening to his own body. That was the flesh in
conflict with the soul. The body said, why would God implant these
feelings, if they were not to be acted upon?

‘I was of God and God was of me,’ said Weir. ‘He gave me power over
all things.’

Mitchel struggled to overpower his body’s arguments. ‘It was sin,’ he
said again.

‘When you are of God you are beyond sin. There is nothing but the urges
he puts in ye. All your urges are prayers and praises to him.’

‘No,’ said Mitchel.

‘All of them,’ Weir insisted. ‘There’s nae line to draw. We are
damned or we are saved. What difference does our feeble conscience make to
that?’

He turned suddenly and seemed surprised to see Mitchel there. He seized him
by the shoulders. The foul breath poured onto Mitchel’s face.

‘We are all instruments in God’s hands. Ye canna deny it.’

Mitchel pushed him away. He stood and took a few steps in the gloom. It was
as if there was something rotting in a corner of the room, growing and
shifting as it decayed.

‘Your desires were unnatural!’ He heard the horror in his own voice.
‘How could ye think thae things were frae God? How could ye?’

‘Then from where?’’ said Weir. A terrible groan rose from his throat.
‘Ye needna answer. I ken. I felt the change.’

Mitchel was silent, appalled. There was nothing he could think of to say.

‘It was forty years coming. I didna ken it at first. I thought it was
still him. God. But God had tricked me forty years. He betrayed me. I had a
feeling of him in the dark and it wasna him. Not him at all. It was a
woman.’

‘Jean was your sister,’ said Mitchel.

Weir cackled. The sound turned Mitchel’s stomach.

‘No that auld hag, I’d nae use for her. She was a done creature. Ha!
She still thinks she’s going to Heaven. This, no, this was bonnie. A
beautiful woman in the night. She used to come to me alone. The lips like a
thread of scarlet. The breasts like young roes.’

‘Dinna speak thae words,’ said Mitchel. ‘These are God’s holy
words.’

‘It was God that came, d’ye not see? I am black, but comely, O ye
daughters of Jerusalem. Every night. And I felt her beside me. Every part
of her.’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Mitchel. He was choking on something. He wanted to
leave. He wanted to call out for Vanse to let him out of the cell.

‘Every night I felt down her body. Her arms, her breasts, her belly. I
put my hand in by the hole of the door. Then her legs. Then, one night, she
guided my hands with hers. She took my hands and put them to her feet.’

He drank more water. Mitchel did not call out.

‘They were hairy. Coarse, short, thick hair. Covered wi it. I shrunk
away, but I couldna. She had a grip of me. And then I felt the change. She
was laughing. I kent who it was, who it had been all along. He stood up
before me laughing. Huge, like a giant.  I saw that I was destroyed.’

Mitchel could take no more. He went to the door and started banging on it.
Weir’s breath was filling the whole room with a cloud of poison. He began
to shout as the old man’s voice rose.

‘He is with me always,’ Weir said. ‘I am his, not God’s. I was
always his. I was always chosen, but not for grace. I never had grace. I am
damned.’

The door was unlocked. It was Vanse. Mitchel had paid him to be on hand.
‘Let me oot,’ he said. ‘I canna breathe.’

Vanse nodded. ‘He fouls himsel,’ he said. Mitchel lurched outside and
Vanse closed the door. Behind it they could still hear Weir ranting.

Mitchel sucked in great gasps of air. He thought he had seen something, a
dark figure, looming up behind Weir.

‘On yer wey oot,’ said Vanse calmly, ‘ye hae tae see Jean.’

‘I canna.’

‘Jist a prayer,’ said Vanse. ‘Ye can spare that for her surely.’

Mitchel held a coin out for Vanse. Weir’s laugh still cackled in his
head.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘I canna.’

Vanse plucked the coin and took him by the arm. ‘She is sweet compared wi
him, Maister.’

There was something about his voice. Maybe he intended to betray him, not
let him go. Mitchel realised he was entirely at his mercy.

They went down a passage barely wide enough for the two of them. Doors,
each one with a nightmare behind it. There was a small room at one end of
the passage. Vanse pushed him forward into it.

Jean Weir was sitting on a bench. The door was not locked because her foot
was chained to a ring set in the floor. She looked up placidly.

‘Sandy.’

Mitchel looked behind him. He shrugged at Vanse, pleaded again. ‘I hae
nae prayers left,’ he said. ‘Let me awa. I beg ye.’


Lauder waited for Mitchel to go on. But he seemed drained by the memories.
A minute passed.

‘He thocht he could dae nae wrang,’ said Lauder at last.

‘Aye, that was the worst thing, there was nae hypocrisy in it. His haill
life he thocht he could dae nae wrang, then it was borne in upon him that
he could dae naethin but wrang.’

Lauder shuddered. ‘And aw ye can see in front o ye is eternal
punishment.’

‘He niver lost his faith in that sense. He niver stopped believin in the
life tae come.’

‘It’d been better for him if he had,’ said Lauder.

‘It wouldna hae saved him. He’d hae burnt in ony case. At least he
walked through this world wi a kennin o the next.’

‘Did ye gang tae the Gallowlee?’

‘Aye. It’s a solemn thing, tae see a man sent on his wey, whether
it’s tae Heaven or tae Hell.’

‘I heard he wasna deid when they burnt him.’

Mitchel shook his head. ‘Mebbe no. It was the hangman’s job tae
thrapple him but he couldna get the breath oot o him. It was strange – he
was that seik and feeble they’d tae harl him on a sledge aw the wey frae
the Tolbooth, yet when they had him bound tae the stake there seemed a
byordnar strenth tae his struggles. Ye’d think the life was thrawn oot o
him and then he’d lift his heid and this roarin noise would come oot. The
hangman cam back wi the tow tae try again and Weir’s heid would start tae
batter itsel aff the stake. They couldna get the tow on him. They said tae
him tae speir for the Lord’s mercy but he wouldna. He was shoutin, I hae
lived as a beast, let me die as a beast! Sae the hangman gied up and they
pit the lunt tae the fire.’

‘And his staff?’

‘That was flung in tae, yince the flames had gotten haud. The people
wouldna let them pit it in afore for fear he would use it tae escape.’

‘Aye,’ said Lauder. ‘I heard that. I heard folk say they thocht it
was alive.’

‘Mebbe it was.’

Lauder did not rise to the challenge in Mitchel’s voice. There was
another story he’d heard, that Weir and Satan his master had concocted a
plan to foil the executioners. A mysterious man that had visited him in
prison had been bewitched and substituted for the Major, who had taken on
the other man’s appearance. While the innocent double was being throttled
and incinerated, Weir was stepping past on his way to Leith to catch a boat
for Holland. It was a ludicrous idea, probably put about by the bishops,
who thought all Scotsmen residing in Holland were no better than devils,
but folk would believe anything if they wanted to. Lauder was thinking of
this as he asked his next question.

‘Vanse let ye oot, when ye’d finished in the Tolbooth?’

‘Aye. He was juist a lad. I think, eftir aw, that he didna ken me.’

‘Where did ye gang?’

‘That’s for me tae mind and you tae guess. I said I’d tell ye aboot
Weir, no aboot folk that helped and bieldit me. But I didna stey lang in
Edinburgh, I’ll say that. It wasna safe. Ma face was ower weill-kent.’

‘Ye were safe wi some. Jean didna betray ye.’

‘She hardly saw me. Ye ken the licht in there.’

‘She kent ye werena Sandy, though. When I visited her. I tellt ye
that.’

‘She was a witch and a hure. And dementit tae. I wouldna credit muckle o
whit she had tae say.’

‘Aye, mebbe,’ said Lauder. ‘Ye’re mebbe richt.’

He was suddenly tired. He wondered what time it was. Even though the
thought made him queasy, he was looking forward to being summoned for the
boat back to Scotland.

He looked up at the narrow slit of the window, trying to judge the hour
from the dirty light that pushed feebly in there. A smear of something
colourful caught his eye. It seemed so out of place that he stood up to see
what it was. He picked it off the stone ledge with his finger: cherry
blossom, blown from one of the wizened trees further up the rock. Away from
the outside light, against his flesh, it lost its pinkness and didn’t
look remarkable at all. He sniffed at it, but it had no scent. All he could
smell was Mitchel’s body, the dankness of the cell, and the salt of the
sea all around them.


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Text
Text audience
Adults (18+): General public: Males: Females: Audience size: 1000+

Text details
Method of composition: Wordprocessed
Year of composition: 1999
Word count: 8234

Text medium
Book: Radio: 
Text publication details
Published: Publisher: Fourth Estate
Publication year: 2000
Place of publication: London
ISBN/ISSN: 1-84115-189-0
Edition: First
Part of larger text: Contained in: The Fanatic, by James Robertson - Extract
Page numbers: 174-194

Text setting
Leisure/entertainment: 
Text type
Novel: 

Author
Author details
Author id: 105
Forenames: James
Surname: Robertson
Gender: Male
Decade of birth: 1950
Educational attainment: University
Age left school: 17
Upbringing/religious beliefs: Protestantism
Occupation: Writer
Place of birth: Sevenoaks
Region of birth: Kent
Country of birth: England
Place of residence: Newtyle
Region of residence: W Angus
Residence CSD dialect area: Ags
Country of residence: Scotland
Father's occupation: Sales Director
Father's place of birth: London
Father's country of birth: England
Mother's occupation: Primary Teacher
Mother's place of birth: Leatherhead
Mother's region of birth: Surrey
Mother's country of birth: England

Languages:
Language: English
Speak: Yes
Read: Yes
Write: Yes
Understand: Yes
Circumstances: General use, work and home
Language: French
Speak: Yes
Read: Yes
Write: No
Understand: Yes
Circumstances: Occasional use, work and leisure (holidays)
Language: Gaelic; Scottish Gaelic
Speak: No
Read: Yes
Write: No
Understand: No
Circumstances: Academic, creative
Language: Scots
Speak: Yes
Read: Yes
Write: Yes
Understand: Yes
Circumstances: General use, work and home