dragged John Lauder into the advocates’ dispute. John had foolishly stood on a principle as one of the forty-nine, and had been banished out of town to Haddington for more than a year until a compromise was reached: without sufficient advocates, the procedures of the courts ground almost to a halt, and the forty-nine were grudgingly readmitted.
It was a great misfortune that John Lauder was infatuated with Eleis’s devotion to the principles and process of law: it had got him into trouble and would do so again. Nevertheless, Sir Andrew was fond of his daughter’s husband. He and Janet had been married nine years and provided him with five grandchildren to date. Lauder was only thirty, an open-minded, modest man who could yet be moulded.
The Lauders stayed in the Lawnmarket, a stone’s throw from the courts. Sir Andrew’s residence in town was also at the upper end of the hill, but it was not the power-house it had once been. He still made huge amounts of money from various bits of business, and his accounts showed that the Toun itself owed him nearly two thousand pounds in rents and other debts, but he was no longer the driving-force of municipal commerce and enterprise, and folk no longer queued for an audience with him. More and more, he was taking Lauderdale’s advice and spending time at Abbotshall, across the Firth and away from the scenes of his past triumphs. A visit from his son-in-law, then, was not unwelcome, although it was fairly unusual. Their relationship was easy enough but there would always lie between them the shoogling-bog of their differences regarding the law. It was something they stepped around as a rule, to avoid an embarrassing slip on either side; especially on Sir Andrew’s, since he had been so very bad at law and John was very good.
Today however it was John who was on the uncertain ground. He had come with a set of questions anent the Bass Rock and the black dogs that lay in it. He had been down in East Lothian often, sometimes visiting the Ramsay policies at Wauchton, and of course all the while he was in exile at Haddington the coast had been just a short ride away. He had seen the Bass stark in the great grey sea, but had not ventured across to it. The tide or the winds had always conspired against him. Now he was wondering about a trip to view the prison: ‘Would my lord Lauderdale object tae my gaein ower, dae ye think? I wouldna want tae gie offence by speirin if it was only tae be refusit.’
‘Whit for are ye wantin tae gang tae the Bass, John?’ said Sir Andrew. ‘The place is a midden o zealots. Ye’re no seekin business frae ony o them, are ye?’
‘Their business wi the coorts is by wi, I think,’ said Lauder. ‘But I would like tae see the place. It’s a curiosity.’
‘It certainly is. But ye micht no be wise tae disembark there, John. There’s a touch o the rebel aboot ye, as I mind. Yince they had ye in the Bass, they micht no want tae let ye back hame again.’
It was a kind of joke, but he neither laughed nor smiled as he made it. He noted that his son-in-law was at least sensible enough to show some humility in response.
‘I hae learned a lesson frae the advocates’ affair, my lord. I canna pretend that we dinna differ on that maitter, but I am mair inclined tae compromise these days. I’d hae thocht that would be enough tae distinguish me frae the recusants and guarantee my return tae North Berwick.’
It was an even drier joke than Sir Andrew’s. The older man grumphed.
‘Weill, ye’re probably richt. But it’s a grievous dull place, John. There’s naethin there but solans and sneevillers.’ He reached for the decanter of brandy, refilled his own glass and poured one for Lauder.
‘I’m tellt the birds are in such numbers that they’re a marvel o nature, my lord. I would like tae see that, tae step amang them.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And mebbe, if I was there, I would tak anither keek at this fellow Mitchel, that’s been the cause o such grief tae the Privy Cooncil. He’s the only yin that still has a chairge hingin ower his heid, I think. Aw the rest has been convictit.’
‘Mitchel,’ said Sir Andrew, his brow lowering. ‘A vile and dangerous fanatic if iver there was yin.’
‘Aye,’ said Lauder. ‘That’s whit I would like tae see – the worst kind o fanatic. There was hardly onybody got tae see him aw the years he lay in the Tolbooth, as ye ken. But I would like tae see him noo, him and Prophet Peden and the ithers. They hae a kind of philosophic interest tae me.’
‘Ye philosophise ower much for yer ain guid, John. Ye may gang tae study Mitchel, but be assured he will study you harder. He will mark yer face in his een and yer words in his lugs and if ye dinna come up tae his impossible mark – which ye’ll no, no bein a Gallowa Whig or an Ayrshire rebel – and he should iver win free o that place – which he’ll no, if guid coonsels prevail, unless it’s tae mak a journey tae the end o a short tow – he’ll seek ye oot wi his pistols jist as sune as he’s fired a better shot at his grace the Archbishop. Stay awa frae him, and ye’ll no run that danger. Ye can dae nae guid there, and he can dae ye hairm.’
‘His leg is destroyed by the boots, my lord, and his brain is hauf gane as weill, by whit I hear. He’s no fit tae hairm onybody but himsel.’
‘A wild beast is maist dangerous when it’s caged,’ said Sir Andrew. He had picked up his glass, and now, staring hard at Lauder, he brought it to his lips. He took a long, slow mouthful of brandy, the stare never shifting as the stem of the glass rose. With his round drink-bludgeoned face it might have been the blank look of a soft-brained bully, but the eyes were cold and hard like a bird’s, and the large hooked nose was a bird’s beak. He looked as though he had spotted something shiny in the dirt.
‘Speakin o beasts,’ he said, after swallowing noisily, ‘wasna Mitchel an associate o that auld hypocrite Thomas Weir? Perhaps it would be interestin, eftir aw, tae see if he shared ony o his, eh, recreational tastes.’
‘I imagine that connection’s been explored,’ Lauder said, ‘by His Majesty’s law officers. Onywey, Weir’s been deid seiven year noo. There’ll be naethin tae discover there, I doot.’
Sir Andrew regarded his son-in-law gravely. ‘Ye had a terrible affection for Weir’s sister, gin I mind richt. That’s whit vexes me aboot ye whiles, John. Ye will get ower close tae bad company. Fanatics, witches …’
‘I was hardly close tae Jean Weir,’ Lauder said, his face reddening. ‘I didna ken her at aw. I felt sorry for her. It was a bad business awthegither.’
‘Major Weir the yaudswyver,’ Sir Andrew mused. ‘Dae ye mind we visited him in the Tolbooth? No a bonnie sicht … Even you wi yer odd sympathies, John, I think would find it no possible tae imagine hoo onybody could get pleisure oot o carnal relations wi a horse.’
‘We’re gettin waunert, my lord,’ Lauder said.
But Sir Andrew was enjoying himself. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘hoo exactly dae ye manage it wi a muckle craitur like a horse? Ye could mebbe ask Mitchel if he kens. Dae ye get it tae lie doon, or whit? And when it’s doon, hoo dae ye persuade it no tae get up again when it sees ye approachin wi yer dreid weapon furth o its scawbart? Or mebbe ye let the beast staun, and approach it wi a ladder. It’s a mystery, is it no, John?’
Lauder smiled, to show that he was not too strait-laced to appreciate his father-in-law’s humour. ‘Aboot the Bass …’
‘The Bass is nae langer mine tae say ye can or ye canna gang ower,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘That’s Lauderdale’s domain noo. Ma advice tae ye’s this: bide in Edinburgh. Leavin it’s nae guid for ye unless there’s plague.’
‘I thocht,’ said John Lauder, ‘that wi yer auld interest in the Bass ye micht hae speired o his
