warrands tae would-be philosophers. Onywey, we’re no sae chief as yince we were.’
‘That may be true, my lord,’ Lauder said, ‘but surely it was by yer ain guid offices that the Bass fell intae his hauns? Athoot yersel, he wouldna hae it noo as a prison for the rebels.’
Sir Andrew sat back, wiping his mouth. ‘Ye dinna want tae hear that auld tale again, surely?’ But Lauder sat back too, nodding, while Sir Andrew, who could never resist reliving one of his greatest coups, stroked the tresses of his wig and got into his stride.
‘Lauderdale owed me a favour. It’s peyed noo, that’s the difficulty. The Bass Rock was yin hauf o the bargain atween us, and the tither … weill, the tither was the port o Leith.
‘Ye would only hae been nine or ten, John, so ye’ll no mind this, but when Cromwell occupied us in the fifties, he fullt the port o Leith wi English and had a muckle fortress biggit there, a citadel they cried it, the object being baith tae hae English sodgers watchin ower us and tae set the place up as a tradin rival tae oor ain guid burgh.’
‘Ye can still see bits o the stanework doon there,’ Lauder said encouragingly.
‘Aye, but they’re scant, for it was maistly made o turf. Onywey, the English settlers wantit the port freed frae Edinburgh’s grup, a thing that would hae had the maist grievous repercussions on oor finances. I hadna been a twalmonth in ma first term as provost, but I could see the only wey tae retain oor superiority ower Leith was tae invest in it. Cromwell’s commander in Scotland was General Monk. I had the Cooncil gie five thoosan pund tae the construction o the citadel, and that satisfied Monk – I think he could see Cromwell wasna lang for the warld, and that mebbe it would be silly tae lose aw favour wi us for the sake o a wheen English brewers and glessblawers. Sae naethin changed, and of coorse as sune as the young King wan hame at the Restoration the citadel was ordered tae be dismolished.
‘But noo comes Lauderdale, His Majesty’s new Secretary o State, upon the scene. He’d managed tae get the site o the citadel gien intae his chairge. He was fain o the auld plan and got a charter o regality tae raise Leith intae a burgh. It was a ludicrous notion – hoo could sic a clarty boorach be a burgh? – but Lauderdale had set his mind on it, sae it behooved me tae find a wey roon his plans, jist as I had afore wi Monk, or he would hae broke the trade o Edinburgh. Aw the duties on wines and ale that the Toun levied frae Leith my lord would hae acquired for himsel, and in my capacity as a public servant I couldna let him deprive us o oor richtfu taxes.
‘Sae I says tae him, where’s the sense in fallin oot ower a puckle bawbees? Ye want tae mak a profit oot o Leith – I’ll spare ye the bother o administerin the levies, suppressin corruption amang yer officials and the like. I’ll buy the citadel back frae ye for Edinburgh. And tae compensate ye for the loss o income, I’ll gie ye a lump sum in lieu o the wine imposition. Ye’ll walk awa wi yer pooches fou, my lord, I said, and Edinburgh will keep control o her ain destiny. There’s no mony men that can speak sae free wi Lauderdale nooadays.’
John Lauder acknowledged this with a half-smile. ‘How much was it again,’ he asked, ‘that Lauderdale wanted for being deprived o his livelihood?’
Sir Andrew laughed. ‘Ay, he’s such a puir man! Him wi a hoose in Lunnon and the estate at Thirlestane and land aw ower Scotland. He drave a reasonable bargain, John. Rich men can aye be civil wi each ither. I offered him sax thoosan pund for the citadel, and five thoosan pund for the levies, which was a generous sum, but worth it tae keep my lord sweet – sae he got eleiven thoosan pund aw tellt, no a bad income for nae labour.’
‘The Toun wouldna been happy at peyin oot sic an amount?’
‘The Toun didna hae ony choice,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘I was the Toun in thae days, John. Onywey, haudin the duties in oor grup was my priority. Wi the citizens’ drouth and capacity for liquor, it didna tak lang for the Cooncil tae realise I’d made them a guid niffer.
‘That was awa back in 1662, when the King was newly hame and there were debts and favours fleein aboot the country like a flock o stirlins. Aye, an plenty o scores tae be settled tae, eftir twenty years fechtin an sufferin under the kirk elders. I kept ma heid abune it aw when I couldna keep it ablow the dyke, John, an I advise ye tae dae the same in these troubled days – especially since ye hae Janet an the bairns tae think on tae, an no jist yersel wi yer high notions o the sanctity o law.
‘I held ontae that favour eicht years, and there were times, I confess, when Lauderdale’s position at coort wobbled a wee, when I thocht I michtna get the chance tae redeem it. But then the miscreant tendency began tae stir themsels again, and the government was lookin aboot for a siccar place tae lodge the rebel ministers and keep them awa frae the lugs o the ignorant. That’s when the idea o the Bass insinuated itsel intae ma heid, and I went tae Lauderdale and offered him it. There it was, a muckle lump in the middle o the sea, wi an auld fort upon it – needin some repairs, of coorse – inaccessible but handy enough for Edinburgh, and wha should happen tae be in possession o it? Why, Sir Andrew Ramsay, Lord Provost o Edinburgh, that had gotten it as pairt o the lands o Wauchton frae a puir laird fawn on hard times. I niver would hae thocht the brichtest jewel o that inheritance would be an auld tooth stickin oot in the Firth, but there ye are.
‘I reckoned ma income frae the Rock was nae mair than fifty pund per annum, and that was frae sendin lads ower tae lift the solans’ chicks, but I tellt Lauderdale it could be doubled if there was a permanent garrison pit there, the birds managed on a proper basis, and sundry charges levied on whaiver micht be pit tae live in the place. Hoo muckle would ye want for it, says my lord? Oh, says I, no as muckle as I peyed ye for Leith, it’s only a Rock eftir aw. But, I says, it’s mebbe gotten a hidden value if it keeps the kingdom free o rebels. Oot o Scotland, oot o mind, as it were. Weill, Lauderdale took the hint. I’d been votin his wey in Parliament aw thae eicht years, and takkin maist o the ither burghs wi me forby. Weill, he says, suppose ye live tae be an auld man o ninety, that’s nigh on forty years’ income ye’d be losin. At a hunner pund a year, by your accoont? I’ll ask the King tae gie ye fower thoosan pund for it. And he did, John, he did. Fower thoosan pund,’ he finished hoarsely, pouring himself a fresh brandy, ‘for a lump o rock, a flock o geese and a rickle o stanes that ye wouldna keep pigs in. At that price I didna even fetch back ma sheep – it would hae been ower pernickety, d’ye no think?’
John Lauder could not help admiring his father-in-law’s grotesque self-confidence. He himself was always questioning – his own nature and motives, the accepted norms of daily life, the habits of individuals and of society. But Sir Andrew was like the Bass, a solid relentless rock in a swirling sea of change. He was beholden to him in many ways, certainly he could not afford to offend him, but there were times when he wanted to wring his fat neck. Just now though, he wanted his influence to clear him a passage to the Bass. And there was no motive that Sir Andrew needed to know of, other than the one he had given out loud: he wanted to see James Mitchel, the fanatic to beat all fanatics. He wanted to see what made him what he was.
‘Will ye speak wi the Secretary o State then?’ he asked. ‘He kens me. He kens ma loyalty to the King. I would like to see the prison and cast an objective eye ower prejudice.’
It was a nice touch. Sir Andrew shrugged. ‘John, ye’re a guid lad, though ye whiles keep company I dinna care for. Yer cousin Eleis hasna pit ye up tae this, has he?’
‘This is my concern alane, my lord,’ said John Lauder. ‘John Eleis has naethin tae dae wi it. It’s mair than a week since I last spak wi him.’
‘Then I’ll hae a word,’ said Sir Andrew. Then he seemed to change his mind. ‘In truth, I hardly think it necessary tae fash Lauderdale wi sic a triviality. I can arrange it masel. They are ower lax wi the rebels and permit them parcels
