by John Buchan
For days he wandered fiercely in the streets, picking up fragments of news and cursing his powerlessness. He heard of the verdict, and then of the sentence of death received with a cheerful composure, even with a joke. At the hearing his old admiration revived for the indomitable man who could wait on the last enemy with a gibe. He counted the hours till the day of meeting. This, after all, was the fortunate warrior, who could go out of life with a twitch of his cloak and a word of scorn to his tormentors. The grossness, the cunning, the malice were all forgotten; he remembered only Lovat of the many generous sentiments, the great chief of Fraser, and the wisest brain in the North.
In the chill of the last Wednesday evening he was admitted at the gate of the Tower and led to the prisoner’s chamber. As they went down the passage there were sounds of riotous mirth coming from the melancholy place. The warder looked hopelessly bewildered. “This is the way those wild Scots prepare for death,” he cried. “I have had twenty-three honest gentlemen in my hands before they took their last walk, and all spent their last evening in meditation and prayer.” When the door was opened the room seemed filled with tobacco reek and the fumes of punch. Through the smoke Francis saw some few of Lovat’s near kin, making as merry as if it were an alehouse in Inverness. General Williamson, the Lieutenant-colonel of the Tower, sat opposite the prisoner, apparently in some discomfort. The old lord himself was reading from a paper, with a pair of enormous spectacles stuck on his nose and a handkerchief in his hand. A fire burned in the grate, but the prisoner’s blood seemed chilly, for he wore enormous hose turned up over his knees and a pair of buckled slippers. His face had lost its pallor and shone with the heat and the wine.
“I am touched,” cried he, looking at the paper. “Here’s this body — Paynter they call him, a noble-hearted fellow for certain — writes to Mr. Secretary Pelham, and I hear he has petitioned his Majesty likewise. And what do ye think the purport is? He wants the honour of being beheaded in the Lord Lovat’s stead. See the creature fair fleeches and begs! ‘I pray you, sir, intercede with the King that the Lord Lovat may be pardoned.’ These are his words.” And he took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully, and then surveyed the company. “I thank God that there are still good men in the world. ‘Greater love than this hath no man, that a man lay down his life for a friend.’ What think ye o’ that, gentlemen?”
The Lieutenant said something about the man’s being crazed.
“And indeed I am of your opinion,” said Lovat. “Clearly the creature must be daft. For see what he calls me—’a vile traitor, an ungrateful wretch.’ Weel, weel, I doubt the poor gentleman is weary of living in this wicked world.”
Then, catching sight of Francis, “Eh, here’s a welcome face!” he cried, “my ancient friend Francie come to bid the auld man guid e’en. Here’s a seat by my side, lad,” and he pointed to a chair near the fireplace. “Now, sir, this is a merry meeting, and, as we cannot reasonably drink to many mair, we will even drink to it as it stands.” And the Frasers filled up their glasses with due solemnity.
“Ye did weel, sir,” he said, speaking in Francis’ ear. “I have heard from Duncan Forbes of your efforts, and be sure I do not forget them. But, lad, I couldna jouk my fate, and I must e’en submit. I thought I got a glisk o’ ye in the Hall some days syne. Did ye hear my defence that I had the clerk set to read? Was it no bonny, and was it no dine to see yon scunnering creature, Murray, shift about as I told the world what I kenned of him?”
Then he fell into a long strain of moralising after his fashion, but the near approach of death gave a flavour to his words which exalted them almost to wisdom. “See, Mr. Birkenshaw,” he said simply, “ye are a young man and may take a word of counsel. I have maybe made a hash of my life, for I was ower wild and headstrong, and maybe ower given to the sins of the flesh. But after all I have had my sport out o’ life. I have had my fingers in every pie that’s been making, and, faith, I have created some sort of a steer in the world. And that would ever be my counsel to young blood — to gang forrit, set the world in a bleeze if ye can, and if ye get your hair singit as I’ve got mine, ye need never care for the sake o’ the graund spectacle.”
He took out his watch and considered. “Twelve hours more in this middenstead of a world,” he said, speaking loud to all. “Now mind ye, Shamus Fraser,” and he turned to one of his friends, “ye hear the last injunctions of your chief. Ye will have my body buried in the kirk of Kirkhill, for there lie all the generations of Lovat, and I’ve put a note in my will by which I leave bountith to all the pipers frae John o’ Groats to Edinburgh to play before my body. Lord, it will be a braw music, and I wish I could be there to hear it. But it’s like that the Government will not allow it,” he said sadly. “King Geordie is no sae mensefu’ as King Jamie, and he has nae sense o’ humour.” He looked at the embers for a little and then turned round more cheerfully. “At any rate all the old women in my own country will cry the coronach, and it will be a wonderful crying, for I am the greatest chief in all the Highlands. And I will never see the heather hills more, nor the rigs o’ Corryarrick;” and for a second his mocking face relaxed into plain sorrow.
“I drink a good journey to you, Mac Shimei,” and a tall Fraser rose with a trembling glass.
“Amen,” said Lovat, tossing off a cup, and then emptying his pipe ashes on the hearth. “See, gentlemen, the end of human life is like this snuff o’ tobacco. A moment we are bleezing finely, and then we go out and nothing is left but grey ashes.” And he sighed and sat for a little with his head on his breast.
He turned to the Lieutenant and asked to see his little daughter. “Where’s the wee bairn that used to come in and play hunt-the-gowk wi’ me? She’ll no be in bed yet, and I would like to bid farewell to her. She was a fine little lass.”
“I fear, my lord, you cannot see her,” said the man, huskily. “She has done nothing but weep for two days since ever she heard of your fate. She is a little traitor at heart, for she abuses the King and his judges most roundly. I heard her only yesterday designing an escape for you from prison such as was given to the Apostles at Philippi. She will miss her play-fellow most bitterly.”
“Will she indeed?” said the old lord. “God bless the dear child, and make her eternally happy, for she is a good, kind-hearted lass.”
Shortly after this he desired that all should leave him save Francis and the Lieutenant. When they were alone he asked the latter to fetch Mr. Baker, the chaplain of the Sardinian ambassador, to give him the last comforts of the Church. “But I had thought you a Presbyterian, my lord,” said the Lieutenant. “You passed for such through most of your career.”
“Policy often makes havoc wi’ a man’s creed,” said Lovat, smiling wickedly, “but I have ever abode in the faith of the only true Kirk. I adhere to the rock on which Christ built his gospel. I ground my faith upon St. Peter and the succession of pastors from him down to the present, and I reject and renounce all sects and communities that are rejected by the Kirk. That is my confession of faith, and if you think it of sufficient importance to the world, sir, I will put it down in writing.”
“I did not know you were a theologian,” said the other, in some wonder.
“The world little kens what I am,” said Lovat, and it was hard to tell whether the whole thing was jest or earnest. “Some day mayhap the world will do me justice, and the little children of the clan will be proud to think of their chief. But I’ve been like the Almighty, hiding my ways in the sea and my paths in the great waters, and it will take a wise man and a cunning to find them out. Francis, you have seen much of me, and I might have looked to you for a proper understanding of me, if ye hadna been so thick in the heid and dour in your ain conceit.”
“I have one question, my lord,” said Francis. “I have bungled the trust you laid on me, but I have striven to keep my word. Do you absolve me from any blame in your death? It would let me lie down with an easier heart.”
“Absolve ye, lad? Freely; and mair, I have to thank y
e kindly. I bid ye good-bye, for there’ll be little time the morn. Gang back to your ain land, lad, and take my blessing with ye. And now I must ask ye to leave me to myself for a little, that I may prepare for the putting away of mortality.”
“But, my lord,” cried the Lieutenant, “I have heard that there are differences even within your creed. The Sardinian chaplain has the name of a rank Jesuit. Are you too of that persuasion?”
“A Jesuit?” said Lovat, with a twinkling eye and a gesture of doubt. “Faith, no, when I think upon it, I am a Jansenist. But anything in the shape o’ a priest will serve my turn. Good-night to ye, gentlemen.” And with this last piece of mystification he bade them farewell.
CHAPTER XX. The Death of the Lord Lovat.
The morning was mist and rain with a wind blowing from the east up the packed streets. It was like a fête-day in the town with people in Sunday clothes hastening Tower-wards. When Francis came down to the dining-room, a maid was scrubbing the hearth, the windows were open, and in the raw early chill there came a babble as of a city in expectation. He had slept scarcely a wink, being full of thought and a kind of bitter excitement. He knew the whole evil of Lovat’s life, but this sounding fate seemed to elevate him into the heroic. For Francis the world at the moment held but one event and one man, and at the thought rage, compassion, and regret made a medley of his feelings.
Margaret came down wrapped up in a thick cloak against the rawness of the morning. She wore the heavy veil she had thought needful for the open streets, and all her garments were of the sombrest black.
“I could not go dressed otherwise,” she said. “I could not put on a fine gown to witness the death of a friend. My cousin tells me to stay at home, for I shall only break my heart to no purpose; but when so few of his countrywomen will be near, I should think shame to be absent.”
Tales of Lovat’s deeds and last dying confession had been printed in flying sheets, and were hawked up and down the causeways. The crush was already setting eastward, and one man was telling to another his version of this great affair. The name of this terrible outlawed monster had been long in the people’s ears, and now they were to have a sight of him in all the pomp and contumely of a traitor’s death. From the hanging windows crowds of fine ladies had dared the morning air to look down upon the throng; some even had risen early and in their coaches sought a stand upon Tower hill.
The cheerful holiday crowd brought tears to Margaret’s eyes, as Francis with his great shoulders clove a way through, his dark, uncommon face bringing him a certain respect.
“We are strangers in a strange place,” she said sadly. “What do these folk care for our broken King and people? And yet they say he had many well-wishers in this place.”
At Temple Bar the shrivelled heads of the Lords Balmerino and Kilmarnock grimaced at the crowd. At the sight Margaret clung closer to his arm. The rousing tale of Balmerino’s conduct on the scaffold had stirred even the most Whiggish blood, and she looked at the poor dumb mouth, her face blanched with excitement, as in the old days when she had sat on horseback watching the entrance of the Camerons.
“But he was young and strong,” she cried, “and he might well face death courageously. But my Lord Lovat is old and feeble, and he cannot stand squarely against his foes.” Then with a catching of the breath she would have stopped. “Oh, it is horrible! And this is the issue of great expectations!”
The whole hill was black with folk, and on stands were many more of the better sort, all agape for the spectacle. The two halted yards off at the verge of the dense throng, where some carriages stood waiting. Afar like a toy building stood the scaffold with its bare timbers and the black-draped block and the guarded alley leading thither from the Tower gate. The thought of this one man alone or all but alone in this vast hostile sea of faces stirred Francis wildly, and he could scarcely bide still. The same thought was in Margaret’s mind, for she looked with piteous eyes at the thick wall of men. “Oh, that we could get near him,” she cried, “that he might have kind faces to look upon at the end!”
As Francis looked round he saw in a coach among the others the Lord President. At once he made his way to his side. “May I beg you, my lord,” he cried, “to watch over this lady and take her home when all is over? I would fain get near Lovat to-day.”
Forbes glanced at the slim, beautiful figure which he knew so well. “With all my heart, Mr. Birkenshaw,” he said, while he held out a hand to Margaret. “The lady will see the last of our poor friend as well here as elsewhere. I wish you God-speed on your errand.”
“I shall win to him, though the crowd were ten times greater. It is better to leave you than to stay.” And in a second he was lost in the thick of men.
For many minutes he struggled as only the desperate can, elbowing fiercely, being struck again and again, gripping his opponents and half-suffocating them, till he had forced his way past. Now and then he would come to a knuckle of rising ground whence he saw the scaffold, and always he noted gladly that it was empty. Weaker men were fainting all about him, but his supple vigour had its effect, and soon he was half-way through, and then only a quarter of the space was left. He was breathless, hatless, his coat torn in many places, and his face sorely scratched. Then, as he saw the wooden planks almost within reach, he heard a great sigh of expectation go through the multitude, and the tramp of men above the other din told him that Lovat was coming.
As he stood panting in the dense throng below, Lovat stood above him and cast a curious glance round the assembly. It happened on Francis, and his eager eyes told their tale. “I pray you, sir,” he asked the Sergeant, “to allow this young gentleman to come up beside me. He is a dear friend, and has but newly arrived.” The Sergeant, willing to pleasure the old man, gave an order, the crowd was opened by soldiers, and Francis found the way clear for him to ascend the platform. In a moment he was by Lovat’s side, a new spectator of the last act in the play.
Around — apparently for miles — was a dim circle of faces, and a hum rose from them, silent though they were, like the breathing of a great wild beast. Now and again a woman’s or a boy’s scream would break the air, only to be hushed again in the pitiless mass. It was as if one stood on a pinnacle, watched by a million hungry eyes which bit into the soul. Lovat cowered for a second, for no feeling is more awful for a moment than to be one against a host; then his spirit came back to him, and he turned to Francis, smiling.
“The last time I stood before men under the sky was at my ain Castle Dounie,” he said, “when I heartened my folk to die for the Prince. I am like to need all the heartening myself now.” Then a twinge took him, and he all but fell into Francis’ arms, while his clansman, Shamus Fraser, ran forward to help him. Supported thus, he limped across the platform, making a strange clatter in the quiet.
Suddenly in the midst of the crowd something horrible happened; for the scaffolding of a stand gave way, and the erection with its inmates fell on the packed array of heads. In a moment there was a wild panic, to which soldiers fought their way with difficulty. For a little it seemed as if a great catastrophe impended, for several men were taken up dead and mangled, and the crowd was all but hysterical. Then slowly the tumult subsided, the dead were borne out, and eyes turned again to the scaffold.
Lovat had watched the scene with delight. “There’s some o’ them killed,” he whispered breathlessly. “Weel, weel, so be it. The mair mischief the better sport.” Francis looked at him in amazement. A second ago he had been ready to venerate this man as a hero; now, behold, it was the old Lovat back again, a very malicious, jeering hero, laughing cruelly in the article of death.
“The sport’s bye,” he said, as expectant silence reigned again, “and now it’s my turn to divert my friends. It’s as weel, Francis, that it’s an easy job, demanding small exertion on my part, for I am a done auld man.”
His whole humour seemed to change, as if he felt that men expected something high and heroical in his final bearing. He gave one last glance at the cr
owd. “God save us,” he cried, “why should there be such a bustle about taking off an auld grey head that canna get up two steps without two men to support it? Francie, your airm, my son!”
He limped up to the block, nodded cheerfully to the executioner, and begged to see the axe. “It might be sharper,” he said, “but it hasna far to gang, and will maybe do.” Then taking his gold-headed cane, he cried to a young lad who stood weeping behind him, “Alistair, my dear lad, take my staff and keep it weel for my sake. Ye’ve been a kind callant, and I wish I had a better gift.” The poor boy took it, crying very bitterly, and turned away his face.
Then taking off his coat and cravat with Francis’ aid, he laid them down carefully, bidding the executioner keep them if he cared. Beside the block stood his coffin, and stooping down he read the inscription.
“Simon Dominus Fraser de Lovat,” he read, “decollat ætat. suæ 80.”
[* Lord Fraser of Lovat — Beheaded for High Treason, at the Age of Eighty.]
For some seconds he continued gazing, and then turned away with a sigh.
“Happily my fame does not rest on this short line, Francis,” he said. “But, indeed, what am I thinking of?” and he declaimed: —
“‘Nam genus et proavos, et quæ non fecimus ipsi,
Vix ea nostra voco.’”*
[* As for things done by our ancestors and other people than ourselves, I say we can have no credit for them. — Ovid, Metamorphoses, XIII, 140.]
He turned to Shamus Fraser, and taking both hands bade him farewell. “My dear Shamus,” he cried, “I am going to heaven, but you must continue to crawl a little longer in this evil world.” And then he spoke to him shortly of his dying bequests, and his messages to his kinsfolk. The man was white and speechless, his dark face working with suppressed tears.
