The Patriot

by Nigel Tranter

  Whether there was any truth in what became known as the Rye House Plot is doubtful. Certainly Rumbold and some others named by Keeling were members of one of the rather wild groupings, and were promptly arrested and put to the question. But much bigger game than this was the objective. It was the members of the Council of Six, and some of their associates, at which the thing was aimed - although all knew well enough that these were not the kind of people to be involved in assassination and the like, nor to associate with such as Rumbold's company of extremists. Despite their lofty rank, however, all save Monmouth were arrested and thrown into the Tower, with some of their close friends.

  The worst followed swiftly. Lord Grey contrived to escape, by plying his gaoler with drink, and managed to get away to Holland. Lord Howard proved to be weak, a broken reed, and under pressure signed his name to what their enemies wanted him to say, condemning his friends. The Earl of Essex was found dead in his cell; and Hampden and Lord William Russell were condemned to death for high treason.

  With Algernon Sidney, Trenchard and one or two other M.P.s arrested as accomplices, and also condemned to execution, Gilbert Burnet was in no doubt as to his own vulnerability, and that of any guests of his. Indeed the presence of the two Scots exiles in his house was a further menace to him. They must flee, therefore, and at once. Burnet himself refused to do so - indeed he insisted that he must attend Lord Russell, his especial friend, on the scaffold, as minister; but his lodgers must go. He could arrange for them to sail for the Low Countries in one of the many wool-ships, as was being contrived for Monmouth.

  Andrew accepted the inevitable. But Robert Baillie said no. He would go back to Scotland, secretly. He had a wife and family there and no brother to mind his estates and send money. He would return to Home of Polwarth, from where he could slip back and forth across the Border at need. There too he could keep contact with his estates. He had intended this, anyway.

  Andrew tried to dissuade him, emphasising the dangers, as did Burnet, but to no effect. Andrew, of course, was tempted to do likewise; but he recognised this could only involve others in danger. He would go to Holland where so many Scots exiles received protection from the young Protestant Prince of Orange, William, married to the Duke of York's eldest daughter Mary, herself strongly Protestant. Monmouth, it seemed, was bound there also, not for the first time.

  So, in tense circumstances, they parted, all wondering whether any would see each other again.

  6

  Strangely enough Andrew did not feel so much of an exile in Holland as he had done in London. That small country seemed to be full of Scots; and here he did not have to go furtively but could behave like an ordinary citizen. The people, too, were friendly, a simple, undemonstrative, down-to-earth lot not unlike the Lowland Scots - and of course Protestant.

  Andrew arrived at Rotterdam in the spring of 1664, having come by easy stages, via Paris and Brussels. Like so many another of his class and background, he had made the tour of Europe as part of his later education, and so knew the Continent reasonably well. Henry was supplying him with adequate funds, these reaching him mainly at the hands of merchants from Scottish ports, for these kept up a great trade with their various French, Flemish, Dutch and Germanic counterparts, with much coming and going. Some of the delay, therefore, was occasioned by awaiting the arrival of such messengers, at arranged points. Besides, there was no least hurry. Indeed, after the stresses and contentions of Scotland and the confinement, secrecy and dangers of London, this Continental interlude seemed almost like a prolonged holiday, even though Andrew did tend to fret, with guilty feelings of inaction and uselessness.

  Henry sent him letters as well as money, which kept him informed of conditions in Scotland and the fortunes of their friends, as well as on estate matters and problems. Henry himself so far seemed to have suffered no real hardship as a result of his brother's activities, save for the further billeting of militia on Saltoun; he was, to be sure, an inoffensive character, who was apt to look well before he leapt, in marked contrast to his vehement and hot-tempered elder brother.

  The news from Scotland, otherwise, was far from reassuring, with the military now more or less in entire command, an ominous foretaste of what conditions might be like when James Duke of York became King. The dragoons ruled the land, with sword, pistol and spur; and since the dragoons' officers were given sheriffs' powers also, there was no redress in law. Always Lauderdale and Rothes had relied on the soldiers to do their bidding; but now, lacking strong men above them and taking orders directly from the Duke of York, the soldiers had it all their own way. Dalziel of the Binns, Grierson of Lag, Johnstone of Westerhall and Graham of Claverhouse were the names at which even strong men came to blench and women wailed. Graham was indeed now on the Privy Council, that grim instrument of royal power, a meteoric rise. In nominal rule were only titled mediocrities. Gordon of Haddo had been created Earl of Aberdeen; but that did not make a strong man of him. Sir George Mackenzie of Rosehaugh, the Advocate, was the brain of the administration; but he was not the man to keep the soldiers in order.

  Enclosed with one of Henry's letters was one from Margaret Carnegie. She wrote kindly, even affectionately, but somehow carefully - as she no doubt felt that she must; but he wished that he could have read rather more into it. She did sign herself 'your devoted friend', however, which might take on a fairly fervent interpretation. He kept her letter on his person, at any rate. When he came to answer it, he found that he too had to be rather more careful than was his usual - which comforted him.

  At Rotterdam Andrew found a veritable Scots colony, with its own Presbyterian church, clubs and social hierarchy. Here, of all people, MacCailean Mor was supreme, supported by another Campbell, the Earl of Loudoun, by the Earl of Melville from Fife and many other notables of lesser rank if greater accomplishments or notoriety, including the Reverend Ferguson, known as the Plotter - which, in an age of plotters, was distinction indeed. Andrew was much surprised to discover in this company none other than the recent Lord President of Session, Sir James Dalrympie of Stair who had found it expedient to remove himself rather further away than Ayrshire from the ire of the Duke of York and the military, once the Confession of Faith business became known.

  The United Provinces of Holland, at this period, represented a small enclave of freedom, peace and culture in a Europe otherwise scarcely noteworthy for such conditions -extraordinary, considering how close-pressed by the Spanish Netherlands, the France of Louis Fourteenth and the warring Germanic states which had succeeded the old Empire. William of Orange, son of a Stewart princess and wed to another, although young, was, as well as a noted soldier, a shrewd, solid and reliable character, fairly typical of his people, and had had the good sense to build up the finest fleet in Christendom -which was part of the secret of Holland's independence and security — his admirals' names striking fear in every court in Europe. William and his wife did not appear to object to their country becoming a haven for refugees from many lands -there were even Catholic refugees in Holland. And the great universities of Utrecht and Leyden were beacons of religious thought, philosophy and the arts, unsurpassed in that age.

  There were almost as many English exiles as Scots; but whereas the latter tended to roost at Rotterdam the former made Amsterdam their centre. The seat of government was at The Hague; but since they were all within a day's ride of each other, there was a certain amount of mingling - and some friction also, inevitably. The Duke of Monmouth stayed with his cousin, the Princess Mary, at The Hague, but was seen frequently at the other towns likewise.

  In all the expatriate groupings the plotting went on incessantly, of course, normal amongst exiles with too little to do. At Rotterdam, when Andrew arrived, the schemes centred round Argyll, naturally, with his great manpower potential in his clan-lands. There seemed to be some doubt as to the ultimate objectives of such Campbell-led endeavours, however fervent the Protestant spirit. Scotland was still ostensibly a Protestant realm and Argyll was a King's man a
nd no republican. It was the Duke of York and his minions who had ousted him; but Argyll was loth to take any real steps which might seem to be aimed against King Charles. Others were less nice, especially the sanctimonious Plotter Ferguson, and MacCailean Mor was being edged along almost unwillingly. Other Scots were frankly republican in outlook; and there was a religious grouping which stridently urged a theocratic kind of government to usher in God's kingdom on earth - and to hell with the Pope of Rome. On the English front the plotters were much more united, the sole objective being somehow to get Monmouth on to the throne.

  Andrew deliberately avoided entanglement in any of these contentious groups. He was not a plotter by nature, preferring open politics, the exchange of views, reform by reason and consensus, not violence and recourse to arms. But his was very much a minority opinion.

  In his concern not to get involved in the scheming and factioneering, he sought semi-permanent lodgings somewhere well out of the city and its hothouse atmosphere. He was fortunate to chance on a substantial farmer named Pieter van Heel, outside a dockside alehouse, somewhat the worse for schnapps, whom he rescued from attacking ruffians with the aid of a hastily-drawn if unprimed pistol. Thereafter he escorted the man home to his farm in the Bergschenhoel area two miles north of the city - to the gratitude of the large and motherly Mivrouw van Heel and her amiable daughter. After the ladies had put the farmer to bed, nothing would do but that his protector be fed, and nobly; then, hearing that he was going back merely to a Rotterdam inn, it was insisted that he stay the night. In the morning it did not take long to persuade the visitor that the Van Heel farm was a better place for a young Scottish gentleman to lodge than any city hostelry, and the matter was arranged there and then.

  That proved to be a very fortunate incident for Andrew, for not only was he exceedingly comfortable and well looked-after at Bergschenhoel, but Van Heel, despite his weakness for schnapps, turned out to be a notable agriculturalist, practising an advanced land-husbandry which greatly interested Andrew as an improving laird. He had never seen barley such as Van Heel grew and on land, on the face of it, not so good as his own at Saltoun. Also the Dutchman had his own mills, two of them, with machinery much in advance of anything his guest knew. Andrew wrote at some length about all this to Henry, with recommendations. But he did not add that the daughter, Alida, was friendly, generous and very understanding as to a young man's needs far from home and his own sort of womenfolk. Margaret Carnegie seemed a long way away, and love unexpressed. Not that the word love or its Dutch equivalent came into Andrew's head in connection with Alida van Heel; but he found her very much to his taste, nevertheless, of a long wintry night in Holland.

  In the reverse direction news from Scotland grew ever more dire. It was not a letter, but the arrival at Rotterdam of Sir Patrick Home of Polwarth, which informed him. Baillie of Jerviswood was dead, hanged. He had been hiding at Polwarth and making secret sallies through the Borderlands from there, involved in an attempt to set up a scheme of emigration to form a Scots colony in the Carolinas, where men could be free to worship God as they thought right. But he had been apprehended, most grievously maltreated, tried for treason, offered his life if he would betray others, and when he refused, although by then a very sick man, hanged in his nightshirt and his limbs hacked off to be exhibited in different towns.

  Andrew grieved sorely, and cursed the men who could so use one of the best of their countrymen.

  Sir Patrick's links with Baillie and the emigration scheme had become known, and the dragoons came to Polwarth in the Merse. He had fled - but only so far as the family burial-crypt under the floor of his parish church, where he hid in the cold and dark for many weeks, amongst the coffins. There his twelve-year-old daughter, Grizel, brought him small quantities of food, hidden in her clothing and saved from her own plate, slipping out from the castle each night, once the soldiers were asleep, for her errand amongst the tombs. His refuge eventually flooded by melting snows, he had been forced to evacuate it, had managed to reach Tweed and thereafter walked his way down through England, acting as a travelling surgeon, in which he had some skills, to reach the Thames and a ship for Bruges.

  Sir Patrick was a useful acquisition for the exile colony, at least for those who sought action, for there was a great clan of Homes in the East Borders, with over a score of lairdships, able to raise a large number of men and mounted Borderers at that, and the Homes tended to stick together. Many who would not follow a Highland Campbell might follow a Border Home.

  With February, the time of decision came abruptly. Charles Stewart died suddenly, and his brother lost no time in having himself proclaimed king in both realms, James the Seventh and Second. If there were to be any deeds, in place of the floods of words, now was the occasion.

  Andrew Fletcher gazed round the great assembly in the marble hall of the Stadthuis of Amsterdam, and shook his head.

  "This is a folly!" he declared. "A levee, a carnival! Who could take seriously such a gathering? I understood that it was to be a council, a debate, to come to decisions. Not, not a junketing!"

  Sir Patrick Home, who had persuaded Andrew to attend, shrugged. "I had not expected so many," he admitted. "Nor this . . . revelry. But the desired end may be gained, even so. The right decisions taken. Group with group."

  "I am no soldier, but never did I hear of a campaign being decided upon thus."

  There must have been fully three hundred present, Scots, English, Irish, Dutch, Huguenot French, all talking, laughing, drinking, circulating in that great hall with its white marble walls, black-and-white tiled floor, statuary on plinths and mirrors which seemed to double the numbers. Their hosts were none other than the Lord Grey of Werk, the escaped member of the Council of Six, and Anthony Ashley-Cooper, 2nd Earl of Shaftesbury, son of the man who had brought down Lauderdale, now himself an exile. The object of the meeting was to link, if possible, the English and Scots action in the present situation and to create some sort of united Protestant front.

  After observing for a while, from their small gallery, the two Scots perceived that there was a certain amount of method in the business. Grey, Shaftesbury and Argyll, with a few of their close associates, formed a tight knot, which moved about the hall and to which aides brought up individuals to say their say, make their contributions or be given their instructions, and then be dismissed. It was a court rather than a conference, and any decisions would be arrived at by the consultants not those consulted.

  "I cannot see this resulting in any unified venture," Andrew insisted. "The bedfellows are too odd. And the methods look autocratic without being assured!"

  "We shall see," Home said. "Come, and give them the benefit of your views, my friend."

  "I am not eager..." Andrew reminded. But having come he could hardly refuse further contact.

  Sir Patrick was sufficiently important to do his own introducing, and he made much of Andrew to the Englishmen. Surprisingly, Argyll added to the praise - which had the effect of putting the younger man very much on his guard, for hitherto MacCailean Mor had been less than friendly. Grey nodded distantly, not mentioning that they had met previously.

  "I have heard of Mr. Fletcher," Shaftesbury said graciously. Under his enormous wig, he seemed to be a handsome man of about forty, in a flashy way and over-dressed. "Heard of his influence in the Scottish Parliament. And of his, h'm, substance. We welcome his adherence to our great endeavours."

  "I thank you. But, although I would be sorry to disappoint your lordship, I fear that I can scarcely be said to adhere to an endeavour of which I know not. First I would require to hear what it is?"

  "Why, man - the Protestant cause! What else?" Argyll said.

  "The cause is scarcely the endeavour, my lord. To what am I expected to adhere?" Perhaps that sounded distinctly stiff from a young man to his elders and betters. Lord Grey frowned.

  "What but our joint effort to put a Protestant monarch on England's throne, Mr. Fletcher? Surely that is sufficient? And Scotland's also, o
f course," Shaftesbury added, as afterthought. "All must know that much."

  "Mr. Fletcher keeps himself mighty retired," Argyll observed, geniality wearing thin. "He did not always, I mind!"

  "This joint effort, my lords? In what does it consist?"

  "In projected landings in England and Scotland, at the same time, sir," Grey said. "With Protestant risings in both countries, to coincide." That held a hint of impatience. "All this has been talked of for long. Now is the time to act. We must decide on dates, numbers, landing-places, shipping and the like. And, to be sure, moneys. We shall need much money, Mr. Fletcher." "Ah!" Andrew said.

  "It will be, shall we say, an excellent investment, sir," the Earl of Loudoun put in, from the background. "You have, I understand, a rich estate in Lothian. Some small subvention now, some arrangement, and that estate shortly could become much the larger, Mr. Fletcher. When our true King is on his throne. With, h'mm, other marks of royal gratitude."

  "I see." But it was at Patrick Home that Andrew glanced, flushing.

  That honest man looked unhappy. "I... I did not know. I was not aware. Of this . . ." He turned. "My lords, I brought Mr. Fletcher here . . ."

  But the lordly ones had moved on, and they were confronted instead by a red-faced, blunt-featured, stocky individual, in rich clothing but lacking something of the manner which should accompany it.

  "I am Heywood Dare, Alderman of Taunton," this man announced. "I act purse-bearer and close councillor to His Royal Highness of Monmouth. You may have heard of me. Can I put you down, sir, for some suitable sum? For the invasion fund."