The Patriot

by Nigel Tranter

  Although Andrew knew no especial desire to go anywhere else, there was no need now to remain longer at Bilbao, of which place he had had more than enough. He would have gone back to Holland, where Gilbert Burnet presumably still remained, with the other Scots exiles who had not joined the ill-fated Monmouth expedition. But he recognised that his presence there might well bring down trouble on the innocent heads of those befriending him. With the Monmouth disaster, William of Orange, the Stadtholder, would be all the more apt to yield to pressure from his father-in-law, King James, now stronger than ever before; and someone who had committed legal murder in England as well as taking part in a rising, might well be unwelcome. Paris and Brussels, likewise, were too close to England for security. He probably would be wise to keep to southern Europe meantime. He had visited Rome as a youth, but never Greece. He might wend his way in that direction - and send word for more money to come to him at Rome.

  It was at this stage that further word reached Bilbao from England. Monmouth was dead, executed by his uncle, despite many pleas for mercy. It was apparently Ferguson's manifesto which had sealed his fate, the proclamation of him as King, therein, together with the ridiculous allegations that James, as Duke of York, had poisoned King Charles. So now there was no rival to Catholic James for the thrones of the United Kingdom. And that strange, humourless man was demonstrating his power. Everywhere Catholics were being promoted and Protestants displaced, with many time-servers hastily changing faiths. Parliament was prorogued when it protested, and its members appeared to be impotent. Laws previously passed were arbitrarily suspended. The Archbishop of Canterbury and six other Protestant bishops were arrested and put on trial. Catholic troops from Ireland were brought over and quartered at Hounslow, to keep the London population quelled. In the West Country the insufferable Judge Jeffreys had been reinforced by three others, and further encouraged in his ghastly work by being given a barony. Clearly this was to be an example to the rest of England on what could be expected in the event of further Protestant unrest. The Killing Times had come to England; and the Earl of Feversham, and his lieutenants Kirke and Churchill, rivalled Jeffreys in their orgies of blood and unbridled savagery, the military counterparts of Dalziel, Grierson and Graham of Claverhouse.

  Much shaken by these tidings, Andrew learned something else - that news could travel in more directions than one. Only two mornings later, with his plans made to leave Bilbao, he was knocked up early at his bodega by town officers, arrested on the orders of the Alcalde and escorted to the town gaol. He was surprised to find there the shipmaster of the Helderenberg and the pilot who had navigated Monmouth's expedition, and whom he had not seen since landing. He was, however, allowed no speech with them. He was not ill-treated, and allowed to have his few belongings brought from his lodgings. In answer to his protests, he was assured that his

  arrest was on orders from Madrid. It seemed that the English envoy there had received information from England that Fletcher was in Bilbao, and was to be extradited and sent to London for execution - not trial, for apparently he had already been tried in his absence and found guilty both of murder and of treason. The English resident would, no doubt, be coming for him in due course; although whether or not Madrid had agreed to extradition was not clear.

  If something was required to jerk Andrew Fletcher out of his apathy, this served that purpose. A healthy wrath and indignation boiled up in him, his temper and wits both proving to be not dead but only dormant. He decided that he had to get out of that gaol, and quickly.

  He tried bribery first, although this might leave him woefully short of money for his journeying thereafter. But his gaolers proved impervious. He sought means of effecting a break-out, but had to accept the fact that his cell was proof against any such attempt. He wrote a strongly-worded protest to the Alcalde of Bilbao, pointing out that he was a Scottish - citizen and that no representations of the English ambassador had any validity in his case, requesting immediate release and offering to appear before any judicial tribunal. Unfortunately his Spanish was only rudimentary so that this had to be penned in English. He also engaged in some doubtful prayer -doubtful because he considered that his Maker might well think this an insolent liberty on the part of one who had taken a fellow-Christian's life, obnoxious as the creature was.

  Oddly enough, it almost looked as though it was this last endeavour which bore the fruit. For the next morning there was an almost incredible development. Andrew had just awakened after a restless night and gone over to gaze out of the barred window of his cell, cudgelling his brains afresh to think of further steps he might take to gain his release, or at least to improve his situation vis-a-vis the Spanish authorities, when he perceived an old bearded man of venerable appearance standing alone in the forecourt below and gazing up at his window. To see such a one in such a place at such a time, was improbable in the extreme. When this antique-looking, stooping gentleman saw him at the window, and raised his handsome silver-mounted staff to gesture, he was the more surprised. The gesturing was equally unlooked-for but perfectly clear as to intention. The staff pointed vigorously behind Andrew and to the left, where was in fact the door of his cell, then traversed along in an easterly direction for some distance, then spiralled downwards and pointed out into the said forecourt. This done, the visitor went through the performance again, exactly as before. Finally, he jab-jab-jabbed with his stick at the door-position behind Andrew in the most urgent manner, touched frail hand to his wide-brimmed black hat, and turning, limped over to the heavy iron outer gate, opened it, and passed through, closed it quietly behind him and disappeared down the street.

  Utterly astonished and at a loss, Andrew stared after him. But there was no further development. He could only assume that the old man was mad. Yet how had he got in, and at this hour? Apart altogether from why? And how was it that the outer gate was open, or at least unlocked? This was a prison, after all.

  Almost against his own judgment Andrew left the window and went over to the cell-door. There was no handle on the inside, but he pushed against it - and with a faint creak the door swung open. Thoroughly amazed now, he peered out into the long corridor beyond. There was nobody in sight. He paused, wonderingly.

  Thinking back, then, he recollected having been aware of some sound outside, some time before he had roused himself to rise from his straw palliasse. That must have been this door being unlocked. Which meant . . . ?

  With a sudden unreasoning hope he almost went hurrying down that corridor there and then. But his wits reasserting themselves, he went back, closing the door again quietly. He threw such belongings as he had unpacked back into his valise, put on his coat, and, taking up the bag, re-opened the door and went out.

  He tiptoed along that corridor, heart in mouth, thankful for the snores from inmates of the other cells to help cover his footsteps. At the end there was a turnpike stairway - the spiral described by the old man's staff. Down this Andrew stepped, one tread at a time, scarcely daring to breathe. At the foot it opened into a guardroom, devoid of door or barrier. From the stair he could see three men therein, his warders; but they were all slumped on benches and over a table, apparently asleep.

  Hesitant indeed, the prisoner paused. Then, deciding that there could be no turning back now, he crept on down, to inch across the guardroom, past the sleepers. He had a crazy notion that they were not asleep at all, but only pretending, and were watching him throughout.

  If they were, they did not react to his presence. In a state of disbelief he reached the massive iron-bound door beyond, with its grille. This did have a handle, and when he pulled it the door opened on oiled hinges. He slipped out and gently drew it shut behind him.

  He was now in the cobbled forecourt, empty save for strutting pigeons. It was no more than a dozen yards to the outer gate through which the venerable guide had disappeared. That gate Andrew knew to be unlocked. Having to restrain himself from taking to his heels, he walked quietly over to it, tugged it slightly open, and slipped throu
gh, into the street.

  The gaol was situated in a long, climbing alley between the main square and the old bridge. At this hour there were only two people to be seen: a woman carrying a pitcher to the well and an old man leading a laden burro - but certainly not the same old man. Look as he would, Andrew could see no sign of his extraordinary visitant. Without actually thinking it through he had somehow assumed that he would be waiting for him out here, to give further guidance or at least to explain.

  The need to get far from that gaol, however, was the strongest urge he knew just then. Delaying no more than moments, he set off down the street towards the bridge over the Nervion to the dock area, trying not to seem to hurry noticeably. He kept glancing over his shoulder; but he did not appear to be followed.

  His mind began to work more coherently. Deliberately he put from him any groping for explanations for this extraordinary situation. That must wait. His first impulse was to make for the quays and stow himself away on a ship. But was that not just what he might be expected to do? He could not be sure which vessels would be sailing with least delay, without making dangerous enquiries. Bilbao was very much sea-related, although some miles up-river from the coast. Because its hinterland was almost wholly mountainous, the Pyrenees to the east and the Cantabrian chain to the west, with landward communications steep and difficult, almost all coming and going was by ship, save for the local peasant and market traffic. So surely he should seek to do the unexpected, and get away by land. And since the Pyrenean terrain was clearly much more rugged, lofty and therefore less populous, that would be where, probably, he would be least looked for. Also it was at least in the direction he would wish to go.

  He was fortunate in that it was a market-day and folk from the hilly countryside were already beginning to stream into the town, over the bridge, with their produce and goods for sale at the stalls, loaded on burros and mules. Andrew was glad to mingle with these - but recognised that his garb and bearing would make him conspicuous. This was scarcely the time or place to try to purchase local clothing. But he did see a youth leading two donkeys, one laden with pots and wine-jars, the other with tall stacks of wide-brimmed hats of plaited straw, one of which he contrived to buy, no doubt paying many times its market price. Under this he felt a little less exposed, although perhaps this was an illusion.

  The tide of peasants was going in one direction, at first, into town; however, presently, some men and boys began to straggle back, with the unladen donkeys, to do their day's work in the fields, leaving their womenfolk to sell the produce. When Andrew perceived amongst these the youth from whom he had bought the hat, he attached himself to him, and went off over the bridge in his company, however oddly that young man eyed him. At least no one challenged him.

  The youth was returning to an upland village called Santestella, a few miles on the difficult road to Durango, south-eastwards. Andrew sought to gain his goodwill by indicating, in his halting Spanish, that he was escaping from one of the tax-gatherers of the Spanish government, so universally hated throughout the Basque country, who appeared to think that he was a smuggler from one of the foreign ships - this said with a wink, to suggest that he might be just that. Whether he was believed he did not know, but at least the young man made no objection to his company, even shared some bread and cheese with him, and by the time they reached his village, was prepared to do even better. He made the most of his opportunity, sold Andrew some old clothing and a tattered cape; and though he could scarcely sell one of his mother's two burros, acted broker for another one, with a neighbour, together with halter and pack-saddle, at a price probably unsurpassed in Santestella in living memory. Thus equipped, and with an adequate supply of very basic foodstuff, the traveller took his leave and the road over the passes to Durango.

  A mile or two on, where a track branched off due eastwards, just for safety's sake, Andrew branched off likewise. Such commercially-minded peasants might just possibly be persuaded to sell information about him, hereafter.

  So, with his droop-eared, less-than-lively but evidently amiable donkey, he trudged eastwards through the comparatively empty Pyrenean foothills, scarcely able to believe his good fortune.

  He had plenty of time now to ponder over his curious attainment of freedom. He could only assume that his presence in Bilbao had become known to more people than he had realised; the fact that the Helderenberg master and pilot were in custody was possibly significant. He had heard that there was a small English colony in the town, wine-traders in the main, and one or two Scots amongst them; but he had carefully avoided contact. Presumably amongst these was one, or some, who learned of and sympathised with his position, either as a fellow-Scot or as an English Protestant. And whoever this person might be, he must be influential in some way. Perhaps the Alcade himself had helped, at least so far as turning a blind eye to the rescue arrangements; he had been civil enough at Andrew's arrest. It was an open secret that many of the Basque notables were far from in-accord with the central authorities in Madrid and glad enough to avoid cooperation when it could be done without repercussions. No doubt the warders had been bribed to leave the doors unlocked and to feign sleep, knowing that they would not be punished.

  Whatever was behind it all, the thing was heartening as it was welcome. And Andrew Fletcher needed enheartening, at this juncture, almost as much as he needed his freedom.

  For the first time for months, he faced the future, however unknown, with some cheer and anticipation.

  9

  So commenced a most strange interlude in that man's life, scarcely fanciful, for it had reality and incident enough, but as it were unrelated to anything that he had known previously, and free in a way that his exile in the Low Countries, even his long-ago Grand Tour, had never been. He saw none of his own kind or class, nor wished to do so; he went at his own - or the burro's - pace, wheresoever the spirit led him, so long as it was in the general direction of far-away Rome, time utterly unimportant; he derived a simple but real pleasure from seeing new places and new things, perceived much in essential daily living which hitherto he had not recognised or had taken for granted. As a stranger in a strange land he went warily but awarely. All his experiences and contacts were not joyful ones; but he found instruction as well as challenge, of a modest and practical sort, in all. He became, perforce, something of an expert on Spanish character, customs, food and drink, and the Spanish outlook on life, so utterly different from, for instance, the Scots. And he learned to know himself, in consequence, better than he had ever done - which is always good for any man. Born to riches, prominence, privilege, and with the gifts of intellect and leadership, he had nevertheless been largely shielded from much of the elementary frictions and stresses of ordinary life, save for those which his choice of politics as a career had brought upon him. Now, drifting through high Pyrenean Spain with a donkey, he began to catch up on what he had missed - and on the whole enjoyed the experience, even if sometimes only in retrospect. And his guilt over what had happened at Lyme, although it did not disappear, faded somewhat.

  Although on the whole it made an undemanding progress, save in small everyday matters of travel and communication, there were occasional dramatics. There was the night, for instance, in the Jaca area of the upper Aragon valley, when he was set upon by two armed ruffians in the tiny inn where he was the only guest. Afterwards he was not entirely dissatisfied over the way he had comported himself by flooring one of his assailants with a kick in the groin and knocking almost unconscious the other with a half-full wine-beaker - thereby winning himself a distinctly rusty old sword and dagger, whilst leaving one man moaning on the floor as his colleague bolted. Also, since he was certain that the shifty-eyed innkeeper was hand-in-glove with the attackers, he had the satisfaction of not only leaving without payment but of helping himself to a smoked ham for good measure, when he made it clear that he knew better how to handle the sword than had its previous owner.

  Thereafter he made his way to the small town of Jaca where he manage
d to buy a small old-fashioned pistol and some ball and powder, much as he now hated the weapon and what it represented in his life. At least he would travel the more securely.

  This purchase left him the more short of money and he began seriously to consider means of spinning out his remaining small funds and even, if possible, of earning more -something he had never before had to think of doing - for it was a long way to Rome. There seemed to be little that he could do amongst these mountain people which they could not do better for themselves. He was beginning to give up hope in this respect when, one night, lodging with an old village priest, he learned that the man, becoming crippled with rheumatic trouble, could no longer write, nor could anyone else in the village. As a result the little church's missals, breviary and lectionary, hand-written, were becoming tattered and unreadable because he could no longer hold pen to transcribe them. Since these were in Latin and Andrew was well versed in the humanities, he spent a couple of days there doing what was necessary, and earned the first wage of his life, modest though it had to be. More important, the priest, much gratified, assured him that he would be welcome at the many small monasteries scattered through those remote valleys, where it seemed - oddly, to Andrew - that monks able to write were in short supply and monastic documents frequently in need of transcription.

  So the traveller began to call at the monasteries, and to his considerable advantage. Not only was he indeed able to earn his keep and more, by transcriptions and other writing tasks, but because of what he was able to see and study in the libraries, scriptoriums, repertoriums and museums of these establishments. Always interested in history and mankind's long struggle towards enlightenment, scientific advance as well as better government and justice, he found much to fascinate him in these places, quite apart from purely religious matters, amongst books and manuscripts usually unconsulted for many years. For he was surprised at the intellectual degeneracy of most of these mountain monasteries and conventual houses. Perhaps those in Lowland Spain were in better shape -although he had gathered in Bilbao that the Holy Church, in His Most Catholic Majesty's domains, was presently in a sorry state of backwardness, ignorance and superstition. He found the monastic clergy in the main friendly enough, even amiable and hospitable; but unlettered, not notably pious and seemingly lazy. Their fairly general lack of appreciation of the worth of much that previous generations of their orders had accumulated in their archive-rooms at least held some advantage for Andrew Fletcher; for his own very evident appreciation of these things quite often resulted in him being offered books, illustrated manuscripts and other items in return for his scribing labours, not all of which he felt bound to refuse in very shame. So that, as time went by, his burro became loaded more richly probably than any other donkey in Spain, to its owner's wonder, considering that he was now practically penniless and living from day to day, hand-to-mouth.