The Patriot

by Nigel Tranter

  Andrew was more than doubtful, more especially in that the Duke had not approached him on the matter, indeed seemed to be carefully avoiding him these days. He was prepared to admit that the anti-union cause was in great danger; but to accept any kind of union went sorely against the grain - and he was by no means convinced that England would agree to any federal union, even with the Hanoverian succession granted. He urged the gentry not to commit themselves to Hamilton's plan, asserting that they had not yet reached so desperate a remedy.

  Oddly enough new ammunition for his fight reached him that same night, when an anonymous caller handed in a letter to his town lodging. It contained a list of payments made to Scots lords and commissioners from moneys sent by the English Treasury. There was no signature nor indication from whom the list had come - but Andrew could imagine no source other than the Lord Advocate's office. Some of the names and figures thereon raised his eyebrows high indeed.

  So next day, distasteful as he found his task, he threw gentlemanly scruples to the wind and went into all-out attack. After Johnnie Belhaven had exhausted himself, and the House, and yet two more clauses were passed by the usual majorities, Andrew rose to challenge the clause which accepted that the Scots representation in the United Kingdom Parliament should be only forty-five elected members and sixteen peers. Did they all recognise what this meant, he demanded? In the Commons, the Scots voice could always be outvoted by thirteen to one. And in the Lords by twice that - even the English bishops alone could outvote Scotland. Moreover the treaty terms, limiting the Scots peers to sixteen, put no limits on how many peers of England the crown could create. So it was all a travesty of fair dealing as it was of representation.

  He paused, and jabbed an accusing finger in various specific directions. Does the House know, he asked, at what price this shameful surrender of their country's rights has been purchased? The worth of Scotland's honour, to some of her accepted leaders? He would give them one or two examples -although the list was long. And he would start with his old friend and comrade-in-arms, the former Sir Patrick Home, now Earl of Marchmont. Marchmont's price was £1,104.15.7 sterling, paid through the Earl of Glasgow from the English Treasury!

  A roar of mixed astonishment, outrage, protest and fury shook the hall, the Chancellor's gavel scarcely to be heard. As it continued, Marchmont rose, set-faced, stared at Andrew and then, without even bowing to the throne, hurried from the chamber.

  When the noise abated sufficiently for the Chancellor to be heard, Seafield declared that this was utterly disgraceful and not to be tolerated. The commissioner for Haddingtonshire must apologise to the noble Earl and to the House and make no more such outrageous statements.

  "I do not apologise, my lord Chancellor. Nor can you muzzle me! This is a matter of public moneys of which this House has the right to hear. None can deny that, even if the payments were intended to be secret! Some other friends of mine - or at least they were my friends - have done almost as well. My lord Marquis of Tweeddale, for instance, has charged £1,000 for his vote - although he used to be against union. My lord of Roxburghe only got £500 - but he is younger, of course ... !"

  Again the eruption of clamour and outcry.

  Tweeddale was on his feet. "I protest, my lord Chancellor -I protest! Such sums as I have received were only arrears of pension. For the time that I held office in Her Grace's ministry..."

  "Mine also," Roxburghe cried.

  "Call it what you will, my lords. Since when did serving your country, Scotland, merit English pensions? Tell me that! Besides, there are others, many others, on my list, who served on no ministry, could claim no pension. My lord Marquis of Montrose, another member of the so-called Squadrone, and bearer of a proud name. How would the noble James Graham, the Great Marquis, have viewed his great-grandson's acceptance of £300 for his vote, I wonder? Plus the Garter, of course! Or my neighbour Lord Justice Clerk Cockburn of Ormiston's £200? Or my lord Earl of Balcarres there, whom some call Jacobite, his £500 . . . ?"

  "Silence, sir - silence!" Seafield shouted, hammering. "This is not to be borne. Sit down - or leave the hall."

  "When I have finished, my lord. Do not fear -1 shall not fail to reveal your own moderation and modesty! You only are down for £490 - a mere pittance for all that you have done for England! Barely covering your expenses of travel to and from London! Or is that paid for separately? But, to be sure, there is the £100 paid in the name of your new peerage as Earl of Findlater. These modest sums are eclipsed by others, of course, which some may consider extraordinarily little to accept for a man's honour. For instance, my lord Elibank's £50 and my lord Banff's only £112 shillings. One wonders how this was computed - his lordship's or the Treasury's estimate?"

  Andrew had a strong voice, but even so he had difficulty in making it heard.

  "But lest you take it that all these merchants of votes are noble lords, my friends, let me disillusion you. The Provost of Ayr, the only burgh to send in an address supporting the union, got £ 100 for it - no doubt my lord of Stair arranged that! And the Provost of Wigtown £25 - insufficient presumably, for no support came from Wigtown! Sir William Sharp got £300 and Stuart of Castle-Stuart also £300. But I must not weary you . . ."

  "By God, you shall not!" the Chancellor exclaimed. He turned. "Your Grace, I beseech you to adjourn this shameful session!"

  "His Grace no doubt will oblige!" Andrew hurried on before Queensberry could speak. "But surely not before we learn that he has not been wholly neglected either, by a grateful English Treasury. Since he receives the suitable sum of no less than £12,325. 10 shillings for equippage and expenses! And, of course, we heard the other day that there is still another £20,000 to disburse. So that those voters as yet unbought need not lose hope . . . !"

  "Session adjourned!" the High Commissioner got in, and stamped from the chamber.

  The House broke up in chaos for the week-end, without voting.

  That vote, thereafter, would be vital, all perceived. How much effect Andrew's disclosures would have, apart from losing him many friends, none could tell. For now he had shot his bolt. His country gentry, however, decided that they too should strike whilst the iron was hot. They would present themselves at Parliament Hall with their amended resolution for the Duke of Hamilton to announce - no incorporating union but a federal one, in exchange for acceptance of the Electress and her son on Anne's demise. Andrew remained aloof.

  The session resumed in a nervous and subdued state- the gentry assembled and were ready to process to Parliament Square when a messenger arrived from Holyrood. The demonstration must be cancelled. The Duke of Hamilton had toothache and would not be able to attend.

  In dire confusion and irresolution, not knowing whether to take this as a postponement or one more resilement, the county electors dithered, argued and did nothing. And in a sullen and far-from-full House the vote on the representation clause was taken, the government winning by 113 to 83.

  It was not yet quite the end - but there could be no doubt now how the final vote would go. Andrew had lost his battle.

  The obsequies for the old independent Scotland seemed to take an interminable time, everybody very busy about particulars and face-saving details now that the major decisions were taken. Sick at heart, Andrew put in only token appearances now. But when, at last, the day was set for the final and total acceptance of the Treaty of Union, now being accorded capital letters, he was in his seat and prepared, as it were, to sink with his ship.

  It was a strange and melancholy occasion, even for those in favour of union - or most of them. Not the Earl of Stair, however, who was at his most bitingly eloquent and vehement, declaring the obvious benefits of the union, emphasising the wisdom of those who supported it and the short-sighted folly, if not worse, of those against, who clearly saw themselves as large frogs in a small pond and dreaded the challenge of larger waters and wider shores. At this stage the Duke of Hamilton walked out, followed by some of his supporters - and so avoided having to face the dist
ress and reproach of being on the losing side in the final vote. Not so Andrew Fletcher, who rose to pour withering scorn on Stair and his like, to reiterate that man's long history of wounding his native land, to which he now added gloating over this concluding assassination. Stung, Stair gave his enemy the lie direct, which Andrew as swiftly took up, hotly offering to substantiate his words elsewhere with sword or pistol. The Chancellor's gavel halted this exchange, apologies being demanded of both and duly if stiffly given.

  This, however, was the only excitement of a dreary and pedestrian debate, all relevant issues having been gone over ad nauseam previously, and the end a foregone conclusion. Or not quite, for when at length Seafield put the ultimate question, the Act of Union was passed with a majority of only nineteen votes instead of the anticipated thirty-odd, not a few fainthearts clearly abstaining from the terminal dagger-stroke.

  But the result was the same. Scotland had voted away a thousand years of independence - the final betrayal of the land of Bruce and Wallace and Montrose, or taken the great step forward into the eighteenth-century enlightenment, whichever way one liked to consider it.

  There remained only one last flourish, the signing of the Treaty by the union commissioners. It was accepted that this should not be done in Parliament Hall where all members would have a right to be present and trouble would undoubtedly ensue. The problem was, where? Edinburgh seethed with angry mobs looking for victims of their ire and disgust, and any public place would be besieged. Secretly Queensberry and Seafield prospected private houses and lodgings but without exception the word got round and the commissioners, like furtive fugitives now, and even in fear of their lives, had to flee by back-doors and alleys. Eventually they thought that they would be safe in an ornamental summer-house in the garden of Moray House, in the Canongate; but barely had they started the business when the mob found them again and they had to disperse. When the Treaty was eventually signed it was in a cellar below a mean shop in 177 High Street, opposite the Tron Kirk - a fitting venue, as Andrew commented when he heard next morning. Seafield's comment, as he signed, was reported to be "There's an end to an auld sang!" and was made as much in relief as in cynicism.

  The news of the signing was overshadowed next day by the astonishing information that the Earl of Stair had died, at almost the same time, in a fit of apoplexy. There were not lacking those who declared that it was God's judgment - and hoped for as much for others. Some even suggested that he would have been better, after all, to make an end with Andrew Fletcher's sword or bullet in his heart.

  24

  Andrew sat in a lofty small chamber in one of the topmost towers of Stirling Castle, an eagle's-nest of a place, with one of the most wide and splendid views in all Scotland - to compensate for the fact that he was a captive, confined within these narrow walls of the royal fortress, a prisoner for the first time since Bilbao in Spain. And, of all things, a Jacobite prisoner, laughable as this might seem to many. It did not make Andrew laugh.

  He had been there for some weeks. Admittedly he was well-treated, as comfortable as somewhat spartan quarters would permit, with a fire in his room, his papers and books around him, and well-fed, even wined, - his gaoler, Colonel James Erskine, being also his friend, brother of John, Earl of Mar, the Secretary of State, who was Hereditary Keeper of the castle. Nevertheless, Andrew fretted for his freedom, never a man to accept shackles of any kind patiently - especially when they were imposed on such pathetically ridiculous pretext.

  His arrest and incarceration as a Jacobite was only a device, of course. There had been an abortive Jacobite rising within a year of the union being signed, when James Stewart, the young Chevalier de St. George, and his advisers, sought to take advantage of the anger and unrest in Scotland over that debacle. It had all been grievously mismanaged and postponed whilst James had measles. When that rather depressed and dilatory twenty-year-old at length arrived off the Forth with an inadequate French force, the thing had gone off at half-cock and failed on all fronts, the Pretender as he was being called, being promptly carried back to France by quarrelling and apprehensive French admirals. And thereafter there had been a great rounding-up of Jacobites, known or suspected -although, to be sure, not the ones who mattered, safe behind their clans in the impenetrable Highlands. But as well as these, the opportunity was seized to apprehend many others whom the administration did not like, however far-fetched their links with Jacobitism. These included Johnnie Belhaven, the Duke of Gordon, the Marquis of Huntly and eighteen other mainly Catholic peers, although the Duke of Hamilton was also included after a fashion, being requested to present himself before the Privy Council in London. The rest were less civilly treated and sent south as prisoners. Andrew's charges were that he had had secret meetings with the notorious rebel and felon Robert Roy Campbell, calling himself MacGregor, and had worked in concert with the Duke of Atholl - according to one Daniel Defoe, government agent, whose name was vaguely familiar. Since the said Atholl was too powerful to arrest and Rob Roy was safely behind the Highland Line also, Andrew was taken instead - and was not in a position to call these others to witness to his innocence.

  Not that the authorities either in Edinburgh or London had the least belief in his Jacobitism, to be sure. But they had a good reason for wanting him behind bars meantime. For this was election-time for the new United Kingdom Parliament - and Andrew had notified his intention of standing for the now single seat of Haddingtonshire. At first, after the union had passed both Parliaments, Queensberry and Seafield had merely picked their own sixteen docile peers - Hamilton agreeing to be one, oddly - and the thirty shire members with fifteen from the burghs, all assured unionists, and that had been that. But elections could not be postponed indefinitely and well aware of the temper and attitude of the nation, the government had little doubt as to how any elections would go. So another campaign of buying votes had to be initiated, although they were apt to find it much cheaper just to imprison the opposition candidates. So the failed Jacobite rising came as a godsend and Andrew Fletcher one of the most obvious victims.

  In a way he considered himself to be fortunate. For whilst most of the alleged Jacobites had been sent under guard down to London for trial and probable banishment to the plantations, he had only been brought here to Stirling. Just why, he was uncertain, although Erskine suggested that his former friends in high places would prefer not to have him brought to trial, certainly not in London, when he might make uncomfortable revelations. If this was so, then he was not likely to be tried at all and might well just be quietly released once the elections were over.

  He had whiled away the time with writing and reading and long gazings out over that magnificent vista, where Highlands and Lowlands met, the very hinge of Scotland, and thinking, thinking. His thoughts, naturally, on the whole had been less than happy; but he had come to certain conclusions. Today he was in better cheer. For he was to have visitors - the first allowed him. It was to be Henry and Margaret.

  It was early afternoon before James Erskine personally showed them in - a moving occasion, with Margaret throwing herself bodily into Andrew's arms, to the grins of Henry and the embarrassment of their eldest son, Andrew's godson and namesake, now in his late teens and training to be a lawyer.

  In her late forties, Margaret had become a comely, capable matron, still attractive, satisfyingly-made and a stronger character than was her husband. She did not often gabble but she gabbled now in a breathless flood of greeting, love, concern, question and exclamation. Andrew was not unaffected either. She felt so very good within his arms. He had missed her more than he could say, or even admitted to himself.

  It took some time before they were able to settle to coherent converse - and when they did it was not to Andrew's joy. Henry it was who broke the news.

  "Johnnie is dead, Dand," he said thickly. "Belhaven. He died. In London."

  Wordless, his brother stared.

  "Andrew - oh, Andrew, it is dreadful news to bring you," Margaret said, pressing his arm.
"They say that it was an inflamation of trie brain. He was arraigned before the Privy Council - the English Privy Council! He was no Jacobite, as all knew well. He refused to recognise their authority over him, a Scots peer. They could prove nothing, of course, and eventually he was released on bail. But took this stroke. It had been . . . too much for him."

  "Johnnie!" Andrew got out. "Johnnie . . . !"

  Henry hurried on, as though to cover this emotional abyss. "The others are still being questioned - Gordon, Huntly and the rest. But not Hamilton. He is released and in great favour with the Queen. They say that he is to get an English dukedom. Which much annoys Seafield, who expected as much for himself but has not been given it. Even a Scots one, as Roxburghe has been promoted. But Queensberry is now Duke of Dover and granted a pension of £3,000 a year. Did you hear of his reception?"

  "No." That was flat.

  "He went south with forty-six coaches in train, no less. And hundreds of horse. Like a royal progress! The Queen met him, with all her court. It was a hero's welcome!" It was Henry's turn to gabble. "He joined in the service of thanksgiving at St. Paul's Cathedral. It was as though the millenium had dawned! Cannon fired from the Tower of London and bells rang by the hour! One of their ministers announced that they had catched the Scots and would hold them fast! The Archbishop of Canterbury preached a mighty sermon on the blessings of unity . . ."