by Douglas Watt
DOUGLAS WATT is a historian, poet and novelist. He is the author of The Price of Scotland: Darien, Union and the Wealth of Nations (2007), a history of the Darien Disaster and its effect on the Union of the Parliaments, which won the Hume Brown Senior Prize in Scottish History in 2008. He was inspired by his extensive investigations into seventeenth century Scotland to create the character of John MacKenzie, loosely based on a real historical figure, and to bring the history of the period to life. He lives in Linlithgow with his wife Julie and their three children. Death of a Chief is his first novel.
Praise for The Price of Scotland by Douglas Watt:
Many books have been written about the Darien Scheme… but The Price of Scotland surpasses them all. LONDON REVIEW OF BOOKS
…an economist’s eye and a poet’s sensibility… THE OBSERVER
Exceptionally well-written… if you’re not Scottish and live here – read it. If you’re Scottish read it anyway. It’s a very, very good book. I-ON MAGAZINE
…compelling and insightful… THE SCOTSMAN
By the same author:
History
The Price of Scotland: Darien, Union and the Wealth of Nations (2007)
Poetry
A History of Moments (2005)
Fiction
Testament of a Witch (2011)
Death of a Chief
DOUGLAS WATT
Luath Press Limited
EDINBURGH
www.luath.co.uk
First published 2009
Reprinted 2009
This edition 2010
eBook 2013
ISBN: 978-1-906817-31-2
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-47-2
The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.
The publisher acknowledges the support of the Scottish Arts Council towards the publication of this volume.
© Douglas Watt 2009, 2010
Contents
Acknowledgements
PRELUDE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
Historical Note
John MacKenzie returns in Testament of a Witch
Luath
To Julie
Trust flattering life no more, redeem time past
And live each day as if it were thy last.
William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649)
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my wife Julie for her love and support. We first dreamed up the story of John MacKenzie and Davie Scougall many years ago. She has been a constant help during the writing of this book, providing a wealth of ideas and improvements. Many thanks to everyone at Luath and to Jennie Renton for her editorial work. I would also like to thank historians Dr Louise Yeoman and Dr John Finlay for answering questions about their specialties in late seventeenth century Scotland. The vision of that time presented in these pages is entirely my own.
PRELUDE
The Battlefield of Inverkeithing
SIR LACHLAN’S EYES rose from the coarsely carved skull on the gravestone to the grey firth, and then to the black outline of the city on the horizon. It was over thirty years since he last stood on this hillside; over thirty years since he stood dripping with the blood of other men. Memories of the carnage flashed through his mind – a slaughter beyond all comprehension. On that day he had witnessed the annihilation of his clan and the death of his chief. As always the images coalesced into the cleaved head of his 14-year-old brother. Sir Lachlan had lost two other brothers that day, but it was always Ruaridh he remembered – taken before his time. The memory was agonising despite the passage of so many years.
His thoughts returned to the night before the battle in 1651. The memories of those hours were less painful. For Sir Lachlan they remained a time of great significance: the last moments with his brothers; the end of his youth; the beginning of a dreary labyrinth of survival.
He remembered resting on the ground, surrounded by his clan. They had travelled all day and the army, a motley host of different kindreds, sprawled over the fields above the small burgh of Inverkeithing. The MacLeans ate a light meal, drank some whisky and listened to their bards recite poems: long, elegiac panegyrics about their chief and his ancestors, vivid descriptions of past battles and incitements to fight bravely in the one to come, which would secure the kingdom for King Charles and bestow honour on the MacLeans of Duart. The haunting words still held their place in Sir Lachlan’s memory. Visions of that night came back to him as he stared across the waters of the firth: the scarred face of the old bard; his brothers calmly talking to each other; and then the long silent wait until dawn. Hours later MacLean of Duart and hundreds of his clansmen lay dead on the hillside above the town, their bodies hacked to pieces by Cromwell’s army. Sir Lachlan had fought hard, slashing limbs, cleaving bodies – killing, killing, killing.
The emotions of the night before returned: fear that had gripped his stomach like a vice, but also a strange sense of belonging and an intense joy which had made life for those few hours before the battle seem soaked in meaning. Nothing since had come close to those sleepless hours in the pitch-black Fife night.
He was lost in his memories until the cry of a sea bird pulled him back to the present and his eyes focused again on the outline of the city across the firth; a panorama punctuated by high tenements and kirk spires. His heart sank as he remembered the reason for his journey. Edinburgh was a bleak city of lawyers. It represented all that was wrong with his life. He hated the place and the long journeys there from the Highlands. He despised the self-righteous advocates, the dour merchants, the hypocritical ministers in their cold churches and the foul reek of the streets. How different it had been in his youth, the days of action when he had fought for his king against the regicidal monster Cromwell.
He made his way down from the small graveyard on the hill to join the party waiting for him beside their horses. He was a tall man of around sixty years with a worn, weathered face and a periwig on his head, dressed in black cloak and breeches, a basket sword swinging from his belt. As he climbed onto his horse it was plain that he retained some of the strength of his youth that had made him such a ruthless swordsman. The other three men also mounted their horses and followed Sir Lachlan down the mud track towards the burgh of Inverkeithing.
Two of them – hair blowing in the wind, dark complexions, dressed in tartan plaids – barked at each other in Gaelic. The third, a slimmer version of Sir Lachlan, was, like him, dressed in black and wearing a periwig.
CHAPTER 1
The Apothecary’s Shop
THE APOTHECARY SAT on a tall stool with his back to the door of the shop. He carefully measured a small quantity of liquid in a phial and poured it into a large stone mortar lying before him on a wooden bench at the back wall. Above the bench were shelves lin
ed with bottles of different shapes and sizes, whose multicoloured contents reflected the light from the two candles which lit the room, casting a rainbow over the old man’s hands.
As he lifted his head he was just able to determine the names scrawled on the labels of the bottles, flasks, glasses and boxes: castoreum, antimonium, Peruvian bark, stribrum, orange peel, opium, almond oil, helleboris albus, elaterium, mercury sublimate, arsenic.
His swollen hands reached up to the second shelf and removed a bottle labelled vitriolum romanum. He poured a small amount into the mortar and began to grind slowly. He had repeated this procedure on countless occasions – the sound of the pestle on the mortar had accompanied his adult life and he found the process reassuring.
Easing himself slowly off his stool, he made his way painfully to the shelves where he stored an assortment of books and ledgers. He screwed up his eyes as he read the spines. A number of years had passed since he had last made this concoction and it took a while before he found what he was looking for. He removed a dusty tome and returned with it to the bench. Having consulted one of the recipes, he continued his preparation, grinding the mixture down and inhaling the pungent odour deeply until he judged it just right.As he did so, a knock on the door startled him. He turned his head and screwed up his eyes again, trying to make out who it was through the small glass panes in the door. He would be closing in a few minutes – he shut his shop at five and few customers called at this late hour. But he could not make out who the dark figure was behind the door. Forced to leave his stool again, he moved slowly across to the front of the shop until the person could be identified through the thick glass.
He took a long key from his belt and opened the door, which he usually kept locked – he had in store many valuable ingredients and these were dangerous times – although not as bad as some; 1648 had been the worst – plague, war; the death of his wife and two children. He recalled the appalling stench of putrescent buboes. Isabel Leitch from his village, strangled and burned at the stake for witchcraft on the Castle Hill – the poor misguided creature.
The stranger wore a hooded cloak which obscured the face almost to the bottom of the nose. He entered the shop quickly from the vennel outside.
‘How can I help you?’ asked the apothecary.
CHAPTER 2
A Body is Discovered
THE BODY LAY on a four poster bed. The large head was twisted back, eyes shut. A bloated blue tongue protruded from the mouth. The unnatural position of the arms and legs suggested that the last moments of life had not been peaceful. The man was wearing black breeches and a white linen shirt with a long, yellow stain on the chest. A green and blue tartan plaid lay on the bed beside him.
Nothing moved in the room.
As the sun rose, light entered through a gap at the window where an awning had fallen forward.
The whitewashed bedchamber was furnished in simple fashion: the largest piece of furniture was the bed and there were a couple of cupboards, which were closed. Its beamed ceiling depicted hunting scenes of deer and wolves.
Against one wall was a long table on which rested a few books, a pile of documents, a bottle of wine and one glass. Another solitary book lay on the small cabinet beside the bed.
There was silence in the house of John Smith until the Tron Kirk bell sounded seven times and one of Sir Lachlan’s servants, who had spent the night asleep in a small adjoining room, entered his master’s bedchamber to wake him with the usual words of Gaelic. As he opened the door, his old eyes could not take in the scene before him. He stood, stupefied, staring at the body of the man he had served faithfully for over forty years. Finally he turned, eyes full of tears, and left to wake his new master, Hector, with the news of the chief’s death.
CHAPTER 3
Bad News for John MacKenzie
JOHN MACKENZIE HAD slept later than usual after the previous evening’s entertainment. On waking he was annoyed with himself for drinking so much wine and losing five pounds to Sir Lachlan. Then he remembered the songs that had closed the night’s celebrations and felt more content. He always found that after a few glasses of claret, his tongue and soul loosened; he was able to shed the constraints of legal life and could speak unrestrainedly in his first language, Gaelic. Tales and jokes seemed to slip into his mind more easily in his native tongue and it was always more amusing when a few Lowlanders who were completely ignorant of the language were in the company. They had certainly teased Davie Scougall and Mr Primrose, and even Mr Hope, who claimed to understand Gaelic because of a family connection on his mother’s side – but not the Gaelic spoken after a bottle or two of good wine!
MacKenzie, who was a tall man in his fifties, dressed quickly. He ate his breakfast and was on the point of leaving for the Session when a messenger arrived. He stared down at the short note written by Hector MacLean and the colour drained from his face. ‘Good God! I was with Sir Lachlan last night! Do you know what has happened?’ he asked the young boy who had delivered it.
‘Folk are sayin he killed himsel, sir,’ the boy replied.
MacKenzie handed him a coin and closed the door. Then, like a blind man, he staggered through to the bedchamber, reached the window and threw it open so that he might hear the bustle of life from the city beneath. The familiar feeling of nausea rose within him like a wave of pain – then the awful dread – as if something very bad was about to happen – something he knew about but could not quite remember.
Suddenly he bent over and retched on the floor. It was not the news that had overwhelmed him, but the memory of another death. The events of over twenty years ago came rushing back, as they had on countless occasions. The cry of his newborn daughter was as real and close as the sounds from the street; the forlorn face of the midwife, the words ‘I’m sorry, John.’ Then the grief – terrible grief, and guilt too – guilt that made him want to rip open his chest, pull out his heart and cast it onto a fire.
CHAPTER 4
The Crown Officer
ARCHIBALD STIRLING AND Adam Lawtie arrived at Sir Lachlan’s lodgings to find the house in a state of shock. In the living chamber they met Sir Lachlan’s son and daughter. Hector’s face was pale, his eyes slightly bloodshot. Ann MacLean, more composed, shook hands with the two men and politely accepted their condolences, then returned to a chair at the window, where she sat, motionless, staring down at the High Street. Hector showed them to his father’s bedchamber, where they were left to make an examination of the body.
Lawtie spent some minutes poking and prodding the huge corpse. Focusing particular attention on the state of the engorged tongue, he removed a thin metal instrument from his leather bag.
Stirling stood near the door, unable to look at the physician. Lawtie was bent over the corpse, his hunched shoulders presenting an unattractive vision to the Crown Officer, but a preferable one to the image of death that lay sprawled on the bed. Lawtie turned his head towards Stirling, his brow wrinkled.
‘Poison, Mr Stirling!’
Stirling rubbed his forehead with his fingers and sighed deeply. He was a fleshy man but had the height to carry his weight without being seen as fat. He had hoped for a natural death so that he might complete a brief report and return home expeditiously.
‘What brings you to that conclusion, Mr Lawtie?’ he asked, without looking up, his tone betraying that he was annoyed at the physician’s conclusion.
‘Poison, beyond doubt, sir. The state of the tongue, the position of the limbs, the evident suddenness of the death, all point towards poison.’
Stirling sighed again, this time deeper and longer, as he reflected that he might have to work all day. A detailed report would be required for the Lord Advocate. For some unexplained reason he had been asked to intervene at a very early stage in the investigations. Usually the kin of the deceased would have led the enquiries. Something was afoot – he could be sure of that – and the Advocate wanted him out of the way. It was a most disagreeable prospect. He had planned to work on Gordon of Ruthv
en’s account of the battle of Kilsyth; to recreate in his mind how Montrose had deployed his five thousand foot and six hundred horse.
‘Mr Lawtie,’ he said, after a few moments reflection, ‘would you please prepare an account of your findings and present it to my office tomorrow morning.’
Lawtie nodded, pleased with the prospect of an easy pound or two. He returned his instruments to his small leather bag and left the room.
Stirling forced himself to walk over to the corpse. He had met the deceased many years before when acting as his advocate in a minor case before the Session and had thought him arrogant. He recalled that he had never received any payment. Although the details of the case escaped him, he knew that Sir Lachlan had fought at Inverkeithing on 20 July 1651 – Montrose was dead by then.
He looked at the body of the deceased for a short while; then round the rest of the room, trying to absorb as much detail as he could for his report.
On entering the living chamber, Stirling caught Hector MacLean’s eye and beckoned him over.
‘It seems your father has been poisoned, sir.’
Hector’s lips trembled slightly. ‘Then it is murder, Mr Stirling?’
‘Murder… or suicide.’
Hector gazed through the open door that led into Sir Lachlan’s chamber. There were tears in his eyes.
‘We must begin our investigation, sir,’ said Stirling. ‘I know this is very difficult for you, but I have to prepare a report for the Advocate. I need to talk with everyone within these lodgings. No one is to leave until I have given my permission. Now, tell me, who is in the house?’
‘Only my sister, our landlord John Smith, his wife and child, his servant and my father’s… my two men,’ replied Hector.
‘I must speak to everyone alone. You will arrange this for me and then I must talk with you, sir.’ A vision of Montrose came to the Crown Officer – black armour, tight white collar, dark hair down to his shoulders, faint moustache, fine nose – a perfect face… the great Marquis, hung at the Cross of Edinburgh. Stirling recalled the words of a poem Montrose had written during his imprisonment: ‘Open all my veins, that I may swim to Thee my saviour, in that crimson lake.’ To die with dignity and without fear… to sacrifice oneself for a cause… these were the ideas that inflamed his private passions. He had always been looking for someone to follow. But how could any living man compare with Montrose?
