The Patriot (19 page)

He belaboured himself unmerci
fully. The thought that his fit
of temper had in fact probably saved his own life, by bringing him here before the debacle, only added to his distress.

He had to wait almost another month at Bilbao, well into August, for a reply to his letter to Henry - by which time his funds were running low indeed, despite having moved into a cheap dockside bodega and restricting his feeding and drinking. When at length a shipmaster from the port of Leith sought him out, with a package of money, the enclosed letter was from Margaret Carnegie, not Henry. Even so it did not yield him joy, for it was no love-letter. It was announced that Henry had been arrested and was immured in Haddington Tolbooth. Men known not to be in sympathy with King James's government, or awkward for other reasons,- were being arrested on all hands, since the failure of Argyll's rising. MacCailean Mor himself was dead, executed. He had landed, it seemed, in his own Kintyre, but only some two thousand of his Campbells rallied to his banner. After delay, and argument with Cochrane and Home, he had agreed to march on the south-west Lowlands, Ayrshire and Lanark, where they hoped for support. But the Marquis of Atholl, at the head of enemy clans, caught up with them in the Dumbarton area, the rebel army broke up without any major battle and Argyll himself was captured. So all collapsed ingloriously, with predictable and terrible consequences. Margaret did not say what had happened to Sir Patrick Home and Sir John Cochrane. Her letter was stiff, stilted, clearly written under stress. There was no mention of the money enclosed, but it was considerably less than Henry had been sending; Andrew got the impression that it had, in fact, come not from Saltoun at all but from Margaret herself or her father - and was the more unhappy. She wished him well and signed herself 'your loving friend'. But that was insufficient to cheer the recipient.

Nevertheless all this did have the effect of spurring Andrew, in some measure, out of his deepest depression. It made him angry, for one thing, that his brother should be being made to suffer for his fault. His first reaction, of course, was to seek to take ship back to Scotland forthwith and exchange himself for Henry. But common sense quickly assured him that this could be profitless for them both. Th
e authorities would not free
Henry just because they had caught himself. He might well be able to help his brother more effectively by remaining a free man and seeking to exert some influence. Also there was some comfort in the fact that Henry had been confined in Haddington, not in the grim fortress of Edinburgh Castle - which, like the Tower of London, was so often the first step towards the scaffold. He himself would have been immured therein, he had no doubt. But the Tolbooth of Haddington was a much less ominous prison, for merely local malefactors. The probability was that no very dire fate was planned for Henry, his incarceration but a precautionary move.

So, when he wrote to thank Margaret, he also sent a note to her uncle, the Earl of Southesk. That nobleman, although far from pro-government, was influential, High Sheriff of Forfarshire and married to the Duke of Hamilton's sister, his aunt married to the Earl of Traquair, the Lord High Treasurer; also he was careful never to actually involve himself in what might be labelled seditious. Andrew urged him to do all that he could to get Henry freed, perhaps in conjunction with their uncle Sir Alexander Bruce of Broomhall, of the Privy Council. He added that he should use unstintingly any revenues from Saltoun which might be useful in this respect. The sort of persons who were presently ruling Scotland were, he surmised, the sort who might well be susceptible to discreet bribery.

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 mea
ntime. 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
Helderen
berg
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 da
ring 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 through, 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 sa
iling 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.