The Patriot (56 page)

"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
shilling
s. One wonders how this was com
puted - 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
h
e
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 distress 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."