Joseph Knight

by James Robertson

  And then the bairn came, and it was half Joseph and half her, and she thought that the Wedderburns would have to let them marry, for the bairn was such complete evidence of their union, but it died within a day. John Wedderburn extended his sense of obligation to providing a coffin and a funeral for their bairn, thus neatly disposing of the evidence, and then – and she detected the hand of Lady Margaret here – she herself was disposed of, given the wages due to her to the end of the year and sent on the back of a carrier’s cart home to her mother in Dundee.

  In this the Wedderburns showed how little they estimated poor folk like her, if they thought that by dismissing her they had heard the last of her. For Joseph had by then become a reader and a writer, and she too had those skills, so there was an exchange of notes between them, and then a meeting in the woods at the back of Ballindean, followed, as winter set in, by more in Dundee, where Joseph had managed to persuade his master to send him for training with a barber. She saw now the interpretation that the Wedderburns were bound to place on these liaisons, which at first went undetected in spite of the suspicions of Aeneas MacRoy – how inevitably they confirmed Sir John and his lady in their view that Ann Thomson was a person of no breeding, indecent passions and habitual deceit. What other kind of woman could so take advantage of Joseph as to persuade him to go with her to Edinburgh, where in March they were joined in matrimonial union by a seceder clergyman of Leith? What else could this be but a pretext on her part, a scheme for making herself comfortable for life?

  And the proof of that, for the Wedderburns, came in what happened next. Back came Joseph to Ballindean, without apology for his absence, now claiming that he had a wife to support who should be brought back into their service, or at least that Joseph should get a cottage on the estate where they might live as one as God had joined them together. And John Wedderburn was affronted by the hypocrisy and treachery of his slave, and refused to countenance the idea.

  Joseph, Ann thought, might just have had a chance of success had John Wedderburn alone had the decision. But behind Wedderburn stood his wife, with whom he discussed all matters that were not strictly about the plantations or other business. The Lady Margaret would have settled it. Ann detested her. She detested her because she was only two or three years older than herself yet behaved as if she had been born to be mistress of a house like Ballindean. Which, of course, she had. She was fine-looking, soft-spoken, beautifully dressed and always correct. Ann’s hands were already coarse, the hands of a spinner, a skivvy, a scudge. Her bonnie, unpainted face would soon begin to acquire care lines and her body would start to crumble from hard and ceaseless toil. Ann’s own mother was not much over fifty, but she was an old, done woman, worn out by decades of work. At fifty, Lady Margaret would still be carrying herself like a queen. Ann’s daughter Sarah would grow up to be haggard before her time, but the Wedderburns’ daughters would be roses, they would bloom in the presence of rich suitors and go off to be the mistresses of great houses of their own. It was not right, it was not fair. And she, meanwhile, was not even allowed to keep the man she had chosen.

  She spat into the fire. It gave an answering spit, and she spat at it again. She loathed the Wedderburns and everything about them. Behind their every seemingly charitable or upright deed she saw a twisted, hateful motive. Even Joseph seemed to think less badly of them than she. She had had as little time for the idea of her going back, of making herself beholden to them, as they had. She had been willing to go along with Joseph’s request, but only because she was sure it would be rejected. She had known with a certain fatal feeling in the depths of her, that was both despair and contentment, that their options were narrowing and narrowing, till only two would be available to them: either that she and Joseph must part as if they had never met, never loved, never made a bairn, never married; or that he must walk away from his slavery. It was only a matter of time because, weeks before their marriage in Leith, she had known she was pregnant again.

  And it was that, the bairn, alive and with her now, that made her calm. Rage and madness would not help the bairn to keep her father. The forces ranged against them were too strong for rage, too rational for madness. She had to be calm. She had to be patient.

  Edinburgh, December 1773

  Three men, all lawyers, were sitting round one end of a long rough-boarded table in a steaming, crowded, low-roofed room poorly illuminated by a scattering of tallow candles. What small, greasy light these gave out was further diminished by a thick pall of tobacco smoke, and any remaining pockets of fresh air had long been saturated with the smell of roasting flesh and fish, the fumes of wine and beer and the clamour of forty competing conversations. The rest of the table at which this trio sat was occupied by a mixed company of bareheaded tradesmen and bewigged merchants, and several women – street sellers of various wares, from ribbon and lace to herring – who had joined the men for a drink after their day’s work.

  The tallest of the lawyers, the one who, from his sallow complexion and long nose, looked least likely to be disposed to frolic, was nevertheless at that moment declaiming a poem with some vigour, reading from a newspaper clutched in his right hand while cutting rhetorical flourishes through the atmosphere with his left.

  ‘Ye’ve seen me roond the bickers reel

  Wi hert as hale as tempered steel,

  And face sae awpen, free and blyth,

  Nor thocht that sorrow there could kyth –’

  John Maclaurin broke off, half stood, held up his finger as if for silence – a gesture which had not the slightest effect on the drinking party further down the table – and addressed his two companions:

  ‘And here comes the kick, gentlemen –

  But the neist mawment this was lost,

  Like gowan in December’s frost.

  Noo, is that no sublime? I challenge ye, James, as I challenge mysel, tae write lines like thae. The man is a genius.’

  Boswell shook his head, laughing. ‘You’ll not catch me at anything so Scotch, unless it’s satirical. It’s not bad, though, I confess. Genius is too strong, but he’s clever, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘A genius,’ repeated Maclaurin, who was being as Scotch as he damn well pleased, partly to rile his friend. He laid down the Weekly Magazine. ‘I’d like tae see ye better it. And it is satire, man! An address tae his auld breeks? Whit’s that if it’s no satire? It jist has the warmth o humanity in it as weel, that’s aw, which is why a cauld-hertit fellow like you disna appreciate it.’

  ‘He may be a genius,’ said the third man, Allan Maconochie, also an advocate, speaking in a slow, heavy drawl, ‘or jist clever, but I hear he’s no very weel. No richt in the heid, even.’

  They were in Luckie Middlemist’s oyster cellar, a cave deep in the dark canyon of the Cowgate, and the poet under discussion was a bumptious young clerk from the Commissary Office called Robert Fergusson. It was the weekend before Christmas, the start of the Daft Days, but the daftness had started early. Spread out on the table were mugs of porter, a jug of gin punch with three glasses, and the shells of three dozen oysters. The collective advocatory breath was like a stiff breeze off Newhaven. The punch, coming on top of the porter and several bottles of Malaga earlier in the evening, had brought a sweat out on Boswell’s brow and a manic gleam to his eyes.

  ‘Insane?’ said Boswell. ‘Oh, I don’t like to hear of mad poets. My brother John – the military one – suffers deliriums. Bad enough in a soldier, but worse – fatal – in a poet.’

  ‘Why?’ said Maclaurin. Being an occasional poet himself, he felt he should defend his muse. ‘I’d hae thocht it would be bad in either case. Worse in a sodger – he micht run amuck wi his sword, or mairch a haill company aff a cliff.’

  ‘But a soldier is naturally a man of discipline,’ said Boswell, who had always rather fancied being in uniform. ‘He may be ill, but the madness will not master him so readily as it would a poet, whose mind is already naturally wild and … inclined to flight.’

  ‘Aye, but th
e poet’ll hurt nane but himsel if he lowps.’

  ‘Weel, onywey,’ said Maconochie, ‘I dinna ken Fergusson, but he’s in the Cape Club, and Runciman the painter tellt me frae being the life and soul o their diversions he has suddenly ceased his appearances awthegither, and sunk intae some kind o depression. That paper ye’re readin frae’s a month auld, John. He was haein verses in it gey near every issue until that ane, but he hasna had onything else in it since, forby the tither poem there, his “Last Will” – and that disna augur weel.’

  ‘That’s a satire tae, is it no?’ said Maclaurin, hunting for it.

  ‘If it is, there’s nae muckle laughs in it. Runciman says the laddie’s feart he’s been ower dissolute in this life, and will pey for it in the next ane.’

  ‘Haivers,’ said Maclaurin, whose chief objection to the idea of a future state was that it was generally represented as being very disagreeable for the majority, which made him prefer to remain where he was. But to Boswell the explanation struck home. Momentarily he seemed to sober up, pushing the glass of punch away from him. Seconds later, catching the eye of one of the women at the far end of the table, he seized it again and drained the contents.

  ‘Steady, James,’ said Maclaurin.

  ‘I wish I was,’ said Boswell, ‘but this gin has knocked me ajee.’

  ‘Scotticism!’ Maconochie shouted. ‘For aw ye try, man, ye canna get them oot, and when ye’re fou ye canna keep them in!’

  ‘It’s being surrounded by men like you that does it,’ Boswell muttered. ‘It’s different in London.’

  ‘Oh, London!’ Maconochie sneered.

  ‘Dr Johnson says mine is almost the only Scotsman’s tongue that does not offend him.’

  ‘That’s because ye’re willin tae pit it where maist Scotsmen wouldna,’ Maconochie said, but fortunately Boswell did not hear, since the words were drowned by a roar from somewhere else in the cellar. Although he and Maconochie had worked on cases together, Boswell blew hot and cold over the man, who was apt to be distinctly unmannered, something James abhorred in others and tried to restrict in himself to private moments and to his journal – as when he threw plates at his wife, for example, or on Castlehill. But Maconochie redeemed himself by asking after Dr Johnson, who had been back in London for a fortnight after the Highland adventure, and of whom Boswell never could tire of talking.

  ‘He is well, he is well. He wrote me the other day seeking some information on the clans – I daresay he is writing his book even as we speak.’

  ‘Ye’ll be writin a book yoursel? Aboot your journey?’

  ‘I kept a journal, as did he, though I think my notes went further than his. But no doubt his observations on the state of society in those parts will make better reading.’

  ‘Whit I want tae ken,’ said Maconochie, ‘isna aboot the clans or the state o society, it’s aboot the state o Lord Monboddo. Ye took Johnson tae see him at Laurencekirk, I hear? Wasna there a terrible falling-oot atween them?’

  Maclaurin gave an exasperated sigh – he had heard all this several times already. Boswell, suddenly friendly again towards Maconochie, reasserted himself over the effects of the gin as he recalled the scene.

  ‘There was no falling-out – though it’s true there might have been, and I swithered for a while about risking a meeting between them. At Montrose I debated whether we should keep by the coast to Aberdeen, or cut inland by Laurencekirk. I mentioned to Dr Johnson that by the latter we could take a short detour and visit Monboddo at his home – he’d got out of Edinburgh before we did and had been there some days. Dr Johnson said he would make the detour, so I sent my man on ahead with a note. Meanwhile we pressed on to Laurencekirk, and stopped at the inn there for a rest.’

  ‘Did ye no think tae call on Lord Gardenstone, since ye were in his neighbourhood?’ said Maconochie.

  Boswell did not like to be interrupted. ‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘He was not there, even had we wished to visit.’

  ‘Ye could hae exchanged fraternal greetings wi his pigs,’ said Maclaurin.

  ‘Do you want to hear about Monboddo or not?’ Boswell cried.

  ‘Aye, aye,’ said Maconochie. ‘Let the man speak, John. So ye gaed there insteid?’

  ‘Not instead – I’ve told you, we had no intention of seeing Gardenstone. We left the inn and found my man waiting at the road-end with a message that Monboddo invited us to dinner. This was very welcome, because it had started to rain, and the country there is very exposed. A moorland waste, in fact. Monboddo is no better – cold and broken down and grim –’

  ‘We ken,’ Maclaurin said.

  ‘The house, I mean – it’s well fitted to its surroundings. But his lordship of course revels in it. “Our ancestors lived in such houses,” he told us as soon as we got in, “and they were better men than we.” Dr Johnson answered, “No, my lord, we are as strong as they, and a good deal wiser.” This could have provoked a fight before we had our coats off, but Monboddo did not rise.’

  ‘He’d no hae come up very high if he had,’ Maclaurin said. Monboddo was scarcely five feet tall, and pinched and skinny to boot.

  ‘Did he gie ye a dinner o the ancients?’ Maconochie asked. Monboddo’s reconstructions, at his Edinburgh residence, of ‘learned suppers’ in the manner of Roman feasts, were legendary.

  ‘No,’ said Boswell. ‘He is quite different there. Simple farmer’s fare, and we ate with the family. Big hacks of ham, and boiled eggs. “Show me any of your French cooks who can make a dish like this,” Monboddo said, holding up an egg. Dr Johnson rather enjoyed himself. Afterwards the two sages entered into a debate as to whether a London shopkeeper or a savage had the finest existence.’

  ‘The sparks would fly then,’ said Maconochie hopefully.

  ‘No, they were very restrained. I mean, Monboddo of course was for the savage, and Johnson for the shopkeeper, but they did not even raise their voices, let alone come to blows. In fact, Johnson told me later he would happily have argued for the savage, if anyone else had stood up for the shopkeeper. Mr Maconochie, don’t look so surprised. I know Lord Monboddo better than you, and he is always a model of courtesy. He even pressed us to stay the night, but we were expected at Aberdeen, so we declined.’

  ‘Weel, I must say, I’m fair disappointed,’ said Maconochie. ‘It’s a gey lang road tae gang and no get even a sclaff or a dunt for your trouble.’

  At the other end of the table a dispute broke out, which seemed to centre on one of the females, who having dispersed her favours fairly liberally among her male drinking cronies, was now being aggressively wooed by two of them. It took another of the women to calm things down by distracting one of the rivals. The three lawyers watched from their end for a minute or two, as if they had suddenly found themselves in a theatre. Eventually Maclaurin restarted the conversation.

  ‘Weel, Allan, Johnson and Monboddo wouldna be very weel matched in a fecht. Johnson would only need tae sit on Monboddo and he’d squash the life oot o him. He probably wouldna even notice he’d done it either.’

  ‘But Monboddo would probably tak the opportunity, afore he expired, tae see if Johnson had a tail,’ said Maconochie. ‘Aye, they’re baith unco chiels. But maybe they hae mair in common than they hae differences.’

  ‘That may be true,’ Boswell said. ‘Strong opinions respect one another. Physically they could not be more distinct, but intellectually perhaps they’re not so far apart. They have a black servant each, too, which is curious. Johnson has the excellent Frank Barber, and Monboddo has a man called Gory, who led us back to the high road to Aberdeen, and seemed equally splendid. It was odd to hear him speaking like a Mearns loun – he has picked up the accent from living there.’

  ‘I hae a black servant too,’ Maconochie said.

  ‘So ye hae, Allan. I’d forgotten,’ Maclaurin said.

  ‘I did not know that,’ Boswell said. ‘Well, maybe it is not so rare. When Gory turned back –’

  ‘But it reminds me –’ Maconochie began.

/>   ‘When Gory turned back, Dr Johnson asked him if he was baptised. He is – not only baptised, but confirmed. Johnson gave him a shilling.’

  ‘For being a guid guide or for being a guid Christian?’ Maclaurin asked.

  ‘It reminds me,’ Maconochie said again. ‘Ye ken John Swinton? I mean, of course ye ken him, but hae ye seen him of late?’

  ‘Is he in town?’ Boswell asked.

  ‘Aye, he’s been here this week past. He was telling me aboot an unusual case that’s coming afore the sheriff court at Perth. A petition’s been presented – Swinton didna hear it himsel, being in Edinburgh – but his substitute did, and John thocht it would be o some interest tae ye, John. And nae dout tae you tae, Jamie.’

  Boswell felt the conversation, and maybe the room, slipping away from him. He resented Maconochie’s familiarity, but then that was one of the things about Scotland in general, and Edinburgh in particular, that he found offensive: the uncouth, back-clapping social culture, whereby a man of sensibility such as himself had to put up with the rough intimacy of graceless men like Maconochie, the two Dundases (the Lord President and his much younger half-brother Henry, another advocate and the most ambitious of them all) and anyone else with whom one mixed professionally, which was most of the law. And yet, too, James loved drunken nights like this, and dens like Luckie Middlemist’s – the charged atmosphere which might explode at any moment, the women drinking with the men, and keeping up with them, the sense of liberty from the constraints of being good. There was, of course, more opportunity to be bad in London, which was one reason why he liked to go there whenever he could, but no city relished sin quite like Edinburgh.