Freeman Stand

By Angus McDonald Edmonds

Is it possible that Scotland’s Bard, Robert Burns, could have been transported to Australia as a political prisoner along with other Scottish Martyrs for Liberty, like Thomas Muir? And then escaped on the same Boston trading ship as Muir to ultimately find peace, happiness and a purpose to his life in America?
Thorough historical research, a life-time’s interest in Burns, and imaginative insight has created a story that is both fascinating and possible. It is a journey around the world. More importantly it is a man’s journey from frustrating self-doubt and fears to a fulfilment of his radical self. ‘Freeman Stand’ reflects Robert Burns’ commitment to Scotland’s independence, its life and culture as a nation. It also reflects his strong adherence to the principles of democracy and to human rights. His journey leads his to a fuller understanding of such issues and a stronger commitment to give of himself through active support of his principles.
‘Freeman Stand’ is a work of fiction, but portrays the vital, true – and flawed – character and nature of the man regarded as Scotland’s greatest. Not only was Burns flawed, he was not being the man he wanted to be. Ironically by losing his own freedom he is freed to live a life closer to his ideals. At the same the realities of life are driven home, including the fact that those he idealised and idolised had their own faults, their own feet of clay. Far from leading to cynicism, such revelations make Burns more compassionate, more understanding, more considerate.
The story begins with Robert Burns’ composition of ‘Bruce’s Address To His Army At Bannockburn’ better known as the song ‘Scots Wha Hae’ which many consider should be Scotland’s national anthem. Fully researched, the novelist’s account of its composition is possibly as close to the truth as any, but told with dramatic flair.
It was published anonymously in May 1794, coinciding with the worst atrocities of the Reign of Terror in France. Not only did the British authorities fear a similar revolution among the dispossessed in Britain’s burgeoning cities and towns, Britain was at war with Revolutionary France. The song was declared ‘seditious.’ All this is fact.

‘Freeman Stand’ is an exciting tale, an adventure, and an exploration of a man about whom more has been said and written than almost any other. The kernel of the story arises from the question,
‘What if Robert Burns’ anonymity as the writer of a ‘seditious’ song had been exposed?’

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angus McDonald Edmonds
• Release date: Feb 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301630875

Angus McDonald Edmonds

A proud Teri (born in Hawick, Borders) Angus lived in Africa before returning to Scotland for his senior education, becoming active in the Home Rule movement. A graduate of Edinburgh University where he was active in student politics through the Nationalist Club and the old Teviot Row Union, he stood as a Scottish National Party candidate for both Edinburgh City Council (1968)and Parliament (1974). A two-year teaching contract in Australia led to an interesting and successful career in education earning him a Medal of the Order of Australia in 2006. Active in the Society of St Andrew, Angus became something of an expert on Australia's Scottish heritage. He has spoken and written on various facets of this history and appeared on the BBC TV series 'Scottish Empire' in 2001. In recent years he has taken to writing historical fiction and family sagas which he is now publishing beginning with 'Freeman Stand.'

Book preview

PREFACE

This is a work of fiction. However, many aspects of the story are based on actual events and persons. Some incidents have been conflated and where there is conflicting evidence, I have used what best supports the most likely and the best fit with the story.

The eighteenth century Scottish poet Robert Burns supported what was regarded in those days as the radical cause of democracy and parliamentary reform. He was investigated by government authorities for possible seditious behaviour. His sympathies lay with the so-called Scottish Martyrs for Liberty, reformists like himself, who were transported to Botany Bay for sedition. Burns wrote Bruce’s Address to his Army at Bannockburn, otherwise known as Scots Wha Hae, at least partially inspired by the stand taken by these Scottish political prisoners.

This novel explores ‘what if’ Robert Burns had been found guilty of sedition and sentenced to transportation. The novel follows the journey this would have entailed, and explores Burns’ personal journey of discovery and change.

The author too has journeyed through the circumstances and thoughts of the eighteenth century, an exciting epoch, a time of change, with issues not dissimilar to those we face today. One major difference today is the ease of travel. In earlier days travelling over the seas was daunting. Not for nothing do the words ‘travel’ and ‘travail’ share the same etymology. Today we have a myriad of experiences to educate and entertain, but travel remains supreme. There is nothing quite so inspiring and enthralling as a trip overseas.

Angus McDonald Edmonds

PART I

Rousing the Rhyming Muse

‘...recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom

of the same nature, not quite so ancient,

roused my rhyming Muse.’

Letter to George Thomson 31st August 1793

27th July – 31st August 1793

Chapter 1

The man astride the small grey Highland pony was scowling, his face thunderous. His once generous mouth, set in a dark jowl, was drawn in a hard line and defined by two deep crease lines etched either side of his slightly upturned nose. Weathered by years in the open fields, his swarthy face was framed by sideburns of dark, almost black, wavy hair. His large dark eyes, shaded below the wide crown of a blue bonnet, were narrowed and brooding, yet strangely luminous, glowing with anger and self-loathing. With his neck stooped, shoulders slumped and legs dangling well below the rounded belly of his mount, he presented a picture of dejection and disillusion.

In fact, he was most uncomfortable. He was not an expert horseman. He did not own a horse of his own, and though from time to time he had ridden considerable distances on horseback, he preferred to walk. Earlier that day, in an act of kindness, he had carried an elderly clergyman through knee deep water from a boat when in it became grounded in a loch some yards from shore. As a result his new riding boots had filled with water, and were still sodden. Even if he wanted to walk, he could not. His wet feet, squelching within his boots, would quickly be blistered and sore.

To the west, clouds gathering on the horizon presented a warning of a potential storm later in the day. Like these clouds there was something potent about this man on the pony. Not just in the broad shoulders, the round muscular arms and well-turned legs, and the large work-hardened hands, but in the brooding face with its broad, furrowed brow, and something indefinable in his presence that suggested that although this man was down, he was not yet counted out. For the moment, he was a man who was best left alone.

Some distance ahead on the moorland track, a well-dressed gentleman wearing a wide-brimmed top hat with a square silver buckle fastened on a black silk hatband. Mounted on a Welsh Cob gelding, he kept a watchful but unobtrusive eye on his companion.

‘He’s like a captive lion, slumped and surly,’ he thought. For this gentleman had a literary bent and liked to express himself in imagery, ‘And yet, he’s lion enough to stir himself and give an earth-shaking roar. Aye, and stand rampant with outstretched claws, showing his mettle, sufficient perhaps to regain that respect he seems to have lost from others – aye, and for himself!’

A good judge of character and temperament, he knew to keep his distance for the time being. Yet he was close enough that it would be clear to any observer that they were travelling together. Close enough also, when the breeze was in the right direction, that he could hear the occasional mumbled growl. And on one occasion some words... possibly shouted to no-one in particular, a cry from the heart perhaps?

Thrusting out his right arm, his companion had pointed to somewhere northwest of the track they followed. Although he called out his message in a steady, deep and manly voice, he stressed some words more than others. Phrase after phrase was punctuated by a thrusting jab of his thick long index finger, so that it seemed to the hearer that the words contained something beyond their literal meaning. There was something about the intensity and the vehemence of their expression that implied self-challenge and self-chastisement,

‘The Bruce. He dwelt here - a hunted man. Yet, overcoming his doubts - casting aside his fears - he led those brave enough to follow - some who’d fought, aye, and bled with Wallace – and he won - in these Galloway Hills - his first victory ower the oppressor - a first step on the long road to Bannockburn!’

In part to acknowledge his companion, in part to placate him, the gentleman reined in his steed to face where the other was pointing. He raised his right hand in salute, before turning his horse again to continue down the track. Like its master, the horse was well turned out. A fine looking specimen it was, probably crossbred with an Arabian. It stood at just under sixteen hands, with a well-groomed, gleaming chestnut coat, and bearing a white blaze and two white socks on its rear hocks. Man and beast bore all the signs of good breeding and a comfortable but active life.

Appearance for once reflected reality, for the cob belonged to John Syme, Esquire, son of the former Laird of Barncailzie in the Stewartry of Kirkudbright, in the south west of Scotland. As a gentleman’s son, John Syme had been educated in Edinburgh where his father was a distinguished lawyer, a Writer to the Signet, acknowledged in his later years as ‘Father of the Roll ref_1.’ After serving as an Ensign ref_2 in the 72nd Regiment of Foot, young Syme had spent some years improving the lands of Barncailzie estate. However, following the collapse of the Douglas and Heron Bank in which his father had invested, the estate was sold and John Syme took up a government position as Collector of Stamps ref_3 for Dumfries and Galloway.

In truth, this was something of a sinecure, providing a regular income but making little demand on his time. So he continued to live the life of a gentleman, residing in Ryedale, a fine villa on the west bank of the River Nith, just outside Dumfries. To the locals, who knew his position was a sinecure but liked him nonetheless, he was affectionately known as ‘Stamp Office Johnnie,’ a sobriquet that amused rather than offended him.

As befitted his social standing, Syme enjoyed a good social life of wining and dining with friends. Dinners in the stone flagged hall of Ryedale were always entertaining social occasions. As an army man, he also kept ‘open house’ for army officers stationed in the area. He frequently visited his friends among the gentry. He enjoyed the country sporting life of hunting and shooting at which he excelled. Although no longer active in farming, he maintained an interest in agricultural improvement and in horticulture, a subject of topical interest among landowners.

As an educated gentleman, John Syme’s interests also included aesthetic and literary pursuits. He was an accomplished amateur poet. His companion on this outing was a somewhat more talented poet, a man who had struggled for years to earn a living as a tenant farmer and latterly as a part-time gauger or exciseman ref_4. Not long after Mr Syme’s appointment, he left farming to take up a full time position as Acting Supervisor of Excise in Dumfries. When he took up residence in a flat immediately above Mr Syme’s office in the Wee Vennel ref_5, the two of them became firm friends.

Syme had found Dumfries quite dull, but in this fellow poet he discovered a kindred spirit of sorts. However, their circumstances were quite different. Despite his father’s losses in the bank failure and the sale of the family estate, John Syme’s situation was more than comfortable. He had private means and a solid income. He enjoyed the social privilege and acceptance that flowed from his gentrified background. Not surprisingly, he was generally satisfied with life.

His friend on the other hand was far from comfortable in means and even less comfortable with whom he was and the compromises he felt compelled to make. He lived with a gnawing uncertainty about his future, An’ forward tho’ I canna see, I guess and fear. For this was none other than the farmer-poet, Robert Burns.

Many in Scotland were familiar with the quotation as the final statement of Burns’ poem, To A Mouse ref_6. Written in the Scottish vernacular, this poem epitomised the popular image of Burns as the ‘Heaven-taught Ploughman.’ He was the rustic genius who used the language of everyday working folk to reflect on the ordinary circumstances of life. To A Mouse was published as part of a collection entitled Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, in Kilmarnock, on July 31, 1786, seven years to the day before Robert Burns and John Syme journeyed on horseback over this Galloway moorland.

This book catapulted Burns to fame, although not to fortune. Travelling to Scotland’s ancient capital city, he had been fêted by high society, the rich, the famous, the intelligentsia, and the literati. An Edinburgh edition of his poems was planned. However, ever hard pressed for cash, Burns sold the copyright to his poems to the publisher for a hundred guineas, a reasonable sum but nothing like the value that would accrue from sales in the years ahead.

In many ways, the life of celebrity was short-lived. Robert Burns returned to the harsh reality of trying to eke out a living in the difficult and frequently unrewarding life of a tenant farmer. Soon he had a wife and children to support. Little of his financial difficulties were known by his admiring public.

Many knew only his more celebrated works like To A Mouse or the sentimental picture of Scottish rural life presented in The Cotter’s Saturday Night. Such poems made him a man of the people. Ordinary folk felt they could identify with the poet personally. Very quickly he was known affectionately and familiarly as Rabbie Burns. When people thought of ‘Rabbie’ it was the handsome young man depicted in print reproductions and engravings of the portrait that Alexander Nasmyth had painted in 1787 when Burns was twenty-eight years old.

However, few in Scotland would immediately recognise this brawny man on the pony as the famous Ploughman Poet. For Naysmith had created an idealised portrait of a winsome and flawlessly handsome young man with fresh smooth, rosy cheeks and Cupid’s bow lips, and large bright dark, almost black, almond-shaped eyes. While this portrait was a reasonable likeness, it was at odds with the reality experienced by others. The young Walter Scott who met Burns in Edinburgh thought that Nasmyth’s portrait ‘diminished Burns’ strong... massive’ features.

Older now, and despite the toll on him from hard work and hard living, Burns remained robustly handsome. His eyes were striking in their brightness, his presence commanding, his voice deep and rich. His well-shaped and powerful form attracted admiring glances from members of the fairer sex, young and old, rich and poor. They were drawn to him not only by his looks and his wit and way with words. They were attracted too by an aura of energy in his very being and the allure of his manly presence, redolent of sensual promise, potent and appealing.

That summer day in 1793 had started bright and sunny. By afternoon a line of cumulus-nimbus cloud that appeared along the western horizon was edging nearer. Building and spreading, it stretched from the Solway Firth in the south to the Firth of Clyde in the north. There were still many miles to go, and John Syme feared the weather might turn very nasty.

‘Best keeping moving, Robert!’ he called out, ‘We should take it to a trot whenever we can. While the track is good and the light allows.’

A slight wave of the hand indicated his companion’s agreement. However, John Syme knew that he could not expect too much from someone who had spent many more hours walking behind a horse with his hand on the plough than riding one. He would be careful not to push on too quickly, especially where the ground was broken or boggy.

‘Still,’ Syme thought, ‘A bit of action might do the trick – literally jog Rabbie out of his melancholy, lift his spirits, restore his old self again.’

After all, that had been part of John Syme’s plan in organising this excursion through the Galloway Hills. He wanted his friend to regain that vital spark that seemed missing of late. More than that, he wanted him to develop what Syme called ‘equilibrium,’ a more balanced view of the world, especially of Syme’s own kind, the gentry, and put aside or ameliorate his outbursts against the ruling order. He sympathised with his friend’s radical views, but knew Burns’ intemperate and at times ill-considered expression of them had potential to land him in trouble.

Therefore, in addition to taking in the scenery, Syme planned the outing to include visits to some of his influential friends. They included John Gordon, a former member of parliament for Kirkcudbrightshire, who lived the life of a lord, as he was by hereditary, in Kenmure Castle. Their trip would end with a stay at St Mary’s Isle, the home of Lord Selkirk, the Lord Lieutenant of Kirkudbright. It might be helpful in more ways than one for his friend to get to know such influential persons.

‘Lordy me,’ he mused, ‘Rabbie’s already come close this year to losing his position with Customs and Excise – saved no doubt by Robert Graham of Fintry ref_7. But how long can he go on being indiscreet? God forbid, he ever says or writes anything that brings serious charges against him!’

John Syme knew that Robert Burns was a radical, endorsing the reform agenda and egalitarian ideals espoused by the likes of Thomas Paine. Indeed so did Syme although his support was more circumspect. He had joined with Robert in private and, spurred on by drink and his exuberant nature, had indulged in some outrageous comments and toasts.

Robert Burns’ imagination and passion had been roused first by the American colonists’ fight for independence and more recently the French Revolution. He had been quite open in his admiration of both these ‘democratic’ causes. Unfortunately, Robert had been too open, often extravagantly so, in his expressions of support. Syme worried that his friend’s behaviour had attracted the unwanted attention of government agents who were thought to be active in the district.

‘That’s a prospect drear ref_8 indeed! And if trouble comes, he’ll need all the help he can get from those in a position of influence. Good Lord, now that we are at war with France, his sympathy for that revolution could see him charged with High Treason!’

The sentence for high treason was that most sadistic and medieval torture-execution of hanging, drawing and quartering. In more recent times, the body was dismembered after death. The head was cut off and ‘piked’ on a stake after the executed had expired by choking to death on the hangman’s noose. The body was then ‘drawn and quartered’ by a surgeon when he dissected it for the purpose of teaching his apprentices. Nonetheless, it remained a grim and dismal business.

It was a worrying and depressing thought. Outrageous as it might appear, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility. Strange things happen in a wartime climate. The Government, reflecting the fears of many in the ruling class of a French-style revolution in Britain, was anxious to prevent any such occurrence here. Dissent would be discouraged and debate stifled. Proponents of reform were to be prosecuted. Arrests had already taken place.

‘Robert’s already had a warning. I know he chafes at being bridled this way, but for his own good he must now keep his thoughts to himself or share them only with trusted friends in private. I’ll do what I can, but there are times...’

John Syme shook his head. He knew that his friend was a man of independent spirit – and passion: a man who would increasingly resent the fetters placed on him, a man who longed to be a free. Syme feared that it would be a freedom hard to win, and then at a cost. Yet without such freedom, he knew that Robert Burns was diminished and demeaned, destined for decline.

Chapter 2

As John Syme thought on this, his mood was reflected in the weather conditions as the ever thickening clouds rolled in to cast the desolate moor in cheerless umbral gloom. The conditions also reflected a black mood that Robert Burns could not shake. He too thought of Robert Graham of Fintry. Not so much of the assistance that gentleman had rendered but of his letter to Graham begging for help, desperate not to lose his government position. In the letter he had professed his total loyalty to the King and to the British Constitution. He declared that he now disowned reform opinions, confessing that he had ‘unguardedly...sported with’ such views before he ‘was aware of these innovating times.’

‘My God, what a hypocrite I am! Innovating times! I wrote that damnable lie about a government whose innovations are to silence dissent and declare any opposition to their dictate as sedition!’ cried Burns, spitting out his thoughts with venomous intensity.

Shaking his head in silent self-rebuke, he recalled how he had also denied any political association. Rather he presented as a loyal subject. He cited how he had joined with others in Dumfries to swear ‘attachment to the Constitution and abhorrence to Riot’ following a disturbance in the Dumfries playhouse. It was an abject denial of his true self. In fact, he was a secret member of the Dumfries chapter of a radical political organisation called the Scottish Association of The Friends of the People which he joined in the autumn of 1792.

About the same time, he had purchased four carronades ref_9, confiscated by Customs officers when they seized a brig suspected of being a smuggling vessel. He then sent them as a gift to the French Assembly dominated by the radical republican Jacobin party. Not long after he wrote his grovelling letter to Graham of Fintry, he had penned the poem, The Tree of Liberty, celebrating the execution of Louis XVI by the French revolutionaries. The poem was published anonymously for his self-protection, and it irked him that he had to keep his passionately held views secret.

Not that Robert Burns was always discreet. When in his cups, he was too often influenced by ‘inspiring bold John Barleycorn’ and scorning dangers ref_10, he would propose a toast in support of the radical cause. He always refused to raise a toast to the Prime Minister, Mr William Pitt. Instead, he would substitute a toast to George Washington, first President of the breakaway United States of America.

However, as Robert Burns rode over the moor from Loch Ken to Gatehouse of Fleet that summer’s day in 1793, it was not his acts of boldness that he recalled but a whole string of actions that he now regarded as shamefully weak and cowardly. He recalled how the previous September, he had humiliated himself the day after the Dumfries Public Library was opened.

While at Ellisland, the farm he rented near Dumfries, and before he abandoned farming for the more comfortable life and better income provided by his position with Customs and Excise, he had championed the proposal to provide a public library. As a result, he had been invited to join the Library Committee.

What should have been a minor but nonetheless important community success turned into an embarrassing back down and a craven cry for help. The sequence of events was seared in his memory like scenes from a recurring nightmare.

‘An’ now, Ladies and Gentlemen, Friends All,’ declared Mr David Staig, ‘As Provost, I’d like to introduce someone I think we will all be proud to ca’ a citizen o’ Dumfries. I refer of course to Mister Robert Burns, who in recent years has gained a reputation as something of a man of letters - nay, mair than that, a poet of national standing. In recognition of his reputation as a poet, the Town Council, and the Library Committee, has granted Mister Burns exemption from making the quarterly contribution and invited him to serve on the Committee.’

Acknowledging some polite applause, Robert Burns, raised a hand to the gathered crowd,

‘Thank you, Mister Staig. Fellow citizens of Dumfries...’ Burns paused to acknowledge a cry of ‘Aye, Rabbie, yer one o’ us noo!’ from one over-enthusiastic, somewhat inebriated, man at the rear of the gathering,

‘I’m proud to be accepted as a citizen of your – my apologies, oor – toun, aye doon hame ref_11 ... and a one used to ploughing through muddy fields and given my surname perhaps it was meant that I should reside in a town with the motto and war-cry A Lore Burne!’ref_12 That raised a cheer from his drunken admirer and some others joined in a brief round of applause.

‘Thank you. Thank you,’ said Burns, half raising his right hand in acknowledgement and beaming a smile, before continuing,

‘You have honoured me by inviting me on the Library Committee and granting me privileges in respect o’ my poesy. In turn, it is my pleasure to present from my own collection four books to the Library: Tobias Smollett’s amusing novel, The Expedition of Humphry Clinker; then a novel by one of our own, Julia De Roubigne by Henry Mackenzie.’

There were murmurs of approval. Some in the gathering knew the works of Henry Mackenzie and approved of the choice; others were pleased simply to hear a Scottish writer named.

‘I’ve also included a special favourite of mine, a chronicle all Scots should be acquainted with - John Knox’s History of the Reformation in Scotland.

Again, there were nods of approval all round. Most were passing familiar with the work, or at least had heard of it. Others simply recognised the name of John Knox and accorded it due respect. Knox had been leading figure of the Scottish Reformation and the man regarded as the instigator of Scotland’s parish school system.

‘Finally,’ Robert concluded, ‘I am pleased to make available the well-known and respected work by Jean-Louise de Lolme on The Constitution of England. Despite its title, it does in fact deal with the British parliamentary government. It is a treatise widely respected and of great influence, including I understand on those who framed the American Constitution - and some would consider that fair recommendation!’

This last remark brought further and more enthusiastic applause, and some cheers from a section of the gathering.

Pleased with the reception and emboldened by the cheering, Robert took hold of the book and quickly wrote an inscription on the fly leaf of De Lolme’s book,

Mr Burns presents this book to the library, and begs they will take it as a creed of British liberty until they find a better.

It had seemed so appropriate to write these words at that moment. However, during the night Robert was haunted by the thought that his inscription might be interpreted as inherently seditious. Early the next morning before dawn, he visited the provost, rousing him from his bed, begging to see De Lolme’s book.

The civic leader was more than a little annoyed to be disturbed at this early hour. By the light of his lantern, he was even more surprised to look upon the chastened, wearied and shaken figure that Robert Burns presented before him. He was nothing like the confident, bold and cheerful character of the previous evening.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mister Staig,’ said Robert, his voice low and almost hoarse, ‘But these are trying times. I’m afraid that some may misinterpret what I wrote yesterday evening. It could land me in trouble.’

Then seeing a flicker of doubt and disapproval on Staig’s face, Robert quickly added,

‘And perhaps you too, Mr Staig, for accepting the book wi’ that inscription in it.’

The bleary-eyed provost grimaced, and invited his unwelcome guest to come inside. He led him into his front parlour where a number of books were laid out on a table. Placing his lantern on the table, he squinted at the inscription on the flyleaf before nodding his head,

‘Oh aye, I see what you mean, Mister Burns,’ reflected the provost, pursing his lips. He raised his eyes to meet those of Burns, and nodded again, ‘It was guid o’ ye to come by early afore I placed the book in the Library for others to see.’

‘If you’d be so kind as to provide me with a sheet o’ paper and some glue, Mister Staig, I’ll cover the inscription and no-one will be the wiser.’

The job done, Robert Burns hurried away. His brave words from the previous evening had been totally overshadowed by his craven act of fear in the morning. So quickly had he wanted the shameful episode to be over and done with that he scarcely glanced at his handiwork in covering up the inscription. If he had waited for the glue to dry and held the page up to the light, he would have realised that the offending words could still be read!

As Robert hurried homewards, he castigated himself, for being so indiscreet as to write the inscription in the first place, and then for his humiliating ‘cover-up.’ He was almost home when another thought struck him throwing his mind into yet more turmoil.

‘What if the authorities hear about my words at the presentation? And no doubt they will – they might search my collection of books for other evidence against me!’

He knew that two works in particular, ones he loved and cherished, Thomas Paine’s pamphlet Common Sense and even more so his publication Rights of Man which had been banned as seditious, and would be regarded as clear evidence of disloyalty if found in his possession.

‘I have to get them rid out of them!’ he said to himself, as he broke into a run. Grabbing the ‘offending’ works off his bookshelf, he rushed out again to beg a favour of his neighbour, George Haugh, the blacksmith. He would ask him to hold them in safe-keeping for him. For although he wanted to be ‘rid of them’ for the present he did not want to lose them altogether.

George was a hard-working, decent member of the community. More importantly he was well-known to be totally disinterested in anything of a political nature. The authorities would never suspect him. At the same time, Burns felt George Haugh was totally trustworthy and that he could confide in him. If Haugh had already left for work, Burns would seek him out at the smithy. As it happened, he met the blacksmith just as he stepped out his front door.

‘Good Morning to you, George, may I have a word?’ said Robert, the words tumbling from his lips.

George Haugh smiled wryly and thought, ‘Rabbie’s up early – and sober! Other mornings, we’ve met at this hour, he’s been staggering back from some howf, meeting me as I set off to work.’ However, polite as ever, he ushered his poet neighbour inside and invited him to speak,

‘Well, what is it, Rab? Ye must hae urgent business to bail me up at this hour?’

‘Aye,’ Rabbie replied; then paused not sure what to say.

‘Lost for words?’ George smiled good naturedly, ‘Surely not?’

‘I’ve a favour to ask of ye, George. I know I can trust ye... I’ll be honest, I have in my hand twa works by Thomas Paine and the government could hold me to account if they found them in my possession. The truth is they regard them as seditious...’

‘Say nae mair!’ interrupted Haugh, ‘The less I know the better. I’m no’ a stupid man, an’ I know these can be dangerous times for folk who speak about reform and the like. At the smithy, I hear plenty, but say little. I’ve heard it said that you’re no’ the greatest admirer of Mr Pitt and his government. An’ that could be awkward for a government officer like you, nae doobt.’

Burns nodded, but looked Haugh straight in the eye. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, before the blacksmith’s eyes crinkled in a smile, and he held an open hand out towards Burns,

‘Gi’e them to me, Rab. I’ll tak’ care o’ them for ye. They’ll be safe in my smithy. But mind, if anyone other than you comes looking for them, they’ll be in my furnace afore they can say a second word!’

‘Thank ye kindly, George! I’ll aye be gratefu’!’ replied Rabbie, handing over his precious radical papers. George slipped them into the large pocket of his apron. Although Robert would be loath to see these tracts burned, he knew it would be necessary for his own protection if government agents came snooping and gathering evidence against him.

With genuine gratitude, but also shamefaced that he allowed his fears to propel him to this action, Robert Burns turned away, his head lowered. Stepping out of the Haugh home, Robert slipped quietly into the humble abode that served as a temporary home for the Burns family.

Chapter 3

There were other incidents too that burned in his mind, each one reinforcing the thought that he was at heart cowardly and weak, unable to take a stand for his beliefs. Yet, he was a proud man and strong in so many ways, and that made this weakness even harder to bear. His only comfort was that he was not alone in his fearfulness.

Robert recalled one particularly farcical outcome after he had gathered in a room above the King’s Arms in Dumfries with others of a radical and reformist disposition. Bold words had been spoken, and as usual he had said more than most. Yet when they were ‘tipped off’ that the magistrates and their officers were about to enter the premises, he and the others present had all piled out a window and dropped down into a back street, running off into the night to make their escape.

However, what gave him greatest anguish was his sense that he had sold himself, given up the freedom to hold and speak his opinions. He had done so in the abject promise to be silent on political affairs made to Graham of Fintry in order to secure his position in government service. He had promised ‘to seal up my lips,’ and accepted a direction from the Customs and Excise Board that, ‘my business was to act, not to think; and that whatever might be Men or Measures, it was for me to be silent and obedient.’

He had lambasted those who had signed the Act of Union as a ‘parcel of rogues’ who had sold themselves – and their country – ‘for English gold.’ref_13 Yet had he not done something very similar? He had sold his birthright, his freedom, for a mess of pottage! He was no better than a coward slave!

Robert could try to excuse himself with the thought that he had family responsibilities: a wife and children to support, and he could not risk losing his income. Although his pay as an exciseman was modest, it was considerably more than what he had derived from farming. It was also more secure, not subject to the vagaries of weather and the blight and pests that had ruined many a promising harvest. The work conditions also made his life more comfortable. No more working from dawn to dusk in the fields and in all weather. And he had more time to read and write. However, what had motivated him to ‘play safe’ more than anything else was the fear of imprisonment or worse.

Following the French Revolution and the execution of the former French king, government repression of dissidents was in full swing. The leader of the Friends of the People in Scotland, Thomas Muir, had been charged with sedition early in 1793, and although released on bail, there was now a warrant for his arrest. It was rumoured that Muir had gone to France in a last minute bid to persuade the French revolutionaries to spare the life of the former king Louis XVI. Robert Burns presumed that he was in hiding somewhere overseas. He greatly admired Thomas Muir as a hero of the people and of Scotland. However, Burns despaired that, should Muir return to Scotland, he would be brought to trial and receive no more justice than that other great hero from Scotland’s past, William Wallace.

In fact it shamed Robert Burns that some of his own admirers regarded him as a hero of Scotland: none more so than a friend and supporter from his home county of Ayrshire, Mrs Frances Anna Dunlop. She was the daughter of Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, who claimed descent from a cousin of Sir William Wallace, the thirteenth century Scottish patriot. Earlier that year, Mrs Dunlop presented Robert with a gift of the Wallace Cup, an ancient drinking vessel that had been used by descendants of William Wallace for generations. To possess and drink from such a cup meant so much to Robert. It created a symbolic and tangible link between him and the hero he had worshipped since his boyhood. And yet, it also reinforced how unlike Wallace he was! He was unfit to drink from a cup associated with his hero’s name and lineage!

Lost in his bitter reminiscing, Robert Burns had paid scant attention to the worsening weather conditions. The thick blanket of clouds had darkened to slate grey shading into black. His Highland pony had followed the lead of the chestnut cob, and John Syme had set as good a pace as the deteriorating light allowed. He could see that Robert was close behind him, although still lost in his own thoughts and clearly not in a mood to communicate. Syme ‘sang dumb,’ or ‘kept his own counsel,’ as his father would have advised. There was little point trying to speak to someone who was so patently absorbed in his own thoughts.

A crack of lightening followed almost immediately by a roll of thunder caused Robert’s pony to shy and prance. The sudden movement brought him back to the present. Robert pulled back on the reins to exert control of the pony. Then, digging his knees into the pony’s flanks, encouraged it to trot towards John Syme. As he came up alongside Syme, John greeted him with a grimace and a shake of his head,

‘We’re in for a soaking, Robert! There’s no cover for us here, so we’d best be tracking on. It’ll be two hours and more before we reach Gatehouse o’ Fleet. The only blessing is that these are steady beasts. Oh, they’ll shy about from time to time, but they’re no giddy creatures likely to rear and take off! Just keep a firm hand on the reins and let them know you’re still in charge, and they’ll journey on and get us there.’

‘Fair enough then, John,’ replied Robert, ‘I’m no’ worried. In fact, this storm promises to be magnificent: nature at its boldest. Man, when you think on it, we’re privileged to be witnesses at close hand to what promises to be nothing less than a raging battle of the elements.’

Black clouds had piled up all around the moor, so that it was difficult to see much beyond a radius of about sixty feet in the now all-pervading gloom. A storm-induced ‘nightfall’ embraced the landscape. The darkness broken when lightening suddenly and vividly lit up the scene for a few flickering moments.

Robert rode alongside his companion in silence, awe-struck by the violence of the storm that now broke in full force around them. He seemed to be totally caught up in the moment, oblivious it seemed of anything but the storm. With his literary turn of mind, John Syme thought of Shakespeare’s ‘Scottish play’ with him and Robert Burns, like Banquo and Macbeth on the ‘blasted heath’ especially as Robert seemed ‘rapt withal.’ John wondered, but dared not ask, what was going on in Robert’s mind.

Robert’s mind was a confusion of emotions, thoughts, and images. In part, he was amazed and consumed by the sights and sounds around him. The black, almost boiling cloud cover seemed in turmoil. The vivid, electrifying, yet beautiful strikes of lightening were terrible and terrifying. They came in so many forms: sheet, ribbon, and forked lightning, booming or crackling. And with them in quick succession came ground shaking rumbles and crashes of thunder. The scene resonated with the inner turmoil of his troubled thoughts and feelings. Yet it was strangely cathartic: intensifying and releasing them at the same time.

Chapter 4

Prompted by his earlier recall of King Robert the Bruce’s first win in a skirmish over his enemies at the nearby Glen Trool ref_14 and by his own imagining of this phenomenon as a ‘battle’ in nature, Robert conjured up thoughts of Bruce at Bannockburn. He thought on the overwhelming odds of over one hundred thousand trained and seasoned English forces ranged against less than ten thousand Scots. The prospect of the forthcoming battle must have been terrible indeed. It would strike fear into the hearts of the Scots, just as this storm could strike fear into the hearts and minds of those who had to travel through it.

Robert’s recalled the fourteenth century cleric-poet, John Barbour, born here in Galloway, and his great narrative poem, The Brus. Barbour celebrated that greatest of Scottish victories in the swamp lands around the Bannock Burn in 1314. Straddling his grey Highland pony, Robert Burns thought of his namesake, Robert, King of Scots, astride his sturdy but sure-footed grey garron ref_15, addressing his army on the eve of a battle,

And when it comes to the fight

Let each man set his heart, will, and strength

To humble our foes’ great pride.

Bruce had fought successfully in skirmishes and in taking English-held castles, by stealth more than force. He had proved himself a worthy commander and wily strategist. As a warrior, he was expert in arms. This skill he displayed with agility and strength within minutes of finishing his address when Bruce was charged by the English knight, Sir Henry de Bohun. With superb horsemanship, Bruce nimbly avoided the on-rushing knight and his lance. Then, standing in his stirrups he