La Garde Ecossaise The Life of John Hamilton 1620-1689: Part 1: La Garde Ecossaise, #1

By Kirsteen M MacKenzie

A secret war rages between Louis XIV and William of Orange, a conflict which threatens the stability and security of France and a fight that will determine the future of Europe.  Only John Hamilton and his men in La Garde Ecossaise can protect the French realm.

It is time for the secret history of La Garde Ecossaise to be told and the stories of those men who dedicated their lives to protect innocents from certain death.  These are their stories and the chronicle of the lives they saved.

This is the story of Lieutenant-General John Hamilton, the head of an elite group of soldiers in La Garde Ecossaise tasked with keeping France safe from its enemies.  John Hamilton, a humble farmer who fled Ulster in 1641, joins the French forces in the Thirty Years War, becoming one of Louis XIVs most trusted men. Physically imposing, he strikes fear into the King's most determined enemies.

Yet these enemies have discovered his ultimate weakness, a weakness which could destroy Hamilton, La Garde Ecossaise and even France itself.

This sweeping tale carries the reader through the 1641 Irish rebellion, the Scottish Highlands, the Thirty Years War, the Franco-Spanish War, the Franco-Dutch War and into the heart of Louis XIVs France. 

This is the first novel in the La Garde Ecossaise series which aims to generate interest and curiosity in seventeenth century history.  The novel series will be accompanied by an official podcast which will explore the novel in greater depth and the historical events that inspired it. 

Therefore, the novel will not only appeal to readers of historical fiction but also to students studying courses in early modern history.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: History Gateway Limited
• Release date: Oct 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739128210

Kirsteen M MacKenzie

Dr Kirsteen M MacKenzie is an academic, broadcaster, historical fiction writer and historical consultant. Dr MacKenzie is the founder of History Gateway Limited (UK) which specialises in producing historical content aiming to educate, inspire and encourage interest in history.  Dr MacKenzie first became interested in history at a young age and as a teenager she had ambitions to become a lecturer in history at university. This led to a lifelong love of history. Dr MacKenzie graduated with an MA in History-Politics and a PhD in history from the University of Aberdeen, Scotland. Dr MacKenzie is a qualified higher education teacher obtaining her PGCert HE in 2014. She went on to teach at the Universities of Dundee and Aberdeen before establishing her own business History Gateway Limited.   Her areas of interest are British and Irish history from 1603-1788, commonly known as the Stuart period.  Her academic research mainly focuses on the Wars of the Three Kingdoms,1638-1660 but she also has wider research interests in the Jacobites and Louis XIV. Dr MacKenzie is also eight times great niece of the Jacobite governor of Carlisle and Kennington martyr John Hamilton. Another great uncle Major Henry Reid served as part of King Louis XVIII bodyguard during the Waterloo campaign in 1815.   Her debut historical fiction novel ‘La Garde Ecossaise: The Life of John Hamilton c.1620-1689 Part 1’ was published in September 2022.  La Garde Ecossaise is a series of novels which aim not only to entertain the general reader but hopes to generate more interest and curiosity in seventeenth century history. The series aims to be an introduction to early modern history for general readers and students alike, especially students taking broad survey courses in early modern history. The novels will be accompanied by an official podcast and blog which will examine the real history behind the story.    Her first academic monograph ‘The Solemn League and Covenant of the Three Kingdoms and the Cromwellian Union 1643-1663’ was published by Routledge in 2017.    Dr MacKenzie has been featured on BBC Radio 4 and ‘The People’s History Show’ on STV. . 

Book preview

To the Reader

I have felt compelled to publish and account for the times of the regiment of La Garde Ecossaise for both French and English audiences in these turbulent times. I am both saddened and elated at the progress of the relationship between the two great nations over the past year.  The late Jacobite rebellion has soured the trust between both nations; however, I am confident that with God’s help these two great nations can work together to achieve prosperity and peace across Christendom. We have communities in both nations in our native lands who love both the land of their birth and their exiled communities. Please pardon my forthrightness, I am neither Whig nor Jacobite and, although a confirmed Protestant and an advocate of Bishops in Scotland, I had parents who freely signed the National Covenant in 1638 in Edinburgh. I have spent the majority of my years living in a Catholic country, living under the most gracious and blessed King Louis XIV of France. I can assure you that I am no Papal conspirator since I am able to practise my faith at St Germain, Paris. I am fully aware that I will be judged accordingly and this account will be looked upon with ill eyes by some but I beseech you in the name of both our nations that you offer me your patience.

My name is Robert Meldrum. I was born in Edinburgh in the year 1650, the year of the invasion of the usurper Oliver Cromwell. I grew up playing in the streets amongst military men and the tradesmen of Edinburgh in the port of Leith, the largest port on the east coast of Scotland. My father was of the ‘middling sort’, a gentleman and successful merchant who carried goods regularly between Leith and the Campvere in the Netherlands. When I was about thirteen years old and during the summer months before the second war with the Dutch, I went to the Netherlands with my father and enjoyed my time there amongst the stricter Scottish Protestants. It was a friendly and close community and I thought that one day I might like to travel or stay abroad. My father, then later my elder brother, also traded in red wine from Bordeaux. The Scots, having the advantage of the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland, could obtain wine much cheaper than their English counterparts and my brother, who stayed with the strict Protestant way, decided that it was a form of favourable providence that no hard-working merchant could ignore. Like many second sons I decided to go into the clergy but when I was ready to enter the clergy, after time at St Andrews University, the Bishops had the governance of the church and I was therefore ordained according to Episcopal orders. I was fortunate to obtain a parish on the edge of Edinburgh called Corstorphine. I ministered there for some time on trial, between 1670 to 1672., after which I began my journey to Paris.

I hope the reader will find some inspiration within these pages as it recounts the adventures and heroic tales of six men within Louis XIVs Scottish guard, La Garde Ecossaise.  La Garde Ecossaise is an ancient regiment founded in the Middle Ages and continues to this day. The Garde is an enduring symbol of the blessed military alliance and friendship between Scotland and France. Smaller in size than in days gone by, it is a regiment which has become the lifeguard of the King of France. No aspect or purpose of this regiment is to be, or has been, used against our native country and it concerns itself only with the protection of the monarch of France. It has been instrumental in preserving the life of the most blessed King Louis XIV of France.

I shall begin by recounting the extraordinary life of John Hamilton, an Ulster planter, mercenary and Maréchal de la Garde Ecossaise. Within my possession I have a variety of documents and evidence which has uncovered the life story of this most remarkable man.  Hamilton was Marechal of the Garde from 1653 until his sad death in 1689. Not only did Hamilton protect the king and the royal family by keeping them safe at all times, he also embarked on many remarkable diplomatic and covert intelligence missions throughout France, Britain and Ireland, maintaining and protecting French interests at home and abroad. Hamilton was a pillar of the Anglo-French diplomatic community ensuring that stable and peaceful relations were maintained in difficult times. Not only was he an outstanding diplomat, bodyguard, and intelligence secretary, he was first and foremost a consummate solider. Acting without fear or favour towards all men, he was as ruthless as he was loyal and he expected and received a high degree of loyalty from his men. The high standards by which the regiment was recruited and governed during its period from 1653 to 1715 owed much to the intelligence, character, and life experiences of John Hamilton.

Hamilton was a great, but somewhat complex, man who had his faults as well as his virtues, just like any other human being; however, the evidence and documentation I have gathered will reveal the true and enigmatic character of John Hamilton and the incredible story of the La Garde Ecossaise under his leadership to which Louis XIV owes his life and his illustrious reign.

BOOKE 1

My Journey to Paris and My First Encounters 1672

1

Edinburgh and Leith 1672

My journey to Paris began in April 1672 when King Louis XIV of France sought to launch an attack on the Dutch whilst Scotland was being threatened by religious tensions which had been visible for some time because the Covenanters, who still professed loyalty to the national covenants, showed their disgust and contempt for a Scottish church which they felt had lost its way. Several years later the Covenanters amassed arms and raised their own private armies to confront forces loyal to the government of Charles II. Scotland’s religious scars were once again opened and laid bare for all of Christendom to see and many feared that Scotland was on the verge of civil war. I was a lowly Episcopal minister working amongst the good parishioners of Corstorphine. I enjoyed performing the sacraments, especially those that marked the stages of life from birth to death: baptism, marriage, and funeral rites. My parish church stood at the centre of village life and I was happy there, distributing funds to the needy, admonishing people for their sins and offering daily instruction to individuals and families regardless of status throughout the parish, both of high and low birth. I had purpose in doing God’s work for these people, especially in these turbulent times. It was at communion that the community came together and partook in God’s grace.

My parish, lying to the west of Edinburgh, was rapidly expanding and although it was a small village it was going through a period of significant change. There were two large lochs at the either side of the village. One of these, the Gogar loch, had been significant in spreading waterborne diseases to the villagers and there had been calls to drain both lochs in the hope it would produce more farmland as there was a significant demand for foodstuffs in Edinburgh.¹ The parish church was regularly filled with faithful parishioners and visitors and at times it was difficult to accommodate all of the people within the church. I cannot take all of the credit for a full church, it was due to the political and religious tensions at the time which forced people to conform to the established church, that is to say, the order of the bishops under the guidance of our most blessed King Charles II of Britain and Ireland. Many enjoyed my services and many of those who did so sat at the front adjacent to Lord Forrester in his patron’s chair. Then there were those listeners who sat in the middle who appeared to be engaged but were motionless, except for Mr S, an active Covenanter who only came to my services to take notes on my sermons and ceremonies only to challenge me later publicly in the streets or to relay evidence of my ‘ungodliness’ and ‘unfit’ practices to his fellow radicals. These radicals would meet in a conventicle, a secret organisation of Covenanters, somewhere in Edinburgh. Finally, there were those crammed at the back of the church who took no interest in the service at all, who chatted away sharing village gossip, telling jokes, drinking alcohol and there was Mr D who ran a betting stall who sat there taking small bets on cudgels and horse races and taking poor people’s money. In spite of my best efforts to throw Mr D out of the church, and banish social drinking from the church, it always returned. My patron, Lord Forrester, also played his part in encouraging this type of behaviour by being an avid drinker and gambler himself. 

I persevered in my ministerial duties but the expanding number of parishioners was causing me concern, especially with regard to the communion wine. Despite the increased numbers attending my services, the church authorities refused to increase the sum of maintenance money required for the upkeep and running of the church. This was not unexpected as it had been a common problem throughout the century. Ever since the beginning of the Reformation, churches were always in disrepair and struggling for money. It made no difference if the church was being run by reformers, covenanters or bishops, the same basic problems and issues remained despite various attempts to run the church as God had intended. In essence, I had less wine and more parishioners. Attempts by fellow ministers to water down the wine had failed and often led to parishioners complaining to the church authorities, some citing corruption of the communion and others, clearly appalled at the watering down of a good quality wine, complained bitterly without mentioning their taste for alcohol. I never had any complaints about the quality of my communion wine and this was because I obtained it, with the Bishop’s permission, from my brother, Alexander Meldrum, a merchant who dealt in the trade of wood, cloth and other materials from Europe but he also dealt in fine wines from Bordeaux. I was extremely fortunate to receive several bottles each month from my brother’s duty-free share, courtesy of the French authorities there.

Contrary to what you might be inclined to believe, my brother was not a smuggler, nor did he have a compulsion to avoid cess or duties. He was a devout Covenanter and like many Covenanters at the time his faith was a matter of conscience. Since the Restoration he had been prohibited by law from practising his faith openly so he was law abiding when in Scotland and a loyal subject of the monarch. He attended parish church on a Sunday and shunned secret gatherings of his brethren, preferring instead to focus on his trade to Europe. Of course, at times when he was in the Netherlands, he attended church services there, especially near the Scottish staple of Campvere where he was a regular visitor. As per the religious tensions of the time his ship was regularly searched both in Britain and in France for whom he called ‘godly travellers’, Covenanters in Scotland and Puritans in England, who wished to escape the situation they found their consciences in and would try and stowaway on ships bound for the continent. Not only were there these sorts of more fervent Protestants willing to flee Britain but there was also a very particular type of Protestant to be found in France known as Huguenots who were especially eager to cross the Channel to Britain, especially after Louis XIV’s edict was revoked in 1685, by which time many Protestants had already emigrated. Louis XIV was very happy for them to leave because it bolstered the security of the French realm and the stability of the King’s reign. It is in this situation, and particularly in Bordeaux, that my brother became aware of French ways and the unspoken dangers of the French wine trade.  French officials would inspect ships before they left port but the French authorities would be more than happy to let Huguenots smuggle themselves onto British ships. Indeed, French authorities would actively encourage their emigration and would become friendly with British merchants whom they knew could accept extra passengers. My brother was unaware of this at first but soon discovered the clandestine activity undertaken by French port officials and as a devout Protestant he saw it as his duty to assist the ‘godly travellers’ where he could. He very quickly developed a close relationship with the Bordeaux port officials and other prominent men in the town and it was through these networks that he became known as someone that could be trusted and he was rewarded for his assistance by the waiving of some duty on his wine. This enabled him to undercut his competitors and provide me with wine for communion in my ever-expanding church services.

One bright spring morning I went to Leith to visit my brother to talk about obtaining more wine for my church services. There was nothing unusual in this journey to Leith nor my purpose for going there. I had completed this journey many times without incident and had expected to do so again. I had absolutely no prior knowledge that this visit was going to be part of a plan that God had designed for me. As previous custom dictated I met my brother at his house in Leith and we sat down to discuss family matters, business and mundane administrative matters relating to the church wine.

‘Greetings brother’, Alexander said, as he welcomed me into his house. ‘How go you? How are you feeling?’ ‘I am so very sorry to hear that you are troubled in your ministry. I am deeply saddened’. ‘You are a good man and a servant of God who has served the church well but perhaps you have lost your way as many other men have done before you and since’. This was my brother trying to comfort me yet acknowledging my faults as he saw them. My brother fetched several bottles of wine set aside for me as he had done many times before and placed them on the table. He had a serious expression on his face, one that I had associated with our previous discussions on politics and religion but this time it was slightly different. He looked uneasy. 

‘Here are your bottles, perhaps it would be best to arrange to send them on?’

‘Why?’ I enquired, puzzled. ‘I will carry them back with me’.

At this point my brother took out a sealed letter that was alongside the bill for the wine.  At that moment I started to worry that perhaps I was in trouble with the synod for using this wine, even though it was something I had arranged and received with permission from the Archbishop.   

‘I was asked to give this letter to you directly,’ my brother anxiously declared. ‘You will know what to do with it once it is opened’.

I opened the letter but did not recognise the seal, or at least the person it was associated with. The seal had the cross of St George on it and that is as much as I could tell at that moment. The letter itself was blank on both sides and felt waxy. It was clear that this letter was strictly confidential as it was covered in a thin layer of candle wax to obscure its contents. Alexander dutifully brought a candle and placed it on the table over to my side and I began to move the letter slowly to melt the wax. It quickly became apparent that the contents of the letter were of a highly sensitive nature because the letter had been written in lemon juice, a very common practice for letters containing privileged information. The letter read as follows:

Meldrum,

We have been instructed to invite you to London for a meeting with Bishop N at Lambeth Palace in 10 days. You will take a ship named the F------ that is due to sail tomorrow morning from Leith to London from hence a coach will be arranged to take you to your accommodation at a suitable place in Spitalfields.

There was no date and no signature but clearly this was an order from the Bishops in England. What had I done?  I looked up at my brother. 

‘I have to obey the order but what have I done?’ I asked. My brother shrugged his shoulders.  He left the table for a few moments and came back with a bag of clothes. ‘You will be needing these. You will have to stay at my house for tonight as the ship leaves early tomorrow morning.’

My brother continued, ‘Perhaps they are aware of your difficult circumstances in your ministry and no blame for that can be laid at your door and this is perhaps the opportunity for a new start that you so clearly deserve’.

I could not argue with him. I thought that I may indeed be fortunate enough to gain a new start within a parish in England.

That said, perhaps now is the right time to reveal my true reason for wishing to leave Corstorphine. The most eminent family in the area was that of my patron, Lord Forrester, a zealous Presbyterian who had built a meeting house in the village, rivalling the parish church and this did grievously offend me. However, Lord Forrester was one of the most illustrious personages in the village. He owned Corstorphine Castle and many large properties in the area,² yet he was a very unsavoury character who enjoyed clandestine meetings with ladies and the wives of other husbands and I was fearful that his behaviour may reflect badly on myself and my ministry. Looking back, I was absolutely right to leave Corstorphine because a few years later, on the fateful day of the 26 August in the year of our Lord 1678, a terrible event occurred. Lord Forrester was meeting a lady in secret who was not his wife. She was Lady Christian Nimmo, the wife of a prominent merchant in Edinburgh. Lady Christian Nimmo was known for her rash temper and was prone to violence. Lord Forrester was a heavy drinker and would frequently be at the village tavern and on that fateful night he had spoken very poorly of the lady, using language he never would have uttered had he been sober. The words and language he used were overheard by Nimmo and she became extremely upset and asked him to meet her in his garden, which he duly and foolishly agreed to. No one knows exactly what happened during that eventful meeting in the garden at the castle, however, rumours circulating days later suggested that an altercation had taken place where she had managed to stab Lord Forrester with his own sword and mortally wounding him. Lady Nimmo was condemned to death for her crimes on the day and year of our Lord 12 November 1678.³ Even though Lord Forrester was Presbyterian, and although I had previously been his parish minister, I could not help but feel a sense of responsibility and guilt for what had taken place. I wish could have taken more care to look after those frequent visitors to the parish as well as the residents of the village and perhaps I should have stayed in my parish but in 1672 I already felt that God was preparing a gathering storm for Scotland and I was keen to avoid it. My calling to London and Paris could not have come at a better time.

2

Leith, London and St Malo

The next morning, as soon as the sun rose, I packed my belongings and bade farewell to my dear brother. Returning to the note I had read the previous evening I had followed the imperative message to burn the letter but remembered certain words for certain times should they be required.  I had also been instructed to keep to a back story which was to be limited for only the first part of my journey to London and Lambeth Palace. Indeed, a further note was contained in the letter but sealed and addressed only for me. My brother, being a Presbyter and a good confidante, did not open this message. I am familiar with message interception and tampering and there were no marks on the letter to suggest he had opened it. The letter within was from the Archbishop of York who had arranged an interview with me to discuss my possible transfer and promotion within the English church. The transference of a Scottish minister to the English church was not common but it was also not unusual, especially at this time when the King was keen to unite all of his appointed ministers within the three kingdoms.  I walked from my brother’s house down to the quayside and whilst I walked through the cramped and busy streets of Leith, I noticed a group of young boys playing cudgels in the streets. I noted their innocence. Despite clearly being of the same class they were composed from rival merchant families in the town. Indeed, I was surprised to see young master Nicoll, whose family are amongst the staunchest of Presbyters, playing cudgels as enthusiastically as the rest. It reminded me of my own days of innocence when my brother and I would play together with other children from likeminded and rival families without a care in the world. Indeed, despite being brought up in Leith during the Cromwellian occupation, we knew little of the divisions and conflicts. One day we found ourselves playing cudgels with the English soldiers in the town. Many of these soldiers missed their families back home and one such solider, Captain Smith, had a son my age so adopted me as his own. He was a very skilled woodcarver and he made toys for me and my brother. One day, Captain Smith took me to his church after I feigned illness to my parents (which I must confess was very mischievous of me) but I had been naturally curious because he went to a different church from my own family. Well, it was not a church as such but a front room in an English merchant’s house which belonged to Mr Sewell who lived in Leith but also owned another home in Great Yarmouth. In the front room of this house a crowd people had gathered, some sitting in arranged rows and others crammed at the back. The service was given by Mr Stevens, a fellow solider, but he was also what the English called a lay preacher. Mr Stevens was very animated in his style and made the words of the gospel come alive. His arms constantly flung around his body, his voice boomed and his hands constantly gestured to the crowd. The audience was overjoyed by what they were hearing and some of the more zealous Puritans from the English garrison were almost in a trance. It fired my imagination and I knew from that moment onwards that I wanted to be a minister of God. Naturally, my parents being Presbyters, were delighted with my choice of standing in the world but little did they know from whence it had come. It would not have met with their approval. Indeed, memories of this chance life changing encounter came vividly back to life as I passed Mr Sewell’s house on my way to the quayside to meet my ship. 

Now, more than twenty years later and being disillusioned with my first vocation, I was embarking upon a new journey, one which would again be assisted by English churchmen and merchants. As I boarded the vessel, I was immediately hit by the smell of the cargo on board which comprised both humans and animals and various other unknown materials. My brother tended to use requisitioned Dutch fluits from the 1660s for his cargo and these gave a greater yield and much more space for cargo and they also travelled at a faster pace. This English ship, by comparison, was far slower with less cargo space and was considerably heavier in the water. The aroma of rotting fish pervaded throughout the ship. It had picked up catch from Scotland’s herring ships and was being taken to Great Yarmouth and London. There was also a large space for coal which would be loaded at Newcastle and taken to London. The trip took a few days but I was one of the lucky few who had space set aside for me to eat in the Captain’s quarters alongside the Captain himself. 

Captain Lyon was a good old man and a good friend of my brother but he certainly could not be described as a godly man as he certainly liked his drink. Indeed, he was a well-known personage amongst most of the ale houses in Leith. He always had a large flask in hand for a ‘wee nip’ as he called it. However, he was very rarely seen drunk and clearly, he had hardened to the drink. Lyon had years of experience and as a former Scottish mercenary in the Dutch East India fleet he had reputably sailed to the other side of the world on the infamous Batavia but people knew not to discuss this with him as it was known to make him drink more excessively. Regardless, we were in a safe pair of hands and I, for one, was grateful for this, because certain areas of the North Sea and some of the ports along the east coast were difficult to navigate.  In addition, pirates and ships that did not strike sail were problematic and could lead to heated disputes within English waters. The Dutch were particularly notorious for this, even after the Anglo-Dutch wars. The vessel did indeed stop at various ports as scheduled and it stopped at Newcastle for a cargo of coal.

A curious man came on board at Newcastle. He was called Davy and he spoke with a strong Northumbrian accent. He came on board with a number of cattle and as they made their way to the hull of the ship there was an enormous smashing sound. I kept my composure, well outwardly at any rate, as the crashing sound seemed to come from where my wine bottles were stored. ‘Sorry, oh what have I done here, hey is there anyone here that owns this cargo full of glass?’ Davy asked. I kept my silence and my outward composure. ‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed, ‘I seem to have smashed a whole crate!’ I still kept my silence, although inwardly I was trying to avoid panicking. ‘Does anyone here present own this cargo?’ He shouted at the top of his lungs.  I still kept my silence and a family who had just come on board sat next to me. I thought it would be rude to make them move or get up and, more importantly, I was conscious that I had to blend into the background and not draw attention to myself. Davy was also invited to dine with the Captain in his quarters which I thought was unusual for a rough Northumbrian farmer but I assumed he must have been one of the Captain’s regular passengers and so, out of courtesy, I thought I would be as civil and as congenial as I could be for any man regardless of rank. For the remainder of the voyage to London we dined together. Davy was a lively character and very inquisitive, the latter trait I thought strange for a farmer. On one night in particular, before we stopped off at Great Yarmouth, Davy got particularly worse for wear with alcohol and became quite loud and obnoxious about the ministry. Captain Lyon was embarrassed and did not know where to look. ‘So’, Davy bellowed, ‘What makes you and your kind so special?’ ‘You think God really cares about what you do!’. ‘You are nothing but a bunch of jailers, imprisoning the consciences of good and godly people, you are parasites! ‘‘Why are you here?’ He proceeded to swear at me, calling me a whoremaster and a product of the devil’s ass, amongst other names. I took the man to be one of those radical Protestant itinerant preachers, self-appointed masterless men who believed that without any education and training they could minister God’s word. He became quite passionate and aggressive and was swinging his arms about. I ducked on several occasions but kept my composure. Captain Lyon was surprised by my reaction because he knew as well as I did that if this had happened to any of my fellow ministers, heated arguments would have been exchanged with the possibility of an altercation, especially given the political and religious climate at the time. Instead, I took the man’s hands and encouraged him to settle down and even offered him something to eat. The following night did not fare any better as Davy’s behaviour worsened the closer we got to London. Indeed, on the night before our entry into port I had to take affirmative action to keep us both safe. We were waiting for the Captain to arrive for dinner. He was unusually late as he had been consulting the crew and charts for the ongoing voyage between London and Bordeaux. Davy was visibly agitated and exceptionally drunk and he stared at me for a few minutes without saying a word. He then got up from his chair and moved towards me and as I stood up to greet him his right hand swung towards me. Luckily, I had quick reflexes and ducked, but for my own safety I punched him and he fell over unconscious onto the floor.  Thankfully, my father had brought me up to take care of myself. I then proceeded to pour the jug of ale that was lying on the table all over Davy to wake him up. Dazed, confused, and clearly surprised Davy apologised for his behaviour and I requested more ale which arrived with our dinner. Soon after the Captain came in we put the past events behind us and we all enjoyed a very sociable and pleasant evening together as we neared London.

We docked in London for supplies and some passengers disembarked. I, on the other hand, had a meeting at Lambeth Palace with the Archbishop of York who was paying a visit to the Archbishop of Canterbury in London. The meeting was about my ‘transference’ to the Church of England from my parish in Scotland. I took a boat up the Thames and I marvelled at the sights that I saw. This was my first time in London and I was overcome by the noise and the congested river and streets. I sailed past the Tower of London, that impressive fortress built by William the Conqueror, where many notorious prisoners were held and then the Jewel House where I remembered the notorious action by Colonel Blood who had overpowered the custodian of the jewels. I heard this story when it was the talk of the coffeehouses of Edinburgh. The jewels were recovered but the crown was crushed. Was it a symbol or action by Blood to demonstrate his Republicanism which he had held so dear or was it pure mistreatment? I know not the full details but some say Blood was a hot-headed Irishman. Interestingly, he was pardoned by the king after the affair and has now has become a well-known figure amongst the coffeehouses and inns in London. Given the gravity of the affair I am wholly surprised that he walked away with his life. During my water boat ride to Lambeth, I noticed that London was a city of the old and new. The fire in 1666 had destroyed significant parts of the City and as a I sailed down the Thames the old and the new became visibly apparent. I saw Westminster and St Stephens Hall where the Commons sat and Westminster Hall where the trial took place of two significant Scots, William Wallace and King Charles I, the martyr. In the latter case it was by a wholly corrupt English State. This was the time when Cromwell and his army had taken control and England’s church and constitution lay in tatters.  I also sailed past the Banqueting House, the scene of that horrible murder of King Charles I and then I saw the new London and was taken aback by the size of the new St Pauls Cathedral and was struck by its French and Italian influences. I had never seen a dome of that size on a church before. I really was in awe at this magnificent English cathedral. It resembled a church that could be found in Renaissance Italy or France rather than in any English city or parish.

My water boat pulled up at Lambeth Palace. I jumped off and made my way across the grass to the waterside entrance holding my letter in my hand. There I was met by the Archbishop of Canterbury’s aide who took to me to the Lollard’s prison, a stone tower within the grounds of the palace that had been used as a prison during the Reformation and the civil war. I climbed the spiral staircase to the allotted room within the tower. I do not know why the Archbishop of York chose to meet me there, indeed, why did he not wish to meet me in York?  Being a prison it was a cold enclosed space full of ghosts of its former inhabitants, with their names etched on the walls and in the glass on the windows. It was also a dark oppressive place, made all the more so by its history and former uses. At that moment I noted it was an ideal place to have private meetings and then the Archbishop of York appeared. He had brought with him a strange looking character who had an immense head of curly hair, a wide grin on his face, a grin that was almost fixed. He also had dancing eyes and it was clear that he was a very energetic, perhaps excitable, fellow. Thin and wiry looking too, he examined me with curiosity.  ‘I will leave it with him to conduct the interview’ the archbishop said and with that he left without saying anything else. At first, there was a long pause and an awkward silence but I thought it would be immensely rude for me to begin the conversation. The stranger just sat there grinning. 

Then, after a few moments, without a formal introduction, he posed a direct question, ‘What is this?’ as he thrust a letter across the table. His face had quickly changed. Pulling his glasses towards the end of his nose and looking directly into my eyes he awaited a response. I looked at the letter puzzled and confused. ‘Where did you get this?’ I enquired. ‘I am the one who asks the questions’ he replied abruptly. ‘Let us put it another way, why did you become a minister?’ he asked. ‘It is a calling and I wanted to assist people and protect their souls’ I replied.

‘Bowyer! Bowyer!’ he yelled at me. He stood up and walked round to the back of my chair. ‘What is this? Explain and I want the truth!’ He thrust a page from a news book from the late 1660s in front of me. I froze. There in front of me was a report of something I had hoped no one would remember. ‘It was my father’s business’ I began to explain. ‘It was proven to be an accident and I was acquitted of any wrongdoing’ I insisted. The stranger returned to the table and lent over me and looked straight into my eyes, ‘in truth, you are a ruthless man, are you not?!’ I sat there in stunned silence as I could not deny his charges as there was a part of me that I had kept hidden for years, a part of me I had hoped was in the past but it was there on that table for both of us to see in broad daylight. After a long pause I explained that I had gone into the ministry to atone for my past transgressions and to devote my life to study. He explained to me that the Mugwump, as he insisted on calling him, knew of my current situation and of my previous talents and reputation and that he wanted to meet me in France. I was therefore instructed to take my ship to Bordeaux and journey onwards to a place called Le Chesnay, deep in the forests just outside of Paris. At Bordeaux I would receive further instructions. After the interrogation ended, I took my leave, sailed back down the Thames and boarded the ship once again in readiness for my onward journey to Bordeaux. 

As I stepped back onboard the ship I looked across and noticed that Davy was standing by the dockside looking at me and grinning. ‘Hey stranger, good to see you again’. ‘Sorry about the other night’. ‘It is alright, no problem’ I replied. ‘Well, that is me rid of my cattle and the last of my cargo’, Davy said. ‘I had better be off then. Take care, good to meet you’, and with that he walked off into the throng of the London streets and disappeared. The Captain met me on board and stated, ‘it is just you and me tonight for dinner until we reach Bordeaux.’ The journey from London to Bordeaux should have been uneventful but it was one of the most turbulent journeys I have ever undertaken in my life. As we left London and set sail there were blue skies over London and with the sun shining, I thought it would be an easy passage to France.  However, as soon as we turned past the Isle of Sheppey the sky turned dark with ominous grey clouds and ahead of us was an extremely dark blue sky. It was clear we were heading into a storm. The Captain appeared unconcerned as he had seen these skies many times before and in his past experience nothing untoward had ever transpired. He assured me that he had sailed through such weather before and that all would be well. There was a slight breeze, nothing unusual, but this did nothing to calm my inner feelings and furthermore I had noticed that all of the animals onboard had suddenly become eerily silent and the birds that normally circled the ship had disappeared. As we continued onwards the wind gradually picked up, the sky got darker and the passengers were visibly becoming more anxious. As we reached Deal in Kent a large gust of wind suddenly slammed into the ship, threatening to drive it off course. There was visible panic amongst the Captain and his crew, with the Captain shouting ‘Beware the Widowmaker!’. The Widowmaker, or Goodwin Sands, is a somewhat serene looking sandbank but even under threatening skies it held a dark secret which justified its name. Hundreds of ships and thousands of men had lost their lives here, with ships grounded, wrecked, and mercilessly smashed against the rocks. It was such a common occurrence that it was widely known that the people of Deal had profited from the misfortune of these events by commandeering and then selling off their macabre plunder in local markets. The belongings of the dead that were washed ashore were often resold without shame and carpenters would gleefully plunder the shipwrecks for their wood. Indeed, the illegal trade in wood was well known in Kent with criminals freely pocketing profits and undermining the legitimate timber trade. The religious amongst us would see this as pure thievery and immoral but other more cynical and worldly souls would see it as a form of opportunism and enterprise that man is known for. It was then that I reflected upon the instructions I had received in my letter and I was determined that I would not be taken by the Widowmaker and neither would anyone else onboard for that matter. 

I saw that the storm was gathering and if I did not move quickly the potential consequences would be fatal. I knew that the cattle in the hold, which had belonged to my erstwhile Northumbrian assailant, had been tied to the central beams of the ship so it was highly likely that there was additional strong rope lying unused in the hull. I fetched this rope and any other excess rope I could find and carried it up the stairs. I tied myself to the mast along with the family I had come to know whilst on the ship. Clearly the mother was anxious and fully aware of the fearful weather conditions and was extremely grateful for my help. The children, of course, took it in their stride, pretending that I was a pirate kidnapping them. The Captain, now looking extremely worried, was sitting down and cutting rope with a knife to hand out to other passengers and crew. He gave the order for all of us to tie ourselves to the ship. I quickly beckoned the Captain over and suggested to him quietly that we should also tie empty cargo boxes to the ship so that if the worst happened and should the ship break, people could at least try to save themselves. He agreed and promptly requested that members of the crew tie some of the empty cargo boxes to the ship. By now the storm had reached its peak, tossing the ship and its passengers freely around the Channel. Twenty foot waves lashed us as the Captain steered the ship into the storm which unfortunately took us away from the safety of Dover. We were now