The forlorn hopes were rapidly reinforced by the onrush of the readied foot and, about twenty minutes after the signal for the assault had been given, Monck was satisfied the defence was crumbling. He mounted his horse and cantered down to join the first line of cavalry as it began to surge forward. As he passed over the mound of dust, stones and debris that, notwithstanding the efforts of Ely’s pioneers, made of the breach a small and broken hillock, Monck knew the place was his. The horsemen filled the narrow streets, encouraged by shouts that the enemy was in retreat and holing-up in the church, soon had the church invested and pressed. Groups of the enemy unable to reach this sanctuary were either slain or fell back to the market-square where Monck arrived within a few moments, shouting an order that quarter must be given to those who laid down their arms immediately. For many he was too late; women and children had been ridden down in the narrow streets, the lucky hacked down by the dragoons’ swords, the unfortunate trampled under the steel of their horses’ shoes. Amid the swirl of attackers and their victims, a party of English soldiers were dragging a richly-dressed man into the square. Monck, recognising the figure of a senior officer, called out for them to hold hard but a fanatic Puritan officer pistolled him as he was brought to his knees at Monck’s feet.
‘Damn you, sir!’ Monck shouted amid the uproar, but the wild light in the Puritan’s eyes told that he was beyond the call of human reason.
‘’Tis Lumsden, the Governor,’ another officer said, addressing Monck as he let the bloody corpse fall after turning it over for identification.
Monck looked about him for the officer who had dealt the fatal blow and caught sight of him retreating into the increasing crowd of victorious soldiery that crowded into the market square to the shouts by the defenders of ‘Quarter! Quarter!’
‘Damn you!’ Monck threw the words furiously after the guilty man, who could not possibly have heard him in the uproar. ‘Damn you, sir! You have dishonoured me!’
But the death of Lumsden, who had confronted Monck on the bloody field of Dunbar, seemed to have broken all resistance and the cries for quarter now came from all directions. Plunging his horse into the throng Monck raged at his men, sapping their thirst for vengeance, for the fight was over and everywhere the enemy gave way. Seeing the fury in Monck’s face most men desisted from their bloody indulgence, fearful that he would have them shot for disobedience and an unnatural calm fell slowly upon the city.
As some five hundred Scots now laid down their weapons in the market-square, Monck received reports that Conyngham was dead. He had, with the garrison of Stirling, marched directly to Dundee to reinforce and warn Lumsden, just as Colonel Okey had predicted.
‘’Tis a damnable business,’ Monck remarked to William Clarke, who rode with him through the streets the following morning, accompanied by an escort of cavalry. Monck observed with distaste the English soldiers at their business of rapine. As the city had failed to surrender when summoned, the laws of war allowed the attacking troops the right of plunder. Monck could not avoid giving it over to this horror, as his men would expect as a reward for their courage in storming the defences, but he had restricted their licence to twenty-four hours.
Turning in his saddle to ask a question of Clarke, he saw the other man’s expression. They were passing a tenement from the open windows of which came the screams of women and the roars of drunken soldiery.
Clarke caught Monck’s eye. ‘God have mercy,’ he said, his face pale.
Monck made no response. There was nothing to say. To tell Clarke that this was mild stuff compared with what he had seen on the Continent, would mean little to the other man. Before this war Will Clarke had been a barrister and had not had the schooling of his chief. Besides, how could one compare horrors? Monck turned to their own business, diverting Clarke’s mind from what was going on all around him.
‘What’s the reckoning?’ Monck asked.
Clarke took a moment to recover himself, coughed and then responded. ‘Along with Lumsden and Conyngham, between four and five hundred soldiers and townspeople are said to have lost their lives, sir.’
‘’Tis enough. And the cost to our arms?’
‘No more than Captain Hart and twenty Englishmen killed,’ Clarke reported, his grasp of such details at his command again, ‘with a like number wounded.’
‘’Tis nothing,’ Monck murmured to himself.
They had reached the citadel, clattering in under the gate, the sentries pulling themselves to order as they saw the big man on his horse, the flare of a tawny orange sash about his waist and the dozen troopers following in his wake. Here they found Hane happily waving his inventory of captured artillery.
‘Well?’ said Monck, stilling his mount so that it shook its noble head with a jingle of harness.
‘Cannon seized to the number of thirty-eight pieces, General Monck. Besides these we have a fine but currently indeterminate number aboard the scores of ships in the harbour. All are lawful prize.’
Monck nodded silently so that the enthusiastic Hane was uncertain whether his commander-in-chief was pleased as Monck pulled his horse’s head round and kicked the rowels of his spurs into its flanks. Turning about the little cavalcade retraced its steps, the horse’s hooves striking sparks from the granite flags of the castle courtyard. As they descended into the town and returned to the army’s sequestrated headquarters the noise of his men rejoicing at the quantities of plunder engendered a dull and inexplicable rage in Monck. That night he found himself covered by a red rash and tormented by an itch that seemed intractable. This irritation only exacerbated his anger when he learned next day that many of his troops, full of wine and conceit, failed to cease their licensed robbery at the expiry of the term he had allowed them. Bellowing at Clarke, he issued a general order forbidding further looting, along with another compelling the inhabitants to bury the dead. This was not the end of the matter of plunder, but it was the end of Monck’s active participation for, on the 5th, he took to his bed, directing operations thereafter through Morgan and his indefatigable secretary, William Clarke.
The attending surgeon confirmed the diagnosis as the tick-borne spotted-fever, which induced diarrhoea and vomiting, manifesting itself by sores and a rash, laying its victim low in a high fever. An infuriated Monck lay sweating on his camp-bed, insisting in his lucid moments that the looting must end and promising visitations of the utmost severity upon any who dared to disobey him, indisposed as he was. And in the moments of feverish delirium he raged incoherently, though Clarke thought he uttered some names with which he, as custodian of the Commander-in-Chief’s muster-sheets and Order of Battle, was unfamiliar. Three stood out, as if of especial importance to the restless Monck, but who ‘Battyn’ and ‘Ratsford’ were, Clarke had no idea, though he knew the identity of ‘Anne’.
Amid the wilder onsets of his fever, the General lay quiet, his mind recovering its great responsibilities and articulating his policy. ‘This shall be no Drogheda,’ he told Clarke, referring to Cromwell’s eternal shame, and signing the death-warrants brought to him as his colonels carried out the court-martials on those English soldiers foolish enough to disregard the General’s order. ‘I have no wish to harry the Scots, nor to press then beyond their means,’ he told Clarke. ‘All are subject to the law, the military more than most for the military must be governed with a severity matching that licence allowed them by the profession of arms. We must be kind to the Scots, Will, and I have been dishonoured enough,’ he complained, as Clarke took the quill from him and he sank back into his pillows, sodden with perspiration.
*
For several days Monck lay prostrated by his illness, attended by a Scots physician, James Macrae, whom Clarke had found for him in the city. Fortunately Thomas Morgan knew his strategy and William Clarke his mind. In this wise the two men faithfully pressed matters forward and, on 11 September, William Clarke wrote to Mr Speaker Lenthall informing Parliament that:
It hath pleased Almighty God to visit Lieutenant
General Monck with a very desperate sickness since the taking of this town, but we hope he is in a very good way of recovery. He is a very precious instrument, and the most perfectly fitted for management of affairs here. His temper every way fits him for this employment, and none could order the Scots so handsomely as himself, he carries things with such a grace and rigid gentleness …
Unaware of this eulogium, or of the effect his firm hand had upon those now subject to his authority, Monck sweated the days away, his brighter hours occupied by confirming those orders issued under his name by Morgan. Alerted by information garnered by Clarke’s Intelligence Department, Morgan dispatched a series of flying columns to supress any resistance encouraged by the ‘news’ from England that King Charles had flung aside all resistance and was even then in London.
But the falsity of this rumour was soon known, for the incontrovertible facts inevitably reached Dundee. On 3rd September; exactly a year after Dunbar to the very day, that of Cromwell’s birthday, Charles and his Scots Army had been utterly defeated at Worcester by the pursuing English. It was averred that the Royalist army had been scattered to the four winds and the countryside was being scoured for fugitives, including Charles himself. And while there were those who did not at first believe it, it was soon put beyond doubt; the only ray of hope that sustained the Royalists was the consideration that Charles himself had escaped with his life and was thus sent upon his travels once again.
*
It was mid-October before Monck rose unsteadily from his sickbed to query Clarke as to how many ships had arrived at Leith with supplies for his army and to pick up the details of his administration. And it was the end of the month before he could sit his horse sufficiently steadily to inspect his troops. Although in the meanwhile Morgan and his colleagues had reduced the remaining pockets of resistance in the Highlands and, on Monck’s orders, sent troops across the Pentland Firth to garrison the Orkneys, there was trouble in the ranks. This was being led by Colonel Alured and it was news of this which, despite their unwillingness to overburden a man recently at death’s door, both Morgan and Clarke were agreed, could not be concealed from the General.
Both men had therefore urged Monck to show himself at a review of those troops quartered in the environs of the Scots city and to take advantage of Alured’s presence by confronting him with his disloyal dissension. Dressed in half-armour, his left arm bent and its gloved hand set upon the enormous silk knot of his extravagant red-gold sash, his right lightly holding the reins of his favourite charger, Monck rode along the ranks, his keen eye raking the men’s faces and catching their eyes. He hoped they knew how much he laboured in their interest for most of his anxieties were concerned with their well-being. It was a beautiful, cloudless morning and the sun had burnt off an early frost. The spectacle had drawn a crowd of the citizenry who stood watching this show of military force. At Monck’s side, his horse’s head half a length behind the General, rode Colonel Thomas Morgan, and behind came half a dozen others, including Will Clarke.
From time-to-time Monck would pause, sometimes in front of a common soldier, or a trooper whom he would affect to recognise and enquire if the man’s billet or cantonment as well as his victuals were to his satisfaction. Occasionally he would ask a match-lock to be presented and enquire how many live charges the arquebusier drew for service. Invariably he drew rein alongside each regimental commander, returning the officer’s salute with a casual nod of his own beplumed and wide-brimmed hat.
As the little cavalcade approached the troopers of Alured’s cavalry, their Colonel at their head, Monck said without turning, ‘I shall summon Alured to confer after this work is done, Tom. Do you linger awhile and press him to bring his cronies with him. Now drop back a touch.’
‘Very well, sir,’ Morgan acknowledged, slowing his horse. Behind him the staff did likewise.
A moment later Monck, closing his knees tight about his saddle, tugged at his reins and brought his charger’s head back with such a jerk that the stallion reared, flecked foam from its mouth and, its front hooves momentarily pawing the air, caused Alured’s horse to start.
Alured was taken by surprise, as Monck intended, but kept his seat as Monck did his.
‘There, there,’ said Monck patting his horse’s neck as it recovered itself and stood, hard-reined and snorting, in front of Alured. ‘I give you God’s good day, Colonel,’ Monck smiled at the discomfited cavalryman who was struggling to regain his composure as he mastered his own nervous mount.
‘God day, General,’ muttered Alured.
‘Your men look well, sir, I trust there are no shortcomings among them?’
‘They are as well as can be expected, sir.’
‘Oh? That does not sound very satisfactory. Pray, do you take wine with me after this is done with. Until then, sir, I wish you well.’ Monck eased his rein and kicked his mount into motion. Out of the corner of his eye, as he turned his head to run his eyes over the front rank of Alured’s senior troop, he saw Morgan slide alongside Alured and whisper in his ear.
An hour later Monck received Alured and his party in his quarters in the castle. He was alone but for Morgan and Clarke. Morgan was seated and held a glass of wine while Clarke and Morgan stood at the General’s table quietly discussing some papers. Monck did not look up when the orderly announced the new arrivals, but he raised his eyes sufficiently to count the boots of perhaps ten or a dozen men, Morgan had done his work well. With luck Alured had taken the bait and, galled by Monck’s attempt to make him look a fool in front of his men, had been angry enough to muster all those of like mind to himself.
Monck waited until the boots began shuffling, then he looked up. ‘You have a lot of friends, it seems, Colonel Alured. Give them some wine, Will, if we have sufficient glasses.’ There was a moment or two of further shuffling during which Monck nodded to Morgan, who rose and walked to the door through which the gathering had just arrived and, passing through, closed it behind him. As the group settled Monck fixed Alured with a cold and disenchanting glare. ‘This,’ Monck nodded at the assembly, ‘has the appearance of a deputation, Colonel, and if this is the case I suggest you disburden yourself of your grievances. Colonel Morgan has a guard without and I would not have you leave this chamber without knowing your mind.’
Alured flushed and hesitated; those about him coughed awkwardly. Then, as Monck held out a hand for a document Clarke had been schooled to have ready just as Alured opened his mouth to speak, someone at the rear began a catalogue of complaints.
‘Aye, we have grievances by the score, General. We who do the Lord’s work, who labour even on the Sabbath to accomplish what God wills against the faithless heathen …’
‘Silence, sir!’ Monck roared. ‘I will not have the officers of the New Model rant at me like crossroads preachers. I asked Colonel Alured what particulars he held as disputatious …’ Silence had fallen on the room. ‘Now, sir, what is it that so troubles you?’
Alured lowered his head, unable to meet Monck’s furious glare. ‘It was the affair at Alyth, General Monck …’ Alured’s opening words were met by a low murmur of agreement. ‘Most of those here were of the party that took the place…’
‘I know that!’ snapped Monck.
‘Then you should also know that I … er, we … feel our services to have been, er, unrewarded.’
Monck shoved the paper he was holding under Alured’s nose. ‘There! Read that! As for the rest of you I am appalled that officers of the New Model should whine and cavil like common soldiers grumbling over their cooking pots. What measures do you take when your men complain? Why you rectify those you can and pass those you cannot to others of superior rank, but what think you of a soldier who does his duty them complains he has not had sufficient recompense?’ This last Monck uttered with the utmost contempt. ‘You have your pay which follows the taking of your oath – more than you have had on previous service. You are officers and officers are bound to exert themselves, why else should they exist? A soldier la
bours for his pay, and officer serves for his honour.’ He paused a moment to let this particular point sink in before continuing. ‘As for your religious beliefs they are for you to compose with God Almighty. They shall not – shall never – obtrude in between thy service to the State, for they are at once the same thing.’ They were deadly quiet now and few met his gaze as he looked from one to the other.
‘Gentlemen,’ he changed his tone, making it conciliatory, ‘you are they who snatched victory from defeat on the field of Dunbar. Do not dishonour that achievement because the consequences of that victory wear you out. We are set to bring the Scots to a betterment of their lot. That is God’s work … Now, to your duties.’ He raised his voice: ‘Colonel Morgan!’
The door of the chamber opened and the chastened officers filed out. Only Morgan and the two regular sentinels stood in the antechamber; there was no other guard. As for Alured, he had read the copy of Monck’s letter of commendation to London and now handed it back to Monck.
‘I did my best for you, Colonel,’ Monck said, taking it.
Unable to say anything Alured dropped his eyes, stepped backwards, drew himself up and executed a short bow to Monck. ‘Sir,’ he managed before turning and leaving the room.
In the weeks and months that followed Monck consolidated his government over most of Scotland. The Highlands had been effectively isolated and although pockets of resistance existed in the west, particularly in the Isle of Arran, his judicious measures in civil government, backed by his detached sense of fairness and his lack of triumphalism, won him among the Scots nobility and gentry – if not friends - then reluctant admirers. While that greatest of Scottish noblemen Archibald Campbell, the Earl of Argyll, remained aloof, his namesake John Campbell, a former Lord Chancellor of Scotland and Earl of Loudon, Alexander Lindsay, the Lord Balcarres and a Covenanter, together with that eminent Roman Catholic and head of the powerful Gordons, the Marquess of Huntly, all submitted on Monck’s promise of protection if they did nothing prejudicial to the Commonwealth. By degrees, their defeat seemed less bitter to them.
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 16
