Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Then, sir,’ Monck insisted gently, ‘that you must assuredly do.’

  ‘I am loathe to leave you, not because I doubt your competence, but because I think we have the Dutch in the bag.’ Monck held his peace. It was obvious that Blake spoke with difficulty, for his voice seemed little more than a croak, but that he needed to relieve himself of his thoughts and who but his fellow General should listen? ‘If we strangle their trade for a month or two they will be at our mercy so, were I in their shoes, or perhaps I should say clogs, I would come out and force another action, a decisive action, upon us. You do understand…’

  Monck smiled dutifully at Blake’s gallant joke. It surprised him, for Blake did not strike him as one overly given to humour. He seemed a man of relentlessly serious mien; an unfrivolous Parliamentarian through-and-through who, Monck suspected, regarded him with some suspicion as a former Royalist.

  ‘Indeed, General Blake, I perfectly understand and I moreover comprehend your desire not to leave the conduct of a sea-action à la outrance, to an old soldier with little experience of the conduct of a fleet, but I have Penn and Lawson, and other junior flag-officers besides, and all know their business. I have impressed upon them the necessity to keep and maintain station each ship one upon the other – something Richard Deane and I discussed and promulgated as you well know – and it seemed to bear fruit in the late encounter. It conduces less to individual captains concerning themselves with their own safety and the sense of increased power is augmented by the close proximity of their neighbours, besides giving the enemy less opportunity of dividing our fleet and conquering in detail.’

  Blake was nodding his agreement, all the while dabbing at his streaming eyes, his very attitude slumped in the chair Monck had offered him, a woeful picture of lassitude and indisposition.

  ‘Moreover,’ Monck went on, ‘I am convinced, and I think my captains are convinced, that the Dutch cannot match us with weight of metal and are wary of us on that account. Our questioning of the prisoners gives every indication of this being the case.’

  Blake seemed to rally, even managing a smile of sorts. ‘I have two things to tell you, word having reached me from the Lord General himself, and the first is that you are right. Oliver confided that the Dutch plenipotentiary had been heard to observe that their fleet is obliged to attack a mountain of iron, while we have only to attack a mountain of gold.’ Blake wheezed a laugh that quickly turned into a cough. When he had recovered himself he added, ‘and the second – and this is what troubles me – is that word has reached London that despite the drubbing they were given, they are making great efforts to put into service a yet greater fleet. They have two very large ships near to commissioning of which you may have heard…’

  ‘Aye,’ broke in Monck, who had had some inkling of the pair of behemoths, chiefly from the cocky remarks made by a captured Dutch lieutenant. ‘And Lawson’s frigates are thought to have taken the guns destined for them three days since in two Dutchmen from the Mediterranean.’

  ‘I recall the affair,’ said Blake, whose fever had clearly temporarily occluded the incident from his mind. Lawson’s twin captures off the mouth of the Maas had yielded not merely a cargo of cannon of Spanish manufacture heavy enough to match the English guns, but also documents which indicated their destination to be the gun-decks of these new ships. ‘Well,’ added Blake, ‘the Dutch are constrained by their shallows and cannot match our ships in draught of water, so I cannot see that this pair can scarce add much to the power of their fleet.’

  ‘And, certainly not without their guns,’ Monck laughed.

  ‘Indeed.’ Blake paused to rub his eyes. He paused a moment then asked, ‘And what of Deane?’

  ‘I sent his body with his chaplain into Harwich.’

  ‘Well…’ Blake nodded, tucked his damp kerchief into his sleeve, hoisted himself to his feet and held out his hand. ‘I give you God’s love, George, I see I have no need to concern myself. You will do well enough should they come out.’

  ‘As I am convinced they will,’ Monck had said as he escorted Blake out into the warm sunshine bathing the Resolution’s quarter-deck and saw him over the side and down, into his barge. Now Monck watched as the boat reached the side of Blake’s flag-ship and the squeal of the receiving pipes came to him over the water. A moment later he saw the main-yards, backed against the breeze, braced round so that the sails filled and Blake headed for Walberswick and a landing on the Suffolk coast which lay, a low line blue as a bruise, on the western horizon. With him went a dozen small victuallers that had made the rendezvous off Sole Bay and had just completed the delivery of their much-needed supplies to Monck’s ships.

  ‘Make sail, Excellency?’ Richard Bourne enquired. He was impatient to be off, anxious that they were wasting time tarrying off the English coat. Monck turned and smiled at his flag-captain, nodding assent.

  ‘Yes, John,’ he replied focussing his attention on the Resolution where the cares of a commander-in-chief again descended upon his shoulders. The technical evolutions of the seamen fascinated him, far exceeding those attending the management of artillery in their complexity. But he had, as he reminded himself, competent minions to do all that. It was for Monck to assume the greater responsibilities of his high office and he was aware that Bourne, having ordered the Sailing-Master to get the ship under-way, was anticipating instructions of a more strategic nature.

  After their squadrons had combined, Monck and Blake had invested the coast of Holland with a close blockade and had maintained this for six weeks. Keeping the main part of their fleet in the offing, they had detached separate squadrons whose lighter-draughted ships stood closer inshore to watch the Dutch under Van Tromp anchored in the Maas and the Schelde, and those under Witte de With behind the dunes of Texel and Den Helder. The pinnaces at the disposal of the Generals-at-Sea had maintained contact between these forces, to give warning of any moves the Dutch might make by way of a sortie; but the most important task of the English dispositions was to prevent Dutch merchantmen from either leaving or entering the gateway of the Texelstroom and the great estuaries of the Maas and Schelde. These led to the complex waterways that united the cities of Holland behind the low sandy coast and their stopping-off would deprive the enemy of the life-blood of commerce. Most importantly, the denial of the duties on the lucrative cargoes from the distant spice-islands of the Moluccas would rapidly empty the Dutch Treasury. Then even the rich merchants of Amsterdam would have to draw-in their belts.

  ‘We will contact Admiral Penn off the Texel,’ Monck said to Bourne, ‘and then sweep to the south and gather Admiral Lawson’s latest intelligence off the Maas and the Schelde.’

  Aware that their enemy’s inshore detachments sat upon their doorstep, it would not hurt the Dutch to see the topsails of the main English battle-fleet paraded off their shores.

  As Monck returned to the great-cabin Bourne’s rapid orders caused the shadows of the sails and rigging to swing again across the spotless white of the quarter-deck planking. The mighty bulk of the Resolution turned, trimmed her sails to the breeze and stood away to the south-east.

  In the privacy of his quarters Monck reflected upon his own situation, re-reading the letter sent by Tom Clarges, brought to him by way of Blake and delivered in the days following the battle off the Gabbard. He scarcely needed to read again the passage which had most shaken him and which over-rode and extinguished his delight at receiving letters from home, including a short but loving missive from Anne. Clarges’ words, written with the frankness upon which Monck insisted, gave sufficient of a picture of politics as to alarm him exceedingly.

  ….And now, to speak to you frankly of the Political Situation, I must warn you that all is riven by strong and opposing Views. It is enough to bewilder a Sane Man but the Army is presently uppermost, the Fifth-Monarchists are the most vociferous in calling for a Parliament of all the Saints. Blake’s name is being dragged through the Mire, as holding contrary Opinions and his is not the only one, for th
ere are those who loudly proclaim Geo. Monck and Wm. Penn to be nothing but disguised Royalists. It is widely believed that you visited Bishop Wren in The Tower with the express Intention of conjoining thoughts conducing towards a Plot to Bring back a King, arguing that you are well placed, being off the Coast of Holland and therefore much to be afeared. Dutch negotiators are in London seeking a general Peace which might have saved you by bringing you home early but I fear will now work to the contrary, there being such a great Prejudice raised against you…

  ‘Such a great prejudice raised against you.’ There was a chilling thought; and if this had now coalesced into widely held public-opinion, it must have had its roots nurtured long since. Monck thought of the presence of Godbolt and regretted that Clarges had not sought to attribute blame, mentioning neither Lambert, who might have been Monck’s nemesis, or Oliver, who might equally have been his saviour. But was Oliver to be trusted? He had proved his ruthlessness in Ireland, his religious zeal was a quality to be wary of and the obligation he owed George Monck placed him under an obligation to Monck. Not that Monck could ever exploit it, for to do so would be to compromise his own honour, but there were those that considered Monck’s honour a matter of little consequence, besmirched in murder, treachery and adultery, to which misappropriation of public funds was but the latest tag. It was nonsense, of course, a gross twisting of fact to suit the pamphlet-scribblers and propagandists who considered their brand of Christianity justified any outrage. But that did not make it any the less of a threat to Monck’s well-being, or of those he loved.

  Monck wished Clarges had not sent him his letter; he would have been happier not knowing that he served a country already poisoned against him. Monck no longer had to worry about his own lack of maritime competence. Instead, knowing how a battle could miscarry, he understood that should disaster strike the English fleet in the North Sea, it would be its already suspect Commander-in-Chief who would be blamed. A battle lost, for whatever reason, would be conceived ashore by ignorant speculators as a deliberate act of treachery by Monck, designed to revive Royalist hopes. It was all a monstrous folly.

  Later, called on deck as the fleet approached the Haak Sand that lay athwart the entrance to the Texelstroom, Monck watched with some satisfaction as Lawson’s squadron joined the main fleet, leaving two small hired merchantmen, the Blossom and the Jonathan, both of thirty guns, to watch De With. Bracing the yards, the English ships now stood away to the south to contact Lawson off the Maas.

  Monck slept badly that night. It seemed sometimes that the ghost of Deane now haunted his dreams as much as that of Battyn and that in Clarges’ letter had come – at last – an intimation of his own death. After defeat at sea, political destruction ending in what? Execution? Whatever his virtues as a General-at-Sea he knew he could not match the genius of Maarten Van Tromp; and while Penn, Lawson and the rest were good and competent seamen, he knew that in Evertsen, De With, De Ruiter and Floriszoon, Van Tromp had subordinates of incomparable ability. Only in his guns did Monck feel a proper confidence. Paradoxically, it was this very advantage, one in which he was himself a widely acknowledged expert, that he felt most vulnerable for, should he fail, this would be another accusation with which his enemies would strike him down.

  Isolated in his great cabin, surrounded by all the panoply of his high and vaunting rank, Monck cast his mind over his career. He thought of the military disasters to which he had been a party in King James’s reign; of his capture at Nantwich fighting for King Charles who had so easily – and contemptuously – ignored his advice, of his incarceration in The Tower and of his tribulations in Ireland. He thought too of how his part in the dramatic reversal of English fortunes at Dunbar had gone largely unrecognised and of how the brilliant campaign in Scotland, of which he had been the undoubted architect, had been completed by others as he lay a-fevered in the hands of Doctor Macrae. Had he fared better at sea? Had he failed to get his ships up with the enemy in the Channel battle – and that had been lucky, for the Dutch were almost out of powder-and-shot – he would have paid a price. Moreover, his triumph at the Gabbard had not destroyed the Dutch fleet, merely led to the death of Deane and his present uncertain plight.

  Tossing in his cot in the warm summer night, his spirits again at a low ebb, he was quite unaware that the officers of the Resolution, having purchased some fresh fish from a passing lugger, had enjoyed a good dinner in which, after toasting the Commonwealth, they had drunk to the health of their General and discussed his virtues at some length.

  Oblivious of this, Monck found a final refuge in the balm of sleep.

  *

  It was one of Lawson’s attendant pinnaces that brought the news that the Dutch were at sea again. From passing Dutch fishermen, from whom the English purchased fresh fish with gold, Lawson had also learned that even after a few short weeks the English blockade had had its full impact on the Amsterdam Exchange. Though they only learned of it later from prisoners, Lawson’s capture of the guns intended for the ’t Huis te Swieten and ’t Huis te Kruyningen had confronted Van Tromp with a stark choice: he must either advise the States-General to seek immediate and disadvantageous terms with the English, or he could venture all on one last throw of the dice. Unsurprisingly, Van Tromp had chosen the latter course of action and, although he might have waited and brought more, he had put to sea with eighty-five ships of war.

  Advised of Tromp’s emergence with upwards of four score sail, and of Lawson’s falling back in the wake of his pinnace upon Monck’s squadron, whilst keeping an eye upon Van Tromp, Monck’s ships stood on until Lawson joined him late that July afternoon. By this time the long strung-out line of the Dutch fleet was in sight on the south-eastern horizon and to leeward. Ordering Lawson’s squadron with its blue ensigns to take his proper place in the fleet’s rear and passing word along the line to make ready for battle, the slow process of ships jostling into their stations began. Monck rallied as he saw the fruits of the new English policy of concentration of fire again bearing fruit. Spirits in the night might disturb the repose of George Monck, but he was no stranger to battle. It was vastly more honourable way to test both a cause and a man than the filthy skull-duggery of politics. Clarges’ letter had been followed by another, brought from Harwich by a victualler. It had made little sense to Monck, other than seeming to improve his position ashore, for it was a notification that he had been appointed to a newly constituted body that Clarges curiously referred to as “the Assembly of Saints” by which Monck understood it to be some Council of Puritan intent. Why his name had been brought forward and included, he had no idea, unless Cromwell had had a hand in the business, or perhaps Godbolt, he thought. Either way he could, thank God, lay it aside as there were matters of a greater moment to occupy him. He strode to the ship’s rail and stared about him at the muster of English men-of-war, Bourne coming to join him.

  The fleet’s course, signalled from the Resolution, was tending to converge steadily upon the Dutch as they emerged from the shoals and stood away from their coast.

  ‘He seems determined to make a battle of it,’ ruminated Bourne as he watched things evolve from his post beside Monck. Both men knew who ‘he’ was.

  ‘So am I, Captain Bourne,’ Monck said with a formality that made Bourne look sideways at his Commander-in-Chief, and caused him to smile. Despite his lack of sea-going experience, Bourne thought, General Monck had a rare talent for inspiring confidence.

  The breeze eased as the evening came on and the chase became frustratingly leisurely. The low swell made the yards creak in their parrels, and the ship’s hull groan as it worked easily in the sea-way, but their progress was infuriatingly turgid and Monck and Bourne began to fret that the onset of night would allow the Dutch to slip away.

  ‘Another half-an-hour and Penn will be within gun-shot,’ Bourne remarked at last.

  Almost to the predicted moment the low rumble of cannon-fire came down the line from the van and, away to larboard, the spitting fire and billowing clouds
of the Dutch response showed from their foremost ships. The gun-smoke tinged red by a fiery sunset, a desultory exchange of fire went on until shortly before dark. By this time the Dutch had stood far enough offshore to make an alteration of course of a point or two, allowing them to ease away from the English and skirt the seaward side of the shoals off the Flemish coast. Just as the light faded, the observing English saw their enemy reduce sail.

  ‘Do likewise,’ snapped Monck, and the two fleets snugged down for the night. ‘Tomorrow will be a busy day,’ he said on leaving the quarter-deck. Now that he was in contact with his enemy, Monck felt a vast weight lifted from his shoulders. He had the satisfaction of commanding a vast fleet of one hundred and twenty ships. Although Almighty God held the morrow in His Hand, George Monck had cast aside his apprehensions: war was his savage craft.

  But at midnight a nervous Midshipman was at Monck’s cot with the news that a pinnace from Penn in the van said that he had lost touch with Van Tromp. Half-dressed, Monck slipped his feet into his shoes, drew on his coat and hat and hurried to the quarter-deck. He was joined within seconds by Bourne. Even in the starlit gloom both men could read each other’s faces and Monck required no catechising of Bourne’s opinion to divine what had happened, as he drew him off to the ship’s side and a little privacy.

  ‘Has he doubled on us,’ Monck hissed, asking ‘To get the weather gauge?’

  ‘Possibly, but more likely to spring those ships under De With from the Texelstroom!’

  ‘You have it! He has measured his force against ours and finds his own wanting. Was it thirty that lay at Texel?’