Towards the end of the afternoon the Dutch formation finally broke, or perhaps its dissolution culminated, for its ships had been falling out of line, maimed and wounded, their masts, yards and rigging shot away, some in a sinking condition, some on fire. A general mêlée ensued as the cannonade disrupted the breeze and the ships increasingly milled about, firing at any hostile vessel that fell within range. Amid the smoke and confusion the battered but staunch Resolution held her magnificent own until, about five of the clock, a large Dutch ship was seen looming out of the smog. Her upper spars were shot away, but her mainmast still bore a distinctive flag that a wounded Bourne recognised, drawing Monck’s attention to it.
Monck knew intuitively it was Van Tromp’s Brederode. Bourne was holding his shoulder which was bleeding profusely and Monck was solicitous for him, inviting him to leave the deck.
‘No, Excellency,’ Bourne gasped, his eyes shining as with a fever. ‘Not now, by Heaven! Not at such a moment as this!’
Monck shouted to one of Godbolt’s soldiers, ordering him to pass word for a surgeon’s mate to be sent to the quarter-deck to dress Captain Bourne’s wound. Then he loaded his musket and called to Godbolt himself.
‘We have the Dutch flagship a pistol shot to windward! Get your men to the rail and the minute they can see her through the smoke, they are to pepper her!’ Monck shouted similar orders to the surviving gunners upon the exposed upper-deck.
Suddenly, by some vagary of the breeze, a harder gust filled in and the passing ships, no more than pistol-shot apart, seemed revealed each to the other in a moment of unforgettably dramatic opportunity. The men aboard Brederode, having for the time being the weather gage, were a moment or two in advance of the English aboard the Resolution in seeing this advantage. Thus the ragged broadside, when it came, hammered the battered larboard side of the English flag-ship before her less impressive response. But then, made suddenly aware of the enemy’s presence by Lieutenant Rusbridge, men poured across the deck from the unengaged starboard guns and before she had moved beyond the traverse of their guns, the English got a second broadside into the Brederode. Nor had Godbolt and Monck been idle; the spitfire muskets and the upper deck guns and swivels wrought their own havoc, almost neutralising the enemy’s sharp-shooters. Even so, it was a sharp fusillade that swept the Resolution’s deck, tearing at the puffed sleeves of Monck’s coat and carrying off the three brass buttons on his right cuff. Several men fell from the rail, their weapons clattering to the deck as they screamed, their bodies slumped, kicked and lay still, the gore running out from under them.
The two flag-ships moved apart, the Bredrode drifting to leeward as she seemed to become unmanageable. No-one aboard the Resolution knew that a musket ball had penetrated the cuirass of Maarten Harpertzoon Van Tromp and shattered the Dutchman’s gallant heart. And no-one would ever know whether it had been from the weapon hefted by General Monck, or Captain Godbolt, or merely one of their soldiers.
As the Brederode drew off, nothing replaced her on the windward side and the smoke began to clear. Monck found himself unscathed, though his coat was torn and he had lost his hat. A man lay at his feet; it took him a moment to recognise Godbolt’s battered features.
Gunfire persisted until sunset, after which what remained of the Dutch fleet drew off in the direction of Texel. Nine ships had surrendered to the English and a further five would haul down their colours before they could reach the safety of the anchorage off Den Helder, harried thither by the English frigates – mostly the smaller hired merchantmen. Monck ordered his admirals’ pinnaces to rescue as many of those in the water as was possible before the onset of total darkness. By midnight the English fleet stood off to the westward and the anchorage of Sole Bay off Southwold, to knot and splice their rigging and refit their battle-damaged ships.
Having made certain all was secure as the fleet withdrew towards the lee of the East Anglian coast, Monck called for his desk, ink and paper, cheese and wine. Drawing the paper towards him he dipped his quill and began to write. It was not a long despatch, nor did it bear a triumphal note, but it conveyed what he knew they had accomplished
…for the Benefit of England. Know ye that this Day we have destroyed upwards of Fourteen of the enemy’s ships and taken eight Captains and some thirteen hundred of their common Seamen prisoner. The Fleet under my Command keeps the sea in Defiance of the Enemy and I am Sanguine that He will not trouble us for some time yet to come...
When he had finished, Monck signed and sealed the despatch and sent word for Lieutenant Rusbridge. Then he drew another sheet of paper towards him and wrote again.
‘Resolution’
Off Scheveningen
20 July
Most Excellent Sir,
The Officer Bearing this despatch will convey what Details Thou wishest to Know and which from the poverty of my Pen I cannot write. He is Worthy of Notice, as is the Commander of the ‘Whelp,’ who brings Him hither. If Thou desire any Approbation to be shewn to the Conduct of the Fleet under my Command, I beg Your Excellency to advance these Officers a step or two in Rank, a Benefaction that will leave indebted to the Public Service,
Your Faithful Servant,
Geo. Monck,
General-at-Sea
Monck sanded the ink, folded the two letters, added his seal to them and wrote the superscriptions on both. As if on cue, a knock at the door announced the arrival of Rusbridge. Monck took one look at the man and rose, concerned.
‘You are wounded, sir.’ From what little of his face could be seen under the bandage, Rusbridge was pallid from loss of blood.
‘I have lost an eye, Excellency.’
‘And more besides by the look of you and I am right sorry to hear it. Are you fit enough to travel? I had intended that you should carry my despatch in McLynn’s pinnace’
‘To the Lord General, Excellency?’
‘Aye, to the Lord General himself.’
‘I am fit enough for that, Excellency.’ Monck looked at the poor bandaged face and the wincing smile that Rusbridge attempted.
‘Then pack your necessaries and return as soon as possible. Do you also pass word for the signal to be made to summon the Whelp to come alongside.’
When Rusbridge returned with a canvas bag under his arm, Monck handed him a satchel containing his two letters and indicated a decanter and two glasses. ‘You will take a glass of wine before you go.’
‘Thank you.’
They sipped the wine, Rusbridge with a grateful fervour that persuaded Monck he did the man a favour sending him early ashore.
‘Now, sir, you have there two letters; my formal despatch and a letter to the Lord General in which I request a step in rank for you. And you will tell Lieutenant McLynn that the letter also includes a request for him to have a similar advancement. I cannot promise what the Council will do for its servants, but I wish with all my heart that it complies with my request.’
‘Your Excellency is most kind.’
‘Hmm! We’ll see.’
LONDON AND POTHERIDGE
October 1653 – April 1654
‘How is she?’ Monck asked Clarges as the coach completed its lurching crossing of London Bridge and turned west towards Whitehall.
‘Nan is heavy with child, George. You must marry before January is out, or risk much.’
‘And she is well, you say?’
‘She is very well and, as I have said, sends her love and her congratulations to you. They rang the church bells for your victory off…what do the Hogen Mogens call the place in their abominable tongue?’
‘Sche-ven-ing-gen,’ Monck enunciated with care, ‘or at least that is how I have been schooled to tell it.’
‘Scheven-ingen.’ Clarges repeated the name with some success.
Monck could still not quite believe the achievement of his fleet, for he naturally considered his own part in the affair to have been of marginal importance. Any satisfaction he might have enjoyed was tempered by the fact that whatever the monstrou
s losses among the Dutch, the English killed amounted to one thousand men. And there were also those who, wounded in action, died afterwards, men like poor Rusbridge, whose suppurating wound had gone gangrenous and killed him three weeks later. Upon enquiry Monck had learned that he had languished in cheap lodgings, a stinking, living corpse. Monck had sent money for a tablet to be set in the wall in his parish church in Dorset. It bore the title ‘Captain,’ though the Army Council had approved no such promotion.
‘They ring the church-bells readily enough,’ he said, ‘then treat the victors with contempt.’
‘There are certainly a lot of seamen up from Chatham,’ Clarges observed nodding towards the window of the conveyance. ‘The city is full of them.’
‘There is another matter Tom, which I have had neither opportunity nor inclination to broach with you sooner…’
‘The matter of your appointment to the Assembly of Saints of which I wrote in July?’
Monck nodded. ‘Aye, though it was August before I received it. Did you play any part in my appointment?’
Clarges nodded. ‘It was a form that I considered might be of much use to you. Besides, I felt that your name should be brought forward, to counter those professing animosity against you of which I also wrote…’
‘Earlier in the year, yes I recall it for it disturbed the tranquillity of my mind and at a time when I could scarce tell starboard from larboard.’
‘Such duties as it might entail were of no consequence while you were at sea but better prepared your position in the eventuality of your coming ashore…’
‘Especially should I be beaten,’ Monck laughed. He had no time to give the matter further thought for the coach came to an abrupt halt. They were surrounded by a noisy throng and Clarges leaned from the window to determine the reason for this congestion. Monck leaned back in the cushions and closed his eyes. He was dog-tired, having worked to get the fleet’s battle-damage repaired before too many ships were paid-off. Although the Dutch negotiators were said to be close to conceding the final demands of the English and signing a formal treaty, until they did Monck could not let his guard down. And yet the Army Council seemed eager to lay-up the fleet and release the seamen, arguing the expense was intolerable and summoning its General-at-Sea to render his accounts. Monck at Chatham had sent for Tom Clarges and enrolled him, temporarily, to his assistance in the matter. Now the pair of them made their way towards Whitehall, whither they had been summoned by Cromwell.
Clarges drew back into the hired coach. ‘There are seamen everywhere and this lot,’ he gestured outside, ‘are their doxies and supporters, and of course the idle mob looking for trouble as usual.’
The coach gave a sudden lurch and Clarges again stuck his head out of the window. Then, alarmed, he turned back to Monck. ‘They are trying to take our horses out of the shafts!’
‘God damn!’ Monck leaned forward as Clarges withdrew. ‘Hey! Damn you! Let me through…’
‘Out with them!’ someone cried and the mob turned its attention from the coach’s horses to its occupants.
‘Here, let me get out,’ Monck hissed, as a startled Clarges was thrust aside.
Monck stood in the open door. He held pulled his hat down firmly. Below him milled a mixed mob of men and women, a few young children and a large number of boys. Most were dressed in rags or off-cast clothes and they at once began to taunt him, turning their attention from a clearly terrified and dishevelled coachman. Monck summed the situation up in an instant. Over their heads and just beyond the crowd of hangers-on he could see men he recognised instantly.
He plunged down into the crowd and thrust himself forward, his strong and stocky frame making easy progress through the throng. Though they called him names none dare touch him, for he was roaring like a bull, claiming the attention of the men in whose train the querulous gathering followed.
‘Hey there! Halt! Damn you, are you English seamen or brigands?’
One among the seamen hearing the peremptory tone spun round full of resentment at the appearance of the gentry. ‘Here comes one of the big-wigged bastards, lads! An’ in a fucking coach, an’ all! Let’s turn his pockets out and get our just dues!’
The forward movement ceased and Monck found himself isolated, a circle of seamen gathered about him. And then he was recognised.
‘It’s Monck!’
‘Honest George! Let him alone!’
‘Our General!’
‘Honest George! Honest George!’
Monck sensed the mood change. ‘Come lads, what’s the meaning of this assembly, eh? What’s amiss with you all to cause this riot?’
‘The Parliament won’t pay us, General Monck!’ The cry was taken up, a chorus of ‘ayes!’ affirming this claim.
‘What none of you? But I know myself that you were paid off at Chatham less than a sennight since.’
‘But no gun-an’-ton money, Your Excellency. Not what we was promised arter we took a score of Mynheer Captains and a crowd of more ’n two thousand square-heads a-prisoner and fifteen…’
‘No! Twenty!’
‘Twenty Dutch men-o’-war! We want…’
‘We demand!’
‘We demand our gun-an’-ton money!’
Monck saw their point, and the justice of their claim. They had indeed been promised, according to the usages of the naval service, bonus payments based upon the prizes and captures they had collectively made. He expected a proportion himself, a fact of which the protesting seamen were all too aware.
‘I bet they paid you!’ someone shouted and the mood changed again.
‘Silence!’ roared Monck, so that those near him fell quiet, and gradually, insisting that others followed suit, they conceded the floor, willing to hear him speak. ‘Right. That is better. I had the honour to command you in the late action. Do not, I pray thee all, give me grounds to change my opinion of you or your courage…’
‘That’s all high-flown words, sir…’
‘Be quiet and hear me out. I am presently on my way to attend the Lord General. I will lay your case before him and plead your cause upon mine own honour. ’Twill do you more good that acting like a mob. Now put aside this foolishness, let me through and I will, I promise, secure you what you have a right to.’
There was a low murmur among the men as they turned to one another in hurried conference, then someone shouted. ‘Give Honest George a chance!’
‘’Ow long will yer be, ’Onest George?’
‘We’ve wives an’ babs to feed…’
‘An’ whores to pay!’ This last was greeted by laughter which further eased the tension.
‘Let him through!’
‘But ’ow long will it take ’him?’
‘Gawd alone knows!’
‘It’ll make no fuckin’ diff’rence…’
But Monck was back in the coach, the horses were restored and they proceeded, the mob falling back on either side. Someone started a cheer and as the rabble receded behind them as they swung into Whitehall, Clarges and Monck heard them chanting: ‘Honest George! Honest George!’
‘You are popular, it seems,’ Clarges remarked drily.
‘Aye, for the moment. As long as I hold out some promise to them,’ Monck replied grimly, fixing Clarges with his blue eyes. ‘But, be warned, they have a sound case and our journey back may be more eventful.’
The sentinels at the gate of Whitehall Palace, seeing the descent of a stocky, be-plumed officer with the orange-red sash of a General-officer about his sturdy waist, presented arms and directed Monck and his companion towards ‘the Cockpit’. This collection of buildings on the west side of Whitehall was an annexe to the jumbled spread of the main Palace buildings that lay upon the other side of the thoroughfare. The whole straggling complex culminated to the north in Inigo Jones’s Banqueting Hall, out of one of the windows of which King Charles had stepped onto the scaffold for his execution. A stone’s throw to the north, where the disaffected seamen milled, lay the ginnels, tenements and stews
of ‘Porridge Town’. It was an odd juxtaposition, this ancient royal palace in close proximity to the taverns, brothels and rookeries of the ever-increasing population of the twin cities; it seemed to increasingly fill in the ground betwixt London and Westminster. As if in some half-way house, connecting himself in a vague way with the mass of people whose popularity he courted, the Lord General had not quartered himself in the former Royal Apartments; instead he occupied the lesser dwelling known as ‘the Cockpit’.
Monck and Clarges presented themselves, an attendant accompanying them inside to an ante-room where a pair of Army clerks plied their dull trade with as much self-importance as they could muster. One rose and, having confirmed the identity of the new arrivals, passed into an inner office. He emerged a moment later and indicated Monck and Clarges should follow him; the inner office contained John Thurloe, Cromwell’s secretary, ‘intelligencer,’ and spy-master.
‘General Monck, and..?’
‘My confidential secretary, Mister Thurloe, Thomas Clarges.’
‘Mister Clarges.’
‘Mister Thurloe.’ The two men exchanged short bows.
‘I will inform the Lord General of your arrival.’
A moment later, leaving Clarges in Thurloe’s room, Monck entered Cromwell’s office. The Lord General was sat as Monck best recalled him, just as he had over his maps and papers in Broxmouth House on the eve of Dunbar. He had been mightily distracted then, chewing his lower lip till the wart upon it bled. Now his distraction was Monck himself and he rose, smiling, not accoutred for war, but in sober black, a spotless white collar falling about his neck, his hair his own, cut short, not quite a crop-head.
Cromwell came round the end of the table and held out his hand. Monck took it and paid his respects: ‘Your Excellency…’
‘General Monck,’ Cromwell smiled and softened his tone. ‘I am much pleased to see you, George, and to congratulate you on your victory over the Dutch. It was a bloody fight, I gather.’
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 29
