‘I must… I have to leave some things to fortune and the decisions that others make,’ he whispered into the darkness like a prayer. ‘Only upon them and their probity, or lack of it, can I base my own motions.’ He could think no more; there was nothing more to be thought of; he had done everything within his power to make Scotland safe and as prosperous as possible. Now the matter of England awaited him. And for that he must needs sleep.
And so, sometime after midnight, he did.
*
If Lambert had been troubling Monck’s mind when he went to sleep it was Lochiel who made it up the following morning. Sir Ewan Cameron rode into Coldstream, the first of those ‘others’ upon whose actions Monck’s own would have to be contingent. They would not all work in his favour, as he well knew, but those that did he must take advantage of. Monck’s thinking was making the subtle change between the militarily pragmatic to the politically expedient, and the grim old soldier knew it. While he felt confident enough to trust absolutely his instincts as a fighting man, he was less sure of what would confront him in the near future. The distant but vivid experience of incarceration in The Tower on a charge of High Treason threw a long shadow, and his discomfiture of not fully being in command of a fleet at sea had been an irksome burden. The anarchy that was what his informants were telling him was the state of affairs in England held an awful spectre of dreadful uncertainty for him, so that when Lochiel’s arrival was announced Monck sensed the first stirrings of a decision.
Major Jeremiah Smith announced Lochiel and Monck met him in the tiny living space of the smoky cottage. Monck was under no illusions about Lochiel’s coat-turning and guessed the ambivalence of his complex loyalties, but he had placed a degree of trust in Sir Ewan, backed up with easements that amounted to bribes, and responsibilities that pandered to Lochiel’s ambitions among the competing hierarchy of the Clan Chieftains. Lochiel had responded warmly and, in a characteristic gesture, had sealed his commitment to Monck with the gift of the Gyr falcons Monck had passed on to Lambert.
‘A fine day to you, Excellency, despite the chill,’ Lochiel said, offering his hand which Monck shook. He wore a cloak darkened by melting snow over half-armour. ‘I bring you news.’
‘You have executed my commission to pursue the thieving Glengarry Macdonells,’ Monck replied.
‘Och, that,’ Lochiel paused, smiling. ‘They’ll be nae mair trouble. But you will be better pleased to know that I ha’e bent the Lord Lorne to thy will. He’ll answer to me if he sae much as moves when you march into England.’
‘And who says I am to march into England?’ Monck asked drily.
‘Why, every one of your red-coated soldiers just now freezing along the Tweed!’ quipped Lochiel, relishing the game.
Monck’s expression darkened. ‘D’you trust Lorne?’
‘Aye.’
‘And his father? Old Argyll?’
‘The same.’
‘Hmm.’ Monck grunted, looking at the handsome younger man before him. ‘You don’t wear your tartan,’ Monck remarked as his orderly appeared with some porridge for their breakfasts. Lochiel was fond of appearing at Dalkeith in rougher attire than the half-armour with its white lace collar he now appeared in, as if to remind the Lowland Scots, and the English soldiery and attendants at Monck’s court, that in Lochaber he was a great man.
‘If you are going south, sir, I would come with you. I ha’e a troop of Horse at your disposal.’
‘A troop of Horse? Well, well.’ Monck raised his eyebrow and looked in Clarke’s direction as the Secretary bent over his desk.
‘Aye, Excellency,’ Lochiel went on. ‘A fine group of gentlemen, including some of Argyll’s best, all at your service in earnest of good faith.’
‘You are sure of Argyll and Lorne?’
‘The twa Campbells are as one. They wait on the outcome of…’ Lochiel shrugged his shoulders, the cuirass rising about his neck as he did so, fluttering the lace. Amused, Monck saw him struggling for words.
‘The matter that rests upon my shoulders, eh?’ he said. ‘And there are some, I have heard, that say the King rides in my belly.’ Lochiel nodded and Clarke shook his head. Monck grunted again and addressed Clarke. ‘Where’s Tom Morgan, Will?’
‘He set off an hour since to ride the line to Kelso, Your Excellency.’
‘Good.’ Monck nodded, almost abstractedly, before fixing Lochiel with his coldest expression. ‘You may ride south with us, Sir Ewan, and you are most welcome, but God help you if I find the Marquess of Argyll or Lord Lorne fail to play the game as you say.’
A grim smile played about Lochiel’s mouth and he revealed the teeth he had once memorably set into the larynx of an English officer who had attempted his arrest at Achdalieu. ‘Aye, General Monck, those are terms acceptable to me, for if either of them budge in their loyalty they will ha’e me to answer to afore thee. There’ll be nae rising in the Highlands.’
But Monck had not finished. ‘As for the King being in my belly,’ he said pointedly, ‘I would as soon shit him into the Tweed, as bear him into England.’
Lochiel nodded. ‘I serve the good General Monck, sir. As for any King, why the King of Scotland is over the sea.’
‘Equivocation met equivocation,’ the observing Clarke afterwards told his wife Dorothy, though Lochiel’s response seemed to satisfy Monck.
‘Very well. See you men are quartered, Sir Ewan, but ready to ride at an hour’s notice.’
Lochiel’s departure was stalled by the opening of the rickety door to the requisitioned cottage. A bitter blast of cold air ushered in a heavily cloaked figure whose hat was pulled hard down over his face and whose shoulders were white with snow. It was clear the new arrival had been impatient with the sentry’s punctiliousness. Monck recognised the man immediately.
‘Dick! You are I hope in health. Here, the fire…’
Dick Cann waved aside the General’s solicitude, removing his hat to reveal a face taut with cold. Cann had come with Monck from Potheridge, initially to serve him in the office of groom; being a superb horseman who could read the country like a cavalryman, he had become Monck’s most confidential courier, entrusted with his most sensitive correspondence and it was clear that what he brought was of such a nature. Monck dismissed Lochiel who left reluctantly, rightly divining Monck’s courier bore tidings of importance.
‘Well, Dick? You are from Thomas Clarges?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘You have had a hard ride, will you first take some refreshment?’
Cann shook his head. ‘Thank you, no sir. The country is swarming with men from Lambert’s Army. Deserters…’
‘Aye, we had twenty or so come in last night. They volunteer to join us more for the hot broth than anything else… You have Tom Clarges’s letter?’
‘No sir. No letters. All must be by word-of-mouth.’
Monck glanced at Clarke who looked up from his extemporised desk. ‘Go on.’
‘Master Clarges sends his compliments and says to tell you that Mister Speaker can assure you no more than that the Government of the nation is in crisis. The military council which has usurped power is unable to sustain itself unless it brings in the Army in full strength to occupy London. However, Fleetwood’s forces have mutinied and their chief went down on his knees to them.’ Cann managed a frozen half-smile.
‘Well, well,’ responded Monck, matching Cann’s warped grin. ‘Pray go on.’
‘The Parliament is sitting and everything is split apart and you must – you must, sir, Mister Clarges was insistent upon this point, urging Mr Lenthall’s most earnest entreaty – act at once. I am also to tell you that Mister Morice is in London and adds the weight of his opinion which is the same as that of your brother-in-law.’
‘Thank you, Dick.’ Monck’s tone was abstracted. He looked briefly at Clarke and then turned away, seating himself on a wooden stool beside the guttering fire. Clarke suddenly saw him as an old man as he stared into the embers, watching them glow and then dim, according to th
e direction of the air, in under the door, or down the chimney. Monck sat thus for several minutes before raising his head and turning to the two waiting men.
‘Lochiel and now Clarges, eh,’ he said slowly, as though weighing not the import of their messages, but the worth of the men themselves. ‘And at opposite ends of the land…’ Monck’s voice lowered. ‘Lochiel and Clarges,’ he muttered. ‘Lochiel and Clarges…’ Then he heaved himself to his feet.
‘I think we have done with waiting, gentlemen.’ He smiled, first at Clarke and then at Cann. ‘Do you go and get some sustenance and some sleep Dick. Tell the orderlies to tend your horse.’ He waited only for Cann to follow Lochiel outside, then threw off his introspective air, rapping out his instructions to Clarke. His secretary felt a painful moment of utter weariness, as though he would faint under the burden of his office and the terrible prospect of what he knew was coming. It had been tough enough marching with Old George through the glens and over the moors in the high-summer of ’fifty-four, but to embark on a march from Coldstream to London in the first days of a freezing cold January was almost more than Clarke could bear to contemplate. But then he shook himself and rose to the occasion as Old George passed his simple orders with – Clarke knew well enough – that decisiveness which would set all in motion and upon which the wheel of history itself would turn.
‘Will, do you give the prepared orders for the Army to concentrate on Coldstream by midnight tonight. I want the guns here by ten. Twenty rounds of ammunition is to be issued to the Foot. Each trooper of the Horse must carry hay. Pass word to all Colonels before noon, and I want Colonel Knight to lead the column. He is to stretch his men to the utmost; make that clear in his orders. The rest you know, we have discussed it often enough and I have private letters to write.’
Clarke bent to his task while Monck returned to his tiny bed-chamber and drew out his writing case. It was a difficult letter to pen, for he must galvanise Anne without terrifying her.
My Dearest Wife,
You must forgive me my haste in Dismissing you, but this place is not for a Woman, nor is it the Time for Us. I have much on my Mind. Not since I was among the Forlorn Hope flung into the breach at Breda, of which you have oft heard me speak, have I ventured my very Life upon the turn of Fate. Then the hazard was mine own alone; now, besides that which I owe to you and the Boy, it is the Peace, Hope and Happiness of the Three Nations. We have before spoken of the March of Events; now All depends upon this Army and what it may Accomplish. I am afeard that if we Miscarry You and the Boy will be taken as Hostages. Therefore in all things heed this, that on the Receipt of this Latter by the hand of an Officer, you take Ship for London. Proceed discreetly with only your Maid and a Nurse to tend the Boy. The Officer who bears this will accompany you, command him in all things. When you are in London, go to Tom, but stir not from his House. Should, which God forbid, you hear of any Reverse before you leave Scotland, place yourself in the hands of Her Grace. If you are in England, go directly to Potheridge and wait until you hear either from me or your Brother. Pray for the Arms of
Your Loving Husband,
Geo. Monck
He read the letter before folding and sealing it. For a moment he hesitated and then drew another sheet of paper towards him, dipped his quill and wrote again, this time to the Duchess of Buccleuch.
Your Grace,
I write in Haste and place the Fortunes of my Family in Your Hands. We go this Day into England of Necessity and for the betterment of the Three Nations. You know my Mind in these things, for We have often spoke of it, but should matters miscarry and Mistress Monck and my Boy be unable to follow me into England, I beseech thee to Succour them and give them such Shelter as May lie in your Power. May God have Mercy on this Great Undertaking and bring it to a Happy Conclusion. Please be assured of my Gratitude for every Particular of your Friendship.
Your Devoted Friend,
Geo. Monck
Having sealed the second letter he returned to the outer room. Along with Smith, his adjutant, his three orderly officers were now in attendance, having been summoned by Clarke.
‘Captain Jenkin,’ he called, holding out the letters, the superscription of the first to Mrs. Monck uppermost. ‘Do you ride with these to Dalkeith. One is for my wife, the other for Her Grace the Duchess of Buccleuch. You are to attend Mistress Monck and receive her instructions as if they are my own. If all goes well, you shall rejoin me in London. If not my wife will know what to do and you should stay with her. I do not wish her progress to be marked, so you must use discretion and not augment her by any escort or draw attention to her as being my wife. That is most particular. I have directed her to proceed by way of a Leith smack. Do you travel as a gentleman accompanying a lady, a relative, perhaps. D’you understand?’
Jenkin nodded. ‘Aye, sir. Perfectly.’
Monck looked at Clarke. ‘And Dorothy?’ he asked.
‘If it pleases you, sir.’
Monck nodded and turned again to Jenkin. ‘And tell Mistress Clarke that her husband wishes for her presence in London, all being well with us with God’s help.’ Monck paused, then went on: ‘Very well. Should you need assistance you will find Lord Fairfax kindly disposed in Yorkshire, but that should not be necessary. If you hear we are embattled before London, go directly into Devon; my wife will direct you.’
‘You may rely upon me, sir.’
‘I shall, Captain Jenkin. Most assuredly, I shall.’
A moment later Monck, waving aside Clarke’s thanks, had immersed himself in his route of march, sending for his Quarter-Master-General to discuss the victuals to be drawn and issued to the Army, marking upon a map the best and most reliable places en route to replenish their necessaries.
*
Monck sat his favourite black-charger on a small tump of land half a mile south of Coldstream. The morning was clear and cold, the blue sky swept free of snow-clouds, and a thin sunshine sparkled in reflection off the frosty bushes that lined the road. Here the succession of marching feet was already churning the pristine whiteness into a dark slush, a curious metaphor for man’s general despoiling of natural beauty, Monck’s chaplain Doctor Gumble thought philosophically as he sat his horse amid the group of senior field and orderly officers attending the Lord-General. Monck was thinking about the detached vanguard of cavalry, his own troops of Horse he had sent ahead of the main column under Colonel Knight. He hoped that Cann was correct about the disintegration of Lambert’s Army. Happily, Knight was no fool and knew his business; it was his job to try the way ahead and warn the main force if he encountered an enemy.
Monck’s stallion stirred beneath the General’s bulk; its breath condensing in the freezing air as it tossed its noble head up and down – to the beat of the drums, Monck fancied in an abstracted moment. A few yards away and slightly below him, Talbot’s Regiment of Foot marched past. Monck raised his plumed hat as his own regiment followed and, without turning his head, he called out: ‘Captain Heath!’
One among the little group of staff and senior field officers not directly in the column-of-march, but sitting patiently behind Monck, Gideon Heath answered his Commander-in-Chief’s summons, walking his horse forward a pace or two.
‘Your Excellency?’
‘Do you ride down to that mongrel bunch,’ Monck growled, regarding the tramping Foot who marched behind his colours, ‘ride the length of the battalion and honour them with my compliments. Tell them I expect them to wipe the disgrace of their disloyalty from my recollection. Tell them they now have the best officers in the Service and if any of them disavow themselves in the coming weeks they will answer to me, their Colonel-in-Chief.’
‘Excellency.’ Heath was about to put spurs to his horse, but Monck restrained him with his hand. ‘And then do you ride on to Colonel Knight. Tell him to send me a galloper when he finds himself his quarters for tonight. He may proceed as far as he wishes on this occasion.’
Monck watched Heath dash off, saw him ride along the line of Monck�
��s Foot, and caught the rippling cheer that followed his remonstrance down the line of infantrymen. They were on their mettle, a fact sensed by the Reverend Doctor Thomas Gumble who had importunately occupied the space left at the General’s side by Heath. Gumble’s mare snickered, as if to announce the arrival of its rider, though in truth to attract the attention of the General’s charger.
The stallion stirred at the presence of the mare and Monck instinctively drew the rein hard on the bit. He turned to see the divine’s face, well wrapped up against the cold. ‘Well, Doctor,’ Monck said, ‘six thousand men, six regiments of Foot and four of Horse, what do you think of them, sir?’
Gumble drew in his breath. ‘They march like the Sons of God in the Chronicles,’ Gumble replied, drawing a guffaw from Lieutenant General Thomas Morgan and a snigger from the other officers.
‘Bollocks, Gumble,’ Morgan commented as Monck joined in the laughter. ‘They are six indifferent regiments of Foot but fortunately for us, the four of Horse are in excellent condition.’ Morgan’s Welsh lilt carried clear in the stillness of the winter air. ‘And, mark you well, Doctor Gumble, there are seven thousand men under Johnnie Lambert out there.’ Morgan pointed south, over the snow-covered hills.
Gumble brushed off the good-natured mockery of the military and riposted. ‘I am informed, General Morgan, that the forces under General Lambert are in disarray, deserting for want of pay and victuals…’
‘Sure of that, are you, Doctor Gumble? Absolutely sure of it, eh?’
‘The hand of God is in all this, General Morgan,’ Gumble riposted, gesturing to the marching column, ‘of that I am indeed absolutely sure.’
Monck spurred his horse forward and his retinue followed, laughing at the man they had come to call – good-naturedly enough – ‘Mumble Gumble’. Monck led them back towards the Tweed. Here they watched the end of the column come slip-sliding down the steep and icy road from the north where the town clung to the hillside, to cross the river, some by the bridge and some over the ice.
‘’Tis your Rubicon, General Monck,’ Gumble declared sententiously, anxious to reclaim the historical gravity of the moment.
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 42
