Lambert, on the other hand, occupied the capital. That was the center of all his operations, and there he gathered around himself all his friends, as well as the discontented of the lower classes, eternally inclined to favor the enemies of constituted power. It was in London, then, that Lambert heard of Monck’s declaration of support for Parliament from beyond the Scottish frontier. He decided there was no time to lose, for the Tweed was not so far from the Thames that an army couldn’t leap from one to the other, especially if it was well commanded. He also knew that once it entered England, Monck’s army would increase like a rolling snowball, a growing globe of fortune that would be, for one so ambitious, a stepping-stone to elevate him to his goal. Lambert therefore gathered his army, formidable both for its quality and its size, and moved to meet Monck, who, like a careful navigator sailing through reefs, was advancing in short marches, nose to the wind, listening to every sound and sniffing the breeze blowing from London.
The two armies arrived in close proximity at Newcastle. Lambert, the first to arrive, occupied the city itself; Monck, always circumspect, halted outside and established his headquarters at Coldstream, on the Tweed.77
The sight of Lambert’s troops spread joy through the ranks of Monck’s, while on the contrary the sight of Monck threw Lambert’s army into disarray. One might have thought that these intrepid warriors, who’d made so much noise in the streets of London, had set off in the hope of avoiding an encounter and instead found themselves facing an army, one that followed not just a banner, but a cause and a principle. It seemed to have occurred to these once-fearless battalions that maybe they weren’t as good citizens as Monck’s men, who supported the Parliament, while Lambert supported nothing but himself.
As to Monck, if any thoughts occurred to him they must have been sad—or so says History, that modest lady who, it’s said, never lies— because the story she recounts is that on the day of Monck’s arrival in Coldstream not a sheep could be found in the entire town. If Monck had commanded an English army, that would have been enough to cause the entire army to desert. But the Scots, unlike the English, don’t require meat on a daily basis; the Scots, a poor and sober race, can survive on a little barley crushed between two stones, mixed with some cold water and cooked on a flat rock.
The Scots, having been issued their barley, didn’t care then if there were no sheep to be found in Coldstream. However, Monck, unused to barley cakes, was hungry, and his staff officers, as hungry as he was, looked anxiously right and left to see where their supper would come from. Monck called for reports, but his scouts, on arriving in the town, had found it deserted, its pantries empty, and as for butchers and bakers, there were none to be found in Coldstream. No one could find a single loaf of bread for the general’s table.
As report succeeded report, each one less encouraging than the last, Monck, seeing the fear and dismay on the faces around him, announced that he wasn’t the least bit hungry—and in any event, they were bound to eat the following day as Lambert seemed likely to give battle, and if he lost they’d have his provisions, while if he won they’d be relieved of the problem of being hungry.
This didn’t seem to console very many of them, but that didn’t appear to bother Monck, who though of mild demeanor was beneath it as rigid as a rock. So, everyone had to be satisfied with that, or at least appear to be. Monck, just as hungry as his soldiers, but pretending not to care about the absence of sheep, cut a half-inch of tobacco from the plug of a sergeant on his staff and began to chew it, assuring his lieutenants that hunger was an illusion, and besides, no one can feel hungry if he has something to chew on. This jest mollified some of those who hadn’t been reassured by the proximity of Lambert’s provisions; the discontented dispersed, the guard took up its routine, and night patrols commenced, while the general continued chewing his frugal meal in the open door of his tent.
Between his camp and that of his enemy was an old abbey, of which there are almost no signs today, but which was standing at the time and was known as Newcastle Abbey.78 It was built on a broad meadow between the fields and the river, a marshy plain watered by springs and flooded in heavy rain. However, in the midst of this marshland of tall grass, rushes, and reeds, was some higher ground formerly occupied by the vegetable gardens, park, paddocks, and outbuildings that radiated from the abbey, like one of those big sea stars with a round body and legs splaying out all around its circumference.
The vegetable garden, one of the abbey’s long legs, extended almost to Monck’s camp. Unfortunately, as we’ve said, it was early June, and the garden, long abandoned, had little to offer. Monck had set a guard on the spot to prevent surprise attacks; the campfires of the enemy forces were visible beyond the abbey, but between the abbey and these fires stretched the Tweed, unrolling like a luminous serpent beneath the shade of some great green oaks. Monck was well acquainted with this position, as Newcastle and its environs had served as his headquarters more than once. He knew that by day his enemy could probably throw scouts into the ruins and provoke a skirmish, but that at night they’d be careful not to risk it. He was safe enough. Thus, his soldiers were able to see him, after he’d had what he’d laughably called his supper of chewing tobacco, sitting like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz on his folding chair, half under the light of his lamp and half under the glow of the moon that was beginning to climb to the zenith.
It was about nine-thirty at night. Suddenly Monck was drawn from his half-sleep, real or feigned, by a troop of soldiers who, approaching with joyous cries, kicked his tent poles and thrummed its ropes to awaken him. There was no need for such a commotion; the general opened his eyes and asked, “Well, my children, what’s going on?”
“General,” answered several voices, “you shall eat at last.”
“I have eaten, Gentlemen,” he calmly replied, “and was quietly digesting, as you see. But come in and tell me your news.”
“It’s good news, General.”
“Oh? Has Lambert announced that he’ll fight us tomorrow?”
“No, but we’ve captured a dogger carrying fish to his camp at Newcastle.”
“Then you’ve done wrong, my friends. These London gentlemen are delicate and must have their fish course. You’ll put them into a bad mood and then tomorrow they’ll be ruthless. It would be improper, I think, not to send Lambert this boat full of fish, unless…” The general thought for a moment. “Tell me, if you please” he continued, “just who are these fishermen?”
“Picard sailors who fish along the coasts of France and Holland and were blown to ours by a gale.”
“Do any of them speak our language?”
“Their captain has a few words of English.”
The general’s suspicions were aroused by this report. “Very well,” he said. “I’d like to see these men; bring them to me.”
An officer immediately went off to fetch them.
“How many are there?” continued Monck. “And what sort of boat is it?”
“There are ten or twelve of them, General, manning a sort of dogger, as they call it, that looked Dutch-built to us.”
“And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert’s camp?”
“Yes, General. They seem to have made a pretty good catch.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Monck. At that moment the officer returned, bringing with him the fishermen’s captain, a man about fifty to fifty-five years old, but good-looking. He was of medium height and wore a jerkin of coarse wool with a hat pulled down over his eyes. A cutlass hung from his belt, and he walked with the hesitation of a sailor who, on a rocking deck, was never sure where his foot would come down, placing his feet solidly and deliberately.
Monck looked him over for a long minute, while the fisherman smiled back at him with that expression, half cunning and half foolish, common to the French peasant. “Do you speak English?” Monck asked him in excellent French.
“A bit, and that badly, Milord,” replied the fisherman. This answer came less with the lively
and terse accent of the folk of the mouth of the Loire than with the slight drawl of the counties of southwest France.
“But you do speak it,” continued Monck, to hear more of his accent.
“Oh! We seafarers speak a little of every language,” replied the fisherman.
“So, you’re a fishing sailor?”
“Today, at least, I’m a fisherman, Milord, and a fine fisherman too! I took a barbel that must weigh thirty pounds, and over fifty mullets. I also have a bucket full of little whitings that will be perfect for frying.”
“You sound to me like one who’s fished more often in the Bay of Biscay than in the Channel,” said Monck, smiling.
“Indeed, I come from the South; does that keep me from being a good fisherman, Milord?”
“Not at all, and I’d like to buy your catch. But first tell me honestly, where were you taking it?”
“Milord, in all honesty I was making for Newcastle, following the coast, when a large party of horsemen, coming up in the opposite direction, signaled me to turn my boat toward Your Honor’s camp or suffer a volley of musketry. Since I wasn’t armed for war,” added the fishermen, smiling, “I thought it best to obey.”
“And why were you going to Lambert’s camp and not to mine?”
“Milord, I’ll be frank, if Your Lordship gives me permission.”
“I’ll permit it, and if necessary even order it.”
“Well, Milord! I was going to Lambert’s camp because those city gentlemen pay well, while your Scots—Puritans, Presbyterians, Covenanters, whatever you call them—don’t eat very much and don’t pay anything.”
Monck shrugged, though he couldn’t keep from smiling at the same time. “And why, coming from the South, are you fishing along our shores?”
“Because I was stupid enough to get married in Picardy.”
“Maybe so, but Picardy isn’t England.”
“Milord, the man launches his boat to sea, but God and the wind move the boat where they please.”
“You didn’t intend to approach our coast?”
“Not at all.”
“What was your intended route?”
“We were returning from Ostend, chasing the mackerel, when a strong southerly wind took us, and seeing it was useless to fight it, we rode it out. Then it was necessary, so as not to lose our catch, to make for the nearest English port, which happened to be Newcastle. We were told that was lucky because there were many people camped there, both inside and outside the city, gentlemen both wealthy and hungry, so we headed for Newcastle.”
“And your crew, where are they?”
“Oh, my crew, they stayed on board; they’re simple, uneducated sailors.”
“While you…?” said Monck.
“Oh, me!” said the captain, laughing. “I used to sail with my father, trading, and I know how to say penny, crown, pistole, louis and double-louis in every language of Europe, so my crew listens to me like an oracle and obeys me like an admiral.”
“Then, you’re the one who decided Lambert would be the better customer?”
“Yes, of course. And to be frank, Milord, was I wrong?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out.”
“In any case, Milord, if there was a mistake, I’m the one responsible, and you mustn’t blame my crew for it.”
He definitely has his wits about him, thought Monck. Then, after a few moments of silence while he considered the fisherman more closely, the general asked, “You come from Ostend, isn’t that what you told me?”
“Yes, Milord, straightaway.”
“Then you must have heard what they’re saying on the coast, as I’ve no doubt they’re interested in French and Dutch affairs. What do they say about the King of England?”
“Ah, Milord!” said the fisherman, with an expression of honest pleasure. “You’re in luck, because you couldn’t find a better person to ask about that than me. Listen to this, Milord: after putting in at Ostend to sell the few mackerel we’d taken, I saw the ex-king walking along the dunes waiting for the horses that were to take him to The Hague. He’s a tall, pale man, with black hair and a rather severe look. He seemed unwell, and I think the air of Holland might not be good for him.”
Monck listened closely to the fisherman’s rapid and colorful speech, which, though in a language not his own, still managed to get his ideas across clearly. The fisherman spoke a strange mélange of English, French, and some unknown words that were probably Gascon. Fortunately, his eyes spoke for him, and were so eloquent that one could miss a word from his mouth but still get the meaning from his expression.
The general seemed increasingly satisfied with his interrogation. “You must have heard that this ex-king, as you call him, was traveling to The Hague for some purpose.”
“Oh, yes!” said the fisherman. “Indeed, I did.”
“What was this purpose?”
“What else?” said the fisherman. “Isn’t he consumed with the idea of returning to England?”
“So they say,” said Monck thoughtfully.
“Not to mention,” said the fisherman, “that the stadtholder… you know, Milord? William II?”
“Well?”
“He intends to aid him with all his power.”
“Ah! You heard that?”
“No, but I believe it.”
“So, you follow politics, then?” asked Monck.
“Oh, Milord, you know how it is! We sailors, who are used to studying the air and the water, that is, the two most changeable things in the world, are rarely mistaken about what else we must travel through.”
“Come,” said Monck, changing the subject, “I hear you’re able to feed us well.”
“I’ll do my best, Milord.”
“How much are you charging for your fish?”
“I’m not such a fool as to set a price, Milord.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because my fish are yours.”
“By what right?”
“By the right of might.”
“But I intend to pay you.”
“That’s very generous of you, Milord.”
“As much as it’s worth too.”
“I’d never ask that much.”
“What do you ask, then?”
“Just to be able to leave.”
“To go where? To General Lambert’s camp?”
“What!” cried the fisherman. “Why would I go to Newcastle if I no longer have any fish?”
“In any event, listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“I have some advice.”
“Really? Milord wants to pay me, and give me advice to boot? Milord overwhelms me.”
Monck looked closely at the fisherman, whom he seemed to suspect of sarcasm. “Yes, I want to pay you, and offer you some advice, because the two things are connected. If you go, then, to General Lambert’s camp…”
The fisherman shrugged, as if to say, I won’t argue.
Monck continued, “Don’t go by way of the marsh. You’ll be carrying money, and in the marsh you might encounter some Scottish ambushers I’ve posted there. They’re hard folk and won’t understand the language you speak, though it seems to me to be made of three languages. They might take what I will have given you, and then, when you’re back in your country, you’ll say that General Monck has two hands, one Scottish and one English, and that he takes back with the Scottish hand what he gave with the English.”
“Oh, General, I’ll go wherever you say, never fear,” said the fisherman, with an anxiety too sincere to be feigned. “But if we’re staying, I just want to stay near here.”
“I believe you,” said Monck, with the hint of a smile. “But I don’t have room for you in my tent.”
“I’d never presume so far, Milord, and only ask Your Lordship to point out where we should go. Anywhere will do, for a night is soon passed.”
“Then I’ll have you escorted back to your boat.”
“As Your Lordship pleases. Onl
y, if Your Lordship included a carpenter in that escort, I’d be grateful.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the gentlemen of your army, Milord, in drawing my boat up the river by a horse-drawn cable, dragged it along the rocky shore, and now I have two feet of water in my hold.”
“All the more reason for you to spend the night on your boat, it seems to me.”
“Milord, I am at your service,” said the fisherman. “We’ll unload our baskets wherever you say, you’ll pay me whatever you like, and you’ll send me on my way when it suits you to do so. You see how easy I am to get along with.”
“Come, now, you’re not such a bad fellow,” said Monck, whose scrutiny hadn’t detected a single shade of duplicity in the fisherman’s eye. “Hey! Digby!”
An aide-de-camp appeared.
“You will escort this worthy lad and his crew to the row of tents by the canteen, in front of the marsh; that way they’ll be within reach of their boat but won’t have to sleep on the water tonight. What is it, Spithead?” he asked a newcomer who came in suddenly. This Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monck had borrowed the tobacco for his supper.
“Milord,” he said, in English, of course, “a French gentleman has just presented himself at the guard post and is asking to speak with Your Honor.”
Though this report was made in English, the fisherman responded with a slight start, which Monck, occupied with the sergeant, failed to notice. “And who is this gentleman?” asked Monck.
“He told me, Milord,” replied Spithead, “but these French names are so devilish hard for a Scot to say that it didn’t stick with me. However, this gentleman, from what the guards told me, is the same one who presented himself yesterday when Your Honor declined to receive him.”
Between Two Kings Page 19
