It had come to me in this uncertain period that some of my officers were becoming disaffected and, hearing the news of the King’s execution and the declarations of Ormonde, I was suspicious of their loyalty. I pressed this matter upon them, seeking to bring it into the light, aware that by now some among them, mostly Scotchmen, objected to taking orders from the Regicides in London. Their eyes strayed towards Inchiquin and Ormonde, now in the country himself, whose superiority in cavalry I had sought to counter by a correspondence with Sir Thomas Fairfax, pleading an urgent reinforcement of a regiment of horse.
All I received was a secret instruction to ensure O’Neill with his eight-thousand men did not effect a junction with Ormonde and Inchiquin. This was pressed upon me as overriding all other considerations, for any such junction would prejudice the success of the forthcoming expedition.
Anne paused at the under-lining, unsure of its exact import but anxious at the emphasis and concluding the nature of the puzzle lay in the words ‘secret instruction’. It occurred to her that – while she understood little of its detail or import – in this letter, Monck confided in her to a very great extent. She vaguely saw it as testamentary, but more shrewdly grasped his desire for her to keep it safe, along with his papers written in The Tower, an insurance against any enemy that later might seek to discredit him. This warmed her as she read on.
Next Ormonde moved on Dublin while Inchiquin advanced upon Trim. In the meanwhile O’Neill approached to within thirty miles of Dundalk where I then lay. I sent word to O’Neill, asking for a cessation between us, even an alliance, for three months and that he state his terms; they were mostly preposterous. Besides freedom of religion and the restoration of his lands in Tyrone, he demanded a senior post under Fairfax. It was nought but moonshine but I played him a game, gaining time.
Our cause was now in the gravest danger. Though O’Neill could be relied upon to remain quiescent for a short while, besides myself, only two other garrisons held out. With O’Neill and the Nuncio’s confederation thrown in against us, Ormonde held the entire country and I was lost. Inchiquin, having taken Drogheda was at the gates of Dundalk. I sought O’Neill’s assistance, for our terms included mutual assistance, but he pleaded a shortage of powder the supply of which formed the issue of which I stand now in dishonour.
But all was thrown away by treachery. My scheme was exposed, undermining my honesty, particularly in the eyes of my officers and I, unable to reveal the reasons why I had adopted the apparently inexplicable course of action that I did, am held to be a man of duplicity…
Anne crushed the letter in her lap. She understood this plainly enough. Her beloved George, his good name not only publicly impugned, but dishonoured among the very officers whose absolute loyalty he demanded and required, had suffered a terrible, terrible blow. Her eyes filled with tears as she continued to read.
I have subsequently found some support, but am unable to publicly justify my conduct and, for all the world to see, it must stand to my condemnation. There was a great necessity to act as I did, of that I am sure and I must accept that as my consolation: it was my duty, and nothing more nor less.
But all this having been revealed and O’Neill no longer to be relied upon, all but seventeen of my men – seventeen, please note – devoid of pay for many months, slipped over to Inchiquin and on a day I shall ever remember, July the 17th, your loving friend George Monck was obliged to surrender to the enemy. I negotiated terms advantageous to myself, though most of those officers who had shared my success in the harrowing of Ulster deserted to Inchiquin and Ormonde.
In ruling this country, it is necessary to do one of two things: either to root out and destroy the enemy and all those who support his faction without exception. Every priest and peasant, every woman, child and babe that has been baptised a Catholic must be put to the sword and not one seed from which the distemper can renew itself and again flourish must be suffered to remain, not even in the most distant extremities of the country. Or else one must continually embark in an endless negotiation, a ceaseless forestalling of intent, of outwitting the cunning resourcefulness of wilful children, children who see only the fizz of short-term victory, who care not for good governance but the conceit of advantage, howsoever temporary and illusory.
She was near the end now and thought she had heard the noise of her husband returning, but it was only the scuttering of a rat somewhere behind a wainscoting. The distraction made her pause for a moment and she re-read the last paragraph, frightened by Monck’s uncompromising views, as images of women and children being put to the sword flashed before her mind’s eye. Then she realised they were not dissimilar to odd sections of his long essay that, from time-to-time during their intimacy in The Tower, she had had her read out loud to him. The difference was that there they had merely been a written opinion but here, in his letter, it translated into a dreadful reality. With a shock she – who bore no personal animus against Catholics – perceived a terrible doctrine and glimpsed, for a moment, the burden of high command that he bore.
But Anne had never in her life read such a long letter, nor been aware of receiving such a great confidence. That George Monck was incapable of writing of anything other than his military profession never occurred to her. Why should it? She was struck instead with the paradox of loving this man whose kindness in taking notice of her delighted her; but from this rosy recollection arose another: she recalled the transformation of those kindly blue eyes into chips of ice; she recalled too the sense of power he was capable of emanating.
Great men must of necessity be of such a nature and George – her George – was indeed a great man. If she had ever doubted it, it was made plain by this letter which she now folded carefully, even reverentially. The strange mixture of tenderness and ruthlessness was what made great men differ from the likes of sots like Ratsford and his aimless cronies. But the dispassionate, indiscriminating murder of women and children …? Anne Ratsford shuddered at the image of her George having hands steeped in the blood of the innocent.
She looked again at the folded sheets in her lap. From them she understood little of the events Monck described, but she regarded them as containing something akin to being sacred. Opening the sheets, she read the last sentence again before, at last, it occurred to her that it contained little of the personal and no signing off, affectionate or otherwise. There was no new page and it was not until she turned the last sheet over – the others having been covered only upon one side, as had been his practice when composing his essay in The Tower – that she found his last lines.
By the time you receive this, my fate will be decided and it mayhap that our pleasant trysts in The Tower shall resume. Whatever you hear of me, be assured my honour is intact. Please keep this letter safe and secure, dearest Anne, and place it with those other papers of mine which you hold. As for myself alone,
I am your ever faithful,
Geo. Monck
She looked again at the letter, tears filling her eyes as she shuffled the sheets. He called her ‘dearest’ and referred to himself as ‘her loving friend’ and ‘ever faithful’. She knew well enough that he must remain circumspect and had promised nothing on his departure beyond his commitment to her. It had seemed enough then but now, knowing him to be in trouble, she wanted more, much more. From the vigour of Monck’s handwriting, to say nothing of that underscoring, Anne could divine the fury and frustration of its author, even if she failed utterly to perceive that it was full of the prejudice of a Protestant Englishman at the wayward indifference of the Irish and their refusal to accept the beneficent good-order of imposed – but foreign – government.
Instead, it occurred to her that such had been her haste that she had noted neither its place of origin, nor its date. She again shuffled the sheets and found upon the first two superscriptions that made her heart leap in her breast. It was Wednesday the 10th August: the letter bore a date of August 4th and its place of origin simply Milford. She had no idea where Milford was. Then she
saw a scribbled line the ink of which had been smudged and suggested a last-minute addition: I shall be in London within three or four days.
‘He is here!’ she exclaimed, leaping to her feet, hearing a noise. This was no rat but a man’s footfall. Her heart thundered in her breast as the door flew open. But, at that very moment, as Ratsford found his wife dewy-eyed over the correspondence of a stranger, George Monck stood before the Bar of a candlelit House of Commons awaiting his fate.
*
Six days earlier a travel-stained Monck had arrived on the shores of Milford Haven. The vast expanse of its landlocked harbour seemed full of ships, its surrounding fields and open country full of soldiers, tents, horse-lines and artillery parks. Monck noted the red-coats, the buff skirts and the quality of the equipment. He noted too, the boats in the harbour, crawling like water-beetles between shore and ships as the armament destined for Ireland embarked upon its crusade. Monck noted too that he was recognised, that men averted their faces and even swore, in that God-fearing way of the Puritan extremists, at his treachery. He had become inured to it, for it he had already encountered it at Chester, where he had landed from Ireland under the terms he had negotiated with Inchiquin after his one remaining drummer had beat a parley on the walls of Dundalk. Confronted with a surprising number of men in black, he had studiously avoided making any statement, even in the face of direct and unambiguous accusations of ‘High Treason’, owning only that his allegiance was to the Council of State and a declaration that he had acted – as he always acted in the public service – out of military necessity. But he was left in no doubt of his position in all this. Secret instructions or not, he, and he alone, was the scapegoat, the man who had betrayed the purity of the Protestant cause by treating with a Catholic chieftain. All he learned at Chester was that Oliver Cromwell was newly appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and that he was then at Milford Haven. Monck had bought two horses and set out for Pembrokeshire.
He arrived on 4 August and made his way directly to Cromwell’s headquarters at a small inn. Recognised by the staff officers, he was not kept waiting for long and soon found himself ushered into Cromwell’s presence.
Cromwell sat at a table covered in papers; he did not look up, but continued writing. A clerk was gathering up his pens and ink-well; as he withdrew he threw Monck a glance that was as pitiful as it was curious. Cromwell continued working for some moments after the clerk had gone before laying down his pen and looking up at the travel-stained officer standing before him.
‘General Monck,’ he said rising and, leaning across the table, held out his hand. ‘These are difficult times; please be seated.’ He indicated that Monck should draw a plain upright chair that stood by the window towards the table. When both men had taken their seats Cromwell said, ‘You have done well, though few will now, or ever, appreciate it …’
Monck said nothing, though he watched Cromwell closely.
Cromwell cleared his throat. ‘There are, of course, those that hold you supped with the Devil, that you have compromised our expedition and dishonoured the innocent blood of the massacred. That much may be true, but as the God of Battles knoweth, there is also the matter of military necessity. Would you not agree?’
‘Aye; but there is also the matter of your secret instructions,’ Monck responded bluntly.
‘Which were driven by military necessity, General, as I am sure you understand.’ Unflinching, Monck met Cromwell’s gaze, compelling him to further comment. ‘Come, sir … you comprehend my meaning, do you not?’
‘I am dishonoured and made a scapegoat, sir. My comprehension is of little importance since my future is uncertain and my good-name traduced.’
‘You are going to have to trust me, General.’
‘You are going into Ireland, sir. You will find business enough there to forget any obligation you might consider towards myself.’
‘I may be a better judge of that than you, General. You must, of course, repair directly to London but whilst I am in no doubt that certain difficulties lie in wait for you there, I am confident that whatever they are, they will not result in charges the like of which you have faced before.’
Monck remained silent. He was boiling with suppressed anger, the fermentation not merely of his present woes, but of his serial disappointments, from Cadiz onwards. Nevertheless he knew the slightest manifestation of this weakness would destroy him in the good opinion of this influential man.
Cromwell met his scrutiny before asking in a mild tone of voice, ‘You have come here directly from Ireland, have you not?’
Monck nodded. ‘Aye, by way of Chester, where I was advised that you had been appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and it was therefore proper to make my report to thee …’ Monck paused a moment before adding, ‘… that and the fact that it was from your hand, by way of Captain Arthur, that I received your secret instructions.’
‘We shall say no more of them, General,’ Cromwell said firmly. ‘You have thus far pleaded necessity; I further require you to take upon yourself the whole responsibility of your decision to treat with O’Neill …’
‘I understand,’ Monck broke in.
‘You do?’
‘The reasons of state are clear, sir,’ Monck said simply. Cromwell looked shrewdly at Monck. While it would have been impertinent of Monck to have said more by way of explanation, it was clear to Cromwell, that he grasped all the import of the situation.
‘Had you heard that Colonel Jones had engaged and prevailed over Ormonde at Rathminnes?’
‘I had not, sir.’
‘It is an astonishing mercy, so great and seasonable that it must stand to support us and strengthen our love and faith against more difficult times.’
‘Indeed, sir, ’tis the best matter I have heard of, or has been said to me, these several weeks past.’
‘I shall not forget you, General Monck, and before I embark I shall await the outcome of your summons to London, for thither thou must repair at once and with all despatch. Now, I beg you to retire for an hour to refresh yourself. Come again and I shall have letters to our friends in London. Should you wish to send word yourself, I have a courier leaving tomorrow. He shall carry a despatch of mine to the Council of State touching yourself. I would also have some discourse with you upon matters as they stood upon your leaving Ireland. That done you must make haste thither yourself.’
‘Would your man carry a personal letter?’
‘Of course,’ Cromwell said rising. Monck rose with him and the General accompanied him to the door. Opening it he called for food, wine, wax, pen, paper and ink to be provided immediately for General Monck. An hour later the door opened again and Cromwell summoned him. Monck was just then sealing a long letter to Mistress Ratsford, a letter which he had begun some days earlier, the chief purpose of which was to calm himself and order his thoughts preparatory to being interviewed by those who would sit in judgement over him. It did not occur to him that Anne would make neither head nor tail of it.
Monck spent a further hour with the General learning that Coote had also treated with O’Neill but having thereby secured the city of Derry, would escape opprobrium. Cromwell also told him that Rinuccini was rumoured to have fled, remarking that Monck smiled at the news.
‘You smile, General, why so?’
‘He will be in despair at the squabbling of his partisans,’ Monck said, adding, ‘and there is in all this some advantageous consequence of my infamous conduct.’
‘We must needs keep that to ourselves but tell me, in general principle, how …’
‘Does one gain the upper hand?’ Monck interrupted presumptuously, the final paragraphs of his letter to Anne coming readily to him. ‘You must either destroy the enemy root-and-branch, sir, or sit down to endless negotiation and submit to an interminable succession of treacheries and betrayals while your forces are suborned, ambushed and whittled away. It is neither more nor less than that.’
Listening carefully, Cromwell nodded, asked a few periphera
l questions after which he handed four letters to Monck, remarking that they were ‘a shield of sorts’. He then asked if he had the private letter to which he had referred earlier which he required to be taken separately to London to add to his own despatch and Monck handed over his long missive to Anne. Without looking at the superscription, Cromwell called his clerk, handed the two papers over and held out his hand to Monck.
‘Until we meet again,’ he said and, turning to his clerk, added, ‘See General Monck out, Thurloe.’
*
Monck rode hard for London, a solitary horseman with a spare mount trailing on a long rein. He fed and watered them regularly, changing horses at each stop and selling both at a loss at Bristol. His new horses, bought at an exorbitant and unhaggled price served him to Reading where he purchased a single gelding. He arrived in London and before resting, delivered Cromwell’s four private letters, finally seeking sleep at an inn in Westminster. The following day he showed himself at Derby House and was ordered to reappear the next morning when the Council of State would hear what he had to say. It proved a difficult encounter and, though he had little time to recognise all its members he knew Lord Lisle, Earl Mulgrave, Sir Arthur Haselrig and Sir Thomas Fairfax. Although he detected friends among the members, some four of whom had been recipients of Cromwell’s quartet of letters, the Lord President, John Bradshaw, ordered him to explain his actions in treating with O’Neill.
‘It was a decision that was mine and mine alone,’ Monck said, firmly, raking the assembled Council with his merciless eye. ‘I plead nothing for myself but an understanding of military necessity. I was pressed on all sides and the temper of my men was being steadily worn-down by lack of pay …’ The accusation was plain and he let it hang a moment to sting those members of the Irish Committee present with a condign reproach. ‘A juncture between the Marquess of Ormonde and Owen Roe O’Neill would have proved immediately fatal to all our hopes but, with the preparations I knew to be in train respecting an imminent reinforcement, I had hopes that my motives would receive this Council’s approval.’
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 8