Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck

by Richard Woodman

  He stirred himself; Macrae had been right: his brain was fried, frizzled and useless. There were men abroad whose sins far eclipsed those of George Monck. Had the King’s cause – or any cause, for that matter – been fatally affected by their peccant actions? Or was the world’s mess a product of it all? A grand combination? He almost laughed to himself. That, at least, was a certainty!

  He had said something of the sort to Bishop Wren two days earlier when, unable to do anything other than await the result of the enquiries he had put in train, Monck had visited the poor man who still lay a prisoner in The Tower. He flattered himself that Wren had been pleased to see his former fellow-prisoner, for he expressed concern that Monck dared show himself there.

  ‘You will compromise yourself, General, talking to a confirmed Royalist and like to languish until I die for it.’

  ‘Well, my Lord Bishop, I do not come under any pretence of trying to persuade you to recant and renounce your loyalties…’

  ‘As you have done,’ Wren had snapped, pointedly, and Monck saw the wearying excoriation that had borne down upon the prisoner during his long imprisonment. He had turned the rebuke aside as gently as was in his power. Wren had been kind to him when he had occupied an adjacent cell and Monck was not a man to forget a kindness.

  ‘Come, my Lord Bishop, you well know from our lengthy discussions in this place that I place duty to my country above everything.’

  ‘’Twas some time past,’ Wren had riposted.

  ‘Aye, and time has worked its worst upon us both. Thou art testy and I am distempered…’

  ‘You are sick?’

  ‘Compromised. I am not minded to serve again.’

  He had gone on to tell Wren of the trials he had suffered thanks to the spotted-fever. He made no appeal for sympathy; that was not to be expected of the old soldier. He simply explained the state of his health. The confession of physical weakness had roused Wren’s concern, not just for Monck, but for himself.

  ‘I am sorry to hear of such a disabling infirmity,’ Wren had said. ‘Thou art the only man of standing who might help me in mine own situation.’ He gestured at his surroundings. ‘You smile…’

  ‘Aye, I should not and I do not mock thee, but it is more comfortable that half the camps and bivouacs I have enjoyed since first I went out from this place.’

  ‘Ah, and when you went the wench went with you. It took some time for us to find another washer-woman half as diligent.’

  ‘That is because Anne was something more than a common washer-woman,’ Monck said quickly.

  Wren was unmoved by this and went on: ‘Do you wish to make your confession, for I hear that you have shamelessly broken the Seventh Commandment with her?’

  Monck laughed. ‘There are those who would cheerfully see me hang for it, my Lord Bishop, but ’tis a minor peccadillo and I purpose to marry her.’

  ‘I suppose I could grant you absolution on such a promise if ’twere on oath.’

  Monck rose and Wren recognised again the physical presence of the man. He went to the door and shouted for the turn-key before addressing Wren. ‘You know my opinion of oaths,’ he said, and a moment later Wren was alone again in his cell.

  Thinking of the visit Monk rather regretted he had made it. He had presumed rather too familiarly upon their former friendship. Two or so years had not been kind to Wren and he was probably right; in all likelihood he would indeed die in The Tower.

  Monck set the recollection aside, rubbing his calves as the dull ache reminded him of his own tribulations. The one element of luck that had thus far attended his career, his lack of wounds in battle, seemed set at nought by the perversity of chronic ailment. But what annoyed him most, and sounded too peevish to communicate even to Wren, was that the spotted-fever had robbed him of his own laurels. True, Parliament had voted him a substantial grant, but it was nothing compared to that lavished on Oliver’s darling, John Lambert.

  Perhaps such a loss of perquisites entitled a man used to such disappointments to soak himself in wine just-the-once, he thought, turning again to his encounter with Ned Conway. And perhaps, despite his misgivings, he might not have let too much slip to Conway. Anyhow, God knew he was utterly fed-up with this fruitless, idle, good-for-nothing waiting – and for what? No news. No news at all. He should be gone, he thought with a sudden resolution, into the West Country where Anne, bless her lonely but constant heart, was waiting for him. Or off into Ireland where he must needs see what disorder had been wrought in the land-grants Parliament had reluctantly given him for an earlier campaign than that in Scotland. Anywhere was better that London. What he had set in train in London was simply not working, for he would have heard something long since.

  There was the other matter, too. He must put-up his sword. It was time for George Monck the soldier to overcome the wretched and inadequate motions of George Monck the lover. He dismissed the rumours of increasing difficulties with the Dutch which were most likely to lead to war; to the Devil with that! George Monck had other fish to fry. His admission to Conway that he intended to marry was quite true, whomsoever Ned thought of as Monck’s intended, but it was Anne to whom he had plighted his troth months ago with a handfasting, and it was with Anne that he had been living as openly as they dared in a land where adultery risked the gallows. There, that was the rub; Anne had – or had had – a husband. And the question of which of these alternatives prevailed was the reason why Monck languished so uncharacteristically supine in a Westminster tavern. No-one knew whether the brutal Ratsford – who had abandoned Anne some four years earlier after robbing her of her life’s savings – was alive or dead. All his enquiries had come to nothing.

  In a characteristically decisive move Monck rose, went to the door and called out for the maid. When the girl came he ordered the table cleared and her mistress sent for. When Mistress Franks appeared, puffing from the tap-room, obsequious and as eager-to-please as any woman should be who quartered a General Officer in the Commonwealth Army under her roof, he ordered her to compound his account.

  ‘I intend leaving tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and thank you for your many kindnesses to me.’

  ‘It is always a pleasure, sir, to have so distinguished a personage lodging in my house,’ she said bobbing away.

  Monck smiled at her. ‘Come Mistress Franks,’ he said in his most winning tone of voice with its soft, attractive West-Country burr, ‘but you sound like one of the Members of the Parliament House who frequent your premises all-too-often.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, making Monck grin the more. ‘I hope the weather improves; ’tis no season to be travelling sir.’

  He bit off the riposte that he was a soldier and was not used to the luxury of choosing when he should march, temporising that it might moderate by the morning.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, withdrawing.

  Monck turned from the closed door and began to gather up his papers and books, stuffing them into the battered portmanteau that stood at the foot of the bed. The shutters rattled again with an ominous intensity, and he heard the howl of the gale. At least he did not have to venture out tonight, he thought to himself, as he completed packing his most personal effects. Ten minutes later he blew out the candles and betook himself to bed.

  No more than twenty-minutes had passed before he heard his name called; the tone was insistent. Mistress Franks stood in the open doorway with a rush dip and Monck sensed something amiss.

  ‘What is it? Is there a fire?’

  ‘No, sir, but a man who insists upon my disturbing you.’

  ‘Does he by God!’ Monck stared at the woman a moment, then realised this was no tomfoolery. ‘Very well. Give me a moment, then send him in… Wait, do you light my candles, I have packed my tinder-box.’ Waiting until she had done his bidding, Monck threw off the bedding and grabbed his robe. A moment later a sodden, thin visaged man stood dripping before him as Mistress Franks waited curiously.

  For a moment Monck did not recognise him and had to be pro
mpted as the man took off his hat, its brim spilling its contents on the floor-boards. ‘Wragg, General Monck, Mr Humphrey’s confidential clerk…’

  ‘Mistress Franks, a glass of toddy for this poor fellow. Come, sit down Mr Wragg… Surely some alarum must have occurred that you must…’ Monck broke off, staring at the shivering clerk.

  ‘Mr Humphrey argued, sir,’ Wragg began, ‘that as I could reach you before midnight and that you had yourself insisted most emphatically, sir, most emphatically if I might say so sir, that the moment we learned anything about, er, about the personal and confidential matter you had honoured us and entrusted us with, then you required immediate notice. Immediate notice, sir. Hence, sir, my reason for disturbing you…’ here the loquacious Wragg gestured towards Monck’s dishabille, ‘at this hour. I trust this is congruent with your wishes.’

  ‘If you have brought me some intelligence, Mr Wragg, then it is most congruent,’ Monck responded eagerly, watching as the clerk leant down and began to undo the wet leather satchel he had placed on the floor beside his chair. At this point Mistress Franks reappeared with two glasses of steaming rum-toddy.

  ‘I did not mean…’ Monck began as she handed one to him, but shook his head and smiled. ‘No matter…’ He could visualise the augmentation of his account thanks to the unannounced visit of Mr Wragg. He only hoped that the news the soaking messenger brought him was what he had so longed for. It might be quite otherwise, as this late intrusion suggested.

  ‘Thank you Mr Wragg.’ Monck took the missive from Wragg’s outstretched hand. While Wragg fell to the consumption of his pint of toddy, Monck gingerly broke the seal, angled the letter towards the candles and began to read, ignoring Humphrey’s pompous superscription for which, it crossed his mind, he would also doubtless pay heavily.

  Sir,

  I am pleased to inform you that, after extensive and assiduous enquiries pursued with the utmost and most industrious diligence, we have at last secured both intelligence of the party for whom you previously enquired but, by further a pursuit of your Excellency’s objective, have to hand this very evening an affidavit to the effect that the man Ratsford succumbed to a visitation of the plague in Smyrna some thirteen months since…

  Monck read no further, but looked up sharply at Wragg. ‘You have the affidavit?’ he enquired shortly, his tone expectant.

  Wragg shook his head. ‘No, sir. In view of the lateness of the hour, the danger of footpads, the inclemency of the weather…’

  ‘Damn it!’ Monck swore, tearing off his robe and hurriedly ridding himself of his night-shirt as a startled Wragg looked-on. Reaching for his shirt and breeches Monck rapped out his intentions. ‘Do you wait for me below. I’ll be down directly…’

  ‘But General, Mr Humphrey has given me permission, in view of the inclemency of the weather and the lateness of the hour, to remain here the night…’

  Monck was already drawing on his heavy boots. ‘That is as you wish, Mr Wragg, and as I shall be paying for your accommodation you may avail yourself of my bed but I must tell you that I am to your master without delay.’

  ‘Then I must needs come with you, sir, for you cannot intrude alone…’ The wretched Wragg fell to a muttering of ‘oh, dear, oh dear,’ between rapid quaffings of the stiff toddy Mistress Franks had supplied. Monck polished his own off as he drew on coat and cloak. That done, and as if an after-thought, he turned to his open portmanteau and drew out a soft leather purse, stuffing it into his breast. Then, gathering up his hat, Monck turned to the clerk.

  ‘Come sir, the sooner we go, the sooner we arrive.’

  The gale met them at the inn doorway and nearly carried away Monck’s wide-brimmed hat. Behind him Wragg quailed visibly at the prospect of the walk to the City where, near the Temple church, Humphreys kept his rooms.

  ‘At least it has stopped raining, Mr Wragg,’ Monck said with an encouraging air of joviality. Was this news that Wragg had brought really true? Could it be true?

  Expectation kept Monck trudging determinedly through streets mired by the torrential rain with the wretched Wragg trailing behind him, all the while uttering imprecations under his breath. They slithered eastwards, passing the watch as midnight was called and were suffered to proceed unmolested, for it was clear by his bearing that Monck was a man of consequence that would brook no half-hearted arrest. As for footpads, the gentlemen of the night had sensibly taken themselves to their beds, whether such a place was a cold nook or a warm midden-heap. Monck sensed Wragg’s apprehension grew with the increasing proximity to his master’s door.

  By the time they arrived the sky had cleared, the thick overcast vanishing with a shift of the wind. Overhead, where the sky could be seen between the over-hanging houses, the stars shone crystal-bright, though rain still tinkled in the gutters and drain-pipes and ran across the slime and mire of the street. The change in the weather matched Monck’s mood and he was insensible to Humphrey’s protestations of outrage at having so unceremoniously been summoned from his bed. These, in any case, vanished when he realised for whom he had been woken.

  ‘General Monck…’ he began with an obsequiousness that far out-matched Mistress Franks’s servility, prompting Monck to wonder what sum Humphrey was amassing at his own expense.

  ‘I understand you have an affidavit for me, Mr Humphrey.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Come in sir, come in. Mr Wragg do you…’

  ‘Do you find it Mr Humphrey,’ Monck broke in. ‘Mr Wragg has done all in his power this night and the poor man will be beyond serving you if he wants another minute to his bed-time.’ Monck’s tone was peremptory and he turned to Wragg. ‘Be off with you sir. I shall not forget your service this evening.’

  Thus so uncertainly dismissed, Wragg withdrew and vanished into the darkness.

  ‘Of course…of course…’ said Humphrey waving Monck inside and leading him to his office where he transferred the flame from his bedside taper to a muster of half-consumed candles standing upon his desk. Taking a key from about his neck, the lawyer unlocked a drawer and lifted a paper from the pile that lay within, handing it to the General.

  ‘There sir. That should satisfy thee.’

  Monck took the paper with a grunt and read:

  I, Jacob Harbottle, lately Mate of the good ship Peter of Harwich do most solemnly swear that of my certain knowledge one Ratsford, rated landsman aboard the said ship Peter of Harwich is deceased in this wise: that he did contract a fever at the Turkic port of Smyrna, from which he took a fatal contagion and expired soon thereafter. This occurring, as best my memory serves, at or near the beginning of February last.

  ‘Over a year ago,’ Monck said, looking up at Humphrey.

  ‘Indeed, General.’

  ‘And how did you locate this man Harbottle?’

  ‘Through an extensive enquiry in every ale-house, whore-house, stew, rookery, nook, cranny and crevice all along the Ratcliffe Highway from The Tower to Limehouse and beyond,’ Humphrey said before succumbing to an eloquent yawn.

  ‘And how did you snare him?’ Mock persisted.

  ‘By advertising a reward for news of this Ratsford for whom, it was put about, we were holding a legacy. And before you ask,’ Humphrey said presciently, ‘we had a dozen or more claimants whose spurious stories we dismissed before Harbottle turned up. They were,’ Humphrey chuckled, as if to emphasise the superiority of his lawyer’s intellect and its ability to penetrate a fraud, ‘easy to discover, General.’

  ‘And Harbottle?’

  ‘Was genuine, I have no doubt. He spoke of satisfactorily corroborative circumstances and seemed more intent upon divulging the information than gaining the reward.’ Monck nodded and was about to speak when Humphrey added, ‘in fact he came to us, having heard that we were searching for this Ratsford through a third party, a former ship-mate, I think.’

  ‘So he wasn’t pulled out of a brothel by the diligent Wragg?’ remarked Monck with a relieved grin.

  ‘Goodness me no sir, though Wragg proved a man of
uncommon diligence, not to mention discretion, in this delicate matter General Monck.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, Mr Humphrey, but let us continue to keep the entire matter as quiet as we may, though word of it will rattle like enough…’

  ‘I doubt it, General. The populace frequenting the purlieus of the Highway are either feckless or shifting. Such enquiries are, I understand, common enough: mothers of bastards enquiring for the men who impregnated them, the indebted seeking debtors, cheated seamen after revenge for one reason or another. Indeed the ferment among the crimps and pimps, the whores and the whore-masters, to say nothing of the floating population must tend to an universal amnesia – at least I cannot conceive otherwise if one recalls that this is accompanied by such quantities of gin and other potent liquors. In fact I doubt the matter is recalled even now among those to whom the question was directly addressed but a short while past.’

  ‘I am not so sure. In my experience such things gain an impetus of their own…’ Monck fished for the purse and withdrew it, provoking a reaction from Humphrey, who held up his right palm in a gesture of denial.

  ‘Goodness me, no sir; I must draw up your account properly.’

  Monck grinned again. ‘Of course you must, Mr Humphrey, but this,’ and here he laid five sovereigns on the desk, the glint of the gold gleaming in the candle-light, ‘this is for Wragg. Do see he receives at least three of them and all five if your sense of honour permits.’

  Discomfited, Humphrey gave a thin giggle. ‘You jest, General, of course.’ Then he recovered his composure. ‘Oh, by-the-by, General Monck, Harbottle said that he had come to speak with us because he thought this Ratsford had a wife. Is that why you have an interest in him?’