Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck

by Richard Woodman

  He had rarely felt happier in his life.

  *

  Early on a damp morning in early June, Monck watched his own column of three regiments of Foot and two of Horse head west. He had given the long-awaited order to march the previous evening, having sent off gallopers to Daniel at Perth, Hill at Ruthven and Morgan at Inverness; of William Brayne he had as yet heard nothing. Unperturbed by this and confident that Brayne was in Lochaber, probably encamped near Argylle’s castle at Inversary at the head of Loch Fyne with his own instructions, Monck’s order to his subordinate field-commanders set everything in motion.

  Sitting resplendently be-plumed upon his black charger, surrounded by his small mounted staff, his ample waist girded by the orange-red sash of a general officer, a wide-brimmed, feathered hat over his long hair, Monck watched the column swing past him and move off towards the Kilsyth Hills. It was led by his second-in-command, Colonel Robert Overton and headed by Monck’s own regiment. Originally scraped together from two others on the orders of Cromwell not long before Dunbar, four years earlier, its men had not wanted Monck as their colonel. They complained that his appointment would be dishonourable to them, since many had been in Fairfax’s force which had captured him at Nantwich in the Civil War. They had changed their tune soon after Monck was forced upon them by Cromwell, and that long before he led them – on foot and half-pike in hand – across the roaring burn against Sir James Lumsden’s Scots at Dunbar. Now someone, hidden in the anonymity of the tramping ranks, gave voice to a general sentiment.

  ‘Good to have ‘ee back, George!’ the voice roared, being accompanied by a chorus of ‘ayes!’ and cheers. Monck nodded gravely and raised his hat. After the uncertainties of the command of a fleet it was good to be back. As the men trudged past, he acknowledged their officers’ salutes and ran his eye over the marching ranks. He marked the bread-bags and water-bottles, the absence of pikes and the enthusiasm of the drummers and fife-men. He raked with his critical eye the cannon, their straining traces and their trailing limbers, bales of forage swinging beneath their axles. They were followed by the pack-train and the waggons of the baggage and supplies that would, at least in these early stages, accompany Monck’s main force.

  Monck himself quitted Stirling some hours later, riding out with an escort of cavalry, a squadron strong. With him rode Clarke, heading half-a-dozen troopers whose function was to act as couriers as occasion demanded, and a handful of young officers to act as aides-de-camp. Monck’s four spare horses, in the charge of Dick Cann who had brought them north from Potheridge, were followed by another for Clarke. This bore the large leather satchels that contained the maps and muster lists, the letter-books, the stores’ inventories and copied requisition orders, the pens, ink and paper without which all would soon fall apart.

  They caught-up with the troops that evening as they marched up the Forth valley towards the Trossachs. A small cloud of midges accompanied the ranks. Overton had adhered strictly to Monck’s orders that they marched no later than noon, thereafter throwing out his vedettes and occupying the camp marked out by the cavalry of the advanced party. Monck dined that evening with his regimental commanders; each was invited to bring a junior officer and Monck established a routine from which – the exigencies of the service permitting – he rarely wavered. Sitting in his tent among his officers, encouraging an open discussion by his easy informality, he learned best of their problems and kept them from the complaints and fallings-out which could soon ruin an enterprise of such complexity as that upon which they had now embarked. As the canteens were unpacked by the orderlies, Monck delighted in tossing cold chicken legs to the subalterns in exchange for an anecdote of the day’s route, so that his headquarters often bore the appearance of a large, family picnic, such was the light-hearted fellowship that seized every man attending.

  ‘They will serve you well, Your Excellency,’ Clarke remarked approvingly on the second evening as the officers dispersed to their own quarters. That night the vedettes brought in a galloper from Colonel Brayne. He and his two thousand men had landed at Inverary, on Loch Fyne, marched up Glan Aray and were at Inverlochy at the head of Loch Awe.

  Monck nodded appreciatively. ‘Archie Campbell will be in no doubt of the gravity of our affairs,’ he remarked to Clarke in an aside, referring to Argyle’s chief stronghold at Inverary.

  ‘He has sent us more guides,’ Clarke remarked.

  ‘Has he by God. That is well. Do you keep ’em safe.’

  ‘I have them quartered hard by.’

  Monck rode with the Horse the next morning. It was damp, an intermittent drizzle blowing down from the mountains ahead of them as they moved through increasingly rising and rocky ground. They had left behind the rich Lowlands and the Forth had dwindled from a meandering river to a wide, rushing stream. They burned out two small settlements en route, leaving nothing for the rebels to commandeer.

  ‘A vile, heartless business,’ Monck said to the Cornet-of-Horse charged with the unpleasant task, ‘but one which will the more readily achieve our objective.’ To the dispossessed small-holders Monck gave a small bag of coin, accompanied with a grim warning not to succour the enemy. ‘The rebels would have simply robbed you. Now get ye to Stirling. You’ll be back in the spring and replacing your roof. There is no malice in what I do, only military necessity.’

  It was raining hard by the time the column halted at noon. By late afternoon a low mist had settled over the encampment. Donning his cloak, Monck made the rounds of the outposts accompanied by two of his aides. He cautioned the sentinels to be wary; they were in the enemy’s territory now and could expect little mercy from a Clansman with a knife. He was woken at three the following morning and by four the column was on the move again. The dawn light was thin, barely penetrating the nacreous vapours that filled the atmosphere. Monck cast the conditions off with a jest; his staff laughed.

  They were not laughing an hour later when a lone horseman caught-up with the column and was brought to Monck in the van with the cavalry. The man introduced himself as Blair, a farmer from Kippen who had received assurances that he and his kin were safe. That was not the case, he raged, his house had been burnt by Glencairn’s troopers. The English General was deceived and the hint that his Government was useless was made plain.

  ‘Who burned your steading Master Blair?’ he asked, ‘for ’twas not us.’

  ‘Those bluidy barbarians…!’ the poor man expostulated.

  ‘Aye, and I purpose to bring them to the law.’

  Monck soothed the fellow and thanked him for his intelligence, promising redress if he petitioned Monck in two months’ time.

  Asking Blair to accompany him he wheeled his horse and rode back to Clarke. Rapidly explaining what he had learned, he ordered a troop of cavalry to accompany the man back to his home.

  ‘Now do you pass the word that all those who inform me or one of my officers of the rebel movements will receive a reward,’ he said to Blair as Clarke handed him ten pounds in gold. Leaving Blair to stare at the money Monck turned to the Cornet in charge of the cavalry detachment.

  ‘See this good fellow home, sir. Then determine the enemy’s strength, nothing more.’

  He turned to Clarke. ‘They are feinting in our rear,’ he said as the troop of Horse rode off, ‘but in what strength?’

  ‘Shall you turn back to cover Stirling?’

  ‘No. Stirling is in no danger.’ Monck thought for a moment, then said, ‘we will leave a detachment here – a troop will suffice – to bring on those fellows when they return. This is no more than a feint, of that I am sure; Glencairn is ahead of us, somewhere on the slopes of Ben Lomond. That is where we shall strike him. Now, let us continue.’

  Clarke’s face was anxious. ‘Pray God you are right,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘If I am not we will desolate these hills so that he will come cap-in-hand to us, for he cannot subsist on a burnt-out countryside,’ Monck remarked grimly. He tugged at his reins and dug his spurs into his cha
rger’s flanks. ‘Come, Will! We shall follow the line of the Forth! That way we shall smoke the bugger from his lair!’

  SCOTLAND

  June 1654

  Able though he was himself, Clarke could not but marvel at Monck’s composure. Amid the fog of war, exemplified by the confusing reports that suggested the country was crawling with rebels who could see them but who hid in their impenetrable fastnesses, to which the low mist and endless drizzle added their own uncertainty, Monck seemed unperturbed. The column marched on, preceded by its cloud of scouts, both Horse and Foot, men who seemed to Clarke to possess an eye for the country – all the more remarkable for the thick air – whose officers kept in contact from a constant activity. Monck, though chiefly in the van, especially when the day’s camp-site was to be selected – a duty he now undertook personally – also rode the entire length of the column at least twice during the eight hours of marching. He seemed intent on checking every detail, as anxious for the lumbering pack-horses as for the isolated pairs of scouts who tramped the sodden heather in advance of the Horse.

  If he saw any signs of lameness in the horses, he would send for a cavalry farrier; if he remarked any of the men marching with difficulty he ordered them out of the line and examined their feet himself. He showed several young infantrymen how best to bandage their feet to minimise hurt and those with ruptured blisters he dressed himself, using a paste Macrae had had made-up for him from a prescript of Clarges’ devising. ‘Happen it may work,’ Macrae had remarked sceptically when he regarded the paper Monck handed him.

  They crossed boggy ground south of the Forth and Monck pointed out its name – Flanders Moss – as a good omen, for he had learned his craft in Flanders. Then they crossed the river itself, now in spate from the rain. Towards noon the downpour passed, a watery sun appeared and with the sunshine a clouds of midges and clegs, which hovered in a black cloud above the marching troops. To their left front the gleam of water, the Lake of Menteith, the stone stump of a small castle and, remote upon an island in the loch, a huddle of ecclesiastical buildings that was the Priory of Inchmahome. Here the scouts were fired upon and the Horse rode forward to clear the route ahead. Colonel Overton cantered back to report to Monck who, with Clarke, was alternately consulting his map and staring at the steadily rising steeps of the Menteith Hills, the southern flank of which they must follow to penetrate the Trossachs beyond.

  ‘They are falling back on a body of some strength, I think, Your Excellency,’ Overton said, ‘though I do not rule out an ambush.’

  ‘Take four companies from my regiment, Robert, and clear the road as far as Aberfoyle.’ Monck pushed a quid of tobacco into his cheek as Overton wheeled about and rode away. Monck tapped the map. ‘Aberfoyle,’ he said. ‘That’s where we shall find Glencairn.’

  And so they did; a considerable force of Clansmen and well-equipped infantry, entrenched in a strong position. Their fire checked Overton’s probe and sent him back to Monck. Meanwhile Monck had selected a site close north and west of the lake, staked out its lines for his encampment and posted his vedettes and sentries. Having settled down for the night he ordered his army to prepare for battle the following day. Then he rode forward with his staff to reconnoitre the rebel position, meeting Overton after his repulse.

  ‘Well aimed volley fire,’ Overton reported, looking back along the cart-track. ‘Two light galloper-guns. We lost two men killed and three wounded, besides two horses. They’re well prepared, sir.’

  Monck drew a perspective glass from his saddle-bag. ‘What of the lie of the land?’

  ‘The rebel right lies upon the wide stream of the river there,’ Overton reported.

  ‘Duchray Water,’ Clarke offered.

  ‘And its centre lies along that dry-stone wall fronting the small houses and some barns, or some such,’ Overton resumed, pointing the salient features out to Monck who peered through his glass. ‘Behind the stone buildings you can see a track emerges leading upwards to the north. Low trees and what looks like rough pasture; broken country beyond…’

  ‘Aye, birch and whin bushes thinning out to heather and rocky outcrops. And rising ground behind yon farm secures Glencairn’s left.’ Lowering the telescope Monck smiled at Overton. ‘Very well, Bob. You shall join me for dinner. We will muster as usual and attack at first light. Ensure the horses are well watered in the lake. I’ll bring the guns forward tonight as soon as it is dark. What is it?’ There was something clearly concerning Overton. He was an experienced officer and his anxiety was of concern to Monck.

  ‘The country ahead, Your Excellency, is very difficult. The rebels may escape into the hills and mountains; should they do so, do you mean to follow?’

  Monck nodded. ‘To the gates of Hell, if we must.’

  ‘But the terrain…the guns…the horses may…’

  ‘We will accommodate matters as best we may. Glencairn and his people will not be expecting us to follow them. If they try and melt away into the uplands I am ready to pursue by all the means in my power. Eventually we must wear them down.’

  That evening the mood at dinner in the General’s tent was more sombre than hitherto. The oppressing effect of the weather and the landscape – the formidable aspect of the latter having been fully revealed to the troops as the sky cleared – had had a discouraging effect. Men recruited in the English shires, even after months in the garrisons of Scottish towns and forts had always regarded the purple mountains in the distance as remote and desolate, populated by a race of strange barbarians. The Highland Clansmen were a different form of Scotchman than the Lowland gentry, the small-holders and sheep-farmers, the urban merchants and the poor of Edinburgh with whom they had become familiar. The Highlanders’ fierce loyalty to their Lords and lairds, and to the House of Stuart seemed old-fashioned, out of kilter with the enlightenment of the times. Besides, they spoke in a curious lingo of their own. For men like Overton who regarded the Republic as the greatest political achievement of his life-time, such a backward-looking peasantry was an anachronism, notwithstanding the valour with which they sold their lives. Doing away with them could be regarded as a public service. But these so-called barbarians had been stiffened by old cavalier troops, men brought from exile or out of hiding; men familiar with disciplined musket-firing. The prospect of dislodging such a force from a strong position with an escape route into the forbidding hills in their rear was enough to spoil even a hungry man’s appetite, particularly as Monck had settled on the only possible tactic: a frontal assault.

  Only Monck seemed cheerful.

  The encampment was early astir without the ceremony of trumpet-calls. Word passed from unit to unit and as the camp was dismantled the little Army formed-up in order of battle, partly concealed by a low mist than hung above a burn. At half past four they moved off, the guns going forward with Monck. When he was satisfied Monck called a halt, the guns were prepared and Monck rode forward, a handful of troopers close. Meanwhile the English Army opened its flanks athwart the cart-track and fronting the stone cottages and bothies from the roofs of which smoke had begun to rise.

  A sparking flash was followed by the low whine of a spent ball. ‘They’re nervous,’ Monck remarked, soothing his startled horse, ‘but they are awake.’ He wheeled about and as he regained the English line he ordered his cannon to open fire before riding along the two battalions of infantry spread out on either side. ‘Five rounds, my lads, then in you go!’

  The smoke from the guns hung heavy in the windless morning and under its cover, and that of the low mist, the infantry advanced across the uneven pasture that spread either side of the track. The left was slowed by boggy ground adjacent to the river; dragging the flank in echelon. Monck watched; there would be casualties, as was to be expected, but not many, he devoutly hoped.

  The defenders were well prepared and while the cannon shot clearly shook them, they met the advancing ranks of red-coated infantry with a witheringly effective fire. Monck watched as men fell, the line wavered, held and then brok
e and began to fall back.

  ‘Move the guns up!’ Monck ordered. Then he turned to Overton. ‘Only so far, Bob, but cover them with the Horse!’

  As the infantry turned about and began to fall-back, some running, they saw the heavy horses of the Ironside cavalry moving stolidly towards them at a walk and steadied. Overton halted his troopers at the extreme range of the defenders’ muskets and the officers of the galled infantry rallied and reformed them, turning them about as they reloaded their matchlocks and readied for a second assault. Monck noted the men’s responsiveness to their officers; they were galled, but discipline prevailed: they would do well enough.

  The shaken infantry were thrown back a second time, but Monck had brought up the guns even closer and, ordering them to fire three rounds of langridge, rode forward to meet the retiring soldiers.

  ‘On your bellies, men! Lie down upon your bellies!’ he roared, before falling back and joining Overton. With a clear field of fire in front of them, the artillery men resumed blasting the line of buildings as Monck reined in beside Overton’s curvetting horse. Behind him the troopers’ mounts were nervously jittering about owing to the close proximity of the noisy guns. ‘Do you take advantage of any chance that shows itself, Bob.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  As the sound of gunfire died away the infantry rose and stormed forward again. Their blood was up now and they reached the rebels’ outer defensive line along the dry-stone wall, clubbing their muskets and laying about them. But Glencairn had a surprise for the English and unleashed his Clansmen; even in the pallid daylight the flash of target and gleam of cold steel claymores could be seen. After a fierce struggle the English officers were ordering their men to retire again.

  The infantrymen faltered and fell back, others were disengaging and scrambling over the stone wall, the Clansmen at their heels. Monck, knowing the reputation of the Highlanders and half expecting such a trick, shouted to Overton. ‘Now, sir! Now! Ride ’em down!’