‘Let us hope so,’ snapped Anne, rising abruptly from the table and leaving the room followed by Dorothy Clarke.
‘Should we all prepare for The Tower?’ quipped Gumble. ‘His Excellency has already sent me to consult with Bishop Wren who is still a prisoner there as he was when the Lord-General was incarcerated therein.’
*
The Council of State kept Monck kicking his heels in an ante-room until after midnight when they peremptorily dismissed him, telling him to sleep at a private lodging they had reserved especially for him.
‘So, I am to be a prisoner, am I?’ he snarled at the clerk who brought him this humiliating news. ‘And that after saving their skins, too.’
‘That is not the situation at all, sir.’
‘That is how it looks to me, sir, and that is how it will look to my Army.’ He knew the veiled threat would get back to those who now moved against him. He did not know that a rumour that he had been taken to The Tower had already reached The Cockpit, along with the news that he was ‘detained on state business’. A thoroughly alarmed Anne had gone immediately to the Council Chamber and, although it was now one o’clock in the morning, had beaten upon its door. In despair she had returned to The Cockpit where, an hour later, Monck appeared and ordered them all to bed. His threat had at least secured his freedom for what remained of the night.
The following morning, Monck appeared before the Council of State where he was accused of plotting the restoration of the monarchy.
‘And upon what evidence do you thus charge me?’ he asked quietly.
‘We know this to be thy purpose.’
‘And have you heard this supposed purpose from mine own mouth, eh? Or is it from the lips of some bawd?’
There was a sniggering at this, and someone said, ‘it has been mentioned by thy wife…’
Monck disdained to respond to the insult to Anne, aware that he had exposed himself to it, true or not – and he suspected Anne’s imprudent conversation had been reported.
‘Besides, you refused the Oath of Abjuration…’
‘As did many of you,’ Monck quickly riposted, ‘and of you I entertain no suspicions of fostering the Royal cause. Why then should you think it of me? Neither I nor my officers have much truck with oaths…’
‘Yet you have in your train those well-known to espouse the cause of the House of Stuart.’
‘If by that you mean Sir Ewan Cameron of Lochiel, he marched with me as good faith for the quiescence of the Highlands, he had proved himself worthy of the trust I placed in him since he made his composition with me, and has governed his lands, aye, and that of others, to my entire satisfaction…’
‘He is no link to Argyll and your contact with the Marquess?’ He was asked.
‘Argyll? No, sirs, he is not!’
‘Then you submit to the orders of this Council absolutely?’ someone else quizzed.
‘Since the Parliament constituted you, yes, absolutely.’
‘And you are not in the pay of the City Corporation?’
‘No, I am not. My Army is paid from the revenues of Scotland until such moment as thou shoulder those responsibilities which my satisfaction to you lays upon you.’
‘Then we would have you remove the gates of the City from off their hinges and place guards about the place.’
Monck stared about him. The order was preposterous, an almost childish piece of coercion which was clearly intended to destroy any connection that might, or might not, exist between Monck and his Army, and the rich merchants of the Corporation of the City of London. These great aldermen, Monck now knew from Clarges, were the enemies of the miserable minority of the Rump and wanted a new, representative Parliament. Nor, it had been hinted to Monck, would they be reluctant to seeing the return of a King, as long as the younger Charles understood his place among them. The Council of State disdained to explain this turn of events to Monck, for disingenuous reasons of its own which Monck could see plainly enough.
‘Well?’
‘Since you command, I must obey,’ he said, an enigmatic smile on his face, making to withdraw and leaving the Council in some perplexity. Some among them had assured their fellows that Monck would refuse, thereby providing a pretext for his arrest. So over-joyed were they at his apparent capitulation that they sent a list of citizens whose arrest they required, including the Lord Mayor.
Monck returned to The Cockpit, told his household to remain where they were and sent word by Major Smith to beat to arms. Mounting his charger and escorted by his staff and a troop of his own Horse he rode directly to the Three Tuns tavern near the Guildhall, occupying it as a temporary headquarters. The Lord Mayor sent a protest immediately and Monck had him put under arrest, naming a dozen other prominent citizens and Aldermen to join him, as the Council of State desired. He then ordered his infantry to remove the City gates and portcullises.
This rapid succession of events utterly perplexed the citizens and his own soldiers in equal measure. Some of his men thought it a great joke while his officers considered their Commander-in-Chief’s submission to be political suicide, incomprehensible and stupid. Several said so and most of his senior officers begged him not to obey so ridiculous and calculated an order. The inscrutable Monck merely told his rebellious colonels and majors to stand aside, sending word for their juniors to carry out his orders.
‘This is taking obedience too far,’ remonstrated Clarke.
Monck looked at him in mock astonishment. ‘Can one take obedience too far, William?’ he asked. ‘Why, ’pon my soul, I had not thought it!’ he added with an edge of sarcasm to his voice.
Clarke looked shrewdly at his superior, suddenly convinced Old George was playing a game, but a game so dangerous that the slightest miscarriage would see him, and Clarke too, thrown into The Tower. Shortly afterwards a deputation of those Aldermen and Freemen that could be hurriedly assembled on behalf of the Corporation of the City of London waited upon Monck, expostulating about the actions of his men.
Monck received them with every courtesy explaining that he merely carried out the orders of the Council of State and that they should take their quarrel to the Council chamber. He believed, he told them, that he had been instructed to act in such a curious manner because the said Council had been informed that the Lord Mayor and the Corporation had recently received a communication from Charles Stuart brought by an emissary – he affected not to know who, though Tom Clarges had told him it was Lord Mordaunt – and had agreed to treat with the exiled Charles.
‘This,’ Clarke explained to Clarges afterwards, ‘took the wind out of the Aldermen’s sails. Then the General played his master-stroke. Whether he thought it up on the spur of the moment or had considered it for some time, I do not know, but as the delegates conferred amongst themselves, His Excellency remarked, somewhat casually I thought that, as the City had no member representing them in the Parliament, would they consider him worthy of representing them?’
‘Thus healing in an instant the breach the Council of State had so sedulously created,’ laughed Clarges admiringly. ‘And to think they call the old fellow a fool!’
Clarke grinned, then shook his head. ‘And so we traipsed back to Whitehall where, upon His Excellency reporting the willingness of the City to make its position clear and pleading the case that they could not be judged from rumour any more than he could himself, not having a Member in the Rump. He told them that the City Corporation wished for the Parliament to recall the excluded Members, as he did himself. The Council promptly stated they did not recognise the Common Council of the Corporation. The General was not merely to remove the gates from their hinges, he was to destroy them by burning.’
‘Is there to be no end to this farcical proceeding? Every move is intended to diminish the Lord-General’s authority and to entrench the oligarchy of the Rump.’ Clarges looked anxiously at Clarke. ‘But pray do go on, you have yet some hours’ events to relate.’
‘Indeed,’ said Clarke, resuming his narrative.
‘Back went we to the Three Tuns where Morley, Monck’s Governor of The Tower, arrived to suggest the City stood against Westminster, to the great approbation of the Corporation’s Aldermen. His Excellency would have none of it but simply told his officers to get on with the work of demolition, sending Morley back to The Tower with his compliments to Bishop Wren.’
‘Aye, we heard thus here,’ broke in Clarges. ‘Arthur Haselrig was so importunate as to cry with joy that with the General carrying out the Council of State’s orders to the letter that he and his party had George, body and soul! This is bad, very bad.’
‘’Twas worse for us, for this prompted everyone within the City Bar to rush to the Three Tuns and hector His Excellency with all manner of cajolings and insolences…’
‘How did he take it all?’
‘He knows well enough that it exasperates the City, but he sat upon his chair staring into the middle-distance chewing upon his quid of baccy, impervious to appeal or threat and, as he knew they would, his soldiers did as they were told. The work was all finished by three in the afternoon and, having posted sentinels, we all marched back to our quarters here. It has been a most extraordinary day.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In his chamber with the Mistress Anne…’
‘And she will be making him eat the humblest of all the pies he has had to digest this troublesome day.’ Clarges thought for a moment and then added, ‘come, Will, we must go to him…’
A few moments later they stood in Monck’s presence. He was in his shirt-sleeves, an old man sitting in a chair, his expressionless face turned away from them. They had heard Anne’s raised voice as they had approached; the consequent atmosphere in the room was as though choked by tobacco smoke.
‘Your Excellency,’ Clarges began.
Monck looked up at him and shook his head. ‘No more of that nonsense, Tom. What I was in Scotland I am not here. The Council of State will not even accord me my military rank, but now refers to me as a Commissioner.’ Monck gave a wan smile. Never had either William Clarke or Thomas Clarges seen him so worn out.
‘You have come to speak your mind, I know; you Clarges are good at it,’ Monck added with a hint of irony towards Anne. ‘Please, sit thee down, you too Will, and both of you say what you have to say.’
Clarges sighed, sat down and leaned forward. ‘George, George, this is no good. Your sense of honour has led you into a trap. No-one sees as far ahead as you, but you cannot reach the horizon if betwixt it and you lie snares a-plenty. The removal of the City gates, though you almost carried off a triumph by recovering the City’s good opinion, was an act which no conciliation can wipe away. You have humiliated the City and the shame of it will stick to you because they know the Council of State could not have done it without your troops. The action, once known, will turn every town and city against you, not to mention the sober gentry whose entry into Parliament you only so lately advocated.’
‘What would you have me do, then?’
‘Return at once to the City and declare for a new, free Parliament…’
‘Will?’ Monck asked for Clarke’s opinion.
‘Exactly that, sir. Such a declaration is consonant with your words to the Members of the Rump last Monday, it accords with most of what the Corporation wishes for…’
‘And makes no mention of any King.’ Monck completed the statement and Anne hissed her unasked for disapproval. Monck looked up at her and smiled. ‘Well, I have heard what you have to say and, while I acknowledge the wisdom of it, I cannot do it.’
‘For God in Heaven’s sake!’ Clarges was astonished and angry. ‘Why cling to your notions of honour and duty when they have humiliated you, tricked you, demoted you, insulted you? What do you await, the warrant that carries you off into The Tower?’
Monck’s head fell forward onto his breast and Clarke said to Clarges, ‘they cannot do that with any justification for His Excellency has obeyed all his orders.’ He turned to Monck. ‘You could resign, sir…’
‘No! He will not resign!’ Anne’s voice was shrill, her eyes ablaze. ‘He still commands a loyal Army…’ Her voice faltered; she had nothing more to offer. Now all three stood round Monck as he sat downcast in his chair. After a moment he bestirred himself and looked up at them.
‘Today is Friday,’ he said. ‘I will decide and give you my answer on Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday?’ burst out Clarges. ‘God’s bloody wounds, George! The news of your fall will be all over the country by then, the Army will have deserted you and none of us will be able to save you from yourself!’ With that, Clarges stormed from the room. After a moment’s hesitation Clarke shrugged and followed, leaving Anne, hands on hips, staring at Monck, before she burst into tears and fled after them.
Monck sat in the silence left behind, feeling the desertion keenly. All they said was true; he had been fooled, humiliated and was on the edge of ruin. The men he had served so honestly were unworthy of the honour, yet what was the alternative? What could he do that would not utterly compromise him? He had lied once before, lied to save Cromwell, protected and unsuspected by his honesty; he had treated with the enemy in Ireland to save a worse catastrophe, all actions dedicated to a higher purpose than the maintenance of his own reputation, but this was different. What hung upon the outcome now was something larger, something momentous, of an entirely different proportion: the entire peace of the Three Nations and the happiness and welfare of their peoples. Not one among the forty cavilling Members of the Rump had borne alone the burden of governance as he had done in Scotland, not one of them!
He fell to muttering his thoughts.
‘What was it Sir Thomas Moore was said to have uttered on the block?’ he asked himself in a low voice. ‘Put not thy trust in princes? Aye, that was it. And when the Princes are gone, put no trust in politicians. By God, Haselrig will be reviving Lambert’s fortunes… God knows what will become of the country under such self-seekers, for that is all their damnable republicanism is…’ He scratched his head. ‘I wish to God I had something of the fox in me…’
He had to admit to himself that he was out of his depth. He should have taken a warning when he had had to strike that officer on the southward march. He could not even recall the man’s name now, but the incident had shaken him, reminded him of the violence he had done to Nicholas Battyn in his youth, and repeated when he had struck the seaman Harris in Whitehall. The remark, offensive as it was, should have warned him he was heading for deeper waters than he could keep his head above – than any man could survive. The certainty that matters would play his way, that those contingent decisions of others upon which his own action might turn, would follow the logic with which Honest George Monck applied so successfully to his campaigning, had been an illusion born of the extremity of his encampment on the Tweed.
Plain George Monck had never anticipated accommodating the workings of serpents. Having eschewed faction and politics all his life, keeping the path of duty always, strictly, in the forefront of his thoughts, he now found himself enmeshed in intrigue and such short-sightedness as was beyond his comprehension. And, for the love of God, he had been in London but a bare week!
‘No wonder Oliver took power as Protector,’ he said to himself. ‘No wonder in the end even he dispensed with anything but a pretence at a Parliament… And no wonder Dick Cromwell threw it all away…’
Monck knew well that there were those who said that General Monck ‘carried the King in his belly’. The phrase had caught-on before he marched south and was thought to explain the reason for his decision to do so. It was complete nonsense, of course. He had said so often enough. And besides this reference to Charles Stuart, there were others who said that George Monck purposed the monarchy for himself. Did not his submission to the Rump disprove this? Besides, did not Cromwell’s succession prove that while a father might rule, a son might lack the ability? What would little Kit make of such a thing, even if his mother might desire it?
‘No, no,’ Monck mu
ttered to himself, as though articulating it brought it a step nearer. ‘A proper Parliament… a proper Parliament, is the only answer. One ruled by common sense, rigour and logic; one representative of the sober gentry of the shires and the mercantile classes, one dedicated to the peace, trade and welfare of the Three Nations…’
A child of his time, Monck sensed the immense possibilities; England had already planted colonies in the New World, the City’s merchants underwrote voyages of great hazard to the East Indies and if the Civil War had achieved anything it had demonstrated the talent and genius that lay within the English people. Beer brewer’s stokers, farmer’s boys and mere horse farriers had risen to command troops in the field ably enough to defeat the men who thought their ability to command part of their birth-right. Monck knew it required a professionalism born of experience coupled with a natural intelligence. It had come as a shock to some that intelligence lurked in the noddles of the labouring classes.
Monck’s train of miserable thought was broken into after about half an hour by the return of Clarges. Clarges brought with him Colonel Ralph Knight, Monck’s adjutant, Major Jeremiah Smith, Doctor Gumble and Doctor Barrow, in company with one or two other senior officers, including Colonel Herbert Morley, Monck’s appointee as Governor of The Tower.
‘Well?’ he growled at them all.
‘The City is in ferment, sir, all is in chaos.’ Clarges had calmed himself, regretting his earlier outburst. His companions nodded and muttered their confirmation. ‘Haselrig rouses Fleetwood and Lambert; there are orders out for troop movements against your forces. Parliament is entirely hostile to you. Ludlow, whose conduct you condemned as treasonable, sits in the Parliament House and vilifies you; ‘Praise-God’ Barebones rails there against you as the anti-Christ, claiming that you carry the King in your belly, reviving that old calumny to your discredit. Moreover, the Council of State has found a pretext for cashiering you…’
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 44