Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck

by Richard Woodman

  ‘They are those threatened by the enemy’s fire-ships,’ Kempthrone remarked.

  ‘I care not if they feel threatened by the devil himself, they have no business falling out of line contrary to my orders unless they are set ablaze, God damn them.’

  Kempthorne glanced at Monck and saw he was furious. He too stared along the line and was compelled to agree the loss of cohesion might prove fatal. By the early evening the English fleet had been reduced to half its initial strength, most of the damaged ships having extricated themselves from the line-of-battle. The breeze, which had lain in the east all that day, remained steady but, during this long engagement, the ceaseless manoeuvring and the contrary flood and ebb of the tides had all but destroyed the reckoning of the fleet’s masters so that their position was unknown in any detail. Monck ordered the lowering of the great flag for close-action to be replaced by the signal for a disengagement, sending officers in two boats to gather around him the fifteen most effective ships, drawing them out in line abreast under easy sail while he allowed the rest of the fleet to escape to the westwards, towards the safe-haven of Harwich Harbour and the Thames Estuary.

  Silhouetted against the westering sun, the retreating English made a fine target for the triumphantly following Dutch, but Monck’s retreat was masterly, matching De Ruyter’s earlier enterprise, for the enemy gained no advantage and, while they kept the field as a hallmark of their victory, they were largely frustrated in their pursuit.

  But fate left them one prize. It was unsurprising in the circumstances that one ship should run aground, though the Royal Charles briefly touched the same bank before she sheered off. Unfortunately Sir George Ayscue’s Royal Prince drove hard upon the Galloper Shoal and Monck, mindful of covering the bulk of his fleet, was compelled to leave her to her fate. De Ruyter sent in fire-ships and before the retreating English had lost sight of her they watched as she struck her colours to the enemy. Now, as the remaining serviceable ships under Monck sent in their reports by boat, the news of disaffection, especially aboard Ayscue’s flag-ship, was brought to Monck’s notice. He interviewed her lieutenant who had been sent after the Commander-in-Chief by Ayscue himself.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sir George presents his compliments, Your Grace, and charged me with telling you that there is great disaffection aboard his flag-ship and he fears the worst if the fire-ships reach him. They were but eight or nine cables distant when I got away…’

  Monck stared hard at the nervous young man. He had blood on his hand and in his hair, his hat was missing. His dishevelment was common to them all after so long an action.

  ‘And your own opinion, sir?’

  The poor fellow swallowed hard; he looked exhausted but he stood his ground. ‘She has too many old republicans among her company, Your Grace. They have been an ungovernable mob at times.’

  ‘Well, you had better stay, sir, and tell your boat’s crew that if they wish to join the Dutch republic they may return to their ship, otherwise we could use good seamen here.’

  Monck turned away. This was the culmination of a weakness in the English fleet that he did not like to see. Monck dismissed the whole matter. There would be time to discover more later; for the time being he must enquire after the state of poor Will Clarke. Just as he sent word below for news, shouts came from aloft: sails were in sight to the southward. It was either the French or Rupert.

  Monck ordered an interception, and the last fifteen of the ships under his direct control wore round to stand south to meet the strangers. Far astern of them they could see the bright spot of leaping colour where De Ruyter’s men had set fire to the Royal Prince and long after the flickering flames had dropped over the horizon, the pall of smoke marred the horizon before it too was engulfed by the encroaching night.

  But by this time Monck had made his rendezvous with Rupert and had boarded his flag-ship, the 82-gun Royal James. The sun had then not yet set, though the evening was far advanced and Monck found Rupert at table, being waved to a seat with a glass of wine set before him. Ravenous after his exertions Monck fell upon the meat, tossed off the wine and urged Rupert to assist him in renewing the battle.

  ‘They have worsted us, Your Highness, and done great damage such that I have lost for the moment two-thirds of my fleet. Not all those in command did my bidding, but by God we are not beaten even though they think we are. I have sent the damaged ships into Harwich but with yours to reinforce us, we might yet force a favourable issue.’

  ‘I admire Your Grace’s sanguinary mood and marvel at it, but d’you think that we advance the King’s cause by wrecking the fleet?’

  ‘If we wreck the enemy’s fleet, we shall have nothing further to fear from them!’ Monck said while choler, the meat and wine having warmed him to his task. Rupert, his glass poised, regarded the older man for a long, contemplative moment. Then he lowered his wine, wiped his mouth and nodded. ‘Very well, George,’ he said, his voice low, his tone confidential. ‘I’ll join you.’

  Monck rose, throwing aside his own napkin. He shook Rupert’s hand. ‘Keep in line, Your Highness. Keep in line,’ Monck said, smiling. ‘And now for some sleep,’ he added, striding out onto the quarterdeck calling for his boat.

  The following morning the wind had shifted back into the south-west quarter again and the combined force of Monck’s and Rupert’s ships now numbered three score, only four fewer than the Dutch. During the night prodigious efforts to get their ships in fighting trim had been made by the toiling crews. Even the most battered man-of-war still in company with Monck was capable of re-engaging and, by eight of the clock, the action was renewed, the English fleet making five passes in line before the formations broke up into a general mêlée. The effect of this last day’s engagement was to rob the Dutch of some of their triumph, for although the English losses of ten ships burnt or captured along with eight thousand men killed, wounded or taken prisoner was far greater than the damage inflicted on the Dutch, both sides were shattered and, in Rupert’s telling phrase, ‘almost beaten into pieces’. As the afternoon drew on the wind began to falter and a summer fog settled over the sea. The two fleets drew apart; they would not renew the action; the Four Days’ Battle was over.

  We have, Monck wrote to Ann from Harwich, been Beaten by the Dutch, but not without Honour, though I confess the matter myself and owe much of this Redemption to His Highness and the timely arrival of His ships from the Channel. But this is set at nought by the sad news that Wm Clarke is dead, he being mortally wounded by Having his Leg shot off his body in the second of the four days in which we were engaged. I am, thank God, unscathed, but poor Will lies in the churchyard of St Nicholas at Harwich and I must write to his Widow, the fact making this letter too short, my own heart being too full at this time of writing…

  But Dorothy Clarke was not the only person to whom Monck wrote from Harwich. He wrote also to James, Duke of York, in his capacity as Lord High Admiral, the substance of which set out in plain language the situation of the English fleet.

  …I have sent those ships most damaged and unable to make good their own repairs into Harwich and the Medway for Chatham. I do urge Your Highness to send word to the Dockyards for the most Expeditious rendering of every assistance to those ships-of-war which may be made ready for an immediate renewal of Hostilities. We have lost by burning or surrender Ten ships, including the “Swiftsure,” the “Seven Oaks,” the “Loyal George,” and the “Royal Prince”, besides some Great losses among our People the Computation of which I am as yet uncertain, having my Secretary, Sir William Clarke, removed from a mortal wounding. My Flag Captain, Sir John Kempthorne is also wounded, so severely at the end of the Action that he must needs go upon the Shore.

  For the most part the Fleet under my Command carried itself Properly during Four Days of Constant Exertion and the timely arrival of His Highness’s squadron, from which we should Never have been separated, enabled us to leave the Dutch with some consideration of our power in spite of our Great, Grave and Gri
evous Losses. These need not, however, have been so Great had there not been a Falling off in the Temper of some Five Captains who failed to Act with the Zeal expected of them in the King’s Service and Acted Contrary to my most Express Orders and Instructions to maintain the Line-of-Battle. Their Fear of the Effects of the Dutch fire-ships was such that they removed their ships from the said Line-of-Battle and in so doing, enabled the Enemy to exploit the Intervals. Their names are appended, but I have seen fit to dismiss them forthwith, conditional only upon Your Highness’s Endorsement of My Action in which I am confident Your Highness will not disappoint this my Application for fear of too much damaging His Majesty’s Service…

  *

  Monck made his bow, straightening up to see the King motion him to an empty seat. Charles sat, uncovered, at the table with a palpably reluctant air, kept at affairs of state by Clarendon who sat, surrounded by papers, wearing an air of somewhat exasperated importance. The Duke of York lounged in a window-seat and examined his nails. The light falling sideways across his face showed Monck something of a sneer most of the House of Stuart concealed by their otherwise good looks. It was an unfortunate insight, he thought to himself as he settled in his chair. Rupert was not in attendance which, as far as Monck was concerned, was a pity.

  ‘Well, My Lord, it seems the Dutch have mastered you at last.’ The King’s tone was light, almost unconcerned. Out of the corner of his eye Monck saw York stir, distracted from his finger-nails by the prospect of the fall of the Duke of Albemarle. Affronted that the King held the lives of eight thousand of his subjects so lightly, Monck simmered, but he would not have been averse to dismissal. The prospect of retirement to Potheridge gleamed like the Holy Grail of his wildest imagination: Potheridge and its rebuilding, Potheridge with Anne and Kit, Potheridge alongside the Torridge in its wooded banks, some fishing for trout and some shooting…

  ‘We suffered a drubbing, Your Majesty, that I cannot deny but, in the main and, with some few exceptions as I have stated to Your Royal Brother, our fleet stood the assault manfully since we were out-numbered at the start.’ Monck left the accusation unspecified, the fatal fact of the division of the fleet having been made by the three other men in the room.

  A heavy silence followed Monck’s bald response, then York asked what Monck proposed. Monck rallied; though he would have accepted dismissal readily enough, he had not come to resign his command. It would throw a bone down for his enemies to chew with relish, but for himself he no longer cared. He was himself weary and the death of Will Clarke had robbed him of the one prop that was capable of maintaining his zeal for the King’s service.

  ‘The fleet is refitting,’ he summarised, ‘the greater part of the ships now being in the Medway at Chatham or Sheerness. Some others have been sent to Woolwich and Deptford, with five lesser vessels at the Navy-yard at Harwich. Every Captain has been charged with refitting diligently and as expeditiously as may be. The season is not yet over and, providing sufficient powder and shot, along with victuals, chiefly biscuit, may be made available, I am informed that the deficiencies of the ships may be rectified from what now lies in the dockyards. You have Master Pepys to thank for that.’

  The King suppressed an elegant yawn and reached for his hat, at which a disappointed Monck sighed audibly before addressing the nub of the morning’s audience.

  ‘As for the command of the fleet…’ He got no further. The King slapped his hand decisively on the table and rose, Monck and Clarendon jumping to their feet and York sliding off his perch.

  ‘As for the command of the fleet, My Lord Duke, it shall remain your own responsibility jointly with His Highness Prince Rupert. Kindly concert your arrangements with him and when you have fought a further engagement as I see you purpose to do, we may enquire into the fleet’s conduct upon this occasion, and that of its commander. Perhaps, My Lord Duke, you may come out of your next encounter with more laurels than your last.’

  And, with that, the King swept from the room, followed closely by the Duke of York. As Monck and Clarendon straightened up from their bow their eyes met.

  ‘Not for the first time I hear hounds baying for my blood,’ Monck remarked.

  Clarendon shrugged. ‘We are all meat for someone, Your Grace. It was unfortunate that the fleet was divided.’

  ‘’Twas more than unfortunate, My Lord. ’Twas damn near disastrous.’

  ‘I think you should take comfort from the fact that the Lord High Admiral made no objection to your cashiering the five captains –’

  ‘Huh!’ interrupted Monck, dissembling vigorously. ‘Would that he had. ’Twould have afforded me pretext for resigning.’

  ‘No, no, Your Grace!’ There was genuine alarm in Clarendon’s tone. ‘Your resignation would serve no purpose. Besides, Prince Rupert spoke warmly in your favour. The King is your friend, sir, and well knows the debt he owes you, and His Majesty…’ Clarendon faltered for a moment, then added, ‘is easily distracted.’

  ‘Come, My Lord, you mean he is exhausted. He should go to bed to sleep not fornicate. Someone should remonstrate with him for, God knows, His Majesty’s fortunes rest upon a thin enough foundation.’

  ‘I have tried remonstrating, George,’ Clarendon admitted confidentially. ‘He doth not listen and it is making me unpopular.’

  ‘Well that is to your credit, Ned,’ Monck admitted. ‘But this war with the Dutch is damaging our prosperity and the City will not forgive His Majesty if the enemy carry off all the trade of the world under our noses. That will be our defeat and a more consequential loss than ten ships-of-war and even eight thousand wretched fellows so lately lost to us.’

  ‘And you think a further trial of strength with De Ruyter might wrest all the advantage to us?’

  ‘It is our best and our only chance to bring this disastrous war to a conclusion, Ned,’ Monck retorted sharply, picking up his hat and taking his farewell of the King’s Minister.

  *

  ‘You have seen Dorothy?’ Anne asked gently. She regarded her husband with concern as he stood momentarily before seating himself at the head of the table. Besides the deep lines of age and experience that bit into his features, and the shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes, he had grown abominably gross, so-much-so that the faithful Gumble had remarked upon it, regretting that he had not accompanied His Grace to sea on account of his own ‘languishing sickness,’ but remarking that the interval of absence had provoked a marked difference in his master. Thomas Gumble was of the private opinion that Monck’s dropsy was inveterate and that his wheezing asthma might prove fatal. Anne’s sharp eye flickered to Gumble, who had, like the rest of the company assembled in The Cockpit for dinner, half risen as the great man – her great man – took his seat.

  The carver creaked as Monck, groaning himself, subsided into it and Gumble, the Morices and the Clarges, both Masters and Mistresses, drew their chairs up to the board.

  ‘Aye, I have waited upon Dorothy. She is seeking some consolation from Doctor Barrow.’

  ‘Was his end...?’ Gumble began uncertainly.

  ‘His soul was shriven before he departed this life,’ Monck reassured Gumble, who felt his absence from Monck’s side all the more acutely now both the opportunity and the danger had passed. He had not yet realised His Grace intended returning to sea almost immediately.

  ‘What happened?’ Clarges asked bluntly.

  ‘You want that I should recount it?’ Monck asked, looking in turn at the ladies.

  ‘We all knew him so well, Your Grace,’ Mistress Morice remarked.

  Monck laid down his cutlery and leaned back, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. ‘’Twas a hard fought action that lasted in all four whole days, during the greater part of which we were embattled with the Dutch. They press a hard action and on the second day, standing by my side upon the deck of the Royal Charles – that was lately the Naseby,’ he added in parenthesis for the benefit of Morice and Clarges, ‘a round-shot came inboard and struck poor Will’s right leg at the knee…
’ A horrified murmur went round the table, Mistress Morice burying her face in her hands. ‘’Twas shattered, of course, and Will was taken below where, in due course, the surgeons took it off.’ Monck paused, then added, ‘I saw him later that day, after nightfall when I could leave the deck. He had taken a fever and lay delirious. The surgeons assured me he would live, but that is their practice for they must persuade themselves that what they do is for the good, but…’ Monck sighed. ‘He lingered two days and died upon the 4th. We were soon afterwards anchored on the Shelf off Harwich and I accompanied him ashore. He was laid to rest within the parish church, that of St Nicholas. I miss him as a friend, though Matthew Lock has assumed the office of my Secretary.’

  ‘You rode him hard, George,’ Anne said critically, drawing looks from her guests. Monck accepted her admonishment. ‘He was near-blind from your ceaseless dictating.’

  Monk nodded. ‘Yes, he was, but I did not ask him to accompany me to sea. On the contrary, he insisted upon it.’

  The distress being caused by the turn the discourse had taken woke Gumble to his professional concerns. ‘You have the power to instil in those about you a strong sense of duty, Your Grace,’ he offered soothingly.

  ‘Have I?’ Monck retorted. ‘I think not, Doctor. Will Clarke was his own man enough to see where his duty lay without my influence.’

  But the eulogising Gumble could not abandon his flattery for, though of a different character than Anne’s, his own belief in Monck’s inherent greatness ran strong in him.

  ‘Your Grace has a great and subtle influence that binds people to your service.’

  ‘That is true, Doctor,’ put in Clarges, temporising and aware that Gumble’s panegyric had overrun its course. ‘We are all, equally, His Grace’s servants.’