‘I do, Your Majesty. The Dutch have a fleet of at the very least seventy men-of-war in commission. If we do not have a fleet of similar size and weight to meet them at sea, then they possess the initiative. I need not spell out what that means in terms of time and place. All that needs be said is the decisions are all theirs.’
‘But our own ships will be safe, My Lord,’ York said with his light, dismissive air. ‘His Majesty and myself have twice inspected the works at Sheerness, at the Isle of Grain and find the works coming forward favourably –’
‘They are not yet complete?’ Monck’s tone was incredulous.
York shrugged, ‘They are nearly so. There is the matter of money…’
‘In the matter of money, Your Majesty,’ Monck said, ignoring the Duke and addressing the King, ‘I cannot conceive that the notoriously high expenses of fortifications and the long time in their erection, of which I have experience of several in Scotland, in any way compare with the ease and facility with which a fleet might be commissioned.’
‘What about men, Albemarle?’ Sandwich threw the question with offensive hostility. ‘You always complained that your own deficiencies rested upon a lack of good seamen.’
‘I did, My Lord Sandwich, I did, and to tell you the truth, I complained about my captains too. You should not wage war without resources – that much the lessons of the past teach us full well. But we are waging war and if we must round-up men and stop for a season every merchantman leaving the Thames, then let us be about it instantly! Better to lose one season’s trade than lose it forever. That is the Dutch objective!’ Monck glared about him and saw the King’s glance fail. ‘Without trade,’ he said pointedly in a moderate tone of voice, ‘Your Majesty will find the pleasures of your Crown difficult to fund.’
The silence that followed this truthful insolence was palpable but Monck had fixed his gaze upon the King and while he sensed the outrage of York and the devoted courtiers, he knew his shaft struck home.
The King removed his hat and smiled, his manner was easy and self-deprecatory. ‘Your concern in our cause does, Your Grace, great credit,’ he soothed, ‘as does the extremity of your anxiety, George. The matter is, perhaps, better left to younger men. I thank you for your counsel.’ He smiled before adding the barb: ‘you may take your leave.’
Monck stared round the table; no-one met his eyes. Then he rose unsteadily, made his bow and made to retire. As he did so his legs failed him and he almost stumbled.
‘Your Grace might benefit from your cane,’ remarked York archly.
‘’Twould come in handy to beat his wife,’ muttered Sandwich, sotto voce.
‘I hope that is the last we see of him,’ remarked the Duke of York to the King who made a sad moué with his mouth before laughing and setting his thin moustache to an amused twitching.
‘Perhaps, brother, perhaps.’
Monck was seated with Anne when Morice called upon them later than evening, his face grey with worry.
‘Come, Will, a glass of wine. Why so downcast?’
‘Surely Your Grace does not need me as an intelligencer upon this occasion,’ Morice remarked flatly.
‘Ahh, so you fear The Tower for waiting upon me here in The Cockpit, eh?’
‘’Tis no matter for jest…’
‘Do you know, Will, I have laboured hard in the King’s service. Done my utmost, one might say if one had any charity in one’s heart, but I find so great an offence in the King wearing his crown with such a lightness, such an indifference, that a breeze might blow it off at any time.’
‘I think he expects it to and he would rather be in bed with a whore when the breeze finds him, but that dost not make him less dangerous, as the Regicides discovered.’
‘So High Treason is to be the charge, is it? Is that what you come to warm me of?’
‘What is all this?’ Anne suddenly demanded, fearful of the words ‘High Treason’.
‘Nothing, Anne, nothing other than that I do not agree with the King’s policy and fear a Dutch descent upon the Thames, Harwich, Yarmouth perhaps even the Humber.’ Monck sighed. ‘You come to tell me to retire, to go down into Devon, eh?’
‘Go at least to New Hall.’
‘Not Devon? Why so?’
‘I cannot dissemble, George. I fear you are right in your conjecture,’ Morice spoke with a desperate sincerity. ‘I fear also that His Majesty will have need of you yet. Arlington thinks so.’
‘God bless Arlington for a man of sense. There is nothing I shall be able to do if the King pursues this folly.’
‘That will not prevent him from calling for you, and you must answer, George, you must answer.’ Morice fell silent and Anne looked from one to the other uncertain of all that this intense exchange implied. Monck stared thoughtfully into the middle distance and Morice was about to reopen his remonstrance when Monck spoke, his voice low, his tone light.
‘There is planting to be done at New Hall, Anne. We have not been there in some time, let us go tomorrow… Yes, yes, I should like that. And they tell me the duck on the Blackwater are plentiful at this season, and there will be herons on the saltings… Why would one not to go to Essex?’ He looked up at Morice. ‘I thank you, Will. At least in Essex they cannot disparage one’s wife.’
‘You heard Sandwich then?’ Morice shot a glance at Anne, who had opened her mouth to speak.
‘I am deaf, Will. I carry in my head the concussion of a thousand guns and a hundred fights, but I can hear a man when he disparages a lady.’
‘What…? Anne began, but Monck held up his hand.
‘Time enough when we retire to bed, my dear; then I shall tell you of all the day’s events and of how Old George finally took his departure from the King’s service.
CHAPTER NINE – CHATHAM
June 1667
Monck gazed from the stone-mullioned window out over the park at New Hall. He did not like the place, it reminding him in its grandeur of Dalkeith. He found the comparison painful. Little George had died in Dalkeith but Monck had there held a great office and held it with some success and no little distinction. Monck had no sense of history, only a strong and faithful obligation to his duty; despite its difficulties, his Governorship of Scotland had best satisfied his ambition, containing as it did both soldiering and administration. No man could ask for a better life than to have accomplished something in both fields.
He looked down at the letter. It had arrived the previous evening and informed him of the death of Bishop Matthew Wren at Ely House on 24th April. The news was already a month old, an aside from Tom Clarges who had picked it up and thought Monck would wish to know. And what of Wren’s life, Monck pondered? For Wren, holding firm to his duty had meant near a score of years in The Tower, but to what real purpose? Those years of God-given life had proved fruitless and idle, for Monck was too humble a soul to consider Wren’s life fulfilled – according to the Bishop’s lights – in the triumph of General Monck’s Restoration of the House of Stuart to the English throne. If Wren had thought the course of action a Divine measure, General Monck himself saw it merely as something pragmatic.
At New Hall that summer morning, Monck was apt to consider it the best of a bad bargain. If Charles did not lose his throne for his corruption and frivolity, and if he did not get a legitimate heir, poxed-monster or not, his less than bright Royal Brother would find it hard to keep his arse upon the velvet cushion. There were yet many brewings in the Kingdom, both religious and political, for the Good Old Cause was not yet entirely extinct and the Stuarts never understood the common mood. Rumours of James and his Roman Catholicism would soon crystallise and would, if they proved true, provoke civil war.
‘What brood you had me restore,’ he murmured to the letter. ‘Better we had crowned Oliver… Better perhaps that I had… But no…’ he turned and looked at his still sleeping wife. Anne, God bless her, might make a Duchess, but a Queen…? Monck bethought himself of Troutbeck’s revelations and the King’s slanders. He cast the though
t aside; perhaps there was something to the notion of election if one found the right man. ‘But there’s the rub…’
Behind him Anne stirred. ‘George?’
‘I am here, my love.’
‘I was dreaming of Dalkeith, and of walking with little George…’ She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then asked, ‘did he walk while he lived or did I just dream it? Oh, God, I cannot remember! What did he look like, George? What did he look like? I cannot remember his little face. Oh, George, George…’
He was beside her in an instant, cradling her in his arms and soothing her. ‘You have been dreaming, dreaming… It disturbs the mind. He was toddling, dearest, toddling beside his nurse and used to amuse Her Grace the Duchess of Buccleuch.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she brightened. ‘I remember now. Of course. How silly of me to forget. And he helped you plant some apricot saplings.’
‘Which died at the first frost despite all the care I took of them.’
They laughed together until Anne said sadly, ‘that was all a long time ago.’
‘Aye.’
They fell silent and then Anne said, ‘When you die, George, I shall not live long afterwards.’
‘Don’t talk so. Besides, the matter is not in your hands and do not make it so for ’twould be a mortal sin and you could not then lie next to me after death.’
Anne smiled ruefully. ‘No, no, I shall not do anything so foolish. It is just that I shall have no reason to live and there are those like My Lord Sandwich who would not throw me a crust of bread…’
‘You do not need Lord Sandwich’s charity, nor any man’s, not even the King’s. You are provided for and Kit will see thee safe.’
‘He worries me.’
‘He must be married and you must cease worrying.’
‘You speak too glibly.’
‘I do,’ he responded mockingly, ‘and you too sharply. But if I can put a King upon his throne, I can certainly find a wife for my son.’
‘You can? Whom do you have in mind?’
‘No-one at the present moment, but something will come to mind.’
‘Even if the House of Albemarle is in disgrace?’
‘Which it is not, so hold thy waspish tongue!’ He let her go and rose, stretching. ‘By God, this country air is good for a night’s sleep!’
*
The first intimation of the Dutch was the distant concussion of guns. He was out with his own fire-lock when the sound of thunder came to him on a clear summer morning in early June and he knew instantly that his worst fears had come to fruition. Hurrying back to the great house as best his poor legs would take him, he bellowed for the carriage to be made ready within the hour, then hauled himself upstairs to see Anne. She was already about, though all unsuspecting of the alarm that burst from her husband.
‘I am for London without delay. Come on after me if thou wilt, though I think it better that you stay here. If this affair miscarries, as I am afeard it surely will, the King will not long survive.’
Anne’s hand went to her mouth, for the impact of her husband’s words was too terrible to contemplate. Should the King fall and civil strife ensue she, her husband and their son would fall victim to the fanatics. Such an awesome horror, brought on by Monck’s astute – at least in the admiring eyes of his wife – judgement, was overwhelmingly convincing. As for Monck, gone for the moment were the incapacities of old age. He ran roaring through New Hall with orders to his man-servant to throw such effects that were necessary for campaigning into his portmanteaux, to his groom to ready two chargers and put them on a leading rein behind the coach, to his coachman to put-to the six best carriage horses in the shafts, and to his butler to throw in wine, meat, bread and cheese. He himself dashed to his chamber and threw open his closet, rapidly dressing himself in the old attire: the buff coat, the worn, leather-line riding breeches, the battered and be-feathered hat. As he scrambled into the laden coach, his red-orange sash trailing behind him in the gravel, cuirass, baldric and sword were tossed in after him. Anne, uncharacteristically dumb-struck, watched this tragi-comic departure, shaken by great tearless sobs. Beside her, Kit stared uncomprehending between his heaving mother and his ridiculous, bellowing and fat father. On a moment of inspiration the boy tore free of Anne’s restraining arm and rushed back into the entrance-hall. Plucking his father’s cane from its place beside the door, he ran back outside just as the coachman cracked the reins.
‘Father! Father!’
Monck’s red and sweating face appeared at the window. The lad ran alongside the accelerating coach, holding out the heavy cane.
‘Thank you, my boy, thank you.’ Monck seized the stick, waved it and withdrew inside the coach, his last words to ‘look after your mother’ all but lost in the dust and the noise of the iron-tyred wheels and the thunder of the horses’ hooves upon the gravel. Kit stood back as Monck’s two great chargers on their long reins were drawn off in his wake, then stood watching enviously as the coach rumbled down the drive.
‘Thus doth the Lord-General go to war,’ the young Monck murmured to himself, touched by the import of the occasion. Slowly he turned back to the house. The servants had gone inside and only his mother stood, seemingly dumbstruck, her wet eyes still fastened on the cloud of dust that marked Monck’s progress towards London.
‘Mother?’
Anne shook her head and stared at her son. ‘We may all be undone yet,’ she said, voicing her fears, ‘and lose everything.’
‘What is amiss, mother? I do not rightly understand –’
Anne put a finger to her lips. ‘Shh… Listen.’
And then, for the first time, Kit Monck heard the distant gunfire.
*
‘There must have been an hundred coaches on the road, all streaming out of London, filled with gallants going into Essex to debauch the country-women as soon as face the Dutch.’ Monck tore off his hat and flung it down upon the table on top of his cane with such a clatter that the papers before Clarendon fluttered in the disturbed air. ‘Well, Sire, I am here as Thou commanded.’ Monck’s face was sour, the phrase ‘I told you so’ writ large across his deeply lined face. He had met the King’s messenger on the road at Ingatestone and refused to stop his coach, obliging the young cavalier to canter alongside and pass the King’s letter through the open window, in some danger from the spinning coach-wheels. He had not stopped at The Cockpit either, though the desire to piss was strong, but had rushed at once to the Royal Apartments, invoking his right to intrude upon the King at any chosen time.
Charles had risen at his entry.
‘I am right glad to see you, My Lord Duke…’ There was contrition, fear even, written across the King’s face. Monck saw something of the private man, the softness that played him so well as a seducer of biddable women. Not for the first time, Monck thought the absence of this quality did a man no favours in the pursuit of the weaker sex, but the reflective moment passed; so be it. He had his Anne and was content, whatever the King thought of her. Now there were matters of far greater importance to consider, though the insight told him he could command the King in all things except the lack of money. Charles sat and motioned Clarendon and Monck to their chairs.
‘Well, Sire, what measures have been taken?’ Monck asked. He remained standing and his tone of voice was that of utter exasperation. Clarendon winced with shock and quietly drew in his breath. The Lord-General might have been demanding why one of his subordinate Brigadiers had not deployed his battalions as ordered.
‘My brother has gone towards Tilbury and Gravesend to secure the batteries…’ The King’s voice faltered.
‘Which, Sire, which? They are on opposite sides of the river. If the Dutch already command Gravesend Reach, twin objectives are rendered impossible!’
‘To Tilbury, I think, but he did proceed direct by boat, the tide being on the ebb.’ The King sought to advertise some of his nautical knowledge. Proceeding directly down the Thames by boat did, at least, show some initiative.
Monck nodded. ‘That is good, but what do we know for certain of the Dutch?’
‘Their fleet is off the Nore and said to be large. Over seventy men-of-war have been counted from the Essex shore,’ put in Clarendon.
‘Seventy, Your Grace,’ added the King by way of emphasis.
‘Did you not expect such a number, Your Majesty, when you devised your forts and your booms? What state is the fort at Sheerness?’
An eloquent silence fell, all the evidence that Monck required to know that the condition of the defences was inadequate.
‘God’s blood, but you think I can make all well by calling me to London? Eh?’ Monck ground his teeth. ‘I did not help Your Majesty to the throne nor venture my body in battle to find my country circumstanced thus!’ he growled. Clarendon’s indraught of breath was this time quite audible.
Monck looked up at the Earl. ‘Brook me not, My Lord. I lost Will Clarke in June and grieve him still, Sir Kit Myngs was among those lost in the most recent action, besides the services of Sir George Ayscue. In two actions we lost ten thousand men, for which I carry much of the blame. Do not suck in your breath when you confront the truth, sir! I spoke truth to the King’s Royal Father and he disdained it. The country thereafter endured years of civil strife that might have been prevented. No man shall say that I promote war for mine own gain –’
‘George, I…’ The King interrupted, but Monck waved him to silence.
‘Now sir. To business. We must do what we can,’ he said, seating himself and brushing his hand across his perspiring forehead. Then he turned to Clarendon, his tone brisk and business-like, his anger burnt-out. ‘My Lord, I am sorry to speak to you thus but the country is not well-governed by avoiding the truth. Now, My Lord, would you do me the courtesy of passing word to call out my Guards and order them to march at once towards Chatham.’
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 60