THE KING'S COMMISSION
As early as April Ormonde had received secret instructions which
can have left him in no doubt as to the real meaning of the King's
anxiety for the success of the negotiations. No sooner was the matter
settled than the Lieutenant-General busied himself in carrying out his
master's orders. Every man that could be spared was to be sent to the
assistance of the King against the Scots, and the greatest care was to
be exercised that they sailed under commanders who could be trusted.
Meanwhile, in face of the catastrophe they had so long apprehended,
the parliamentary agents were not idle. They promised the troops full
discharge of arrears and every other inducement to enter their service,
and with such success that Ormonde considered it necessary to take the
precaution of demanding the signature of a "protestation" from the
officers who were to go to England. To his intense disgust Monk was
called upon to formally pledge himself to be true to the flag under
which he was about to serve. That he had any serious objection to the
royal cause is hardly probable. His friends, Lord Lisle and Algernon
Sidney, were not in Dublin to influence him. Monk, with the rest of
the officers, must have long lost faith in parliamentary promises of
pay; and, moreover, through the Commons' antipathy to martial law,
there had been trouble in Ireland of the same nature as that which led
to his leaving the Dutch service. Then the prospect of coming to blows
with the Scots, before whom he had been disgraced, had irresistible
attractions for him. Morally there was nothing to prevent him entering
the royal service. Although paid by the Parliament it was the King's
commission he held. But to be asked to pledge himself to the politics
of those for whom he fought was in his eyes a monstrous proposal,
while to be called on to swear fidelity to the man whose commission he
held was an insult. Rigid even to pedantry in his notions of military
honour, he did not know what it was to swerve a hair's-breadth from the
duty of his place. Through jealousy and disappointment, through every
danger and temptation, he had been true to Ormonde, and now his reward
was to be suspected of being able to forget what was due to himself as
a soldier. It was more than he could tamely endure. Ormonde presented
the protestation, and Monk flatly refused either to sign or swear,
nor did he scruple to say plainly what he thought of it. Only one man
had the spirit or honesty to follow his example, and that was Colonel
Lawrence Crawford, the sturdy Scot whose bigotry would not now permit
him to draw sword against the Covenant, and was ere long to bring down
upon him the merciless resentment of Cromwell.
Monk was deprived of his regiment, and Warren reluctantly accepted the
command. Ormonde could do no less, but so great was his respect for
Monk's character and capacity that he took no further step. Monk was
simply granted leave to go home, and there the matter might have rested
but for the injudicious conduct of his sanguine young admirer, Lord
Lisle. The Parliament was about to send reinforcements into Ulster,
and the choice of a commander lay between the Scotchman Munroe and
Lisle. Munroe's recommendation was his influence with the old Scotch
colonists, while Lisle claimed that he could command the services of
Monk, and through him half Ormonde's army. Lord Digby, the King's
Secretary of State, although his good opinion of Monk was unshaken by
the rumours he heard, still took the precaution of warning Ormonde,
and writing in the King's name a very flattering letter to the colonel
himself. So far all was well. His spotless integrity was enough to
lift him above every suspicion. Ormonde seems still to have had enough
confidence in him to allow him to sail with the troops to Chester, when
somehow he got to know that a special messenger from Pym himself had
arrived in Dublin to urge Monk to prevent the troops joining the King.
It now was impossible for Ormonde to ignore the danger of the injured
colonel's power for evil so long as he remained with the army, and he
felt it his duty to send him to Bristol under arrest. Instructions went
with him that he should be confined till further orders from Oxford,
whither the Lieutenant-General sent a report of the step he had taken.
"In the meantime," he says in his letter to Sir Francis Hawley, the
governor of Bristol, "I must assure you that Colonel Monk is a person
very well deserved of this kingdom, and that there is no unworthy thing
laid to his charge, therefore I desire you to use him with all possible
civility."
Hawley, who was one of Monk's innumerable kinsmen, interpreted his
instructions so widely as to release the colonel on parole at once,
indignant, as it seems, that a man of such distinguished service should
be treated so shabbily. But his responsibility was not to last long.
Digby showed Ormonde's despatch to the King, who decided at once that
Monk was a man worth the trial to gain, and he was sent for to Oxford.
Lord Digby had ready for the injured soldier a most flattering
reception. "Honest George" was but a child in the hands of such a man.
The brilliant Secretary of State was irresistible with his polished
wit, his scholarly discourse, and great personal charm. It was he who
had provided Charles with his most trusted counsellors. It was he who
had beguiled Sir John Hotham into betraying his trust at Hull. He had
even a personal experience of ratting himself, and easily persuaded the
colonel to give him his company to Christchurch, where the King lodged.
The inevitable result ensued. No one had in a greater degree the trick
of attaching such men to him than Charles. No one had a keener eye for
a weakness to be played upon. He was taking the air in the gardens of
the College when the two visitors arrived, and we can see them even
now as they meet amidst the trim lawns. The artful secretary making
his presentation in a few flattering words that say everything to the
King: the stalwart soldier saluting somewhat abruptly with a frank
honest stare; and Charles with his careworn smile saying something that
brings a flush to the handsome face he scrutinises. We can hear him
speak of the daring journey to Rhé, of the breach at Breda, of the
guns at Newburn, and of all that has since been done in Ireland. He is
glad also to have so great an authority on military science in Oxford,
as he wants some confidential advice on the prosecution of the war. We
can see the look of half-amused surprise as honest George "deals very
frankly with his Majesty," and tells him his army is only a rabble
of gentility, whose courage and high birth are worthless beside the
growing discipline that Fairfax and Skippon and Cromwell are teaching
his enemies. Let the King cut down his numbers to ten thousand men,
properly organised and equipped; let him officer them with real Low
Country soldiers, and send the high-born amateurs to the right-about,
and with such an army he would bring the rebels to their knees in a
trice. It is hardly, perhaps, the answer his Majesty expected, but he
trusts to hear more of the matter another time. So Monk is dismissed,
delighted at the King's good sense and condescension. Pay, arrears, and
all are forgotten. He is taken by assault, and soon informs Lord Digby
he is ready to take service in the royal army.
The only question now was where the man who was worth a trial to gain
should be employed. There was a general impression that he should go
to Devonshire, where his eldest brother, Sir Thomas, was doing good
work. But Monk made difficulties. A civil war in his native county
was peculiarly distasteful to a man of his nature. Besides, his heart
was not there. He had left it with the regiment that was devoted to
him, and that was now, with the rest of the Irish brigade, investing
Nantwich under Lord Byron. The fall of the place was looked on as
certain; when all at once in the midst of the Christmas revels there
was a cry that help was at hand. Under peremptory orders from London,
Fairfax had left his winter-quarters about Lincoln, and had succeeded
in penetrating Cheshire with a large force by the end of January.
There was no doubt about Monk's destination then. The hardships of the
unexpectedly long siege and two small reverses had seriously affected
the temper of the Irish brigade, and their idol was hurried to infuse a
better spirit into his old comrades for the coming struggle.
The sight of "honest George" was as good as another regiment to the
besiegers, and when he took his place, pike in hand, at the head of the
first file of his old corps, Lord Byron saw his force had got a new
heart. Monk had in his pocket a commission to raise a regiment and a
promise of the post of Major-General to the brigade, but in spite of
this and of Warren's entreaties to take his old command, he insisted on
retaining his humble position.
The very day after Monk joined the alarm was given that Fairfax was
at hand, and the position of the Royalists was suddenly found to be
desperately weak. Byron's army was investing the town on both sides of
the river Weaver. Warren's and four other regiments of foot were on
the left bank, and it was on this side that Fairfax was advancing. On
the first news of his approach they had taken up a position at Acton
Church, about a mile in rear of their works, where they intended to
stop his advance, while to prevent a sortie of the garrison a small
guard was left to hold the bridge by which the town was reached.
On the other side of the river was Lord Byron with the rest of the
infantry and all the horse. Communications had been kept up hitherto
by fords, but a sudden thaw had so swollen the river as to render them
impracticable. Only by a ride of six miles could the horse reach the
foot at Acton, and the way lay through lanes that the melting snow had
rendered almost impassable. Still there was but one thing to do, and
Byron galloped off along the river through the slush and mire, trusting
there might yet be time to get round before the enemy attacked.
Meanwhile Fairfax had come in sight of the isolated foot. Monk's old
Low Country comrade saw his advantage immediately, and continued his
advance with the intention of cutting his way through the infantry to
join hands with the garrison before Byron could come to the rescue.
Nearer and nearer he pressed, opening a way through the hedges as
he came straight across country. Suddenly there was an alarm in the
rear-guard. In spite of the mud and narrow lanes and swollen river
Byron was upon him at last. Quick as thought "Form your files to the
rear and charge for horse!" was the order which rang from Fairfax's
lips, and Byron's breathless troopers were hurled back from a solid
wall of pikes and muskets. Three of the Parliament regiments had
reversed their front and with the rest Fairfax dashed at Monk and his
friends. Warren's was in the centre, and it broke at once. The rest
stood firm but with flanks exposed. Pike in hand Monk raged through
his disgraced regiment and rallied it for one more charge. Again it
broke, and Fairfax poured in between the wings a resistless flood.
At the same moment the garrison sallied out, forced the guard at the
bridge, and fell upon the Royalist rear. All was over. Drowned in a sea
of armed men that flowed on every side of them, the regiments which
till now had held their ground could resist no longer. Surrender or
flight was all that was left. Too late Monk found the regiment he was
so proud of would not fight in such a cause. He even had to hear it
said that a number of his men had turned their fire on the hard-pressed
wings. Acton Church, around which the train was parked, was hard by,
and thither with the rest of the officers he took refuge. For a while
Byron hovered round to try a rescue with the horse, but the attempt
was hopeless. Church, guns, baggage and all were surrendered, and
after barely a week's service in the King's army Monk found himself a
prisoner.
A few days afterwards nearly the whole of his old regiment had enlisted
with Fairfax, while he and Warren were sent prisoners to Hull. But
for such a man Hull was not safe enough. It had but recently been
relieved, and was not out of danger so long as Lord Newcastle was at
York. Fairfax and the other officers who had fought by Monk's side in
the Low Countries knew well the value of his services, and impressed
upon the Parliament that he was "a man worth the making," and not
without effect. He was ordered up to London with Warren, and on July
8th brought to the bar of the House. There the two unfortunate officers
were charged with high treason and committed to the Tower. No sooner
were they there than Lord Lisle set about justifying his boasts to the
Council. He was still doing his best to get appointed Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland, and there could be no better testimonial to his fitness
than that he could command the services of the officers in the Tower.
Of Monk there was every hope, for he alone had refused to bind himself
not to serve the Parliament, nor were the most enticing offers wanting
to tempt him.
Already the New Model Army was in contemplation. Men of all parties
saw that nothing decisive would ever be done except by adopting the
methods which Monk had urged on the King. A compact mobile field-force,
complete and organised in every detail on the Low Country system, must
replace the unmanageable mobilised militia with which the war had
hitherto been aimlessly dragged on. Cromwell had now definitely come
to the front and thrown himself into the task. Except possibly Sir
Jacob Astley, who was at Oxford with Charles, there was no one in the
kingdom more fitted for the all-important work than Monk. Cromwell,
who knew how to choose a man, must have been perfectly aware of his
qualifications, even if he had not been as intimate as he was with Lord
Lisle. Nor was it from Cromwell alone that the prisoner was tempted.
Though all were agreed the weapon must be forged, they were by no means
at one as to the hands in which it was to be placed. Independents and
Presbyterians were manoeuvring for the control. In spite of standing
orders members were so constantly visiting the prisoners that the House
had strictly to forbid the practice without special leave. The same
day a leading Presbyterian was granted permission, and towards the
end of October Monk's case was specially referred to the committee of
examinations.
But they all mistook their man. He still held the King's commission.
The war for which he had engaged was still raging, and the most
brilliant offers that could be made him he only regarded as insults.
Pressure was even brought to bear, it is said, by a more rigorous
confinement, but it was useless, and he indignantly refused his liberty
except by a regular cartel.
Days and weeks went by and no exchange came. Although, as he had
refused to desert in Ireland, he was not affected by the order which
forbade the exchange of the other Irish officers upon any terms,
Parliament had no intention of allowing so valuable an officer to
get back to the royal camp. In vain Daniel O'Neill urged the King to
procure his release for service in Ireland. Charles seems to have done
his best. Clarendon says that many attempts were made to exchange
him; that one was we know. Care, however, seems to have been taken
by his would-be employers not only that these attempts should be
unsuccessful, but that Monk should not even hear of them. The wretched
colonel thought himself forgotten. His money was gone, and a penniless
prisoner in those days was the most miserable of men. Of his annuity
fifty pounds was all he had had, and on November 6th, but four months
after his committal, he sat down to write an urgent appeal to his
brother for another fifty. The letter concludes with a pathetic cry
for his release: "I shall entreat you," he says, "to be mindful of me
concerning my exchange, for I doubt all my friends have forgotten me. I
earnestly entreat you, therefore, if it lies in your power, to remember
me concerning my liberty; and so in haste, I rest, your faithful
brother, GEORGE MONK."
In haste and in the Tower! But any excuse was good enough with the
taciturn soldier if it saved words. And he might have saved them
all. Exchange and remittance were alike out of the question with his
hard-pressed brother, and as the weary months went by he thought
himself indeed deserted. Once out of the very depth of his poverty
Charles sent him a hundred pounds--an extraordinary mark of esteem as
things went at Oxford then. But that was all. Bitterly he felt the
seeming ingratitude, but in spite of all with obstinate loyalty he
refused to desert his colours, and sat himself down to forget in the
pursuit of literature the fancied wrongs under which he smarted.
Like many other active-minded men before and since, having absolutely
nothing to do he determined to write a book. He had before him the
example of Lord Vere and his brother-in-arms, Hexham, the literary
quartermaster of his old Low Country regiment, and most worthily
he followed in their steps. The book is full of vigorous and pithy
aphorisms which flash on us the condensed opinions of a man who
spoke little and thought much. We can hear, as we read it, the few
well-digested words, rugged, blunt, and direct, with which he compelled
the attention of councils of war and won the respect and admiration
of his men. Its subdued enthusiasm tells us of a genuine soldier
reverently devoted to his profession, and looking mournfully from the
place apart, where his almost aggressive patriotism had placed him, at
the distractions with which his beloved country was torn. It gives us
as clearly as though we saw him face to face the key of the character
that has been as much misunderstood and abused as any in history. He
was an English citizen first, a soldier next, and a politician not at
all. Of the real meaning of the strife he was incapable of grasping any
conception. For him it was all a mere question of the interior, and in
his eyes no question of the interior, not even religion itself, was
worth a civil war, or the sacrifice of England's military renown.
He called his work _Observations upon Military and Political Affairs_.
The military part is admirable, and shows us the consummate soldier
he was. It strikes one of the first notes of modern military science,
and takes for its dominant theme the comparatively small part which
actual fighting plays in the duties of a general and the success of
a campaign. The political observations are more crude but equally
characteristic. With the exception of some sagacious remarks on
governing a conquered country, they are confined to the methods
of preventing civil war. After recommending a strong centralised
government, technical education, and uniformity of religion, if it can
be obtained without danger, he enunciates those principles which caused
him to take the final step at the great crisis of his life. Still under
the influence of his Devonshire training he strongly insists on State
colonisation as a means whereby sources of weakness may be turned into
strength. "But the principal and able remedy," he says, "against civil
war is to entertain a foreign war. This chaseth away idleness, setteth
all on work, and particularly this giveth satisfaction to ambitious and
stirring spirits; it banisheth luxury, maketh your people warlike, and
maintaineth you in such reputation amongst your neighbours, that you
are the arbitrators of their differences." And it is from this point of
view that he expresses his only opinion on the great question that was
coming. "A sovereign prince," he lays down, "is more capable to make
great and ready conquests than a commonwealth, and especially if he
goeth in person into the field."
When the manuscript was complete he gave it to Lord Lisle to take care
of, and thus we may be sure that it was from Monk's pen that Cromwell,
to whom Lisle would not have omitted to show his treasure, learnt
something at least of his knowledge of war.
But literature was not his only consolation. There was another more to
his taste and less to his credit. For there used to come to the Tower
one Ann Ratsford, the wife of a perfumer who lived at the sign of the
Three Spanish Gypsies in the Exchange. By trade she was a milliner,
and in that capacity used to look after Monk's linen. She was neither
pretty nor well bred; she had a sharp tongue and manners that were not
refined. But the colonel was soft-hearted, and she was very kind; the
colonel was so handsome and had such a soldierly air, and then all
his friends had forgotten him and the perfumer was detestable. So the
gloomy walls of the Tower were brightened with an unholy idyl, and thus
began the intrigue which was to make a duchess of plain Nan Clarges,
the farrier's daughter of the Savoy.