In which the Author, very unwillingly, is forced to write a Little
History
While kings and men were thus occupied with England, which governed
itself quite alone, and which, it must be said in its praise, had never
been so badly governed, a man upon whom God had fixed his eye, and
placed his finger, a man predestined to write his name in brilliant
letters upon the page of history, was pursuing in the face of the world
a work full of mystery and audacity. He went on, and no one knew
whither he meant to go, although not only England, but France, and
Europe, watched him marching with a firm step and head held high. All
that was known of this man we are about to tell.
Monk had just declared himself in favor of the liberty of the Rump
Parliament, a parliament which General Lambert, imitating Cromwell,
whose lieutenant he had been, had just blocked up so closely, in order
to bring it to his will, that no member, during all the blockade, was
able to go out, and only one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to get in.
Lambert and Monk—everything was summed up in these two men; the first
representing military despotism, the second pure republicanism. These
men were the two sole political representatives of that revolution in
which Charles I. had first lost his crown, and afterwards his head. As
regarded Lambert, he did not dissemble his views; he sought to
establish a military government, and to be himself the head of that
government.
Monk, a rigid republican, some said, wished to maintain the Rump
Parliament, that visible though degenerated representative of the
republic. Monk, artful and ambitious, said others, wished simply to
make of this parliament, which he affected to protect, a solid step by
which to mount the throne which Cromwell had left empty, but upon which
he had never dared to take his seat.
Thus Lambert by persecuting the parliament, and Monk by declaring for
it, had mutually proclaimed themselves enemies of each other. Monk and
Lambert, therefore, had at first thought of creating an army each for
himself: Monk in Scotland, where were the Presbyterians and the
royalists, that is to say, the malcontents; Lambert in London, where
was found, as is always the case, the strongest opposition to the
existing power which it had beneath its eyes.
Monk had pacified Scotland, he had there formed for himself an army,
and found an asylum. The one watched the other. Monk knew that the day
was not yet come, the day marked by the Lord for a great change; his
sword, therefore, appeared glued to the sheath. Inexpugnable, in his
wild and mountainous Scotland, an absolute general, king of an army of
eleven thousand old soldiers, whom he had more than once led on to
victory; as well informed, nay, even better, of the affairs of London,
than Lambert, who held garrison in the city,—such was the position of
Monk, when, at a hundred leagues from London, he declared himself for
the parliament. Lambert, on the contrary, as we have said, lived in the
capital. That was the center of all his operations, and he there
collected around him all his friends, and all the people of the lower
class, eternally inclined to cherish the enemies of constituted power.
It was then in London that Lambert learnt the support that, from the
frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the parliament. He judged there was
no time to be lost, and that the Tweed was not so far distant from the
Thames that an army could not march from one river to the other,
particularly when it was well commanded. He knew, besides, that as fast
as the soldiers of Monk penetrated into England, they would form on
their route that ball of snow, the emblem of the globe of fortune,
which is for the ambitious nothing but a step growing unceasingly
higher to conduct him to his object. He got together, therefore, his
army, formidable at the same time for its composition and its numbers,
and hastened to meet Monk, who, on his part, like a prudent navigator
sailing amidst rocks, advanced by very short marches, listening to the
reports and scenting the air which came from London.
The two armies came in sight of each other near Newcastle, Lambert,
arriving first, encamped in the city itself. Monk, always circumspect,
stopped where he was, and placed his general quarters at Coldstream, on
the Tweed. The sight of Lambert spread joy through Monk’s army, whilst,
on the contrary, the sight of Monk threw disorder into Lambert’s army.
It might have been thought that these intrepid warriors, who had made
such a noise in the streets of London, had set out with the hopes of
meeting no one, and that now seeing that they had met an army, and that
that army hoisted before them not only a standard, but still further, a
cause and a principle,—it might have been believed, we say, that these
intrepid warriors had begun to reflect, that they were less good
republicans than the soldiers of Monk, since the latter supported the
parliament; whilst Lambert supported nothing, not even himself.
As to Monk, if he had had to reflect, or if he did reflect, it must
have been after a sad fashion, for history relates—and that modest
dame, it is well known, never lies—history relates, that the day of his
arrival at Coldstream search was made in vain throughout the place for
a single sheep.
If Monk had commanded an English army, that was enough to have brought
about a general desertion. But it is not with the Scotch as it is with
the English, to whom that fluid flesh which is called blood is a
paramount necessity; the Scotch, a poor and sober race, live upon a
little barley crushed between two stones, diluted with the water of the
fountain, and cooked upon another stone, heated.
The Scotch, their distribution of barley being made, cared very little
whether there was or was not any meat in Coldstream. Monk, little
accustomed to barley-cakes, was hungry, and his staff, at least as
hungry as himself, looked with anxiety right and left, to know what was
being prepared for supper.
Monk ordered search to be made; his scouts had on arriving in the place
found it deserted and the cupboards empty; upon butchers and bakers it
was of no use depending in Coldstream. The smallest morsel of bread,
then, could not be found for the general’s table.
As accounts succeeded each other, all equally unsatisfactory, Monk,
seeing terror and discouragement upon every face, declared that he was
not hungry; besides they should eat on the morrow, since Lambert was
there probably with the intention of giving battle, and consequently
would give up his provisions, if he were forced from Newcastle, or
forever to relieve Monk’s soldiers from hunger if he conquered.
This consolation was only efficacious upon a very small number; but of
what importance was it to Monk? for Monk was very absolute, under the
appearance of the most perfect mildness. Every one, therefore, was
obliged to be satisfied, or at least to appear so. Monk quite as hungry
as his people, but affecting perfect indifference for the absent
mutton, cut a fragment of tobacco, half an inch long, from the carotte
of a sergeant who formed part of his suite, and began to masticate the
said fragment, assuring his lieutenants that hunger was a chimera, and
that, besides, people were never hungry when they had anything to chew.
This joke satisfied some of those who had resisted Monk’s first
deduction drawn from the neighborhood of Lambert’s army; the number of
the dissentients diminished greatly; the guard took their posts, the
patrols began, and the general continued his frugal repast beneath his
open tent.
Between his camp and that of the enemy stood an old abbey, of which, at
the present day, there only remain some ruins, but which then was in
existence, and was called Newcastle Abbey. It was built upon a vast
site, independent at once of the plain and of the river, because it was
almost a marsh fed by springs and kept up by rains. Nevertheless, in
the midst of these pools of water, covered with long grass, rushes, and
reeds, were seen solid spots of ground, formerly used as the
kitchen-garden, the park, the pleasure-gardens, and other dependencies
of the abbey, looking like one of those great sea-spiders, whose body
is round, whilst the claws go diverging round from this circumference.
The kitchen-garden, one of the longest claws of the abbey, extended to
Monk’s camp. Unfortunately it was, as we have said, early in June, and
the kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered no resources.
Monk had ordered this spot to be guarded, as most subject to surprises.
The fires of the enemy’s general were plainly to be perceived on the
other side of the abbey. But between these fires and the abbey extended
the Tweed, unfolding its luminous scales beneath the thick shade of
tall green oaks. Monk was perfectly well acquainted with this position,
Newcastle and its environs having already more than once been his
headquarters. He knew that by day his enemy might without doubt throw a
few scouts into these ruins and promote a skirmish, but that by night
he would take care to abstain from such a risk. He felt himself,
therefore, in security.
Thus his soldiers saw him, after what he boastingly called his
supper—that is to say, after the exercise of mastication reported by us
at the commencement of this chapter—like Napoleon on the eve of
Austerlitz, seated asleep in his rush chair, half beneath the light of
his lamp, half beneath the reflection of the moon, commencing its
ascent in the heavens, which denoted that it was nearly half past nine
in the evening. All at once Monk was roused from his half sleep,
fictitious perhaps, by a troop of soldiers, who came with joyous cries,
and kicked the poles of his tent with a humming noise as if on purpose
to wake him. There was no need of so much noise; the general opened his
eyes quickly.
“Well, my children, what is going on now?” asked the general.
“General!” replied several voices at once, “General! you shall have
some supper.”
“I have had my supper, gentlemen,” replied he, quietly, “and was
comfortably digesting it, as you see. But come in, and tell me what
brings you hither.”
“Good news, general.”
“Bah! Has Lambert sent us word that he will fight to-morrow?”
“No, but we have just captured a fishing-boat conveying fish to
Newcastle.”
“And you have done very wrong, my friends. These gentlemen from London
are delicate, must have their first course; you will put them sadly out
of humor this evening, and to-morrow they will be pitiless. It would
really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and his
fishermen, unless——” and the general reflected an instant.
“Tell me,” continued he, “what are these fishermen, if you please?”
“Some Picard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or
Holland, and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind.”
“Do any among them speak our language?”
“The leader spoke some few words of English.”
The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh
information reached him. “That is well,” said he. “I wish to see these
men, bring them to me.”
An officer immediately went to fetch them.
“How many are there of them?” continued Monk; “and what is their
vessel?”
“There are ten or twelve of them, general, and they were aboard of a
kind of chasse-maree, as it is called—Dutch-built, apparently.”
“And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert’s camp?”
“Yes, general, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing.”
“Humph! we shall see that,” said Monk.
At this moment the officer returned, bringing the leader of the
fishermen with him. He was a man from fifty to fifty-five years old,
but good-looking for his age. He was of middle height, and wore a
justaucorps of coarse wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass
hung from his belt, and he walked with the hesitation peculiar to
sailors, who, never knowing, thanks to the movement of the vessel,
whether their foot will be placed upon the plank or upon nothing, give
to every one of their steps a fall as firm as if they were driving a
pile. Monk, with an acute and penetrating look, examined the fisherman
for some time, while the latter smiled, with that smile half cunning,
half silly, peculiar to French peasants.
“Do you speak English?” asked Monk, in excellent French.
“Ah! but badly, my lord,” replied the fisherman.
This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation of
the people beyond the Loire, than with the slightly-drawling accent of
the countries of the west and north of France.
“But you do speak it?” persisted Monk, in order to examine his accent
once more.
“Eh! we men of the sea,” replied the fisherman, “speak a little of all
languages.”
“Then you are a sea fisherman?”
“I am at present, my lord—a fisherman, and a famous fisherman too. I
have taken a barbel that weighs at least thirty pounds, and more than
fifty mullets; I have also some little whitings that will fry
beautifully.”
“You appear to me to have fished more frequently in the Gulf of Gascony
than in the Channel,” said Monk, smiling.
“Well, I am from the south; but does that prevent me from being a good
fisherman, my lord?”
“Oh! not at all; I shall buy your fish. And now speak frankly; for whom
did you destine them?”
“My lord, I will conceal nothing from you. I was going to Newcastle,
following the coast, when a party of horsemen who were passing along in
an opposite direction made a sign to my bark to turn back to your
honor’s camp, under penalty of a discharge of musketry. As I was not
armed for fighting,” added the fisherman, smiling, “I was forced to
submit.”
“And why did you go to Lambert’s camp in preference to mine?”
“My lord, I will be frank; will your lordship permit me?”
“Yes, and even if need be shall command you to be so.”
“Well, my lord, I was going to M. Lambert’s camp because those
gentlemen from the city pay well—whilst your Scotchmen, Puritans,
Presbyterians, Covenanters, or whatever you choose to call them, eat
but little, and pay for nothing.”
Monk shrugged his shoulders, without, however, being able to refrain
from smiling at the same time. “How is it that, being from the south,
you come to fish on our coasts?”
“Because I have been fool enough to marry in Picardy.”
“Yes; but even Picardy is not England.”
“My lord, man shoves his boat into the sea, but God and the wind do the
rest, and drive the boat where they please.”
“You had, then, no intention of landing on our coasts?”
“Never.”
“And what route were you steering?”
“We were returning from Ostend, where some mackerel had already been
seen, when a sharp wind from the south drove us from our course; then,
seeing that it was useless to struggle against it, we let it drive us.
It then became necessary, not to lose our fish, which were good, to go
and sell them at the nearest English port, and that was Newcastle. We
were told the opportunity was good, as there was an increase of
population in the camp, an increase of population in the city; both, we
were told, were full of gentlemen, very rich and very hungry. So we
steered our course towards Newcastle.”
“And your companions, where are they?”
“Oh, my companions have remained on board; they are sailors without the
least instruction.”
“Whilst you——” said Monk.
“Who, I?” said the patron, laughing; “I have sailed about with my
father, and I know what is called a sou, a crown, a pistole, a louis,
and a double louis, in all the languages of Europe; my crew, therefore,
listen to me as they would to an oracle, and obey me as if I were an
admiral.”
“Then it was you who preferred M. Lambert as the best customer?”
“Yes, certainly. And, to be frank, my lord, was I wrong?”
“You will see that by and by.”
“At all events, my lord, if there is a fault, the fault is mine; and my
comrades should not be dealt hardly with on that account.”
“This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp fellow,” thought Monk. Then,
after a few minutes, silence employed in scrutinizing the
fisherman,—“You come from Ostend, did you not say?” asked the general.
“Yes, my lord, in a straight line.”
“You have then heard of the affairs of the day; for I have no doubt
that both in France and Holland they excite interest. What is he doing
who calls himself king of England?”
“Oh, my lord!” cried the fisherman, with loud and expansive frankness,
“that is a lucky question, and you could not put it to anybody better
than to me, for in truth I can make you a famous reply. Imagine, my
lord, that when putting into Ostend to sell the few mackerel we had
caught, I saw the ex-king walking on the downs waiting for his horses,
which were to take him to the Hague. He is a rather tall, pale man,
with black hair, and somewhat hard-featured. He looks ill, and I don’t
think the air of Holland agrees with him.”
Monk followed with the greatest attention the rapid, heightened, and
diffuse conversation of the fisherman, in a language which was not his
own, but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility. The
fisherman on his part, employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an
English word, and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any
language, but was, in truth, pure Gascon. Fortunately his eyes spoke
for him, and that so eloquently, that it was possible to lose a word
from his mouth, but not a single intention from his eyes. The general
appeared more and more satisfied with his examination. “You must have
heard that this ex-king, as you call him, was going to the Hague for
some purpose?”
“Oh, yes,” said the fisherman, “I heard that.”
“And what was his purpose?”
“Always the same,” said the fisherman. “Must he not always entertain
the fixed idea of returning to England?”
“That is true,” said Monk, pensively.
“Without reckoning,” added the fisherman, “that the stadtholder—you
know, my lord, William II.?”
“Well?”
“He will assist him with all his power.”
“Ah! did you hear that said?”
“No, but I think so.”
“You are quite a politician, apparently,” said Monk.
“Why, we sailors, my lord, who are accustomed to study the water and
the air—that is to say, the two most changeable things in the world—are
seldom deceived as to the rest.”
“Now, then,” said Monk, changing the conversation, “I am told you are
going to provision us.”
“I shall do my best, my lord.”
“How much do you ask for your fish in the first place?”
“Not such a fool as to name a price, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“Because my fish is yours.”
“By what right?”
“By that of the strongest.”
“But my intention is to pay you for it.”
“That is very generous of you, my lord.”
“And the worth of it——”
“My lord, I fix no price.”
“What do you ask, then?”
“I only ask to be permitted to go away.”
“Where?—to General Lambert’s camp?”
“I!” cried the fisherman; “what should I go to Newcastle for, now I
have no longer any fish?”
“At all events, listen to me.”
“I do, my lord.”
“I shall give you some advice.”
“How, my lord!—pay me and give me good advice likewise! You overwhelm
me, my lord.”
Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, about whom he
still appeared to entertain some suspicion. “Yes, I shall pay you, and
give you a piece of advice, for the two things are connected. If you
return, then, to General Lambert——”
The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which
signified, “If he persists in it, I won’t contradict him.”
“Do not cross the marsh,” continued Monk: “you will have money in your
pocket, and there are in the marsh some Scotch ambuscaders I have
placed there. Those people are very intractable; they understand but
very little of the language which you speak, although it appears to me
to be composed of three languages. They might take from you what I had
given you, and, on your return to your country, you would not fail to
say that General Monk has two hands, the one Scotch, and the other
English; and that he takes back with the Scotch hand what he has given
with the English hand.”
“Oh! general, I shall go where you like, be sure of that,” said the
fisherman, with a fear too expressive not to be exaggerated. “I only
wish to remain here, if you will allow me to remain.”
“I readily believe you,” said Monk, with an imperceptible smile, “but I
cannot, nevertheless, keep you in my tent.”
“I have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship
should point out where you will have me posted. Do not trouble yourself
about us—with us a night soon passes away.”
“You shall be conducted to your bark.”
“As your lordship pleases. Only, if your lordship would allow me to be
taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful.”
“Why so?”
“Because the gentlemen of your army, in dragging my boat up the river
with a cable pulled by their horses, have battered it a little upon the
rocks of the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my
hold, my lord.”
“The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think.”
“My lord, I am quite at your orders,” said the fisherman; “I shall
empty my baskets where you wish; then you will pay me, if you please to
do so; and you will send me away, if it appears right to you. You see I
am very easily managed and pleased, my lord.”
“Come, come, you are a very good sort of a fellow,” said Monk, whose
scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a single shade in the
clear eye of the fisherman. “Holloa, Digby!” An aide-de-camp appeared.
“You will conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little
tents of the canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be
near their bark, and yet will not sleep on board to-night. What is the
matter, Spithead?”
Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of
tobacco for his supper. Spithead, having entered the general’s tent
without being sent for, had drawn this question from Monk.
“My lord,” said he, “a French gentleman has just presented himself at
the outposts and wishes to speak to your honor.”
All this was said, be it understood, in English; but notwithstanding,
it produced a slight emotion in the fisherman, which Monk, occupied
with his sergeant, did not remark.
“Who is the gentleman?” asked Monk.
“My lord,” replied Spithead, “he told it me, but those devils of French
names are so difficult to pronounce for a Scotch throat, that I could
not retain it. I believe, however, from what the guards say, that it is
the same gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and
whom your honor would not receive.”
“That is true; I was holding a council of officers.”
“Will your honor give any orders respecting this gentleman?”
“Yes, let him be brought here.”
“Must we take any precautions?”
“Such as what?”
“Binding his eyes, for instance.”
“To what purpose? He can only see what I desire should be seen; that is
to say, that I have around me eleven thousand brave men, who ask no
better than to have their throats cut in honor of the parliament of
Scotland and England.”
“And this man, my lord?” said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman, who,
during this conversation, had remained standing and motionless, like a
man who sees but does not understand.
“Ah, that is true,” said Monk. Then turning towards the fisherman,—“I
shall see you again, my brave fellow,” said he; “I have selected a
lodging for you. Digby, take him to it. Fear nothing: your money shall
be sent to you presently.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the fisherman, and after having bowed, he
left the tent, accompanied by Digby. Before he had gone a hundred paces
he found his companions, who were whispering with a volubility which
did not appear exempt from uneasiness, but he made them a sign which
seemed to reassure them. “Hola, you fellows!” said the patron, “come
this way. His lordship, General Monk, has the generosity to pay us for
our fish, and the goodness to give us hospitality for to-night.”
The fishermen gathered round their leader, and, conducted by Digby, the
little troop proceeded towards the canteens, the post, as may be
remembered, which had been assigned them. As they went along in the
dark, the fishermen passed close to the guards who were conducting the
French gentleman to General Monk. This gentleman was on horseback, and
enveloped in a large cloak, which prevented the patron from seeing him,
however great his curiosity might be. As to the gentleman, ignorant
that he was elbowing compatriots, he did not pay any attention to the
little troop.
The aid-de-camp settled his guests in a tolerably comfortable tent,
from which was dislodged an Irish canteen woman, who went, with her six
children, to sleep where she could. A large fire was burning in front
of this tent, and threw its purple light over the grassy pools of the
marsh, rippled by a fresh breeze. The arrangements made, the
aid-de-camp wished the fishermen good-night, calling to their notice
that they might see from the door of the tent the masts of their bark,
which was tossing gently on the Tweed, a proof that it had not yet
sunk. The sight of this appeared to delight the leader of the fishermen
infinitely.