CHAPTER 23
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.
