It was then in London that Lambert learnt the support that, from the frontiers of Scotland, Monck 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 Monck 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 Monck, 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. Monck, always circumspect, stopped where he was, and placed his general quarters at Coldstream, on the Tweed. The sight of Lambert spread joy through Monck’s army, whilst, on the contrary, the sight of Monck 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 Monck, since the latter supported the parliament; whilst Lambert supported nothing, not even himself.
As to Monck, 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 Monck had commanded an English army, that was enough to have brought about a general desertion. But it is not with the Scots as it is with the English, to whom that fluid flesh which is called blood is a paramount necessity; the Scots, 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 Scots, their distribution of barley being made, cared very little whether there was or was not any meat in Coldstream. Monck, 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.
Monck 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, Monck, 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 Monck’s soldiers from hunger if he conquered.
This consolation was only efficacious upon a very small number; but of what importance was it to Monck? for Monck was very absolute, under the appearance of the most perfect mildness. Everyone, therefore, was obliged to be satisfied, or at least to appear so. Monck, 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 lieutenant 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 Monck’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 Monck’s camp. Unfortunately it was, as we have said, early in June, and the kitchen-garden, being abandoned, offered no resources.
Monck 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. Monck was perfectly well acquainted with this position, Newcastle and its environs having already more than once been his
