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.