OK, end of the Lambert episode. £20 for the messenger who took the newes to London seems generous, but those are big newes, of a sort which 'tis customary indeed to reward extravagantly. Also this wasn't just some postman but one of Ingoldsby's men (likely an officer), and the Mercurius, quoting a letter from "Abell Roper", says "the messenger (...) came in such hast that they could writ noe letter, but brought a gold scale of armes of a Northamptonshire gentilman for testemony of the truth of what hee brought" - not sure what this means, but it sounds showy, and at least it's not Lambert's head in a bag. So here's £20, the last in the till.
We're not completely surprised that the second- or third-hand newes which reach Sam, of Col. Lambert's capture, picture him as having "los[t] his reputation of being a man of courage", being "not able to fight one stroke", and imploring Ingoldsby to let him go, bursting in tears, etc. Now that he's retaken, nobody wants him to be Che Guevara so a bit of character assassination would be in order.
We like the bit about the colonel's Arabian charger getting mired. It hasn't reached the gazettes that are still the only current reports at our disposall, but what has, is a bit more complex than the version Sam's got anyway. First of all, this wasn't a high-noon encounter between the two colonels, on the empty main street of Dodge City: there were a lot of guns and horses. A long account in the French Gazette - the situation in England now clearly being of keen interest to many in Paris - in an "Extraordinaire" (a supplement) to appear on May 14 (new style, https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148… pages 421-432), has it that Ingoldsby was accompanied, first of all, by his regiment and no less than four companies of horse; we're not sure of the size of a company, but 'tseems that could come to over 400 horses in total. The Merucurius Politicus, as summarized by Mr. Rugg, describes a force of two regiments (Ingoldsby and, apparently, a Col. Sam Well) and some local militia.
Also: Lambert was betrayed. "Then came newes that [Lambert] has an intent to rendevouse att Edge Hill", the Mercurius recounts. Fair enough. But the Gazette adds that, when he's found out with four horse companies of his own, one of his commanders - Arthur Haselrig, a prominent former MP whom Wikipedia now describes as anti-Lambert and whom Charles II will later pardon (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art…) - defected to Ingoldsby upon being captured, and his company "came unhesitatingly to join the Troops of the said Colonal Ingoldsby, who placed it in his right flank".
The Gazette says Lambert then tried to parlay, but this went nowhere and "the Conference only came to the resolution of voiding the dispute by the arms" [vüider le différant par les armes", hard to translate but you see what I mean]. This led two more of Lambert's companions to change sides: Cols. Barther and another Rump celeb, Alured. The Mercurius lists neither of them among "those taken with Colonel Lambertt"; well, they weren't "taken".
Then Lambert gave up. In the meantime some blood had been shed: The Mercurius says, "at the takinge of him [Lambert] one killed and six wounded". Whew, that's a relief - honor is saved; unless this was guys falling off their horses of fighting over girls or dice, as could happen in a party so large.
Wherever the Naseby sits, its location and lack of movement make it easy to reach. We noted recently that a letter was being written in Dover for my Lord's attention; the State Papers show that within 24 hours of its dateline, Montagu has got it and is writing his response. Of course, Dover's not far, but the courier still had to sail around the sand banks and then row, back and forth.
Peering into the future, we found an opinion piece from a naval expert in Defense News on the merits of "dedicated command ships" [https://www.defensenews.com/opini…]. Sam is on a "dedicated command ship" now, and we phant'sy he would totally connect with that article, so could someone put it on the next packet from Dover? It says "cramming a senior admiral or general, staff, and radio [ahem, copyist] needs into a combatant ship" ain't no good, as the former have to fit in the tars' spartan cabins (ah, the London's "much bigger" state-room, even if "not so rich") and wet bunks, and the combatant is now less able to combat - in our case, as Susan remarked we seem to be missing our full crew of over 200.
Making a flagship into an admiral's palace also makes it an higher-value target. England's not at war right now, but imagine a fire-ship showing up during one of these merry all-captains parties. That, of course, may well be 2023 thinking; right now, the admiral is fully expected to fight anyway, isn't he. And as we know (or suspect), command-ship only describes part of the Naseby's mission at this time...
A note: If anybody is fluent in German, and so fluent in German as to decipher this fearsome-looking blackletter font German gazettes are still using (we tried but 'twas not for us), there is a nice collection of South German newspapers from 1660 through 1663 (and far beyond, but those are their Pepys years) that awaits your perusing at https://digipress.digitale-sammlu…. Who knows what's in there.
Sadly the renowned Dutch gazettes, and the many, many English journals that have cropped up as the Rump got roasted, seem to remain beyond our reach; buried in library stacks, auctioned off, or long gone as wrapping for the day's Baltick mackerels...
Since we're time-travelling, about this (probable) canard of the fleet flying the royal flag, on May 7 the French Gazette (printed "aux Galleries du Louvre", eh) will print, as a supplement across no less than 13 pages, a "letter from London", purportedly "from an English gentleman" and dated April 24. It extols the joys of the return of English monarchy and the "end of Tyranny" (sounds familiar) and heaps laurels on Monck, calling him an Instrument of God and "a Sun that is not destined to illuminate only one Earth but to give delightful Aspects, at the least, to all of Europe" (no less). Though, interestingly at this late stage and in a document that reads very much like a memo from Vers... from the Louvre on What You Should Think About England, "We well see what he [Monck] has done, but we do not see what he wants to do". Well, the ways of God.
More to our purpose, the only piece of (seemingly) factual hard news in these 13 pages is that "General Montagu had the Royal Standard displayed at the front and aft of the Vessels of the Fleet he commands: & regaled all the Officers, with a superb Banquet, where one drank to the King's health, to the sound of all the cannon" (this at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, pages 481-482). Strange; someone writing from London shouldn't be short of colorful local anecdotes, and have to fish this one from out at sea.
Well, well. And that's supposed to come four days after that letter from Breda. So, either the royal-flag rumor has crossed the channel (and then 'twould be strange if Sam didn't pick it soon), or someone in Ver... in the Louvre, really wants us to picture this royal flag-waving Montagu-fleet in our minds, as concrete evidence that the Restoration will happen. Why? Who needs to be convinced by (apparently fake) concrete evidence?
If we may hypothesize, it looks like someone's trying to manipulate the market. But on what market does England matter to the speculators?
Well, duh, harrumpf and blush, yes Sarah of course you're right. Tho' Louis likes that hunting lodge so much... We must've been touched by a prophetick vision (quick! hide the time machine in the bushes). Yes, that's it: in a later age, L14 will be so completely associated with Versailles, that it will endure as shorthand for power. Indeed it will be hard to even imagine the Sun King in the promiscuous squalor of Paris; kinda like picturing Elvis in Memphis rather than in Vegas. But right now in 1660, Elvis is still in Memphis, and for Versailles please read (and change trains at) Le Louvre.
So at dinner last night we got the happy news that "my Lord was chosen at Dover". That's great! Congratulations. Today Mr Thomas White, in Dover, is also writing to My Lord on how he's utterly unable to fit out the Mermaid as per orders, "because we have neither money nor stores to help us". As always, but White adds that "Some of those of whom I have received necessaries for the State's frigates threaten to arrest me for the money (...) so that I cannot quietly walk the streets for want of money" (all in the State Papers; of course).
White hopefully closes his letter with "We beg you would be pleased to favour this poor town and port, and accept of being our baron in the next ensuing Parliament". Hmmm. Would this entail any walking of the streets? If my Lord had to chose, maybe Cambridge, far from the sea, could indeed be the better choice?
Fake news in the French Gazette? We're shocked - shocked! - that this may even be conceivable in the Sun King's beautifulll kingdom.
Bit of background: The Gazette is (in principle) the sole authorized news-book in France at this time. On French internal matters it only publishes happy news, but the bulk of its content is foreign dispatches. On England it generally tracks the other sources at our disposal. The Gazette would not be above biasing or hand-picking at least some of its reports to push this or that French faction with a stake in the matter, and as such its seemingly factual reports are a bit hard to decode. France (well, Versailles) is sympathetic to Charles II but otherwise still very much sitting on the fence.
But the Gazette of course doesn't have a reporter in Breda who fact-checks and then rushes to a payphone to dictate his copy to the editor, currently Mr. Theophraste Renaudot Jr., son of the founder. Someone in Breda, quite possibly in C2's court, sent a letter which the Gazette reproduced (the professional press of the more enlightened ages to come will of course shy away from copy-pasting press releases, pwah).
So this news of "the Fleet of Montagu" flying the King's three lions rampant rather than (maybe) the cross-and-Irish-harp (see those banners at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fla… and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy…) may well be completely invented - some Breda courtier running ahead of the story, or wanting to convince Europe that the cake's already baked. Or maybe Renaudot embellished, to please the pro-C2 faction in Versailles. It doesn't matter. Charles himself should know what's going on aboard the Naseby if young Mr Montagu was indeed visiting him latelt, but what the ships are doing out at sea is pretty much impossible for anyone in France (or even in Breda) to prove or disprove.
However, the Gazette in the 1660s (says a history quoted at https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_…) prints around 8,000 copies. It's a lot. Everyone in Versailles or in the merchant quarters of Paris and Lyons now "knows" what Sam still doesn't, or isn't quite sure of: The boat he's on (more or less) resounds with "vive le Roy" and is one ardent king-carrying machine. Now if the Gazette fell into Sam's hands right now, would he be pleased or plain horrified?
Aye, we seem to be treading water, but we're a command ship, a hub in glorious immovability like an aircraft carrier, and others do the movin' around. In an attachment to his recent report to the Admiralty on the subject of mackerels (which we pars'd at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…), Montague yesterday sent an order of battle listing 32 ships. A considerable fleet, tho' from Sam's account alone you'd think we're alone on the gleaming sea.
Meanwhile, who wants news from Breda? The French Gazette has them! (Get it at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, page 394). Its report is dated April 20, but of course that's new style, so for us in our smelly cabins on the Naseby it's April 9 and already old news. And it says:
"The King of the Great Britain is, for some days, in this city [Breda], where the Court is flocking in the greatest numbers [ſe rend des plus groſſes], as from all parts come the English Lords & Gentlemen. His British Majesty is working, meanwhile, to make his Train of the most magnificent, hoping to soon pass to his Domains, on the advice that the Fleet of Montaigu, had displayed the Royal Standard, & that in a Banquet offered to all of the Officers, one had toasted, several times, the health of His said Majesty, to the sound of the gun's salute".
Now waiiit a minute. Yes, we had from Sam a few reports, on April 2 and more grandly on April 9-10, that "all or most" of the captains had come for a merry dinner. If the more recent Banquet is what the Gazette is reporting with a dateline on (in old style) the same date, then the news are sure moving fast - not impossible, unless that report was really already written in advance, like a press release; or maybe the Gazette's datelines are not really when the writing was done (that particular edition was printed on May 1st).
Sam on the 10th did hear a "great rattling of guns". Nothing from him, however, on all the captains toasting H.M.'s health - a bit odd, since he reports every whisper of royalism he comes across. He hadn't been at that dinner - instead he had private dinners, notably his own boisterous evening on the 9th with the lieutenant and poor Rev. Ibbot - but it's hard to believe he didn't have his ear on the wall, figuratively or literally, to monitor the seniors' doings in the nearby great cabin. OK, maybe they didn't all shout "long live the King" in a chorus before tossing their glasses at the walls. Maybe they did so just when Ibbot threw his caudle at Sam.
But so - we're flying the king's flag? The King is packing his bags "ſur l'avis que la Flotte de Montaigu, avoit aboré l'Etendart Royal". Remarkable, on a ship whose gilded figurehead is still Cromwell's mug (with laurels). But when did Sam mention this extraordinary display?
What a relief for the very sober and upright Rev. Ibbot. Why, the Sam who gave him such a hard time a few days ago was a Beast, drunk on the brisk sea air, on a day spent ogling the ladies with his pal the lieutenant, and perhaps on the special bottle the captain keeps for seasick VIPs; and likely a difficult one to debate with, as Sam will soon be a sermon critic whose verdict on many (most?) of those he'll attend will come to "booooorrring!" We phant'sy that Sam was "free to make mirth" with the good minister's talent for improvisation, his pronunciation, projection and elocution, the rhytm and scansion of his sermons - pah, all terrible, and no presence on the stage! Perhaps he also bandied jokes in (freshly learn'd) naval slang with the lieutenant - unwise, given Ibbot's abundant experience at sea. Wait, did Sam reach for his knotted cane, until Lt. Lambert (who keeps to small beer, having a ship to manage) puts a restraining hand on his arm?
But today's Sam, now refocused on keeping his papers in order and who spent last night alone with his vialin - now that's better. Perhaps my lord, who seems to know Ibbot quite well too, had a quiet word with Sam on this being a business trip?
And England is not a neutral party in this situation: while the bosses in London are sorting themselves out, the ambassadors of England and France in Denmark are mediating the end of the Second Northern War, between Denmark, Sweden and Holland. Right now, the Gazette reports from Cronenbourg (ibid., page 387) they're putting pressure on Denmark. A mis-step, and no more mackerel. Montagu, directing these fareway fleet movements from the Naseby through the paper flow in Sam's "study" ('coz now he's got a "study"), is an important cog in this tangle of fish and diplomats.
Tomorrow April 18, my lord Montagu will send to the Admiralty a report on his meeting with vice-admiral Lawson (which the State Papers will preserve at https://books.google.fr/books?id=…). Perhaps it's not the only one but, surprise, all he talks about is "the mackerel fishery", and the escorts he's sending here and there to protect the fishing fleet.
Somehow we're not surprised that Sam, whatever his reasons for writing the Diary - aide-mémoire on the political currents, edification of future generations - focuses on who's in/who's out, rather than on the mackerel. But the mackerel matters, because the people want fish, and the wars of northern Europe make it tricky to get. Montagu mentions deployments from Newfoundland to Gibraltar - where "the ship that goes in June had best be a [hired] Flemish vessel". Later generations will lament their roast having come all the way from New Zealand, but already the global food trade requires all the resources of the Royal Navy and of the beautiful mappamundi that may have adorned the Admiral's cabin, and rule Britannia.
Small bombshell in that letter of April 18: "I have discoursed concerning the mackerel fishery with Vice-Adm. Lawson", Montagu writes, "who says there is an agreement settled beyween him and the Ostenders, that the fresh fishers on either side shall receive no interruption (...) and need no convoy". Wow. So the Ostenders, a notch above being a bunch of pyrates but still privateers in service to whoever pays most or rules Ostend (currently Dutch rebels to Spanish rule, if we're not mistaken) have "an agreement" with an English vice-admiral. How we would have lik'd to be a fly on the wall when that was haggled over.
Curiously the letter doesn't mention the Baltic, where Montagu had dispatched an escort a couple of weeks ago (see https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…). There the herring swim in a war zone. On April 9 (new style, late March for Sam) a report from Copenhagen, cited in the French Gazette dated May 1 (at gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6, page 386) said "the Swede, who are still absolute on the Baltic sea, capture all the Vessels they meet, except those of the United Provinces [the Dutch; "les Süédois, qui sont, touſjours, abſolus sur la mer Baltique, enlèvent tous les Vaiſseaux qu'ils rencontrent, à la réſerve de ceux des Eſtats Généraux des Provinces Vnies"]. On April 13 another report from Cologne (ibid., page 368) will confirm that "the Dutch and the Swede", while observing a truce, "have made themselves such absolute masters of the Baltic Sea, that no Vessel may pass without falling into their hands" ["les Holandois & les Süédois: qui (...) s'eſtoyent rendus maiſtres ſi abſolus de la Mer Baltique, qu'aucun Vaiſſeau n'y pouvoit paſſer ſans tomber entre leurs mains"].
The Odnance Survey (https://getoutside.ordnancesurvey…) places the Blacktail Spit at 51.54320145°N, 0.94283312°E, in the Thames estuary. It lists it as "wetland/tidal" and suggests you take a walk there. Someone did so in their little sailboat - apparently called the Talisker 1 - and helpfully posted a bunch of nautical charts at http://www.samingosailing.com/a-f….
The charts abound in annotations like "foul ground" and "historic wreck area". Clearly the shallow waters, strong tide and shifting sand banks make the area a tricky one for a large ship and its escort. Indeed our friends on the Talisker 1 recall near Pyefleet Creek "a large Sailing Vessel heading northeast directly towards us under engine only was making heavy going with wind over tide".
A quick check on the river Lee suggests it's all within greater London, but plugging the above co-ordinates into Google Maps calls up an area that includes the hamlet of Lee-over-Sands, on the estuary of the Colne about 25 km northeast of Blacktail Spit. Perhaps the Lee roads ran/run nearby.
Hello, "General Pen". Welcome to the Diary. Pardon our Sam, he's new to naval affairs and ranks. It would seem you two didn't really hit it off on first meet. I'd wager you'll meet again. Here's to you two becoming best friends forever!
Pyrates, corsairs and Ostenders of course be as everyday commonplaces as, say, lice (scratch) and cholera (shiver). We recently noted a report of Ostenders all the way to Norway, and the Mercurius Politicus lately cited a State Council order for naval escorts in "the Irish Seas, to prevent the great piracies commited theire". But that's not the main reason why "many merchants [ask] to get convoy to the Baltique, which a course was taken for".
On April 1, Montague wrote (from the Swiftsure, perhaps in Sam's hand) to Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper (presently on the State Council): "A few days since, I received an order from the Council of State to appoint a sufficient convoy for securing our trade within the Baltic Sea, which the merchants have represented to be greatly obstructed by the Duke of Brandenburg's lately interdicting all trade to or from any of the Swedish ports, and commissioning above 20 pickeroons to disturb and destroy the said trade". My lord then says he figures that three frigates should be escort enough. (The letter is in the State Papers).
The "duke of Brandenburg" would seem to be no less than Great Elector Frederick William, a fairly considerable military commander who's currently a bit of a French client but busy pumping up Prussia to great-power status. He will all his life alternate between war with Sweden and alliances with Sweden. Right now he's winning Prussia's independence from Sweden as he wraps up the Second Northern War, a 5-year, 15-country affair that has extended all the way to the Crimean Khanate and even to America, where it saw Sweden lose the Delaware valley to the Dutch. And you thought English politics were complicated?
Las, also on the way to the Baltick, is Denmark, recently a war zone too and still aswarm with idle Swedish and Polish troops, and so a good place to have a naval escort. In future years the king of Denmark will also aggravate England by levying stiff fees on its passing ships. Curse those nordick kinglets who presume to impede England's liberty of the seas and god-given right to get all the herring!
The Incident of the Whitewash did fascinate so many, it was reported as far away as Paris, where we have now seen its report, dated April 3, in the Gazette de France dated April 10 (at gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6450281p/f403.item). It depicts the "painter" as "a man dressed up as a mason" [vn homme traveſti en Maſſon], "accompanied by a Boy" [accompagné d'vn Garçon], "climbed up to the Statue of Queen Elizabeth, under pretence of cleaning it" [monta à la Statüe de la Reyne Elizabeth, ſous prétexte de la nettoyer].
So, bonfires, high-level protection and toasts to the King or not, the Whitewash still isn't something you undertake (especially at the top of a ladder) without a disguise, a lookout and a pretext to give you time to check how the public's taking it. Poor Liz was pretext but at least she got a cleanup, whilst the previous kings were suffer'd to stay under their grime.
"The King's effigies (...) in the Exchange" were likely multiple, but included the one which popped into the news lately, when a mysterious painter whitewashed the "Exit Tyrannus" inscription that had defaced it.
We return to this episode, having now seen the weekly dispatch sent on March 26 by Venetian ambassador Giavarina. The record ain't complete till Giavarina's weekly cable is perused; in this case it adds to other accounts that "two hours before night some daring fellow (...) after washing and cleaning the statue of Queen Elizabeth did the same to that of King James and then washed ever the place of King Charles with several colours, obliterating the inscription completely"; also that "everyone admires the daring and determination of this fellow as he did it all without a mask or other disguise, from which it is concluded that he acted by order and with substantial backing". We suspected as much; also that this was still an act of "daring and determination" in London's unsettled state.
"Two hours before night" corroborates the Mercurius Politicus on the event's timing (5 o'clock, as we recall) but leaves hanging Sam's report of this having taken place "at noon". Or is "noon" any hour in daytime, or in the afternoon?
Background on all these royal statues: Giavarina helpfully explains to the Doge and Senate that "in the city of London in an open public place are statues of all the kings of England in a row, from Edward the Confessor, erected by the city itself on the day of their coronation. (fn. 9) That of King Charles was removed and broken in pieces by order of parliament the day his head was cut off". The Stationery Office compiler of Giavarina's reports (found at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) chimes in with a footnote: "The royal statues were in the quadrangle of the Royal Exchange built by Gresham, placed in niches, immediately above the cloister or colonnade. They were all destroyed in the Great Fire [in 1666]. Wheatley and Cunningham: London, Past and Present, Vol. iii, page 183."
And so, the inscription now covered (and in "several colours"!) there is indeed a statue to replace. But apparently the iconoclasts who went after Charles' statues in 1649 had left his predecessors unmolested; future revolutionaries in France and Russia will be far more thorough in wiping the slate clean.
Montagu's fleet is beginning to show up in the State Papers, which make clear that its mission isn't just to kick its collective heels 'till it's time to fetch the King, but also to restore some order at sea where Dutch pyrates have been prompt to take advantage of England's anarchy.
In particular, on March 19 a petition "of several masters of ships" in Newcastle was sent by "Robt. Ellison" to Monk, to ask for frigates to convoy them past "several Ostend men-of-war" on their way to business in "the Eastern Seas". The Ostenders, more or less freewheeling Dutch privateers, being always ready to plague the North Sea - indeed as far as "the Naze of Norway, to lie in wait for the English" - at the command of England's French/Dutch/Spanish enemy of the day, or just being pyrates.
On March 26 a Major Burton also writes to Montagu, "I will observe your order" to send frigates to convoy fishing vessels, which are also in fear of the dreaded Ostenders. Burton had written to the Admiralty on March 23 to update a previous request for that convoy, and the matter has since trickled down to Montagu, and probably to Sam's floating office where "your order" must have been one of the papers cluttering his tiny desk.
Gen. Monk's feelings on the monarchy are no longer much of a mysterie, but 'tis also increasingly beside the point, for already we're past the stage of secret meetings about the Forme of Government, and the king is beginning to take over the machinerie of State in its minutiae. To wit, this remarkable dispatch from Monk to Robert Stent, dated March 29 at St. James's:
"I appoint you, by virtue of the power delegated to me by King Charles II, as firemaster to the garrison of Dunkirk".
This of course from the State Papers, which show that Charles is also signing passports - viz., "by the King for Sieur Pierre St. Laurens, merchant (...) to traffic where he pleases without molestation" on March 30 old style, and for "Capt. John Gray (...) for protection in his travels", on March 20.
Whether such passports would be always recognized is another thing, but interestingly the one for Capt. Gray is written out in Latin, presumably for showing, on the continent, to non-English speakers who may have no opinion on who should govern England, and only want a passport to be legal and authentic. Tho', how far the King's writ would be recognized still seems unsure, for the "passport", only "recommend[s]" Gray. But 'tis call'd a Passport none the less.
On March 19 we also saw a "Petition of Roger Dickson, of Middleburg, to the King". But, uh-oh, this one is to "protes[t] his innocence of speaking evil against him [the King]".
To return to MBobryk's question of 2003: does Sam know where he's deploying, or is he waiting for Montagu to open the envelope-in-the-safe once on the open sea?
As of March 19 (new style - March 8 as Sam saw it) what Venetian ambassador Francesco Giavarina knew of the mission, was that "Parliament has (...) ordered [Montagu] to go on board the fleet and put to sea as soon as possible with a squadron, to cruise in the Channel and look after those parts where his presence may be required." Giavarina's dispatch is at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…. He also notes that "with the wind quite contrary Montagu cannot get out of the Thames, although urged to sail", which presumably the Diary will shortly confirm.
This should be the least that Sam and other men-about-town would likely know, but it's hard to believe that Sam in his position wouldn't have got the full briefing; or, in fact, that Montagu's orders are not to be found in some archive, though we're aware that records for the period are a bit of a mess.
Comments
Third Reading
About Friday 27 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
OK, end of the Lambert episode. £20 for the messenger who took the newes to London seems generous, but those are big newes, of a sort which 'tis customary indeed to reward extravagantly. Also this wasn't just some postman but one of Ingoldsby's men (likely an officer), and the Mercurius, quoting a letter from "Abell Roper", says "the messenger (...) came in such hast that they could writ noe letter, but brought a gold scale of armes of a Northamptonshire gentilman for testemony of the truth of what hee brought" - not sure what this means, but it sounds showy, and at least it's not Lambert's head in a bag. So here's £20, the last in the till.
About Friday 27 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
We're not completely surprised that the second- or third-hand newes which reach Sam, of Col. Lambert's capture, picture him as having "los[t] his reputation of being a man of courage", being "not able to fight one stroke", and imploring Ingoldsby to let him go, bursting in tears, etc. Now that he's retaken, nobody wants him to be Che Guevara so a bit of character assassination would be in order.
We like the bit about the colonel's Arabian charger getting mired. It hasn't reached the gazettes that are still the only current reports at our disposall, but what has, is a bit more complex than the version Sam's got anyway. First of all, this wasn't a high-noon encounter between the two colonels, on the empty main street of Dodge City: there were a lot of guns and horses. A long account in the French Gazette - the situation in England now clearly being of keen interest to many in Paris - in an "Extraordinaire" (a supplement) to appear on May 14 (new style, https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148… pages 421-432), has it that Ingoldsby was accompanied, first of all, by his regiment and no less than four companies of horse; we're not sure of the size of a company, but 'tseems that could come to over 400 horses in total. The Merucurius Politicus, as summarized by Mr. Rugg, describes a force of two regiments (Ingoldsby and, apparently, a Col. Sam Well) and some local militia.
Also: Lambert was betrayed. "Then came newes that [Lambert] has an intent to rendevouse att Edge Hill", the Mercurius recounts. Fair enough. But the Gazette adds that, when he's found out with four horse companies of his own, one of his commanders - Arthur Haselrig, a prominent former MP whom Wikipedia now describes as anti-Lambert and whom Charles II will later pardon (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art…) - defected to Ingoldsby upon being captured, and his company "came unhesitatingly to join the Troops of the said Colonal Ingoldsby, who placed it in his right flank".
The Gazette says Lambert then tried to parlay, but this went nowhere and "the Conference only came to the resolution of voiding the dispute by the arms" [vüider le différant par les armes", hard to translate but you see what I mean]. This led two more of Lambert's companions to change sides: Cols. Barther and another Rump celeb, Alured. The Mercurius lists neither of them among "those taken with Colonel Lambertt"; well, they weren't "taken".
Then Lambert gave up. In the meantime some blood had been shed: The Mercurius says, "at the takinge of him [Lambert] one killed and six wounded". Whew, that's a relief - honor is saved; unless this was guys falling off their horses of fighting over girls or dice, as could happen in a party so large.
About Tuesday 24 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Wherever the Naseby sits, its location and lack of movement make it easy to reach. We noted recently that a letter was being written in Dover for my Lord's attention; the State Papers show that within 24 hours of its dateline, Montagu has got it and is writing his response. Of course, Dover's not far, but the courier still had to sail around the sand banks and then row, back and forth.
Peering into the future, we found an opinion piece from a naval expert in Defense News on the merits of "dedicated command ships" [https://www.defensenews.com/opini…]. Sam is on a "dedicated command ship" now, and we phant'sy he would totally connect with that article, so could someone put it on the next packet from Dover? It says "cramming a senior admiral or general, staff, and radio [ahem, copyist] needs into a combatant ship" ain't no good, as the former have to fit in the tars' spartan cabins (ah, the London's "much bigger" state-room, even if "not so rich") and wet bunks, and the combatant is now less able to combat - in our case, as Susan remarked we seem to be missing our full crew of over 200.
Making a flagship into an admiral's palace also makes it an higher-value target. England's not at war right now, but imagine a fire-ship showing up during one of these merry all-captains parties. That, of course, may well be 2023 thinking; right now, the admiral is fully expected to fight anyway, isn't he. And as we know (or suspect), command-ship only describes part of the Naseby's mission at this time...
About Saturday 21 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
A note: If anybody is fluent in German, and so fluent in German as to decipher this fearsome-looking blackletter font German gazettes are still using (we tried but 'twas not for us), there is a nice collection of South German newspapers from 1660 through 1663 (and far beyond, but those are their Pepys years) that awaits your perusing at https://digipress.digitale-sammlu…. Who knows what's in there.
The Bavarian State Library's newspaper collection at https://digipress.digitale-sammlu… is a treasure trove in itself, but this is the main page for us. There's a few others at https://digipress.digitale-sammlu… and at https://digipress.digitale-sammlu…. All in German, all in blackletter, none of it machine-readable.
Sadly the renowned Dutch gazettes, and the many, many English journals that have cropped up as the Rump got roasted, seem to remain beyond our reach; buried in library stacks, auctioned off, or long gone as wrapping for the day's Baltick mackerels...
About Thursday 19 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Since we're time-travelling, about this (probable) canard of the fleet flying the royal flag, on May 7 the French Gazette (printed "aux Galleries du Louvre", eh) will print, as a supplement across no less than 13 pages, a "letter from London", purportedly "from an English gentleman" and dated April 24. It extols the joys of the return of English monarchy and the "end of Tyranny" (sounds familiar) and heaps laurels on Monck, calling him an Instrument of God and "a Sun that is not destined to illuminate only one Earth but to give delightful Aspects, at the least, to all of Europe" (no less). Though, interestingly at this late stage and in a document that reads very much like a memo from Vers... from the Louvre on What You Should Think About England, "We well see what he [Monck] has done, but we do not see what he wants to do". Well, the ways of God.
More to our purpose, the only piece of (seemingly) factual hard news in these 13 pages is that "General Montagu had the Royal Standard displayed at the front and aft of the Vessels of the Fleet he commands: & regaled all the Officers, with a superb Banquet, where one drank to the King's health, to the sound of all the cannon" (this at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, pages 481-482). Strange; someone writing from London shouldn't be short of colorful local anecdotes, and have to fish this one from out at sea.
Well, well. And that's supposed to come four days after that letter from Breda. So, either the royal-flag rumor has crossed the channel (and then 'twould be strange if Sam didn't pick it soon), or someone in Ver... in the Louvre, really wants us to picture this royal flag-waving Montagu-fleet in our minds, as concrete evidence that the Restoration will happen. Why? Who needs to be convinced by (apparently fake) concrete evidence?
If we may hypothesize, it looks like someone's trying to manipulate the market. But on what market does England matter to the speculators?
About Thursday 19 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Well, duh, harrumpf and blush, yes Sarah of course you're right. Tho' Louis likes that hunting lodge so much... We must've been touched by a prophetick vision (quick! hide the time machine in the bushes). Yes, that's it: in a later age, L14 will be so completely associated with Versailles, that it will endure as shorthand for power. Indeed it will be hard to even imagine the Sun King in the promiscuous squalor of Paris; kinda like picturing Elvis in Memphis rather than in Vegas. But right now in 1660, Elvis is still in Memphis, and for Versailles please read (and change trains at) Le Louvre.
About Friday 20 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
So at dinner last night we got the happy news that "my Lord was chosen at Dover". That's great! Congratulations. Today Mr Thomas White, in Dover, is also writing to My Lord on how he's utterly unable to fit out the Mermaid as per orders, "because we have neither money nor stores to help us". As always, but White adds that "Some of those of whom I have received necessaries for the State's frigates threaten to arrest me for the money (...) so that I cannot quietly walk the streets for want of money" (all in the State Papers; of course).
White hopefully closes his letter with "We beg you would be pleased to favour this poor town and port, and accept of being our baron in the next ensuing Parliament". Hmmm. Would this entail any walking of the streets? If my Lord had to chose, maybe Cambridge, far from the sea, could indeed be the better choice?
About Thursday 19 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Fake news in the French Gazette? We're shocked - shocked! - that this may even be conceivable in the Sun King's beautifulll kingdom.
Bit of background: The Gazette is (in principle) the sole authorized news-book in France at this time. On French internal matters it only publishes happy news, but the bulk of its content is foreign dispatches. On England it generally tracks the other sources at our disposal. The Gazette would not be above biasing or hand-picking at least some of its reports to push this or that French faction with a stake in the matter, and as such its seemingly factual reports are a bit hard to decode. France (well, Versailles) is sympathetic to Charles II but otherwise still very much sitting on the fence.
But the Gazette of course doesn't have a reporter in Breda who fact-checks and then rushes to a payphone to dictate his copy to the editor, currently Mr. Theophraste Renaudot Jr., son of the founder. Someone in Breda, quite possibly in C2's court, sent a letter which the Gazette reproduced (the professional press of the more enlightened ages to come will of course shy away from copy-pasting press releases, pwah).
So this news of "the Fleet of Montagu" flying the King's three lions rampant rather than (maybe) the cross-and-Irish-harp (see those banners at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fla… and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy…) may well be completely invented - some Breda courtier running ahead of the story, or wanting to convince Europe that the cake's already baked. Or maybe Renaudot embellished, to please the pro-C2 faction in Versailles. It doesn't matter. Charles himself should know what's going on aboard the Naseby if young Mr Montagu was indeed visiting him latelt, but what the ships are doing out at sea is pretty much impossible for anyone in France (or even in Breda) to prove or disprove.
However, the Gazette in the 1660s (says a history quoted at https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_…) prints around 8,000 copies. It's a lot. Everyone in Versailles or in the merchant quarters of Paris and Lyons now "knows" what Sam still doesn't, or isn't quite sure of: The boat he's on (more or less) resounds with "vive le Roy" and is one ardent king-carrying machine. Now if the Gazette fell into Sam's hands right now, would he be pleased or plain horrified?
About Thursday 19 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Aye, we seem to be treading water, but we're a command ship, a hub in glorious immovability like an aircraft carrier, and others do the movin' around. In an attachment to his recent report to the Admiralty on the subject of mackerels (which we pars'd at https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…), Montague yesterday sent an order of battle listing 32 ships. A considerable fleet, tho' from Sam's account alone you'd think we're alone on the gleaming sea.
Meanwhile, who wants news from Breda? The French Gazette has them! (Get it at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148…, page 394). Its report is dated April 20, but of course that's new style, so for us in our smelly cabins on the Naseby it's April 9 and already old news. And it says:
"The King of the Great Britain is, for some days, in this city [Breda], where the Court is flocking in the greatest numbers [ſe rend des plus groſſes], as from all parts come the English Lords & Gentlemen. His British Majesty is working, meanwhile, to make his Train of the most magnificent, hoping to soon pass to his Domains, on the advice that the Fleet of Montaigu, had displayed the Royal Standard, & that in a Banquet offered to all of the Officers, one had toasted, several times, the health of His said Majesty, to the sound of the gun's salute".
Now waiiit a minute. Yes, we had from Sam a few reports, on April 2 and more grandly on April 9-10, that "all or most" of the captains had come for a merry dinner. If the more recent Banquet is what the Gazette is reporting with a dateline on (in old style) the same date, then the news are sure moving fast - not impossible, unless that report was really already written in advance, like a press release; or maybe the Gazette's datelines are not really when the writing was done (that particular edition was printed on May 1st).
Sam on the 10th did hear a "great rattling of guns". Nothing from him, however, on all the captains toasting H.M.'s health - a bit odd, since he reports every whisper of royalism he comes across. He hadn't been at that dinner - instead he had private dinners, notably his own boisterous evening on the 9th with the lieutenant and poor Rev. Ibbot - but it's hard to believe he didn't have his ear on the wall, figuratively or literally, to monitor the seniors' doings in the nearby great cabin. OK, maybe they didn't all shout "long live the King" in a chorus before tossing their glasses at the walls. Maybe they did so just when Ibbot threw his caudle at Sam.
But so - we're flying the king's flag? The King is packing his bags "ſur l'avis que la Flotte de Montaigu, avoit aboré l'Etendart Royal". Remarkable, on a ship whose gilded figurehead is still Cromwell's mug (with laurels). But when did Sam mention this extraordinary display?
About Wednesday 11 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
What a relief for the very sober and upright Rev. Ibbot. Why, the Sam who gave him such a hard time a few days ago was a Beast, drunk on the brisk sea air, on a day spent ogling the ladies with his pal the lieutenant, and perhaps on the special bottle the captain keeps for seasick VIPs; and likely a difficult one to debate with, as Sam will soon be a sermon critic whose verdict on many (most?) of those he'll attend will come to "booooorrring!" We phant'sy that Sam was "free to make mirth" with the good minister's talent for improvisation, his pronunciation, projection and elocution, the rhytm and scansion of his sermons - pah, all terrible, and no presence on the stage! Perhaps he also bandied jokes in (freshly learn'd) naval slang with the lieutenant - unwise, given Ibbot's abundant experience at sea. Wait, did Sam reach for his knotted cane, until Lt. Lambert (who keeps to small beer, having a ship to manage) puts a restraining hand on his arm?
But today's Sam, now refocused on keeping his papers in order and who spent last night alone with his vialin - now that's better. Perhaps my lord, who seems to know Ibbot quite well too, had a quiet word with Sam on this being a business trip?
About Tuesday 17 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
And England is not a neutral party in this situation: while the bosses in London are sorting themselves out, the ambassadors of England and France in Denmark are mediating the end of the Second Northern War, between Denmark, Sweden and Holland. Right now, the Gazette reports from Cronenbourg (ibid., page 387) they're putting pressure on Denmark. A mis-step, and no more mackerel. Montagu, directing these fareway fleet movements from the Naseby through the paper flow in Sam's "study" ('coz now he's got a "study"), is an important cog in this tangle of fish and diplomats.
About Tuesday 17 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Tomorrow April 18, my lord Montagu will send to the Admiralty a report on his meeting with vice-admiral Lawson (which the State Papers will preserve at https://books.google.fr/books?id=…). Perhaps it's not the only one but, surprise, all he talks about is "the mackerel fishery", and the escorts he's sending here and there to protect the fishing fleet.
Somehow we're not surprised that Sam, whatever his reasons for writing the Diary - aide-mémoire on the political currents, edification of future generations - focuses on who's in/who's out, rather than on the mackerel. But the mackerel matters, because the people want fish, and the wars of northern Europe make it tricky to get. Montagu mentions deployments from Newfoundland to Gibraltar - where "the ship that goes in June had best be a [hired] Flemish vessel". Later generations will lament their roast having come all the way from New Zealand, but already the global food trade requires all the resources of the Royal Navy and of the beautiful mappamundi that may have adorned the Admiral's cabin, and rule Britannia.
Small bombshell in that letter of April 18: "I have discoursed concerning the mackerel fishery with Vice-Adm. Lawson", Montagu writes, "who says there is an agreement settled beyween him and the Ostenders, that the fresh fishers on either side shall receive no interruption (...) and need no convoy". Wow. So the Ostenders, a notch above being a bunch of pyrates but still privateers in service to whoever pays most or rules Ostend (currently Dutch rebels to Spanish rule, if we're not mistaken) have "an agreement" with an English vice-admiral. How we would have lik'd to be a fly on the wall when that was haggled over.
Curiously the letter doesn't mention the Baltic, where Montagu had dispatched an escort a couple of weeks ago (see https://www.pepysdiary.com/diary/…). There the herring swim in a war zone. On April 9 (new style, late March for Sam) a report from Copenhagen, cited in the French Gazette dated May 1 (at gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6, page 386) said "the Swede, who are still absolute on the Baltic sea, capture all the Vessels they meet, except those of the United Provinces [the Dutch; "les Süédois, qui sont, touſjours, abſolus sur la mer Baltique, enlèvent tous les Vaiſseaux qu'ils rencontrent, à la réſerve de ceux des Eſtats Généraux des Provinces Vnies"]. On April 13 another report from Cologne (ibid., page 368) will confirm that "the Dutch and the Swede", while observing a truce, "have made themselves such absolute masters of the Baltic Sea, that no Vessel may pass without falling into their hands" ["les Holandois & les Süédois: qui (...) s'eſtoyent rendus maiſtres ſi abſolus de la Mer Baltique, qu'aucun Vaiſſeau n'y pouvoit paſſer ſans tomber entre leurs mains"].
About Thursday 5 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
The Odnance Survey (https://getoutside.ordnancesurvey…) places the Blacktail Spit at 51.54320145°N, 0.94283312°E, in the Thames estuary. It lists it as "wetland/tidal" and suggests you take a walk there. Someone did so in their little sailboat - apparently called the Talisker 1 - and helpfully posted a bunch of nautical charts at http://www.samingosailing.com/a-f….
The charts abound in annotations like "foul ground" and "historic wreck area". Clearly the shallow waters, strong tide and shifting sand banks make the area a tricky one for a large ship and its escort. Indeed our friends on the Talisker 1 recall near Pyefleet Creek "a large Sailing Vessel heading northeast directly towards us under engine only was making heavy going with wind over tide".
A quick check on the river Lee suggests it's all within greater London, but plugging the above co-ordinates into Google Maps calls up an area that includes the hamlet of Lee-over-Sands, on the estuary of the Colne about 25 km northeast of Blacktail Spit. Perhaps the Lee roads ran/run nearby.
About Wednesday 4 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Hello, "General Pen". Welcome to the Diary. Pardon our Sam, he's new to naval affairs and ranks. It would seem you two didn't really hit it off on first meet. I'd wager you'll meet again. Here's to you two becoming best friends forever!
About Tuesday 3 April 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Pyrates, corsairs and Ostenders of course be as everyday commonplaces as, say, lice (scratch) and cholera (shiver). We recently noted a report of Ostenders all the way to Norway, and the Mercurius Politicus lately cited a State Council order for naval escorts in "the Irish Seas, to prevent the great piracies commited theire". But that's not the main reason why "many merchants [ask] to get convoy to the Baltique, which a course was taken for".
On April 1, Montague wrote (from the Swiftsure, perhaps in Sam's hand) to Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper (presently on the State Council): "A few days since, I received an order from the Council of State to appoint a sufficient convoy for securing our trade within the Baltic Sea, which the merchants have represented to be greatly obstructed by the Duke of Brandenburg's lately interdicting all trade to or from any of the Swedish ports, and commissioning above 20 pickeroons to disturb and destroy the said trade". My lord then says he figures that three frigates should be escort enough. (The letter is in the State Papers).
The "duke of Brandenburg" would seem to be no less than Great Elector Frederick William, a fairly considerable military commander who's currently a bit of a French client but busy pumping up Prussia to great-power status. He will all his life alternate between war with Sweden and alliances with Sweden. Right now he's winning Prussia's independence from Sweden as he wraps up the Second Northern War, a 5-year, 15-country affair that has extended all the way to the Crimean Khanate and even to America, where it saw Sweden lose the Delaware valley to the Dutch. And you thought English politics were complicated?
Las, also on the way to the Baltick, is Denmark, recently a war zone too and still aswarm with idle Swedish and Polish troops, and so a good place to have a naval escort. In future years the king of Denmark will also aggravate England by levying stiff fees on its passing ships. Curse those nordick kinglets who presume to impede England's liberty of the seas and god-given right to get all the herring!
About Friday 16 March 1659/60
Stephane Chenard • Link
The Incident of the Whitewash did fascinate so many, it was reported as far away as Paris, where we have now seen its report, dated April 3, in the Gazette de France dated April 10 (at gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6450281p/f403.item). It depicts the "painter" as "a man dressed up as a mason" [vn homme traveſti en Maſſon], "accompanied by a Boy" [accompagné d'vn Garçon], "climbed up to the Statue of Queen Elizabeth, under pretence of cleaning it" [monta à la Statüe de la Reyne Elizabeth, ſous prétexte de la nettoyer].
So, bonfires, high-level protection and toasts to the King or not, the Whitewash still isn't something you undertake (especially at the top of a ladder) without a disguise, a lookout and a pretext to give you time to check how the public's taking it. Poor Liz was pretext but at least she got a cleanup, whilst the previous kings were suffer'd to stay under their grime.
About Thursday 29 March 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
"The King's effigies (...) in the Exchange" were likely multiple, but included the one which popped into the news lately, when a mysterious painter whitewashed the "Exit Tyrannus" inscription that had defaced it.
We return to this episode, having now seen the weekly dispatch sent on March 26 by Venetian ambassador Giavarina. The record ain't complete till Giavarina's weekly cable is perused; in this case it adds to other accounts that "two hours before night some daring fellow (...) after washing and cleaning the statue of Queen Elizabeth did the same to that of King James and then washed ever the place of King Charles with several colours, obliterating the inscription completely"; also that "everyone admires the daring and determination of this fellow as he did it all without a mask or other disguise, from which it is concluded that he acted by order and with substantial backing". We suspected as much; also that this was still an act of "daring and determination" in London's unsettled state.
"Two hours before night" corroborates the Mercurius Politicus on the event's timing (5 o'clock, as we recall) but leaves hanging Sam's report of this having taken place "at noon". Or is "noon" any hour in daytime, or in the afternoon?
Background on all these royal statues: Giavarina helpfully explains to the Doge and Senate that "in the city of London in an open public place are statues of all the kings of England in a row, from Edward the Confessor, erected by the city itself on the day of their coronation. (fn. 9) That of King Charles was removed and broken in pieces by order of parliament the day his head was cut off". The Stationery Office compiler of Giavarina's reports (found at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…) chimes in with a footnote: "The royal statues were in the quadrangle of the Royal Exchange built by Gresham, placed in niches, immediately above the cloister or colonnade. They were all destroyed in the Great Fire [in 1666]. Wheatley and Cunningham: London, Past and Present, Vol. iii, page 183."
And so, the inscription now covered (and in "several colours"!) there is indeed a statue to replace. But apparently the iconoclasts who went after Charles' statues in 1649 had left his predecessors unmolested; future revolutionaries in France and Russia will be far more thorough in wiping the slate clean.
About Monday 26 March 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Montagu's fleet is beginning to show up in the State Papers, which make clear that its mission isn't just to kick its collective heels 'till it's time to fetch the King, but also to restore some order at sea where Dutch pyrates have been prompt to take advantage of England's anarchy.
In particular, on March 19 a petition "of several masters of ships" in Newcastle was sent by "Robt. Ellison" to Monk, to ask for frigates to convoy them past "several Ostend men-of-war" on their way to business in "the Eastern Seas". The Ostenders, more or less freewheeling Dutch privateers, being always ready to plague the North Sea - indeed as far as "the Naze of Norway, to lie in wait for the English" - at the command of England's French/Dutch/Spanish enemy of the day, or just being pyrates.
On March 26 a Major Burton also writes to Montagu, "I will observe your order" to send frigates to convoy fishing vessels, which are also in fear of the dreaded Ostenders. Burton had written to the Admiralty on March 23 to update a previous request for that convoy, and the matter has since trickled down to Montagu, and probably to Sam's floating office where "your order" must have been one of the papers cluttering his tiny desk.
About Tuesday 27 March 1660
Stephane Chenard • Link
Gen. Monk's feelings on the monarchy are no longer much of a mysterie, but 'tis also increasingly beside the point, for already we're past the stage of secret meetings about the Forme of Government, and the king is beginning to take over the machinerie of State in its minutiae. To wit, this remarkable dispatch from Monk to Robert Stent, dated March 29 at St. James's:
"I appoint you, by virtue of the power delegated to me by King Charles II, as firemaster to the garrison of Dunkirk".
This of course from the State Papers, which show that Charles is also signing passports - viz., "by the King for Sieur Pierre St. Laurens, merchant (...) to traffic where he pleases without molestation" on March 30 old style, and for "Capt. John Gray (...) for protection in his travels", on March 20.
Whether such passports would be always recognized is another thing, but interestingly the one for Capt. Gray is written out in Latin, presumably for showing, on the continent, to non-English speakers who may have no opinion on who should govern England, and only want a passport to be legal and authentic. Tho', how far the King's writ would be recognized still seems unsure, for the "passport", only "recommend[s]" Gray. But 'tis call'd a Passport none the less.
On March 19 we also saw a "Petition of Roger Dickson, of Middleburg, to the King". But, uh-oh, this one is to "protes[t] his innocence of speaking evil against him [the King]".
About Sunday 18 March 1659/60
Stephane Chenard • Link
To return to MBobryk's question of 2003: does Sam know where he's deploying, or is he waiting for Montagu to open the envelope-in-the-safe once on the open sea?
As of March 19 (new style - March 8 as Sam saw it) what Venetian ambassador Francesco Giavarina knew of the mission, was that "Parliament has (...) ordered [Montagu] to go on board the fleet and put to sea as soon as possible with a squadron, to cruise in the Channel and look after those parts where his presence may be required." Giavarina's dispatch is at https://www.british-history.ac.uk…. He also notes that "with the wind quite contrary Montagu cannot get out of the Thames, although urged to sail", which presumably the Diary will shortly confirm.
This should be the least that Sam and other men-about-town would likely know, but it's hard to believe that Sam in his position wouldn't have got the full briefing; or, in fact, that Montagu's orders are not to be found in some archive, though we're aware that records for the period are a bit of a mess.