The creation of the New Model meant a fresh emphasis on merit which allowed for the removal of Essex, and of Manchester, Cromwell’s bête noire. Admittedly, Essex didn’t go quietly even when decisively pushed by Parliament, producing a long moan about how ill-used he felt before resigning; not for the last time, Parliament was being savaged by a dead sheep. By contrast, Cromwell was quickly recommissioned by an eager Fairfax, who wanted him to be Lieutenant-General of the Horse. By now, Cromwell had some friends and many enemies. He was becoming one of the leaders of the independent faction, with Sir Henry Vane. But Essex and Manchester, and their supporters in the Lords, were furiously resentful, and Manchester insisted that Cromwell was a base, levelling fellow who was filling the ranks of officers with plebeians – doubly mendacious, because it was Fairfax and not Cromwell who was picking the officers. Denzil Holles and the Presbyterians in both England and Scotland were also his foes, Lucy Hay’s allies, who wanted peace and a restrained but still potent monarch ruling a Protestant but not Independent England. Denzil Holles thought the New Model officers distinctly beneath him – ‘most of the colonels’, he wrote, ‘are tradesmen, tailors, goldsmiths, shoemakers, and the like’. The list sent up to the Commons was eventually pruned of those suspected of radicalism: both Rainsborough and Okey were excluded, and so was Major Richard Cromwell. Others, however, were excluded for duller reasons: keeping existing officers happy, patronage, clientage. And yet by no means all radicals were shut out, and the Lords may have made some attempt to balance religious views within regiments. One of those promoted when a number of Scottish colonels left in a huff was Ned Harley.
But this was a moral and class panic generated by a very small change in style. Only seven of the new colonels were not gentlemen, and nine of them were from noble families. Cromwell’s well-known ‘plain russet-coated captain’ was actually able to pay for the creation of his own troop. You could look at them and see no difference from Royalist officers, as Fairfax’s feat of walking through Royalist lines at Marston Moor shows. Yet internally the New Model began to make a difference. Once the amended Self-Denying Ordinance had been passed, on 3 April 1645, the officers were chosen on grounds of professional ability. The Ordinance demanded the resignation of members of both Houses from all military or civil offices held since 1640; a rider added that individuals might be reappointed later, as Cromwell was. Effectively, Parliament sacked its entire command and administrative staff, and reappointed those whose performance was thought to merit it. On these toughly meritocratic grounds, nobles like Essex and Manchester were ousted by minor gentlemen like Cromwell. Scarcely egalitarian, this nonetheless installed a notion that merit was not the same as rank. Of course, most of those who voted for the Ordinance did not see themselves as ushering in democracy, or the rule of the saints either. They simply wanted to win the war. But the remodelling was able to generate an experience of meritocracy which had a powerful impact.
That impact was heightened by the New Model’s ancillary ‘army’ of preachers. There were a few regimental chaplains, but most preaching was done by ministers from army headquarters, who were especially eager to offer sermons just before battles. Hugh Peter preached on 20 July 1645, to encourage the soldiers to go on during the siege of Bridgewater. There was another homily, this time from the Reverend Bowle. Then the drums beat, the troops attacked, and with Peter exhorting them to do their utmost, they managed to take the town. But when they were not available, the Eastern Association cavalry were used to officers and even men taking over the pulpit, and they continued the practice. It spread to the rest of the army.
The New Model could also consult the Bible for further advice. One publication, The Soldier’s Pocket Bible, was created especially for the army in 1643, but became progressively more popular as the war dragged on. It contained special prayers, mainly from militant psalms, and it dealt extensively with issues like courage in battle; most of it came from the Old Testament. It was full of exhortations: the first page began ‘A soldier must not do wickedly’ and ‘A soldier must be valiant for God’s cause’. Soldiers were reminded to pray before battles, in case they were killed. The Pocket Bible also interpreted the war as a holy one, in which the Lord might first afflict and then save his people: ‘For the iniquities of Gods people are delivered into the hands of their enemies … Then shall all nations cry, wherefore hath the Lord done this unto this land, how fierce is his great wrath.’ Such quotations were also an attempt to explain misfortune and to comfort.
Also consoling were images of the powerful God of the Hebrews: ‘The Lord is a man of war; his name is JEHOVAH.’ The last entries promised uprightness and integrity: ‘I have vowed and I will perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgement’ (1644 edition). Civil War bullets were fired so feebly that even quite small Bibles could stop them, and Richard Baxter said that this happened so often that it was hardly worth recording. Some soldiers also had a catechism, which claimed that the Royalists ‘were for the most part Papists and Atheists … generally the most horrible cursers and blasphemers in the world … for the most part inhumane, barbarous and cruel’. It was realistic, though; it also asked why morals were not higher in the army of Parliament. ‘Because’, it explained smoothly, ‘honest religious men are not more forward to put forth themselves.’ It added that ‘officers in towns and countries aim to press the scum and refuse of men, and so by easing themselves pester our armies with base conditioned people’.
The New Model Army is associated in the popular mind with Cromwell, but its supreme commander was Thomas Fairfax, the man who had struggled back through hostile lines at Marston Moor to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. And in its lifetime the New Model was not called the New Model; in official documents it was always described as the ‘army under Sir Thomas Fairfax’. Fairfax was small, slight and self-effacing. When appointed to supreme command, he was just thirty-three years old. Yet despite these handicaps his authority over the army he helped to create was absolute, and unquestioned. Certainly Cromwell himself never questioned it. Fairfax was a man whose straightforwardness and integrity defeated even his willing detractors; the worst thing Royalists could find to say of him was that he was stupid and easily influenced. The last was the reverse of the truth; Bulstrode Whitelocke says that he would sit listening to the council discussing something, endlessly, and then go straight out and do the opposite of what they had decided upon. He was not stupid, either, but as a general there was a simplicity about him that anticipates Ulysses Simpson Grant. He didn’t flank or encircle. He liked a good direct simple frontal assault, well sustained, and didn’t mind if it cost a lot of men. By contrast, we have William Waller’s description of Cromwell:
And here I cannot but mention the wonder which I have oft times had to see this eagle in his eyrie. He at this time had never shown extraordinary parts, nor do I think that he did himself believe he had them. For although he was blunt, he did not bear himself with pride or disdain. As an officer he was obedient and did never dispute my orders nor argue upon them. He did indeed seem to have great cunning, and while he was cautious of his own words, not putting forth too many lest they should betray his thoughts, he made others talk, until he had as it were sifted them, and known their inmost designs. A notable instance was his discovering in one short conversation with one Captain Giles, a great favourite with the Lord General, that although his words were full of zeal and his actions seemingly brave, that his heart was not with the cause. And in fine this man did soon after join the enemy at Oxford, with three and twenty stout fellows. One other instance I will here set down, being of the same sort, as to his cunning: When I took the Lord Percy at Andover, having at that time an inconvenient distemper, I desired Colonel Cromwell to entertain him with some civility; who did afterwards tell me, that amongst those whom we took with him (being about thirty) there was a youth of so fair a countenance that he doubted of his condition; and to confirm himself willed him to sing; which he did with such a daintiness that Cromwell scrupled n
ot to say to Lord Percy that ‘being a warrior he did wisely to be accompanied by Amazons.’ On which the Lord in some confusion did acknowledge that she was a damsel. This afterwards gave some cause for scoff at the King’s party, as that they were loose and wanton, and minded their pleasure more than their country’s service or their master’s good.
One of the chaplains of the New Model was Richard Baxter, who left a detailed record of his experiences. ‘Oh the sad and heart-piercing spectacles that mine eyes have seen in four years’ space … scarce a month, scarce a week without the sight or noise of blood … So hearing such sad news on one side or the other was our daily work insomuch that as duly as I was awakened in the morning I expected to hear one come and tell me such a garrison is won or lost, or such a defeat is recorded or given. And “do you hear the news?” was commonly the first word I heard. So miserable were those bloody days, in which he was most honourable that could kill most of his enemies.’ He added, ‘It must be a very extraordinary army that is not constituted of wolves and tigers, and is not unto common honesty and piety the same that a stews or whorehouse is to chastity.’ Baxter had been Cromwell’s choice as chaplain for his troop as early as 1642, but despite being nearly lynched by his own people in Kidderminster at the start of the war, he decided to sit it out until 1645. This was in part because he expected the war to be over quickly: ‘so wise in the ways of war was I, and all the country beside, that we commonly supposed that in a very few days or weeks one battle would end the war’. He was wrong.
The campaign that was to end at Naseby fight began in early 1645 as an attempt to check Montrose. It was an integral part of the War of Three Kingdoms. Scottish commander Leven was afraid that if Montrose managed to join the king he would be unstoppable.
Meanwhile Fairfax was sitting idle before Oxford. He complained. ‘We should spend our time unprofitably before a town, whilst the King hath time to strengthen himself and by terror to enforce obedience of all places where he comes.’ Parliament’s army under Massey managed to take Evesham, cutting the king off from Worcester. Meanwhile, the king too was unenthusiastic about the New Model sitting outside Oxford. He thought the city’s provisions inadequate for a long siege. So to draw off the New Model, the Royalists under Rupert attacked Leicester, which had only a small garrison and stout walls to defend it. The walls weren’t stout enough to withstand Rupert’s guns, and within a day they had taken and sacked the town.
It was a terrible sack, as those involving Rupert’s men generally were. They took the mayor’s mace, and no soldier, it was said, left with less than forty shillings. Two hundred men were killed and 1200 more imprisoned. The news sent London into a panic. The Leicester garrison, it was reported with some exaggeration, had been butchered to a man. ‘All these things will seem like dreams for many men, but they must understand we will be no more a-dreaming; the business of Leicester hath awakened us.’
The Committee of Both Houses met, even though it was the Sabbath. At once it ordered Fairfax and Sir Samuel Luke to act, telling Fairfax simply to follow the king. Cromwell went to defend the Eastern Association. But London felt no reassurance. ‘Never hardly did an army go off to war who had less the confidence of their own friends or were more the objects of the contempt of their enemies.’ Rupert argued passionately that the king should continue to harass Midland towns, thus drawing off Fairfax and relieving Oxford. But Rupert by now had enemies who would not have voted for his plans even if he had been leading an army of angels. The Royalist army simply hung about the Midlands, doing nothing, and some of its men deserted, the Yorkshire levies because they would not march south and others because they were already rich enough with plunder. But Charles was happy because Fairfax had duly left Oxford, marching to Newport Pagnell and asking that Cromwell be released to serve under him. There were plenty of hearty jokes about the ‘New Noddle’ Army.
But the smiles vanished when Charles heard that Fairfax and his forces were only five miles away from his own position at Burrow Hill, not far from Daventry. He had slipped easily through the Royalist scouts, and the king’s army was scattered. Charles was out hunting when he heard the news, on 12 June. Fairfax’s arrival was only recognized when the Royalist pickets were driven in. There was immediate confusion. Many soldiers, as always, were out foraging, and horses were foraging too, grazing on the slopes of Burrow Hill.
Fairfax, on the other hand, was well briefed. He had intercepted a letter from Goring to the king, explaining that he was not able to bring his troops to the Midlands. The king’s forces had been depleted by the war and by desertion: some of his twenty-six regiments of infantry contained only about eighty men, and the proportion of officers to soldiers was very high because some regiments had all but disappeared. Estimates vary, but perhaps the Royalists had about 4000 foot and about 5000 horse. The New Model, however, had 13,000 even before Cromwell’s horse arrived on 13 June. It may have been this disparity that prompted the king to begin moving back towards Market Harborough. Fairfax pursued him, and by night had reached Gainsborough, with his vanguard entering Naseby and capturing a Cavalier patrol, who had stopped at a local inn for a feast. Hearing of Fairfax’s pursuit, the king immediately summoned a council of war, which met in the dark of night on 14 June. Some sensibly argued for withdrawal, but the Royalist honour code generated its usual appetite for battle, whatever the odds, and soon they had decided to turn and face the enemy on the long, high ridge south of Market Harborough. It blocked the road between Fairfax’s camp and the town, and if Fairfax tried to use the road, the Royalists could sweep down onto his left flank. If he tried to flank the position, he would expose his own flank to attack.
The army was on the ridge, waiting, by 8 a.m. In the centre was the Royalist foot, commanded by Sir Jacob Astley, with 800 horse to protect it. To the right were another 2000 horse under Rupert, while on the left Sir Marmaduke Langdale commanded the northern horse. Its ranks were decidedly thin without Goring’s support.
The New Model had been moving since 3 a.m. But Fairfax couldn’t see the enemy, and didn’t want to stumble into them in the thick morning mist. He too stopped, outside Naseby.
Then each army sent out scouts looking for the other. Rupert’s reported that they couldn’t find the New Model. Irritably, Rupert decided to go and look himself. Fairfax, on the other hand, knew where the Royalists were; he rode forward, wondering about occupying some boggy ground that could make a Royalist cavalry charge difficult. But Cromwell argued urgently against it. Rupert could, he maintained, turn the position, or simply sit on the high ground and decline battle. It would be much better to occupy the ridge to the rear, which would tempt Rupert across the valley and force him to charge uphill at them. Fairfax showed his good sense and leadership ability: he saw at once that his subordinate was right. The New Model was strung out along the line of march, gradually closing up to the village, where the front ranks had stopped.
At this moment Rupert cantered up and saw the army withdrawing, it seemed, and about to occupy the ridge. Like Cromwell, he didn’t like the idea of fighting a cavalry battle on the boggy ground, but he could see another, better possibility; why not flank them? Go around to the right, keep the windward position so his men would not be too blind with black smoke to charge? He sent the army an urgent message to follow, and struck off to the right. The Royalists responded, though Rupert’s artillery couldn’t keep up and he ended by opening hostilities with only a few sakers, small cannon, in place.
As the Royalist army followed Rupert, with the king himself in front on horseback, bearing his drawn sword aloft, Fairfax saw its movement from the ridge. The New Model prepared for action; Skippon drew up the foot, and Cromwell was on the right. Whalley’s horse, so loved by Richard Baxter, stood ready to plunge into action. They were on terrible ground, broken, thick with furze, pitted with rabbit holes. On the other wing, the left, were more cavalry under Cromwell’s capable future son-in-law Henry Ireton. Cromwell placed some dragoons to line the hedges so as to take any Roya
list advance in enfilade. This was always sound strategy, but it bore heavily on the dragoons, who were exhausted from constant outpost duty while the army was on the move, and who were now vulnerable. There was a forlorn hope, too.
At about ten in the morning, the Royalist advance began, heavy and slow, the officers clad in velvet and taffeta, with silk colours flying. Cromwell later remembered that ‘when I saw the enemy draw up and march in gallant order towards us, and we a company of poor ignorant men, to seek how to order our battle … I could not riding alone about my business but smile out to God in praises, in assurance of victory, because God would, by things that are not, bring to naught things that are.’
The forlorn hope fired, and as if it were a signal, the New Model moved over the crest, as the Parliamentarian artillery got off a round of fire. As Rupert’s cavalry trotted forward and caught up the infantry, the musketeers in the hedgerows fired, but it did little to slow the charge. Rupert’s forces swept up the hill and collided with Ireton’s cavalry; the attack was fierce enough to break one of the regiments, which was saved by the musketry of Okey’s tired dragoons. The survivors faced Rupert’s second line, which pushed Ireton’s men from the field.
But then, as ever, Rupert couldn’t get his men to re-form and charge again. On they rode, pursuing the fleeing New Model stragglers, until they galloped right into the New Model baggage-train. They were eager, but the camp guard was determined, and made a genuine attempt to see them off. An hour went by before Rupert could get his men back to the main business of the day. And he himself, supposedly the commanding general, was absent too.
The Royalist foot pressed forward, ‘falling in with their swords and the butt end of their muskets’. Skippon had taken a musket bullet that had pierced his armour under the ribs. He reeled in the saddle, but refused to retire. Yet news of his wound spread, and his men wavered; his front line crumpled, though it did not break. Ireton, who had re-formed his men, crashed into the right of the Royalist foot, but they managed to hold off his attack with pikes and muskets, and his horse was shot out from under him. Dismounted, he was vulnerable; a pikeman ran him through the thigh. A halberd gashed him in the face. Finally, he was captured. His counterattack had hindered the Royalists, but now they broke through to Skippon’s second line.
The English Civil War: A People’s History (Text Only) Page 51