Bringing two armies into battle array and then into close contact could take a long time. For the commanders, this required care, in order to prevent their soldiers losing heart, while having them ready when needed. At Marston Moor the initial uncertainty had lasted many hours, which was tiring and dispiriting for the enormous forces involved. Naseby would be brisk by comparison.
Prince Rupert, the King's commander-in-chief, had ordered a battle array with his own cavalry on the Royalist right wing while Sir Marmaduke Langdale took the Royalist left, leading the experienced Northern and Newark horse. Behind their infantry in the centre, the King, resplendent in full black body armour, watched among his Lifeguard, five hundred men who served as the Royalist reserve.
For Parliament, Skippon was arraying the infantry in the Swedish style, six deep, as Gideon and Lambert Jukes had seen them at the first battle of Newbury. Cromwell's cavalry, on the right flank, would be negotiating the rabbit-holes. The left flank, at Cromwell's request, was led by his fixer son-in-law-to-be, Henry Ireton. The left were therefore facing the dreaded Prince Rupert, but they had better ground and Cromwell was planning further protection from dragoons.
During the first hours after dawn, Prince Rupert came in sight of the van of the New Model Army Signalling for the remainder of the King's army to follow him, he moved westwards, wanting to get upwind, so the Royalists would not be blinded by their opponents' gunsmoke. To the Parliamentarians, this looked like a flanking movement. It could mean Rupert had chosen not to give battle. He had, in fact, for once counselled against it, because of the enemy's superior numbers.
Fairfax finessed him. He moved his own men back a hundred paces from the higher ground they commanded. They could still see what the enemy were doing but while their dispositions for battle were being arranged, they were shielded by the crest of the ridge.
Thinking Fairfax might intend to withdraw, Prince Rupert was lured into action, even though his men would have to charge uphill against greater numbers. At about ten in the morning, even before his artillery had caught up, the prince ordered a general advance, while leading his cavalry into the start of a characteristic charge.
A Parliamentarian forlorn hope had been placed on the slope ahead of their army, to dissipate the force of the enemy's first attack. These musketeers fired off initial rounds. Classically, this was the signal that battle had been joined. The forlorn hope pulled back. The main body of the New Model Army then advanced in formation to the edge of their high ground, on what was named Mill Hill, and came into view of the Royalists.
The battle of which veterans would speak until their death-beds had begun.
Chapter Thirty-Two — Naseby: 14 June 1645
Gideon was queuing for powder at the regimental budge-wagon when it started. He felt exhausted and dirty. The army had been on the march for three days, with Colonel Okey's regiment responsible for mounting guard each night. No one had eaten the previous evening, in their regiment or others, because they barely paused in their search for the King. Gideon would be going into action not as starved as at Newbury, but still famished.
He was tired too. It was a week before the longest day. Last night had been light until barely two hours before midnight. Dawn came early. At three o'clock this morning they were ordered up. He had blundered to the prayer meeting, his chest tight while the chaplain asked the Lord's protection on what they all knew would be a day of battle. Since then the New Model had been on the move, edging towards the enemy. Eventually word came that Fairfax had called a halt, lest they stumble out of the thick ground mist and come upon the Royalists unexpectedly.
They were further north than Gideon ever remembered being; the general temperature seemed cooler than it would have been in London, maybe sixty miles away. Here on the uplands, chilly air made the men stiff, especially those who had old wounds to grumble about, as some of his soldiers did. All the dragoons were fretting because after rain showers in the night the going was very heavy for horses. While Gideon was waiting for his ammunition he could barely see three men in front of him through the fog. They spoke in low voices, when they spoke at all, lest the sound carry and reveal their presence to unseen opponents.
He wiped the side of his boot against a tussock of dewy meadow grass. Part of him wished, as always, that he were back at home, cleaning off dung deposited by some Cheapside dray-horse, and whistling on his way to work with Robert at the print-shop. Mostly he was glad to be here. Among his new colleagues as they patiently waited to fill their rattling flasks and apostles with coarse and fine gunpowder, the mood was cheerful. They had glints in their eyes and showed their teeth, in satisfaction that they would soon be fighting
Gideon remembered his responsibilities; he nodded encouragement. His men tolerated the attempt mildly. How he performed today would make the difference between whether or not they really accepted him. As the newest sergeant he had been assigned a slightly ramshackle group. One, Thomas Bentall, had been pressed straight from prison where he had been put for brawling; broken-nosed and toothless, he looked like it. A couple of others, thin-faced and gingery, gave every impression of having been horse-thieves and must have escaped jail only because they were too quick to be caught. He had a hatter, a farmer, two confectioners who were brothers-in-law and not speaking to each other, a docker who had been in the Westminster Trained Bands. After only three days, Gideon was still learning their names. Glory-to-God Parchment was easy enough; he was the one reading his pocket Bible while he queued, at the same time as picking his nose with his free hand. Walter Gummery was the oldest, certainly sixty, and had an unacknowledged bladder problem; he was taking relief against the wheel of the budge wagon. All of them had seemed well disposed. Gideon's height, his modest manner, his scarred hands and his having side-stepped his commander's wishes at Newport Pagnell in order to be here combined to win their loyalty. Even the fact that his uniform coat and breeches failed to meet properly had helped; the men recognised him by the way he always tugged his coat down as he loped along on spidery legs. It made Sergeant Jukes look a bit of a character. His soldiers liked that — and the way he got on with things.
Colonel Okey had been supervising the share-out of powder and shot that morning in a large meadow. Between seven and eight o'clock, General Cromwell rode up and spoke to him. Gideon recognised the new commander of horse. Through yawns, he noticed the stout, armoured figure, clearly at one with his horse, a man who rode without haste and yet whose very presence signalled urgency. Cromwell passed within fifty feet, unaccompanied by any honour guard. Even through his 'triple-barred pot', a serviceable iron helmet with a lobster-tailed neck-guard and three simple face bars, he looked bright and confident.
It was the moment Cromwell himself would famously describe afterwards: '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…' As Cromwell approached Okey, Gideon wondered about this plain-featured countryman in his forties who three years ago had had no military training or experience at all, yet who was now acknowledged as one of the finest soldiers in the kingdom. He rode a damned good horse; all the men commented.
Wind was dispersing the mist. As the day cleared, Cromwell had observed the Royalist advance, its flickering standards, the light glinting off armour and precious metal braid, the blocks of pikemen and musketeers, the twinkles of matchcord, the shifting bodies of cavalry aching for the charge. He had already organised his own cavalry wings. His business now was to command the dragoons to protect the extreme left flank. Cromwell's words to Okey were inaudible, but Okey jumped to. Cromwell galloped off.
Gideon heard the regimental drums beating everyone to action. With his right hand steadying his musket butt, he went running back towards the horses which were gathered in a small spinney. Okey, with a straight back, was issuing rapid orders. Gideon saw his colleagues' hasty dismount. With a roar o
f jubilation, all those who were not to be left holding the horses scrambled on foot to line the great hedges that crossed Broad Moor from north to south. Gideon swerved off with them. They had barely time to prepare. Across in front of them, their ride contained by this natural boundary of the Sulby hedgerow, came Prince Rupert's cavaliers.
When musketeers fought cavalry, the instructions were to aim at the horses' legs. They wanted the mounts to fall. Unsaddling the cavaliers would do the most damage. Gideon tried to remember this, as he waited to give the first enfilading volley. Muskets had a long range but for full effect the dragoons were to delay shooting until the enemy were so close they could see the lines in their faces. It took nerve.
He loathed the new snaphance. With only a couple of days to practice, most of that time spent on the march, he had yet to master this strange weapon. It felt too light. He would never find its range. Loading was swift and easy but when the order came to fire, the short muzzle flew up so he knew that his shot went skywards. He had no musket-rest. Nobody had a rest. Rests were, as his new captain had scoffed, fine for monthly manoeuvres in the Artillery Yard, but no use in a fight. But using a rest for the long barrel of his matchlock was how Gideon Jukes had trained and as he struggled irritably with this new weapon, he wanted a musket-rest — desired it with a passion that was greater than any lust of man for woman, hated the captain who had spoken lightly of the way the Trained Bands trained and, of course, hated his own clumsiness.
He cursed the snaphance like a brewhouse stoker. Forcing open his pan and fumbling with fine powder, he primed, blew off residue, charged the barrel, spat a new ball from his mouth to his palm, jogged the bullet into the barrel so it sank into the powder, rammed, presented, and on the order fired again into the thundering lines of Rupert's charging men. These cavaliers were a grand sight as they galloped headlong in their fine clothes on glossy mounts, gloved and rapiered, with lace cuffs and ribboned boot-hose and deep lace collars rippling on their shoulders over polished cuirasses. Destroying the privileged bastards would be a pleasure.
With the second shot Gideon over-compensated. He knew the bullet must have struck the ground uselessly ahead of him. It was happening all over the field. Even artillery balls were burying themselves in bog, impotently casting up showers of mud. Not that he could hear much from anyone's artillery. Neither side seemed to be using their cannon to effect. At least he need not fear having his head ripped off.
Next time he got his shot right. He was not alone. To either side of him the dragoons were in high spirits, shooting, shouting and rejoicing. Gideon was swept by exhilaration, here among men who knew just what they were doing. Fear was displaced by assurance as they powered through routine musket moves. Amidst the low clatter of their powder canisters all around, he felt, rather than saw, the regiment moving in rhythm — nine hundred men loading charges of coarse powder, fine powder, lead bullets; raising their guns and then cocking the trigger; three hundred men waiting, then firing a volley in more-or-less unison; three hundred from the second rank firing; three hundred from the third.
The noise was appalling. Gunfire deafened everyone. Recoil from the hot musket would be bruising his shoulder. Other discomforts vaguely niggled. Ditchwater or dew was soaking the knees of his britches as he knelt in the hedge. Spiny twigs scratched the back of his neck, unsettling his hat. Someone in the crouching row of men behind, attempting second-rank fire over Gideon's shoulder, lost his balance and fell forwards right onto him. It could have been disastrous, though the soldier did his best to recover and keep his weight off. Gideon grunted. Others pulled the man back; Gideon's powder had spilled but he was already reaching for a new charge. There was no time for recrimination.
They saw Rupert's horse gain momentum. Ireton's Parliamentary wing was on the move too; the opposing cavalry surged together in heavy groups. Some Parliamentarian regiments, closest to the centre, survived the shock while the rest fought back bravely, causing severe Royalist casualties; but Rupert's charge and his skill enabled him to chase many right off the field. Ahead of Okey's regiment, after hard fighting, the Parliamentary left wing now milled in disarray.
Aware of damage from the dragoons' crossfire, enemy troops suddenly appeared by the hedge, hoping to dislodge them. It was dangerous. Footmen, with no armour, were in peril when attacked by cavalry and Prince Rupert customarily planted musketeers among his cavalry for extra sharp-shooting. Somehow, Okey's men repulsed them. How did not matter. It passed in a moment; they had other things to think about.
As the first waves of cavalry had made contact on the field, there was a prolonged bout of frantic cut and thrust until the Royalists broke through. Then they raced on, heading away too fast and too far. Okey's men watched the cavalier horse drive many of their own men from the field, yet the cavaliers fragmented into wild groups that streamed away almost to Naseby village. There they would find the Parliamentary baggage-train; Prince Rupert himself would be with them, absent from the battle for over an hour. He personally summoned the guards at the Parliamentary baggage to surrender, but they — an unregimented tawny-coated group of musketeers — first mistook him for Fairfax because he wore a similar crimson montero hat to one their general wore. Finally grasping Rupert's summons, they stood their ground and refused to yield. Realising belatedly that he was needed elsewhere, the prince left them.
Back on the field, in his absence a hallooing second rank of velvet-cloaked Royalist squierarchy had charged, stayed in position, and were carving up anything that remained of the Parliamentary left wing. Ireton had veered away to assist the infantry at the centre, where he was unhorsed, wounded in the thigh, wounded in the face with a halberd and then taken prisoner. Word whipped around his men, demoralising them. Their leaderless remnants milled in disorder. Next to Sulby Hedges, Colonel Butler's regiment was imperilled, until repeated rounds from Okey's dragoons saved them from certain extinction.
The dragoons had lost track of time but must have stayed by the hedges for an hour. Once most cavaliers had moved away, through the gunsmoke they could see pandemonium out among the infantry. The locked regiments at the centre swayed to and fro; glimpses showed that Skippon's desperate men, now no longer protected by cavalry on their left, were slogging it out at push of pike and butt of musket. Though they outnumbered the enemy, they had been over-mastered and had given ground. Skippon had had a bullet strike him in the ribs; it pushed part of his breastplate deep into his chest, but he refused to leave the field. Word that he was dangerously hurt was causing sections of the infantry to lose heart and fade.
For the New Model Army, the outcome looked grim for a period. They did have double the Royalist numbers, so Cromwell and Fairfax could deploy support to trouble-spots. But the Royalist infantry were as good as any. Had Prince Rupert's cavalry checked quickly enough after storming through, had they turned on Parliament's now-exposed centre, it would have been disastrous.
As the Parliamentary foot were pushed back across the moor and up the hill behind them by their tenacious opponents, they began to merge into the waiting reserve regiments under Colonels Hammond, Pride and Rainborough. Fairfax and other officers encouraged them to make a final stand. Somewhere in that melee was Lambert Jukes, cheerfully wielding his pike as the reserve regiments were called up and began to push heavily forwards.
The reserves were fresh and cheery. The mood at the centre altered.
On the far wing, matters went well from the start. Cromwell had led the Ironsides steadily across the broken ground, never creating the speed of Prince Rupert's men, but safely negotiating the treacherous rabbit-holes and various pits and waterholes they unexpectedly encountered. For an hour they fought it out hand-to-hand with the Royalist Langdale's unhappy and mutinous Northern Horse. Slowly at first, but then with greater momentum, Cromwell beat a way through. Watching from among his Lifeguards on the ridge, the King correctly assessed that Langdale's units were about to break. Once flight began, panic would rip through them, until men and horses chased from the
field, wild with terror. Some at the rear of the Royalist left wing were already retreating, with groups of Parliamentary cavalry swooping in pursuit. The King prepared to lead a rescue mission. 'Face about once, and give one charge and save the day!' cried Charles with spirit.
His decision to ride into danger horrified his Lifeguards. The King might have saved the day in person. Equally, he might have perished, yet saved his cause heroically. Instead, a Scots nobleman grabbed at his horse's reins and turned its head, swearing at the King as he shouted: 'Will you go to your death?' Charles floundered. He let himself be dissuaded. Seeing his mount turning aside, the Royalist reserves were thrown into confusion. They lost heart. Control failed. Interpreting the movement as a sign that it was every man for himself, the Royalist reserves bolted from the field, without a shot fired.
Activity against Sulby Hedges was faltering. The dragoons now had no one in particular to shoot at. Colonel Okey perceived that on the far wing, some of the New Model cavalry were chasing Royalists. The rest, under Cromwell himself, had wheeled towards the centre, taking on the Royalist foot.
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