by the worst of all national disorders, internal disintegration.
England, the very heart and centre of it, was about to be rent in twain
by the frenzied and pitiless talons of civil war, and that is a war in
which the right side--which, of course, is always the best side--must
not only win, but utterly crush and pulverise the other unless wreck
and chaos irretrievable are to follow.
This was the central idea that the Great Oliver grasped just as Edward
of the Long Legs had grasped his brilliantly premature idea of the
United Kingdom. He was the latest of that series of iron-handed men
that had begun with William the Norman. The watchword of his whole
public life was “healing and settling.” The wounds of his country had
to be healed and its disorders settled, no matter by what means, so
long as it was done, and in this deep-rooted conviction we see at a
glance his kinship with the other Empire-makers who had gone before him.
Of his early life there is little to be said, though it is noteworthy
that he was once fined £10 for neglecting a summons to appear at the
King’s coronation and receive the honour of knighthood. He little
thought then that he would one day find it his duty to refuse the crown
and sceptre of England.
Every one who has read even the school-books knows that when the
war actually began all the apparent advantages were on the side of
the Royalists. Though the first battles afforded the extraordinary
spectacle of mere conflicts of amateur soldiers, few of whom had ever
seen a real fight before, the Cavaliers, trained to horsemanship and
the use of arms, and versed in all manly sports, made far finer
fighting material than the raw levies of the Parliament. Had this
difference continued victory must have remained, as it began, with the
Royalists, with results to the nation that could hardly have failed to
be of the very worst sort. This is what Cromwell himself says on this
all-important subject:
“At my first going out into this engagement I saw our men were beaten
at every hand. Your troops, said I, are most of them old, decayed
serving-men, and tapsters and such kind of fellows, and, said I, their
troops are gentlemen’s sons, younger sons and persons of quality. Do
you think that the spirits of such base, mean fellows will ever be able
to encounter gentlemen that have honour and courage and resolution in
them? You must get men of spirit and, take it not ill what I say--I
know you will not--of a spirit that is likely to go on as far as
gentlemen will go, or else you will be beaten still.”
These wise words, which, by the way, were said to no less a man than
John Hampden himself, form a key to all the battles of the Civil
War. No sooner did Oliver come on to the field as a plain captain of
yeomanry horse than his keen, if untaught, eye instantly recognised the
one great virtue and strength of the Royalist party. They had an Idea,
a devotion, a principle for the sake of which men were ready to sell
their lands, melt their plate, beggar their families, and lose their
own lives, and men so equipped could only be successfully met and
withstood by men who, as he himself put it in that quaintly eloquent
phraseology of his, “made some conscience of what they did,” and
thereupon he set himself to find such men and make soldiers of them.
How well he succeeded the following extract from a contemporary
news-letter written some ten months after the outbreak of war will
sufficiently tell:
“As for Colonel Cromwell”--promotion, it will be seen, was somewhat
rapid in those stormy days--“he hath two thousand brave men, well
disciplined. No man swears but he pays his twelve pence. If he be drunk
he is set in the stocks, or worse. If one calls the other Roundhead he
is cashiered; insomuch that the countries where they come leap for joy
of them and come in and join with them. How happy it were if all the
forces were thus disciplined!”
On the field of Marston Moor, Prince Rupert nicknamed Cromwell “Old
Ironsides,” and from that day to this the most invincible troops that
ever marched to battle have been named after him. Years afterwards,
when his work and theirs was done, their leader was able to say of
them: “From that day forward they were never beaten and wherever they
were engaged against the enemy they beat continually.”
This is literally true. Whether in skirmish or battle, at home or
abroad, whether pitted against the disorderly chivalry of the Loyalists
or the rigid discipline of the finest Continental troops; whether
storming a breach or bearing the brunt of a half-lost battle, these
psalm-singing, hard-hitting Crusaders of the new Church Militant not
only were never beaten, but never once failed to hurl the enemy back in
confusion and disaster.
In them, in short, that stubborn English valour which has since pushed
its way all over the world was first _disciplined_. They formed the
first model ever seen of an English regiment, a combination of many
units of strength and valour moving and fighting as one, and the fact
that “Old Ironsides” was the first man thus to add discipline to valour
is in itself no small portion of his title to fame as an Empire-Maker.
The first occasion on which these Ironsides made their mark in battle
is one of even greater importance than the battle itself, for it
marks the entrance on to the stage of history of the first regularly
disciplined English regiment, the parent of those who, on a thousand
fields since then, have proved themselves worthy of their grim but
splendid ancestors. It was the first time, too, that they had a chance
to try conclusions with Rupert and his Cavaliers, hitherto unconquered
and irresistible.
It was July 2, 1644, on a dull and storm-threatening afternoon, that
Cavalier and Roundhead first met in a really serious fashion. Compared
with what was now to be done Edgehill and all that had come after it
had been trifles, for so far the conflicts had been those of amateurs
at the art of war, each engaged, as it were, in licking the other into
shape, and the conclusion that they now had to try was which of them
had got into the best shape. There were about four-and-twenty thousand
each of them as they stood through the anxious hours of that summer
afternoon on either side of a ditch running across Marston Moor, each
watching for a chance to attack, but feeling, no doubt, that the doings
of the next few hours would decide an issue which needed a certain
amount of thinking over.
The two armies were drawn up upon what is now the regulation pattern,
right and left wings and centre. Cromwell with his Ironsides on the
left of the Parliamentary army faced Rupert on the right of the
Royalists, and he was supported by the infantry of what was then known
as the Eastern Association. The King’s centre was held by Newcastle,
and against it was the Parliamentary centre reinforced by nine thousand
Scots infantry. The Royal left wing was composed of Goring’s cavalry
regiments and was faced by the Parliamentary right wing under the two
Fairfaxes.
During the afternoon there was an exchange of cannon shots which
doesn’t seem to have done very much harm on either side. Prince Rupert,
with his usual impetuosity, had been for some hours wanting to get
over the ditch and try conclusions with the Ironsides, who were posted
on a little eminence amidst standing corn, and who had wiled away the
anxious hours of waiting with mutual exhortations and psalm singing,
not a little to the amusement of Rupert and his gallant scapegraces,
who were yet to learn that these close-cropped, grim-visaged Puritans
could ride and fight a great deal better than they could sing.
The King’s older generals, no doubt contemplating Continental
etiquette, had decided that it was too late to fight that evening and
had withdrawn to their quarters. Cromwell, laughing at etiquette as
he did at everything else that was not of practical utility, saw his
chance, jumped the ditch, and went hot-footed and hot-handed into
Rupert’s ranks. A bullet scored his neck, and hearing some one cry
out that he was wounded he shouted: “All’s well. A miss is as good as
a mile!” and charged on. Whether or not he was the first to use this
now favourite expression I am not able to say, but at least it was
characteristic.
The charge was met in a fashion worthy of Rupert and the gallant
gentlemen who followed him, and we learn that after the first onset the
Ironsides reeled back, but it was only for a moment. Some Scots cavalry
came up behind them, they surged forward again, discipline and valour
did their work, and a few minutes afterwards Prince Rupert and his
merry men had met more than their match, and, ere long, to use his own
words, Colonel Cromwell “had scattered them before him like a little
dust.” The remnants of them were chased and cut down with a ruthless
severity which was then part of the Puritan character, almost to the
gates of York, eight miles away.
But Cromwell, profiting by the mistakes which Rupert himself had made
in his headlong charges, kept his men well in hand, and when once the
Royalist right wing was broken, led them round to see how the battle
had gone on the Parliamentary right and centre.
If he had not done so Marston Moor might have replaced Charles Stuart
on the throne of England. Goring had broken up Fairfax’s cavalry as
completely as Oliver had broken up Rupert’s. He had flung them back
upon their infantry supports, breaking these in turn, after which he
flung himself with the seemingly triumphant Royalists of the centre on
the Scots Infantry, taking them in flank and almost routing them, too.
Only three regiments of them out of nine held their ground, the rest
had broken and fled, and the Earl of Leven, their leader, was already
making the best of his way towards Leeds.
The battle at this moment presented one of the strangest spectacles
in the history of warfare. On the one side Prince Rupert with his
broken brigades was flying towards the North, on the other Leven
and Manchester and Fairfax, believing the day hopelessly lost, were
making equal haste towards the South. Such was the juncture at
which the Man of Destiny arrived. He was in command of the only really
disciplined force on the field.
[Illustration: HE SWOOPED WITH HIS CAVALRY ROUND THE REAR OF THE KING’S
ARMY.]
Mr. Frederic Harrison, in his excellent monograph on Cromwell, thus
graphically describes what happened: “In an hour the genius of Cromwell
had changed disaster into victory. Launching the Scotch troopers of
his own wing against Newcastle’s Whitecoats, and the infantry of the
Eastern Association to succour the remnants of the Scots in the centre,
he swooped with the bulk of his own cavalry round the rear of the
King’s army, and fell upon Goring’s victorious troopers on the opposite
side of the field. Taking them in the rear, all disordered as they
were in the chase and the plunder, he utterly crushed and dispersed
them. Having thus with his own squadron annihilated the cavalry of the
enemy’s both wings, he closed round upon the Royalist centre, and there
the Whitecoats and the remnants of the King’s infantry were cut to
pieces almost to a man.”
Such was Marston Moor, and how completely it was the work of the one
man of destiny may be seen in the fact that, complete and crushing as
the victory was, its advantages were almost entirely negatived by the
incapacity and imbecility of the Parliamentary leaders in the West and
South. Every one of any consequence wanted to be supreme leader; no
one had either definite plans or the capacity to carry them through;
and when at last there was a prospect of bringing matters to an issue
on the field of Newberry, the Royalist forces, though half-beaten,
were allowed to get away with all their guns, stores, and ammunition
in spite of the fact that Manchester was in command of a very superior
force.
This was as good as a defeat for the forces of the Parliament, for it
was the cause of dividing their councils. Manchester and those who
sided with him had apparently begun to fear the terrible earnestness of
the Captain of the Ironsides, and were for making peace with the King
and patching matters up somehow. But Cromwell, with deeper insight, saw
that the quarrel had now gone too far and that it could not stop till
one side or the other had had a thorough and decisive beating, and that
side he was fully determined should be the King’s.
The dispute ended in the fall of Manchester and the triumph of
Cromwell. Then came the reorganisation of the Parliamentary forces
under what was at this time the New Model, and this New Model, be it
noted, was the first standing army of professional soldiers that the
United Kingdom had ever seen. Its nominal Commander-in-Chief was Sir
Thomas Fairfax, but its master spirit and guiding genius was Oliver
Cromwell.
But meanwhile the tide of Royalism had been on the rise again, sweeping
up from the West and South. The armies faced each other on the borders
of Leicestershire, but Cromwell was not there. Fairfax, no doubt
knowing his own weakness, entreated that he might come and command the
horse. He came, and then, as Clarendon pathetically remarks, “the evil
genius of the Kingdom in a moment shifted the whole scene,” and it is
related that when, after rumours had been for some days flying through
both armies as to his arrival, “Old Ironsides” at last came upon the
field of action, all the cavalry of the Parliament raised a great shout
of joy.
The battle that he came to fight was Naseby, and, saving for the
superior discipline displayed on both sides, almost exactly the same
things happened as at Marston Moor. Cromwell this time commanded on
the right wing, but Rupert was placed at the Royalist’s right, and
was therefore opposed, not to Cromwell, but to Ireton, his son-in-law
and second self. Once more the left wing of the Parliament was broken
and scattered by the furious charge of the gallant Cavaliers, once
more the centre under Fairfax was “sore overpressed” and thrown into
confusion, and once more Cromwell and his Ironsides, having ridden
down everything that opposed them, swung round behind the rear of the
victorious Royalists, swooped in a hurricane of irresistible valour and
determination on their flanks and rear, turned defeat into victory, and
snatched triumph out of disaster.
It is true that even then there seemed so great a chance of the
Royalists retrieving the day that Charles, who had put himself at the
head of the flower of his cavalry, had thought himself warranted in
crying: “One charge more, gentlemen, and the days is ours!” But while
he was thinking about this, Cromwell, Fairfax, and Ireton had, by the
exercise of almost superhuman energy, reformed the whole of their army,
horse, foot, and artillery, into complete battle-array on a new front,
and against this the fiery valour of the Cavaliers dashed itself in
vain.
Once more valour with generalship had conquered valour without it. The
defeat was utter and crushing. For fourteen long miles the pursuit
went on and only stayed when the walls of Leicester were in sight. The
King’s army was utterly destroyed and he himself never again appeared
at the head of a force in the field.
During the twelve months that followed we see the erstwhile Farmer of
Huntingdon in a new light as the besieger and reducer of strong places.
His methods were logical, effective and, we may fairly add, pitiless.
Those days were not these any more than William the Norman’s or Edward
Longlegs’ were Cromwell’s, and moreover we must remember that he had
set himself with all the strength of his mighty nature to stamping the
plague of civil war out of the Three Kingdoms with such dispatch as
was possible, and it had got to be done speedily, for outside were the
enemies of Britain waiting to take advantage of the weakness that this
plague might leave her with.
First he summons the stronghold to surrender, threatening all with
the sword. If this is refused he selects his point of attack, batters
away at it till he makes a practicable breach, then he gives another
chance of surrender, this time with somewhat better terms, but this is
the last grace. Refusal now means wave after wave of his irresistible
iron and leather-clad soldiery pouring into the breach, till at last
all opposition is beaten down and then massacre--for which, it may be
added, he and those with him are never at a loss to find a biblical
precedent.
The victories that he won by this method were simply amazing. In about
sixteen months he was engaged in some sixty battles and sieges, and
took fifty fortified towns and cities with over a thousand pieces
of artillery, forty thousand stand of arms, and between two and
three hundred colours. The end of this wonderful campaign was the
Storm of Bristol. This happened on the 10th and 11th of September,
1646. As a feat of warfare it is almost incredible. The second city
in the kingdom, defended by properly constructed earthworks and
fortifications, and garrisoned by four thousand troops with a hundred
and fifty pieces of cannon, was stormed and taken with a loss of under
two hundred men!
It reads more like one of Drake’s insolently valiant attacks upon a
Spanish treasure-city than a desperate conflict between Englishmen
and Englishmen. There can only be one explanation of it, and that
explanation is summed up in the two words: Oliver Cromwell. We are
bound to grant that the valour was equal on both sides, but equally we
are forced to admit that all the genius and generalship were on one.
Looked at from our point of view, there were terrible blemishes on
these triumphs. Every advantage was pursued with the unsparing ferocity
which was possible only to religious bigotry fired to a white heat. It
is only reasonable to suppose that these Puritan champions of the new
faith were fired with just the same furious and pitiless zeal as that
which inspired the Israelites in their attack on Canaan, or the first
armies of Islam in their assaults on the idolaters of the East. They
slew and spared not, they hewed their enemies in pieces as Samuel hewed
Agag “before the Lord,” and they honestly believed that the Lord looked
down with approval on them and their bloody work.
Priceless treasures of art were destroyed, not only without remorse,
but with grim exultation. To them they were abominations of the
heathen, just as the Canaanite idols of silver and gold were to the
armies of Israel. But however ferociously it was done, the work was
done thoroughly, and by August, 1646, the fall of Ragland Castle
following on the surrender of Oxford, brought down the curtain on the
first act of the Civil War. Charles gave himself up to the Scots at
Newark, and Oliver turned to fight the enemies of his own household.
The chief of these enemies, curiously enough, was that same Parliament
in whose name he had won all his brilliant triumphs, and a conflict,
very interesting to the student of humanity, now began between the Man
of Action and one of those Talking Machines which the good Earl Simon
some four centuries before had found so singularly ineffective.
There is no need to tell in detail how the struggle went. Every
one knows how Cromwell preached and prayed and stormed at the
self-sufficient busybodies who thought themselves a power in the land
because they called themselves a parliament. Then, seeing that no other
method would stop their gabble, he brought in his soldiers and turned
them out to talk in the streets or wherever else they could get any one
to listen to them, while he went on with his work.
It is not very many years since Thomas Carlyle, who perhaps understood
Cromwell better than any other man not living in his own age, was
walking over Westminster Bridge with a very distinguished British
officer one night when the Mother of Parliaments was busy tearing her
hair and rending her garments over some wordy futility or other, and,
jerking his thumb towards the lighted windows, he said: “Ah, my lord,
I should like to see the good day when you would go in there with a
file of Grenadiers as old Noll did with his dragoons and clear that
nest of cacklers out. Maybe the nation would get some of its business
_done_ then instead of only getting it talked about.”
From this there is a certain moral to be drawn by the wise. For my own
part I should dearly love to know with what words old Noll himself
would have answered the Sage of Chelsea.
The payment of the Scots’ arrears by the Parliament, their surrender
of the king--who, by the way, was a great deal stronger in helpless
captivity than he had ever been at the head of an army--and his seizure
by Cromwell through the instrumentality of Cornet Joyce and his troop
of horse, now led up to a very singular situation. Cromwell, the
conqueror, went over to the side of Charles Stuart the captive, and
if it had not been for that fatal twist in the king’s moral nature,
there is no telling but that he might have been re-seated on a throne
supported and surrounded by the pikes and sabres of the Ironsides.
But unhappily for him, it was not in Charles Stuart’s nature to “go
straight,” and, in the end, after Cromwell had faced and quelled a
mutiny among his own men on his account, he discovered that the king
was playing him false, that he did not honestly wish to follow his
policy of “healing and settling,” but only to regain his freedom and
try the hazard of battle again.
From that moment Cromwell was his unsparing enemy. Now he saw in
Charles “The Man of Blood” who, for the sake of a personal aspiration
and for personal profit, was eager to once more set his subjects by the
ears and light the flame of war from end to end of the country.
West and South and North the Loyalists were arming and rising again
and the Scots were marching across the Border, so the Man of Destiny
stopped talking and preaching, buckled on his sword and strode out to
battle once more.
The first rising was in Wales, and that he crushed as promptly as he
did pitilessly. Then he turned with a weary and war-worn army of some
seven thousand men, so wasted with marching and privation and sickness
that, as a record of the time tells us, “they seemed rather fit for a
hospital than a battle,” to face the invading Scots in the North.
He met them at Preston. They were three to one--or rather, to be more
exact, twenty-four thousand to seven thousand--well armed and found and
confident of victory. Yet never did the military genius of the great
Oliver shine out more brilliantly than now. What followed was not a
battle; it was an onset, a chase, and a massacre which lasted three
days and extended over some thirty miles of country. When it was over
Cromwell wrote in one of those marvellous dispatches of his: “We have
quite tired our horses in pursuit of the enemy. We have killed and
disabled all their foot and left them only some horse. If my horse
could but trot after them I would take them all.”
The next act in the swiftly-moving drama was the trial and execution of
him who to this day is considered by some to have been a royal martyr,
who only exchanged an earthly for a heavenly crown, and by others is
looked upon as the man who deliberately made himself guilty of the
worst of all blood-guiltiness, the guilt of civil war. That is a matter
for each one to decide according to his own convictions, which, be it
noted, some two and a half centuries of argument have not yet altered.
Here we are only concerned with Cromwell’s share in it.
There can be no doubt to an unbiassed mind that at one period he
honestly tried for a monarchical settlement of the difficulty. It
is equally undeniable that he considered Charles’s double-dealing
responsible for what he held to be the unpardonable crime of the Second
Civil War and therefore as having incurred for a second time the guilt
of blood. That the execution, or murder, of the king met with his
entire approval cannot be doubted, since before it happened he said to
Algernon Sidney: “I tell you we will cut off his head with the crown
upon it.”
So, whether crime or act of justice, it was done, and Cromwell, perhaps
more than any one else, was responsible for it.