Marston Moor

by Michael Arnold

  As Stryker stood tall in his stirrups to look across the field, he saw only an army stricken with inertia. And down the slope, at a running march, came the enemy. He turned away as the first shots rang out from the front-most Royalist ranks, plumes of bitter smoke rising to mark the unseen musketeers, and galloped across the face of his inherited troop, urging calm. Something hard knocked against his knee. He glanced down, noticing the curve of the secrete, purchased from the sutler in Ribchester. A half-smile crossed his lips as he delved inside to retrieve the steel cap. He removed his hat and planted the felt-lined secrete flush against his skull. Then he clamped the hat over the top, pressing it down hard. It felt strange, unwieldy, yet, staring out at the surging tide of Roundheads and Scots, he did not feel inclined to remove it.

  He drew up at his troop’s right flank, loading both pistols and packing them tight with wadding before returning them to their holsters. He slid his sword in and out of its scabbard, knowing it would not stick but checking anyway, and then he looked round. Skellen, Hood and Barkworth were behind him, mounted and ready.

  ‘God and the King,’ he said.

  ‘God and the King,’ Lieutenant Hood echoed. His face was pale and strained, but he would fight with a clarity of mind he had not possessed for far too long, and the sight encouraged Stryker more than the young man would ever know. ‘And God preserve us.’

  ‘We’ll drink King Charlie’s health after,’ Barkworth said, eyes like orbs of molten gold in the storm-darkened murk.

  Skellen hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, spitting it to the hoof-mashed soil. ‘God and the King, sir,’ he droned, ‘and a pox on the Parliament.’ His halberd, knotted with twine at each end of its shaft, was lashed across his spine, and he adjusted it before drawing his sword. ‘Now let us go to war.’

  Sir Thomas Fairfax cantered down the ridge at the head of the Allied right-wing horse. ‘God with us!’ he screamed. ‘God with us!’

  He had no clue as to what had transpired. They had stood all day on the ridge, braving weather and fatigue, only for a scrap to flare out to the west. Then all of a sudden, like a pipe’s tiny dripping fracture splitting to become a deluge under the sheer weight of water, it had all happened. More and more men had come into contact with the enemy guarding the ditch, and Leven had evidently decided that it was simpler to attack than perform a dangerous withdrawal. Ultimately, the whys and wherefores did not matter. The signal had been given. Now Black Tom held his breath.

  Ahead, where the slope petered into flat moorland, the smoke slewed sideways a yard or two from the ground to betray the beginnings of Royalist defensive fire. It marked, too, the line of the hedged ditch that ran from east to west through the moor. The ditch was the dividing line between the men of the Crown and those of Parliament, the obstacle his horsemen would be forced to cross. To his left, further behind as the advance opened up, the Allied infantry marched to the deep clamour of their drums, and further still, though he could not see through the impenetrable thickets of pikes, he knew the left-wing horse under Cromwell would be keeping pace with his own. He prayed loudly. He was not a man to show his devotions so publicly, but if he did not, he knew he would be physically sick.

  He spurred on, gripping the reins tightly. Up ahead, the terrain was treacherous, for the land immediately to the right was made impassable by the beginnings of Long Marston village, its outbuildings and enclosures cluttering the landscape and clogging any flanking manoeuvre. It meant that he would have to cross the smoking ditch by way of a narrow passage their maps referred to as Atterwith Lane. To the left of the lane, the ditch was deep and artificially banked to make it steep, while to the right it was fringed with thick hedging. He knew they would be hard-pressed to force a way through, so he kicked forth, plumping for speed over caution.

  They reached the lane in three broad lines. Sir Thomas took personal command of the first, Colonel John Lambert the second, and the Covenanter, Lord Eglinton, the third. They reached a gallop at the last moment, Sir Thomas’s front line funnelling into the lane in order to smash its way through. The rest could not hope to follow the same route, so they jumped the ditch, some clearing it, others not, and smashed straight into the hedge, trying to cleave ragged fissures with blades and hooves.

  The musketeers opened fire.

  George Goring commanded the opposing wing of horse, but it was his supporting infantry that showed themselves first. They were beyond the ditch, crouching, lying, and now firing in a huge, juddering volley that rippled all the way across Sir Thomas’s line. He shrank down in the saddle, galloping into the lane, as men screamed around about him. He saw a young cornet punched into mid-air, flag twirling, by a leaden ball that shattered his ribs. Somewhere behind, a shriek and whinny announced the tumble of a horse.

  Smoke shrouded everything as he raked spurs into his horse’s flesh and drew his sword. His men were riding four abreast now, so narrow was the lane, and the rain made their hooves slip alarmingly in the clinging mud. A gust of wind shifted the bitter fog to reveal more musketeers some fifty paces up ahead. They fired. Sir Thomas gritted his teeth until he tasted blood, and clenched his buttocks to keep from voiding his bowels. More men died, but they were building their speed, and he knew they would hit the infantrymen before they could reload.

  The line of Royalist musketeers splintered like dry wood as Sir Thomas’s first troopers burst through. He bellowed a war-cry as the hedge line began to fray, revealing space where before there had been only obstruction. He veered left, off the lane and through one of the gaps to the open moor. The Royalist infantry seemed to be everywhere, their shots sporadic now as formation disintegrated, and he saw that his three thousand horsemen were surging at all quarters in a wide, ragged wave. They had forced their way over the ditch bravely, but the price to pay had been disorder. It was too late to put that to rights, for the enemy could be afforded no time to regroup. He raked his spurs, feeling the upwelling of power, and roared for the charge to continue at all costs.

  And then he saw the enemy cavalry. Goring had apparently decided to let his musketeers take the brunt of the attack, for his red-scarved horsemen were in good order, spanning the field in two lines, knee to knee, broken only where bodies of musketeers waited between them to give supporting fire. Sir Thomas wrenched around, looking back at his force, which was in disarray. Three or four hundred men had traversed the lane at his back, and they were close enough to follow his lead. The rest, too spread out to advance with any cohesion, would have to fend for themselves. He dipped his head and angled his mount to bear down on the rightmost corner of the Cavalier front line. The enemy musketeers, arrayed amongst their horse, put down a tirade of musketry that rebounded across the moor, and then vanished behind the bodies of the snorting animals as the troopers came on, kicking into a canter with cornets bobbing and blades held aloft.

  Sir Thomas Fairfax prayed, and he cursed, and he challenged death. And then he slammed into the Royalist line.

  Immediately his horse faltered. They had run into a wall of horsemen, squeezed on both sides by grimacing Cavaliers who hacked and slashed at man and horse. Sir Thomas was tangled, his thighs crushed against those of his enemies, and he found himself parrying heavy blades on both sides, one with his sword, the other with his gauntleted forearm. One of the blows made it through and clanged against his breastplate, rocking him back so that his groin screamed in anguish as he gripped to stay in the saddle. He was vaguely aware of his own men, pushing in from behind, and he knew he could no longer retreat, even if he had a mind to. The opponent on his left hit him again, this time slipping past the gauntlet, and the cutting edge bounced off the crest of his pot. Sir Thomas saw the sword come down on his other side, parried it desperately, and instinctively cringed in expectation of the first man’s follow-up thrust. But his helmet had sent the weapon glancing away with such a jolt that the hilt had slipped from his enemy’s grip. The Cavalier’s lips worked furiously behind steel bars as his empty hand fumbled at his saddle holster. Sir Th
omas blocked another swipe on his right, then drew his own pistol, cocking it in one motion. Both men fired at once. The Royalist’s arm was low, and Sir Thomas felt a judder ripple through his horse as the pistol ball thumped into its hindquarters. His own bullet had taken his would-be killer in the throat, and the man was already wilting sideways. Sir Thomas remembered the foe on his right, twisted round too late, and took a jabbing sword thrust to his own face, the point passing between the protective bars to jar against his cheekbone. It seared like a glowing brand, blinding him for a moment, and he braced for the final cut. The man screamed. Sir Thomas forced open his eyes to see his personal cornet, a dark-blue acanthus pattern over a blue field, jabbing time and again at the Cavalier’s face. His standard-bearer was at his side, kicking his horse into the cacophonous press and using his banner as a lance.

  Then they were through. The fight was raging away to Sir Thomas’s left as the rest of his fragmented wing fell upon Goring’s solid line, but the few hundred who had come along the lane with their general had carved a channel through the extreme edge, and those Royalists were peeling away, turning tail to bolt back in the direction of York. Sir Thomas bellowed for his men to leave them, to rein in their natural urge to pursue in order to turn the Royalist flank and surround the enemy. But they ignored him, too drunk with bloodlust to heed his cries, spurring into a whooping gallop to chase Goring’s routing troopers. So Black Tom went too, praying that Colonel Lambert would have the same success against what remained of the Royalist left wing.

  Whilst the Parliamentarian and Covenanter horsemen were crossing the ditch to the east, the Allied left wing was coming down from Bilton Bream at the walk. Opposite, on the Royalist right flank, John, Lord Byron, tugged at his freshly trimmed beard. His part of the moor was already veiled in smoke, but he could see enough glimpses of tawny scarves and the scraps of white paper tied to wrists or thrust into helmet visors to know that Cromwell’s daunting horde was on the move.

  Byron checked his pistols. His bodyguard, a burly Irishman who had been a wrestler and champion at the prize play, swung a loaded carbine across his back and nodded. Byron swallowed. It hurt, his mouth parched and sticky. He took a last look at the men under his command. In the front line were eleven hundred harquebusiers; the sum of Byron’s own regiment, and those of Urry, Vaughn and Trevor, veterans all. On the extreme right, set slightly back in a protective stance, were two hundred more under Samuel Tuke, then a second full line, comprising the regiments of Molyneux, Tyldesley and Leveson, with the formidable sight of Rupert’s own cavalry forming their left flank. Byron had two thousand, six hundred horse in all, and, though he reckoned they were outnumbered by the enemy horsemen, he had absolute faith in their ability. And that was why he was considering an attack.

  He had been ordered to remain in position, to stand his ground, relying upon the ditch to disrupt any enemy attack. He had musketeers there too, both in the channel and on his side of the ditch, so that any advance by the Eastern Association would be met with heavy fire. And yet his cavalrymen were eager. Byron was eager. He looked at the big Irishman. ‘Shall we give ’em a hiding, d’you think, O’Reilly?’

  Oliver Cromwell, Lieutenant-General of Horse, thanked God for the gift of this sector, for it posed few of the questions being asked of his compatriot on the far side. There was still the gully, of course, defended by musketeers, but Tockwith’s enclosures did not encroach upon the battlefield like those near Long Marston, nor were there any lanes or mature hedgerows to add complication. He could see the Royalist horse waiting for him on the far side of the obstacle. Moreover, the first throws of the fight had begun on this flank, and the enemy muskets were already entrenched within their own brawl, occupied by the tussle with Crawford’s foot regiments that had earlier descended to support the cannon. As it was, Cromwell felt confident. He commanded his line to halt, then lifted his helmet’s visor. ‘Fraser!’

  The extreme left of Cromwell’s formation was made up of a regiment of Scottish dragoons, and their colonel, receiving the summons by a chain of shouts, peeled his mount away from his men and kicked it to Cromwell’s side. ‘General.’

  Cromwell stole a brief glance at the ditch. ‘As things stand, we must fight through those malignants.’ He looked back at Fraser, the rain wetting his cheeks and stinging his eyes. ‘And then, when disordered on the far side, we will be charged by Byron’s horse.’

  The Scot, a wiry man with a sharp, red nose and watery eyes, nodded. ‘Aye, sir, that’s the sum of it.’

  ‘I would have your men ride down there, Colonel Fraser, and purge the ditch.’

  Fraser’s thin mouth pressed into a line. ‘Purge, sir?’

  Cromwell touched a hand to his chest. ‘Beneath this cold steel,’ he said, patting the plate, ‘buttoned beside my heart, there is a pamphlet. A soldier’s Bible. Sixteen pages containing nought but the word of God. They give fortitude to those who would fight the enemies of King Jesus.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Deuteronomy, chapter twenty, verse four: For the Lord your God goeth with you, to fight for you against your enemies, and to save you.’ He fixed the dragoon colonel with an unflinching stare. ‘God goeth with us, Fraser. We cannot lose. Now get your men down there and purge the ditch.’

  The Scottish dragoons poured down the slope as Cromwell’s plate-clad harquebusiers resumed their steady walk. Dragoons were mounted infantry and, as such, they carried muskets. Their function was speed and mobility. Their horses, though not as swift or powerful as those used by full cavalry, were able to move them around a battlefield with a swiftness traditional foot regiments could never match, and, as Cromwell looked on, he knew he had made the right decision. The dragoons slid free of their saddles within musket shot of the ditch, all the while drawing heavy fire, and immediately shrank behind the bodies of their horses for shelter. Then they were shooting back, protected by their shields of leather and flesh, and their concentrated volleys were far more effective than the desultory barks snapping up from the smoke-capped trench in response.

  It was a matter of moments before the Royalist defenders were overwhelmed, and they fell back, scrambling up the north bank of the channel and running for their own lines, while the dragoons edged forth to secure their prize.

  Cromwell lowered his visor, looking at Fraser. ‘A fine job, Colonel. Your men did well. God grants them victory.’

  Fraser dipped his face ‘Thank you, General. May God grant you success also.’

  Cromwell shook his head. ‘God has preordained all. Pray for nought but His will.’ He reached for his sword-hilt and bellowed: ‘We ride out right away, good fellows, and fear no earthly enemy! King Jesus has brought victory to the righteous! We must simply give thanks, draw swords, and receive His bounty!’ The long, heavy, single-edged blade was pulled free. ‘God and Parliament!’

  ‘God and Parliament!’ the men echoed.

  Cromwell spurred Blackjack into a gallop while praying to reach the ditch before his malignant counterpart could respond. A heavy jolt punched his hip, but God had given him a mind to don tassets this day, and leg armour beneath his buff-coat skirts, and one of those thick pieces mercifully deflected the ball. Then they moved, the Royalists, lurching forward in two deep lines. They were quickly at full speed, and their blades came loose, shimmering like a shoal of trout under the hoary clouds. Then they were leaping the ditch, whooping and laughing as though they rode to hounds. They were dashing and valiant, the flower of the king’s court, mounted on expensive destriers shipped from France and waging war dressed in silk and feathers. At their head was Lord Byron’s banner, flapping like the tongue of a vast serpent.

  Oliver Cromwell could not believe what he was seeing. It was a miracle, and he praised God for it, because he did not have to cross the ditch. Instead he gave the signal for his wing to slow their advance and wait for the courageous enemy horsemen to come to them. For Lord Byron was very brave. And he was also, Cromwell realised, fatally foolish.

  John, Lord Byron, knew he had made a mist
ake as soon as his dun-coloured gelding crossed the ditch. His men had been straining at their invisible leash and he had yearned to release them. And then the Scots dragoons had swept away his screen of musketeers, leaving a clear path for the waiting harquebusiers, and Byron had decided to seize the initiative before the Eastern Association cavalry had the chance to gather momentum.

  By crossing the obstacle, Byron knew he had thrown away any advantage he had. His men in the ditch might have been scoured from their positions, but he yet had a strong body in reserve, and, had he been thinking clearly, he might have moved them up to pelt the advancing cavalry with a hail of lead. Now his front line of eleven hundred was further advanced than that reserve, blocking their line of sight, nullifying any muskets they might bring to bear. But more importantly, he had risked a crossing of the one barrier that would throw Cromwell on to the back foot by interrupting his neat formation. Now, Byron knew, it was his own men who would enter the fray confused and disordered.

  He looked left and right, reassuring himself that his troopers had, at least, made it across with him. Of course they had, because they were the cream of his battle-forged killers. Men who had been at Edgehill, Burford and Cirencester, at Roundway Down and Newbury. Men who knew how to fight. But they were no longer set in their snug lines; they were being riven, splintered into small groups, gaps appearing all across what should have been a horse-flesh breastwork. And then the enemy were at the charge, and he felt his guts flip as their snarling faces bore down, lips pared back and eyes wide.

  The first body of rebel horse hit them like a surging tide. Bryon saw steel and teeth. He had sword in hand, and he cleaved the air, aiming at nothing and everything at once. His gelding could not move. He reached for his pistol, clicked back its dog lock, fired into the mass, but already his ragged line was shunting backwards, pushed inexorably towards the ditch behind.