Once more upon the charger's back! once more
among the trumpets!

A year had passed since Cromwell, invested
with his new dignity of lord-lieutenant, landed
in Dublin Bay—a year — during the course of
which his arms, attended everywhere by victory,
and edged by deadly vengeance, had swept like
a tornado over devoted Ireland. Her strongest
holds were levelled to the dust, piles of fire-blackened
stones quenched with the life-blood of
their massacred defendants. It was a year of
merciless destruction — of unsparing, indiscriminating
slaughter—a year which cast a deep stain
on the name of Cromwell, never before attainted
by the dark charge of cruelty—a year the miseries
of which were such that they have branded that
name on the memories of the Irish with such

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imperishable hate, that, even to this day, their direst
malediction is, “the curse of Cromwell be upon
you.” From his career of victory and havoc
Oliver was recalled, in the earlier months of '50,
to return to England and oppose the Prince of
Wales, who, having landed in the north, had been
proclaimed and crowned the King of Scots, and,
at the head of a large army, was preparing to
assert his rights. With his accustomed energy,
he instantly appointed Ireton his lord deputy and
Ludlow his lieutenant of the horse, delegating all
his powers to them, and leaving them to finish
what he had so effectually set in motion; and in a
very short space was in London to receive the
parliament's instructions. Here he was welcomed
with the highest honours and rewards; and, after
some delay, owing to the refusal of Lord Fairfax,
who was himself of that persuasion, to command
against the Scottish Presbyterians—a refusal which,
with much urgency, and, it would seem, with real
and unfeigned sincerity, Oliver strove to combat—
set forth, invested with the supreme command of
the land forces of the parliament, to crush, as was
expected, at a single blow, the power of the Scottish
royalists, and lead the second Charles in triumph
to the footstool of the proud republicans, or
to expel him from the kingdom of his fathers a
despairing fagitive.

In this their overweening confidence, however,
the English government were for a time disappointed;
for, having crossed the Tweed, and advanced
almost to the walls of Edinburgh before
the last days of July, their general was so far from
gaining any real or definitive advantage, that, after
two or three smartly-contested skirmishes, and
much manœuvring against the veteran Lesley, who
resolutely declined a general action, he was

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compelled, by want of forage and provisions, to reship
five hundred of his men from Musselburgh for
Berwick, and with the remnant—described by one
of his best officers as “a poor, shattered, hungry
and discouraged army”—to fall back in some confusion
on Dunbar, where he might be supported by
his fleet and storeships. Having been pressed so
closely by the Scottish horse on his retreat from
Musselburgh to Haddington that he was at one
time in much danger—his rear-guard, which had
been outstripped by the centre and advance, being
exposed for a short time to the chance of an attack
from the whole power of the Scots—by favour of a
misty night he arrived within a few miles of Dunbar
late in the evening of the first day of September.
On the morning of the second, Oliver's army
lying in a low swampy plain, with an exhausted
country in their rear, a mountainous ridge held by
a superior force in front, a stormy and tempestuous
sea upon their right, and the weather such as to
prevent any communication with the fleet, scarce
any situation can be fancied more desperate and appalling
than that of the invaders. Throughout that
morning he saw the host of Lesley holding the hill
with resolute determination, in a position of such
formidable strength that he himself has mentioned
it as one wherein `ten men were better to hinder
than a hundred to make way.' Below this hill was
a small narrow plain, running down on the right
hand to the sea, between the ridge then occupied
by Lesley and a deep cleugh or dell, through
which a rapid and impetuous stream found its way
to the German Ocean, into which it falls at Broxmouth
Park. But, toward evening, he perceived a
movement in the hostile lines, and, shortly afterward,
a mighty shout rang on his ears. Immediately
he leaped upon his horse, and, galloping forth

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with a handful of his chosen guard, rode to the
brink of the ravine, from which he might behold
the Scottish ranks pouring tumultuously down from
their commanding station into that narrow strip
whereon their very numbers would but operate
against themselves, vociferously calling on their
officers to “lead them down to Ramoth Gilead
that they might slay the foe—even the blasphemous
accursed Philistine!” For a while he gazed
steadily upon them without speaking; and, by the
curl upon his lip, and the deep sneer of his expressive
nostril, many of those around him fancied that
he saw and detected some deep purpose in the
hostile movement; but when band after band came
rushing down, column on column of dark pikemen—
brigade after brigade of guns—and, finally,
the horse and the reserve, with Scotland's royal banner,
shouting, “The sword of the Lord and of Gideon”—
their favourite war-cry—the gloom which
had sat upon his brow for many days passed suddenly
and was succeeded by a wild gleam of joy.
“The Lord,” he cried, flinging his arm aloft, and
giving the spur to his charger till he plunged and
bolted from the earth—“the Lord of Hosts—he
hath delivered them into mine hands!” and—while
the numbers of the Scottish, vastly superior to his
own, and ten times more than could be marshalled
fittingly upon that battle-ground, were drawing up,
as best they might, their crowded and disordered
ranks where they had neither room to fight, nor
any way by which to fly if routed—he coolly reconnoitred
the ravine, passable only at one point, and
that, though pervious even to artillery, a rugged ford,
between steep banks, shadowed with timber-trees,
and domineered by earthy mounds scarped naturally
by the wintry floods. Having determined instantly,
in his own mind, on an attack en masse upon the

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morrow, he ordered an advanced guard of horse and
foot to occupy this all-important station—selected
nine of his best regiments to force the passage at the
earliest dawn of day—and then, announcing his design
to his assembled officers in council, and ordering
all things to be in preparation for the attack
with the first glimmering of the east, threw himself
down on his camp bed without removing any
part of his attire, and slept so soundly that his attendants
had no easy task to rouse him from his
dreamless and untroubled slumbers when the appointed
hour had arrived. Ere he was in the saddle
day had dawned fully; and then, having relied
on Lambert for the due execution of the orders on
which his plan depended, he galloped to the front,
expecting to find all in readiness, and wondering
that his artillery was not yet heard, covering the
passage of his troops. He reached the advanced
lines, and all was in confusion. During the night,
Lesley, aware of the importance of that point, had
utterly cut off the guard detached for the defence
of the ravine—so utterly, indeed, that not a soldier
had escaped to bear the tidings of defeat to his superiors—
and occupied it with a force equal at least
to that which Cromwell had appointed to oppose
him. The sky was gray already, but the approach
of morning was delayed, or, at the least,
obscured by a thick mist arising from the seaboard,
and spreading over the flat land on which both
armies had slept upon their weapons in grim preparation
for the coming strife. A powerful horse-regiment,
which had been chosen to advance the
foremost, was in the very act of passing—some
having crossed the stream, and now laboriously
struggling up the banks on the Scotch side, and
the rest even now battling with the heavy current,
when a tremendous fire of musketry and ordnance

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was poured upon them while in confusion; and
when, despite this fearful obstacle, they forced the
pass, they were charged instantly, and thrown into
disorder by a brigade of cuirassiers appointed for
this duty by the veteran Lesley. While they were
fighting with a desperate obstinacy, that, had they
been relieved or re-enforced, would even yet have
rendered them victorious, the infantry, who, in advancing
to support them, had suffered terribly by
the well-served artillery of the Presbyterians, were
in their turn charged, broken, and pushed back
across the clough by the pike-regiments, which
then, as in all former periods, composed the pride
and strength of the Scotch host. Just at this moment
Cromwell reached a small eminence that
overlooked the scene—he saw his scheme wellnigh
frustrated; one of his best brigades of horse
almost annihilated—his infantry repulsed—his attack
not merely disappointed, but on the very point
of being turned against himself—and all this time
Lambert, his major-general, had not brought up a
single gun, much less attempted to assist the
charge or cover the retreat of his defeated squadrons.
A dark red flush rose to his cheek, his
brow!—his eye flashed lurid fire—as he dashed
up to the artillerists, fiercely commanding them,
with a voice tremulous and hoarse from ire—“To
shoot sharply and upon the instant, or, as the Lord
Jehovah liveth, ye shall swing from these oaks ere
the sun rises.” Awed by his threats and stimulated
by his presence, they struggled nobly to redeem
their error—gun after gun belched forth its
cloud of smoke and flame, and the shot plunged,
with accurate aim and awful execution, into the
serried masses of the Scotch, enabling the discomfited
and shattered cavalry to draw off and repass
the stream. “Ride for your life,” cried

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Oliver to one, the nearest, of his staff, “and bring up
my pike-regiment—mine own, I say—under the
trusty Goff! and Jepherson's horse-squadrons, and
Lumley's musketeers! Ride—ride, I tell thee, on
the spur! And thou,” he added, “away to Lambert,
Kingsland; let him bring up more guns—more
guns!” and, too impatient to await the execution
of his orders in quiet inactivity, he galloped furiously,
attended only by a slender staff and captain's
guard of cuirassiers, down to the steep banks
of the ford. There he stood, coolly gazing on the
advancing ranks of Lesley, a mark for the artillery,
and even for the small arms of the Scottish;
the balls from which shivered the trees and tore
the ground about him, but harmed not, strange to
say, either himself or any of the little group behind.
It was, indeed, a critical conjuncture—a
stout division of field-guns was whirled up, at the
speed of powerful and active horses, to the brink
opposite the very spot where Cromwell stood!—
and now they were unlimbered!—and now, with
matches lighted, the cannoneers were busily engaged
directing them toward him! Then, from
the dark and wooded gorge beneath, a prolonged
flourish of their trumpets announced the presence
of the enemy; who now, the independents having
been forced back bodily from their position, were
crowding down, in numbers almost irresistible, in
their turn to attempt the passage. The eye of
Cromwell for the first time grew anxious, and his
lip quivered visibly, as with the blast the heavy
tramp of the advancing pikemen was heard above
the ripple of the water, and the bright heads of
their long weapons were seen glimmering above
the mistwreaths which partially obscured the ranks
that bore them. A mounted officer dashed up to
him, spoke a few hurried words, and, ere the

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gloom had cleared from Cromwell's brow, the
steady march of his own regiment fell joyously
upon his ear! They halted, as the heads of their
long files came up, abreast of their commander;
while, with their matches ready lighted, six hundred
musketeers, under the gallant Lumley, hastened
to line the hither verge, availing themselves
of every crag or stunted bush whereby to hide
themselves, and whence to pour their unseen volleys
on the host below. With a few words, fiery,
and terse, and full of that enthusiastic confidence
which had so wonderfully gained the hearts of all
that followed him, Oliver now addressed his chosen
veterans. In deep, and, as it might seem, sullen
silence, they attended while he spoke; but, as he
ended, such a shout arose as startled Lesley's host
and roused them from their dreams of victory.
“Oliver! Oliver! hurrah!” and, with the words,
they rushed down headlong on the spears of the
advancing foe, shouting their cry—“The Lord!
the Lord of Hosts!” Meanwhile the musketry
of Lumley was not silent!—bright, bright, and
quick it flashed from every gray stone — every
bracken bush—and every tuft of broom that fringed
those broken banks!—and, to increase the din, ten
guns, which Lambert, wakened at length to energy,
wheeled up at the full gallop, opened their fire upon
the feebler ordnance of the Scottish, killing the cannoneers,
dismounting their light pieces, and silencing,
after a single ill-directed volley, their fruitless
effort. Taken thus absolutely by surprise, the
Presbyterian squadrons reeled in their turn—and
louder from the depths of the ravine arose that
awful shout, “The Lord! the Lord of Hosts!” as,
through the waters, whose dark current—dark with
human gore—flowed feebly now, choked and obstructed
with the bodies of the dead and dying, that

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irresistible and never-conquered band charged onward,
bearing the felics of the enemy before them,
with shrick, and yell, and execration, up! up! at
the pike's point! up to the level ground whence,
flushed with hope of easy triumph, they had but
now descended—and still the well-aimed shot of
Lumley's skirmishers fell thick among the flyers.
With half a glance Cromwell perceived—and with
him to perceive was instantly to profit by the moment
of advantage. Putting himself at the head
of Jepherson's brigade of ironsides, which came up
at a rapid trot just as Goff's pikemen were appearing
on the farther brow, brandishing high in air his
formidable rapier, and pointing with a grim smile
to the strife raging and reeling opposite, he spurred
his charger down the bank! Two bounds bore
him across the chasm, and, with a louder clang of
corslet, spur, and scabbard than had resounded yet
that day, down rushed those zealot horsemen!

The morning hitherto had been dull, gloomy,
and dispiriting; but, as the leader of the ironsides
spurred his black charger up the steep ascent, and
paused an instant there—a breathing statue, bolder,
and nobler, and more massively majestic than any
sculpture from the inspired chisel of the Greek!—
contemplating the features of the already half-gained
battle—for from their right wing to their
centre the whole army of the covenanters, crowded
together and unable to manœuvre, was reeling to
and fro in most tumultuous disarray—just at that
instant the mist bodily soared upward, and the
broad glorious sunlight streamed out rejoicingly,
kindling up all the field of battle and the rich valley
to the right, and the superb expanse of the wide
German Ocean, now calm and cradling on its azure
bosom the friendly vessels of the commonwealth,
that loomed like floating castles through the

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dispersing fog. It was a wonderful—a spirit-stirring
change—and he who witnessed its effects the first,
inspired by the sublimity of what he looked upon,
struck by a thought no less sublime, cried out,
flinging his arm aloft in proud anticipation of his
coming triumph—“Let God arise, and let his enemies
be scattered!” The aspect of the man, rising,
as it were, suddenly from out the bowels of the
earth—the stern composure of his halt—the simultaneous
outburst of the sunbeams—and, above
all, the wonderful quotation, delivered in a voice
so loud as to be heard by hundreds of both hosts,
and yet so passionless and clear as to strike every
heart with something of that awe which would attach
to aught miraculous—completed what the ordinary
means of warfare had so well commenced.

Their broadswords flashing in the newly-risen
beams, and their united voices pealing forth, as it
were by inspiration, the apt words of their leader,
the ironsides swept onward to the charge!—and,
without pause or hesitation, catching enthusiasm
from the cries of those who went before—regiment
after regiment of the invaders poured unopposed
over the perilous chasm; and, forming as they
reached the level ground, plunged in with shot of
arquebuss and push of pike upon the wavering
masses, that could now offer only an inert resistance
to their impetuous onset.

For a short time the native valour of the Scots
supported them after their flank was turned, and
their whole line confused and shaken beyond all
hope of restoration!—for a short time they stood
firm with their serried spears—shoulder to shoulder—
foot to foot-when one man fell, another stepping
instantly into his place—and only ceasing to
resist when all had ceased to live. But, charged
front, flank, and rear, by horse and foot, pell-mell,

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the cannon-shot making huge gaps in their dense
columns, it was impossible that they, or any,
should hold out. They broke—they scattered—
they retreated not, but fled—in wild and irretrievable
dismay—pursued, cut down, and slaughtered
by the fresh cavalry of Cromwell, who for eight
miles had execution of the flyers!—while the triumphant
general, calling a halt when he perceived
the battle won, sang, with his zealot legions swelling
the stormy chorus, the hundred and seventeenth
Psalm, in honour of that Lord who, as he
said, “after the first repulse, had given up his enemies
as stubble to the strong arms and the victorious
weapons of his own elected people.”