DUNBAR 1650

It had rained for days, the dirt track roads were washing away beneath a grey sky, without doubt it was one of the worst summers any of them had ever known, they’d killed their King and now god had turned the world upside down, each and every Parliamentarian soldier in the Lord-General Cromwell’s army was shattered, exhausted, cold and wet. And still they marched. What had begun as a glorious invasion of the rebellious Scottish lowlands had turned into a disaster, at every opportunity the Scots had ambushed the beleaguered English, shots fired from copses of tree’s, ridges and mist shrouded vales had caused only a small amount of damage to the bodies of the English soldiers, but their minds were savaged, always frightful of the Scot in the mist or the moving tree which could be another attack. Every time the Scots appeared the English had tried to get to grips with them, but this was Scotland, their country, and an army led by Alexander Leslie 1st Earl of Leven was never going to be caught easily. His forces should have been able to overwhelm the invaders and yet at the very top was the Kirk Party who had dismissed much of his men as being un-fit to fight in what they considered a holy war, men who had fought bravely in the troubles had been sent home, men who would be needed in the days to come.

Oliver Cromwell knew this, and still his forces couldn’t bring the Scots to battle, only a few days before he and a group of cavalry had tried themselves to locate the Scots, find them he did, a small group of musket armed Scots ambushed the party of Englishmen, opening fire one musketball whined through the air close to the Lord-General’s head, thinking it had been a lucky random shot Cromwell cupped his hands and shouted “Had you been one of my troopers I’d have you cashiered for wasting a shot!” no sooner had the Scots fired than they began to flee back to the mist covered heather ridges, one of whom stopped and replied “I was with you Marston Moor Oliver, next time I’ll put a shot right between your eyes you Roundhead!” Turning to his nearest trooper Cromwell grimaced and shook his head “I do hate that word”.

The English were running low on supplies and smoke rose from the fields all around them, the Scot’s had burned everything and anything the English could use to their advantage, they were close to breaking, but they were also close to the sea, at Dunbar English ships could unload vital supplies to them as they trudged back away from Edinburgh to England, Alexander Leslie believed he had whittled away at the English, it was now time to cut them down. On the 1st September the English scouts reported back to Cromwell, Scots to the south on high ground, thousands of them. As he stood looking down onto the English camp at Dunbar Alexander Leslie rubbed his hands and smiled “we have them now, with gods grace we shall put an end to this” a group of men walked towards him and he spat on the ground in disgust, the Kirk Party committee had been a mill-stone around his neck since the campaign began, they wanted battle from the outset, here on Doon Hill Alexander Leslie would show them how a battle was fought and won. He was already sat in his chair when the committee entered his tent, the tallest of them approached “when sir, do you intend to attack” Alexander smiled, and then snorted into laughter “Attack? Attack? Are you serious, the English must come this way back to England, they have to push my 23’000 men off this hill with their own what? 10 – 11’000 men, men who are jumping at shadows, exhausted, weary and defeated, all they will do now is march onto my men’s guns and die” one of the men coughed and raised a finger while shuffling to the fore of the group “Sir, it is not your army, it is the Kirk’s, they are not your guns, they are the Kirk’s, we must attack, the committee has sat and taken advice on this, an attack will succeed because god wills it, he has seen the ways of Cromwell and his lackeys, his army will be crushed at Dunbar, if needs be… without you” Alexander Leslie raised an eyebrow, “without me? Who, by the grace of god, has the aptitude to succeed, with or without gods help I will destroy this enemy, but the men will not attack, they will defend, they will stand in defence,” he rose from his seat to continue, raising his voice as he did “ if they go forward they may falter, you bastards took most of my army away from me, and replaced it with a bunch of monks who don’t know which end of a pike to point at the enemy!” he was trembling now, aghast at what he was hearing, the thought, the very idea of someone else commanding was ludicrous, insane, this was to be his victory, before him the group all stared at him, again it was the tallest who spoke “So be it, Alexander Leslie, 1st Earl of Leven, you are dismissed from command of this army of the Kirk” No. He didn’t just say it, no, Alexander had heard wrong surely, no, no he hadn’t, he’d been, dismissed.

It was late in the afternoon of the 2nd, Oliver sat alone in the house at Broxmouth, his mind sullen, his depression once more to the fore. He read the letter back to himself, a pleading letter to his good friend Sir Arthur Haselrig, now the governor of Newcastle, a post put on him in the aftermath of Cromwell’s shake up of the Parliament. Haselrig was not only his friend and ally, but he also had garrison troops at Newcastle, just within striking distance of the Scots, it seemed to be Cromwell’s only hope, he read the letter once more and called for a rider to be despatched with it immediately, if the rider could find a way through the Scottish lines that is. Their position on Doon Hill was nigh impregnable, Cromwell didn’t know what to do, he could command men, force them, cajole them, even perhaps inspire men. He knew the word of god and yet he didn’t know what to do. He prayed that night in the little house next to the Broxburn as he’d never prayed before, for surely it was only a matter of time before he would have to order the inevitable, his men were dying of the flux by the dozen, if they fought, with god on their side, they had a chance. Cromwell knew and believed that god was on his side, he’d given Oliver the chances in life for glory, god had chosen poor humble Oliver Cromwell, he’d punished him in his early years, but now by gods grace he’d been made ruler of England. But this night Cromwell wept tears in prayer for the inevitable fight, he could almost picture the men trudging on blistered feet up the long hill, the roar of the cannon, the smell of the powder, the screams of the dying.

He awoke before dawn, his neck sore from it being laid on the table before him, his plans of battle stretched out before him; he had to get back to Berwick, back to England. If it meant sacrificing his army then so be it. He had drawn his men up with the cavalry regiments ready to charge headlong along the area with the road, if they could create confusion then perhaps he could break through any gap and spur away. Of course he’d not let his men know that, his infantry would never get away, the Scots cavalry were much better than his own, and they had much more of it. No, the Infantry will be slaughtered, as he dressed an officer entered with a large grin on his face “sire, the enemy, they appear to have come off the hill” Cromwell blinked in shock, then shook his head “its true sire, I have made a note of their new dispositions, they are much further stretched out, yet because of their numbers they will have no room for manoeuvre” Cromwell took all of this information in and nodded, looking once again to his own battle plan, perhaps he could even win this battle, it was well before dawn, his troops were in position, Overton’s Infantry were the southern most of his troops, really a blocking force making sure the Scots don’t get around his rear and catch him before he can escape. In the centre were Monck’s Infantry, with Pride’s infantry behind in reserve, his left and most northern troops were his horse under the command of Lambert, if they could punch a hole through the Scots line then Cromwell could ride on, to what end god had planned, escape or even victory.

Alexander Leslie’s replacement was David Leslie, a man who had previously been a captain in Alexander Leslies own Regiment, David had acquiesced to the committee’s plans for leaving the hillside, his men would win, of that there was no doubt, he knew Cromwell for what he was, a coward, and a liar. Years earlier at Marston Moor the Scots had fought as Parliament’s allies and had won the battle, Cromwell had had his cheek burned by one of his own men who had fired their pistol too close to his face, Cromwell had fled the battle and not returned until the Scottish lancers had routed the Royalist Cavalry under Prince Rupert, Cromwell however had claimed the victory, coupled with Parliaments refusal to adhere to the rules of their alliance many in the Scottish Kirk and camp hated Cromwell, and now, on the 3rd of September 1650 the Scots would have their revenge. It was very early dawn, the new days light had not filled the landscape, his men were ready, well fed and must be feeling as their ancestors had for centuries, giddy at the thought of killing Englishmen, driving them into the sea, capturing that bastard Cromwell and forging a new alliance with the Stuart dynasty not seen since the days of the King James.

Lambert was ready, he knew the plan, he was to attack, it was a simple plan he hoped the simpler it was the easier it would be, but god laughs when men make plans. With him were the cavalry of Fleetwood and Whalley, good veterans of fighting in the troubles, behind them came the Lord-General himself, Lambert hoped if they got out of this alive his rewards from the ever giving Lord-General would be a match for anyone in his favour. He gripped the reins of his horse, a myriad of jingling noises echoed around him as his men gathered into their lines of battle, the day was probably going to be a wet one, and no doubt a very hard one too. He wiped the sweat from his brow on a dirty handkerchief, a gift from his wife, she had embroidered her initials and his inside a heart, he kissed the emblem then raised his eyes upwards and said a small prayer, before encouraging his horse forwards, saying no words to his men, he knew most would not survive, he couldn’t dare to look upon them, not once did he ever wonder if he would survive or not, god had a plan for his life, if it was to end here and now then so be it, for his god, his country and his Lord-General he moved forwards.

Colonel Strachan was chewing on a gristly lump of bacon, all around him his Lancers were donning their gear ready for the battle to come, their six foot lances were sharp, their swords each had a keen edge to them, and their ponies could traverse the countryside better than anything the English had. He heard them before he saw them, the jingling sound of men on horses, the sound of music, the music of death. “To arms!” he shouted after spitting the bacon from his mouth, “To arms! The god damn English are coming boys, get on your nags!” he quickly jumped on his own horse and drew his sword, around him his men were mostly already mounted and getting into position, each man in line with their lances held in one hand, the horses reins in the other. Strachan couldn’t see the enemy but he ordered a charge right away. Towards the sound of the jingling, his men drummed the earth with their ponies hooves, drowning out the enemy music of death with their own.

They saw each other coming out of the gloom of the early morning, cantering towards one another, barely able to order a charge each side crashed headlong into one another, Scottish Lancers and English Cavalry trying to keep in battle lines, pistols being fired from close range, men reaching out to touch the muzzle of their guns to an enemy chest and pulling the trigger, men skewered on lances or slashed at with swords, falling from horses and ponies to be trampled into the mud, animals shrieking and flailing in pain and terror, Cromwell’s Cavalry strike was stopped before it had begun.

Monck could hear the battle, and just about see the flashes of gunfire where Lambert had gone forward, he ordered his men to attack, to support Lambert by crossing the Broxburn and attacking the Scots opposite, orders rang out and the entire English centre began its march, Cromwell could just about see them go forwards, flags unfurled, drums beating, just like his visions of doom he prayed they’d not suffer for long. “God damn it” Monck swore, for ahead of him he could see Scottish infantry moving to support their own Cavalry, the flags beneath which the men marched belonged to Lumsden, they would be good men Monck mused, but fight he must. Again orders were shouted out, the Scottish officers had stopped their men too and faint orders could be heard on the morning breeze from across the deadly bit of no mans land separating Monck’s men from Lumsden’s. The pikemen stood firm, their 18 foot pikes ready to march forward, the musketeers on both sides raised their guns to their shoulders, some men blowing on their cords which they’d kept dry in the atrociously wet summer days. “FIRE” came the order, screamed from the dry throats of officers and sergeants, hundred of serpentines fell on the frizzen pans, a puff of smoke from the pan, a gout of white smoke from the muzzle, and the death, and the screaming, began in earnest.

Each side fired and stepped forwards, every shot bringing them a metre closer to one another, the musketeer’s faces were black with powder burns before they got close to their enemy, on either side the advancing men had to step over the dead and dying, limbs torn away by the powerful musket shot, head shattered and men screaming in agony and pain. In a few short moments each man’s mouth had dried in excitement and fear, some wet themselves uncontrollably, many Englishmen who already had the flux were soiling their breeches, but they still fought on, for god was on their side, and if god was for us, the who could stand against us. And then it happened, both sides touched pike and lunged, the musketeers backed off from one another, drawing swords and daggers, throwing their useless heavy muskets away, the barrels far too hot to wield as clubs. It was now the push of pike, the horribly deadly embrace of two pincushions of men.

Oliver heard the crunch of the pikes, he could just about see the battle unfolding before him, Lambert and Monck were stuck fast, no reports had come from Overton, he could hear the screaming too, every now and then a word could be distinguished, “Mother, please, god, no” he almost said the words out loud. His men around him were all itching to get forwards and join the battle, they’d have to fight soon, of that there was no doubt, but Oliver didn’t want to go forwards until the decision was inevitable, Colonel Pride’s men were moving forwards, Cromwell saw them go and remembered Monck’s men moving in the same direction, god how many of them would die, “please god let this day go well”. He could see Prides men getting into order of battle, Musketeers had begun recoiling back and reloading, meaning they were firing at the front, the flags were still flying high above Monck and Pride’s Regiments, Lambert’s men still fought on, but could they win?

Strachan was holding his own against Lambert, Fleetwood and Whalley, reinforcements were coming to him and soon he’d overwhelm the enemy, the sun was beginning to rise now, the darkness before him was opening up, he could see an infantry battle raging to his left but he had his own fight to worry about, groups of Scottish Lancers and English Cavalry wheeled around, fired shots at one another, clashed for minutes then retired in good order, he was holding the enemy, with more horses he would push them back now. And then the sun crept over the hill behind him and bathed the approaching English infantry Regiment in its full light “dear god no” he whispered, for the English had a full Regiment of Infantry to support their Cavalry, and he had not. He knew at that moment what would happen, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Oliver saw the light cast down onto the battle raging before him and he smiled, the enemy could not reinforce their battle line because they could not manoeuvre before Pride’s Infantry struck home, quick witted as ever he remembered the 68th Psalm, “Now let God arise and his enemies be scattered”. His men around him smiled.

Some of Strachans men were fleeing already, the new recruits, replacements for the veterans deemed unfit for duty were mostly the first to run, though most who could read a battle knew this one was lost, The redcoated English infantry were scattering the Scottish cavalry, allowing the forces of Lambert, Fleetwood and Whalley to gather and strike. Lumsden saw it too, his men pressed by Monck now began to flee, every man on a horse bolted and soon the entire Scottish army was fleeing for its life from a relieved and vengeful English horde. In effect Cromwell’s plan had worked; he’d smashed the Scottish line and now didn’t need to flee himself.

XXX

It had rained for days, the dirt track roads were washing away beneath a grey sky, without doubt it was one of the worst Autumn’s any of them had ever known, they’d lost the battle and now god had turned the world upside down, each and every Scottish prisoner was shattered, exhausted, cold and wet. And still they marched. On blistered, bleeding filthy ragged feet they marched, stumbling ever onwards. No food, nothing to eat or drink in days, many men had fled in the night time, of the 10’000 taken prisoner maybe half had fled, but for the 5’000 remaining souls the march from Dunbar to Durham had been pitiless and cruel, the English had beaten men to death, Berwick and Newcastle had been blurs to the memory, pain and exhaustion, some of the locals had thrown loaves of bread to them, despite being the loathsome enemy from the north, many Scots had broke into tears as the kindness of some of the English had shone through the darkness of many others, at Berwick and Newcastle the prisoners had rushed forwards to drink from the dirty rivers Tweed and Tyne, bodies littered the roadsides for miles, the flux had become rampant, men simply defecating on the march, not bothering to stop and relieve themselves in a more natural way,

Durham’s Castle and Cathedral looked down upon the Scots as they entered the Castle walls, its black windows looked down onto them with accusing eyes, blaming each and every one of them for the wars of the past, the English guards sneered, cajoled and forced the Scots onwards towards the Cathedral, under the Lord-General’s orders this once holy place was now to be the Scots prison. 3’000 men shambled into the Cathedral, each gazing about in awe at their surroundings, many bloodied and weary men dropping down exhausted and sleeping on the cold hard floor, relieved to be out of the rain and hopeful of some food. They would awake to be disappointed.

“What do you have?” asked the guard, in one hand he held a rotten lump of bread, grey and mouldy. The young Scotsman licked his lips, anything was better than nothing, if he could barter food he wouldn’t die. Every few days the guards threw rotten bread into the area where the Scots were being held, already men had died of the flux, moaning in pain as it gripped their stomachs, voiding their bowels in their rags of clothes. “I’ve got a piece of silver, its not much” it may not have been much, but it was enough, the youth, barely a boy let alone a man, hid the food beneath his clothes and kept it for later, it was safer to eat in the darkness of the night than try during the day and have one of the older prisoners beat you and steal it. Food, any food, the men were now licking the morning dew from the walls for water, they had been locked up for months now, over six hundred were dead, more were dying, taken to the nearby castle to die in agony, rumour had it that the English took the poorly away and killed them, some even said they ate the bodies whilst a few others said that the food given to them by the English was made up from their dead comrades. Many went mad, incarcerated in the massive structure of the cathedral, the wood inside had by now been burned in small fires to keep the men warm, men, hardly that now, the shrivelled walking corpses more reminiscent of a scene of hell taken from an old church wall, bones showing beneath waxen skin, sores and cuts untreated, faeces plastered to the rags of clothing. It was never silent, the winter weather was harsh, everyone had a constant cold, men died shivering and wet in the nights, their bodies freezing solid in the coldness. Some had even broken into the vaults within the cathedral, one man sporting an ancient tabard in blue and yellow, the colours of the hated Neville family, long time nemesis of the lowland Scots, the man didn’t care, he was a fraction warmer. The bones of the long since dead burned on the fire, anything and everything which could give warmth to the prisoners was used. Rings torn from the vaults and graves were used to buy food from the guards.

After three months inside Durham Cathedral the remaining men were marched to the coast, they left behind a thousand dead in Durham, they were now being fed on a more regular basis, the weather was improving and they were moving. Again wild rumours spread among the men, “back to Scotland!” said many “Nay, it’ll be London and a hanging for sure” said some more, few were right.

The ship stank, it lolled in the harbour with seagulls wailing above the depleted ranks of what was once a proud army, many men were practically naked, women leaned from windows and whistled as they trudged past heading towards the boats that would take them to their final destinations. They could not go back to Scotland, they would tell of the horrors of their incarceration, they would not go to London, it could incite a rebellion against Cromwell’s loathed tyrannical government. They would instead go to the West Indies as slaves, working until they died from fever, hardship or age. For many they never saw land again, too weak from the flux, too tired from the march, too emaciated from neglect. They died, their life light spluttered and passed like a candle in the rain.

XXX

I’ve wanted to write about this part of history for a long time now, though I dare say what I’ve written will never be listed among the literary greats it does serve its purpose. There are no monuments in the grounds of Durham Cathedral to the men who died there in the winter of 1650-51, their suffering and degradation is ignored. I wonder what the world would be like in the future if the holocaust was forgotten, if Hitler was eventually seen as a “great statesman” (As sadly Cromwell is today by some). History doesn’t change, it cannot be changed, I’ve taken liberty with Cromwell’s plans for Dunbar, liberty caused by historical opinion, nobody knows for sure what he planned, how he planned it. He was very lucky to win the battle, yet win he did, no amount of opinion can change that, just as no amount of opinion can change the aftermath of the battle, the forced marches, the death and misery heaped upon the Scottish rank and file. The end for so many men caught up in a power struggle between a select few who didn’t give a damn about them would have been horrible, the flux (Dysentery) would have been rampant, the weather, the openness of the Cathedral and the brutality of the guards and the levels that inmates would go to just to get food in their belly staggers me in its horror, for this is what my article is aiming at, horror, the most horrible aspect of all is that it’s the truth, it actually happened, and it is being forgotten about.

As a happy little addition to this, as of this date 31/07/2023 there have now been extensive archaeological work done in and around Durham Cathedral, the bones of this who died long ago in that winter of 1650-51 have been found and are now remembered with a monument.