# The Works of Thomas Carlyle/Volume 6/Preston Battle

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PRESTON BATTLE
The Battle of Preston or Battle-and-Rout of Preston lasts three days; and extends over many miles of wet Lancashire country,—from ‘Langridge Chapel a little on the east of Preston,’ southward to Warrington Bridge, and northward also as far as you like to follow. A wide-spread, most confused transaction; the essence of which is, That Cromwell, descending the valley of the Ribble, with a much smaller but prompt and compact force, finds Hamilton flowing southward at Preston in very loose order; dashes-in upon him, cuts him in two, drives him north and south, into as miserable ruin as his worst enemy could wish.
There are four accounts of this Affair by eye-witnesses, still accessible: Cromwell’s account in these Two Letters; a Captain Hodgson’s rough brief recollections written afterwards; and on the other side, Sir Marmaduke Langdale’s Letter in vindication of his conduct there; and lastly the deliberate Narrative of Sir James Turner (‘alias Dugald Dalgetty,’ say some). As the Affair was so momentous, one of the most critical in all these Wars, and as the details of it are still so accessible, we will illustrate Cromwell’s own account by some excerpts from the others. Combining all which, and considering well, some image of this rude old tragedy and triumph may rise upon the reader.
Captain Hodgson, an honest-hearted pudding-headed Yorkshire Puritan, now with Lambert in the Hill Country, hovering on the left flank of Hamilton and his Scots, saw Cromwell’s face at Ripon, much to the Captain’s satisfaction. ‘The Scots,’ says he, ‘marched towards Kendal; we towards Ripon, where Oliver met us with horse and foot. We were then between Eight and Nine thousand: a fine smart Army, ​fit for action. We marched up to Skipton; the Forlorn of the Enemy’s horse,’ Sir Marmaduke’s ‘was come to Gargrave; having made havoc of the country,—it seems, intending never to come there again.’ ‘Stout Henry Cromwell, he gave them a check at Gargrave;—and better still is coming.
Here, however, let us introduce Sir James Turner, a stout pedant and soldier-of-fortune, original Dugald Dalgetty of the Novels, who is now marching with the Scots, and happily has a turn for taking Notes. The reader will then have a certain ubiquity, and approach Preston on both sides. Of the Scotch Officers, we may remark, Middleton and the Earl of Calendar have already fought in England for the Parliament: Baillie, once beaten by Montrose, has been in many wars, foreign and domestic; he is lefthand cousin to the Reverend Mr. Robert, who heard the Apprentices in Palace-yard bellowing ‘Justice on Strafford!’ long since, in a loud and hideous manner. Neither of the Lesleys is here, on this occasion; they abide at home with the oppressed minority. The Duke, it will be seen, marches in extremely loose order; vanguard and rearguard very far apart,—and a Cromwell attending him on flank!
‘At Hornby,’ says the learned Sir James alias Dugald, ‘a day’s march beyond Kendal, it was advised, Whether we should march to Lancashire, Cheshire, and the Western Counties; or if we should go into Yorkshire, and so put ourselves in the straight road to London, with a resolution to fight all who would oppose us? Calendar was indifferent; Middleton was for Yorkshire; Baillie for Lancashire. When my opinion was asked, I was for Yorkshire; and for this reason only, That I understood Lancashire was a close country, full of ditches and hedges; which was a great advantage the English would have over our raw and undisciplined musketeers; the Parliament’s army consisting of disciplined and well-trained ​soldiers, and excellent firemen; while on the other hand, Yorkshire was a more open country and full of heaths, where we might both make use of our horse, and come sooner to push off pike’ with our foot. ‘My Lord Duke was for Lancashire way; and it seems he had hopes that some forces would join with him in his march that way. I have indeed heard him say, that he thought Manchester his own if he came near it. Whatever the matter was, I never saw him tenacious in anything during the time of his command but in that. We chose to go that way, which led us to our ruin.
‘Our march was much retarded by most rainy and tempestuous weather, the elements fighting against us; and by staying for country horses to carry our little ammunition. The vanguard is constantly given to Sir Marmaduke, upon condition that he should constantly furnish guides; pioneers for clearing the ways; and, which was more than both these, have good and certain intelligence of all the Enemy’s motions. But whether it was by our fault or his neglect, want of intelligence helped to ruin us; for,’—in fact we were marching in extremely loose order; left hand not aware what the right was doing; van and rear some twenty or thirty miles apart;—far too loose for men that had a Cromwell on their flank!
On the night of Wednesday 16th August 1648, my Lord Duke has got to Preston with the main body of his foot; his horse lying very wide,—ahead of him at Wigan, arear of him, one knows not where, he himself hardly knows where. Sir Marmaduke guards him on the left, ‘on Preston Moor, about Langridge Chapel,’ some four miles up the Ribble,—and knows not, in the least, what storm is coming. For Cromwell, this same night, has got across the hills to Clitheroe and farther; this same Wednesday night he lies ‘at Stonyhurst,’ where now the College of Stonyhurst is,—‘a Papist’s house, one Sherburn’s’; and tomorrow morning there will be news of Cromwell.
‘That night, says Hodgson, ‘we pitched our camp at Stanyares Hall, a Papist’s house, one Sherburn’s; and the ​next morning a Forlorn of horse and foot was drawn out. And at Langridge Chapel our horse’ came upon Sir Marmaduke; ‘drawn up very formidably. One Major Poundall’ (Pownel, you pudding-head!) ‘and myself commanded the Forlorn of foot. And here being drawn up by the Moorside (a mere scantling of us, as yet, not half the number we should have been), the General’ Cromwell ‘comes to us, orders us To march. We not having half of our men come up, desired a little patience; he gives out the word, “March!”’—not having any patience, he, at this moment! And so the Battle of Preston, the first day of it, is begun. Here is the General’s own Report of the business at night. Poor Langdale did not know at first, and poor Hamilton did not know all day, that it was Cromwell who was now upon them. Sir Marmaduke complains bitterly that he was not supported; that they did not even send him powder,—marched away the body of their force as if this matter had been nothing; ‘merely some flying party, Ashton and the Lancashire Presbyterians.’ Cromwell writes in haste, late at night.
* ↑ Hodgson’s Memoirs (with Slingsby’s Memoirs, Edinburgh, 1808; a dull authentic Book, left full of blunders, of darkness natural and adscititious, by the Editor), pp. 114-5.
* ↑ Sir Marmaduke’s Letter.