Colonel Okey had been supervising the share-out of powder and shot that morning in a large meadow. Between seven and eight o'clock, General Cromwell rode up and spoke to him. Gideon recognised the new commander of horse. Through yawns, he noticed the stout, armoured figure, clearly at one with his horse, a man who rode without haste and yet whose very presence signalled urgency. Cromwell passed within fifty feet, unaccompanied by any honour guard. Even through his 'triple-barred pot', a serviceable iron helmet with a lobster-tailed neck-guard and three simple face bars, he looked bright and confident.
It was the moment Cromwell himself would famously describe afterwards: 'when I saw the enemy draw up and march in gallant order towards us, and we a company of poor ignorant men, to seek how to order our battle… I could not, riding alone about my business, but smile out to God in praises, in assurance of victory…' As Cromwell approached Okey, Gideon wondered about this plain-featured countryman in his forties who three years ago had had no military training or experience at all, yet who was now acknowledged as one of the finest soldiers in the kingdom. He rode a damned good horse; all the men commented.
Wind was dispersing the mist. As the day cleared, Cromwell had observed the Royalist advance, its flickering standards, the light glinting off armour and precious metal braid, the blocks of pikemen and musketeers, the twinkles of matchcord, the shifting bodies of cavalry aching for the charge. He had already organised his own cavalry wings. His business now was to command the dragoons to protect the extreme left flank. Cromwell's words to Okey were inaudible, but Okey jumped to. Cromwell galloped off.
Gideon heard the regimental drums beating everyone to action. With his right hand steadying his musket butt, he went running back towards the horses which were gathered in a small spinney. Okey, with a straight back, was issuing rapid orders. Gideon saw his colleagues' hasty dismount. With a roar of jubilation, all those who were not to be left holding the horses scrambled on foot to line the great hedges that crossed Broad Moor from north to south. Gideon swerved off with them. They had barely time to prepare. Across in front of them, their ride contained by this natural boundary of the Sulby hedgerow, came Prince Rupert's cavaliers.
When musketeers fought cavalry, the instructions were to aim at the horses' legs. They wanted the mounts to fall. Unsaddling the cavaliers would do the most damage. Gideon tried to remember this, as he waited to give the first enfilading volley. Muskets had a long range but for full effect the dragoons were to delay shooting until the enemy were so close they could see the lines in their faces. It took nerve.
He loathed the new snaphance. With only a couple of days to practice, most of that time spent on the march, he had yet to master this strange weapon. It felt too light. He would never find its range. Loading was swift and easy but when the order came to fire, the short muzzle flew up so he knew that his shot went skywards. He had no musket-rest. Nobody had a rest. Rests were, as his new captain had scoffed, fine for monthly manoeuvres in the Artillery Yard, but no use in a fight. But using a rest for the long barrel of his matchlock was how Gideon Jukes had trained and as he struggled irritably with this new weapon, he wanted a musket-rest — desired it with a passion that was greater than any lust of man for woman, hated the captain who had spoken lightly of the way the Trained Bands trained and, of course, hated his own clumsiness.
He cursed the snaphance like a brewhouse stoker. Forcing open his pan and fumbling with fine powder, he primed, blew off residue, charged the barrel, spat a new ball from his mouth to his palm, jogged the bullet into the barrel so it sank into the powder, rammed, presented, and on the order fired again into the thundering lines of Rupert's charging men. These cavaliers were a grand sight as they galloped headlong in their fine clothes on glossy mounts, gloved and rapiered, with lace cuffs and ribboned boot-hose and deep lace collars rippling on their shoulders over polished cuirasses. Destroying the privileged bastards would be a pleasure.
With the second shot Gideon over-compensated. He knew the bullet must have struck the ground uselessly ahead of him. It was happening all over the field. Even artillery balls were burying themselves in bog, impotently casting up showers of mud. Not that he could hear much from anyone's artillery. Neither side seemed to be using their cannon to effect. At least he need not fear having his head ripped off.
Next time he got his shot right. He was not alone. To either side of him the dragoons were in high spirits, shooting, shouting and rejoicing. Gideon was swept by exhilaration, here among men who knew just what they were doing. Fear was displaced by assurance as they powered through routine musket moves. Amidst the low clatter of their powder canisters all around, he felt, rather than saw, the regiment moving in rhythm — nine hundred men loading charges of coarse powder, fine powder, lead bullets; raising their guns and then cocking the trigger; three hundred men waiting, then firing a volley in more-or-less unison; three hundred from the second rank firing; three hundred from the third.
The noise was appalling. Gunfire deafened everyone. Recoil from the hot musket would be bruising his shoulder. Other discomforts vaguely niggled. Ditchwater or dew was soaking the knees of his britches as he knelt in the hedge. Spiny twigs scratched the back of his neck, unsettling his hat. Someone in the crouching row of men behind, attempting second-rank fire over Gideon's shoulder, lost his balance and fell forwards right onto him. It could have been disastrous, though the soldier did his best to recover and keep his weight off. Gideon grunted. Others pulled the man back; Gideon's powder had spilled but he was already reaching for a new charge. There was no time for recrimination.
They saw Rupert's horse gain momentum. Ireton's Parliamentary wing was on the move too; the opposing cavalry surged together in heavy groups. Some Parliamentarian regiments, closest to the centre, survived the shock while the rest fought back bravely, causing severe Royalist casualties; but Rupert's charge and his skill enabled him to chase many right off the field. Ahead of Okey's regiment, after hard fighting, the Parliamentary left wing now milled in disarray.
Aware of damage from the dragoons' crossfire, enemy troops suddenly appeared by the hedge, hoping to dislodge them. It was dangerous. Footmen, with no armour, were in peril when attacked by cavalry and Prince Rupert customarily planted musketeers among his cavalry for extra sharp-shooting. Somehow, Okey's men repulsed them. How did not matter. It passed in a moment; they had other things to think about.
As the first waves of cavalry had made contact on the field, there was a prolonged bout of frantic cut and thrust until the Royalists broke through. Then they raced on, heading away too fast and too far. Okey's men watched the cavalier horse drive many of their own men from the field, yet the cavaliers fragmented into wild groups that streamed away almost to Naseby village. There they would find the Parliamentary baggage-train; Prince Rupert himself would be with them, absent from the battle for over an hour. He personally summoned the guards at the Parliamentary baggage to surrender, but they — an unregimented tawny-coated group of musketeers — first mistook him for Fairfax because he wore a similar crimson montero hat to one their general wore. Finally grasping Rupert's summons, they stood their ground and refused to yield. Realising belatedly that he was needed elsewhere, the prince left them.