The English Civil War: Restoration - Charles II and the Return of the Crown – Part 7

On the 29th of May, 1660, church bells rang across England, bonfires illuminated towns and villages, and jubilant crowds lined the streets to welcome home a king. After more than a decade of civil war, republican experiment, military rule and political uncertainty, Charles II returned from exile to reclaim the throne of his father. To many contemporaries, the Restoration appeared to mark the end of a long national nightmare. The monarchy had returned, the ancient institutions of government had been restored, and England once again possessed a king. Yet beneath the celebrations lay a profoundly altered nation. Although the Crown had been restored, it could never again command the unquestioned authority enjoyed before the Civil War. The revolution had permanently reshaped the relationship between monarchy, Parliament and the people, laying essential foundations for the constitutional state that would eventually emerge.

Terry Bailey explains.

You can read part 1 on the background to the war here, part 2 on how the English Civil War began here, part 3 on the New Model Army the turning of the tide here, part 4 on the King’s defeat here, part 5 on King Charles I’s trial and execution here, and part 6 on the English Republic here.

Charles II of England in Coronation robes by John Michael Wright. Source: Public domain, Royal Collection, available here.

The death of Oliver Cromwell on the 3rd of September 1658 produced a vacuum that exposed the fragility of the Commonwealth and Protectorate. Cromwell himself had become the indispensable figure holding together competing political factions, ambitious military commanders and an increasingly dissatisfied population. Although many admired his military genius and respected his personal integrity, few believed the political system he had evolved could survive without him. His passing removed the one individual capable of balancing the competing interests of the army, Parliament and the civilian administration.

Oliver Cromwell had hoped to establish stability through hereditary succession by naming his eldest surviving son, Richard Cromwell, as Lord Protector. Richard inherited the title but not his father's authority. Unlike Oliver, he possessed no distinguished military record, commanded little respect among the officers of the New Model Army and lacked the political experience necessary to navigate the dangerous divisions that threatened the regime. The very institution that had sustained the Protectorate—the army—quickly lost confidence in its new leader.

Richard Cromwell's inability to control either Parliament or the military soon became painfully evident. Financial difficulties mounted, political rivalries intensified and army officers increasingly viewed civilian government with suspicion. Parliament attempted to assert greater authority, while military leaders sought to protect their own influence. Caught between these powerful interests, Richard found himself unable to satisfy either side. After only eight months as Lord Protector, he was forced to resign in May 1659, bringing the Protectorate to an abrupt end.

The collapse of Richard Cromwell's government plunged England back into political confusion. The Rump Parliament, which had governed briefly after the execution of Charles I, was recalled but proved incapable of providing effective leadership. Factional disputes paralyzed decision-making, while competing army commanders maneuvered for power. The prospect of renewed civil conflict loomed once more. Many Englishmen, regardless of their earlier political loyalties, had grown weary of constitutional experiments and military government. The promise of republican stability had faded into frustration, uncertainty and exhaustion.

Amid this growing disorder emerged one of the most remarkable political figures of the age: General George Monck. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Monck had served both the monarchy and the Commonwealth with distinction. As commander of English forces in Scotland, he carefully observed events unfolding in London while maintaining discipline among his troops. Rather than rushing to seize power for himself, Monck demonstrated remarkable patience and political judgement, recognizing that only a broadly accepted constitutional settlement could restore lasting stability.

In January 1660, Monck marched his disciplined army south from Scotland towards London. His advance was conducted not as a military conquest but as a calculated political intervention. Upon reaching the capital, he worked to restore order while avoiding unnecessary bloodshed. Crucially, Monck supported the reinstatement of Members of Parliament who had been excluded during earlier political purges, allowing the Long Parliament finally to dissolve itself legally. New elections followed, producing what became known as the Convention Parliament, an assembly that would determine England's constitutional future.

Meanwhile, Charles Stuart remained in exile on the Continent, carefully observing developments from abroad. His advisers recognized that any attempt to regain the throne by military invasion would almost certainly reignite civil war. Instead, Charles adopted a far more conciliatory approach. On the 4th of April 1660, he issued the Declaration of Breda, a carefully crafted statement designed to reassure a nation deeply divided by years of conflict.

The Declaration of Breda demonstrated considerable political skill. Charles promised a general pardon to those who had opposed his father, subject to Parliament's approval, thereby offering reconciliation rather than revenge. He pledged to respect property acquired during the Interregnum, reducing fears of widespread confiscations. He also promised to address religious disputes with moderation and agreed that outstanding issues concerning the army would be settled by Parliament. Above all, the declaration presented Charles not as a vindictive exile seeking retribution but as a king committed to healing a fractured kingdom.

The Convention Parliament responded enthusiastically. Recognizing that republican government had failed to provide lasting stability, Members formally invited Charles to return and reclaim the throne. Rather than claiming the Crown by conquest, Charles accepted it through parliamentary invitation, an important constitutional distinction. Although royalists celebrated the restoration of hereditary monarchy, the circumstances of Charles's return acknowledged, at least implicitly, that Parliament now played a decisive role in determining legitimate government.

Charles landed at Dover on the 25th of May 1660 before making his triumphal progress to London. His entry into the capital on his thirtieth birthday became one of the greatest public celebrations in English history. Streets were decorated with flowers, triumphal arches and banners. Church bells pealed continuously while crowds cheered the returning monarch. Bonfires blazed across the country, sermons praised divine providence and public festivities continued for days. Years of political turmoil seemed, at least momentarily, to have ended in joyous reconciliation.

The Restoration extended beyond the return of the king himself. The monarchy, House of Lords and Church of England were all restored as central pillars of national life. Ancient ceremonies resumed, royal courts reopened and many traditional institutions returned to familiar routines. To outward appearances, England had returned to the constitutional arrangements that had existed before the outbreak of civil war in 1642.

Yet restoration did not mean complete reversal. The events of the previous two decades could not simply be erased from national memory. Tens of thousands had died in civil war. A king had been publicly executed. England had experienced republican government, military dictatorship and written constitutional experiments. Political debate had expanded dramatically, while pamphlets, newspapers and religious publications had transformed public opinion into an increasingly important force in national politics. Even those who welcomed the monarchy recognized that England had changed forever.

One of the most controversial questions confronting the restored government concerned the fate of the regicides—the men who had signed the death warrant of Charles I. Charles II had promised mercy, but public opinion demanded that those directly responsible for his father's execution face justice. Some regicides had already died, while others had fled abroad. Those captured were tried for high treason, condemned and subjected to the brutal punishments traditionally reserved for traitors. Even Oliver Cromwell, Henry Ireton and John Bradshaw, who had died before the Restoration, were symbolically exhumed, their bodies hanged at Tyburn and their heads displayed upon spikes outside Westminster Hall as a grim warning against rebellion.

Despite these dramatic acts of retribution, Charles II generally pursued a more moderate policy than many royalists desired. The Act of Indemnity and Oblivion granted pardons to the overwhelming majority of those who had supported Parliament during the Civil War. The king understood that endless vengeance would merely reopen old wounds. Although political divisions remained, reconciliation became an essential objective of the Restoration settlement.

Religious questions, however, proved far more difficult to resolve. During the Interregnum, numerous Protestant sects had flourished under comparatively greater religious freedom. The restored Church of England sought to re-establish episcopal authority and uniform worship through legislation such as the Act of Uniformity of 1662. Thousands of ministers who refused to conform were expelled from their livings in what became known as the Great Ejection. Although Charles himself occasionally favored greater religious toleration, Parliament remained deeply suspicious of both Catholicism and religious dissent. Consequently, many of the religious divisions that had fueled the Civil War continued well into the Restoration era.

The Civil War had also permanently altered attitudes towards military power. The New Model Army had demonstrated the effectiveness of a disciplined professional force, revolutionizing military organization and tactics. Yet its political dominance during the Protectorate left many Englishmen deeply suspicious of standing armies maintained during peacetime. Fear that soldiers might once again interfere in politics influenced constitutional thinking for generations and helped shape later demands that military forces remain under parliamentary oversight rather than personal royal control.

Perhaps the greatest legacy of the Civil War lay in the transformation of constitutional government itself. Before 1642 many monarchs had believed they possessed authority derived directly from God, answerable to no earthly institution. Charles I had governed according to this principle, insisting that kings ruled by divine right. The Civil War shattered that assumption. Although Charles II reclaimed the throne, he did so with an acute awareness that cooperation with Parliament was essential for effective government. The balance of power had shifted irrevocably.

Parliament itself emerged from the conflict with greatly enhanced prestige and authority. While disputes between Crown and Parliament would continue throughout the reigns of Charles II and his successor, James II, no future monarch could entirely ignore parliamentary opinion. The events leading to the later Glorious Revolution and the subsequent constitutional settlement built directly upon precedents established during the Civil War and Restoration. The principle that rulers governed within the law, rather than above it, steadily became embedded within the English political tradition.

The conflict also transformed political thought. Throughout the Civil War, competing visions of government had emerged with unprecedented clarity. Royalists defended hereditary monarchy, hierarchy and divine authority, while Parliamentarians increasingly argued that legitimate government depended upon law, representation and the consent of the governed. Radical groups pushed these ideas even further, advocating expanded political participation, religious liberty and legal equality. Although many of their proposals were rejected at the time, they contributed to the emergence of modern political ideology and influenced constitutional debates for centuries.

Equally significant was the role of propaganda and public opinion. The Civil War witnessed an explosion of printed pamphlets, newspapers, sermons and political literature that sought to persuade ordinary people rather than merely instruct them. Governments increasingly recognized that public support mattered. Ideas became weapons alongside muskets and cannon, and political legitimacy increasingly depended upon winning both military victories and the battle for public opinion.

Looking back across the entire conflict, it becomes clear that religion remained inseparable from politics at every stage. Battles were fought not merely over taxation or constitutional procedure but over profoundly different visions of God's relationship to government. Questions concerning bishops, liturgy, toleration and religious authority repeatedly shaped political alliances and military campaigns. The Civil War demonstrated that religious belief could mobilize entire populations, inspire extraordinary sacrifice and profoundly influence the development of national institutions.

The Restoration therefore represents both an ending and a beginning. It closed one of the most turbulent chapters in English history, restoring monarchy after years of revolution and experiment. Yet it also marked the beginning of a new constitutional reality in which kings ruled within limits that earlier generations would scarcely have imagined. England had travelled full circle in appearance, but not in substance. The Crown returned, Parliament remained stronger than before, and the lessons of revolution could never be forgotten.

The English Civil War ultimately reshaped the future British state. It challenged absolute monarchy, strengthened parliamentary government, encouraged constitutional development and transformed political culture. The struggles between Crown and Parliament, the power of religious conviction, the influence of propaganda, the evolution of military organization and the enduring question of political legitimacy combined to redefine the nature of government itself. From the execution of Charles I to the triumphant return of Charles II, England experienced a revolution that permanently altered its institutions and its understanding of authority.

By 1660, many hoped simply for peace, stability and the restoration of familiar traditions. They achieved those aims, but they also inherited something far more significant. The monarchy had survived, yet it had been fundamentally redefined. Never again would an English sovereign govern with entirely unchecked authority. The painful lessons learned through war, revolution and restoration had established principles that would shape not only Britain but constitutional government throughout much of the modern world. The Crown had returned, but England itself had been transformed forever.

Needless to say, the story of the English Civil War is far more than a chronicle of battles, political intrigue and changing governments. It is the story of a nation forced to confront one of the most fundamental questions any society can ask: where does legitimate power truly reside? For nearly two decades England experienced the collapse of long-established institutions, the trial and execution of a king, the rise of republican government, military dictatorship, constitutional experimentation and, finally, the restoration of the monarchy. Yet the nation that welcomed Charles II home in 1660 was not the same England that had watched Charles I ascend the throne thirty-five years earlier. The institutions appeared familiar, but the principles upon which they rested had been irrevocably transformed.

The Restoration demonstrated that history rarely moves in perfect circles. Although the Crown, Parliament, the House of Lords and the Church of England were restored, none returned with the absolute authority they had once claimed. The memory of civil war remained a permanent warning against the dangers of political extremism, religious intolerance and the concentration of unchecked power. Future monarchs would govern with the knowledge that Parliament possessed both the confidence and, if necessary, the means to resist arbitrary rule. Likewise, Parliament understood that effective government required cooperation rather than perpetual confrontation. Out of conflict emerged not perfect harmony, but a new constitutional balance that would continue to evolve over the centuries.

The legacy of the Civil War extended far beyond the seventeenth century. Its influence can be seen in the constitutional settlement of the Glorious Revolution of 1688, the Bill of Rights of 1689, the development of Cabinet government, and ultimately the emergence of the Westminster parliamentary system that became a model for constitutional democracies across the world. Principles such as the rule of law, parliamentary sovereignty, ministerial accountability and the limitation of executive power all owe something to the bitter lessons learned between 1642 and 1660. The struggles of that turbulent age helped establish the enduring belief that government derives its legitimacy not from divine right alone, but from law, consent and the confidence of the governed.

The conflict also transformed the English people themselves. Never before had ordinary men and women participated so actively in political debate. Pamphlets, newspapers and sermons brought constitutional questions into homes, taverns and marketplaces. Soldiers, merchants, farmers, craftsmen and clergy all became participants in a national conversation about authority, liberty, religion and justice. Ideas proved as powerful as armies, and public opinion emerged as a force that no future government could afford to ignore. In this sense, the Civil War marked not only a political revolution but also an intellectual one, heralding the gradual emergence of a more politically conscious society.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of the English Civil War is that enduring constitutional change is seldom achieved without sacrifice. The conflict claimed tens of thousands of lives, devastated communities, divided families and left deep religious and political scars that endured for generations. Yet from that suffering emerged institutions capable of adapting rather than collapsing under future crises. England did not abandon monarchy, nor did it fully embrace republicanism. Instead, it forged a uniquely British constitutional tradition, one founded upon compromise, precedent and the gradual balancing of competing powers rather than ideological absolutism.

As this series has shown, the struggle between Charles I and Parliament was never merely a contest for political supremacy. It was a profound confrontation between competing visions of authority, faith and the nature of government itself. It encompassed military innovation, religious conviction, revolutionary ideology, political propaganda and constitutional experimentation on a scale previously unseen in English history. Every battlefield, parliamentary debate and political compromise contributed to the slow evolution of a nation that would eventually become one of the world's most enduring constitutional monarchies.

The English Civil War therefore stands not simply as one of Britain's defining historical episodes, but as one of the pivotal turning points in the development of modern government. Its legacy reaches far beyond the seventeenth century, influencing democratic institutions across the globe and reminding successive generations that liberty and stability are rarely inherited without struggle. The Restoration of Charles II closed one chapter of English history, but it also opened another, one in which the Crown would continue to reign, Parliament would continue to grow in authority, and the rule of law would increasingly become the supreme foundation of the state.

History often remembers the great battles of Edgehill, Marston Moor and Naseby, the trial of Charles I, the formidable leadership of Oliver Cromwell and the triumphant return of Charles II. Yet the greatest victory of the age was not won upon any battlefield. It was the gradual emergence of a political system capable of reconciling monarchy with representative government, authority with accountability, and tradition with reform. The bloodshed of the Civil War ultimately gave birth to a constitutional settlement that, while imperfect, proved remarkably resilient. In that achievement lies the enduring significance of the English Civil War a revolution that changed England forever and, in doing so, helped shape the political foundations of the modern world.

Now read Terry’s series on King Kenry VIII and his wives here.

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The Avignon Papacy and the Fight for France: Part 2 – The Rise of Philip IV and Financial Problems

The Avignon Papacy (1309-1376) was the period during which seven successive popes resided at Avignon, in modern-day southern France, rather than at Rome. It followed a bitter conflict between the papacy and King Philip IV of France, and the death of Pope Boniface VIII in 1303 marked a decisive shift in the balance of power within the Church. Talia Bega explains — and looks at the rise of Philip VI and the taxation of the Church.

You can read part 1 on the Church in the 13th century here.

Philip IV. Source: Public domain, Bibliothèque nationale de France, available here.

The Rise of Philip IV

By the thirteenth century France had returned to the height of its power, having recovered from the Plantagenets much of the territory once held by the Angevin Empire. Kings such as Philip II Augustus and Louis VIII enlarged the royal domain and restored France to pre-eminence in western Europe. The French kings of this century were devout Catholic monarchs who leaned heavily on the Church to support their campaigns. One of them, Louis IX - better known as Saint Louis - made France a commanding center of authority through his piety and his ambition on the Seventh Crusade (MacDonald 1931, 692). That crusade ended in disaster, yet Louis's devotion never wavered. He also reformed royal government: he allowed cases to be appealed directly to the crown and abolished trial by combat, the practice of settling guilt or innocence by armed duel. His reforms shaped an enduring ideal of the just king who serves both crown and people (Davis 2010, 215).

Religion was Louis' overriding priority, and his devotion expressed itself daily - most enduringly in the building of the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, raised in the 1240s to house the relics of Christ's Passion, above all the Crown of Thorns. He treated the defense of the faith as inseparable from justice and maintained a close bond with the Church. That reputation carried him to canonization in 1297, making him the only French king ever recognized as a saint (Marrone 1975, 208). Miracles were reported at his tomb, and the intensity of his devotion did much to hasten his elevation. His grandson, Philip IV, would prove a very different figure, whose quarrel with the Church helped usher in the Avignon Papacy and a new challenge to papal power.

Philip IV (1268-1314), known as Philip the Fair, ruled from 1285 until his death. His reign was dominated by conflict - with England, with his own nobility, and with the Church itself - and by the heavy demands his campaigns placed on the kingdom. Ambitious to the point of dynastic overreach, he sought to extend the reach of his house across Europe, much as his grandfather Louis IX had done in his own way.

The chain of events can be traced to 1293, when a brawl between sailors off the French coast set Philip on a collision course with Edward I of England. Edward held the Duchy of Aquitaine as a vassal of the French crown and owed homage for it. A settlement was negotiated - it included the betrothal of Edward to Margaret, Philip's own sister, and the temporary surrender of Gascony, to be returned once peace was secured. The arrangement collapsed: when Edward was summoned to the French court and failed to appear, Philip declared his French fiefs - Aquitaine, Gascony, and the rest - forfeit in May 1294 (Strayer 1956, 26).

The conflict became known as the Gascon War (1294-1303), and it dragged on between the two kingdoms. It also strained Philip's finances, for he was fighting on several fronts at once - allied with the Scots against England under the 1295 Auld Alliance, while Edward I in turn allied with Flanders, which had risen in revolt against French overlordship. That Flemish rising drew France into the Franco-Flemish War (1297-1305). The Gascon War itself was settled by the Treaty of Paris in 1303, which restored Aquitaine to the English and left the duchy much as it had stood before the fighting began.

This struggle over Gascony is often seen as one of the seeds of the Hundred Years' War. Flanders posed a particular problem, since the Flemish were pressing for independence from the French crown; the fighting there proved costly and inconclusive, and it brought fresh rounds of reform and heavy taxation to both sides. The pressing question - how Francecould pay for all these wars - led straight back to the Church, and what Philip did next would change the course of history.

Money and the Taxation of the Church

Watching France sink into debt, Philip turned to the wealthiest institution within reach - the Church - to fund his wars and shore up his authority. His most consequential move was to tax the French clergy, which brought him into direct conflict with Rome; in 1297, under pressure, Boniface VIII conceded that the king might tax the clergy in cases of genuine emergency (Marrone 1975, 201). Philip's ministers meanwhile mounted a sustained propaganda campaign against the pope (Powicke 1934, 313). The breach widened in 1301, when Philip arrested Bernard Saisset, bishop of Pamiers, on a charge of treason; Boniface responded by summoning the French clergy to Rome to examine the king's conduct.

 In 1302 Boniface issued the bull Unam Sanctam, the most sweeping assertion of papal supremacy over secular rulers yet made. The following year the quarrel turned violent: in September 1303 the king's agents, led by Guillaume de Nogaret, seized the aged pope at Anagni and held him for several days, demanding his resignation. Rarely had a secular ruler laid hands on the head of the Church so brazenly, and the shadow of excommunication hung over Philip throughout (Powicke 1934, 326). Boniface was rescued by the townspeople of Anagni and returned to Rome, but - broken in body and spirit by his ordeal - he died on 11 October 1303 (Powicke 1934, 325).

The assault on Boniface sent shockwaves through the Church; had he been excommunicated first, the consequences for France might have been graver still. His successor, Benedict XI, moved against the men responsible for the outrage at Anagni but died after a reign of only eight months. In 1305 the cardinals chose Bertrand de Got, archbishop of Bordeaux, who took the name Clement V; a Frenchman with strong ties to Philip, he became the first of the Avignon popes. The deeper question was why Philip had pressed so hard against the Church. He had found it at its weakest and meant to bring it to heel - but his overriding motive was money, needed to restore the French crown and fund its wars, and when the money ran out he had little choice but to reckon with the consequences himself.

Philip is remembered above all for the destruction of the Knights Templar, a military religious order founded in the early twelfth century. He cast the order as corrupt and scandal-ridden, and he saw in its suppression a way to escape the debts he owed it and to assert royal power over an institution answerable only to the pope. On 13 October 1307 he had the Templars across France arrested en masse; there followed seven years of trials, torture, and forced confessions. Under pressure from Philip, Clement V dissolved the order at the Council of Vienne in 1312, and in 1314 the last grand master, Jacques de Molay, was burned at the stake in Paris. The Templars had been difficult to control precisely because they answered to Rome alone, but Philip turned his power against them at a moment when the crusading age was fading and his need for money was most acute. Throughout the affair Clement served as Philip's instrument, yielding whenever the king required it and handing him a sweeping victory (Théry-Astruc 2016, 35).

The suppression of the Templars set the tone for Philip's reign and displayed the supreme authority France had come to wield. Under him the French crown drew the Church into its orbit and set the pattern of leadership for the next seventy years. Yet the order Philip imposed rested on unstable foundations: strong kingship could hold it together, but weaker successors would struggle to do so. From the humbling of one pope to the making of another, Philip had shown that a determined king could bend even the Church to his will - and, once bent, it would prove very hard to set right.

Now read about the War of the Breton Succession here.

Bibliography

Davis, Jennifer R. “The Problem of King Louis IX of France: Biography, Sanctity, and Kingship.” The Making of Saint Louis: Kingship, Sanctity, and Crusade in the Later Middle Ages; Saint Louis, by M. Cecilia Gaposchkin, Jacques Le Goff, and Gareth E. Gollrad. The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 41, no. 2 (2010): 209–25. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40785099.

MacDonald, Gregory. “Saint Louis IX of France.” The Irish Monthly 59, no. 701 (1931): 691–96. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20513139.

MARRONE, JOHN, and CHARLES ZUCKERMAN. “CARDINAL SIMON OF BEAULIEU AND RELATIONS BETWEEN PHILIP THE FAIR AND BONIFACE VIII.” Traditio 31 (1975): 195–222. http://www.jstor.org/stable/27830986.

Powicke, F. M. “POPE BONIFACE VIII.” History 18, no. 72 (1934): 307–29. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24401107.

Strayer, Joseph R. “Philip the Fair--A ‘Constitutional’ King.” The American Historical Review 62, no. 1 (1956): 18–32. https://doi.org/10.2307/1848510.

Théry-Astruc, Julien. “THE FLIGHT OF THE MASTER OF LOMBARDY (13 FEBRUARY 1308) AND CLEMENT V’S STRATEGY IN THE TEMPLAR AFFAIR: A SLAP IN THE POPE’S FACE.” Rivista Di Storia Della Chiesa in Italia 70, no. 1 (2016): 35–44. http://www.jstor.org/stable/44807473.

Antietam and the Maryland Campaign: Part 3 – The Battle of Antietam

The Confederate victory at Second Manassas, August 28-30, 1862, followed victories in the Valley Campaign and the Peninsula. The casualties incurred by the Army of the Potomac included 14,000 killed or wounded of 62,000 engaged, compared to about half of that for the Army of Northern Virginia. Then, on September 1, Stonewall Jackson defeated a Union cohort retreating from the battlefield at Chantilly. General Pope was relieved of command and sent to Minnesota to deal with the Sioux, and was never again involved in the Civil War. Pope would blame Fitz-John Porter for the loss, even though that wasn’t the case; Porter would be heard from again at Antietam but would go through a devastating court martial soon after. One of Pope’s generals said of him, “Suffice to say ... that more insolence, superciliousness, ignorance, and pretentiousness were never combined in one man.”

In this multi-part series, here Lloyd W Klein looks at what happened during the Battle of Antietam itself.

Read part 1 on the background here, and part 2 on General McClellan’s Response to Finding the Lost Order here.

The Charge across the Burnside Bridge by Edwin Forbes. Source: Public domain, US Library of Congress, available here.

McClellan was now in a position to destroy Lee’s divided army. Knowing they were being pursued, Lee's army set up defensive positions behind Antietam Creek. Lee expected a battle, but the half of his army under Jackson was still in Harper’s Ferry.

The first two Union divisions arrived on the afternoon of September 15 and the bulk of the remainder of the army late that evening. McClellan's limited activity on September 15 after his victory at South Mountain gave Lee time to unite his scattered divisions at Sharpsburg.

On the morning of Tuesday, September 16, McClellan had nearly 60,000 soldiers facing Lee’s 15,000. His heavy 20-pound Parrott rifles were sending case shot across the creek, feeling out the enemy. As Longstreet ordered a vigorous response – more for bluff than effect – Lee realized his one chance for salvation lay with McClellan’s reverting to his old, timid behavior. McClellan did not disappoint him. By noon, Jackson and Brig. Gen. John Walker began to arrive, taking up the Confederate line on the left along the Hagerstown Pike near Dunker Church, north of town, then sweeping southeasterly to a worn farm lane on the Mumma property a mile away.  On the left flank, Maj. Gen. J.E.B. (‘Jeb’) Stuart placed Brig. Gen. Fitz Lee’s cavalry brigade with his three batteries of Captain John Pelham’s Horse Artillery and three additional batteries on an unpretentious hillock known locally as Nicodemus Hill. East of the Hagerstown Pike, Brig. Gen. Evander M. Law’s brigade had taken position in the East Woods. Law sent his videttes well to the north and east, keeping a close eye on the Upper Bridge.

Once again, the traditional history doesn’t do McClellan justice. What is said in the books: If he had attacked either of those days, the war might have ended in September 1862 with a definitive victory. Having arrived on the afternoon of September 15, he delayed his attack until September 17. He outnumbered Lee by as much as 2:1 all that time, and what he was waiting for is unclear. He somehow didn’t know that Jackson was still in Harpers Ferry, so he was facing just half of Lee’s divided army.

But the reality was a lot more complex than it seemed from that summation. By the afternoon of September 15, McClellan found himself confronted by two significant Confederate forces flanking Elk Ridge, a geographical feature extending north to south, located west of South Mountain. To McClellan's right, Lee and Longstreet commanded an indeterminate number of troops, while to his left, McLaws and Anderson operated under the overall leadership of Stonewall Jackson. With Jackson positioned on one side and Lee on the other, it was prudent for McClellan to take a moment to assess which of the opposing forces represented a greater threat. Franklin had indicated that he was up against an enemy force that was twice the size of his own. If McClellan accepted Franklin's assessment, it suggested that the Confederate troops in Pleasant Valley exceeded 25,000, a formidable adversary.

Map of the Battle of Antietam by Hal Jespersen. Source: Map by Hal Jespersen, www.posix.com/CW, Creative Commons license 3.0, available here.

Initially, Lee and Longstreet seemed to be retreating toward Virginia, but as the afternoon progressed, it became clear that Lee had opted to hold his position in Maryland. Concurrently, the Confederate forces in Pleasant Valley, located to McClellan's left, began their withdrawal back to Virginia. The dynamic nature of the battlefield, coupled with the challenges of maneuvering large troop contingents along generally inadequate roads, made September 15 an unfavorable day for launching an offensive.

September 16 presented a different scenario for McClellan. Aware that Lee had gathered his troops around Sharpsburg, McClellan planned to launch an attack with his largely unified forces in the morning. However, dense fog obscured his view of the Confederate positions. By 8:30 to 9:00 a.m., the fog dissipated, revealing that Lee's forces remained in their locations. Nevertheless, McClellan was still unable to identify the Confederate left flank. For three and a half hours, he scoured the area along Antietam Creek in search of the enemy's line. Ultimately, realizing that only direct engagement would reveal their position, he instructed Hooker to move his First Corps across the creek at 12:30 p.m. Federal cavalry began patrolling the western bank of the creek shortly after 1:00 p.m. It took an additional four hours for Hooker to position his troops for the attack that commenced later that evening. In summary, the variable conditions hindered McClellan's ability to launch an assault on September 15, leading to a delayed attack on September 16.

Despite the traditional narrative, the Union army was not fully prepared for combat on September 16. On the afternoon of the 15th, Richardson and Sykes, with approximately 6,700 infantry, arrived at the Portertown bridge. Hooker's 1st Corps, consisting of 8,600 infantry, reached the area in the early evening and established a position near the Pry House. Meanwhile, Sumner's two additional divisions were stationed along the Keedysville Road. The 12th Corps was positioned at Boonsboro, the 9th Corps was located around Appletown, roughly six miles away, and the 6th Corps was in Pleasant Valley. Morell and Weber remained at Frederick or Middletown.

On the morning of the 16th, Sumner successfully moved his remaining two divisions to Keedysville, allowing McClellan to muster around 25,000 effective infantry by mid-morning. However, Burnside was still lagging; his Corps did not arrive at Portertown until noon and subsequently camped about two miles from the battlefield. Burnside advanced to receive orders regarding the placement of his corps, but by dusk, only three brigades had managed to reach the bluffs overlooking the Rohrbach Bridge. The balance of the corps was a couple of miles east and didn't break camp until 0900 on the 17th. The 12th Corps marched from Boonsboro and approached Keedysville quite late in the afternoon. As they arrived, McClellan ordered them to cross the creek and support Hooker. Morell's division and Weber's brigade are behind them. Any attack on the 16th would have been fought solely by the 1st and 2nd Corps, and Sykes' division.

It may have been to his benefit to attack immediately, although McClellan would have had to advance troops in fog and against an opponent he believed outnumbered him. Had he pushed Sumner’s Second Corps across the Middle Bridge at daybreak, regardless of the fog, it probably would have forced Lee to withdraw his troops from the heights opposite the Rohrbach Bridge, where Ambrose Burnside and Jacob Cox waited with the Ninth Corps. They could then have crossed against the Confederate right. Hooker could have crossed on the Confederate left and engaged Jackson’s men there. Pursuing a strategy such as this would have likely stretched Lee’s force thin in multiple places, allowing the Federals to punch through. I doubt that in this type of scenario, Lee could have held his position for longer than 24 hours.

Lee intuited that the initial attack would be on his left. Intelligence came in all day on September 16, indicating a Federal advance on the left, but little activity on the right and in the middle. Concentrating forces against the Confederate left focused Lee there as well. All he needed to do was shift men from the right and center until a threat materialized in those sectors, and that did not occur until later in the afternoon on September 17.

Lee cornered himself on purpose, unlike what some historians suggest. He did so because his campaign objective was to fight and win a battle north of the Potomac that would fulfill the promise of protection his proclamation of Sept. 8 gave to Marylanders in favor of secession. His plan to fight north of Boonsboro had unraveled when Jackson took a day longer than Lee anticipated to capture Harpers Ferry, and because McClellan had unexpectedly attacked the South Mountain gaps. This left Lee with no choice but to move back toward Virginia to bring the army's various pieces closer together. Sharpsburg was the last place Lee could find with somewhat advantageous terrain. However, his left was vulnerable to a large-scale attack, which is exactly why McClellan struck there.

McClellan did not appear to have “the slows” in his approach to Antietam. This is yet another tenet of the history of the battle that does not hold up to scrutiny. This has been a persistent myth since Sears & Catton. Its origin was the 1864 Lincoln election propaganda campaign. McClellan's army did not fully arrive until September 17. By the end of the day on the 15th, his corps was stretched out on the road back over South Mountain. McClellan also faced the possibility that Jackson commanded the portion on his left flank, where the Sixth Corps was, and Lee the portion on the right flank at Sharpsburg. Being between these two commanders is not an enviable position.

By the morning of Sept. 16, McClellan hoped to attack, but could not see the enemy's lines. He therefore scouted along them for a better idea, but did not glean one. It is only after these scouting missions that he ordered Hooker to cross the creek and develop the Confederate left flank, something that could only be done through contact. Sure, McClellan could have ordered Hooker across earlier and had more daylight, but it is unclear what that might have accomplished. We need to remember as well that McClellan believed his army to be outnumbered. We know that is false, but no commander in his right mind would push his force into unknown territory while facing a stronger opponent. That said, McClellan did make a mistake by not sending the Twelfth Corps along with Hooker, and perhaps the Second Corps as well.

Exactly what McClellan was thinking on September 17th is anyone’s guess. McClellan, of course, has been skewered throughout history for generating a piecemeal attack. But his actual plan was to attack en echelon, Napoleon style.  But, if a commander follows such a plan to stretch enemy defenses, the key to victory is to commit the reserves in a timely fashion: “a mass of decision.”  This was the Napoleonic principle.  He utterly failed in this last and most crucial aspect of his plan. The Tactic of a Napoleon-era en echelon attack was to advance at different times to create a "pressure point" on the enemy's line and to follow up any breakthrough with reserve troops.

True to form as we saw in the Seven Days, his headquarters was over a mile away from the battlefield. That would guarantee that he had no clue what was happening on the field in real time. Communication would be delayed, and any momentary opportunity lost. And I think that is exactly what happened.

McClellan failed to commit his reserves for several reasons. 1).  Located at the Pry house, he was on the wrong side of Antietam creek and thus was removed from the battlefield.  2).  Burnside was supposed to be coming up from the south in behind Gen. D.H. Hill once Burnside's men cross the bridge and start rolling up the Confederate army from South to North.  However, Burnside failed in his mission because of extremely slow development of his attacks.  3).  Gen. Fitz Porter supposedly reminded Mac, when Mac was contemplating sending in Porter's men, that "His Corps represented the last troops of the Army of the Potomac".  It was a subtle reminder of how Napoleon sent in his only reserve of the Guard at Waterloo and was soundly defeated, which is all Mac needed to hear to become timid and afraid of failure.

McClellan had a long history of delaying attacks. Maybe he thought that he had to plan in great detail before launching them. But these delays were never beneficial and never justifiable. Perhaps:

·       McClellan didn’t really know the size of the army in his front at Antietam and therefore, he was being prudently cautious in moving slowly before starting his attack. https://www.historynet.com/mcclellans-war-winning-strategy/

·       He had an inability to create original or innovative ideas, even though he was tremendously smart and a quick study.

·       He might have been incapable of responding creatively to the real time exigencies of battle.  He could not creatively adjust his plan. Thus, at Antietam, when his plan of assault did not unfold like a predetermined Napoleonic success, Mac was unable to develop any new concepts on the spot to adapt to the changed circumstances.

·       My own opinion is that McClellan was more concerned with not losing than with winning. In his mind, as the fate of the Union rested on his shoulders, he could not allow a defeat.

·       Cpl Thomas Pressnel of Co D, 1st Minnesota said on Sept 18, the day after Antietam:  "McClellan is either a fool or a traitor." https://www.hhhistory.com/2019/05/antietam-bloodiest-day.html

McClellan telegraphed that he was going to start the attack on Lee’s left. His artillery opened up all afternoon September 16 in that area. Hooker was sent there. Lee saw all of this. Lee’s ranks had been thinned by casualties, sickness and large-scale desertions, but he had the advantage of position. He’d selected an excellent defensive field in which to fight. The lay of the land permitted the Rebels the opportunity to transfer troops under cover and allowed them to select the most advantageous artillery positions.

Antietam Creek is pretty shallow in most places, ranging from 60 to 100 feet in width, and was fordable in several places. It was crossed by three stone bridges each a mile apart. The bridges over Antietam Creek would be crucial. The top two for Union units to enter the battlefield, the bottom one, a stone bridge, for the final act.

At the Battle of Antietam, more Americans died in battle (September 17, 1862) than on any other day in the nation's history. The bloodiest battle in American history was Gettysburg, but its more than 46,000 casualties occurred over three days. Antietam ranks fifth in terms of total casualties in Civil War battles.

The Cornfield

On the morning of September 17th, a 30-acre cornfield owned by David R. Miller lay between the two armies. The cornstalks were turning from green to brown, ready to be harvested, 30 acres of corn fodder. None of it would exist by that evening. One general remarked, “Every stalk of corn in the northern and greater part of the field was cut as closely as with a knife.” Thousands of men would lie dead in that cornfield, the site of some of the most ferocious, confusing, and deadly fighting of the war.

At first light (around 5:30 a.m. on September 17, 1862), Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker’s I Corps struck the Confederate left along the Hagerstown Turnpike, aiming for the plateau crowned by the small whitewashed Dunker Church. Hooker’s roughly 8,600 men pressed forward against Stonewall Jackson’s 7,700 defenders, deploying Abner Doubleday on the right, James Ricketts into the East Woods, and George Meade’s reserves in the center. As Union infantry emerged into the Cornfield below the church, an artillery duel erupted: Confederate horse batteries under J.E.B. Stuart to the west and four guns under Col. Stephen D. Lee to the south traded shots with nine Federal batteries behind the North Woods and distant Parrott rifles. Fierce musket­ry and close‐quarters fighting swirled around the church itself, with repeated advances and withdrawals in the fields and woods before fresh Confederate brigades under McLaws and Hood counterattacked shortly after 7 a.m., stabilizing Jackson’s line near the landmark.

At dawn, a Union corps assaulted Lee's left flank across Miller's Cornfield. The battle began when Hooker’s I Corps attacked around 5:30 a.m. As the Union moved forward, they were met by withering fire from Confederate infantry and artillery, including Stonewall Jackson’s men positioned in the West Woods and behind a fence at the southern edge of the corn. The cornfield turned rapidly into a killing field. The tall corn created a kind of fog of war—soldiers couldn’t see well and often blundered into enemy fire at close range. Units were slaughtered in rows, sometimes without even seeing who was shooting them. Men layed prone and shot at legs through the stalks; if they stood up they couldn’t see and more apt to be killed. Fighting surged back and forth repeatedly, with Union troops advancing, getting repulsed, and attacking again.

At 7AM, Mansfield’s XII Corps brought in fresh troops, hoping to support Hooker, but was mortally wounded. His men also suffered heavy casualties as they entered the killing zone.

Next, General John Bell Hood’s division, including the famed Texas Brigade, launched a devastating counterattack, pushing Union troops back out of the Cornfield temporarily. Hood’s men took over 60% casualties—he later said his division was “dead on the field.” Control of the field changed hands perhaps 6 to 8 times in three hours. Casualties mounted on both sides—some regiments lost over half their men in minutes. By 9:00 a.m., the Cornfield fight had run its course; the area was covered with bodies. As regiments and brigades entered the Cornfield, only to be demolished in waves of attacks and counterattacks, a layer of smoke covered the field so that no one could see what was happening. Soldiers later related that they lay on the ground and shot at the legs of their enemies

Perched roughly three‑quarters of a mile southwest of the North Woods, the knoll known as Nicodemus Hill (or Heights) was crowned by more than a dozen Confederate cannon placed there overnight by J.E.B. Stuart’s cavalry artillery, under the direct command of Maj. John Pelham. From this vantage the guns enfiladed the right flank of Hooker’s advancing columns as they poured out of the woods into the open terrain toward the Cornfield and Dunker Church. Pelham’s batteries swept the ground with shell and canister, inflicting severe casualties and helping to check the Union drive long enough for Jackson’s infantry to form a defensive Stonewall Jackson held the Confederate lines, and the Union suffered heavy casualties. Neither side seemed able to gain the upper hand, and one witness described the clash as "Artillery Hell."

2) While numerous countercharges held off Union advances, this Union division commander ordered yet another attack, resulting in Jackson’s left and center being in imminent danger. 3) Then this illustrious Union brigade charged parallel with Hagerstown Pike, sweeping the field. 4) His lines collapsing all around him, and out of men on the line, Stonewall Jackson turned to this general, his last reserve, being held after his men were in the center of the battle at Harpers Ferry.5) Which Confederate troops advanced in a desperate situation to save the southwest corner of the field? 6) After all of the intense action, which Confederate brigade held the line? 7) Both Hooker and Jackson each had one more brigade to throw into this killing field. Who were they led by? Which Union General led the attack? Hint: This general seemed to be everywhere Jackson’s men were during the war. 8) At the end of the fighting, who held the Cornfield? What was the staggering toll of casualties in just this one part of the field? 9) When did Jackson arrive at Sharpsburg?

Joseph Hooker was the Union corps commander that led the attack on the Cornfield. John Gibbon bravely led the first wave of that attack. The Iron Brigade struck hard at Jackson’s line and advanced deep into the Cornfield. Despite success, they met withering Confederate counterfire and were eventually pushed back. Units like the 6th Wisconsin and 2nd Wisconsin suffered casualty rates over 50%. Still, they inflicted enormous damage and helped set the stage for XII Corps’ later advance. You will notice that many of those who rose to high command later in the war courageously led in smaller roles in this battle. Arguably, that is why the tide of the war turned eventually: the cream rose to the top. 2) Abner Doubleday. 3) The Iron Brigade. 4) John Bell Hood. 5) Hays’ Louisiana Brigade. 6) The Stonewall Brigade. 7) Maj Gen Joseph KF Mansfield vs General DH Hill. Alpheus Williams led the 1st Division, XII Corps. His contributions to this campaign were enormous. He would go on to be a lawyer, judge, journalist, and later U.S. Congressman. His division had been defeated twice by Stonewall Jackson, once in the Valley and once at Second Bull Run. At Antietam, his division, which had found Special Order 191, had 25% casualties against Jackson’s Division. He would meet Jackson’s men again at Chancellorsville, where his men entrenched and stopped Jackson’s offensive, with heavy casualties. Williams finally stopped Jackson’s corps, without Jackson, of course, on Culp’s Hill. 8) It hardly mattered at that point, but the Army of the Potomac did hold part of it, however tenuously. Estimates suggest 8,000–10,000 men were killed or wounded in or near the Cornfield in just those few hours.9) It is so important to note that Longstreet was the only corps commander through South Mountain, and that Jackson wasn’t there because he was capturing Harpers Ferry, which he accomplished on September 15. Jackson then pushed his men to join the rest of the army at Sharpsburg, Maryland. Jackson arrived in time to bear the brunt of the Federal advances on the northern end of the battlefield in the morning phase. https://www.historynet.com/battle-of-antietam-carnage-in-a-cornfield/?f

The Sunken Road

The focus of battle swung southeast from The Cornfield to Bloody Lane. This sunken dirt farm road had been used by local farmers to bypass the town, and its level was below the fields around it due to use and rain. The Confederates fortified it, using the sunken road as a natural trench. This part of the battle occurred roughly between 9:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m. Around 9:00 a.m., Union II Corps under Gen. Edwin Sumner attacked. Led by Gen. William H. French’s division, then Gen. Israel Richardson’s, they hit the lane from the east in wave after wave. The Confederates poured musket fire into the advancing Federals from the cover of the lane. Union troops returned fire, turning the area into a brutal stand-up firefight, lasting hours.

Casualties were enormous on both sides. Bodies piled up in the narrow lane—thus the name “Bloody Lane.”

Maj. Gen. Daniel Harvey Hill placed his division of approximately 2,600 men along the road, piled fence rails on the embankment to further strengthen the position and waited for the advance of the Union army. As Federal troops moved to reinforce the fighting in the West Woods, Union Maj. Gen. William H. French and his 5,500 men veered south, towards Hill's position along the Sunken Road. As French's men approached the Sunken Road, the Confederate troops staggered them with a powerful volley delivered at a range of less than one hundred yards.

Union and Confederate troops dug in. For nearly four hours, from 9:30 a.m. to 1 p.m., bitter fighting raged along this road as French, supported by Gen. Israel B. Richardson`s division, sought to drive the Southerners back. Outnumbered but with a well-defended position, the Confederates in the road stood their ground for most of the morning. Eventually, a gap opened in the Confederate line due to miscommunication and shifting reserves. Union troops flanked the lane, firing down its length, turning it into a death trap. Confederate resistance collapsed, and survivors fled toward Sharpsburg.

After the Union broke through the Sunken Road around 1:00 p.m., there was a real opportunity to split Lee’s army in two and possibly end the battle—and maybe the war—right there. An opportunity to crush Lee’s army was missed.

2) 3) 4) At the critical moment, as the Sunken Road collapsed, the Confederate Army was in great danger of being overrun. Why didn’t he throw in his reserves at this desperate time as Jackson did? 5) Who led the brigade that broke the defense of the Sunken Road? 6) How severe were the casualties?

The great Union heroes of this portion of the battle were immigrants from another country who came here seeking a better life and escape from a famine. The Irish Brigade (New York and Massachusetts Irish Americans) advanced upon Confederate troops who had taken up a position in No fewer than eight times were the colors of the Irish Brigade struck down, but nine times they were taken up and carried forward. Men sacrificed their lives to rush a fence and tear it down rather than have the entire brigade take fire through being slowed by the barricade. The Irish Brigade advanced under heavy fire, living up to the Gaelic phrase written upon their regimental colors: “Riamh Nar Dhruid O Spairn lann”, “Who never retreated from the clash of spears”.

Eventually, the Irish Brigade was able to flank the sunken road, and rather than facing entrenched riflemen head-on, they were then able to shoot down the Sunken Road, so effectively that The Sunken Road became The Bloody Lane. Union assaults against the Sunken Road carried the Confederate center, but the resulting advantage was squandered. The two remaining divisions of Sumner's corps that had not attacked the Hagerstown Road. They had entered the field through the North bridge then divided up.

DH Hill’s division had already intervened in the fluid battles near the East Woods, so even though it held a strong position in the sunken road, the division was somewhat weakened. The Union general who led the attack that broke the line was Francis Channing Barlow, who would go on to fame on Day 1 at Gettysburg and become one of the great heroes of the war, and a division commander under Hancock in the Overland Campaign.

Colonel John B Gordon was wounded 6 times that day, might have drowned in his kepi from his blood that collected in it, and had a facial scar forever. He promised General Lee "The men are going to stay here, General, till the sun goes down or victory is won!"

McClellan has been criticized ever since for advancing portions of his line at different times rather than at once and holding back an entire corps entirely.  At the moment when the battle was hanging in the balance, McClellan did not send in an entire corps he held in reserve, which might well have won the battle and perhaps the entire war that very day. The infamous story is that the reserve troops belonging to McClellan’s most trusted corps commander, Gen. Fitz-John Porter, were ready to take the field at the Sunken Road. For a brief moment, McClellan seemed ready to commit the V Corps reserves and looked to Porter, his most trusted subordinate. Porter is said to have slowly shaken his head with disapproval and is purported to have said to McClellan, “Remember, General! I command the last reserve of the last army of the Republic.” Modern scholarship suggests that this never happened, and that Porter was blamed after the fact, before his court-martial set up by Pope. It would take many years for Porter to get justice, and he would never command again. I have never believed that story. I think McClellan was so far away from the battlefield, the only time he left his HQ was to scout the far right near Nicodemus Heights around 2 pm, that by the time he was informed of the opportunity, Lee had already moved reinforcements to plug the hole in the center. Troops under Gen. James Longstreet and others helped stabilize the line, and the artillery was the real savior. That gave the Confederate army time to regroup and survive the day. This was his story to protect his reputation.

There were roughly 5,600 total casualties in this phase alone. The road remained choked with the dead and wounded for hours—an iconic image of Civil War carnage.

Map of Burnside Bridge by Hal Jespersen. Source: Map by Hal Jespersen, www.posix.com/CW, Creative Commons license 3.0, available here.

The Burnside Bridge

Late in the afternoon, the fiercest fighting again switched, now to the south part of the field, the Union left.  There, General Ambrose Burnside and XI Corps had been attempting for hours to cross Antietam Creek via a narrow stone arch bridge called the Rohrbach bridge at that time, and which would later bear the name Burnside Bridge. Hartwig claims that this name change was intended derisively and mockingly. This the site of one of the most dramatic and frustrating episodes of the war. Burnside is often criticized for his action, or lack thereof, to cross the creek for hours when doing so would have flanked Lee’s position. It is often said that his failure to perform a proper reconnaissance caused him to not realize there were several other places to ford his troops.

Burnside spent hours trying advance his troops through the bottleneck bridge under the accurate and deadly fire of Confederate sharpshooters. The bridge was defended by just 500 Confederate sharpshooters, who had terrific position to attack anyone trying to cross. They held the bluffs above the bridge, giving them a commanding view and position. From this high ground, they rained down musket and artillery fire on any Union troops attempting to approach.

Burnside had three divisions (thousands of men) but committed them in piecemeal assaults. Rather than flanking the bridge with a quicker ford (there were two nearby), he focused on direct frontal assaults. His troops tried repeatedly to storm the narrow bridge, each time taking heavy losses. After more than three hours, the Union finally succeeded around 1:00 p.m., with Brig. Gen. Edward Ferrero’s brigade (including the 51st Pennsylvania and 51st New York) storming the bridge. Once across, Union troops pushed back the Confederates, climbing the heights and threatening the Confederate right.

It looked like a Union victory was inevitable. Just as Burnside’s men were preparing to roll up Lee’s right flank, Gen. A.P. Hill’s division arrived from Harpers Ferry after a forced march. At this critical moment, with the Confederate line breaking, A. P. Hill's division arrived after a forced march from Harpers Ferry and launched a surprise counterattack. They slammed into Burnside’s left around 3:30 p.m., halting and driving back Burnside.

Ambrose Burnside typically receives criticism for his slow advance at Antietam (and in other battles). Sears is especially critical, opining that his delay here had a serious impact on the battle and the war, which cannot be overstated. He wrote that Burnside should have found a way to cross the creek much earlier.

The opposite bank of the bridge was held mainly Georgians under Brig. Gen. Robert Toombs, the former Confederate Secretary of State, who had warned President Davis not to fire on Fort Sumter. He then resigned and took division command. He was wounded in action that day.

Stephen Sears, in his authoritative book Landscape Turned Red, makes the case that Ambrose Burnside’s sluggish performance at Antietam was at least partly due to his frustration with the command structure, especially with how McClellan treated him. Before Antietam, McClellan had organized his army into “wings” rather than corps directly under army command. Burnside was given command of the right wing, which included IX and I Corps. But just before the battle, McClellan reassigned I Corps to Hooker, leaving Burnside with just IX Corps—effectively demoting him in all but name. Sears argues that this shift bruised Burnside’s ego and left him resentful and confused about his role. He suggests Burnside was “acting out” in response by dragging his feet, waiting for more direct orders. Rather than taking initiative, as a wing commander might have done, Burnside behaved like a corps commander waiting for instructions—possibly as a passive protest. But while this interpretation is widely cited, this is entirely Sears’ own interpretation, with no source whatsoever. Hartwig doesn’t even mention it.

There has also been some controversy whether Antietam Creek had several areas that were easily crossed on foot, rendering the bridge much less important It’s fascinating to remember that Henry Kyd Douglas first said this, the man who might have been the courier who lost the Special Order. Hartwig notes that this was disingenuous because the creek was much deeper than that, and the entire bank was covered by Confederate troops. Hartwig notes that McClellan did not criticize Burnside until a year later, when he blamed Burnside for the delay. He also notes that the IX Corps Commander mostly ran the action, and that he tried very hard to cross the creek, had called for reinforcements, which McClellan would not send, instead shoring up his right flank. McClellan’s criticisms of Burnside as he was preparing to run for president. The fact is that Burnside faced severe resistance that day.

AP Hill was in Harpers Ferry, paroling prisoners. His entrance just when he did save the day for the Confederates. Just as it looked like the battle would be lost when Burnside's men began to turn the right of the Confederate line, A.P. Hill, leading the last elements of Jackson's Corps, arrived on the field from Harpers Ferry and stopped the Federal Advance. I am guessing that the reports of Lee’s final words about how AP Hill must come up, which I don’t think really happened, relate to this moment.

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Legendary Legacies: Other Famed Military Encounters Celebrating Anniversaries in 2026

Honoring the past is a historian’s greatest task, with a truly noble purpose: preserving the memory of those who shaped the world. By doing so, they not only ensure subsequent generations follow suit, but also help them learn from these legends’ successes/failures. After all, as has been said many times, those who don’t learn from the past are forever doomed to repeat it.

On that note, each new year brings a plethora of anniversaries to celebrate, one of this year’s most trumpeted ones being America’s 250th birthday. However, there are many other such dates deserving of notice, including some whose impact was far greater than many realize. In the interest of tradition, let’s look at sixteen landmark battles also celebrating significant anniversaries this year.

Andrew Nickerson explains.

Bayeux Tapestry, scene 51: Battle of Hastings with Norman knights and archers. Source: Public domain, Musée de la Tapisserie de Bayeux, available here.

The Battle of Hastings, 960 years: On October 14th, 1066, William the Conqueror’s Norman force faced off with King Harold Godwinson’s Anglo-Saxon army for control of England. In a very close call, William and his forces killed Harold, his famed Housecarl bodyguards, and most of his noble supporters, allowing the Norman Conquest (one of the most influential events in western history) to unfold.

The Battle of Legnano, 850 years: On May 29th, 1176, Frederick Barbarossa’s German knights went into battle against the Lombard League in northern Italy. The latter, seeking independence from the Holy Roman Empire, managed to overwhelm and defeat Barbarossa’s knights, plus nearly killed the man himself. In the process, the League won significant political autonomy, as well as taught all European leaders that mounted knights weren’t invulnerable to peasants, as they’d previously believed.

The Battle of Arsuf, 835 years: On September 7th, 1191, England’s King Richard I was on crusade, shadowed by the Muslim forces of Saladin. Carefully working his way along the Mediterranean coast, the former’s stern discipline kept his knights in check despite constant harassment, ultimately lulling the latter into complacency. However, some Knights Hospitaller finally snapped and charged, leading to a general assault that crushed Saladin’s forces. Thus, Richard earned the immortal title “Lionhearted”, and his peers learned Muslim forces could lose to superior generalship.

The Battle of Crecy, 680 years: On August 26th, 1346, the English King Edward III met the French King Phillip in one of the Hundred Years’ War’s most famous battles. Intending to trap Edward, the French knights instead let themselves be goaded into a frontal assault, where they were shattered by the former’s longbow archers. Despite a close call where Edward’s son, the Black Prince, famously “won his spurs”, the day ended with the fruit of France’s nobility dead/captured, as well as secured the longbow’s place as one of history’s most decisive weapons.

The Siege of Belgrade, 570 years: From July 4-22nd, 1456, the Ottoman Turks laid siege to Belgrade, hoping for an easy win against Europe’s divided nations. Instead, a composite force of Hungarians, city militia, and peasants under Janos Hunyadi broke the Turks’ galley blockade, destroyed an incoming janissary assault, and raided the enemy camp, forcing their withdrawal. Thus, a ragtag force crushed an army most thought invincible, plus enacted a longstanding victory tradition: ringing church bells in celebration.

The Battle of Lepanto, 455 years: On October 7th, 1571, the Christian Holy League fleet, led by Don Juan de Austria, and the Ottoman Turk fleet, led by Ali Pasha, clashed for control of the Mediterranean. In a daring display, Don Juan placed his faith in firepower, namely galleasses (massive vessels loaded with guns and musketeers), an effort which paid off when he obliterated most of the Ottoman fleet and Ali Pasha. The result freed thousands of Christian prisoners, renewed Western European morale, and proved cannons would dominate naval warfare from then on.

The Battle of Breitenfeld, 395 years: On September 7th, 1631, Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus II’s army took on the Catholic army of Johann Tilly to support the struggling Protestants in the Thirty Years War. Although his Saxon allies were defeated early on, Gustavus pulled off an incredible win thanks to his revolutionary military reforms, including better artillery and strict combined arms. Ultimately, he destroyed a huge portion of Tilly’s force and, although he didn’t achieve total Protestant victory, ignited a new tactical trend that saw his reforms become the standard throughout Europe.

The Siege of Yorktown, 235 years: From September 29th-October 19th, 1781, George Washington and his French allies besieged British General Charles Cornwallis on the coast of Virginia as the latter tried to rest/refit following a long, arduous campaign in the American south. After the British were bottled up along the coast, a French fleet stopped royal navy intervention, allowing a proper siege to unfold. Ultimately, Cornwallis surrendered, destroying popular support back in England and guaranteeing American independence despite the conflict not technically ending until 1783.

The Battle of Copenhagen Harbor, 125 years: On March 30th, 1801, Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson faced off with a Danish fleet in a side dispute of the Napoleonic Wars. Despite having little room to maneuver, the former led a daring attack and, ignoring an initial gaffe and orders to disengage, pulled off an epic win. While this didn’t conclude the matter entirely, a rumor that Nelson famously placed his spyglass to his blind eye to ensure he didn’t see the retreat signal didcoin a new pop culture term: “Turning a blind eye.”

The Battle of the Little Bighorn, 150 years: On June 25th, 1876, Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer led the U.S. 7thCavalry against the Sioux tribe under Sitting Bull to try and force the latter onto reservations. However, Custer arrogantly ignored alarming reconnaissance reports, refused to bring along several gatling guns, and rushed into an attack after splitting his force in the face of a superior foe. In the end, Custer and almost 300 men were killed in the worst defeat the U.S. cavalry ever suffered at Native American hands.

The Battle of Adwa, 130 years: On March 1st, 1896, the Italian army under General Oreste Baratieri faced the Ethiopian Imperial army under Emperor Menelik to further Italian colonial aims.  Although Baratieri had significant firepower, his commanders made a series of clumsy mistakes, including pushing ahead without proper provisions and taking the wrong roads; hence, the Ethiopians outmaneuvered them, then forced them into a panicked rout. As a result, Italian colonial hopes were temporarily smashed, and the victory became a symbol of hope to other blossoming independence movements throughout Africa.

The Battle of Verdun, 110 years: From February 21st-December 15th, 1916, the German army under General Erich Falkenhayn launched a brutal offensive on the French army’s eastern flank, hoping to drag them into a war of attrition and “bleed them white”. Sadly, the battle became a massive slogging match that depleted both armies, particularly after the French, rallying under the dynamic leadership of General Henri Petain and the now immortal vow “They shall not pass”, began a massive counterattack. In the end, the battle lines were mostly restored, and German morale cratered as both sides slowly recovered from the millions of casualties suffered in arguably history’s bloodiest battle.

The Battle of Jutland, 110 years: On May 30th, 1916, the British Grand Fleet under Admiral John Jellicoe went into action against the German High Seas Fleet under Admiral Reinhard Scheer to prevent the latter from breaking free of Europe’s north coast. However, the ensuing battle was a mess of unexpected encounters and confusion. Ultimately, the British lost more ships due to their emphasizing mobility over armor for defense, but were able to keep the Germans bottled up. Then again, the battle also led to a hard revelation: given the deadly nature of improving weaponry, that lack of armor left the former’s ships dangerously vulnerable to plunging fire AKA a shell landing directly atop a vessel. Thus, all heavy warships would need better protection going forward, particularly when aircraft became more viable.

The First Day of the Battle of the Somme, 110 years: On July 1st, 1916, the British army under Field Marshall Douglas Haig launched an offensive on the German lines in northern France, hoping to ease pressure on the French at Verdun. The result was a bloody mess, most infamously the first day (the worst in British military history to date), with almost 58,000 men (19,240 of which were dead) shot down, the majority dying from machine gun fire. Worse, British artillery rounds were terribly ineffective, mostly due to either dud rounds or a lack of high explosive shells to blow gaps in the German wire. The offensive did make some progress, but eventually reached a bloody stalemate weeks later, both sides having lost around a million troops apiece.

The Siege of Wake, 85 years: From December 8th-23rd, 1941, following the attack on Pearl Harbor, a Japanese force attacked this small atoll’s Marine garrison, confident of an easy win after a string of epic victories. Instead, their initial force was badly shot up, losing two destroyers, numerous aircraft, and hundreds of troops to its brave defenders. Although the island ultimately fell to a second, larger attempt, that initial win boosted the Allies’ badly mauled morale, as well as produced one of the greatest (albeit deliberately misquoted) news headlines in American history: “Send us more Japs.”

There’re plenty of other such anniversaries worth mentioning, many of which can be found in this essay’s source material: Richard Overy’s A History of War in 100 Battles, Bryan Perrett’s Last Stand!, Helen Doe’s Great Naval Battles: From Medieval Wars to the Present Day, and Ian Westwell’s World War I: An Illustrated History. Yet, all should serve as a reminder of our duty to the past and future. After all, if we neglect the former, the latter will pay the price…a mistake too many have failed to learn as is.

Did you enjoy the piece? Join us on X here for more: @HistoryIsNowMag

Bibliography

Helen Doe. Great Naval Battles: From Medieval Wars to the Present Day. London: Arcturus Publishing Limited, 2022.

Richard Overy. A History of War in 100 Battles. London: Harper Collins Publishers, 2024.

Bryan Perrett. Last Stand!. London: Cassell Military Paperbacks, 1998.

Ian Westwell. World War I: An Illustrated History. Hemel Hempstead: Anness Publishing Ltd, 2023.

The English Civil War: Oliver Cromwell and the English Republic - The Revolution that became a New Monarchy - Part 6

On a cold January afternoon in 1649, the executioner's axe severed far more than the head of King Charles I. It also shattered centuries of political tradition. Never before had an English monarch been publicly tried, condemned by his own subjects and executed in the name of the people. With the monarchy abolished and the House of Lords dissolved, England stood on uncertain ground. For the first time in its history, the kingdom would attempt to govern itself without a king. The experiment would become known as the Commonwealth of England, and at its center stood one man whose influence would shape the nation for generations: Oliver Cromwell.

Terry Bailey explains.

You can read part 1 on the background to the war here, part 2 on how the English Civil War began here, part 3 on the New Model Army the turning of the tide here, part 4 on the King’s defeat here, and part 5 on King Charles I’s trial and execution here.

Richard Cromwell (1626-1712), Second Lord Protector by Gerald Soest. Source: Public domain, rom Theo Johns Fine Arts, London, available here.

To many contemporaries, Cromwell was the faithful servant of God who had delivered England from tyranny and sought to build a nation founded upon righteousness. To others, he was little more than a military dictator whose authority came not from law or consent but from the swords of the New Model Army. His life remains one of the most controversial in British history because it embodies one of history's great paradoxes. The man who helped destroy absolute monarchy would eventually wield powers strikingly similar to those of the kings he had overthrown.

The abolition of the monarchy in May 1649 marked a constitutional revolution without precedent. England was formally declared a Commonwealth, a republic in which sovereignty theoretically rested with the people through Parliament rather than through hereditary monarchy. The House of Commons became the sole legislative authority, while executive power rested in the Council of State. Royal titles disappeared from official documents, coins no longer bore the king's portrait, and England briefly attempted to redefine itself as a nation governed by republican principles.

Yet from the beginning, the Commonwealth faced immense challenges. Royalists refused to recognize its legitimacy, while many ordinary people regarded the abolition of the monarchy with suspicion. Throughout Europe, monarchs viewed the English experiment with horror, fearing revolutionary ideas might spread across their own kingdoms. Charles II, the executed king's eldest son, immediately claimed the throne and sought support abroad, ensuring that England's civil wars were far from over.

Religion remained inseparable from politics. The Parliamentarians had not fought merely to alter government but to invoke what many believed would be a godly nation. Cromwell, deeply influenced by Puritan theology, viewed England as a people chosen by divine providence. He believed victories in battle were evidence of God's favor and interpreted national events through the lens of Scripture. In his mind, England had entered into a covenant with God, and success depended upon national obedience to divine law.

The greatest immediate threat to the new republic emerged in Ireland. The Irish Confederate Wars, combined with Royalist alliances, had produced a dangerous base from which Charles II might reclaim England. Parliament therefore entrusted Cromwell with commanding an expedition to restore English control.

The Irish campaign of 1649 became one of the darkest chapters in British and Irish history. Cromwell landed with approximately 12,000 experienced soldiers of the New Model Army, veterans hardened by years of civil war. His first major objective was the fortified town of Drogheda. After breaching its walls, Parliamentarian forces stormed the town. Cromwell ordered that no quarter be given to many of the defenders, resulting in the deaths of several thousand soldiers and civilians.

Contemporary accounts and later historical research suggest that between 2,500 and 3,500 people were killed during the sack of Drogheda, although precise figures remain debated. Similar events followed at Wexford. Cromwell defended his actions as acts of divine judgement intended to discourage further resistance. To the Irish population, however, the massacres became enduring symbols of conquest, brutality and religious persecution. Even centuries later, Cromwell's name remains deeply controversial in Ireland.

Military success enabled Parliament to confiscate vast tracts of Irish land. Catholic landowners lost millions of acres, which were redistributed to English Protestant settlers and soldiers as payment for military service. The social, political and religious consequences transformed Ireland for generations, entrenching divisions that would continue to shape relations well into the modern era.

While Ireland was being subdued, Scotland presented another challenge. Unlike England, the Scots had proclaimed Charles II their lawful king after his father's execution. Determined to prevent a Royalist invasion, Cromwell led his army north in 1650.

The Scottish campaign demonstrated both Cromwell's military brilliance and the professionalism of the New Model Army. At the Battle of Dunbar on 3 September 1650, Cromwell found himself in an apparently hopeless position. His army of around 11,000 men was trapped between the sea and superior Scottish forces numbering perhaps 20,000 under David Leslie.

Believing the English were cornered, the Scottish commanders descended from their strong defensive position on Doon Hill in an attempt to crush Cromwell's army. During the early morning hours, Cromwell recognized that the Scottish deployment had produced fatal weaknesses. Launching a sudden and aggressive counterattack, English cavalry and disciplined infantry shattered the Scottish lines. Within hours, approximately 3,000 Scots had been killed and around 10,000 captured, while English losses remained remarkably light. Cromwell famously declared after the battle, "The Lord hath done this." To him, Dunbar represented unmistakable evidence of divine intervention.

The following year, Charles II attempted to reclaim his throne by invading England with a Scottish army. Cromwell intercepted him near the city of Worcester on the 3rd of September 1651, exactly one year after Dunbar. The resulting Battle of Worcester became the final major engagement of the English Civil Wars.

The battle demonstrated the maturity of the New Model Army as one of Europe's most effective military forces. Cromwell coordinated simultaneous assaults across multiple fronts, using disciplined infantry, mobile cavalry and artillery with exceptional precision. The Royalist army collapsed under sustained pressure. Thousands were killed or captured, while Charles II narrowly escaped, famously hiding in the branches of an oak tree before eventually fleeing to continental Europe. Cromwell later described Worcester as "a crowning mercy." The victory effectively ended organized military resistance against the Commonwealth.

These campaigns also illustrated the remarkable evolution of military organization during the civil wars. The New Model Army represented a revolutionary institution. Promotion increasingly depended upon merit rather than aristocratic birth, discipline was rigorously enforced, logistics were professionally organized, and soldiers were motivated by both religious conviction and political purpose. Military innovation had become inseparable from political revolution.

Despite overwhelming military success, governing England proved considerably more difficult than conquering it. The Commonwealth struggled with economic problems, political divisions and disagreements between Parliament and the Army. Radical groups such as the Levellers demanded expanded voting rights and greater political equality, while more conservative members feared social revolution.

Frustrated by Parliament's inability to enact reforms, Cromwell took the extraordinary step of forcibly dissolving the Rump Parliament in April 1653. According to witnesses, he entered the Commons accompanied by soldiers and declared, "You have sat too long for any good you have been doing." The experiment in parliamentary republicanism had reached an impasse.

Later that year, England adopted its first written constitution, known as the Instrument of Government. Drafted largely by Major-General John Lambert, the document established Oliver Cromwell as Lord Protector. It provided for regular Parliaments, defined executive authority and attempted to balance military power with civilian government. Although imperfect, it represented an important constitutional milestone. Britain had never before possessed a single written constitutional framework outlining the structure of national government.

As Lord Protector, Cromwell refused the title of king despite repeated invitations to accept the crown. He believed accepting monarchy would betray the principles for which so many had fought. Nevertheless, many features of his government increasingly resembled royal authority. He lived in former royal palaces, maintained elaborate state ceremonies, appointed ministers, directed foreign policy, commanded the armed forces and exercised considerable executive power.

This contradiction lay at the heart of Cromwell's rule. The revolution had abolished kingship but not the practical necessity for strong government. Faced with continual political instability, Cromwell increasingly relied upon personal authority backed by military force.

Perhaps the clearest example came with the establishment of the Rule of the Major-Generals in 1655. England and Wales were divided into eleven military districts, each governed by a Major-General responsible for maintaining order, collecting taxes and enforcing moral discipline. These officers supervised local government, monitored Royalist activity and implemented Puritan social reforms.

To supporters, the Major-Generals provided stability in a nation still recovering from civil war. To critics, they represented military dictatorship. Civil government had effectively become subordinate to army officers, raising uncomfortable questions about whether the republic truly differed from the authoritarian monarchy it had replaced.

Religion remained central to Cromwell's vision. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he believed certain forms of religious toleration were both desirable and politically necessary. Independent Protestant congregations, Baptists and other nonconformists generally enjoyed greater freedom than they had under earlier governments. Most remarkably, Cromwell permitted the formal return of Jewish communities to England in 1656 after more than three and a half centuries of exclusion following their expulsion in 1290. This decision reflected both religious conviction and practical commercial considerations.

However, Cromwell's toleration had clear limits. Roman Catholics continued to face severe legal restrictions, particularly in Ireland, where Catholic worship was often associated with political rebellion. Anglicans who supported episcopal church government likewise encountered discrimination. Cromwell believed liberty of conscience should exist only within the boundaries of Protestant Christianity and political loyalty to the Commonwealth.

Puritan ideals profoundly influenced everyday life. Many forms of public entertainment considered immoral were restricted or prohibited. Theatres remained closed, bear-baiting and certain popular festivities were discouraged, excessive drinking was condemned, and strict observance of the Sabbath was enforced. While some modern portrayals exaggerate the severity of these measures, there is little doubt that Cromwell sought to evolve a society reflecting Puritan moral values.

These reforms generated mixed reactions. Supporters argued that England was becoming a more disciplined, virtuous and orderly nation. Opponents complained that traditional customs and pleasures were being unnecessarily suppressed. The tension reflected a broader debate over whether government should shape the moral character of its citizens or simply maintain public order.

Abroad, Cromwell pursued an energetic foreign policy designed to enhance England's commercial and strategic position. The Navigation Act of 1651 required that goods imported into England or its colonies be transported primarily on English ships or vessels belonging to the exporting nation. The legislation directly challenged Dutch commercial dominance and contributed to the outbreak of the First Anglo-Dutch War.

The conflict demonstrated England's rapidly growing naval strength. Commanders such as Robert Blake transformed the navy into a highly effective fighting force. Naval tactics became increasingly sophisticated, with English fleets adopting disciplined line-of-battle formations that would dominate maritime warfare for centuries. Although the war concluded without decisive territorial gains, England emerged as a major naval power capable of challenging the wealthiest maritime republic in Europe.

Cromwell later turned his attention towards Spain, seeking both commercial opportunities and strategic advantage. English forces captured Jamaica in 1655, establishing what would become one of Britain's most valuable Caribbean colonies. The acquisition marked an important step in the development of England's overseas empire, providing economic benefits through sugar production while expanding English influence across the Atlantic.

By the late 1650s, England possessed a far stronger navy than it had before the civil wars. This expansion of naval power would prove one of Cromwell's most enduring legacies, laying foundations for Britain's future dominance of global trade and maritime warfare.

Yet despite military victories, constitutional innovation and expanding international influence, Cromwell never succeeded in securing widespread political legitimacy. Republicans criticized him for concentrating too much authority in his own hands. Royalists viewed him as a usurper. Radical reformers believed he had abandoned the revolutionary ideals of equality and parliamentary supremacy. Even many loyal supporters struggled to reconcile his immense personal power with the principles that had justified resistance to Charles I.

The irony was striking. Charles I had been condemned for governing without Parliament, relying on military force and claiming exceptional authority. Cromwell, although motivated by profoundly different ideals, increasingly governed through similar mechanisms. The forms had changed, but many contemporaries wondered whether the substance had truly altered.

Propaganda played an essential role throughout this period. Government publications portrayed Cromwell as God's chosen instrument, preserving England from anarchy and foreign enemies. Royalist writers, meanwhile, depicted him as a hypocritical tyrant whose republic merely concealed military despotism. Printed pamphlets, sermons and engravings shaped public opinion in ways that foreshadowed the increasingly influential political press of later centuries.

Underlying these debates was the larger question of legitimacy. Could governments derive authority from military victory? Did Parliament represent the people more effectively than hereditary monarchy? Was divine favor demonstrated through success in battle, or through lawful succession? These issues would continue to influence British political thought long after Cromwell's death.

Oliver Cromwell died on the 3rd of September 1658, the anniversary of both Dunbar and Worcester, a coincidence that many of his followers regarded as providential. He was sixty years old. His son, Richard Cromwell, succeeded as Lord Protector, but lacked both his father's military reputation and political authority. Within months, divisions within the Army and Parliament rendered his position untenable.

Without Oliver Cromwell's commanding personality to hold the fragile republic together, the Protectorate rapidly unraveled. Political instability returned, military factions quarreled, and confidence in republican government evaporated. By 1660, General George Monck marched south from Scotland, restored parliamentary authority and facilitated the return of Charles II. The monarchy, abolished with such revolutionary certainty only eleven years earlier, was restored with remarkably little resistance.

The collapse of the Protectorate demonstrated that institutions built upon the authority of a single individual rarely endure without broad constitutional support. Yet Cromwell's republic was far from a historical failure. It had permanently altered the relationship between Crown, Parliament and the people. The belief that kings ruled solely by divine right had been irrevocably weakened. Parliament had demonstrated that it could govern independently, while the Army had shown that political power ultimately depended upon more than hereditary succession alone.

The English Republic lasted little more than a decade, yet its influence extended far beyond its brief existence. It accelerated debates about constitutional government, religious liberty, military authority and popular sovereignty that would continue throughout the seventeenth century and beyond. Many of the constitutional questions first confronted under Cromwell would later find more durable solutions during the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the gradual evolution of parliamentary democracy.

Oliver Cromwell remains one of history's most complex figures. He was simultaneously liberator and conqueror, reformer and authoritarian, republican and ruler. Driven by profound religious conviction, he sought to develop a nation governed by justice, godliness and constitutional order. Yet the practical realities of governing a divided country repeatedly pushed him towards centralized authority and military control. In attempting to abolish tyranny, he discovered the enduring difficulty of exercising power without becoming, in the eyes of many, a tyrant himself.

The story of Cromwell and the English Republic therefore stands as one of history's greatest political experiments. It revealed both the possibilities and the perils of revolutionary government, demonstrating that overthrowing an old order is often far easier than constructing a stable new one. England's brief republic ultimately failed to survive, but the constitutional transformations it unleashed ensured that neither monarchy nor Parliament would ever again exercise power in quite the same way. The revolution had not ended with the Restoration. It had simply entered a new and lasting phase in the long evolution of the modern British state.

Although the Commonwealth and Protectorate endured for barely eleven years, their influence upon the history of Britain has proven immeasurable. The republican experiment ultimately collapsed, and the monarchy was restored, yet England could never simply return to the world that had existed before the Civil Wars. The execution of Charles I had forever destroyed the notion that a monarch ruled by unquestionable divine authority alone. Parliament had demonstrated that it possessed the capacity to challenge, even overthrow a king, while the New Model Army had shown that military power, political ideology and religious conviction could fundamentally reshape the constitutional order of an entire nation. The old certainties had disappeared, replaced by new and often uncomfortable questions concerning sovereignty, legitimacy and the proper limits of governmental authority.

Oliver Cromwell himself remains one of the most fascinating and divisive figures in British history. To his admirers, he was a man of unwavering faith who sought to build a nation governed by biblical principles, justice and moral discipline. To his detractors, he became the very embodiment of the tyranny he had once condemned, replacing one form of concentrated power with another sustained by military force. Both interpretations contain elements of truth. Cromwell was neither the flawless champion of liberty portrayed by some nor the irredeemable despot depicted by others. Rather, he was a deeply complex leader attempting to govern a fractured nation during one of the most turbulent periods in English history. His successes and failures reveal the immense difficulty of translating revolutionary ideals into stable and enduring institutions.

The contradictions of Cromwell's rule also illuminate one of history's enduring lessons. Revolutions often succeed in destroying established systems of government, but constructing a viable alternative is infinitely more challenging. The Commonwealth abolished monarchy yet struggled to govern without concentrating power in the hands of a single individual. It championed liberty of conscience while restricting those whose beliefs were deemed dangerous. It sought constitutional government while increasingly relying upon military authority. These tensions were not unique to seventeenth-century England; they have echoed throughout countless revolutions across the world, demonstrating the delicate balance between liberty and order, idealism and practicality.

The constitutional innovations introduced during Cromwell's lifetime would resonate long after the Protectorate itself had disappeared. The Instrument of Government represented Britain's first attempt at a written constitution. The principle that government should derive its authority from institutions rather than hereditary privilege gained increasing acceptance. Parliamentary sovereignty, though not yet fully realized, had taken a decisive step forward. Future generations would continue to debate the proper relationship between Crown and Parliament, but the events of the 1640s and 1650s ensured that no English monarch could again assume absolute authority without encountering determined resistance.

Equally significant was the transformation of England into an emerging military and maritime power. The New Model Army established new standards of professionalism, meritocracy and organization that influenced military thinking for generations. Meanwhile, Cromwell's investment in naval expansion and commercial policy laid important foundations for Britain's future global influence. The victories at sea against the Dutch and Spanish, coupled with the acquisition of strategic territories such as Jamaica, marked the beginning of England's emergence as a dominant maritime nation whose influence would eventually span the globe.

Religious conflict, too, left an indelible mark upon the nation. Throughout Cromwell's rule, faith remained inseparable from politics, shaping legislation, foreign policy and everyday life. Yet the very intensity of these religious struggles gradually encouraged a growing appreciation that lasting political stability might ultimately require greater religious accommodation. Although Cromwell's own toleration remained limited by modern standards, the debates begun during his Protectorate contributed to the slow evolution of broader religious freedoms that would emerge over subsequent centuries.

Perhaps the greatest legacy of the English Republic lies not in the institutions it invoked but in the questions it forced succeeding generations to confront. Who possesses the ultimate authority to govern? Can rulers be held accountable to the people? Is political legitimacy derived from hereditary succession, military success, parliamentary consent or the rule of law? How should liberty be balanced against security, and religious conviction against political stability? These questions have remained central to constitutional democracies ever since and continue to shape political discourse across the modern world.

As England moved towards the Restoration of Charles II in 1660, many felt the revolutionary experiment had failed. In reality, the restoration of the monarchy represented not a return to the past but the beginning of a new constitutional journey. The Crown would return, but it would never again possess the unquestioned supremacy enjoyed by the early Stuart kings. Parliament had emerged as an indispensable partner in government, and the seeds of constitutional monarchy had already been planted. Over the following decades these developments would culminate in the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and eventually provide the constitutional framework that continues to influence parliamentary democracies throughout the Commonwealth and beyond.

The age of Oliver Cromwell therefore occupies a unique place in British history. It was an era of extraordinary courage and profound violence, of genuine idealism and undeniable brutality, of constitutional innovation and political contradiction. It demonstrated both the immense possibilities and the grave dangers inherent in revolutionary change. Above all, it transformed England from a kingdom founded upon the medieval doctrine of divine monarchy into a nation increasingly defined by constitutional government, parliamentary authority and the principle that political power must ultimately be accountable. In that sense, the republic may have fallen, but the revolution itself endured, shaping the course of British history long after Cromwell, his Protectorate and the Commonwealth had passed into history.

Now read the final part in the series about the restoration of the monarchy here.

Christianity in Japan: Who were the Christian Samurai of Medieval Japan?

A little-known aspect of history revolves around the Christian Samurai of medieval Japan. Some might know that Pope Francis beatified the feudal medieval Japanese daimyo Justo Takayama Ukon (1552-1615), who was persecuted and exiled from Japan for his faith as the country’s rulers became hostile to Christians, forcing their conversion or expulsion. Few emulated Takayama, who stood firm in the faith, refusing to recant Christ and forgoing his rich inheritance and prestige and power. But he was neither the first nor the last feudal Japanese Christian lord in the islands to need correcting by the government.

Jeb Smith explains.

Masuda Shiro Tokisada/Amakusa Shirō (Christian name Geronimo Francisco). Source: Art Seattle Museum, Public domain, available here.

I recently completed Christ’s Samurai by Professor Jonathan Clements, who wrote that “In 1638, the ruler of Japan ordered a crusade against his own subjects, a holocaust upon the men, women, and children of a doomsday cult…the Christians would have to die.” But why would the Shogun do such a thing, to his own people?

Christianity was spreading; formerly common among the lower classes, it was now influencing many lords in southern Japan, especially in the Shimabara region. These rebellious Christians claimed there was another god above the divine emperor, one owed fealty exceeding that due to any human or government of this world. After a devastating civil war which reversed the upward trend of Christianity, with many Christian Samurai perishing, the Shogun did not want any more internal trouble. He isolated Japan from the West, and all missionaries were killed, exiled or went into hiding. Persecution of Christians began, the government desiring a people unified around the twin pillars of Shinto and Buddhism.

Growth of Christianity

Jesuits had brought a printing press to Japan, and various Christian works spread rapidly, converting many. At one point, Nagasaki was home to 60,000 Christians. In 1580, the city and its surrounding region was placed under Jesuit administration, with 150,000 Christians and 200 churches, staffed by 85 priests. Many of the Samurai were Christian as well, and they decorated their swords and armor and flags with Christian symbols.

The first anti-Christian law was enacted in 1587. By 1596, Japanese rulers were convinced that missionaries were secretly collaborating with the Spanish crown to unseat the Shogun and convert Japan to Christianity. In 1597, 26 Christians (both European and Japanese), missionaries and laymen, were crucified. More widespread persecution followed, mostly against Catholics, including gruesome public executions, various brutal forms of torture and expulsion from Japan. Inquisitors were sent to homes to discover and punish Christians.

Eventually, the government killed anyone suspected of Christian allegiance, and they forced any suspect to prove they were not Christian by renouncing Christ, Mary, and the saints, ensuring they held no loyalties to some foreign God beyond the sea. In 1614, Catholics were banished from Japan entirely. The island country, known for its isolationist ways, was to be kept “pure” from outside forces economically, politically, and religiously. Yet, there remained over 300,000 Christians in Japan at this time.

The Resistance

Masuda Shiro Tokisada (Christian name Geronimo, the Spanish form of Jerome) was born into a Christian Samurai family c. 1621. Though the religion was persecuted, the family was one of many that were part of the underground church, which also hid foreign and domestic priests and evangelists. In an echo of long-ago Roman days, many at this time willingly faced martyrdom, turning themselves in, from all ages, to tell government officials that they were Christians just to be killed; even being very respectful to those who would kill them, and also very kind. The martyrs' behavior bothered governmental officials, especially since all they had to do was tell a white lie and be left alone.  Instead, the underground church that Geronimo and his family were part of faced constant persecution involving brutal torture and death.

For example, sometimes they would be scalded in water, or drowned slowly over days, their flesh cut, dipped in hot water until near death, just to be pulled out and the torture repeated over and over. However, it was not just religion that was punished, but also tax evaders faced such torture and murder as well. And it was a mix of persecution of local Christians and also heavy taxation in the area that led to rebellion.

It began in 1637. Rebellion started when, as usual, citizens who were discovered to be Christians were rounded up and executed, but the locals, in turn, then killed one of the government officials, in part because of the brutal torture of various non-compliant young women. This had outraged the local rural farming communities, many of whom were underground Christians. Thought to be a rabble of peasant farmers, many were former Christian lords and samurai who had taken up farming after losing their status during an earlier civil war, often hiding in rural areas to practice their religion.

They began by burning down Buddhist temples while the rebels adorned their clothing and hairstyles with Christian symbolism. And then engaged in various battles and skirmishes, achieving many victories. The rebels were helped by the fact that the governmental forces consistently underestimated their ability, not realizing they had a decent number of former samurai, and instead thought of them as just rural peasant farmers, thus allowing the rebels to gain multiple small-scale victories.

Though he was young, Geronimo became the leader of the resistance. A fiery preacher, he was said to be a miracle worker sent by God to lead the rebellion. The rebels never expected victory, they prepared for and assumed death. They were vastly outnumbered, had few weapons to match the government's, no armor, and most were peasant farmers with no experience, but they were fighting for eternal reasons and were willing, even desiring, to die for the faith. After various local successes in battle and advances, they decided it was enough. Instead of advancing and capturing more towns, they chose a defensive position to gather and be besieged and die together, this in turn allowing the opposition to mass its forces for a final battle.

Eventually, the rebels settled into a ruined fort to defend themselves, constructing timber barricades to supplement the broken-down walls. They then, surprisingly, repelled multiple attempts by governmental forces to break through their defenses. They even taunted the professional army and told them just how fearless they were. Geronimo told his men “as we have resolved to sacrifice our lives for the sake of our religion it is not to be supposed that we will easily be overthrown.” They proclaimed to their opponents “We have assembled in this castle merely to sacrifice our lives for our religion here, and then depart to the future world…in the present world we must meet the punishment of the sword, but in the future, we will, without a doubt, be raised on high.” The defenders did what they could to avoid a long siege as they would rather die fighting, but after multiple failed attempts, a siege ensued that lasted for months.

The governmental forces even brought in a Dutch ship and massive artillery to bombard the fort. After the garrison began to starve and suffer from artillery fire, the defenders were allowed to go home so long as they would disown Christianity and accept Buddhism. They refused, and after months of siege, the starving, depleted garrison was assaulted and taken. They fought to the death, many women leaping off a cliff rather than surrender, and horrifically, some burning themselves and their children alive. Some ran into burning buildings and lay on top of their children, so they also would die rather than be taken by the invaders. Out of ammunition and even rocks, the final assault by the professional and modern governmental army was at times met with pots and pans being thrown from the castle walls.

After the defeat of the rebels, universal Buddhism was instituted to unify the people and prevent further wars, while maintaining the Japanese shogun and government as the sole authority; no other gods or allegiances were allowed. Persecution of the remaining Christians continued until the church was all but eradicated.

The few traders that were allowed must first reject Christian principles before admission to the islands. All written works of Christians were burned and destroyed. But word of mouth remained, and when in the 19th century Japan was forcibly opened to Western contact it was found that a hidden church had endured the intervening centuries in rural areas. Although without written texts various heretical beliefs had crept in, a form of Christianity had survived, once again, despite persecution and repression by all the power of the State.

Now read about the person who opened the world of Japan to the West here.

Jeb Smith is an author, speaker, and historian who has written five books, published over 130 articles in several publications, and has been featured on various podcasts, television, and radio interviews. For speaking engagements, interviews, or questions, please get in touch with him at authorJebSmith.com.

The High Water Mark of the Mexican Army? The Battle of Buena Vista, 1847

The 1847 Battle of Buena Vista was part of the Mexican-American War. It involved hard fighting between US forces led by General Zachary Taylor and Mexican forces General Antonio López de Santa Anna. James F. Byrne Jr explains what happened in the battle.

The Battle of Buena Vista. Source: Library of Congress/N. Currier, Public domain, available here.

Returning from an inspection of the frontlines, the staff officer reined in his lathered mount and reported to the commander.  Outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and at times outfought, the American soldiers had tenaciously resisted the seemingly inexorable advance of their Mexican foes.  However, driven from their positions and their rear area threatened by marauding horsemen, the reeling troops were, according to the staff officer, whipped.  “I know it,” responded Major General Zachary Taylor, “but the volunteers don’t know it.  Let them alone and we’ll see what they do.”  What they would do is fight the Mexican army to a standstill at Buena Vista on February 23, 1847.

Five months into the Mexican War Taylor’s forces had won three major victories and seized much of Northern Mexico.  These tactical successes did not produce commensurate strategic results, and the US government ordered an advance on Mexico City.  To support this advance, Taylor was stripped of his 9,000 Regulars and instructed to remain on the defensive with his remaining 4,000 volunteers.  To add to Taylor’s challenges, General Antonio de Santa Anna raised a new army of 20,000 to clear Northern Mexico of the Yankee invaders.

In mid-January Santa Anna’s scouts captured dispatches detailing the reduction of Taylor’s army.  Taking advantage of this intelligence, Santa Anna immediately launched his host north on a 280 mile forced march across a stark, barren landscape.

Santa Anna was marching over territory Taylor believed impassable.  In fact, Taylor ignored  warnings  from his scouts until Santa Anna was within 40 miles of his own force.  Finally, convinced that a crisis was at hand, he ordered his command to assume defensive positions at a pass through the Sierra Madre mountains.  Unfamiliar with the terrain, he ordered BG John Wool to position and fight the forces, leaving Taylor free to move around the battlefield.  Wool established the defense where the main road  passed through a narrow defile.  Terrain to the west was largely impassable.  A plateau to the east was navigable but was crisscrossed by gullies restricting movement.  Wood blocked the defile with infantry and artillery and positioned the rest of his force along the plateau to the east.

Santa Anna sent cavalry units around the American left flank to threaten their rear area, while launching massed infantry attacks against the thin line on the plateau.  However, his cavalry was unable to overcome the ad-hoc defensive forces assembled behind the American lines, and his infantry, due to the restrictive terrain, was unable to mass its firepower.  Woods did a superb job moving infantry to fill gaps and repositioning artillery to seal off Mexican penetrations.  As for Taylor, he let his subordinates fight their individual battles.  One officer discovered this when seeking guidance.  After due consideration Taylor replied, “Give ‘em hell, Bragg.”

The courage of the Mexican soldiers and their superiority in numbers had Santa Anna on the brink of victory by the close of the 2d day.  Most of the American officers believed one more push and the Mexicans would carry the day.  Instead of a final push, Santa Anna withdrew.  Concerned about his lack of supplies and heavy (18%) losses, Santa Anna lost his nerve, the battle, and quite possibly the war.  Never again would he take the offensive, and never again would the Mexican army come as close to victory as it did at Buena Vista. 

Lessons Learned

Terrain is a force multiplier – Wool’s masterful use of terrain negated the Mexican advantage in numbers.

Operational security is a table stake – Santa Anna’s knowledge of Taylor’s diminished strength nearly had disastrous consequences.

The enemy has their own plans – Taylor’s reluctance to believe Santa Anna would move through barren terrain put his own command at risk.

Let good leaders lead – Taylor had the right people in the right place and expected them to perform.

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The Avignon Papacy and the Fight for France: Part 1 - The 13th Century and Problems in the Church

The Avignon Papacy (1309-1376) was the period during which seven successive popes resided at Avignon, in modern-day southern France, rather than at Rome. It followed a bitter conflict between the papacy and King Philip IV of France, and the death of Pope Boniface VIII in 1303 marked a decisive shift in the balance of power within the Church. Talia Bega explains — and looks at the problems with the Church in the 13th century.

Siege of Jerusalem during the First Crusade. Source: Public domain, Guillaume de Tyr, Historia, BNF ms FR 352 fol. 62, available here.

What was the Church at the Time?

In the Middle Ages the papacy stood at the summit of the Church's hierarchy and wielded an authority that reached deep into government. At a time when Europe's kings were steadily consolidating their power, the Church acted as a check on their ambitions whenever their aims collided with its teaching. Its canon law touched even the conduct of war and the ordinary business of governing. Based in Rome, the pope held the ancient title of Pontifex Maximus, or high priest, and claimed spiritual authority over all Catholics, from questions of law to matters of leadership. After the East-West Schism of 1054 divided the Eastern and Western churches, Catholicism remained the dominant faith of western Europe; but over the following centuries - and especially through the Crusades (1095-1291) - much of the initiative gradually passed to the increasingly centralized kingdoms (Leff 1961, 37). The pope's word carried immense weight, and a ruler who defied it risked excommunication - in effect, banishment from the Church.

Yet monarchs chafed at papal oversight of their every act, and above all at the principle that a war could not lawfully be waged without the Church's sanction (Leff 1961, 37). In France, and especially during the Crusades, the papacy served as a counterweight between throne and altar (Howe 1988, 331). Under pious kings such as Louis IX, personal devotion and asceticism became a way of demonstrating the strength of the faith and of leading his people by example. The thirteenth century, however, brought mounting conflict - the horrors of the later Crusades and the rising power of the Holy Roman Empire - that would challenge the Church anew.

The Crusades grew out of a single pressing question: how could Christendom regain access to the Holy Land - and above all Jerusalem, the site of Christ's crucifixion and resurrection - after these territories passed into Muslim hands?

The First Crusade was a startling success. Preached by Pope Urban II at the Council of Clermont in 1095 as an armed pilgrimage to Jerusalem, it culminated in the capture of the city in 1099 and the founding of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, alongside a cluster of other Crusader states such as the County of Edessa, the Principality of Antioch, and the County of Tripoli. The kingdom had its own Latin patriarch at the head of its church and drew nobles from across Europe to defend it, becoming for a time a stronghold of Latin Christian authority in the East - though rivalries among kingdoms such as France and England limited what it could achieve. Its ascendancy did not last: in 1187 Jerusalem fell to Saladin, and the struggle to recover it would consume the Church for generations, even as the kingdom's own nobility fractured into infighting.

At the start of the thirteenth century Pope Innocent III launched the Fourth Crusade. It became a notorious debacle: instead of striking at Egypt, the Crusaders turned on the Christian Byzantine Empire and sacked its capital, Constantinople, in 1204 (Queller 1974, 461), establishing the Latin Empire that endured until 1261 (Madden 2012, 313). That Christians had made war on fellow Christians appalled contemporaries and drew excommunications, and the campaign left the Church more heavily indebted and secular rulers more powerful over the conquered lands (Madden 2012, 317). Later Crusades fared little better - most disastrously the Seventh, led by Louis IX of France, who was taken captive in Egypt.

The Crusades left a deep mark on the Church, forcing hard questions about how it was to survive and sustain itself. Powerful kingdoms - France, England, and the Holy Roman Empire among them - increasingly cast themselves as its champions, and their rulers cultivated close ties to the Church in order to enlarge their own influence (Queller 1974, 459). Nowhere was that ambition sharper than in the second great pressure on the papacy: the Holy Roman Empire, which seized whatever advantage it could.

The Holy Roman Empire

The Holy Roman Empire did not spring directly from the fall of Rome in 476; it took shape centuries later, conventionally dated to the coronation of Charlemagne in 800 and refounded under Otto I in 962. Centered on Germany but reaching into Burgundy and much of Italy, it cast its rulers as heirs to Rome - indeed as kings of the Romans - and their imperial coronations traditionally took place in Rome, in echo of Charlemagne's. Throughout the Middle Ages these emperors clashed repeatedly with the Church, above all over their claims in Italy. One of the most troublesome was Frederick Barbarossa, whose long series of campaigns in northern Italy - against the cities of the Lombard League and the popes who backed them - brought him into open conflict with Rome. His dynasty's grip on Sicily came only later, through the marriage of his son, the future Henry VI, to the Norman heiress Constance.

Barbarossa's defiance made him one of the first emperors to provoke a serious rupture with the Church, and the contest over imperial authority in Italy carried on into the thirteenth century. Again and again, he sought to extend his power, and again and again he met resistance on every side; only after years of conflict - and a public reconciliation with Pope Alexander III at the 1177 Peace of Venice - was an uneasy peace restored.

Tensions sharpened further with the capture of Richard the Lionheart, seized in December 1192 by Duke Leopold V of Austria as he made his way home from the Third Crusade and handed the following year to Emperor Henry VI, who held the English king for a vast ransom - a striking assertion of imperial power over a fellow monarch, and one the Church condemned. A generation later another formidable emperor, Frederick II, held the crowns of both Sicily and - through his marriage to Isabella II (Yolande) of Jerusalem - the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and was determined to press his authority in the Holy Land. He was excommunicated by Pope Gregory IX in 1227 for repeatedly delaying the crusade he had vowed to lead, and again in 1239 as the breach between emperor and papacy widened (Bird 2022, 87). Frederick's hunger for territory, above all Sicily and southern Italy, which he claimed as the Norman heir, made a collision with the Church all but inevitable, for the papacy was equally unwilling to surrender its authority over the empire (Powell 1963, 493). Significant tension resumed after Innocent IV became pope in 1243, and at the First Council of Lyon in 1245 the pope issued the bull Ad apostolicae dignitatis apicem, which declared Frederick deposed and unworthy to rule and released his subjects from their allegiance (Powell 1963, 490). The sentence changed little on the ground: Frederick fought on, campaigning in Lombardy until his death in 1250.

Such pressure was precisely what the papacy could least afford. Hemmed in on every side, how was it to grow, let alone hold its ground? Sicily remained a source of friction for decades after Frederick's death, and arguably taught later kings that the Church could be defied with impunity. The signs of weakness were unmistakable, not least the papacy's dwindling ability to field armies of its own. These pressures - among many others, from chronic shortages of money to the loss of territory - helped pave the road to Avignon, especially once ambitious monarchs such as Philip IV set out to bend the Church to their will (Leff 1961, 38). The Crusades stand as a vivid example of the damage done across Europe, and of the lessons learned, from the raising of armies to the question of whom to trust. Central as the Church had been, by 1309 it had passed effectively into French hands - a shift that would reshape its diplomacy and, in the eyes of many, shatter its old authority.

The Church on the eve of Avignon

Why dwell on the Crusades and the Holy Roman Empire before turning to Avignon? Together they acted as a catalyst for the decline of a once-dominant Church, exposing the corruption - the bribery and the diplomatic blunders - that ran through the crusading effort and the long struggle with the empire. They also reveal a pattern about power: rulers like Philip IV were now ready to exploit the popes. When Philip sought funds for his campaigns early in the fourteenth century, Boniface VIII refused him - a confrontation that ended in the pope's downfall and, a few years later, in the suppression of the Knights Templar (Théry 2013, 120). Philip, like Frederick before him, saw a Church at its weakest and moved to remake it to his advantage.

The Crusades are the clearest evidence of the strain the Church faced entering the fourteenth century: the Holy Land had been lost for good, and Europe now had to hold together simply to keep the Church intact. The Avignon Papacy that began in 1309 gathered a succession of French popes who governed from Avignon and sought a more centralized authority. Some seventy years on, the papacy would fracture in the Western Schism, when rival claimants - two, and eventually three - split Latin Christendom. The pattern rhymes with what came before; but to understand how matters reached a head in 1309, we must first trace the long road that led there.

Now read about the War of the Breton Succession here.

References

BIRD, JESSALYNN LEA. “PROPHECY, ESCHATOLOGY, GLOBAL NETWORKS, AND THE        

CRUSADES, FROM HATTIN TO FREDERICK II.” Traditio 77 (2022): 31–106. https://www.jstor.org/stable/27191187.

Howe, John. “The Nobility’s Reform of the Medieval Church.” The American Historical Review 93, no. 2 (1988): 317–39. https://doi.org/10.2307/1859921.

Leff, Gordon. “Heresy and the Decline of the Medieval Church.” Past & Present, no. 20 (1961): 36–51. http://www.jstor.org/stable/650135.

Madden, Thomas F. “The Venetian Version of the Fourth Crusade: Memory and the Conquest of Constantinople in Medieval Venice.” Speculum 87, no. 2 (2012): 311–44. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23488041.

Powell, James M. “Frederick II and the Church: A Revisionist View.” The Catholic Historical Review 48, no. 4 (1963): 487–97. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25017141.

Queller, Donald E., Thomas K. Compton, and Donald A. Campbell. “The Fourth Crusade: The Neglected Majority.” Speculum 49, no. 3 (1974): 441–65. https://doi.org/10.2307/2851751.

Théry, Julien . “A Heresy of State: Philip the Fair, the Trial of the ‘Perfidious Templars,’ and the Pontificalization of the French Monarchy.” Journal of Medieval Religious Cultures 39, no. 2 (2013): 117–48. https://doi.org/10.5325/jmedirelicult.39.2.0117.

The English Civil War: Regicide - Trial and Execution of a King – Part 5

Before the axe fell on the cold January afternoon of 1649, England had already crossed political frontiers that few believed could ever be crossed. For centuries, kings had ruled by inherited right, anointed in sacred ceremonies that proclaimed their authority came from God rather than from the consent of those they governed. Monarchs might lose battles, be deposed by rivals or even die violently in civil wars, but the institution of monarchy itself remained untouchable. The idea that a reigning king could be placed on public trial by his own subjects, judged by a court invoked specifically for that purpose, convicted as a criminal, and deliberately executed in the name of the people was almost unimaginable. Yet this extraordinary sequence of events unfolded during the English Civil War, transforming not only England but also the political imagination of Europe. The execution of King Charles I marked one of history's greatest constitutional revolutions, challenging ancient assumptions about sovereignty, justice and the relationship between rulers and the governed.

You can read part 1 on the background to the war here, part 2 on how the English Civil War began here, part 3 on the New Model Army the turning of the tide here, and part 4 on the King’s defeat here.

King Charles I on trial. Source: Public domain, engraving from "Nalson's Record of the Trial of Charles I" in the British Museum, available here.

The victory of the New Model Army over Royalist forces had not brought peace. Instead, it exposed profound divisions within Parliament itself. Many Members of Parliament still hoped to negotiate with Charles, believing that monarchy remained essential for national stability despite the years of bloodshed. Others, particularly senior officers within the army, had reached a very different conclusion. To them, Charles had repeatedly demonstrated that no agreement could ever be trusted. He had entered negotiations while secretly encouraging renewed conflict, sought military assistance from foreign powers, and supported a second civil war that had claimed thousands more lives after his earlier defeat. Every attempt at compromise appeared only to encourage further violence. Increasingly, influential figures within the army concluded that lasting peace could never be achieved while Charles remained alive.

The growing determination to bring the King to justice culminated in one of the most dramatic political interventions in English history. In December 1648, Colonel Thomas Pride led soldiers into Parliament and physically prevented Members who favored further negotiations with Charles from entering the House of Commons. This event, remembered as Pride's Purge, fundamentally altered England's political landscape. Those remaining formed what became known as the Rump Parliament, a much smaller body that was willing to pursue measures previously considered impossible. By excluding moderate voices, the army ensured that Parliament would no longer seek reconciliation but instead prepare the unprecedented legal machinery required to put a king on trial.

Evolving a court capable of judging the sovereign presented enormous constitutional difficulties. English law had always recognized the monarch as the ultimate source of justice. Courts operated in the King's name, judges exercised authority granted by the Crown, and legal proceedings assumed that the King himself stood above the law. There existed no legal precedent for trying a reigning monarch because the legal system itself derived its legitimacy from the monarchy. Parliament therefore established an entirely new institution, the High Court of Justice, specifically designed to hear the case against Charles I. It represented a revolutionary departure from centuries of constitutional tradition, asserting that legal authority could exist independently of the Crown.

The legal arguments advanced by the prosecution reflected equally revolutionary ideas. Rather than accusing Charles of ordinary crimes, the court charged him with being a tyrant, traitor, murderer and public enemy of the people of England. According to the indictment, Charles had abused the authority entrusted to him by waging war against his own subjects and causing immense suffering throughout the kingdom. The prosecution argued that sovereignty ultimately rested not with the monarch but with the people, represented through Parliament. By violating the trust placed in him, Charles had forfeited his right to govern. This concept overturned the traditional doctrine of divine right, replacing it with the radical proposition that rulers were accountable to those they governed.

Such reasoning reflected broader changes that had been gathering strength throughout the seventeenth century. Political thinkers increasingly questioned whether kings possessed unlimited authority simply because of birth. Religious debates about conscience, liberty and the relationship between God and government had encouraged many to reconsider long-established assumptions about power. The Civil War accelerated these developments by forcing English society to confront fundamental questions. If a king deliberately destroyed the laws he had sworn to uphold, who possessed the authority to restrain him? Could a ruler who attacked his own people still claim divine protection? These questions lay at the heart of Charles's trial.

Charles himself refused to accept the legitimacy of the proceedings from the moment he entered the courtroom. Calm, composed and maintaining the dignity expected of a monarch, he consistently challenged the authority of the judges rather than answering the charges against him. He repeatedly demanded to know by what lawful authority the court claimed jurisdiction over an anointed king. Since no recognized legal body possessed the right to try the sovereign, Charles argued that the entire process was illegal and unconstitutional. He refused to plead either guilty or innocent, believing that participation would acknowledge the court's legitimacy. Throughout the trial, he remained steadfast in defending both his personal innocence and the ancient institution of monarchy.

Observers recorded Charles's remarkable composure during the proceedings. Even political opponents acknowledged the dignity with which he conducted himself. His refusal to submit transformed the trial into a contest over constitutional principles rather than merely a criminal prosecution. Supporters viewed him as courageously defending lawful monarchy against revolutionary extremists, while his enemies interpreted his silence as further evidence of arrogance and unwillingness to recognize the rights of the nation. The courtroom therefore became not simply a place of legal judgement but a stage upon which competing visions of government confronted one another before the eyes of England and Europe.

Public reaction to the trial was deeply divided. Many ordinary people struggled to comprehend events that seemed to overturn the natural order established by centuries of tradition. Royalists regarded the proceedings with horror, believing that England had descended into lawlessness by placing God's anointed sovereign before a human tribunal. Ministers sympathetic to the Crown denounced the trial from their pulpits, warning that divine punishment would surely follow such sacrilege. Others, particularly supporters of Parliament who had witnessed years of warfare and devastation, believed justice demanded that even a king should answer for the suffering caused under his rule. Yet even among those hostile to Charles, many hesitated at the prospect of execution. Removing a monarch from power seemed one matter; deliberately putting him to death was quite another.

Printed pamphlets, sermons and newspapers played a central role in shaping public opinion throughout these extraordinary weeks. Both Royalists and Parliamentarians recognized that control of information had become a powerful political weapon. Royalist publications portrayed Charles as a Christian martyr who patiently endured persecution for defending lawful government. Parliamentary writers instead presented him as a dangerous tyrant whose ambition had plunged the nation into civil war. Woodcut illustrations, public speeches and printed declarations circulated widely, each attempting to persuade readers that history and providence favored one side or the other. The struggle for public opinion had become almost as important as the military victories that had preceded it.

On the 27th of January, 1649, the High Court pronounced Charles guilty. Three days later, on the bitterly cold afternoon of 30 January, the sentence was carried out outside the Banqueting House at the Palace of Whitehall. A specially constructed scaffold stood before a large crowd gathered in uneasy silence. Charles wore an extra shirt beneath his clothing, explaining that he wished to avoid shivering in the winter air lest observers mistake natural cold for fear. Shortly before his execution, he declared that he died "the martyr of the people," insisting that true liberty consisted not in popular government but in living under established laws administered by a lawful king. Moments later, he laid his head upon the executioner's block.

With a single stroke of the axe, centuries of constitutional tradition came to an abrupt and shocking conclusion. Contemporary accounts describe a collective groan rising from the assembled crowd as the executioner raised the severed head and proclaimed the sentence fulfilled. Many spectators wept openly, while others stood in stunned silence. Some reportedly dipped handkerchiefs into the King's blood, preserving them as relics of a man they believed had died a martyr. Regardless of political allegiance, few present could fully comprehend the enormity of what had occurred. England had executed its own sovereign by deliberate judicial process, an event without precedent in its national history.

News of the execution spread rapidly across England and throughout Europe, provoking disbelief, outrage and fascination. Continental monarchs viewed the regicide with alarm, recognizing that if an English king could be tried and executed by his subjects, then the principle of hereditary monarchy itself faced an unprecedented challenge. Royal courts issued formal condemnations, while many foreign observers regarded the English experiment as both dangerous and extraordinary. Across Europe, governments closely watched developments in England, aware that revolutionary ideas could cross national boundaries as readily as armies.

Within England, the political revolution continued at remarkable speed. Parliament formally abolished the monarchy, declaring that the office of king had become unnecessary, burdensome and dangerous to the liberty and welfare of the people. Soon afterwards, the House of Lords was also abolished because it served no useful purpose within the new constitutional order. These decisions swept away institutions that had shaped English government for centuries. What had begun as resistance to royal policies had evolved into the complete dismantling of the traditional structure of the English state.

In place of monarchy, Parliament proclaimed England to be a Commonwealth. The nation would henceforth be governed as a republic, with authority exercised in the name of the people through Parliament rather than through a hereditary sovereign. Although the practical reality remained heavily influenced by the army and its commanders, the declaration represented an extraordinary constitutional innovation. England had become one of the very few European states to reject monarchy entirely in favor of republican government. The transformation demonstrated how profoundly the Civil War had altered political thinking within less than a decade.

Yet the new Commonwealth faced immediate challenges in establishing legitimacy. Many people remained loyal to the monarchy, while Scotland proclaimed Charles II as the rightful king almost immediately after his father's execution. Ireland likewise became a center of Royalist resistance. The republic therefore emerged not into peace but into renewed conflict, requiring military campaigns to secure its authority across the British Isles. The abolition of monarchy had resolved one constitutional crisis while producing another, forcing the new government continually to defend both its existence and its principles.

Propaganda became indispensable in sustaining the revolutionary regime. Parliamentary publications celebrated the execution as an act of justice that had liberated England from tyranny, presenting the Commonwealth as the beginning of a more righteous political order. Royalist writers responded with equal determination, portraying Charles I as a saintly martyr whose death demonstrated the wickedness of the revolution. One of the most influential works, Eikon Basilike, published shortly after the King's death, depicted Charles as a deeply pious ruler betrayed by ambitious enemies. Whether genuinely written by Charles or compiled by supporters, the book became an immediate bestseller and transformed the dead king into a powerful symbol of loyalty, sacrifice and divine kingship. Parliament responded by commissioning works defending the execution, recognizing that the battle for historical memory had become almost as significant as the struggle for political power itself.

The symbolism surrounding the regicide extended far beyond England. Philosophers, theologians and political thinkers debated its meaning for generations. Some interpreted the execution as proof that rulers could be held accountable under law, laying intellectual foundations for constitutional government and popular sovereignty. Others regarded it as a dangerous precedent that threatened social order by encouraging rebellion against legitimate authority. These competing interpretations would influence political revolutions across Europe and the wider world, from the Enlightenment to the American and French Revolutions.

The trial and execution of Charles I therefore stand among the defining moments in the history of constitutional government. The event permanently altered the relationship between monarchy, Parliament and the law, demonstrating that political authority could be questioned, challenged and ultimately transformed through revolutionary action. Although the Commonwealth itself would prove short-lived, many of the ideas unleashed during these years survived long after the monarchy returned. The belief that government derives legitimacy from the consent of the governed, that rulers are accountable for their actions, and that sovereignty ultimately belongs to the nation rather than solely to a hereditary monarch would continue to shape the evolution of modern democracy.

England's constitutional revolution thus reveals far more than the death of a single king. It marks the dramatic collision between medieval concepts of sacred monarchy and emerging ideas of representative government, between inherited authority and political accountability, between divine right and parliamentary sovereignty. The execution at Whitehall shattered centuries of accepted political doctrine and forced England, and indeed Europe, to confront profound questions about power, legitimacy and justice that remain central to constitutional debate today. Even now, nearly four centuries later, the image of a king standing calmly upon the scaffold continues to symbolize one of history's most extraordinary moments, when a nation declared that no ruler, however exalted, stood beyond judgement.

Needless to say, the execution of Charles I did not bring an end to England's political upheaval; rather, it opened a new and uncertain chapter in which every assumption about government would be tested. The Commonwealth that emerged in the King's absence would soon discover that removing a monarch was considerably easier than constructing a stable republican state. Internal divisions, military authority, religious tensions and competing visions for England's future continued to shape events, ultimately leading to the rise of Oliver Cromwell as Lord Protector and, after his death, the eventual restoration of the monarchy in 1660. Yet the Restoration could not simply erase what had occurred. No subsequent English monarch could entirely ignore the lessons of the Civil War or the extraordinary fact that one of their predecessors had been called to account by his own people.

Perhaps the greatest legacy of the regicide was not the brief existence of the Commonwealth but the permanent transformation of political thought. Before 1649, the doctrine of the Divine Right of Kings had appeared almost beyond challenge. Afterwards, it could never again command unquestioned acceptance. Even those who condemned the execution of Charles I were forced to confront a new political reality: monarchy was no longer viewed by all as an institution beyond criticism or restraint. The events of the Civil War had demonstrated that political authority rested not solely upon tradition and hereditary succession, but also upon legitimacy, public confidence and the willingness of a nation to accept the exercise of power. The balance between Crown and Parliament would remain contested for decades, culminating in the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the constitutional settlement that firmly established parliamentary supremacy.

The trial also introduced a principle that has echoed through subsequent centuries: that no ruler should be entirely beyond the reach of the law. Although the legal arguments employed against Charles I were controversial and remain debated by historians, they represented one of the earliest and most dramatic assertions that political leaders could be held personally accountable for the consequences of their actions. In this respect, the High Court of Justice foreshadowed ideas that would eventually influence constitutional government, international law and the modern expectation that even the most powerful individuals may be judged according to legal standards rather than personal status.

Equally significant was the role played by public opinion throughout these revolutionary years. The Civil War was fought not only with muskets and cannon but also with sermons, pamphlets, newspapers and books. Competing narratives sought to define Charles either as a tyrant who deserved justice or as a saintly martyr who died defending lawful government. The remarkable success of Eikon Basilike demonstrated the extraordinary power of the printed word to shape national memory, while Parliament's determined efforts to counter its influence revealed an emerging understanding that political legitimacy depended as much upon persuasion as upon military victory. In many respects, the propaganda battles of the seventeenth century anticipated the central role that public opinion continues to play in modern democratic societies.

For historians, the execution of Charles I remains one of the defining turning points in the evolution of the modern state. It encapsulates the recurring themes that have run throughout the English Civil War: the conflict between divine monarchy and parliamentary sovereignty, the powerful influence of religion upon political life, the emergence of competing political ideologies, the growing importance of propaganda, the decisive role of military innovation, and the enduring struggle to establish legitimate government. Above all, it demonstrates that constitutional change is rarely achieved without profound conflict or sacrifice.

Nearly four centuries later, the scaffold erected outside the Banqueting House at Whitehall continues to cast a long shadow across British constitutional history. The image of Charles I kneeling before the executioner's block remains one of the most enduring and symbolic moments in Western political history, not simply because a king died there, but because an ancient understanding of sovereignty died with him. From that cold January afternoon emerged new and enduring questions about liberty, accountability, representation and the limits of political power. Those questions would shape not only the future of England but also the development of constitutional government across the world. The regicide of 1649 therefore stands not merely as the dramatic conclusion to a civil war, but as one of the great watershed moments in the continuing evolution of democratic government and the rule of law.

Now read part 6 on the English Republic that became a new monarchy here.

Note:

Eikon Basilike (Greek: Εἰκὼν Βασιλική) translates into English as "The Royal Image" or, more fully, "The Image of the King."

The complete title of the book is often rendered as: Eikon Basilike: The portraiture of His Sacred Majesty in his solitudes and sufferings

Wolverton: The Rise and Fall of the First Railway Town in Britain

History is not just found in museums or far-off exotic locations — it can be discovered close to home. After more than forty years as a resident of Milton Keynes, England, I decided to go out and explore some of the local history, and there is plenty of it still waiting to be rediscovered: forgotten, overlooked, or simply swallowed up by the new commercial and industrial estates that have sprouted across the new city. History is not always about dramatic events like decisive battles or colourful monarchs; sometimes it is quite the opposite.

Steve Prout explains.

An old print of Wolverton. Source: Public domain, Peter Lewis, available here.

The town of Wolverton, England, is famous for its claim to be the first purpose-built railway town in England, if not the world. A few railway settlements — Shildon, for example — existed as early as 1825, but they were not purpose-built specifically for the arrival of the railway industry. The distinction is subtle, but a real one. At one time Wolverton was a leading, modern, and progressive town. It lies in the north of the new City of Milton Keynes, close to the historic towns of Stony Stratford and Newport Pagnell (famous for the Aston Martin factories).

Wolverton and the pre-railway era

Wolverton only rose to prominence in the first half of the nineteenth century. Before this, the town was a little-known medieval village that had long since vanished, its only mention being in the Domesday Book of 1086. The remains of that settlement are barely discernible today, save for a few impressions in a meadow where it once stood. By the 1700s Wolverton had been lost to history, and it remained so until its fortunes changed in the early 1800s.

Acts of Parliament and modernisation

It was the passing of the London and Birmingham Railway Act in 1833 that brought the town back to life, and its fortunes changed considerably for the better. The Act required the establishment of a repair and maintenance depot for the new line, then the longest railway line in the country. The site needed to be roughly halfway along the route, so that train carriages could be managed and repaired efficiently, and Wolverton fit the requirement. The town's position on the Grand Union Canal was also an advantage, allowing raw materials for the construction of the site to be transported easily.

The London and Birmingham line was one of the first of its kind, notable for its length and its importance in connecting two major cities. It took over twenty thousand workers and five years to build. For the remainder of the nineteenth century, the arrival of the railway works transformed and modernised Wolverton.

Examples of this transformation included the creation of the Bath House in 1890, which provided washing facilities, the Reading Room, and the arrival of new industries — notably McCorquodale Printers (founded in 1841), which established itself in Wolverton printing official stationery.

The story of McCorquodale is particularly interesting: its owner, George McCorquodale, would probably never have considered Wolverton as a location for a printing works had he not been approached by his friend Sir Richard Moon, Chairman of the London & North Western Railway. Moon suggested that McCorquodale establish a works in the town, with the aim of providing employment for the daughters of the railway workers, who otherwise had no work in Wolverton. McCorquodale already ran successful stationery ventures in Glasgow, London, and Leeds, and by 1878 he had added Wolverton to the list, helping the town prosper through full employment. The company also offered its employees benefits that were rare for the time – reading, recreation and dining rooms — although staff still had to work a fifty-four-hour week.

The Reading Room was unique, being the first of its kind on the railway. It was built alongside the works buildings to give railway workers the means to further their learning and education, though it was also accessible to others of a higher social standing. In its day it was frequently visited by Queen Victoria and other passengers during stops on their travels.

The Reading Room was progressive for its time, at a period when employers rarely gave much thought to staff wellbeing. However, the industry did need to maintain and encourage an educated workforce, given the technical expertise the work required. Over time, the Reading Room had fallen out of its original use and instead served a variety of functions, including a Wesleyan chapel and a sewing room, among others. It was abandoned completely in 1964, before later being brought back into use to accommodate a number of different businesses over the years. The building can still be seen today, though only an unassuming plaque marks its past, and it is now home to a marketing agency — its history almost lost to the modern world.

Wolverton Works and the War

The works also served the country's war effort: existing carriages were converted into ambulance trains during the First World War, and the workers' expertise was called upon again in the Second World War — this time not to build trains, but to produce Horsa gliders for the D-Day landings, repair Whitley bombers, manufacture Hawker Typhoon wings, and convert some seven hundred vans into much-needed armoured cars.

In 1962 its fortunes began to change, and the site contracted. The workforce today is a shadow of its former self, but the works remain an important part of Wolverton and a significant local employer.

Wolverton has a claim to many “firsts.” It was the first works to maintain and manufacture the Royal Train, a role it has held since 1842 and retains today. It also became the first railway works to use electricity, in 1901, for both utility purposes and to power machinery.

Wolverton Works Today

The works itself has diminished in size, with only repair and refurbishment duties remaining; the site is now mostly occupied by a Tesco supermarket and new housing estates along the canal. Some derelict buildings remain, awaiting development and further modern-day change.

The Reading Room is not the only feature to have been lost or to become a casualty of modern times — the Bath House remains in name only, now serving as a community centre.

McCorquodale Printers has since closed, and the ground now houses modern flats built in 2010. The company still operates today, based in Derby and embracing the digital age.

Wolverton's growth allowed nearby towns such as Bradwell and Newport Pagnell to grow and flourish alongside it. On the back of all this, a new city was eventually designed.

History is still with us, but we need to look a little closer to make sure we do not lose it, or forget how it once transformed our lives and the places around us. It is not only battles, prime ministers and monarchs that shape our lives; small, everyday things do too. There are many more historical stories in Milton Keynes lying forgotten or simply unnoticed.

What lies on your doorstep? Let us know below.

Now read about how the world’s longest railway was built here.