The Battle of the Dunes, 1658. Groundwork for Modern Democracy, Sparks of Revolutions, Parliament's Power Secured.

The Anglo-French victory broke Spain’s resolve, forcing them to the peace table by year’s end and extinguishing Charles the second’s last, desperate hope of seizing back his throne under his own banner. In that decisive hour, the ascendancy of Parliament was carved into stone, rising unchallenged above the crown and marking the dawn of a new order in England.

Dunkirk Dunes. June 14, 1658.
Spanish Forces: 6,000 - 7,000 Infantry and 8,000 Cavalry.
Anglo-French Forces: 6,000 Infantry and 9,000 Cavalry.

Additional Reading and Episode Research:

• Harris, R.W. Clarendon and the English Revolution.
• Venning, Timothy. Cromwellian Foreign Policy.
• Ashley, Maurice. Charles II: The Man and the Statesman.

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Transcript

Welcome to History's Greatest Battles, Season 01, Episode 72: The Battle of the Dunes; the 14th of June, 1658.

Spanish Forces: 6,000 - 7,000 infantry, and 8,000 Cavalry.
Anglo-French Forces: 6,000 infantry and 9,000 Cavalry.

The Anglo-French victory broke Spain’s resolve, forcing them to the peace table by year’s end and extinguishing Charles the second’s last, desperate hope of seizing back his throne under his own banner. In that decisive hour, the ascendancy of Parliament was carved into stone, rising unchallenged above the crown and marking the dawn of a new order in England.

In January of 1649, the Catholic House of Stuart—the once-unshakable dynasty—was brought to its knees, stripped of the throne it had ruled for generations. That fateful month, King Charles I faced execution. The axe fell under the steely command of Oliver Cromwell, a man who, ever since the clash at Naseby four years prior, had ruthlessly built his military might and political authority with precision and conviction.

But Charles II, heir to his father’s throne, wasn’t about to surrender. He rallied the Royalist cause—the Cavaliers—to strike back against the Roundheads and reclaim what he saw as his rightful kingdom. Yet fate dealt Charles II a savage blow. On September 3, 1651, at the bloody Battle of Worcester, Cromwell crushed his forces, forcing the young king to abandon his homeland and flee across the Channel to France, humiliated but unbroken.

Back in England, Cromwell wielded his power as though he were king, though he shunned the title. Meanwhile, in exile, Charles hunted for allies across the European courts, determined to gather forces that would one day lead him back to his throne. In time, Charles cast his hopes with the Spanish, powerful players who held sway over the Spanish Netherlands—today’s Belgium and Flanders. This alliance was no casual matter, for the Spanish and English had been bitter foes since Elizabeth’s navy humiliated the Spanish Armada back in 1588.

Sheltered by the Spanish, Charles set to work, gathering loyal troops wherever he could find them. Across the Channel, he urged the Royalists in England to prepare for the day he would return to reclaim his crown. But Cromwell’s grip on England was iron-strong, his network of spies ever alert to Charles’s movements and intentions. Cromwell mercilessly crushed Royalist cells on English soil, ensuring that Charles, stranded on the Continent, lacked the foothold he needed. Charles knew an invasion would only succeed if loyalists could capture a port, allowing him to land with his forces, but that day remained maddeningly out of reach. And so, time and again, Charles’s schemes to slip back across the Channel were delayed, thwarted by Cromwell’s ruthless vigilance.

As Charles plotted, tensions between France and Spain heated up, each bracing for conflict that seemed inevitable. France and Spain had clashed for decades during the brutal Thirty Years' War, and peace, though declared, had never truly taken root. King Louis XIV, ever ambitious, had an appetite for conquest and saw in the Spanish Netherlands a tempting prize, a chance to swell France’s power at his neighbor’s expense. In the wake of the Peace of Westphalia, which had finally ended the Thirty Years' War, France was plunged into civil unrest between king and parliament, so tense that Spanish troops nearly crossed the border to exploit the chaos. When a truce was reached, bitter disputes erupted between two towering figures—Prime Minister Mazarin and the formidable General Louis de Bourbon Condé. By the spring of 1650, civil war flared anew, and this time, Condé turned his back on France altogether, joining forces with Spain.

When the dust settled in 1652, peace within France did little to cool its war with Spain. Condé, an accomplished general, now squared off against France’s own master tactician, the Vicomte de Turenne. For years, Condé and Turenne clashed fiercely along the French-Netherlands frontier, each seeking an advantage that neither could seize. But in 1657, everything changed. France and England—old rivals—found themselves allied against a shared enemy, Spain, as the calculus of war demanded new alliances. Louis XIV and Mazarin needed reinforcements, while Cromwell saw in this alliance a gateway to the Continent, a path that might one day lead to an anti-Catholic campaign that he’d dreamed of for years.

In the autumn of 1657, Anglo-French forces struck a decisive blow by seizing the Flemish town of Mardyck. With victory in hand, they set their sights on Dunkirk. Dunkirk was firmly under Spanish rule, but Cromwell’s pact with France had secured a promise: should they take it, Dunkirk would fly the English flag. In May of 1658, Turenne advanced to Dunkirk with an army at his back and set in motion a siege that would test every defender within its walls. Soon, Turenne was reinforced by 3,000 battle-hardened English soldiers under William Lockhart, and not long after, the English fleet anchored off the coast. Now the besieging army swelled to 21,000 men, encircling Dunkirk, where only 3,000 defenders braced behind its walls.

But Spain would not surrender Dunkirk without a fight. Don Juan of Austria, governor of the Spanish Netherlands, rallied an army with Condé, mustering 5,000 cavalry and 8,000 infantry. They were joined by an additional 2,000 men from Charles, led by his son, James, the Duke of York—a desperate coalition marching to break the siege. In the second week of June 1658, the Spanish army began its march from Ypres, their destination set on Dunkirk’s besieged walls. By June 13, Don Juan and Condé had established camp on the beach just northeast of the city, readying themselves for the coming storm.

When Turenne caught wind of their arrival, he acted with the speed of a man bent on taking control. Leaving a holding force to maintain the siege, he led 6,000 infantry and 9,000 cavalry straight toward the Spanish camp. The Spanish deployed in battle formation, their ranks positioned perpendicular to the shoreline. Most of their men clustered within the sand dunes just beyond the beach, their left flank anchored by a road stretching south toward Dunkirk and a nearby canal tracing the coastline. On their right, the Spanish regiments held the line; on the center-right stood English Royalists loyal to Charles, and on the left, a combined force of Germans, Walloons, and French under Condé’s command. Two ranks of cavalry reinforced the full length of their formation, with another thirty cavalry divisions stationed along the road. Their haste, however, had left their artillery far behind, leaving them without the firepower that could turn the tide of battle.

Turenne arranged his 6,000 infantry opposite the Spanish, their line matching his opponents from the shoreline to the canal. His cavalry, superior in numbers, was split into two wings of forty divisions each, positioned on both flanks. On the left, his horsemen lined the very edge of the beach, ready to strike. Initially, Don Juan had stationed some of his own cavalry along the beach, but when English warships appeared offshore, their cannons ready, he swiftly moved all his horse to the southern flank. Turenne, meanwhile, had wisely brought artillery from the siege lines, ensuring he held the advantage.

The Spanish held one formidable position: a towering dune, rising 150 feet above the sands, commanding a view over the battlefield from their far right. Veteran Spanish soldiers occupied this stronghold, bolstered by Charles’s infantry. With this natural high ground, Don Juan judged his position nearly impregnable—a vantage he believed would force his enemies to shatter against their defenses rather than risk open assault. From end to end, his troops held the high ground, and behind them stretched level terrain—perfect for his cavalry to maneuver and charge if the chance arose.

Around 8:00 a.m., the Anglo-French force arrived, drawing up opposite the Spanish. Turenne intended to halt his men some 600 yards out, giving himself a clear view of the Spanish line before deciding on any final adjustments to his strategy. But Turenne had not reckoned with the red-blooded fervor of Cromwell’s British redcoats on his left. Facing the Spanish stronghold, these Protestant soldiers would not be held back; ignoring orders, they advanced straight to within musket range, daring the enemy to open fire. When Spanish musket balls struck, claiming a few of their number, the redcoats didn’t flinch. Without waiting for orders, they surged forward in a full charge, ready to wrest control of the dune by sheer force.

French musketeers scrambled forward to offer cover fire against the defenders on the dune, but the English had no patience to wait. They were already climbing, single-minded and relentless. The slope of the hill was brutally steep, forcing the attackers to claw their way upward even as Spanish fire rained down on them, but they pressed on, undeterred by the steady hail of musket balls. At the summit, Spanish veterans had formed an impenetrable tercio—a square formation of pikemen with musketeers stationed at each corner, bracing for the English onslaught. Undaunted, the English surged forward, smashing into the Spanish square with musket fire, pikes, and, in the end, swinging their muskets like clubs. They shattered the square, scattering its survivors down the far side of the hill.

The Duke of York launched a cavalry charge to dislodge the redcoats, but now that they held the dune, the English had the high ground—and they repelled the charge with unyielding force. A second wave of cavalry and rallied Spanish infantry attacked from the flank, sparking a chaotic melee. But the arrival of French cavalry along the beach shattered the Spanish efforts, tipping the scales in the English’s favor.

While the English and French hammered the Spanish right, the rest of Turenne’s army clashed fiercely with Spanish forces all along the line. Condé’s men on the Spanish left fought with grit, holding their ground, but at the center, the Germans and Walloons wavered and began to break under the relentless pressure. With the right flank crumbling, the center followed suit, giving way under the assault. Condé’s left flank, seeing the collapse, had no choice but to retreat as well, the lines unraveling one by one.

The Royalists fought like men possessed, and the Spanish on the right held firm as long as they could, but the bold, unforgiving advance of the English had given the Anglo-French army a decisive edge—a momentum that would not be stopped. Turenne himself acknowledged the ferocity of the English in his report on the battle. A Spanish officer, astonished at their charge, remarked that “they came on like wild beasts.” Colonel Drummond wrote with admiration, “The English have such a reputation in this army as nothing can be more,” while Lord Fauconberg, fresh from the French court, added, “The English are generally cried up for their unparalleled courage” (Firth, The Last Years of the Protectorate, 1656-1658, p. 199).

By noon, the battle was won—a victory precisely as Turenne had planned. He had chosen to strike in the morning, counting on the low tide to give his cavalry the freedom to sweep along the beach. With the tide on their side, Turenne’s cavalry advanced unchallenged along the beach, flanking the Spanish line and sweeping across it. The Spanish horse, stretched thin, had no way to counter the charge and was quickly overrun. The aftermath of the battle left no doubt about the day’s toll. Don Juan and Condé suffered the loss of 1,000 men and saw another 5,000 taken prisoner. The Anglo-French forces paid a lighter price, losing around 400 men, with the bulk of the fallen among the fearless redcoats.

Days after the resounding Anglo-French victory at the Battle of the Dunes, Dunkirk’s Spanish garrison capitulated. By the terms of Cromwell’s pact with the French, Dunkirk passed into English hands, a prized coastal stronghold now flying the English flag. Though Spain and France clashed for a while longer, the defeat forced Spain to seek negotiations. The result was the Peace of the Pyrenees, signed in November of 1659, a treaty that would reshape Europe’s balance of power. The treaty granted much of Flanders to Louis XIV, curtailing Spain’s once-formidable influence in European affairs and strengthening France’s position as a rising power. Shortly after, Louis XIV solidified his gains by marrying Maria Theresa, daughter of Spain’s King Philip IV. From then on, Spain found itself, if not a vassal of France, certainly a humbled and dependent ally.

For Charles II, the loss was devastating. Until now, he had depended on Spanish aid to reclaim his father’s throne, but after the crushing blow at Dunkirk, the hope of a military return was all but lost. Yet fate had one more twist in store. Only weeks after Dunkirk, Oliver Cromwell—the man who had cast Charles into exile—was dead. Cromwell’s son, Richard, tried to step into his father’s role, but found himself in over his head. By the following May, a long-dormant Parliament reconvened, rising from the shadow of Oliver Cromwell, who had suspended it five years earlier over disputes about the army’s size. When Richard realized he had lost control over both the army and Parliament, he abandoned his position, leaving a power vacuum in his wake.

Power struggles erupted, pitting Parliament against the army, led by Generals Charles Fleetwood and John Lambert, as they grappled with how to suppress resurgent Royalist threats. By October of 1659, the army had seen enough; they dissolved Parliament’s session once again, plunging England deeper into crisis. In desperation, members of Parliament reached out to General George Monck, stationed with English forces in Scotland, imploring him to restore order. Monck was no stranger to conflict. He had once supported Charles I and even paid the price with prison time under Cromwell’s rule. Yet, ironically, he had later joined the Roundheads, serving Cromwell’s cause with unwavering loyalty.

But Monck’s loyalties ran deeper than the battlefield. He may have remained a monarchist at heart, as his wife was, and with England in disarray, he concluded that only a king could restore order. In January 1660, he led his forces south, marching on London and occupying the city five weeks later. Lambert attempted to intercept Monck’s advance, but his soldiers, starved of pay and supplies, deserted in droves. With Lambert’s forces scattered, Parliament reconvened once more. Though some in Parliament eyed Monck with suspicion, others saw him as the answer to England’s turmoil, willing to consider the unthinkable: the restoration of the monarchy. Monck reached out to Charles II, who by now was feeling the strain of his dependency on Spain, sensing their interest in him was waning.

Spurred on by Monck and his royal advisors, Charles issued the Declaration of Breda, a statement crafted to win him the English throne. The Declaration of Breda addressed three urgent issues: first, how to handle those who had participated in his father’s execution; second, what to do about the army, particularly regarding their overdue pay; and third, how he would respect the religious convictions of the English people. In the Declaration, Charles promised a general amnesty for the regicides, with only a few high-profile exceptions. He committed to paying the army all it was owed, and he assured his subjects of “liberty of conscience” in matters of faith. But he made it clear: these promises would be upheld as Parliament saw fit, acknowledging their authority. And that was the linchpin of his return. Charles would reclaim the throne, but only by honoring Parliament’s right to a lasting and respected role in governance.

Before his father’s downfall—and even during Cromwell’s iron-fisted rule—Parliament had existed only at the whim of the chief executive. But from 1660 onward, the balance shifted. Parliament took its place as the senior authority in a constitutional monarchy, a change that would reshape the British government forever. Never again would an English monarch claim absolute power. Parliament’s supremacy would shape not only Britain’s future but also the governments of its colonies in North America, ultimately influencing the very foundations of the United States. This historic shift—the people’s power to remove an unjust king—sent tremors across the Atlantic, where in the North American colonies it would ignite a spark that would one day blaze into revolution.