Upon the 3d of September, 1651, the anniversary of the battle of Dunbar, Cromwell advanced to the attack.  Harry’s regiment was placed among some hedges around the city, and upon them the brunt of the fight first fell.  In spite of the immense numbers brought against them they defended themselves with desperate bravery.  Some of the Scottish troops came up, and for a time Cromwell’s footmen could make but little way.  At other parts, however, the resistance was more feeble, and the Scotch fell rapidly into confusion.  Contesting every foot of the way, Harry’s regiment was driven back into the town, where a terrible confusion reigned.  Still keeping his men together, he marched to the marketplace.  Here he found the king with a considerable body of horse.  The greater part, however, of the horse had fled through the town without drawing rein, while the foot were throwing away their arms and flying in all directions.

“If all my troops had fought like your regiment, Colonel Furness, we should have won the day,” the king said.  “As it is now, it is a hopeless rout.  It is useless for your brave fellows to throw away their lives further.  They will only be cut down vainly, seeing that the rest of my army are disbanded.  Thank them from me for their services, and bid them seek their homes as best they may and wait for better times.  They are English, and will meet with better treatment from the country people than will the Scotch.  Then do you join me.  I am going to head my horsemen here in a charge against the Roundhead cavalry, and so give more time for the army to get away.”

Harry rode up to his troops, now reduced to half their former strength.  Leslie and Grahame had both been killed, and William Long was sorely wounded.  He gave the men the message from the king, and the brave fellows gave a cheer for King Charles, the last he was to hear for ten years.  Then they marched away in orderly array, with their arms, intending to beat off all who might attack them before nightfall, and then to break up and scatter, each for himself.  William Long had friends near Gloucester, and as his wound would prevent him from traveling rapidly with Harry, he took farewell of him, and rode away with the regiment.  Harry, with Jacob and Mike, rejoined the king, and they rode toward the gate by which the Roundhead troops were already entering the town.  The horsemen, however, had but little stomach for the fight, and as the king advanced, in twos and threes they turned their horses’ heads and rode off.

Harry was riding close to the king, and looking round said at length, “It is useless, your majesty.  There are not a dozen men with us.”

The king looked round and checked his horse.  Besides his personal friends, Buckingham, Wilmot, and one or two other nobles, scarce a man remained.  The king shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, gentlemen, as we cannot fight, we must needs run.”  Then the party turned their horses and galloped out on the other side of Worcester.  The country was covered with fugitives.  They soon came upon a considerable body of horse, who at once attached themselves to the party.  “These, gentlemen,” the king said, “would not fight when I wanted them to, and now that I would fain be alone, they follow me.”