Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  "You say well, friend," quoth Cromwell.

  The commissary general, who was tapping his cheek with a quill, smiled pleasantly. "And how would you seek to serve?" said he.

  "Sir, I have fought against Papists fifteen years and held many commands, whereof you shall have proof at your leisure. My skill is in chief with musket and pike, but for that, time enough. There is more pressing matter. Sir, ere I left Oxford today there came to me by a braggart captain in liquor, tidings of that which touches your fortune. I take no shame to tell you. I have no faith to keep with that foul court. So then. They are in ill straits for arms and powder. Their whole hope in the war depends on a new great convoy. This comes from Bristol and hath now been days upon the road. It journeys with little guard, but they will send out from Oxford a force to meet it—and, sir, it should come to Burford or Witney by tomorrow. But if it fall to you and not to them you have gone far to end the war."

  The frown gathered on Cromwell's brow. He began with a score of sharp questions. How great was this convoy? with what force? at what speed could it move? and the like. To all Royston had a quick answer, true or false. Cromwell looked on him with favor. "Thou art a ready man, friend. The Lord needs such."

  "Therefore, doubtless, He made me so," said Colonel Royston devoutly.

  "O, sir, hold fast to that!" Cromwell cried. "Thou art made unto His glory and miserably dost thou fail it. Yet be of good heart and so run that thou mayest obtain."

  "It is ever my design, sir," said Colonel Royston quite sincerely.

  Cromwell thrust out his arms over his head. "O, laggards, laggards! The Lord deliver me from laggards! Sir, there is naught to be feared but our own sin and sloth."

  "Wherein, alas, we are too well provided," said Royston.

  Cromwell's hands fell. His face was grave and sad. "You say well," he muttered, and appeared to talk to himself.

  The commissary general had remained always amiable of air. "And do I hear you promise the capture of this convoy?" he asked.

  "Spare a regiment of horse in the morning, let me be its guide and I'll answer for all."

  "It is very handsome in you," the commissary murmured and glanced from him to Cromwell. "The gentleman desires to be trusted with a regiment, sir."

  "The Lord, the Lord shall laugh at him," muttered Cromwell. "What is't? A regiment, quotha?" He bent his brows upon Royston. "Well. And how wouldst thou go with it, friend?"

  Colonel Royston was ready. A swift detour by Newbridge should bring them astride the western road on the farther side of Witney. Then, putting out a picket to guard them from Oxford, they would send vedettes out westward to make touch with the convoy, find it, capture it and strike for Abingdon again.

  "It likes me well," said Cromwell.

  "Colonel Budd's horse, sir?" quoth the commissary quickly.

  "A very lovely company. Sir, put all on God."

  "I will make my endeavor, sir," said Royston and saluted, and was going.

  "We will provide you a billet, sir," said the commissary again in some haste.

  Colonel Royston saluted him, too, and was dismissed in the charge of a sergeant.

  "There is a soul in an honest, thriving way," quoth Cromwell.

  "I should have liked him better," said the commissary, "if he had offered us nothing."

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  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At Witney Town

  COLONEL ROYSTON was waked from his bed of clean hay at dawn, but he did not arrive in the quarters of Colonel Jacob Budd in time to hear a conversation of the commissary. "The orders are plain to you, Colonel?"

  "Plain, sir. May I be God's executioner! And if it be not so; if this one that guides me prove an hireling, a man of Belial—"

  "Why, you may still be God's executioner," said the commissary, smiling.

  Colonel Budd almost laughed. In a little while came Colonel Royston. The commissary saluted him affably. "Colonel Budd, this is Colonel George Royston, who hath designed this fair work. I would have you know him well."

  "The honor is mine," said Colonel Royston.

  Colonel Budd did not deny it.

  "The lieutenant general bids you to breakfast," said the commissary.

  Colonel Royston appreciated the honor, but his appetite was something affected by the lieutenant general taking occasion to expound the second beast of the apocalypse. Colonel Budd differed from his general concerning the significance of the first horn, said so and they parted hot.

  "Well, sir, well, shall we ride?" said Royston eagerly, as they came out together.

  "After some small exercise," said Colonel Budd.

  Colonel Budd paraded his regiment in the meadows by the Ock and there wrestled in prayer for the space of half an hour, the troopers groaning or giving praise as they were moved. Colonel Royston chiefly groaned. But he confessed that in the end they wheeled beautifully into column of troop. They took the road for Kingston Bagpuize chanting, not sweetly—

  O, Lord God, unto Whom alone all

  vengeance doth belong;

  O, mighty God, Who vengeance own'st,

  shine forth, avenging wrong;

  Lift up Thyself, Thou of the earth the

  sovereign

  Judge that art,

  And unto them that are so proud a due

  reward impart.

  They had certainly a vile ear for music, but it annoyed Colonel Royston that he could find no other fault with them. They were men of seasoned strength, and their bearing approved them soldierly. They were equipped to admiration, with breasts and backs of steel over their buff coats, pot helmets, a pair of long pistols each and a sword. There was hardly a worthless charger in the regiment. Sturdy beasts, plainly bred in the fen levels, there could be no better for a campaign in the valleys and heavy turf hills of middle England. Not the guard of Gustavus was better provided. Colonel Royston thought with a sneer of the ragged squadrons of King Charles. So they rode on, a goodly sight, a long trail of steel, between the whitening willows of the flat grass lands, while the wayward sunlight flashed on their arms and made splendor in the thin cloud of dust.

  In a space between psalms Colonel Jacob Budd engaged Colonel Royston's attention. "Thou art surely a brand snatched from the burning, my good friend?"

  "It was I did the snatching."

  Colonel Budd groaned. "I perceive thou art yet far from the truth and in the bondage of Arminius!"

  "I do not know him."

  "'Tis a minister of Beelzebub."

  Colonel Royston shook his head. "I can not give you joy of your acquaintance."

  "Which taught the abominable heresy that whosoever will, may be saved. Whereas, friend, whereas (as I shall look to expound to you more generously), the sweet truth is, there be some elected to damnation, which they can by no means escape. And this shall be a goodly comfort, for it is all to the glory of God."

  Colonel Royston grunted. Never a man had less taste for theology than he.

  "And look you, if thou dost think (poor worm!) that thou hast saved thyself, thou art still in the blindness of sin. No man saveth himself, seeing that all are worms. Yet some in the all-seeing providence of God are elected to salvation and by no strength nor good works of their own are saved. Whereof they have a sweet and blessed assurance. There is also another assurance, the assurance of damnation, which I would give you."

  "I' gad," cried Royston. "I have a very certain assurance of damnation if we go across the river with no vedettes out."

  Colonel Budd scowled at him. It was the more objectionable in that it could not be denied. They were already close upon the river and beyond lay the enemy's country. He gave hoarse orders (Royston marked with disdain the use of the stiff Dutch drill for the simpler Swedish) and the column of route was protected with double vedettes and an advance guard before they came to Newbridge.

  Swollen with the spring rains, the two rivers came turbid and swift and crashed against each other in a whirlpool of foam and roared through the narrow stone arc
hes. On the bridge the regiment halted while the vedettes thrust forward under the trees up the diverging tracks. There was no danger, and at the old pace, but fallen silent, they took the road to Witney. Soon there were no more trees. They rode over a dead level of flat land where the furrows already were richly green. Laborers straightened themselves and leaned on their hoes, gazing stolidly while the regiment passed and stolidly fell to work again. It was not a war of the people. They cared little for its moves or its fortune, and to make a show, soldiers were stale. So through Standlake and Brighthampton, where the women laughed and waved kerchiefs while stern Puritan troopers found ill names for them, they made on toward the circling hills.

  Something after noon they struck the road to the west upon the high ground beyond Witney and straightway sent back a party to watch for any force from Oxford. The main body of the regiment moved westward at leisure while an advance guard sped far in front. But the advance guard came nearly into Burford and found nothing and the main body halted on the hill above Asthall and made a meal of biscuit and cheese from the knapsacks. Colonel Royston went forward. It was drawing towards twilight when he came back in a hurry with most of the guard clattering about him. "They are drawn close to Burford, sir," he cried, reining up. "A quarter-mile of them, as I judge, wains and pack horses, and no guard at all."

  "Praise the Lord which hath delivered them into our hands," quoth Colonel Budd.

  "Let's hatch our chickens before we count 'em," said Royston, whose wisdom was of another color. "Give me leave, sir; if we wait them there in the hollow between the two hills we shall be well hidden and they well caught."

  "What, sir, will you teach me?" cried Colonel Budd.

  "Nay, sir, I could not," said Royston smoothly. "None the less, will you move, sir? Will you move?"

  Colonel Budd snorted with wrath. But the plan was so plainly best that he could not refuse it. In a moment the regiment was dropping out of sight down the hill. Once in the hollow the half of them were dismounted and lay down in the ditches. A squadron hid itself craftily in the hollows of the slope of either hill. The rest, with the led horses, made toward the river and were lost.

  It was already dusk. The hapless convoy came on innocently. The locked wheels of the wains groaned down the hill while the wagoners cursed their lurching horses that could not hold back enough on the loose road. There was no more guard than some score mounted men, riding by twos and threes, gossiping together.

  The first of the wagons were down on the level and halted for unshackling their wheels. The whole train stayed perforce. Then from the ditch rose Colonel Budd and shouted. His dismounted men dashed upon the convoy and the red flame of powder broke the gloom. On either hill side the mounted squadrons swept the road and before and behind escape was barred, even if the laden wagons could have made up hill at speed. It was a trap that might have held a fiercer prey. The convoy was in hopeless straits. Its few mounted men were pistoled speedily and the Puritans fell on the wretched wagoners, who had no arms.

  "Quarter, sir," cried Colonel Royston with an oath, "bid them give quarter."

  "The curse of Saul be upon thee," cried Colonel Budd, and thundered to his men: "Smite, and spare not! Smite, and spare not!" He turned to Royston again. "Verily, the wrath of the Lord is kindled against thee, for His pleasure is in the blood of His enemies."

  Colonel Royston turned away with a gesture of disgust and made for his horse. He loved war too well to like an idle butchery.

  But the Puritan troopers had a holy lust for their work. The wretched wagoners ran hither and thither in a ghastly fear, struck blindly with naked hands at men who kept them off with steel, knelt, shrieking piteously like children for mercy. There was none. They hid beneath the wagons and in the ditches and the Puritan troopers dragged them out and slew. The hollows were carpeted with death and blood.

  So much time they wasted on this godly work that it was full dark before they started the convoy to moving again and climbed away from the horror.

  Colonel Budd came up beside Royston and touched his arm. "Friend, I fear me thou art an Amalekite at heart."

  "Friend," said Colonel Royston, who was in no good temper, "I see well thou art no soldier."

  "How now?" cried the Puritan. "What naughty frowardness is this? Be assured I am a man set in authority and—"

  "And not fit for it, i' gad," cried Royston. "But for this silly butchery we might have been four miles away. We move at a foot's pace with all this gear and each hour this side the river is dangerous."

  The Puritan laughed. "I perceive you have no courage, friend."

  "Not a whit under your command. 'Tis an ill fight when a fool is colonel."

  "You shall answer that, sir," cried Colonel Budd. "You shall answer it to the lieutenant general."

  "I will make good each word if we ever get to him."

  "O fool and fainthearted! Verily, I can scarce be angry with thee, thou art a babe for fear. What haste is there? We will cross by the ford at Bablockhithe and be at Abingdon by midnight."

  "Bablockhithe?" Royston gasped in most honest amazement. "Bablockhithe?"

  "Well, sirrah, and is't not the shortest way?"

  "I'gad, the longest way round is here the shortest way home. It's tempting Providence to venture near Oxford."

  "The Lord, sir, will take care of His own."

  "That is why I tremble for us. Nay, sir, if you would not lose all, go round by Newbridge as we came."

  Colonel Budd was plainly amused. "Verily, thou art matter of mirth with thy host of fears. What have we to dread from Oxford? We have kept watch all day and there is nothing moving thence."

  "The devil himself may be moving now. They expect this convoy and some guard must come for it. Look you, sir, if you do your duty you will consult for safety and go round by Newbridge."

  "Do you think to school me?" cried Colonel Budd. "What! Would you be my master? Be assured, sir, I am set in authority and thou shalt not minish it."

  Colonel Royston shrugged. "Go to the devil your own way. Remember, I told you where you were going."

  Colonel Budd preached him a sermon concerning original sin and the effectual calling of the elect.

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  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  At Bablockhithe

  SOMETHING belongs to Master Thomas White, rector of Witney, though while he lived the good man was careful not to claim it. He was the friend of all men, even Anabaptists, but would rather not have been. His private affections bound him to church and King, but he concealed them carefully and lived and died in prosperity. None the less, he did his affections a good turn when he safely could and his chance came on this evening of spring. It was the rector's custom to get an appetite for supper by a walk from the rectory past the Butter Cross to the bridge, whereby he saw how the bulk of his parish was behaving and could also gossip with it.

  On this night he was with Master Goundrey, a cloth worker, debating the effect of the war on the price of wool, when they heard the rumble of the Puritans and their convoy. The rector and Master Goundrey drew down toward the bridge with many another, expecting to see the King's colors. They were altogether surprised. Puritans from the westward, a Puritan convoy through Witney—the whole affair was amazing. They gaped at the long cavalcade rolling slowly over the bridge and the Puritan troopers bade them be gone to their beds. But the rector was gone.

  I conceive him less benign and more capable than he was supposed. He made off to the rectory, saddled his cob and saying that he was away to visit a sick soul at Cogges, was soon upon the track of the Puritans. It was easy to catch them, for the wagons could make no more than a walk. He saw them turn off by Newland for Stanton Harcourt and Bablockhithe, then followed them no longer, but made a straight road for Oxford. He guessed right. There were Royalists riding out to meet that convoy. In the middle of Eynsham village, in the square by the

  old market-house, he tumbled into them.

  Colonel Stow, being advised that the convoy was order
ed not to make Witney till midnight, had left Oxford at sundown and was well in advance of his time. They brought him the rector, panting on a blown steed, peering at him out of the dark with eyes swelling white. "For the King?" gasped the rector.

  "Without doubt."

  "Praise God," quoth the rector, and collected his scattered wits.

  "If you will give me a reason," said Colonel Stow, his hand on his moustachio, considering this strange person.

  "Do you come for a long convoy from the west?"

  "And have therefore scant time for you, sir."

  "Alack, sir, you are all out of time. 'Tis taken already by the Roundheads."

  "The devil!"

  "Yes, sir," said the rector heartily. "And they are gone with it to Stanton Harcourt and Bablockhithe."

  Colonel Stow was hard on his moustachio and frowning. It was difficult to conceive that the Roundheads had known so precisely when to come and where. "Who are you, sir?" he said sharply.

  "Sir, I am the rector of Witney, who—" a smile covered his red face, "who live at peace with all men and serve my King quietly, sir, quietly."

  Colonel Stow considered him still some moments.

  "You would advise me to believe you?"