Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  The rector laughed out: "Sir, you say well. You say very well. I am no honest man. But when I come stealthy believe me. Doubt me when I am open. Believe me when I am some one's enemy. Doubt me when I am every man's friend." But Colonel Stow had already made up his mind to believe, and the orders ran from troop to troop that turned the regiment away to Bablockhithe. They were off at a canter by a level bare road.

  The rector, unbidden, stayed at Colonel Stow's side and Colonel Stow, noting it, had no more doubt. But his mind was exercised to guess how the Roundheads had known so well the hour to strike. There was nothing for him to do but make good speed. He cast vedettes far out in front, and they made it, breaking to a gallop again and again, thundering on through the desert dark. Close on the first scattered houses of Stanton Harcourt he checked the pace and let his advance guard draw farther and farther away and flung out a picket up the Witney road. Then since the Roundheads could not there be found he feared they were in advance of him, and he hurried on again by the narrower, three-shadowed road through the river meadows. His first scouts had come fairly to the ford when a man thundered up from the rear to tell that the Roundheads were found. Colonel Stow laughed. "Faith, I am obliged to these gentlemen. They give me some exercise whereof my spirits are in need. It were a tame march but for their kindness," and he began to make his dispositions.

  It was a heavy night, with few stars breaking the dark. Over the river and the dank grass lay a thin cloud of mist. The track to the ford was marked by trees that rose to a vast height in the vague gloom. Else all was plain level. Colonel Stow sent a party upstream to the weir. He held two squadrons close by the ford and set the rest a furlong back. Then they waited, shrouded in the mist, hearing nothing but the roar of the weir.

  In a while came the convoy, most orderly. Half Colonel Budd's regiment marched in the van, half kept the rear. It was the orthodox array and Colonel Stow, with his experienced ear cocked for the sound of their march, had not need to peer at them to know they used it. He had no more anxieties. He could trust his regiment to wait. The good Puritans came on innocently. The squadrons in front took the ford and were well in, the first files almost upon the farther bank, when Colonel Stow fired a pistol. His regiment waked with a roar. Two squadrons drove at the ford and cut off the troopers crossing from the convoy. The rest were hurled at the rear guard and, crashing at speed on the flank of men unaware, overthrew them utterly and rode them down and slew. The night was aflame and loud with pistol shots, but it was scarce a fight, for the Puritans were shattered beyond hope in the first sudden onset. The most of them were out of their saddles at the shock and never mounted again. Only the first squadrons, uncharged, unbroken, turned in the ford and set themselves stubbornly to recover the fight, but while they bore on gallantly against the beating storm of shot that only their first files could answer, sudden there was a shout from the weir and the water grew swift about them and the horses lost footing and were borne away.

  There was no more hope for them. Colonel Stow kept one squadron on the river bank some while, but it had no more to do than capture a few damp Puritans that struggled to shore mighty miserable. Each man of Colonel Stow's had his work and set about it. The first of the fight was hardly over before the weary wagon teams were strengthened with captured chargers and the convoy, wheeling into the meadows for room, was turned about and driven on to Eynsham and Oxford. Colonel Stow's men might have no faith, but they had learned their trade.

  The rector of Witney had stayed close by Colonel Stow and emitted some uncanonical chuckles during the fight. "That's a Roland for old Noll. He that rolleth a stone, it shall return upon him," said he. "Good night to you."

  "Nay, faith, sir; ride back to Oxford and let us thank you."

  "Who, I?" The rector tapped his nose. "Look 'e, I have to my parish a score of wild Anabaptists and a fair regiment of whoreson independents who are my sweet friends, and, by your leave, their friend I'll stay. For times go hard. Forget you have seen me. Disremember my name. The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church, and I'll sow none if I can help it. There are too many." He vanished into the night and died in the odor of sanctity and his rectory ten years after.

  Colonel Budd, swept away by the rush of the deepening water, reached the farther bank a hundred yards down stream. Riding back hastily, he peered across the foaming water and saw by the light of the pistol flashes that his regiment was all undone. There was nothing left but those struggling desperately with the wild stream and the Royalist fire, and for them little hope. Colonel Budd yelled wildly for a trumpeter and when one came at last bade him sound the rally. The troopers heard and made for safety as they could. But it was no more than a squadron of horses and men worn to utter weariness that mustered beyond the ford.

  Colonel Budd found himself looking into Colonel Royston's face. He drew his breath heavily like a man awaiting a blow. But Colonel Royston said nothing. He had no reproaches for another. He had heard the orders that conquered him ring in the voice of his friend.

  Colonel Budd dug his nails into his flesh. "Ichabod!" he groaned. "Ichabod!"

  | Contents |

  Chapter Thirty

  Colonel Stow Resolves to Laugh

  IT WAS close upon dawn when Colonel Stow went back to his quarters in the Corn Market and slept doughtily. He woke in the afternoon with Prince Rupert over his bed and a hearty, "Good fortune, good fellow!" buzzing in his ears. He blinked amiably. "So you gave Noll a poke in the short ribs?" quoth the Palatine.

  "Faith, he'll want a plaster this morning, sir," says Colonel Stow, sitting up.

  "I'll swear it's as pretty a thing as I have known," cried the Palatine and howled for a quart of Rhenish. Colonel Stow saluted from the bedclothes. "A sweet ambush, faith. And your weir is pure poetical." The wine came and Rupert with a thunderous "Prosit!" drank mightily and gave the tankard to Colonel Stow. "Yes, í'gad, a sweet affair. The King shall remember you for it. But look 'e, Jerry, what a pox were the Roundheads doing there at all? They would not risk so far afield on a chance. They had an information and exact to the hour. What do you make of it?"

  Colonel Stow caressed his beard and gathered his half-waked wits. There was but one of whom talk of treason could make him think. The memory of Lucinda surged back on him. He reached hastily for the tankard to hide his face and drank.… No, that at least was impossible. She might come to him and counsel it, but she herself could scarce go to Cromwell.… He put the tankard down and drew a long breath.

  "What are you thinking?" said the Palatine, looking at him curiously.

  "I am thinking, sir … that the whole affair is vastly strange.… If the Roundheads had gone round by Newbridge as a fool might have taught them, we had been kissing our hands to that convoy."

  Rupert went off on the new hare. He drew a map on the sheet and made Colonel Stow draw another. "Ods blood, 'tis so," he cried. "The whole is a mad business indeed. What do you make of it?"

  Colonel Stow shrugged. "Luck, sir. God help us all when there is no luck in war. By Your Highness' leave, I will up."

  Rupert sat down on the bed as Colonel Stow got out of it and kept up a steady stream of debate and praise, which Colonel Stow answered fitfully. His mind was away. Now the stir of action was past, despair called him again and fear. And Rupert was talking of him as of Gustav Adolf or Henri IV.

  His strength was gone. He had staked his life on a cheat. Dreams were liars and hope and faith. He felt himself alone and all things mocked at him. The morrow had nothing to bring him more. He had lost what made his life. There was no more desire of deeds, no passion to use his strength. He was listless of doing. Nay, true life was done. He could be sure of himself no more. Since he was a fool for his faith in her, he was a fool to believe in himself. He had failed his own great need, to win her and keep her true. If in that, why, then in all. He was but a weakling, who cheated himself with vanity—that most contemptible man of men.

  Now, with no work to hold his thought, no chance of war to quicke
n his blood, now first he felt the pain of his wound. The desire of all his manhood was widowed, the glad vision that had given him heart in the worst hours was changed to an ugly sprite of mockery; the happiness for which each power of him had striven desperately was torn away from his world. The very surging life of him made the pain throb keenly. He was too much a man not to suffer deep.…

  Now, Matthieu-Marc-Luc was in some small elation. He had even expended his substance on a quart of Burgundy, a rare generosity which Alcibiade honored duly. "Dame," quoth Matthieu-Marc, "my soul pastures upon joy today."

  "May it chew a glad cud tonight," says Alcibiade.

  "This is the first savory fight I have tasted in England."

  "Well enough," says Alcibiade, with his nose in the tankard, "like a toasted herring—no more than a shoeing horn to your dinner."

  "Remark me! I do not esteem your fight by the size of it. 'Tis art, the pure art, that I love. Now, in this affair of the ford I appraise M. le Colonel as perfect."

  Alcibiade shrugged. "Give me the grand style," says he. "Pound me an army and I do not mind the trouble. These little affairs are art for my lady's maid."

  "You are gross, my friend. You are deaf to the finer melodies. But with me these neat actions expand my soul. I am all spiritual today," sighed Matthieu-Marc.

  "Are you? Then come and see Molly," said Alciblade, who had finished the wine.

  "Hum! I do not think I can love her, your Molly."

  "But she adores you."

  Matthieu-Marc-Luc curled his moustachios. "In effect, that is a reason for staying away. I would not break the woman's heart."

  "So. I believe she was right," said Alcibiade to himself.

  "O no, she was not," said Matthieu-Marc. "What did she say?"

  "That you were too shy for her eating, a sad, sober soldier. Then she sighed and said 'twas pity, for you were a proper man."

  Matthieu-Marc curled his moustachios more vehemently. "She has a discernment," said he. "And yet she hath none. Well, I will see her.…Hem! Are you coming?"

  "Corbleu! you might like to take her alone," said Alcibiade.

  "Come with me, my good friend, you will amuse her."

  Alcibiade chuckled.

  So they crossed the Corn Market and made for Ship Street. Molly stood behind her tiny counter as wholesomely pleasant as her own cakes. Alcibiade looked expectant at Matthieu-Marc and nudged him. Matthieu-Marc shuffled his feet and said, "Hem!" and looked angular.

  "The kind gentleman has come to eat you, Molly," said Alcibiade.

  "A cake would agree with him better," quoth Molly.

  "My pretty," said Matthieu-Marc, with a fine bow, "your cheeks are rosy as a summer sunset."

  Alcibiade supplied a liquid whistle.

  "Shall I bring you fine weather, kind sir?" said Molly sweetly, leaning over to Matthieu-Marc with a smile of provocation.

  "There may be storms, my dear, there might be storms," quoth Matthieu-Marc in a hurry.

  Molly made the face of one about to weep. "Do you think he really loves me?" said she in a loud whisper to Alcibiade.

  "I have certainly never said so," Matthieu-Marc protested.

  Alcibiade shook his head at him. "O wicked one! O breaker of hearts!"

  "I have hurt no heart in my life," quoth Matthieu-Marc indignant, "save some for roasting."

  "O, you are a bloody man indeed," cried Molly.

  "And would you have my poor heart stuffed with nasty onions?"

  Matthieu-Marc put out his chest. "It is a vile taste," quoth he. "I advise a forcemeat of egg and marjoram. Nay, my dear, save for my profession I am the gentlest man alive."

  "Gentle, quotha! And how many widows did you make last night?"

  "My dear," said Matthieu-Marc, "'tis every good man's duty to make widows. Thus freeing poor husbands from purgatory. For myself, well, there were some half-dozen went down before me last night. I was in the humor."

  Molly made eyes at him. "La, you turn me cold down my back and I love you terrible."

  Matthieu-Marc recoiled. "This is unseemly," said he.

  "Why shouldn't I tell 'e so?" says the artless Molly. "You ha' just swore you loved me."

  "Never o' my life!" cried Matthieu-Marc in alarm.

  She appealed with pathos to Alcibiade. "Did 'e not, now? You heard him."

  "With both my ears," said Alcibiade readily. Then to Matthieu-Marc, "O, wickedness, old wickedness, go to!"

  "You see!" cried Molly with reproach; then with sobs, "And you are all unkind indeed!"

  Matthieu-Marc made the world a gesture of despair. "So be it! So be it!" he cried. "You love me. I love you. And it shall be very uncomfortable for both of us."

  Molly took her red face out of her hands. She presented to Matthieu-Marc with determination one cheek, and as he came to it more delicately than Agag, held out her hand to Alcibiade for the wagered shilling.

  "Matthieu-Marc, my dear, you will have a saving wife," said Alcibiade.

  Matthieu-Marc started back from the rosy cheek vehemently and gazed with awe at Alcibiade, who laughed in no manner of encouragement.

  "How you do waste my time," quoth Molly. "As if I wanted either of you."

  "My pretty," cried Matthieu-Marc, "you relieve my soul."

  "I never touched it," said Molly with some indignation. She considered them severely. "Lud, there's one I care for more than the both of you."

  Alcibiade leaned over the counter and pressed her waist. "What! Faithless so soon!"

  "Have done! How is your Colonel?"

  "M. le Colonel is as well as a man can be without courting you, my pretty," said Matthieu-Marc.

  But Alcibiade had grown grave. "Why do you ask, Molly?"

  She made a queer answer. "Because he is a man that makes you feel safe being a woman. I could do things for him. And he would not want me." Her rosy, round face fell sad with a quaint look of childhood. "You know the big man, his friend, and her that I call the hungry one? I think they are gone away together."

  After a moment of silence Matthieu-Marc struck his brow dramatically. "False Lancelot! False Guinevere!" he cried.

  But Alcibiade said in a low voice, "Are you sure, Molly?"

  "It was in the dark of the night before you marched out. He went off up the street with a spare horse and after I saw him riding with her down the Broad Street. They are gone together.…O, I could have a laugh. They'll give each other cobbler's wages.… But, does he know?"

  "Are you sure, Molly?" said Alcibiade again.

  "I could slap your fat face," cried Molly with sudden ferocity, and turned her back on him.

  Alcibiade went out.

  Matthieu-Marc cleared his throat and shook his head. "It is the nature of your sex, child, to be light, child, to be frail, to be false. You were made for the shame of men. But man is greater than shame, and his soul is glorified in the shame of your treason—

  "'Souvent femme varie,

  Bien fol qui s'y fie.'

  The lusty King Francois—"

  "Was a fool like yourself," Molly snapped.

  Matthieu-Marc struck an attitude and set himself to stare her down. He retired in no good order.

  "Go your ways, go your ways," said Molly.

  "You'll never know anything, you men. You are too clever." Thereafter she wept, which was certainly not clever. For whom or for what she had found it hard to say.

  Alcibiade made his solemn way first to Royston's lodging, then to Lucinda's and heard the truth again. Then—to see him would doubtless have increased the wrath of Molly—he took counsel with a pipe. And that sent him to Colonel Stow.

  Colonel Stow was alone still. He met Alcibiade with tired eyes. "You may call it ill news, sir," said Alcibiade, saluting.

  "Well?"

  "On the night before we marched Colonel Royston left Oxford with Mademoiselle Weston."

  Colonel Stow hesitated a moment and then laughed. "Who dares say that?"

  "There is no doubt, sir."

  "It�
�it is not true," said Colonel Stow, and Alcibiade saw his lips tremble and his hand. Indeed, it

  was all too bitterly clear. He could not fight against it. The riddle was answered. There could be no more doubt. The treason came from his friend and his love. She was the mind, Royston the arm that struck at his honor. "It is not true," said Colonel Stow.

  Alcibiade saluted. "It is whatever you please, sir."

  Colonel Stow turned away, in a listless gesture bade Alcibiade go, and rested his head on his hand. Alcibiade walked to the window and stayed there.…

  Colonel Stow leaned over the table, feeble and cold. It seemed that his heart was dead, his life gone out of him. This was the end. She had robbed him of all—hope and faith and love and strength. Even his friend … even his friend … He began to cry like a child and with the tears his stunned mind woke to feel again. Then he drove his teeth into his lip and twisted

  wrist against wrist to get an easier pain. To make his friend play traitor against him and seek his ruin, to steal his friend's heart away, sure this was a devil's work, no woman's. She had no part in life but to make men base. And he had set his life upon her. Had loved? Was it all past? Nay, the worst shame was that still he had a vile yearning for her. That—that must go at least. He could not dare even the release of death if he loved her still.…

  There in the falling twilight, huddled together, quivering, a desperate thing, afraid of his own fate, he drove her out of his heart for ever. Whatever might lie beyond, whatever strange meetings there, at least he would have no need of her. His soul should loathe her as now his body shuddered at the memory of her kiss. She should be nothing through all eternity, if there was an eternity to endure. So then. Death had no fear. Death could be no worse than the traitorous world. Death would spare him something at least—the scorn and the sneers, the long misery of effort when a man was sure to fail. Death.…

  He sat up and brushed his hand over his wet eyes. There in the gloom, stiff-backed, staring out, stood Alcibiade, like a sentinel over the dying day. The hard, soldierly strength, quiet and still, appealed to him strangely. He was like a man buffeted and weary in the battle of a breaking sea, to whose smarting eyes comes through the spindrift and the spray a glimpse of dark land beyond the ravening line of foam.… Well. The whole world had not passed away because he was in trouble.… Something stood real beyond his passion and his pain.… Why, perhaps he was drunk with self; perhaps his mind sought mad fancies of torture, fed upon its own ill dream. Ay, faith, his very woes might be unreal, a nightmare for him alone. He felt himself half sunk in a realm of ghastly fantasy, half away in the real world of action.… And still pain stung at him and shame and though it were all phantasm and cheat, his soul was chained in it. He felt. He suffered. The strength of others had no help for him. He was at war with the false spirit of life. He had no part in the peace that brought the world content. Against that he was rebel.… And yet was it not a coward, a weakling, that could be hurt so much? O, a man need not be ashamed to feel. Where there was life there was pain. It was a sluggish soul who had not learned that. But to fall out of the fight for a wound; to capitulate to pain; to give the strength of body and soul to a debauch of suffering; that was not worthy of a man. Your true man would yield no more to sorrow than he must. He should fight out of it. At the most, at the worst, pain and shame were fetters that bound. A man must break them and be the stronger for the combat. That should be true sight which showed him agony as a nightmare, as an evil dream and the world of endless effort clean and real. Suffering was one of the cheating shadows of life, sent to blind and daze and bewilder that a man might learn to trust himself and be strong. He must fight out of it.… Ay, if all else failed, he was left with the strength of his own soul. It was enough, though the spirit of the world's chance and change were false. He made head against all. He stood strong in the darkness. He was sure.… The first fierce pang might come again and after the dull ache of despair. He could not vaunt himself safe. With no hope, no honor but his own to fight for, there was little joy to win. Surely in the empty hours despair would beset him again. He had not conquered yet. It was idle to boast to himself. All life might be the prey of sorrow and death bring joy.… Well. The better reason to fight. To defy despair were the happier way. To yield were to multiply misery, to despise himself. Nay, he must hold right on with eyes wide, with head erect.… It was folly, it was weakness, to wail at life. So a man confessed himself beaten, so he made defeat harder. In the last, worst hours a man should laugh. The right, unanswerable answer to the blackest malice of fate was a jest. He was greater than all tragedy who dared mock at his own. Strength and the quiet mind were linked with gaiety. Not without that could a man know himself.… There was, in fact, some humor in this desperate attempt to be humorous. He heard himself laugh out.