Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  There was no light now, save from the fire. Behind a barricade of table and chairs, the generals stood to arms. Strozzi's men found their feet and stared and held off, muttering. Colonel Stow remembered that silent moment of shame; old Skippon with the sleeve drawn back from his fat arm, breathing noisily through his mouth as he made his sword quiver; Cromwell towering above him, the coarse, fat face distorted with the anger of battle, and the red flame light falling queerly on his gray eyes; Fairfax, plainly by his swordsman's poise, the best man of his hands of them all, with a quiet smile on his lips and his eyes; Ireton, keen and calm, with a strange frown of wonder and puzzle; and before them the score of sweating, foaming bullies, faltering, fearing the attack.

  Strozzi cursed them vehemently. "Passion of Christ! You are five to one, fools, five to one! Have at them! Blood! Blood!" and he dashed at Cromwell. No one ever called him a coward. For a moment he fought alone with the four, but so fierce was his fury, he took no hurt, and a red line grew dark and darker on Cromwell's neck. At sight of that there was a mad shout and the bullies charged forward together. Colonel Stow, swept on in that brute charge, heard Cromwell's deep chested laughter and fired his last pistol into the nearest head. While the acrid smoke was still about him, while Strozzi yelled: "Will you stick that fool with the pistols?" it seemed that he heard a cry from without answer the shot. Then men turned swords upon him and some knew him and broke into fierce, wild oaths and though the dead man was his buckler, he hardly kept them off a moment. The burden and the press were too much. With scarce one wound, by force of blunted thrusts, he was borne down beneath the dead, and trampling on them both, spurning them, the bullies charged on to their prey.

  The generals were in sore case. Skippon was bleeding and failing and Ireton the lawyer, too; Cromwell reeked and panted in the stress; only Fairfax held his own, smiling still, and fought on like Bussy or Bayard. But from without came loud the thunder of galloping horsemen. Cromwell drew back from the medley of steel a moment, and shouted in the voice of his battles: "Who is on my side? Who?"

  Deep and exultant the shout came back: "The sword of the Lord!"

  Strozzi sprang out of the fight with an oath and turned to run. The others had no more heart. In a moment they were pushing out in a wild mob as they had stormed in. Some of the first were in time and broke away to their horses and fled all ways, like rabbits, but the most of them came full upon the rush of Puritan troopers and fell like grass to the scythe. There was no mercy. "Spare them not!" cried the captain. "Utterly destroy!" and they were hewn down, and red with blood, the troopers broke into the hall, and fell to stabbing the wounded and the dead. Cromwell clambered up the barricade and sat himself on it and looked at the butchery and laughed, and wiping the blood and sweat from his neck, broke out with a hoarse chant:

  The Lord's my light and saving health,

  Who shall make me dismay'd?

  My life's strength is the Lord; of whom,

  Then, shall I be afraid?

  When as mine enemies and foes

  (Most wicked persons all)

  To eat my flesh against me rose,

  They stumbled and did fall.

  But Fairfax, with a sharp order, checked the ghastly slaying of the slain. The captain grumbled something of the Amalekites. "But a live Amalekite would be most useful," said Ireton, the lawyer. He had the candles lit again and began to look the bodies over. Under the fellow whose head he had blown in, Colonel Stow was found, wounded and bruised and still half-stunned. "Ah. The gentleman of the pistol," said Ireton with interest. With cold steel on brow and spine they brought him to.

  Old Skippon, who had got back some of his breath and his wits came puffing forward with a, "Captain Evans, Captain Daniel Evans, in the name of God, what is the firing at Wheatley?"

  "The Philistines came upon us in force, sir," said the captain. "I know not the issue. Major Harrison, when he heard the firing here, dispatched me unto you."

  "Ah, the firing," said Ireton.

  "Now, this is a damnable thing," cried Skippon. "They would murder us before the attack."

  By this time, Colonel Stow was tottering on his feet, and looking all round him with dull eyes.

  "There is the craft of the man of blood in it," cried Cromwell. He turned to Fairfax. "O, sir, let's to horse speedily. We do the Lord wrong to glory yet!" But as he marched to the door his eyes fell upon Colonel Stow and he checked suddenly, staring. There was something familiar to him in that face.

  And then Colonel Royston came striding over the dead. He had no doubt of Strozzi's deed. There had been fair chance and full time. He thought himself supreme. He was all ready to snatch command.… In one swift glance he saw that he had lost, that he had sold his honor for nothing, that peril was close about him. He did not fail himself. Not a muscle moved in the strong dark face. He saluted Fairfax. "Sir, this is surely the Lord's doing."

  "And it is marvelous in our eyes," said Ireton, regarding him benignly.

  "Sir, I thank God for your escape. Faith, the whole cause hath been in much danger. I have had the whole of the enemy's horse upon my posts at Wheatley."

  "And have ye beat them off?" cried Skippon.

  "Sir, the Lord's a good help."

  "O, sir, let's give Him all the glory!" cried Cromwell, clapping him on the shoulder.

  "I shall try," quoth Royston. He heard some one laugh, and turning, saw a draggled, dirty fellow in the grip of two troopers. Their eyes met. They were away in the world of the real. Their souls dealt together unveiled and quivered with regret and scorn and shame for the lost sure faith and love.

  Cromwell fell on his knees and began to pray loudly.

  But among them all, Colonel Stow alone bore his head unbowed.

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  Chapter Forty-Three

  Molly Proposes

  IN the publicity of the Cornmarket Molly embraced Matthieu-Marc, whose emotions were rather decent than grateful.

  "But, mademoiselle, nay mademoiselle," he cried, extricating himself with energy, but with difficulty. "I assure you I do not deserve it."

  "But you have been working for my sake, sweetheart," quoth Molly, languishing at him.

  "Not at all. I have been mending my breeches."

  "Sure, that was for my sake," and Molly regarded them with affection.

  Matthieu-Marc fingered the patch nervously and nervously looked from it to her. "It does not chime with its background," he admitted. "No, it is certainly not beautiful. But it is necessary."

  "Like me," said Molly, and set her cake basket on one arm and tucked the other into his and propelled him with her toward Carfax, like a jolly, round body of a woman parading a reluctant scarecrow.

  "My pretty," said the reluctant Matthieu-Marc, "this is not seemly."

  "Fie now!" cried Molly. "You would not make me do unmaidenly, would you? A kind gentleman!"

  "Indeed, I would not," Matthieu-Marc protested with tears in his voice.

  "Why, then," says she generously, "I'll never be ashamed with you, dearie."

  "You will understand," said Matthieu-Marc uneasy in her vigorous arm, "that my situation is invidious."

  "Sure it is sweet in you to say so," Molly murmured and leaned on him affectionately. Matthieu-Marc groaned.

  They were then hailed boisterously by a shaggy sergeant of Sir Marmaduke's regiment. "What, Molly! Who is your prop?"

  "This is my new husband, bless him!" cried Molly with pride. "See how happy he is!"

  "Ods bones, it would take two of him to make you a husband."

  "But it needs only half of me to make him a wife, so I am in spirits. Am I not, sweetheart?" She turned to the hapless Matthieu-Marc. But he fairly fought himself free, and sped round the corner.

  "Good lusty fellow," the sergeant cried.

  "'Tis his breeches, poor soul," said Molly, and returned to business, and after so fair an advertisement sold many cakes.

  She was going home to fill her basket again when she saw Colonel Stow borne
by the provost marshal to Bocardo and stood agape. When the posse came out she was still there. "Lud, master, what hath he done, poor soul?" says she to one of them.

  "Made a face at the King, lass!"

  "Sure a cat may do that."

  "But he is none, being no woman."

  Then Molly's trade suffered, for she was more zealous in seeking Alcibiade than in selling cakes. But Alcibiade, who was indulging a mind that loved the rural and a body that loved running water by a walk over the meadows to bathe in the Cher at Marston, was not found till sundown. Languid and very peaceful he sauntered down St. Giles to meet a warm effervescent Molly, who upbraided him without reason given; stated that he was a fool to care about his master; that his master was six times as good as he; that his master was in prison for cursing the King; that there was nothing to be done, and he had better do it at once instead of making love to dairymaids.

  Through all which Alcibiade preserved a calm that exasperated her extremely. When she had exhausted herself, he sauntered on with his original ease. At the gate of Bocardo she beheld him in jovial converse with the gaoler and swore she hated him. But presently his pace down the Cornmarket was quicker.

  Alcibiade had little luck. From the gaoler he learned that Colonel Stow had been taken away by Gilbert Bourne. Outside Gilbert Bourne's quarters in St. Aldate's he saw an escort under arms and by them was told that Colonel Stow was within. He went in. But again he was too late. The rooms were bare. He did not publish the news. Some of the fact he guessed at once. Captain Gilbert Bourne helped his master escape. Tit for tat. There was but one way of escape—off to the Puritans. Alcibiade did some varied drinking with sergeants and quartermasters and learned the password of the night. Then he took himself and a horse out over Magdalen bridge and away. But he was still out of luck. He had not gone two miles when he came upon the rear of Rupert's horsemen. He could not pass them. There was naught to be learned of them. He loitered with the rearguard, trying to find some reason in it all.

  When they crashed on the outposts at Wheatley, when relying on a traitor commandant, politely ready for defeat, they charged the main camp, they hurled themselves into a trap. Colonel Royston had been careful. His dragooners enfiladed them at close range and shattered them utterly. Alcibiade held aloof. It was no affair of his. But he did not reckon on the full greatness of the disaster. The fresh squadrons Royston hurled at the shattered ranks swept them back like dust before the wind, and in the rout Alcibiade was caught and ridden down and lay with many another in that ghastly harvest of Colonel Strozzi's ingenuity.

  It may be doubted whether he suffered that night as much as Matthieu-Marc. Matthieu-Marc, being a cook, was a person of imagination and emotion. You conceive his manifold feelings when an angry patrol beat out Colonel Stow's quarters and in two short minutes he learned that his master had been cast into prison, had got out of it and vanished. He sought Alcibiade half the night through and found nothing of him either. He wept; he abused Alcibiade for the good fortune of sharing his master's woes, and wept again.

  The morning brought worse tribulation. Rupert's battered, decimated horsemen poured into the town to brag that they had been betrayed. Soon the busybodies of Oxford—or trace it if you will to my Lord Digby—put facts together to make a tale and presented Colonel Stow as an infamous traitor, the very murrain of the King's cause. Matthieu-Marc had to hear it. He expressed his immediate emotion by knocking a scrivener's head against the tavern wall, and after, in the meditations of solitude, performed the like operation for his own. He was tumultuously distressed.

  You are not to suppose he believed anything against his master. It was the vision of a slander attacking his master's nobility that moved the foundations of his soul.

  He was a cook in grain. If he fell an easy prey to the higher passions, he had a keen zeal for the practical. Now, Colonel Stow had fled, but left his goods behind him. Since they called him traitor, they would soon lay hands upon his goods. Plainly it was necessary to get them out of Oxford. And whither? There was but one place—the father's house at Stoke Mandeville. And when the property was lodged in safety, a man could seek out its master. Matthieu-Marc began to pack.

  In the course of daily business, Molly heard from troopers who loved sweets that they were beaten and Colonel Stow a traitor. "Lud be kind," quoth Molly. "It needs no traitor to beat you." Concerning Colonel Stow she had truly no opinion. Treason and war were children's games that did not interest her. She believed in him for other matters. And she had her own reasons for wanting to know where he was. She sought out Matthieu-Marc.

  He was in Colonel Stow's quarters. He was filling bags and baskets. "Lud a mercy!" cried Molly. "What art doing?"

  Matthieu-Marc with every desire to tell a lie felt circumstances against him. "I—I arrange our possessions," he said. "I—I dust them."

  He was horrified to observe Molly subside upon a basket with distorted countenance. She emitted a wail.

  "My pretty soul!" he protested pathetically. "This is quite unnecessary. Tell me in what way you are ill?"

  "You are going to leave me," Molly lamented.

  "Alas! Mademoiselle, I say alas! I mingle my tears with yours. But we must bow to destiny." And he cheered up.

  Molly took her hands from her rosy face and looked at him. The sight appeared to increase her grief, for she ran to him and cast her arms about his embarrassed neck. "O, I can not bear to let you go. Can you bear to go from me?"

  "Not in the least," said Matthieu-Marc, keeping as far off as he could. "But I have to. I have to go to my master."

  "And how can you think to get all that gear past the sentries?" cried Molly, who, being at least half a cook, had her share of the practical mind. "Why, they call your colonel a traitor in every alehouse. They'll seize every dud of his. They'll strip you bare as a worm."

  "Let them essay!" cried Matthieu-Marc, and, shaking her off, struck a martial attitude. Then reflection came to him, and he relaxed and regarded her dolefully.

  "Where will you be going, my dear?" said she.

  "To his father's house by Stoke under Aylesbury. And then to find himself."

  "'And then to find himself,'" Molly repeated in a low voice, and laughed. Then she clapped her hands, crying, "I've a plan! I've a plan!"

  Like most of the higher strategy, it was simple enough. The miller's man from Sandford, who sold Molly flour for her cakes, had a kindness for her. ("Another unhappy!" groaned Matthieu-Marc.) He would be in Oxford with his wagon that day. Colonel Stow's goods could go under the tilt, Colonel Stow's horse be ridden by the miller's man. Matthieu-Marc could ride under the tilt with the baggage or slip out alone.

  Matthieu-Marc, who had the cook's distrust of other people, elected for the tilt, and so it was done.

  All went smoothly. The good folk of the inn winked at the wagon and the miller's steed, but they were friendly enough. Matthieu-Marc hid himself effectively—it was not hard for his girth—and without challenge they passed the bridge. All had gone smoothly as a butter sauce, thought Matthieu-Marc, when he heard with stupefaction the jovial voice of Molly.

  Peeping under the tilt he beheld that buxom maid sitting comfortably on the shaft. She was hooded and girt for a journey. A bundle and staff reposed beside her. The miller's man, crying to the wagoner at the head of the team, ranged his charger alongside. "Do 'e tell, now, Molly," said he, "who be the furriner?"

  "Sure, who should he be?" cried Molly. "Would I come for any other man? 'Tis my blessed husband."

  "Haw, haw," quoth the miller's man.

  Matthieu-Marc tore his hair.

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  Chapter Forty-Four

  Friends

  WHEN the last word was said to Cromwell's prayer, when he rose with shining face, it was Ireton who thought it worth while to give special charge that Colonel Stow should be well guarded. Royston looked out of the corners of his eyes. Colonel Stow was bound on a lame horse and borne away through the night to Thame. Skippon, that tough veteran
, jogged off to see Royston's dispositions and go the rounds. Cromwell and Fairfax let themselves think of sleep. But Ireton still peered about among the dead.

  You'll not envy Colonel Stow that night. Perhaps it was the best of his fortune that his body cried out against him for weariness and pain. So in some measure the turbulent misery of his mind was curbed. But he was whining to himself of his ill fortune; shame for his weakness burned into him, and he felt himself branded with dishonor, dying a villain's death. He cursed all men and arraigned God.

  Doubtless he had not lost all. He had spoiled the devices of King Charles. Against all odds he had won that fight. It was something of achievement to take down to death. But he had paid for it dear. O, there was a malign mockery in fate. Every chance and change of circumstance fought against him. When he ventured his all for an honest cause, when he worked the Puritans' safety, he must needs appear their assassin. The facts condemned him. No truth could save him, for who could believe the truth? Nay, for all the world he was damned as a villain. He who pretended to honor and the soldierly heart was proven no better than a hired murderer. He must be that to all who knew his name, father, brother, comrades, friends, a vile shame to them all. It hurt him ludicrously. He had many a year conceived himself matter for pride. He let himself laugh like a man under the knife. The good souls for whom he had strutted in a showy chivalry—God save them! That Puritan parson's daughter, who thought him a kind of god… that girl of the pure brow… would she be at the hanging? At least she would know him for a gaudy hypocrite and a villain.