Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  It was a sweet, comfortable thought. But he made it come again and again, for it hurt less than the rest. The rest… Ay, at least he might have been spared George Royston's eyes. That stung beyond other pain. What he had lost—life and all else; what the world proclaimed him; it irked little beside that, having no honor to wear before the friend who had betrayed him. A bravo of the camp, a hireling for murder; he was that to Royston and the woman . . . the woman. He seemed to hear them laugh together. Lucinda was not merciful…

  Mercy! God, he was fallen low to think of mercy from her! But he was crushed with shame. They would sneer at him for as ready a traitor as themselves without the wit. Fool, fool, fool! O, God be good to a man who wants respect from other men! He had set his soul upon that. Though he fought for a failing cause, ay, even if his own designs blundered and went awry, he had been proud of bright honor, resolute to guard it to the end, and in that resolve glad of life. Glad! He laughed at that, so that the Puritan guards rebuked him for a lewd man of Belial.

  O, doubtless, he had done nothing unworthy. His honor was bright still for his eyes. What use? What profit for a man to be honest only for his own soul? With each nerve jarred and torn by the night's wild chances, with his mind sick of effort and the rack of strife, he felt common hatred crushing his heart out, peine forte et dure. He was weak, O ay, he was weak. Pray God for the refuge of the weak.

  Surely there was no hope of good in life. All things conspired against him with devilish craft. When he did good work, it was broken by another's folly. When he would keep his cause from villainy he was hurled into the mire of it. When he would save his foes from death they branded him a murderer. No hope, no hope, save to be out of it all. Was God God indeed, or the devil, in this world where good bore the fruit of vileness?

  Raving so, half mad, it may be, with the body pain and weariness and the impotent rage of his baffled mind, he was borne through the coldest hours of the night. The Puritans flung him into the town lockup at Thame and left him lying on a truss of straw. Sleep came soon, but a feverish sleep with a devil's dance of dreams.

  The other gentleman whom you might suppose most troubled by the chance of the night was in no such case. Colonel Royston had seen all his hopes go down the wind. His generals had contrived to keep alive, and he was but their trusty servant still, and like to stay so. A man could not play such a game twice. The chief command was out of reach. Between him and it stood three lives at the least, each as good as his. But he did not rage. He took the turn of the dice with a shrug and a silent oath or two at Strozzi's bungling throw. One matter only troubled him—the situation of Colonel Stow. He was surprised to find his friend in such an affair. To him, indeed, it was no vast villainy, but he could not well conceive Colonel Stow taking it so lightly. There was no doubting his eyes. Colonel Stow had been in it, and being a person of importance must know all about it. That reflection worked upon Colonel Royston.

  If you expect emotion of him, you will be much disappointed. It was in the nature of the man that he should not stop to feel when there was need of thought and action. Only twice in his life, I think, a passion bore him away from the plain, practical, profitable task, and for each time, it may be, he was afterwards sorry. His first concern was to secure his own safety. But he had his feelings. If he could contrive Colonel Stow's as well, he would be the better pleased.

  Since Jerry Stow had been fool enough to be captured, there would surely be some inquest on him. In that was danger. He knew all, and it might well be for his profit to tell all. Colonel Royston felt himself on the edge of an abyss and looked down at it calmly. You should do him justice. He would venture something for his friend. But his own danger was instant. Once he thought of a trick to set Colonel Stow free that night. It was alluring, for so he linked their fortunes, so he served both, so with a fair appearance of friendship he provided for himself. But he dared not. He was too near suspicion already. What then? Suppose a court martial met and Ireton's lawyer brain at work. All the plot was like to come out. Colonel Stow could have no profit in telling less than the truth. Himself had been taken in the fact. He was not likely to spare others. Nay, why should he? Royston sneered at himself. Faith, the man had small reason for kindness. It should be some pleasure in his ruin to drag Royston down, too.

  Colonel Royston confronted the situation a while, hunched together over a campfire, and at last saw a way. He lay down in his cloak and slept at peace.

  You find him early in the morning standing over the straw that made Colonel Stow's bed. His strong, dark face moved queerly as he looked down at that storm wracked body—the clothes all dragged awry, slashed and stained, the matted hair, the blood and filth on the bruised cheek.… He set his hand on Colonel Stow's shoulder. It moved wearily. Colonel Stow turned over and looked up at him with heavy, dull eyes, muttered something, stretched his limbs painfully and staring still at Royston, sat up on his straw. "Well?" he said in a listless voice.

  Colonel Royston sat down beside him.

  He laughed. "Faith, this is a condescension in the soldier of the Lord."

  "O, I am not come for jests," cried Royston. Colonel Stow laughed again on the same high note. "I'Gad, I am sorry for it. There is much matter of jesting here."

  "Look you, Jerry. I know well enough I have dealt scurvily by you. I can not give you the past again. By God, I would that I could—"

  "I thank you, O, I thank you. Pray enjoy the present."

  "Enough of that. Man, think where we stand, you and I. We are both on the brink of peril."

  "Both? What has your majesty to do with me?"

  "Zounds, why will you talk like a fool of a wit? You can make me smart, I'll allow you that. You have the right, too. But now we have to think of our lives."

  "Is that all?" said Colonel Stow. "You may have mine."

  Royston swore. "We can win through yet, if you'll have sense. O, I know you can hang me if you blab. Maybe you would like to, and by God, I could not blame you for it. But if you hang me, you hang yourself. No man but me can save you."

  Colonel Stow laughed. "Kind sir, conceive that I want no salvation."

  "Faith, Jerry, I have been a bad friend enough, but I swear I am true now. For the sake of old days—the old days—hear me out. They will have a court martial for you. Let this be your tale: You know naught of any plot of murder. You know naught of any treason here. You were bidden only to join in a night surprise and you came with the rest. Then I'll strike in and swear I know your honor, and you'd not mingle in aught ignoble or unsoldierly, and I'll bring you off."

  All the while Colonel Stow was staring steadily. "No treason here?" he repeated. "No plot to murder? What talk is this?" Royston saw contempt come in the grave eyes. "Ah, you were the rogue let Strozzi through the outposts," he said and laughed. "I might have known. There would hardly be two of your kidney. I make you my compliments."

  Royston swore. "O, curse your foppery. I am what I am. But you were deep in the murder, too."

  Colonel Stow laughed again. "Well, I do not look for you to understand. Good sir, conceive that my enduring comfort is to have spoiled your plot. And prithee, be gone. You are something nauseous."

  "What do you mean?" growled Royston, flushing. "What were you doing with Strozzi?"

  "I preserved you both from the sin of murder. Try to be grateful."

  Royston took a step back and glowered down at him. "You came to spoil us?" he muttered.

  "And in fact I did spoil you."

  "Zounds, it can not be!" cried Royston. Colonel Stow shrugged.

  "Do you suppose I care what you believe?"

  "Why, then?" Royston stammered. "What are the generals to you? How is it your affair?"

  "Good sir, you are not able to understand."

  "Ods heart, you do not spare me much," Royston muttered and flung back his head like a beast in pain. Colonel Stow laughed. "What! It was you fired those shots then?" Colonel Stow smiled and heard Royston grit his teeth. "Höllendonner! How I cursed the fool
that did! What a pox was it to you, then? Had you fallen out with Strozzi?"

  "Nay, I find Strozzi less a rogue than others."

  Royston frowned heavily. "What in hell is it then? Are you out with King Charles at last?"

  "O, sir, it's not within your understanding."

  "Ay, you would have your stroke back at me," Royston muttered and strode up and down the room.

  "You'd break up my plan. Od damn me, it's fair."

  He was arrested by Colonel Stow's laugh, and turned glaring. "Pray believe that you count for nothing," said Colonel Stow. "I knew of you as little as I care."

  There was silence a long time, and far apart the two men eyed each other, Royston in his sturdy soldierly neatness, Colonel Stow in his rags and his dirt. Royston's swarthy face was working and shadows passed his eyes. But Colonel Stow was all calm and he smiled with a sneer. "Well?" said Royston hoarsely.

  Colonel Stow laughed. "O, be at ease! You may live for me. You make me proud."

  Royston came close. He looked long into those grave eyes that wore neither love nor hate. He felt the iron of scorn.… Muttering something he flung away to the door. It was long before he could make it open. Then he turned to look again at his friend. He saw that sneering smile again. He groaned and hurried out.

  Colonel Stow leaned back on his straw, not much the happier. He had conquered indeed, if that were anything. They had come soul to soul and it was not he who had been humbled, if that brought any comfort. To him the right and the joy of scorn. He conquered. I'gad, it was a sweet triumph. The man who had fought with him, taken life of him, who had been more than blood brother, ranked with Colonel Strozzi's hired murderers. Sure, that must be heartening. Before the man had played him false, but this was a far blacker depth of villainy. Why, the fellow even bore to whine and pray for life. His soul turned sick with loathing. That, that was the best of a friend he had won. Sure, life was worth while!

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  Chapter Forty-Five

  Colonel Stow is Ready

  IN the morning, in Holton House, the lieutenant general expounded scripture. The commissary general honored him with the seraphic gaze of one whose thoughts are far away. The general was not pretending to listen. The sergeant major general was stealthily gone.

  The lieutenant general was moved to song and Fairfax shifted uneasily.

  Woe's me that I in Meshec am

  A sojourner so long,

  Or that I in the tents do dwell

  To Kedar that belong.

  "Lo, you then!" says he with indignation. "Do I speak vain words for a pretense, even as the Pharisees use? Nay, brethren, verily. Where is my dwelling place? Even in Meshec, which is being interpreted, 'Prolonging,' for the Lord prolongeth my trial. Even in Kedar, which signifieth 'Blackness,' for I dwell in the blackness of my own sin. Yet of a surety the Lord forsaketh me not. O, sirs, let's make a joyful noise! Though He do prolong, though my sins be as scarlet, yet He will, I trust, bring me to His tabernacle. My soul is with the Congregation of the Firstborn, my body is stayed upon hope. Verily, verily, no poor creature hath more cause to give thanks than I. I have had plentiful wages beforehand, and I am sure I shall never earn the least mite. The Lord hath accepted me in His Son and given me to walk in the light. He it is that lighteneth our blackness. O, sirs, one beam in a dark place hath exceeding much refreshment in it. Blessed be His Name, for shining upon so dark a heart as mine!"

  Fairfax crashed his fist on the table. "The more I think of it, the more damnable a thing it is," he cried.

  Cromwell gasped. "Woe unto me, woe unto me, that you should say so!" and he beat his breast.

  Fairfax was much embarrassed. "Good lack, sir, I mean nothing against you. I was not heeding your very godly words. My mind was upon the surprise of last night."

  Ireton woke up. "A strange business, sir."

  "Most surely a vile plot," cried Fairfax. "Surely they designed to murder us, that they might fall on a masterless army."

  "You are marvelous acute," said Ireton with something of a sneer. He did not love discoverers of the obvious.

  "I would that I knew what villain planned it," said Fairfax.

  "Verily he is drunken with the blood of the saints!" said Cromwell in the tones of inspiration.

  "We will hold strict inquiry of this prisoner," Fairfax went on. "Ay, faith, I'll question him roundly, and have the truth out of him before I hang him." Ireton, who had seemed about to speak, said nothing. "We meet at noon, then, gentlemen." They saluted and he left them.

  "There goes the honestest head in England," said Ireton.

  Cromwell marked the tone. "You speak with two tongues, Henry."

  "Why, sir, none but a very honest soul would give a trial to the man he has sentenced already."

  "What! Would you spare the Amalekites? His blood be upon his own head! I would have hewn him down last night."

  "And tonight you would be sorry."

  "What do you mean, lad?"

  "Are you riding into Thame, sir? Then let us ride even unto the Amalekite."

  What the commissary said upon the road you may judge by what he said to Colonel Stow.

  The better by the use of a pail of water, Colonel Stow stood at the grating of his cell, trying to see the sunlight and the sky. Ireton came in with Cromwell. Colonel Stow turned. "You will come before a court martial at noon, sir," said Ireton, watching him keenly. Cromwell stood off a little way.

  Colonel Stow laughed. "Is that necessary?"

  "You have nothing to hope, then?"

  "Nay, sir, I have nothing to fear." Ireton's eyes were keen, but it was not they that made him change his place. He felt the trenchant steel gaze of Cromwell.

  "Death," said Ireton.

  "I thank you for that," said Colonel Stow, and laughed again.

  "Fellow, you have met me before," cried Cromwell.

  "I had the honor to upset Your Excellency in Newbury market."

  "Ay, but you were on an honest venture then."

  "And now an assassin," said Colonel Stow gaily.

  "Are you?" said Ireton, and paused a moment. "Come, sir, be plain with us. If we thought you no better than you seem, we had not taken the pains to seek you out. You can make your case (I tell you frankly) no worse than it is. But I profess I believe the truth may serve you. Let us have it, then. Who planned this affair of last night?"

  Colonel Stow caressed his moustachio. "You found me an assassin, I do not think you will find me a traitor."

  "Be not deceived!" Cromwell thundered. "God is not mocked."

  "Truly, sir, no. Nor are you God."

  "I should be glad to know of whom you took your orders?" said Ireton.

  "I do not doubt it the least," said Colonel Stow amiably.

  Ireton linked and unlinked his fingers, watching steadily. "I should be glad to know—by what road you came to Holton House? Where you passed our outposts?"

  "But I can not express how little I want to tell you."

  "Man, man!" cried Cromwell. "Are you ready to die?"

  "God knows, sir. But I have no desire to live."

  "Bethink you of the damnation of hell!"

  "Sir, it can be no more disappointing than the damnation of life."

  Cromwell made a gesture of casting him off. "You do not take us friendly, sir," said Ireton in mild complaint.

  Colonel Stow laughed. "Dear sir, it is not my vocation."

  "And yet you stood our friend last night," said Ireton sharply, and was not sure whether Colonel Stow hesitated a little.

  "Why, if you can believe that, you can believe anything," laughed Colonel Stow.

  "Pray, why did you fire those shots?"

  "Each moment I regret more heartily that I missed you."

  "You were not firing at us."

  Colonel Stow appeared amazed. "Good sir, do you think me out of my wits? Prithee, was I shooting at the popinjay or the morning star?"

  Ireton frowned. "Do you tell me you came to murder us?"

 
"Does your intelligence need telling?"

  "I think you are strangely anxious to be hanged, sir."

  "Sir, conceive that I ask nothing of you and will take nothing from you. I have done."

  "Then, sir, by my faith, this tone means death."

  "I thank you," said Colonel Stow.

  Ireton stood looking at him a long while, his brow bent, striving plainly with an enigma. Cromwell plucked at his arm and they went out.

  Ireton began to speak and checked himself. "What now?" said Cromwell.

  "Sir, I doubt I have been wrong. It is naught but a reckless bravo who values his own life cheap as another's."

  "Say you so?"

  "I profess I have no kindness for this levity. Sure, sir, it is a worthless soul that spends itself on witty answers in the hour of death."

  "I have seen a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," said Cromwell.

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  Chapter Forty-Six

  Lucinda is Logical

  COLONEL Royston was gone to his wife's lodgings.

  Lucinda came to him quickly. She was just risen. A loose gown, all gray green like apple leaf, gave him the warm comeliness of her neck and all her grace. Her eyes shone softly like flowers in the dew. Her rich hair hung all unbound.

  Royston, who sat huddled together, his head on his hand, turned and looked at her and laughed.

  "Well, sir?" she said eagerly, her cheeks flushed, her hand upon her trembling bosom. "Is it—do I belong to a conqueror?"

  "What were you ever for but yourself?"

  She came a step nearer, leaning toward him, and her eyes began to flame. "Have you failed?" she said in a low voice.

  He laughed again. "You have failed, madame. You are beaten." There was something of hate in his grim mirth. "I'gad, I do not know that I am sorry."

  She had drawn back. "Failed!" she said.

  "Ay, madame, failed. We have sold our souls for nothing. The murderers were beat off. The generals are safe as you. I am no more than the colonel I was yesterday. Or less, if they fix suspicion on me. Ods life, it would be amusing. Which man would you fawn on then?"