Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  But before he had gone far, while the musketry still raged furiously, he came upon Colonel Stow and Alcibiade riding at easy speed. "En avant, George," says Colonel Stow with a laugh. "They will be engaged some while yet. Trees never surrender, and there is plenty of match."

  Colonel Royston understood. It was a proved device of the German wars. A few links of match, close twisted tow, tied to tree boughs and lit, were as good by night as a battalion of musketry. The Puritan picket, daring not advance on such a force, was still firing heavily.

  "Faith," says Colonel Royston, "I'll never more be such a fool as to suppose you need me, Jerry," and they drew up to the women.

  Lucinda turned quick on Colonel Stow, and he smiled to her. Then she laughed out. "Oh, I am a fool to fear," said she. "And yet, and yet there was a gallant gentleman here feared for you, too. But I should be wiser."

  "You flatter me, madame," said Colonel Royston bluntly. "I had not begun to fear. But I love him better than I love you."

  "And I like you for that," said Lucinda, and looked at Colonel Royston for the second time.

  "But he'll soon be of another faith," said Colonel Stow, then suddenly turned with his ear to the wind. "Hark!"

  The rattle of musketry had fallen fainter, and now it was wrapped in another sound—singing, a swelling chant.

  "Indeed, this is a glorious victory for a Te Deum," said Lucinda through mirth.

  "That is not the picket, but an army," quoth Royston. "Silent!"

  There was no doubt of it. Slow, majestic, deep-throated, it was borne down wind:

  All people that on earth do dwell

  Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;

  Him serve with mirth, His praise forthtell,

  Come ye before Him and rejoice.

  Know that the Lord is God indeed,

  Without our aid He did us make;

  We are His flock, He doth us feed,

  And for His sheep He doth us take.

  The two soldiers looked at each other with an unspoken question. Colonel Royston had heard that psalm rise from the sodden plain of Breitenfeld when Gustavus smote the Catholic army to death. Now it came from his foes.

  Colonel Stow drew close to Lucinda again. She had no fear. Lithe and gay she rode, and often she smiled, and often spoke to him softly. So they came through the night, past ghostly villages and church towers that loomed in mid-air. With wet feet they made across the dark ford below Waterperry and climbed the shadowed lane till the wind was cold from the hills and the moon rose close upon dawn. A faint blue light came over all, and through it they moved weirdly, like creatures of dream.

  My Lady Weston was swaying in her saddle as they rose by the steep track to Shotover, and Colonel Royston, gentle enough with her, gave her the stay of his arm. But Lucinda rode light. She was pale indeed, but her eyes shone like stars in a windy sky. Before they were over the hilltop the dawn was white and the moon's crescent no more than a pale glimmer of cloud in its midst. Lucinda turned to the call of Colonel Stow's eyes. But a shadow came over her face, and she sighed. "I did not want the day," she said.

  Far below, caught in a girdle of white mist, lay Oxford, walls and spires rising through lucid air, a city wrought in silver.

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  Chapter Twelve

  Colonel Stow Makes a Mistake

  OXFORD was strangely alive. The undergraduates had been driven from their colleges to make room for loyal souls who could buy a lodging dear. The quadrangle of Merton was gay with the Queen's ladies. Christ Church cloisters rang with the quarrels of the King's Council. Each gray gateway from Worcester to Queen's, each sedate lawn and dark stair, glowed with the pomp of women, echoed the statesmanship of zealous men, clashed and rustled with silk and steel.

  Oxford had the fashion and business of a capital. Queen Henrietta and Madame Saccharissa devised new stomachers each week, and my Lord Digby exhibited a pretty conceit in hose. The mill of the King's mint rumbled in New Inn. Some fragment of Lords and Commons, a ghost of a parliament, met in the Schools and played at making laws. My Lord Keeper gave justice to silly loyal suitors in the Convocation House. Above all this rang the real note of war. An ugly army of sakers and demiculverins wore the turf of Magdalen, and their swarthy Italian gunners made a barrack of the cloister quadrangle. Forges glowed in New College, where the armorers wrought the pike heads anew and struggled with the snaps and locks of the carabines. The meadows by the Cherwell were white with tents. Tall pikemen in corselet and morion, little musketeers, armorless, and like mushrooms under their spreading felt hats, blue-coated, big-booted troopers swaggered in disorderly array all across the High Street. Without, on the old walls and the new drawn lines of defense, the undergraduates labored with mattock and spade, grumbling but perforce, save such as could find twelve pence a day to pay the cost of the war.

  Colonel Royston spoke unkind words of this piebald town. As a court he held it mean. As a camp he condemned it for gaudy. He desired leave to go into the country and see the flowers grow. Whereby it happened that they came into the Christ Church meadows to see a resplendent throng trampling the fritillarias. But Colonel Royston would not be comforted. "They look like peacocks," he complained; "they sound like peacocks. But peacocks have brains. I have eaten them in Milano."

  Down a lane of bared heads and curtsies came one of picturesque gait and a garb of much art—black velvet with cloth of silver. None could have answered a salute with more grace. Colonel Royston, erect as on parade, looked keenly at this elaborate person; he found sentimental eyes and a narrow brow. "I have known kings," said he, "and that is not one." King Charles went on through his worshipers. Colonel Stow, it is likely, felt a desire to help him.

  Going easily amid the loyal company, they came upon one of a southern splendor. His hat and feather were of a vivid blue, and pale blue the wide lace collar that fell over his crimson coat; his crimson hose ended in a foam of lace that filled the tops of his walking boots. All this belonged to a dark, lean, scarred face.

  "Strozzi!" said Colonel Royston calmly. "I thought you were hanged."

  The Italian smiled. "So did Wallenstein. And now, having got to hell, doubtless he misses me. But one can not be always obliging. I bribed Walter Butler to hang a Greek instead."

  "I never liked Butler," said Royston.

  "You are quite right, my friend," the Italian agreed pleasantly. "I do not make the world agreeable for others."

  "How are you damaging it here?" said Colonel Stow.

  "I am colonel in the regiment of artillery. And what have you the felicity to be, gentlemen?"

  "We are ourselves. Tell us what there is a chance to be."

  The Italian looked at them swiftly, inserted himself between them, and drew them aside. "My friends," said he, "there is a great chance to be nothing. Look! You think here is an army—"

  "Not the least," said Colonel Royston. "I think here is a herd."

  "And a herd of swine," quoth the Italian, then looked at him with cunning. "But then, my dear friend, why are you here?"

  "Strozzi," said Colonel Royston sternly, "we fight for our rightful King."

  "Do not talk imbecilities," said the Italian. He drew them farther away from the throng, and his voice fell. "You are come to spy for the others, eh?… Oh, do not play at being angry. I have had a mind to do it myself."

  "My dear Strozzi," said Colonel Stow, "you do us too much honor in thinking us like yourself."

  The Italian shrugged. "You might as well be frank. I would join you, and I should be some use."

  "I am always frank with you, Strozzi," said Colonel Stow in a tone of gentle reproach, "because I know nothing puzzles you so much. And this is the pure truth: We have come to fight for the King."

  "Then you make the mistake of a fool," said the Italian, not without satisfaction.

  "This is encouraging," said Colonel Royston cheerfully. "If we will not be knaves we are plainly fools."

  "Oh, I suppose you would have joined Tilly after Lei
psic. Have you not heard of the battle in the north on the Marston Moor? That wooden-head Rupert flung his army away, and half England is lost to the King. Wait a little. We shall lose the other quite easily."

  The two looked at each other. Here was the reason of that Puritan psalm of triumph. "I wonder if we have taken a wrong turning, Jerry," said Colonel Royston aloud, but in his heart he was wondering how loyal Lucinda would be if she saw the Puritans conquering.

  "Bah, 'tis a lost cause," said Strozzi.

  "I like it the better," said Colonel Stow. But Colonel Royston confessed himself of a different temper.

  While he spoke they saw a man walking like themselves apart from the rest. He was a big fellow in a scarlet coat, something sparkish in his dress. But his hat was over his brows, and his dark, handsome face lined with pain. The courtier throng was staring at him and laughing, and flinging jeers. "The Palatine looks for his army! His Highness meditates new glory! Rupert le Diable flees from the Saints!"

  But Prince Rupert strode by the mockery, alone, unheeding.

  Colonel Stow took a pace forward, drew himself up and saluted.

  The dark eyes flashed at him. Then Prince Rupert touched his hat and strode on.

  Strozzi was laughing. "You make a mistake, my friend. The Palatine will never do anything."

  "Perhaps I like mistakes," said Colonel Stow.

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  Chapter Thirteen

  Mr. Bourne is Sorry

  MY LADY WESTON had found lodging in Holywell. Therein Colonel Royston was doing his best to amuse her while Colonel Stow sought her daughter. There was a tiny garden girt with gray stone that bore red wallflowers, and Lucinda took her ease in it. She lay back in her chair white-clad, and her lithe strength gave all its grace. In a rich glow the curls clustered about her brow. Bare neck and shoulder, darker than her dress, as if a mellow light fell about them, were delicately wrought, instinct with life.

  "Indeed, you have a wonder of glory to give," said Colonel Stow in a low voice.

  A shadow crossed her face. He was perhaps too much in the vein of Mr. Bourne. But, "If I give, I give all," she said, and her gay eyes challenged him.

  "I could not take less."

  "Are you strong enough to use all of me?" she laughed.

  "Is there a power you have I can not help?"

  "I wonder." She looked at him long. "Sometimes it seems you can set all of me free to be strong and glad. The night—ah, the night was dear! But it is day now. And sometimes—I wonder—there are needs in me you do not give, and I want more than you." Colonel Stow did not understand. This differed too vastly from the mood of the night, and the mood of the night was his always. He was a man, and simply made. More than once in life a woman's candor puzzled him. While she looked at him an innocent question, he was miserably grave—so miserable that she broke out laughing. "Sure, sir, you'll not bear it hard that a woman should find it tiresome to love one man? 'Tis churlish!"

  Colonel Stow endeavored to laugh with her. "If you need another, I'll forgive you, but not myself."

  "I'll have no forgiveness," said she gaily. "’Tis as sour as pity. If you can forgive, you can not love. And all I do is right."

  "I heartily believe it," said Colonel Stow.

  "Alack, poor soul," quoth she.

  "Wherefore you will do my will," said Colonel Stow calmly.

  She laughed deliciously. "I can love you for that."

  Before she guessed, he crushed her against him and kissed her. "’Tis agreed," said he.

  Her neck was rosy. There was wicked mirth in her eyes. "Indeed, that was timely," said she, and Colonel Stow beheld Mr. Bourne.

  Mr. Bourne was a better man than woman. His shoulders set with a style. He stood a fair, sturdy lad, sure of himself. "I had not hoped for this, madame. It is a rare delight, but—"

  "Nay, I fear it will be scarce that," Lucinda murmured, with a swift, mischievous glance for Colonel Stow.

  "But I fear these villains distressed you at Stoke?"

  Lucinda lay back with one slight arm behind her head. "If you ask why I have come here, sir, faith, I can not tell you," and, smiling wickedly, she looked from one man to the other. "Nay, it puzzles me. But I think you know each other's quality."

  Upon which neat hint Mr. Bourne admitted the existence of Colonel Stow in a brief bow. Colonel Stow was more polite. "My compliments upon your transfiguration, sir," says he. "At least you now look real. It is a beginning. We have all to be infants once."

  Mr. Bourne flushed and glared—and reverted to Lucinda. "I trust you have not been in danger through me, madame?"

  "I shall always be glad you came to me," said Lucinda in a low voice, and while Mr. Bourne flushed again for delight she smiled and looked up at Colonel Stow.

  "Indeed, the lad has helped us to a night for which we must always be grateful," said Colonel Stow with an intimate air.

  "Are you so sure?" and he saw that strange faint smile of hers.

  "Sir," says Mr. Bourne with some heat, "I have a name, and I would thank you to call me by it."

  Colonel Stow bowed. "I could not suppose you were proud of it," he explained politely.

  "For the service you have done Mistress Weston, sir," cried Mr. Bourne, much wroth, "I thank you; but—"

  "I wonder if you will," said Lucinda softly.

  "It were, perhaps, better, madame," said Colonel Stow, still with his maddening air of intimacy, "if Mr. Bourne stayed away from your presence till he grows up."

  Lucinda laughed. Mr. Bourne, crimson and stammering, approached Colonel Stow, his hand on his sword. "I am sure my mother needs me more than you, gentlemen," said Lucinda and fled away.

  Mr. Bourne was left confronting Colonel Stow, breast almost upon breast. He was plainly in the extreme of wrath; Colonel Stow as plainly calm.

  "There must be an explanation between us, sir," said Mr. Bourne hoarsely.

  "I am afraid you are a little dull, Mr. Bourne."

  "Understand me, sir," cried Mr. Bourne, tapping the cup hilt of his sword.

  "Oh, I understand you. I wish you could understand anything else."

  "I invite you to a walk in the meadow, sir."

  "Soit," said Colonel Stow calmly. "I assure you we shall both come back."

  Mr. Bourne leading at a high and haughty gait, Colonel Stow following with his natural sobriety, they strode out of the house and off down Long Wall. From behind a curtained casement Lucinda watched them go, and her eyes sparkled joy. Then she ran off to Colonel Royston.

  Half way down Long Wall Mr. Bourne turned on Colonel Stow. "There is good ground between Merton Garden and the Cherwell, sir, where we are not like to be disturbed." Colonel Stow bowed. "Another matter, sir. If this be not bloodless we shall be required to give a cause for the quarrel. You will concede that a lady's name should not be made vulgar."

  "You take yourself too seriously, Mr. Bourne," said Colonel Stow with a smile. "But if your dignity needs a fairy tale, why, as I remember, your indignation began at some talk of babes. Let us say we disagree concerning the fashion of babies' clothes."

  Mr. Bourne made an angry exclamation, and, turning, strode fiercely on.

  Close upon Cherwell bank, where the kingcups glowed, they found short grass and the light falling fair through the willows. Mr. Bourne was for engaging at once. "Do you insist that I should sweat?" said Colonel Stow plaintively, and made a gesture of taking off his coat.

  "As you will and how you will, sir," cried Mr. Bourne. "Prithee, do not delay."

  "There is plenty of time in your life yet, believe me," said Colonel Stow, and was meticulous in folding his coat.

  The swords crossed. Gilbert Bourne came on with fierce vigor and skill. He had the best of the English style. Colonel Stow knew that and some others, but Mr. Bourne exercised him. It was necessary to check the lad's fervor. After a parry of prime Mr. Bourne drew back his blade to make a complicated attack. Colonel Stow gave point in a stop thrust. It was all but home in the throat. Mr. Bourn
e came on, fighting keenly, and more keenly still as his blade was countered again and again, till his play was more fierce than safe. To one wild rush Colonel Stow threw back his left foot and dropped his body. While Mr. Bourne's blade gleamed idle over his head, he straightened his arm and his point shot round Mr. Bourne's side, cutting a neat line in the lace shirt. It might as easily have been in the heart. Mr. Bourne knew that as well as Colonel Stow. He recovered and sprang back, and hesitated a moment, his eyes searching Colonel Stow's amiable face. Then he came on again, but with more caution, and Colonel Stow found a use for all his skill. Mr. Bourne was fighting for his sword's honor. His anger was under the curb. He called on himself for every trick of the art, and he had more of the quickness of the schools than remained with the soldier of many campaigns. Colonel Stow was pressed hard. He fought it out coolly. He could trust his strength to see Mr. Bourne weaken. But each minute had close perils.

  "Thunder of God!" It was a rattling German oath, and with it the swords were struck up and a big fellow sprang between them. "Is there no foe without, that cavaliers should fight each other like rams? Put up your iron, Gilbert." It was Prince Rupert.

  "’Tis an affair of honor, sir," said Gilbert sulkily.

  "Your honor is to obey. Put up, man, or you have to do with Rupert. Who is this gentleman? Ah!" He knew the man who had saluted him. "Who are you?"

  Colonel Stow made his salute again. "Jeremiah Stow, sir, lately colonel in the service of the Duke of Weimar, and anxious to be in yours."

  "So." The dark brows bent. "And in whose service are you killing Mr. Bourne?"

  Colonel Stow laughed. "Sir, if you saw our last passes, you must know it was not Mr. Bourne who was like to need a coffin."

  "Indeed, sir," says Mr. Bourne, "Colonel Stow fights to please me, not himself—and hath shown more courtesy than I."