Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  "In the name of the most high God, so let it be! Let not Israel escape the sacrifice for their sin."

  "But you, sir, who are no soldier, but a minister of God, have no part in this. I do not war with priests. That is all."

  "What have I then done that you should be thus tender with me?" the minister cried with some scorn.

  It was some time before Colonel Stow answered. There were a thousand mingled memories of joyous devices and a ride in the springtime and hopes and laughter and virginal eyes. "I could tell you many things and no matter."

  "And I will not suffer this mercy," the minister cried. "I will bear my brothers' fate. Why, what vile thing were I, who preach there is no sting in death, to shrink from it? Nay, sir, you put me to shame. If you seek to be kindly, as I think, you'll make no more of this. I know the calling where-with I am called. Let me go comfort my brethren."

  Colonel Stow rested his head on his hand and stared at the fire. "I have done what I could," he said.

  The minister looked at him with a grave kindliness. "I would to God that thou wert almost and altogether such as I am, except these bonds," he said. But it was not he who had the air of a prisoner.

  Colonel Stow held out his hand.

  "Farewell, if it be farewell," said the minister. "Verily, before the judgment seat of God, I will protest you guiltless in this matter."

  Colonel Stow sat alone, looking at the failing fire. The thing moved him more than he could have believed possible. It was an old necessity of war, and, though to him as to all soldiers by trade, it bore disgust, no matter to break the heart. The minister surely disturbed him out of reason. There was no profit in thinking of the past and the girl who cried for her father. The girl… the clean light of her eyes held him as of old… And the thing would have been easier if the minister had been a lesser man. It was an impertinence of him to be admirable… Well, there was at least the chance that Colonel Rich would be advised.

  Captain Godfrey came in from his ride, and while he fumbled for a letter, answered Colonel Stow's questioning eyes. "Moon struck, sir. Dog mad. Wolf mad." Colonel Stow opened his letter.

  At Caldecote, 20th May, 1645.

  Sir—Yours to hand. I saw an angel standing in the sun, and he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, "Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God, that ye may eat the flesh of Kings and the flesh of captains and the flesh of mighty men."

  God's will be done. I will smite and spare not and ye that bear the mark of the Beast shall be undone in your iniquity.

  Let this be your answer.

  The minister of the wrath of the Lord,

  NEHEMIAH RICH.

  "Sir, this he gave me with more blasphemy than I can remember," said Captain Godfrey. "On my soul, he is beside himself. 'Fellow,' he says, 'tomorrow about this time your brethren in iniquity shall be even as they that Rizpah bare to Saul. Go to. Look to it. Repent!' and he gnawed at his lip and it was frothy."

  Colonel Stow sat pondering a while, then again he sought his prisoners. The calm murmur of talk fell as he came to them. They gazed at him from their straw, steadily through the lantern light, with no sign of trouble. "Gentlemen, I have to tell you Colonel Rich abides by his purpose. My men are to die, and four of you must make ready to die in the morning. Draw lots with yourselves."

  "We have chosen," said the minister's deep voice.

  "Which are they?" said Colonel Stow quickly.

  "They shall be ready," said the minister.

  Colonel Stow saluted. "Gentlemen, this way of war is not mine. I am sorry."

  "Fear not," said the minister.

  While he came again to his fireside, he heard the prisoners singing:

  My table Thou hast furnished

  In presence of my foes;

  My head Thou dost with oil anoint,

  And my cup overflows.

  Goodness and mercy all my life

  Shall surely follow me,

  And in God's house for evermore

  My dwelling place shall be.

  | Contents |

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Colonel Rich is Interrupted

  SIR Thomas Fairfax, who was dark and ruddy and of a goodly countenance, sat at his ease after dinner. To neither was he much devoted, but enjoyed both when he could. The lieutenant general was eloquent from the other side of the fire on the right reading of Jeremiah xvi:17, and Sir Thomas Fairfax regarded him with a plaintive, reverent curiosity.

  There was an interruption from Captain Vere. "A young woman asks for the general, sir."

  Fairfax sat up. "With what purpose?" says he briskly.

  "O, sir, godly," quoth Captain Vere. "'Tis a nurse with some petition about her father."

  Fairfax sat back again. He looked pensively at his lieutenant general and weighed the two evils. "Let her come, Dick," said he.

  Joan Normandy made her curtsy. Her face was worn and wan, her long gray cloak stained from the road. "If it please you, sir—" she began in a breathless hurry.

  "It does not please me till you sit," said Fairfax and rose to set her a chair and stood before the fire looking down at her with kindly eyes.

  She could not wait to thank him. "I am Joan Normandy, sir, and I follow after you to nurse the sick. My father, who is chaplain to the sergeant major general—"

  "Then your father is honestly a man of God," quoth the lieutenant general. "I have heard him, sir. He is savory. Go on."

  "Sir, he has been taken prisoner by the Royalists. I beseech you, give an order that he be changed against a prisoner of yours, for he is stricken in years and I fear for him in captivity. And, indeed, they say the Cavaliers are bloody men." Her voice swayed from note to note.

  "Be of good courage, child," said Cromwell.

  "Nay, take heart," quoth Fairfax. "They are foes, but they will not murder their prisoners, nor lay hands upon a minister of the Lord. For the rest—it shall be in charge. We will change him in the next parley."

  "But now, but now!" she cried. "He is not a soldier; he is not strong to endure their hardness."

  "Why," Fairfax looked at Cromwell. "We have no prisoners here in hand, I think," and Cromwell shook his head.

  "Yes, indeed. Only to-day Colonel Rich took some, I heard, and I have been to him already to beg him give them for my father. But he will not. He will hang them, he says."

  Fairfax stiffened. Through the full, easy, kindly face broke hard lines. "Hang? Prisoners admitted to quarter? You are certainly wrong."

  "I can not be. I have come from him. He swore that he would not spare one."

  "He deceives himself," said Fairfax and turned on the lieutenant general. "He is your friend, I think. Have you anything to say?"

  "Sir, I would have you forget that he is friend of mine. Why, sir, this is to be like Peter that was thirsty for blood out of all season. I pray that he be not even as Peter, which presently denied his Lord."

  But Fairfax was writing already:

  At Towcester, Thursday.

  Sir—It's reported that you have taken certain of the enemy, the which you purpose to hang. I am loath to believe it, being a thing abhorrent to Christian men. This is to command you to keep them alive. You will further send a trumpet to the enemy, requesting an exchange for Mr. Normandy, chaplain to the sergeant major general, and use zeal to effect this. Report to me early in the morning.

  T. FAIRFAX.

  To Colonel Nehemiah Rich.

  He turned to Captain Vere. "Get to horse, Dick. Ride out quickly. This shall serve you now, child, all we can. In truth, I thank you heartily. You have helped me stay a vile thing."

  "Nay, sir, nay, 'tis I thank you, indeed." She curtsied from one to other of the two great men and was plainly in haste to be gone.

  "So. Go to your rest, child. You are provided."

  "Yes, indeed, sir," said she, and hurried out.

  Then Fairfax turned to Cromwell. "Sir, I protest, if this be true, I will have no mercy
on your Nehemiah Rich. It's a damnable thing."

  "O, sir, let's not be quick to condemn. It is a godly man and a righteous, and if he stumble, it is by excess of zeal, whereof we can never have too much, seeing that the Lord's cause is in more of danger from them of Laodicea than all the heathen, yea, very principalities and powers, which are against it."

  "Zeal! The Lord's cause!" cried Fairfax. "I tell you, sir, I have heard of no man butchering his prisoners but the Papist Pappenheim. Shall we learn of him? I tell you while I command this army we shall make war like Christians."

  Cromwell leaned his head on his hand. "You say well, sir. I do protest you are in an honest, thriving way. Bear with me who am swayed by a carnal friendship, but do in all things approve your motions with a humble heartiness. O, sir, verily the Lord hath a poor servant in me, who put his honor second to a private kindness. In truth, I am a chief, the chief of sinners." He swayed in his seat and bit his lip till specks of blood lay upon it and his chin.

  Fairfax looked at his emotions with a patient wonder. "Why, you make too much of it," said he. "A friend is a friend, and why not care for him? But duty is duty." With which it appeared to Sir Thomas Fairfax, he had come to the conclusion of the whole matter. But the lieutenant general was still a prey to emotions. Fairfax grew weary.

  There were moments when Cromwell inspired him with a vigorous suspicion. It was impossible for him to believe in passionate emotion over little matters. A gentleman who professed to be in trouble about his soul because he made a mistake in tactics, was a hypocrite to the plain mind of Sir Thomas Fairfax. A gentleman who did continually accuse himself of weakness and sin, must be an unpleasant example of the braggart. And yet—and yet—Cromwell had never failed him, had served him with a perfect faith, though he must needs know which was the better soldier of the two of them. Ay, indeed, the man was a most excellent soldier. Fairfax, who knew war thoroughly, knew no match for this hysterical fellow, with his tears and his convulsions and outpourings of the spirit. Which was certainly most strange. Stranger yet was his power over men. That a fellow who was always troubling about his own soul should understand other men utterly; that a fellow who was always talking of his own weak fears should master sane, sturdy minds and command their devotion; these things were a mystery to Sir Thomas Fairfax. "My Lord Fairfax," said his Grace of Buckingham in later days, "saw not far beyond his noble nose but what he saw he saw clear."

  Certainly Fairfax did not suspect the doings of Joan Normandy, and would have been as much surprised as ill pleased if he had seen her on her hackney pursuing his cousin Captain Vere down the Watling Street. There was indeed no great folly in it, for the outposts at Caldecote lay only a short two miles from Towcester, but Sir Thomas Fairfax had opinions upon propriety. Joan Normandy was outside all that. She had no fear while she did no wrong. She could not bear to await uncertain tidings. She had been wrought too long. It was not her temper; it was not the teaching of war to rest while others served her. All which, more modestly, she told Captain Vere, when hearing hoofs behind him, he waited for what they might bring. Captain Vere, being near her own age, chid her in fatherly style, but could scarce bid her back, or, if he did, ensure that she would obey. Moreover, they were already close upon Colonel Rich's quarters. So he brought her through the sentries and she waited anxiously in the dark of the village street while Captain Vere went to the cottage where the colonel lay.

  It is idle to pretend that the zeal of Colonel Rich was sufficient to make him well pleased at a disturbance of his first slumbers. He was in no way mollified by Fairfax's letter and snarled over it at Captain Vere. "I see well that Shimei hath been before me with the general that I might be put to shame. Young man, be admonished. Evil men understand not judgment, but they that seek the Lord understand all things."

  "I understand the general requires you to obey in haste, sir."

  "How now! Shall I be taught by a child? Verily, if a ruler harken to lies, all his servants are wicked."

  "Am I to take that answer back, sir?"

  "Nay, go to. I will see to it in the morning."

  "Now is late enough," quoth Captain Vere.

  Colonel Rich exploded in an allocution out of Jeremiah. Its full force was broken by pistol shots. Captain Vere ran out in a hurry.

  "What is it? What does he answer? What will he do?" cried Joan Normandy.

  But Captain Vere was not concerned for his errand or her. He stood with one foot in the stirrup, looking either way of the night. From either way came the swift thunder of horsemen, and Colonel Rich's troopers, half-dressed, half-armed, half-waked, were running to and fro, seeking their tethered unsaddled chargers. There was no time.

  Colonel Stow, meditating over his fire at Faster's Booth, had been inspired by the twenty-third psalm. Since his prisoners could take heart of that in their peril, it did not become him to surrender to fate. If they could endure with good heart, he must have good heart to act. He could not take back his word. For his men's death the Puritans must die. So much he owed to the regiment and the cause. But there might be a better way. It was a chance. But all war and life walked on the edge of chance. It was more than a cool head would dare. But the Puritan temper had struck fire from his. They should not show a stronger courage than he. Mr. Normandy should find that he possessed a soul, too.

  He sent for Captain Godfrey and the man who had escaped, and hammered out of them all they knew of Colonel Rich's quarters. Then he took two squadrons.

  You see them through flickering moonbeams, a long clattering line, ride by the Watling Street, where, straight as an arrow, treeless and white, it drives across the high ground. A keen wind beat at their faces. The moonlight flashed out and was swiftly hidden behind scurrying clouds; now they were in deep blue shadow, now bold against silvery light. It was a night to mock men's eyes.

  When a black gulf before them marked the fall of the land to the Tove Valley they were halted and split in half. Colonel Stow had a quick parley with Sedley, the best of his captains, and himself led the first squadron away by the open turf to the right. A little while after, the sentries of Colonel Rich to the rearward, on the Towcester Road, where they feared nothing, were suddenly overwhelmed by a storm of horsemen, and while he night guard hurried to their aid, a second squadron fell upon the outposts of the other side and all defense was beaten in. The half-waked Puritans ran hither and thither, helpless, and Colonel Stow's troopers stormed through the village, riding them down. Colonel Stow understood the affair. The first mark of his men was the Puritans' horses. In few moments they had found the horse lines and the horses were cut loose and driven off in a wild mob. The rest was easy. The Puritans, unarmed for fighting afoot, taken unaware, had no chance to stand and were broken to dust.

  With the first wild charge down the village street Joan Normandy was whirled away and flung head-long. Even as she fell she heard a deep voiced roar above her: "Open out! Files! Open out!" What next she knew was waking to pain, dizzy with a hissing in her ears.… She was on horseback in a man's arms. His hand brushed the dust from her hair. A pale face bent to her, a face she knew… She cried out like a child in fear and tried to start away. But she was held fast. He took no more heed of her. She saw him looking all ways. Then he signed to a man at his elbow and a trumpet blared. Swiftly troopers began to rally about them. A man thrust through them with authority. "I have all the rascals, sir," and she caught a glimpse of some fellows afoot.

  "I'll promise them tribulation," said Colonel Stow. And he signed again to the trumpeter.

  The street was full of troopers now, and sharp orders rang down the column. Soon they were upon the march again, moving swiftly through the night before a strong rearguard.

  Colonel Stow bent over her. She saw again the earnest joy of those dark eyes and her heart changed its beat. "This is a fairer prisoner than I thought for," said he, and his voice was glad.

  "Why?" she asked quickly, and blushed and felt his arm about her and throbbed with shame. "Ah, was it you who took my
father?"

  "Even I," said Colonel Stow. He laughed. "And by my soul, I am not sorry for it now."

  "Why is that?"

  "My dear, he has made me admire myself to-night." Colonel Stow looked down at her with a whimsical smile, awaiting her righteous wrath at levity.

  But the first small puzzled frown was quickly gone. She gave a long happy sigh. Through the changing moonlight he saw the calm of her white face. "I am sure he is safe," she murmured.

  "And how art sure?"

  "You do not know much of yourself," said the girl, and her voice was slow with weariness. Then he felt her stay herself more easily against him. Her eyes closed.

  Colonel Stow was aware of a strange tenderness as for a child. He drew his cloak about her. Shrouded in it, she lay warm on his breast, hidden, save for the round white cheek. So they rode on at an easy pace and she slept in his arms.

  The wind was falling as they climbed to the hills. The moon sank out of sight. The dark stillness of the foredawn came over all. It was cold and they rode on, cloaked by a thin mist, like ghosts making homeward before the day. The men were something weary and there was little talk. Only sometimes a murmur of laughter mingled with the dull rattle of the march.

  Colonel Stow hardly knew himself. He rested in strange calm. There was no vivid feeling in him nor thought. Keen desire of the morrow's fortune was gone. The eager mind sought no more into what might be. He possessed the present, and it sufficed. It gave him, indeed, no all-conquering joy. Once, in a ride through the night, he had known the wild beat of passionate life. That was past. Only he was greatly content.

  While the houses loomed up before him, while the column drew rein and broke, a line of gold flamed across the gloom of the eastern sky. Soft light grew about them and horses and men moved in it vague and vast. With the changing sound and movement Joan Normandy woke and her misty eyes questioned.

  "'Tis the dawn, child," said Colonel Stow.

  "O—the dawn—" she looked vaguely about her; then her eyes came back to his.