by H. C. Bailey
Alcibiade became serious in the middle of a mouthful. "Molly, if one man could save an army, that man would have done it. Grand Dieu!" he spread his arms to heaven. "My colonel, he is my hero. I have seen him magnificent in victory, but I should have not known his majestic, glorious splendors if I had not seen him in defeat."
"What is he doing now?"
"It is probable," said Alcibiade, returning to earth, "that he is smoking his pipe."
In clouds of Virginia, Colonel Stow was thoughtful. The queer futility of his life occupied him. It seemed that he had been woven of vain desires. What his soul chose to seek was ever proved mocking fantasy. He set his all on a woman and she turned to dust in his arms. He toiled for honor and power and when he earned them his cause had none to give. He fought to the edge of death for a King that proved himself base. Nay, the curse of waste was even on those who were linked with him. He made a rabble into a regiment of good soldiers only to fling them away in a fool's battle; made men of them to make them food for death.
He did not rave against fate or curse himself or expend lamentations. That was not in his temper. With a quiet, melancholy courage he thought out all the failures. Still he had lost faith in himself. He could feel his own strength still. If the mad battle of Naseby were to fight again, he could pray to do no better. Through all the folly of the war he took no blame. He had never played himself false.… Ay, it was the wrong cause. He had chosen recklessly as a boy for a light woman's sake. Well—there was no profit in regrets for that. With all falling on ruin, a man had no more right to repent than to desert. Honor asked a whole heart for the last desperate fight. If it was fate never to win, a man might fail worthily. The King—the King who would not die for his own cause—it was quaint matter for a man's devotion. Well. For the silliest faith a man might find decent death.
On which meditations intruded a letter. It was the most polished note from my Lord Digby, begging the high favor of a word. Colonel Stow went with some curiosity. He did not love my Lord Digby and had imparted his affection.
Arrived in the anteroom of my Lord Digby's elegant lodging in Tom quad, he apprehended the honor more exactly. He made one of a notable company of scoundrels. My Lord Digby, it appeared, had been into the highways and byways, looking for filth and compelled it to come in. Colonel Stow surveyed them, smiling, and they him with some surprise. He found amongst them the most noted rakehells of the army. "Vaughan and Price and O'Connor! Good morrow, fair gentles. Tom Blood and Geoghegan! Sure, I have turned into Heaven by mistake. We only lack Strozzi to make the angelic choir complete."
They snarled at him sulphurously.
Colonel Stow yawned. "You are so stale. I think you are all as old as the devil and as dull."
They made more noise. So that my Lord Digby was disturbed and sent a pale faced, clerkly secretary, who rebuked them shrilly and called them all within. A result which happily accorded with Colonel Stow's intentions. He was left thoughtful. He had no esteem for my Lord Digby, and yet did not conceive him as a negotiator for bravos. In a little while the respectable troop came out, hats acock, swaggering, whispering, creatures of much importance. Colonel Stow bowed to them politely and wished them a pleasant journey underground.
My Lord Digby had before him a letter in Italian, as thus:
Illustrious—Muster my good boys for the 20th. All goes well. Our friend is bit. He is caught. He devises marvelous well. The enemy moved today from Thame and will halt at Albury. Wheatley is the next stage, where the good lord general lies at Holton House. Our friend will let him have such tidings as may make him call a council on the Wednesday night and set the outposts so by Forest hill that our good boys may come through them. Let them muster beyond the lines an hour after sundown. I'll be with them. Give the Palatine his orders to march an hour after that, to be upon Holton an hour after midnight and fall on when he hears pistol shots. And the devil prosper the work! It has cost a four thousand pound for our friend. He looks for as much more after. Put your tongue in your cheek. Salutations.
STROZZI
Colonel Strozzi, you see, made his private profit. Now, what might have come of this pretty plot, where every man was false to every man, is pleasant matter for guessing, but the precise issue was determined by the ingenuity of my Lord Digby. Jermyn likened him to a terrier, because he could let neither well nor ill alone, and so far as he had a character, there it is. The plan—leave its ethics out of the account—the plan was ingenious enough and the success of its kind in Germany gave good hope. But my Lord Digby, having built it, must needs meddle with it. So having trusted Colonel Strozzi with the King's cause and his honor, he be thought him that Colonel Strozzi was not to be trusted. So, afraid of the design, he let it go on, afraid of Strozzi, let him command, and where all for good or ill must be swayed by his brain, where he must be trusted altogether or no whit, would set another company to watch him and check him. Hence Colonel Stow.
He was received with effusion. "Sir, there is no man in the army I could be so glad to see," cried my Lord Digby.
"That is disappointing," said Colonel Stow blandly.
My Lord Digby was not touchy. "O, I know your wit, sir," he laughed.
"I can not say the same, my lord."
"So, having crossed swords, honor is satisfied and we can talk sense. Nay, sir, this is the King's service."
"I am at his, but not at yours, my lord."
"We understand each other," said my Lord Digby, "and I know you for an honest man."
"Imagine my reply, my lord."
"Now, sir, can you find a score of others of your kidney? Stout, honest fellows," my Lord Digby's eyes twinkled, "who'll suffer no craft from cunning folk like me?"
Colonel Stow hesitated. He did not see his way. "Why, my lord," he said slowly, "no doubt there are men of honor we have not lost yet. Are there none of your friends?"
"Dear sir," said my Lord Digby, laughing, "my friends have too many wits to have much else. I want plain, honest men, good soldiers, who set their all upon the King."
"There are enough of us who have done that," said Colonel Stow.
"You can find a score of them?"
"Why, yes, my lord. But I'll not move a hand for you without knowing more."
"O, sir, I know you love me little, and perhaps I have little cause to love you. But I know what you are worth. I know you are trusty to the last and the best captain of horse we have. So I seek you out. The cause commands us both."
"Well, my lord?"
"You know Colonel Strozzi?"
"Better than I desire."
"Would you trust him?"
"No more than I must."
"It is my own mind. Sir, a great design has been entrusted to him."
"Hang the fellow that did it, my lord," exclaimed Colonel Stow.
"You think that?" said my Lord Digby, with rising eyebrows. "Admirable. You are my man."
"I can not conceive it," said Colonel Stow.
"Look you, sir, what I want is a man who will watch him, a man with the wit to know if he prove a traitor and the courage to strike."
"Well, my lord?"
"Sir, a soldier of your service must know well that we are come to a desperate pass. It is not to be concealed that the King's fortune vibrates on the verge of the abyss." My Lord Digby smirked at his phrase. "The cure for peril is more peril. We dare what it's folly to dare because we dare no other. Now, sir, Colonel Strozzi had a plan full of the hazard of hope—"
"And of the chink of coin?" said Colonel Stow politely.
My Lord Digby was put out. "I never took him for Aristides," he said with some acidity. "Sir, it is plain to you that we are in no case to meet the army of the Parliament upon a stricken field. We must therefore seek out some design, some cunning strategy to set us an equal chance. This I conceive I have done." Colonel Stow, who had known examples of my Lord Digby's art military, permitted himself a smile. "An army without leaders," says my lord with his wise air, "is but fools multiplied. The more fools be m
ultiplied the less they are to fear. So, sir, it's my design to strike at the head. Every army has but one neck if you can find it. In fine, sir, I would jugulate rebellion at a stroke."
"If I count right," said Colonel Stow, "you have said the same thing five times."
"Nay, sir, each time the import grows," said my lord with pride as a master of language. "In this, look you, Colonel Strozzi is our sword, but I would have you for our breastplate if the sword play false. Now the design is this—"
Colonel Stow put up his hand. "My lord, am I so much your friend?"
My Lord Digby laughed. "Dear sir, it's your surliness delights me."
"I do not know that I have anything else at your service."
"This is the King's service, sir."
"Well, my lord."
"A gruff, honest fellow of your breed is our need now. We have enough of supple subtlety in Strozzi. Now, sir, this is the matter. Tonight Strozzi takes a score of his friends away to the rebel lines. He has tidings that their generals, Fairfax and the Ironside and young Ireton the lawyer, hold a council at Holton House. He has bribed their outposts, he swears, and can win through and end these sweet saints."
"Even as Butler and Devereaux made an end of Wallenstein," said Colonel Stow. His eyes had grown keen.
"It was indeed the exemplar," said my Lord Digby. "Here you have the marrow of it. Now, our fear is where our hope is—in Strozzi. He has had money enough through his fingers to make him play double. Or the thing is worth enough for him to sell it to the rebels."
"Ay, my lord, the man who will do murder is ever the man you can not trust to do it."
"Why, the greatest murderer is the greatest soldier. Well, sir you see your part. We ask no more of you than to ride with Strozzi and see that he does his work. If you find him paltering with us, cut him down. Is it plain?"
"O, plain enough, my lord. I can not tell why you should honor me so."
"I protest, sir, it proves our value for you."… Colonel Stow's lips were set in a grim smile.… "And shall be followed by advancement," my Lord Digby went on with rising emphasis. "Well, sir, your answer?"
"Be assured you shall have it," said Colonel Stow, and rising made his bow.
"Sure, you men of action need no time for thought."
"I have not said that we do."
"Yet you delay? Well, have an hour, one hour. Remember your oath and the cause and the honor of the King."
"It is my whole thought," said Colonel Stow, and went out.
My Lord Digby sighed as a man of taste who has had to deal with the dull necessities of life, and refreshed himself from a scent box of clear tortoise shell and took up a manuscript book of Mr. Waller's poems bound in ivory.
Colonel Stow made across the quadrangle to the lodging of the King.
The King could give audience to no one. The King could be approached by no one. The King was at his devotions. Colonel Stow would wait. The usher shrugged at him. No man could tell when the King's devotions might end. Still Colonel Stow would wait. The usher hinted not obscurely that Colonel Stow was a fool. Colonel Stow asked for Captain Bourne of the King's Guard.
Gilbert Bourne had changed much and might have been Colonel Stow's equal in age. The two met with a grave kindliness. "You are strange here. You are little of a courtier, I think," said Gilbert Bourne. "Can I serve you?"
"I have that to say to the King which touches his honor nearly," said Colonel Stow in a low voice, glancing at the usher. Gilbert Bourne bade that long-eared gentleman out. They crossed to the middle of the room, and, standing close, "There is a plan afoot which will shame him for ever," said Colonel Stow and looked keenly at Gilbert Bourne. But in his face there was little surprise. "I have been with my Lord Digby." Gilbert Bourne nodded. "For the King's own sake, get me audience of him."
Gilbert Bourne turned without a word. He was gone some long while, but when he came back, signed to Colonel Stow to follow him. The King was in his presence chamber, a long, dim lit room hung with somber tapestry. It made harmony with him. He had the black velvet and silver of melancholy. His long scented hair was arranged in a sorrowful pattern, a thin jeweled hand hung in listless affection over the open pages of Mr. George Herbert's Temple that lay upon his knee. He raised to Colonel Stow large liquid eyes of impotence. He drooped.
Colonel Stow saluted soldierly. The King made languid answer. "May I pray your Majesty's ear?" The King inclined his head. Colonel Stow glanced at Mr. Ashburnham on one side and Gilbert Bourne on the other. "Sir, 'tis a matter of the royal honor and should be for none but you."
The King looked at him with contemptuous wonder, then turned to Gilbert Bourne. "I thought I bade the gentleman speak, Gilbert?" he said wearily.
Gilbert Bourne signed to Colonel Stow. "It is your Majesty's choice," said Colonel Stow. "Sir, I am come to you from my Lord Digby—"
The King waved a limp hand. "My Lord Digby has all our mind."
"But do you know all his, sir? Sir, my Lord Digby has a design which will cover all your cause with shame."
The King turned to Gilbert Bourne. "We can not suffer slander of our trusty friends, Gilbert."
"Nay, sir, yourself shall judge whether I slander him or he slanders you."
"This is boorish, Gilbert," said the King, and leaned his head on his hand.
"I am not to be stayed from serving you by a rough word, sir. My Lord Digby sent for me, and on my coming desired my help for an infamous venture—"
The King dropped his hand over his eyes. "This is not to be borne," he said wearily.
"Ay, sir, it is not to be borne that he speaks in your name and in your cause. For he plans no less than a bloody murder. He has got together a party of bravos, he has bribed some villain of the rebel side, and he purposes to assassinate their generals tonight. Sir, I know you can be nothing in it, but whether he stumble or succeed, all Europe will put the blame on you."
The King looked through his fingers. "You are either very false or very foolish, sir."
"If you doubt me, bring my Lord Digby to my face and see how much he can deny."
"We do not need. We would not so insult my lord, who is all trusty."
"By Heaven, sir, 'tis within the knowledge of a score. He broached it to me openly as I to you. I beseech you, confront me with him."
"We are well assured of the loyalty of my lord, who is all for our honor," said the King in the same level, tired voice.
"Ods blood, sir, do you want to be blind to the truth? I swear as God rules, my Lord Digby means to link your cause with a foul murder. If you value your honor a pennyweight, search into it."
"This fellow is insolent, Gilbert," said the King.
Colonel Stow drew back. "Ay, shut your eyes to it, then," he cried. "Know naught of the villainy till you can profit by it. By Heaven, the assassin that risks his skin is a better man!"
The King started to his feet and stood mutely bidding him away, a picturesque figure of sad dignity, a saint scorning blasphemy.
Colonel Stow laughed at him and strode out.
Then Gilbert Bourne approached eagerly and fell on his knee. "I pray you, sir, I pray you, give me leave to ask—'
"Nay, lad, nay, not now," said the King with a sad, gentle smile. "I have many matters."
"But, sir, I pray you for this gentleman—"
"Not now, lad. I must be alone with God." He patted Gilbert Bourne kindly and turned away to his oratory.
Gilbert Bourne changed a shrug and a look of despair with Mr. Ashburnham and went out.
Colonel Stow returned at some speed to my Lord Digby. My Lord Digby, who had beheld his movements through the window, kept him waiting in the anteroom. Colonel Stow smote with his sword hilt on the table and the pale secretary came in alarmed hurry. "Tell my lord that if I can not keep him from being a villain, I will not help him," he cried. And my Lord Digby within heard and smiled.
Colonel Stow had hardly come back to his lodgings before the Provost Marshal with a posse waited on him and escorted him to
the prison in Bocardo.
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Chapter Forty
A Cavalier Dies
COLONEL Stow sat laughing. A cell in Bocardo was a quaint byway ending to it all. There was an elfish humor in things. He determined upon death as the best career; he set himself to be a respectable martyr for a silly cause, and, behold, the cause would have none of him save as a murderer. What would the next turn be? All things were possible where Charles was King. Perhaps when the plot was known, when England was crying shame and a scapegoat needed, they would pitch on him for a hanging. That would be a harmonious end.
What would come of it? Colonel Stow had an adequate distrust of Strozzi. He might be playing doubly, trebly false. It would not be the first time. Suppose him trusty, suppose him successful, and Fairfax and Cromwell done to death, what then? Doubtless the King would have an hour of vantage. Doubtless the Puritan army might be hurled back in chaos. But the hour would pass. It was not in Fairfax or Cromwell that the Puritan power lay. Fanatics were never beaten by their leaders' death. They stood by their own strong faith. Ay, they stood by the weakness of the King. While the King was King his cause could never triumph. There was no victory for a man who kept faith with none, who told the truth not even to himself. He looked through his fingers. He was a liar in grain, and the impotence of the liar cursed his cause. There was no question of the end. Soon or late the Puritans must trample him down.
And then? With some grim humor Colonel Stow imagined the Puritans marching down the Corn-market and Bocardo door battered open and himself, something lean, coming dazzled to the light. So he had seen Tilly's Croats at Ingolstadt. But in a month they were riding again with Pappenheim's black hussars. With him all would be finished. The King cast him off, the Puritans would want none of him. If he sought fortune beyond seas, there was scant hope. The war was burned out in Germany. French and Austrian fronted each other still, but weariness laid heavy hands on them. The clouds of peace were gathering. Only England offered fortune for the sword, and England would none of him.
It remained to creep home with the burden of defeat. He winced.… There was some pain in that. He had bragged of high hopes; he had held himself for a man of power. Kind folks would remind him of it, and though they might be borne, with each petty day he would remind himself. To be a quiet yeoman, to occupy with the cattle and the corn… he smiled at himself… It was a farce of a tragedy. God save a lad from dreams! Long days in the tilth of the vale, long days after the ewes on the down, it was a dead life for a man who had charged Wallenstein's squares, who had held the surge of Cromwell's pursuit. He felt again the wild throb of peril, the glad call of death that wakes the soul to mastery. That, all that was gone. He was to be the prisoner of circumstance. For him the life of an ox at stall.