Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  Ay, it rang a strange discord with dreams. He, who was a captain of men, came with impotent heart, limping home to hide in the corner chance gave him. Doubtless he had what he earned. O, doubtless, a fool had a fool's harvest. And yet—and yet—despair could not grip him so that he doubted himself a soldier. He had proved his strength.

  But he had played it false. He had wasted it on a carrion cause. Like a drunken man he had gone reeling after the first trumpet call. A drunken man—faith it was the right name for him. He had been drunk with the poisonous desire of dreams. To love a woman well, to stake life upon her, must ever be wild fortune; it was plain ruin for a man to give his soul to the woman born of his own mind. With a grim smile he saw again the dream creature who had been the queen of his soul, her who was quick with every noble passion, utterly loyal to the right heart of life, and likened her to the real woman, throbbing for nothing but the fierce greed of desire. He was unjust, but he did not yield to hate or seek to believe her formed of all baseness. That was not his nature. Only he saw her lithe form, instinct with eager strength, and felt what she had done for him and his friend. But for his friend he might have been merciful. He was man enough to set the brand of that treason on the woman.

  But he held himself in fault first and last. It was not her blame that he asked more of her than the fair body which was all she had to give. It was his own choice to worship, his own choice to obey. Yes, God save every man from the woman of his dreams.

  He was curious to fancy what might have happened if she had been other. But there had never been another woman and certainly there would be no other now. He felt himself old and bloodless beyond all desire. Still, it was amusing to make the might have been. Suppose that clean little Puritan lass—but she was a little cold for his temper and more than a little too righteous for his easy honesty. He was ill at ease with so many virtues. And yet a delicious child. Clear eyed, fragrant, like may in the dew. Yes. Clear eyed. There would be no cheat in her. For a moment he conceived himself a Puritan.

  Then laughing, thanked God he was not. He had escaped at least the burden of sanctity. It was a certain consolation. He remained a man. He dared do wrong.

  So he took counsel with himself while the last red light faded through the grating and died. They were not early with their candles in Bocardo. He sat some while in the dark before the bolts creaked and he heard a, "Zounds, is this how you serve a gentleman? Lights, rogue!"

  He knew that voice. In a moment he was blinking through the candlelight at Gilbert Bourne. "Well, sir?"

  Gilbert Bourne signed the turnkey away. "Go talk with your fellows below, knave," and drew Colonel Stow to the far corner. "You are right, sir," he said in a low voice. "They do intend this damnable thing." Colonel Stow laughed. "Lud, can you take it so?"

  "Why, when I took it gravely, you saw what came of it. Faith, 'tis a fool that has a better conscience than his King."

  "Sir, the King is misled by ill counselors."

  "O, do not believe it. He'll find none worse than himself."

  "I must believe it. And we must save him."

  Colonel Stow looked round his cell. "I have done my part, I think," he said with a sneer.

  "I know you better, sir," cried Gilbert Bourne. Colonel Stow looked at the lad with a new interest. His face was exalted, like a man's glad to ride his last charge.

  Colonel Stow shrugged. "He chooses to be a knave. Let him wear the brand."

  "He is the King," said Gilbert Bourne, and Colonel Stow laughed at the reverence in his voice. "O, sir, we can not hold him guilty. He is blinded by villains. We must save him from the shame of it." He laid an earnest hand on Colonel Stow. "Sir, you have felt it as I. We must go on."

  "Faith, I think I went some way," said Colonel Stow with a grim laugh. "I have my reward. If you want more, go to a gentleman outside Bocardo. I tell you plainly I have no more will to help you than power."

  "I know you better, sir," said Gilbert Bourne again.

  "By Heaven, you know too much for me," said Colonel Stow angrily. "If you mean anything, tell me what you mean."

  "Believe me, I am all your friend," said Gilbert Bourne, gently enough. "There is a debt… come out of your prison now and help me save our King."

  "O, for your King—there is no man to save him. Kill the King and his cause might conquer. Look you, sir, I have given him all my strength and this is the end of it. He may carry the mark of hell for me. And for myself—I had as lief be nothing in the blackest prison as nothing under the bluest sky of heaven."

  "A man's not nothing while there is work for him," said Gilbert Bourne, and Colonel Stow looked at him strangely. The lad dared be stronger than he.

  "Where is it?" said Colonel Stow.

  "Come with me now. I have told them I come to take you to the King. There are horses in waiting behind St. Aldate's. We will ride to Holton and tell the Puritans the King has tidings of a murderous, treacherous attack intended and hath sent us to give them all honorable warning."

  Colonel Stow let out a laugh that rang true. "Conceive the Royal gratitude!" But Gilbert Bourne did not laugh. "'Thank you for nothing and my honor,' quoth his Majesty. O, he will put up a Te Deum for his trusty servants. I would go for the joke of it. But lad, this will be no easy thing. We have to outride Strozzi's babes and pass them. And I do not know—but there must be some attack in force to follow on the murder. The roads will be dangerous."

  "I know I need you," said Gilbert Bourne simply.

  Colonel Stow was already buckling his sword. "Why, I am a fool that jumps for a chance of action. And a moment ago I thought my blood dead! Well. But I know what you are doing for me, lad."

  "I—remember," said Gilbert Bourne unsteadily. "Come." He led out and down the dark, broken stairs. At the foot an escort of a corporal and two men lounged, chattering with the gaoler.

  "By your good leave, sir," says the gaoler, coming forward, "will you sign my book here?" and while Gilbert Bourne was writing, "and will you bring un back tonight, sir?"

  "The King's service governs all, my friend," said Gilbert Bourne.

  In a moment they were marching with the escort swiftly down the Cornmarket. At Gilbert Bourne's quarters in St. Aldate's they stopped. The escort was bidden wait at the door. Colonel Stow went in by the front door and out at the back. There were horses saddled in the lane.

  Gilbert Bourne had the password. They were across Magdalen bridge with hardly a check. As they turned by the Wheatley road they heard the cavalry mustering in the river meadows, and changed a glance. "We'll be between them and Strozzi's babes," said Colonel Stow, and laughed irrelevantly.

  "Strozzi is half an hour ahead. Where shall we pass him?"

  Colonel Stow laughed again. "'Tis all a mad busmess. What will you give for your life?"

  "If we save the King—"

  "Who desires damnation."

  "O, sir, you wrong him. He is in the hands of evil counselors. He is of a noble heart. In a better hour he will give us thanks. It is but the villains who have his ear. Sure, sir, it's our part to give all for his honor."

  Colonel Stow smiled to himself at this desperate loyalty. But, "God save you, lad," said he kindly enough. "I'll do my share." He admitted no debt to the King. But the humor of preserving the royal honor against the royal will attracted him more and more and the wild adventure had its own charm. So they rode on knee by knee up Shotover.

  It was a dark, heavy night and the horses labored wet against the hill. Not a leaf moved above them, not a sound came. Even their own din was muffled in the chill, dank vapors. The sky was a low, narrow vault of gloom, unbroken by a strand of starlight.

  "Fit night for murder and camisado," said Colonel Stow. "Strozzi has luck."

  "Who knows?" quoth Gilbert Bourne.

  Colonel Stow, peering at him through the gloom, saw the eagerness of his face.

  They breasted the hill top and after a moment broke to a gallop again on the level plateau. The air seemed to move at last. It bit keen at
nostril and eye. They made speed. Here on the hill the night was clearer. They could see the gray ribbon of road some way ahead. But no sound came. Strozzi held them fairly.

  They were close upon the farther slope, already through the trees they caught glimpses of the abyss below, when Colonel Stow cocked his head aside. "What was that?" he said sharply. But Gilbert Bourne heard nothing. It was a moment more till a sound came clear.

  "We are on them," cried Gilbert Bourne.

  "'Tis the last thing we want," said Colonel Stow, and checked and drew aside. But Gilbert Bourne, heedless, dashed on.

  A rough voice cried "Milano?" out of the gloom. "Milano?" It was plainly a password. Gilbert Bourne had no answer. Two horsemen plunged at him. Colonel Stow saw the white flicker of their swords. He drove in his spurs and charged. But before he came, Gilbert Bourne was down and the two reining round. He got his point home in one, but the fellow kept the saddle and broke away.

  Colonel Stow leaped down to his friend. He could bear no help. There was a grim wound in the lad's throat and already he lay in a pool of blood. "On!" he gasped. "On! You now! For—for the King!" and even as Colonel Stow, all hopeless, tried to close the wound he moved a little and sighed and was still.

  Colonel Stow stood over him with grim, set face. O, the King owed life a debt! How many men had fallen for the honor of him who cared nothing for honor? Poor lad, with his desperate loyalty, with his faith in a faithless king, his life for a false dream…

  Colonel Stow caught the dead man's pistols, sprang to the saddle and made off down hill at a mad pace. If time might serve, the King should have no profit of this baseness.

  But close behind came the boom of Rupert's hurrying squadrons.

  | Contents |

  Chapter Forty-One

  Wife and Maid

  THE sunset light was coming to an upper chamber in Thame. There David Stow's wife, Joy, setting new roses in a great blue bowl, belied her name with sighs. The room was neat and spotless as the white linen at her neck, but, her roses ordered, she could not be content with it and looked narrowly over the light oak wainscot and put the settle and the great leather chairs anew and took the pewter salvers down to put them up again.

  To this business came Joan Normandy, grave and pale from the burden of her nursing. Joy ran to her with a little glad cry. "O, you come kindly. I was beginning to be sad."

  "My dear, I come to be made merry," said Joan with her grave smile.

  "You are very good for me, because you make me feel sinful," said Joy, and compelled her to the pleasantest chair and took her gray cloak from her.

  "Am I a Pharisee, then?"

  "Joan! It is wrong in you to make so little of yourself. If you have no assurance of salvation, how can we dare?"

  "We'll not match ourselves, dear," said Joan gently. "And, indeed, I think 'tis not assurance but works that make one happy."

  Joy watched her with a wise, tender smile. "How can I dare be sad?" she said half to herself. "I have only parting to bear when God's work calls him away. And you," there were tears in her eyes, "dear heart, you have not even begun to be happy yet."

  "Have I not? You are grown wise, Joy. And yet—were you not happy the old days—before?"

  Joy laughed a little softly. Her eyes were aglow with a glad, pure wonder and joy. "Ah, telling tells nothing," she said. "Dear, it was blind life, a halt life to this. Indeed, till you have given your life away, you can not live, I think. I never knew I was anything till I was all his. And now—Joan, to be rich and give!"

  "Yes," Joan said. She was lying back in her chair and her face hidden in the shadow.

  The sunlight was changing and failing and the crimson of the roses grew dark. Joy took one from the bowl and came to lay it against the broad white collar that fell over Joan's heart. "Some day," she said softly. "Some day."

  Joan's hand closed on hers with sudden strength. "No," she murmured, and laughed then. "'Tis a white rose for me, dear."

  Joy drew away a little and looked down at her with grave, pitiful eyes. She began to speak and checked herself. "I'll believe in the red rose," she said. "God never meant women for maids."

  Joan was near as red as the rose. "Is a woman only a woman?" she said in a strange, stern voice. "Has she no soul above that? Sure, beyond this world there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage, nor men nor women."

  "Is that what it means?" said Joy with a kindly scorn, such as a mother might use to a foolish child.

  "Dear, I would not despise your gladness," said Joan so sagely that a little reckless, nervous laugh broke from her friend. "But God does not design it for all women, I think. I am not made for—for—" a delicate color stained her brow. "I could not give all of myself, indeed. Ah, do you know how I shrink from it?" Joy laid a gentle caressing hand on her shoulder, but she drew away. "Yes, yes, it is right, I know. But it is horrible to me. I am not made for that. I must possess myself. I can not be true to God else." Her voice rang queerly and there was fear in Joy's eyes. Come from maid to wife with no sorrow, she did not know this passion of womanhood turned against itself. "Nay, but I am a sick fool to talk so," cried Joan between a laugh and a sob. "Tell me of Madame Joy's joys. Has the good man ever a will of his own now?"

  "My dear!" said Joy, who had no jest ready.

  "O, I vow he is mighty obedient."

  Joy was demure. "Nay, dear, there is no obedience in marriage. The desire of one is the desire of the other. You have to make him see that."

  "Poor soul!" said Joan. "And what has he made you see?"

  "That I am the most wonderful creature in the world," said Joy. "Because he is."

  "You are wise."

  "'Tis the one thing he never called me."

  "The poor gentleman is hard put to it. If he calls you wise to love him—"

  "He says that water is wet."

  "Nay, he sings his own praises."

  "'Tis the same thing."

  "And therefore idle. But if he saith, 'Fool to love me—' "

  "It would be plain folly."

  "And slander of you. Which is the same thing again. So like a wise husband, he keeps his tongue behind his teeth."

  "Indeed, he does no such thing!" cried Joy with indignation. "You see," she smiled, blushing, "you see I have to be told so many times."

  "It argues want of faith," said Joan.

  Joy laughed. "It argues—" she faltered, "it argues—" she flung her arms wide and stood so. "Just that."

  But afterwards in the dark when Joan was gone she sat and cried for the maid's lonely heart. To her gladness that fierce passion for maidenhood was of all things most miserable.

  | Contents |

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Night Alarm

  EVEN as Colonel Stow started away down the hill side, Rupert's vanguard shouted a challenge from behind. He took his horse on at a mad speed, but broke from the track to the open turf on his left. By the sound Strozzi's men were well before him, but there might be more of their rear guards. Rupert's men kept the road, striking straight for the heart of the Puritan army. Strozzi had borne away toward Shotover pond and Colonel Stow, following hard, saw at once the gray glimmer of it and far down the road the gleam of fires in the Puritan outposts, Rupert's goal. Still Strozzi held the same swift pace. Plainly he feared no trap. He trusted the traitor who was to let him in.

  It seemed he was right. Colonel Stow, riding reckless, drew close upon him and saw his troops break unchallenged over the crossroads and up the grassy slope beyond and turn sharp and plunge into the wooded demesne of Holton. The trees stood like vague, dark ghosts. Strozzi's men broke their ranks and checked perforce and checked again. But Colonel Stow held on. The lights of a house twinkled through the gloom. Strozzi's men drew together again, reined up and dismounted. A few were left with the horses. The rest made a scurry for the house. Then Colonel Stow drove his spurs home and asked the last strength of his horse.

  He broke into them just before the door. He rode some down before
they caught his bridle and slashed at him and his horse. He let off a pistol at the nearest head and roared, "Guard! Turn out, guard!" Orderlies came running out of the house and he heard the spit of an Italian oath and Strozzi's voice hissing, "On, bullies, on!" His horse shrieked to a vicious thrust and stumbled. He flung himself from the saddle, firing again as he fell.

  His shots echoing across the dark were mightily answered. Around them far and near the pickets woke with musket flash and rattle and trumpets pealed. The army roused with a mile long din, clatter of steel and hurrying tramp. It was time. The thunder of horsemen grew and the air flamed yellow, and there came the dull rolling roar of fight. Rupert struck home.

  On the threshold of the house the Puritan orderlies made stand and Strozzi's men hurled at them in a mass. Colonel Stow staggered to his feet and thrust into the midst, crushed, sweating, cheek to cheek. In the dark, in the frenzy of that mad mêlée, none knew him from another, and striking from below with short sword craftily, he slew men who cursed their comrades for the deed and died. So by the space of their dead bodies he won on through the press. He must to the front! If he were to serve, he must to the front, and the fortune of the night walked upon a sword's edge now. Reckless, ruthless, he panted on.

  The orderlies held the doorway gallantly a while, but they were overborne by the storm of steel and slain. Trampling them down, the mad troop surged on. A sturdy door brought them up short. Strozzi and the foremost hurled themselves upon it in vain. Then, with bare sword, Strozzi beat the crowd back to get room for a run, yelling many things in Italianate English. All together they dashed at the oak and Colonel Stow, locked close with the rest, let off his third pistol at a venture low into the midst of them. He saw Strozzi's livid face turn as they crashed on the door and in the shriek of the tearing timber heard him hiss, "I'll flay the hound who has done that firing." The great door failed before them and whirled back, and pell mell, all staggering and falling, they hurtled into the hall.