 Chapter 26 of Colonel Great Heart. This is a Liberwax recording. All Liberwax recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Liberwax.org. Recording by Gary Allman. Colonel Great Heart by H.C. Bailey Chapter 26. Colonel Stowe Wands His Friend. Molly the Cake Girl saw a lithe woman speed by her window to the door of Colonel Royston's lodging. Hey, this is a new business said she. Colonel Royston was killing the hours by carving elaborate chessmen. He'd always had a test in that kind and there was still a set, but that is no matter here. Sudden, silent, there stood against his door a tall woman in black. He put down his tool gently. He was not a man of surprises, nor for all his bulk clumsy. She threw back her hood, her cloak. He saw Lucinda, lithe, strong, her vivid lips and hair, her eyes fiercely bright. She was all black from chin to ground, saved for silver about her bosom. You are most appealing, said Colonel Royston, with a sneer as he rose. She looked about a little dark, wainscoded room. You're quite alone, she breathed. Tis as modest as you could desire, Royston sneered. I'm beyond all that, said Lucinda quietly. She sat by his table and putting her elbows on it and her chin on her hand, looked at him full. This is a matter of your life and mine. They are, I thank God, separate, said Colonel Royston. Then he saw that mocking smile of hers. Are you afraid? There was a ripple of mirth in her voice. You know that is a lie. I know you can wake the brood in me, said Royston. If that is like to comfort you, you best know. She laughed outright. Do you think I fear you, nay? I love you when you shake off your bonds and you. Do I wake nothing but the brood? No. No longing, no joy. Once you had me by your heart, was it sorrow? Colonel Royston looked at her long. What is it you want? He said gruffly. Life, free life and strength and joy. Colonel Royston rose and turned from her and kicked the dying logs to a blaze. There is one who can give you more than I, madam, my friend. I am done with him, she cried. Colonel Royston muttered something under his breath. His laugh rang harsh. He, he never knew me. A popinjay, a play actor, a mad knight errant. Now he is pleased to cast me off because he could not suffice me, a narrow fool. Has he found you out, Royston sneered? He, that dull, cold-blooded thing? Nay. I have found his weakness. I am done with him. Royston laughed too. Oh, madam, no one will doubt who is in the right of it. I, gad, may pity you and give him joy. Whom have you played traitor with now? Do you believe that, she said, with quiet scorn? Am I any man's woman? I'll give nothing for who does not give me all. He, he cannot. There is no power in him. She rose and came to Royston and put one hand on his shoulder. Nay, then. Look at me if you do not fear. With a quick, impatient movement, Royston turned to face her. He was flushed and his brow drawn. There was blood in her cheeks, too. She throbbed. And her eyes glowed dark with eagle-life. Am I fit for scorn? She said in a low voice. Am I not for man's heart? Try me. For a long while they stood against each other, fierce-eyed, wild of heart. Then, with a strange horse cry, Royston caught her and crushed her helpless and hurt against his breast. He felt her moving his grip, and her arms closed about him passionately. She sought his kiss. Panting, crimson, she struggled away and held him from her at the full length of her arm. No, she grabs. No, I cannot bear it. Oh, that is life, indeed. Royston gripped a hand. I have you now. You are for me. For me. I'll not spare you. Her lips were potted and she trembled a little. Her face told pain. Then a smile transformed it and her eyes shone. She opened her arms. I ask no mercy, she said. Again, she was close against him. We, we are fit mates. You are fierce as I. And I give. Ah, do I not? Give? Yes. Heaven and hell in one. And I want all, by God. Heaven and hell, she repeated and clung to him and laughed again. That is life. Nay, then let me go. And she came from him and flung the casements open and stood in the rush of the clean spring air, arms wide, drinking it greedily with swelling bosom. Colonel Royston stood apart and watched her. His full handsome face dark and grim. He strode to her and caught her waist in his arm. She did not yield. She stood alone, lithe and strong, looking through the wind. Yes, we shall make people suffer, she said and left. What do we care, quoted Royston, compelling her against him. I am glad, she said, and suddenly tamed to him. Power, I want power. You'll take me away from here out of this dull decay. Sounds, I ask no better. He left. I have had no joy here and we had never come but for your mistress. He took her face in his hand and turned it to please himself. I suppose you want to meet Jerry as much as I do, he sneered. I hate him. I despise him. Royston shrugged. Because he'll despise us. Oh, you make an idol of that fool. She cried passionately. Faith, I'll teach you better. I leave you no taste for him. I believe that, growl, Royston. Below stairs, they heard Colonel Stowe's voice. Lucinda sprang away, catching widely at her cloak. Royston flung open the door of his bedchamber and signed her in. Then he sat down again and with slow care began to carve his chestmen. Colonel Stowe came in. Royston looked up to gnaw at him carelessly. He appeared leaned and harassed. You're alone. Royston waved his tool to the empty room. They said, you had a lady with you. Oh, a woman of nought, said Royston, with vigor. And she will not trouble you. She is gone. Colonel Stowe sat down heavenly and was as if his strength had gone out of him. He became conscious of some contempt in Royston's stare. Do I look a weakling, George? I know I am ashamed that it hurts me so. By heaven I am a coward. He shivered and contrived to affect a joyless smile. Yes, you don't see the best of me, George. I cannot hide from you. I shall go on, but I am afraid I have nothing in life to trust. Royston gave a crooked smile. Not even me, he said. Colonel Stowe reached for his hand, but the graving tool was in it and Royston last. You. Yes, you have given up enough for me. Oh, Lord, do not be grateful, Royston cried. Well, I judge from your cryptic lamentations, madam, is unkind. That is finished. I give you joy. She never deserved you. Colonel Stowe shrubbed. Is that comfort? Well, I must need to tell you, it is over. She, she is base. Good. Lack. Does that surprise you? Royston gave a harsh laugh. I would, to God it had been I. Colonel Stowe cried. If I had played Trader, little matter. But she, she, that was the heart of my life. He turned away to hide his face and Royston heard him groan. Bah, I'm a fool to come whining so. But it is an ease to speak to you, George. Colonel Royston was not quite gentle. You were a fool with her, he said. She understood you as I do a virgin saint. She cared as much for your kind of love as I do for religion. And you must be making an angel of her who was just a wild woman. London, I had been waiting for this strategy. Colonel Stowe thrust back his hair. Oh, I have been a dreamer. I know. And still by heaven, I am glad of the dream. Well, tis done. George, she made me play Trader and now, when we are come to the turn of the fight, the better pay for treason, Royston's shrugged. The most damnable shame said Colonel Stowe sharply. He looked long at his friend. George, I do not know. But, but I have thought that you had a kindness for her. If tis not so well. And I know you have had ill luck there. She might seek. Well, you're not let her work on you. She has a devilish art to kindle a man. Royston laugh. Ha, now we come to it. I am warned to be righteous, am I? I would not take it from any man alive. As for your woman, I know her well enough for what she is. Wildlife without honor or shame. She was naught to me and shall be so, I swear. He laughed with more vigor than Colonel Stowe understood. And for myself, I have my own will and go my own way in spite of every woman out of hell. Bah, what have I to do with loyalty? I am loyal to who pays me. That's the creed for a gentleman of the sword. It was yours once and is still mine. I have pledged no faith here. I have no trust to answer. If it serves my turn to stay, I'll stay. If it suits me best to be puritan, I'll go. And who is in the right to reproach me? What have they done to keep me here? Zounds. I will be schooled by no man. Colonel Stowe rested his head on his hands. I have asked enough of you. I know. I have brought you to an ill cause. You'll forgive me, George? O Lord, have done with that. I have no blame for you. Have none for me. Let us go our own ways. Colonel Stowe, look quickly. We are friends still. If you can be, said Royston, with a sneer, but I have my own life to live. I know, said Colonel Stowe, sadly. I know. And again, he looked long, silent at his friend. Well, we go on. Do you feel blind, George? Royston did not answer. He let Colonel Stowe take his hand and grip it as he went out. The door clanged. His spurs clanked over the stones and Lucinda started out of hiding. Faith, sir, you had fair words for me, she cried. You forgot that I heard all. I meant you to, said Colonel Royston. You mocked me then. He mocked you when he thought you an angel. Colonel Royston gave an ugly laugh. Oh, you shall not cheat yourself nor me. We have done with honor now. We stand for ourselves. We are greedy for all the pride of life. But God's name let us have no sham of virtue to ourselves. It makes me sick. She came to him, peering close at him, in the gloom while her fingers twisted in his sash. He was sneering. Yes, you are strong, she said. The worst for us both. Well, we must be gone out of this place. When can you be ready? She left. Ah, you are afraid to face Colonel Stowe again. Yes, Royston frowned at him. I am, by God. You've ruined us too. It was you that brought us to this cursed cause. You have broken his life. You have dragged us apart. I shall not forget and I think you will pay for all with me. He saw the strange mocking smile of hers. Let us try, she said, and put her hands in his. They were crushed till she bit her lips for the pain. She came nearer still and her breast touched his. They were lost. When will you come with me? said Royston hoarsely. When can you be gone? Yes, yes, I will go when you will, she gasped. Now, tonight, if it pleases you, nay, but enough now, let me go. She sank to their chair and tried to compose herself. In a moment she was gay with bubbling laughter. Do you know why we quarreled? He had some tale of mighty great convoy that is coming from Bristol. If it falls to the Puritans, say him, we are all undone. Why then take the tidings to the Puritans? Quote I. Give them the last victory and make your profit of them. Then, Munchua, we are all of a flame, like a fool in a tragedy. Is it not delicate? For now, we can have our advantage of it. Do you bear the news to Cromwell and make your fortune? I will go bail. The devil is a woman, said Royston, glowering down at her. She gave back his own words with a laugh. All we have done were honor now. But Royston was in a difficulty you would not expect her to understand. Out of battle, your gentleman of the sword might change sides when he chose, but he must not bear the plans of one to the other. That was bred in Colonel Royston with his profession, but not in Lucinda. For him who had broken faith with his friends to let the etiquette of the mercenary stay him from a profitable treason was plainly ridiculous. She gazed at him in wonder and contempt. Even he then had some of the stupid scruples of Colonel Stowe. She despised all men for creatures changed in convention. But Colonel Royston was not in a mood to hesitate long. To possess her, he had cast away already the best thing he had. The rest went light. Swiffly he saw her as a count in her tail. How to make it sound fairly to the Puritans and give him footing here. Well, what more do you know, Madam Spy? Quote he would a grim smile. When does your precious convoy come? Who has it in command? It is close here now, I think. They ought to send out some force to escort it in. Aye, that would be to Whitney. And Royston to himself. And who is in command? Lucinda had the wit to lie. She could feel that if he were told the truth then, if he knew the convoy was trusted to Colonel Stowe, he would have none of the treason. He was not ready yet to hurt the fame of a friend. A word of the truth then had changed the fortune of more lives than theirs. But she lied easily. No, nay, I do not know that. He did not tell me. Two regiments maybe, said Colonel Royston to himself, and walked to the window. They will not go behind Whitney. It would be needed to snatch the convoy first. A face round on her. When do they come? At once. Tomorrow, I think, she said hastily. She did not know him in this mood. This keynote of command troubled her. Made her unsure. So we must be gone tonight. You must leave your fine dresses behind. You can take no more than you bought. Be ready for me in two hours. I will come. I will have a horse for you. Oh, you are too masterful, sir. I'll be that with you or nothing, growl, Royston, frowning at her. And by heaven, I do not much care which. She gave him a reckless laugh. I swear that you shall, she said, and put up her lips to be kissed. A little while before Colonel Stowe, turning in under Tom Tower, was saluted by the officer of the Kingsguard. While he answered, he saw that it was Gilbert born. With a queer laugh, he turned aside to grip the lad's hand. You were the luckier, he said, and went on his way. End of Chapter 26. Recording by Gary Oman, West Palm Beach, Florida. Lieutenant General finds an honest man. Through the windy dark Lucinda road, with Royston, Anne thought of a night when she was born in another man's arms. It was springtime again, and the wild thrill of it in the air, but Colonel Royston was not inspired. He had not the dreams of his friend, nor the longing to give Lucinda a new life. She sufficed to him what she was. Anne, he put her by. His mind was devoted to the practical need of the instant, to the neat detour that brought them out of Oxford unseen, unsuspected, by the North Road, and round the fords at Godstow and with them, to Cumnor, safe on the Abingdon Road. It was a perfect evasion. Then, with the methodical carefulness that distinguished him, he made up his story for Cromwell. Of the life beyond, of the woman's call, he had no care. It may be that his mind shrank from it, but Lucinda remembered the earlier time. It was a dark, gray sky, broken in gulfs of blue that bore the stars. They gave light enough to make all things vague. Royston rode beside her like a creature of dream. The hedge-rose stood vast and fantastic. The very road played tricks with her eyes. Turned when it went straight. Was rough when it was smooth. More than once, fencing, she saw a brook or a quag. She reigned up, sharp. Zounds, what ails you, cried Royston at last. Startled from his plans. This road is mad, I think, or my eyes. Then, with a nervous laugh, we are mad, you know. And we will ride on by God, said Royston. The west wind came across them, tingling and keen. On either side the trees were loud in a wild chorus and changing color and shape for each moment. Feathery powdered catkins brushed across their faces, and now a light bow beaten down stung like a whip as they passed. All the night was full of ghostly fear and tumult and strife. When they came down the slope to the wide, dark river levels, the uncurbed wind smote stronger, whistling shrill about them and buffeting with mighty thrusts. She cowered before it and shrank into her hood and shivered. All along the way the pollard willows tossed in mad shapes like ghastly dwarfs adance. Her mind was away in strange, ill dreams. She felt herself caught in some grim mockery of life where nothing was real and nothing made glad. And still she was pierced with memories of that earlier time, of that wild night of joy when he had made her feel the very spirit of the world's force. She looked uneasily at Royston, but he had no care for her. He rode erect, staring right on, his mind knit upon his own plans. And the wind yelled at her and the clouds banked thicker before it and the stars went out. She was mightily weary and cold before, out of a heavier mass of darkness, tiny lights mocked at them. In a moment after came the challenge of the outposts at Abingdon. Who goes, who goes, halt or I fire. Travellers to lie at Abingdon, quote Colonel Royston. When scum ye, from Oxford, guard, turn out, guard. Royston turned to Lucinda with a sneering smile. They are naive here, no place for you, but Colonel Royston himself never understood the Puritan simplicity. If he had, he had made another end. The sergeant came with his lantern and held it aloft to scan them. Ye are out of Oxford? I? Why seek ye this godly army? Sir, for edification. The Lord advance it, but wherefore in the company of a woman? Regard me, has her redeemer, in fine sir, I have been her salvation. She hath put me in the godly mine to seek you out. I like you not, young man. Nevertheless, you may be even has lot which fled out of Sodom. Pursue not his evil example, and in any case you will go before the Lieutenant General. It is my earnest desire, said Royston, having first found the lodging for the lady, who is all a weary. He preferred to deal with Cromwell alone. The Lieutenant General desires no woman, quote the sergeant with scorn, march. Happy man, quote Royston. As he walked his horse forward, the sergeant took the bridle, and so with a pikeman on either hand, and Lucinda following meekly, they came to Abbiedon. The narrow street was all peaceful. There was no sign of soldiery, no rabble, no loungers. Only through the light at windows they could see the gathering of companies, and they heard chanting and the elect wine of Puritan prayer. In what of lodging, quote Royston, I suppose all your ins are full to the door of godliness. No man of this army lies in a tavern who can find him another bed, said the sergeant severely. Royston whistled, but he had met fanatics before, and he knew their strength. The sergeant was no boaster. It proved easy to find Lucinda lodging at the green man inn. Royston was led onto the house called the Abbie by the river. It was a room of bare brick walls set with timber and high, dim, timbered roof. The candles flickered and guttered in the crossing drafts. Colonel Royston stopped short and saluted. He was not used to admire other men. But this is the first king I have seen in England, said he to himself. It was no beauty at least. A big, loose man that spread over his chair. The wisp of linen at the collar of his buff coat was crumpled and stained with blood. His face was coarse, fleshy and red. The hard angles of the bones stood out, and in the midst a mighty ridge, a stockade of a nose. There was something that might have been desire for mustaches, or lack of a razor. His underlip was cracked and raw. His hair hung in a lank mass of pale brown. But there was height in the ample brow and the seeming furrows of endurance and thought. But his eyes had the true light of steel and a ruthless strength. The Lieutenant General surveyed Colonel Royston, who liked it well enough. He never doubted his own powers. Who art thou, friend? George Royston, some time major in the service of Gustav Adolf and Colonel with the Duke of Weimar. What make you here? Safety for a woman, work for myself. A man who had been riding at Cromwell's elbow looked up at the neat phrase. This was one with an air of some refinement, trim and precise. The Commissary General, Ironton. You come from Oxford, he said, amably? The plain tale can be brief, sir. I came to England on a quarrel with Montseur d'Horraine. I am bred to war and born for it, but little skilled in the matter of politic. I chose the King because the King's cause should be England's, he laughed. That fancy amuses me now, gentlemen. I have been in Oxford—yes, I have been in Oxford—and seen the popish lasciviousness of the court and the rule of fools. I found swiftly that it was no place for a soldier who honoured himself and feared God. I made my resolve to seek the honest cause yours, sir. He saluted stiffly. I confessed I was hastened at the last by the persecution of an honourable lady. It was a maid, brought to that Babylon by her mother, my Lady Weston. She, dying, left the girl friendless. She was thereafter pursued by the Lordlings of that vile court, most shamefully. Bah, I am hot at speaking of it. Well, she could get there no sucker, no redress. Then, for I profess an honest affection for her, Bader come with me to a camp where men regard the honour of women, that which she hath done. I have lodged her here, and am here to serve you. I can do it. You say well, friend, quote Cromwell. The commissary general, who was tapping his cheek with a quill, smiled pleasantly. And how would you seek to serve, said he? Sir, I have fought against Papus fifteen years, and held many commands. Whereof you shall have proof at your leisure. My skill is in chief with Musket and Pike. But for that time enough. There is more pressing matter. Sir, ere I left Oxford to-day, there came to me, by a braggard captain in liquor, tidings of that which touches your fortune. I take no shame to tell you. I have no faith to keep with that foul court. So then. They are in illustrates for arms and powder. Their whole hope, in the war, depends on a new great convoy. This comes from Bristol, and hath now been days upon the road. It journeys with little guard. But they will send out from Oxford a force to meet it. And, sir, it should come to Buford or Whitney by to-morrow. But if it fall to you, and not to them, you have gone far to end the war. The frown gathered on Cromwell's brow. He began with a score of sharp questions. How great was this convoy! With what force, at what speed could it move and the like? To all, Royston had a quick answer, true or false. Cromwell looked on him with favour. Thou art a ready man, friend. The Lord needs such. Therefore doubtless, he made me so, said Colonel Royston devoutly. Oh, sir, hold fast to that, Cromwell cried. Thou art made unto his glory, and miserably does thou fail it. Yet be of good heart, and so run that thou mayest obtain. It is ever my design, sir, said Colonel Royston, quite sincerely. Cromwell thrust out his arms over his head. Oh, laggards, laggards, the Lord deliver me from laggards. Sir, there is not to be feared but our own sin and sloth. We're in a lass. We are all too well provided, said Royston. Cromwell's hands fell. His face was grave and sad. You say well, he muttered, and appeared to talk to himself. The commissary general had remained always amiable of air. And do I hear your promise to the capture of this convoy, he asked? Spare a regiment of horse in the morning, let me be its guide, and I'll answer for all. It is very handsome in you, the commissary murmured, and glanced from him to Cromwell. The gentleman desires to be trusted with a regiment, sir. The Lord, the Lord shall laugh at him, muttered Cromwell. What is it, a regiment, Quotha? He bent his brows upon Royston. Well, and how would's now go with it, friend? Colonel Royston was ready. A swift detour by Newbridge should bring them astride the western road on the farther side of Whitney. Then, putting out a picket to guard them from Oxford, they would send Videts out westward to make touch with the convoy, find it captured, and strike for Abbingdon again. It likes me well, said Cromwell. Colonel Budd's horse, sir, quote the commissary quickly. A very lovely company, sir, put all on God. I will make my endeavour, sir, said Royston, and salute it, and was going. We will provide you a billet, sir, said the commissary again in some haste. Colonel Royston salute him, too, and was dismissed in the charge of a sergeant. There is a soul in an honest, thriving way, quote Cromwell. I should have liked him better, said the commissary, if he had offered us nothing. End of Chapter 27 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas Chapter 28 of Colonel Greatheart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 28 at Whitney Town Colonel Royston was waked from his bed of clean hay at dawn, but he did not arrive in the quarters of Colonel Jacob Budd in time to hear a conversation of the commissary. The orders are plain to you, Colonel. Plain, sir, may I be God's executioner? And, if it be not so, if this one that guides me proves to be a hireling, a man of belial? Why, you may still be God's executioner, said the commissary, smiling. Colonel Budd almost laughed. In a little while came Colonel Royston. The commissary saluted him affably. Colonel Budd, this is Colonel George Royston, who hath designed this fair work. I would have you know him well. The honor is mine, said Colonel Royston. Colonel Budd did not deny it. The Lieutenant General bids you to breakfast, said the commissary. Colonel Royston appreciated the honor, but his appetite was something affected by the Lieutenant General's taking the occasion to expound the second beast of the apocalypse. Colonel Budd differed from his general concerning the significance of the first horn, and said so, and they parted hot. Well, sir, well, shall we ride, said Royston eagerly, as they came out together? After some small exercise, said Colonel Budd. Colonel Budd paraded his regiment in the meadows by the ock, and there wrestled in prayer for the space of half an hour. The troopers groaning or giving praise as they were moved. Colonel Royston chiefly groaned, but he confessed that in the end they wheeled beautifully in the column of troop. They took the road for Kingston, bagpipes chanting, not sweetly. O Lord God, until whom all vengeance doth belong, all mighty God, whose vengeance owns shine forth avenging wrong. Lift up thyself, thou of the earth, the sovereign judge, thou art, and unto them that are so proud a due reward in part. They had certainly a vile ear for music, but it annoyed Colonel Royston that he could find no other fault with them. They were men of seasoned strength, and their bearing approved them soldierly. They were equipped to admiration, with breasts and backs of steel over their buff coats, pot helmets, a pair of long pistols each and a sword. There was hardly a worthless charger in the regiment, sturdy beasts, plainly bred in the fen levels. There could be no better for a campaign in the valleys and heavy turf hills of Middle England. Not the guard of Gustavus was better provided. Colonel Royston thought with a sneer of the ragged squadrons of King Charles. So they rode on, a goodly sight, a long trail of steel, between the whitening willows of the flat grasslands, while the wayward sunlight flashed on their arms and made splendor in the thin cloud of dust. In the space between Psalms Colonel Jacob Budd engaged Colonel Royston's attention. Thou art surely a brand snatched from the burning, my good friend. It was I that did the snatching. Colonel Budd groaned. I perceive Thou art yet far from the truth and in the bondage of Arminus. I do not know him. To the minister of Beeslebub. Colonel Royston shook his head. I cannot give you joy of your acquaintance, which taught the abominable heresy that whosoever will may be saved, whereas friend, whereas, and I shall look to expound to you more generously, the sweet truth is, there be some elected to damn nation, which they can by no means escape, and this shall be a goodly comfort, for it is all to the glory of God. Colonel Royston grunted. Never a man had less taste for theology than he. And look you, if Thou dost think, poor worm, that Thou hast saved thyself, Thou art still in the blindness of sin. No man saveth himself, saying that all are worms. Yet some in the all-seeing providence of God are elected to salvation, and by no strength nor good works of their own are saved. Whereof they have a sweet and blessed assurance. There is also another assurance, the assurance of damn nation, which I would give you. E. Gadd cried Royston. I have a very certain assurance of damn nation if we go across the river with no viedets out. Colonel Budd scowled at him. It was the more objectionable, in that it could not be denied. They were already close upon the river and beyond lay the enemy's country. He gave horse orders, Royston, marked with disdain the use of the stiff Dutch drill for the simpler Swedish. And the column of route was protected with double viedets and an advance guard before they came to Newbridge. Swollen with the spring rains, the two rivers came turbid and swift and crashed against each other in a whirlpool of foam and roared through the narrow stone arches. On the bridge the regiment halted while the viedets thrust forward under the trees up the diverging tracks. There was no danger, and at the old place, but fall and silent, they took the road to Whitney. Soon there were no more trees. They rode over a dead level of flat land, where furrows already were richly green. Laborers straightened themselves and leaned under hose, gazing solidly while the regiment passed and solidly fell to work again. It was not a war of the people. They cared little for its moves or its fortune, and to make a show, soldiers were stale. So through Standlake and Brighthampton, where the women laughed and waved kerchiefs while stern Puritan troopers found ill names for them, they made on toward the circling hills. Something afternoon they struck the road to the west upon the high ground beyond Whitney, and straight away sent back a party to watch for any force from Oxford. The main body of the regiment moved westward at Leisure, while an advanced guard sped far in front. But the advanced guard came nearly into Burford and found nothing, and the main body halted on the hill above Ashstahl and made a meal of biscuit and cheese from the knapsacks. Colonel Royston went forward. It was drawing towards Twilight when he came back in a hurry, with most of the guard clattering about him. They were drawn close to Burford, sir, he cried, raining up. The quarter-mile of them, as I judge, wanes and pack horses, and no guard at all. Praise the Lord, which has delivered them into our hands, quote Colonel Bud. Let's hatch our chickens before we count them, said Royston, whose wisdom was of another color. Give me leaves, sir. If we wait them there in the hollow between the two hills, we shall be well hidden, and they well caught. What, sir, will you teach me? cried Colonel Bud. Nay, sir, I could not, said Royston smoothly. Nonetheless, will you move, sir, will you move? Colonel Bud snored it with wrath, but the plan was so plainly best that he could not refuse it. In a moment the regiment was dropping out of sight down the hill. Once in the hollow the half of them were dismounted and lay down in the ditches. The squadron hit itself craftily in the hollows of the slope of either hill. The rest, with the lead horses, made toward the river and were lost. It was already dusk, the hapless convoy came on innocently. The locked wheels of the wanes groaned down the hill while the wagoners cursed their lurching horses that could not hold back enough on the loose road. There was no more guard than some score-mounted men, riding by twos and threes, gossiping together. The first of the wagons were down on the level and halted for unshackling their wheels. The whole train stayed per force. Then from the ditch rose Colonel Budd and shouted. His dismounted men dashed upon the convoy, and the red flame of powder broke the gloom. On either hillside the mounted squadrons swept the road, and before and behind, escape was barred, even if the laden wagons could have made up hill at speed. It was a trap that might have held a fiercer prey. The convoy was in hopeless straits. Its few mounted men were pistalled speedily, and the Puritans fell on the wretched wagoners who had no arms. Quarter, sir, cried Colonel Royston with an oath. Bid them give quarter. The curse of Saul be upon thee, cried Colonel Budd, and thundered to his men, smite and spare not, smite and spare not. He turned to Royston again. Verily the wrath of the Lord is kindled against thee, for his pleasure is in the blood of his enemies. Colonel Royston turned away with a gesture of disgust, and made for his horse. He loved war too well to like an idle butchery. But the Puritan troopers had a holy lust for their work. The wretched wagoners ran hither and thither in a ghastly fear, struck blindly with naked hands at men who kept them off with steel, knelt, shrieking pietously like children for mercy. There was none. They hid beneath the wagons and in the ditches, and the Puritan troopers dragged them out and slew. The Hallows were carpeted with death and blood. So much time they wasted on this godly work that it was full dark before they started the convoy to moving again. And climbed away from the horror. Colonel Budd came up beside Royston and touched his arm. Friend, I fear me, thou art an amicolite at heart. Friends said Colonel Royston, who is in no good temper. I see well, thou art no soldier. How now, cried the Puritan, what naughty forwardness is this? Be assured, I am a man set in authority and— And not fit for it, O God, cried Royston. But for the silly butchery we might have been four miles away. We move at a foot's pace with all this gear, and each hour, this side, the river, is dangerous. The Puritan laughed. I perceive you have no courage, friend. Not a whit under your command. Tis a one-one-one fight when a fool is Colonel. You shall answer that, sir, cried Colonel Budd. You shall answer it to the Lieutenant-General. I will make good each word if we ever get to him. O fool and faint-hearted, verily, I can scarce be angry with thee. Thou art a babe of fear. What haste is there? We will cross by the Ford at Bablock Hythe, and be at Abbingdon by midnight. Bablock Hythe, Royston gasped in most honest amazement. Bablock Hythe? Well, Syrah, and isn't not the shortest way? E'gad, the longest way round is here, the shortest way home. It's tempting Providence to venture near Oxford. The Lord, sir, will take care of his own. That is why I tremble for us, nay, sir, if you would not lose all, go round by Newbridge as we came. Colonel Budd was plainly amused, verily. Thou art a matter of mirth with thy host of fears. What have we to dread from Oxford? We have kept watch all day, and there is nothing moving, thence. The devil himself may be moving now. They expect this convoy, and some guard must come for it. Look, you, sir, if you do your duty, you will be in trouble. Look, you, sir, if you do your duty, you will consult for safety, and go round by Newbridge. Do you think to school me, cried Colonel Budd? What, would you be my master? Be assured, sir, I am set in authority, and thou shall not diminish it. Colonel Royston shrugged. Go to the devil your own way. Remember, I told you where you were going. Colonel Budd preached him a sermon concerning original sin, and the effectual calling of the elect. Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas Chapter 29 of Colonel Greatheart This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey, Chapter 29 at Bab Lockheith Something belongs to Master Thomas White, rector of Whitney, though, while he lived, the good man was careful not to claim it. He was the friend of all men, even Anabaptists, but would rather not have been. His private affections bound him to Church and King, but he concealed them carefully, and lived and died in prosperity. Nonetheless, he did his affections a good turn when he safely could, and his chance came on this evening of spring. It was director's custom to get an appetite for supper by a walk from the rectory past the Buttercross to the bridge. Whereby he saw how the bulk of his parish was behaving, and could also gossip with it. On this night he was with Master Gundry, a cloth worker, debating the effect of the war on the price of wool, when they heard the rumble of the Puritans and their convoy. The rector and Master Gundry drew down toward the bridge, with many another, expecting to see the King's colors. They were altogether surprised. Puritans from the westward, a Puritan convoy through Whitney, the whole affair was amazing. They gaped at the long and cavalcade, rolling slowly over the bridge, and the Puritan troopers bade them be gone to their beds. But the rector was gone. I conceive him less benign and more capable than he was supposed. He made off to the rectory, saddled his cob, and saying that he was a way to visit a sick soul at Coggs was soon upon the track of the Puritans. It was easy to catch them, for the wagons could make no more than a walk. He saw them turn off by Newlyn for Stanton Harcourt, and Bablock Hythe, then followed them no longer, but made a straight road for Oxford. He guessed right. There were royalists riding out to meet that convoy. In the middle of Ainsham Village, in the square by the old market house, he tumbled into them. Colonel Stowe, being advised that the convoy was ordered not to make Whitney till midnight, had left Oxford at sundown, and was well in advance of his time. They brought him the rector, panting on a blown steed, peering at him out of the dark with eyes swelling white, for the king gasped the rector. Without a doubt. Praise God, quote the rector, and collected his scattered wits. If you will give me a reason, said Colonel Stowe, his hand on his mustache, considering this strange person. Do you come for a long convoy from the west? And have scant time for you, sir. O laxer, you are all out of time, just taken already by the roundheads, the devil. Yes, sir, said the rector heartily, and they are gone with it to Stanton Harcourt and Bablock Hythe. Colonel Stowe was hard on his mustache and frowning. It was difficult to conceive that the roundheads had known so precisely when to come and where. Who are you, sir, he said, sharply? Sir, I am the rector of Whitney. Who, a smile, covered his face? Who live at peace with all men, and serve my king quietly, sir, quietly? Colonel Stowe considered him still some moments. You would advise me to believe you? The rector laughed out. Sir, you say well, you say very well. I am no honest man, but when I come stealthily, believe me. Doubt me when I am open, believe me when I am someone's enemy. Doubt me when I am every man's friend. But Colonel Stowe had already made up his mind to believe, and the orders ran from troop to troop that turned the regiment away to Bablock Hythe. They were off at a canter by a level bare road. The rector, unbidden, stayed at Colonel Stowe's side, and Colonel Stowe, noting it, had no more doubt. But his mind was exercised to guess how the roundheads had known so well the hour to strike. There was nothing for him to do, but make good speed. He cast by debts far out in front, and they made it, breaking to a gallop again and again, thundering on through the desert dark. Close on the first scattered houses of Stanton Harcourt, he checked the pace and let his advance guard draw farther and farther away, and flung out a picket up the Whitney Road. Then, since the roundheads could not there be found, he feared they were in advance of him, and he hurried on again by the narrower, three-shadowed road through the River Meadows. His first scouts had come fairly to the ford, when a man thundered up from the rear to tell that the roundheads were found. Colonel Stowe laughed, faith, I am obliged to these gentlemen. They give me some exercise, whereof my spirits are in need. It were a tame march but for their kindness, and he began to make his dispositions. It was a heavy night, with a few stars breaking the dark. Over the river and the dank grass lay a thin cloud of mist. The track to the ford was marked by trees that rose to a vast height in the gloom. Else all was plain level. Colonel Stowe sent a party upstream to the weir. He held two squadrons close by the ford and set the rest a furlong back. Then they waited, shrouded in the mist, hearing nothing but the roar of the weir. In a while came the convoy, most orderly. Half Colonel Bud's regiment marched in the van, half kept the rear. It was the orthodox array, and Colonel Stowe, with his experienced ear, conked for the sound of their march, had no need to peer at them to know they used it. He had no more anxieties. He could trust his regiment to wait. The good Puritans came on innocently. The squadrons in front took the ford and were well in. The first files almost upon the farther bank when Colonel Stowe fired a pistol. His regiment waked with a roar. Two squadrons drove at the ford and caught off the troopers crossing from the convoy. The rest were hurled at the rear guard, and crashing at speed on the flank of men unaware overthrew them utterly and rode them down and slew. The night was aflame and loud with pistol shots, but it was scarce a fight, for the Puritans were shattered beyond hope in the first sudden onset. The most of them were out of their saddles at the shock and never mounted again. Only the first squadrons, uncharged, unbroken, turned in the ford and set themselves stubbornly to recover the fight. But while they bore on gallantly against the beating storm of shot that only their first files could answer, suddenly there was a shout from the weir and the water grew swift about them and the horses lost footing and were born away. There was no more hope for them. Colonel Stowe kept one squadron on the river bank some while, but it had no more to do than capture a few damp Puritans that struggled to shore mighty miserable. Each man of Colonel Stowe's had his work and said about it. The first of the fight was hardly over before the weary wagon teams were strengthened with captured chargers and the convoy wheeling into the meadows for room was turned about and driven on to Ainsham and Oxford. Colonel Stowe's men might have no faith, but they had learned their trade. The rector of Whitney had stayed close by Colonel Stowe and emitted some uncannibal chuckles during the fight. That's a rolling for old Noel. He, that roll of the stone, it shall return upon him, said he. Good night to you. May faith, sir, ride back to Oxford and let us thank you. Who I? The rector tapped his nose. Look, I have to my parish a score of wild anabaptists and a fair regiment of whoresome independents. Who are my sweet friends and by your leave? Their friend I'll stay. Four times go hard. Forget you have seen me. Disremember my name. The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church and I'll sew none of it if I can help it. There are too many. He vanished into the night and died in the odor of sanctity and his rectory ten years after. Colonel Budd, swept away by the rush of the deepening water, reached the farther bank a hundred yards downstream. Riding back hastily he peered across the foaming water and saw by the light of the pistol flashes that his regiment was all undone. There was nothing left but those struggling desperately with the wild stream and the royalist's fire and for them little hope. Colonel Budd yelled wildly for a trumpeter and when one came at last bade him to sound the rally. The troopers heard and made for safety as they could. But it was no more than a squadron of horses and men worn to utter weariness that mustered beyond the Ford. Colonel Budd found himself looking into Colonel Royston's face. He drew his breath heavily like a man awaiting a blow. But Colonel Royston said nothing. He had no reproaches for another. He had heard the orders that conquered him ring in the voice of his friend. Colonel Budd dug his nails into his flesh. Ichabod, he groaned. End of Chapter 29. Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas. Chapter 30 of Colonel Greatheart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Colonel Greatheart, by H. C. Bailey, Chapter 30. Colonel Stowe resolves to laugh. It was close upon dawn when Colonel Stowe went back to his quarters in the corn market and slept doubly. He woke in the afternoon with Prince Rupert over his bed and a hearty, good fortune, good fellow, buzzing in his ears. He blinked amiably. So you gave Noel a poke in the short ribs, quote the Palantine. Faith, he'll want a plaster this morning, sir, said Colonel Stowe, sitting up. I swear it's as pretty a thing as I have known, cried the Palantine, and howled for a quart of remish. Colonel Stowe saluted from the bed-clothes. A sweet ambush, Faith, and your wear is pure poetical. The wine came and Rupert, with a thunderous prosit, drank mightily, and gave the tankard to Colonel Stowe. Yes, E. Gadd, a sweet affair. The King shall remember you for it. But look here, Jerry. What a pox were the roundheads doing there at all. They would not risk so far afield on a chance. They had information, and exact to the hour. What do you make of it? Colonel Stowe caressed his beard, and gathered his half-waked wits. There was but one whom talk of treason could make him think. The memory of Lucinda surged back on him. He reached hastily for the tankard to hide his face and drink. No, that at least was impossible. She might come to him and counsel it, but she herself could scarce go to Cromwell. He put the tankard down and drew a long breath. What are you thinking? said the Palantine, looking at him curiously. I am thinking, sir, that the whole affair is vastly strange. If the roundheads had gone round by Newbridge, as the fool might have taught them, we had been kissing her hands to that convoy. Rupert went off on the new hair. He drew a map on the sheet, and made Colonel Stowe draw another. Odd's blood to sew, he cried. The whole is mad business indeed. What do you make of it? Colonel Stowe shrugged. Luck, sir. God help us all when there is no luck in war. By your highness's leave I will up. Rupert sat down on the bed, as Colonel Stowe got out of it, and kept up a steady stream of debate and praise, which Colonel Stowe answered fitfully. His mind was away. Now the stir of action was passed, despair called him again and fear, and Rupert was talking of him as of Gustav Adolf or Henry IV. His strength was gone. He had staked his life on a cheat. Dreams were liars, and hope and faith. He felt himself alone, and all things mocked at him. The morrow had nothing to bring him more. He had lost what made his life. There was no more desire of deeds, no passion to use his strength. He was listless of doing. Nay, true life was done. He could be sure of himself no more. Since he was a fool for his faith in her, he was a fool to believe in himself. He had failed his own great need to win her and keep her true. If in that, why then in all? He was but a weakling who cheated himself with vanity, the most contemptible man of men. Now with no work to hold his thought, no chance of war to quicken his blood, now first he felt the pain of his wound. The desire of all his manhood was widowed. The glad vision that had given him heart in the worst hours was changed to an ugly sprite of mockery, the happiness for which each power of him had striven desperately was torn away from his world. The very surging of life of him made the pain throb keenly. He was too much a man not to suffer deep. Now Matthew, Mark Luke, was in some small elation. He had even expended his substance on a quart of burgundy, a rare generosity which Alcibeity honored duly. Dame, quote Matthew Mark, my soul pastures upon joy today. May it chew a glad cud to-night, said Alcibeity. This is the first savory fight I have tasted in England. Well enough, says Alcibeity, with his nose in his tankard, like a toasted herring, no more than a shooing horn to your dinner. Remark me, I do not esteem your fight by the size of it, to his art the pure art that I love. Now, in this affair of the Ford, I appraise Monsieur Lycrenel as perfect. Alcibeity shrugged. Give me the grand styles, says he. Pound me an army, and I do not mind the trouble. These little affairs are art for my lady's maid. You are gross, my friend. You are death to the finer melodies. But with me these neat actions expand my soul. I am all spiritual today, sighed Matthew Mark. Are you? Then come and see Molly, said Alcibeity, who had finished the wine. Um, I do not think I can love her, your Molly. But she adores you. Matthew Mark Lyc curled as moustachios. In effect, that is a reason for staying away. I would not break the woman's heart. So I believe she was right, said Alcibeity to himself. Oh no, she was not, said Matthew Mark. What did she say? That you were too shy for her eating, a sad, sober soldier. That she sighed and said, Twist pity, for you are a proper man. Matthew Mark curled his moustachios more vehemently. She has a discernment, said he. And yet she hath done. Well, I will see her. Him are you coming? Cora Blue, you might like to take her alone, said Alcibeity. Come with me, my good friend, you will amuse her. Alcibeity chuckled. So they crossed the corn market and made for Ship Street. Molly stood behind her tiny counter, as wholesomely pleasant as her own cakes. Alcibeity looked expectant at Matthew Mark and nudged him. Matthew Mark shuffled his feet and said, him, and looked angular. The kind gentleman has come to eat you, Molly, said Alcibeity. A cake would agree with him better, quote Molly. My pretty, says Matthew Mark, with a fine bow. Her cheeks are rosy, as the summer sun set. Alcibeity supplied a liquid whistle. Shall I bring you fine weather, kind sir, said Molly sweetly, leaning over to Matthew Mark with a smile of provocation. There may be storms, my dear, there might be storms, quote Matthew Mark, in a hurry. Molly made the face of one about to weep. Do you really think he loves me, she said, in a loud whisper to Alcibeity? I have certainly never said so, Matthew Mark protested. Alcibeity shook his head at him. A wicked one, a breaker of hearts. I have hurt no heart in my life, quote Matthew Mark indignant, save some for roasting. Oh, you are a bloody man indeed, cried Molly. And would you have my poor heart stuffed with nasty onions? Matthew Mark put out his chest. It is a vile taste, quote he. I advise the force beat of egg in marjoram. Nay, my dear, save for my profession. I am the gentlest man alive. Gentle, quote the, and how many widows did you make last night? My dear, said Matthew Mark, tis every good man's duty to make widows, thus freeing poor husbands from purgatory. For myself, well, there was some half dozen went down before me last night. I was in the humor. Molly made eyes at him. La, you turned me cold down my back, and I love you terrible. Matthew Mark recoiled. This is unseemly, said he. Why shouldn't I tell you so? says the artless Molly. You had just swore you loved me. Never all my life, cried Matthew Mark in alarm. She appealed with pathos to Alcibeity. Did he not now? You heard him. With both my ears, said Alcibeity readily, then to Matthew Mark, O wickedness, old wickedness, go to. You see, cried Molly, with reproach, then with sobs, and you are all unkind indeed. Matthew Mark made the world a gesture of despair. So be it, so be it, he cried, you love me, I love you, and it shall be very uncomfortable for both of us. Molly took her red face out of her hands. She presented to Matthew Mark with determination one cheek, and as he came to it more delicately than a gog, held out her hand to Alcibeity for the wagered shilling. Matthew Mark, my dear, you will have a saving wife, said Alcibeity. Matthew Mark started back from the rosy cheek vehemently, and gazed with awe at Alcibeity, who laughed in no manner of encouragement. How you do waste my time, quote Molly, as if I wanted either of you. My pretty, cried Matthew Mark, you relieve my soul. I never touched it, said Molly, with some indignation. She considered them severely. Lord, there's one I care for more than both of you. Alcibeity leaned over the counter and pressed her waist. What, faithless, so soon? Have done, how is your Colonel? Monsieur le Colonel, as well as a man can be without courting you, my pretty, said Matthew Mark. But Alcibeity had grown grave. Why do you ask, Molly? She made a queer answer. Because he is a man that makes you feel safe being a woman. I could do things for him. And he would not want me. Her rosy, round face fell sad with a quaint look of childhood. You know the big man, his friend, and her that I call the hungry one. I think they are gone away together. After a moment of silence Matthew Mark struck his brow dramatically. False Lancelot, false Guinevere, he cried. But Alcibeity said in a low voice, Are you sure, Molly? It was in the dark of the night before you marched out. He went off up the street with a spare horse. And after I saw him riding with her down the broad street. They are gone together. Oh, I could have a laugh. They'll give each other cobbler's wages. But does he know? Are you sure, Molly? said Alcibeity again. I could slap your fat face, cried Molly, with sudden ferocity, and turned her back on him. Alcibeity went out. Matthew Mark cleared his throat and shook his head. It is the nature of your sex child, to be light, child, to be frail, to be false. You are made for the shame of man. But man is greater than shame, and his soul is glorified in the shame of your treason. The lusty king Francois was a fool like yourself, Molly snapped. Matthew Mark struck an attitude, and set himself to stare her down. He retired in no good order. Go your ways, go your ways, said Molly. You'll never know anything, you men. You are too clever. Thereafter she wept, which was certainly not clever. For whom, or for what, she had found it hard to say. Alcibeity made a solemn way to Royston's lodging, then to Lucinda's, and heard the truth again. Then, to see him would doubtless have increased the wrath of Molly, he took counsel with a pipe, and that sent him to Colonel Stowe. Colonel Stowe was alone still. He met Alcibeity with tired eyes. You may call it ill news, sir, said Alcibeity, saluting. Well, on the night before we marched Colonel Royston left Oxford with Mademoiselle Weston. Colonel Stowe hesitated a moment and then laughed. Who dares say that? There is no doubt, sir. It is not true, said Colonel Stowe, and Alcibeity saw his lips tremble in his hand. Indeed, it was all too bitterly clear. He could not fight against it, the riddle was answered. There could be no more doubt. The treason came from his friend and his love. She was the mind, Royston the arm, that struck at his honour. It is not true, said Colonel Stowe. Alcibeity saluted. It is whatever you please, sir. Colonel Stowe turned away. In a listless gesture, paid Alcibeity go and rested his head on his hand. Alcibeity walked to the window and stayed there. Colonel Stowe leaned over the table, feeble and cold. It seemed that his heart was dead, his life gone out of him. This was the end. She had robbed him of all hope and faith and love and strength. Even his friend, even his friend. He began to cry like a child, and, with the tears, his stunned mind woke to feel again. Then he drove his teeth into his lips and twisted wrist against wrist to get an easier pain. To make his friend play traitor against him and seek his ruin, to steal his friend's heart away. Sure, this was a devil's work, no woman's. She had no part in life but to make men base. And he had set his life upon her, had loved. Was it all past? May, the worst shame, was that still he had a vile yearning for her. That, that must go, at least. He could not dare even the release of death if he loved her still. There, in the falling twilight, huddled together, quivering a desperate thing, afraid of his own fate, he drove her out of his heart for ever. Whatever might lie beyond, whatever strange meetings there, at least he would have no need of her. His soul should loathe her, as now his body shuttered at the memory of her kiss. She should be nothing through all eternity, if there was an eternity to endure. So then death had no fear. Death could be no worse than the traitorous world. Death would spare him something, at least, the scorn in the sneers, the long misery of effort, when a man was sure to fail. Death. He sat up and brushed his hand over his wet eyes. There, in the gloom, stiff-backed, staring out stood Al Sabaydi, like a sentinel over the dying day. The hard, soldierly strength, quiet and still, appealed to him strangely. He was like a man, buffeted and weary, in the battle of a breaking sea, to whose smarting eyes comes through the spindrift and the spray a glimpse of dark land beyond the ravelling line of foam. Well, the whole world had not passed away because he was in trouble. Something stood real beyond his passion and his pain. Why, perhaps, he was drunk with self. Perhaps his mind sought mad fancies of torture, fed upon its own ill-dream. Eye, faith, his very woes might be unreal, a nightmare for him alone. He felt himself half sunk in a realm of ghastly fantasy, half away in the real world of action. And still pain stung at him and shame, and through it were all phantasm and cheat. His soul was chained in it. He felt he suffered. The strength of others had no help for him. He was at war, with the false spirit of life. He had no part in the peace that brought the world content. Against that he was rebel, and yet was it not a coward, a weakling, that could be hurt so much? Oh, a man need not be ashamed to feel. Where there was life, there was pain. It was a sluggish soul who had not learned that. But to fall out of the fight for a wound, to capitulate the pain, to give the strength of body and soul to a debouch of suffering that was not worthy of a man. Your true man would yield no more sorrow than he must. He should tiglet out of it. At the most, at the worst, pain and shame were fetters that bound. A man must break them and be the stronger for the combat. That should be true sight which showed him agony as a nightmare. As an evil dream in the world of endless effort, clean and real. Suffering was one of the cheating shadows of life, sent to blind and daze and bewilder that a man might learn to trust himself and be strong. He must fight out of it. Aye, if all else failed, he was left with the strength of his own soul. It was enough, though the spirit of the world's chance and change were false. He made head against all. He stood strong in the darkness, he was sure. The first fierce pang might come again. And after the dull ache of despair, he could not vault himself safe, with no hope, no honour, but his own to fight for, there was little joy to win. Surely, in the empty hours despair would be set him again. He had not conquered yet. It was idle to boast to himself. All life might be the prey of sorrow and death. Bring joy. Well, the better reason to fight, to defy despair or the happier way, to yield or to multiply misery, to despise himself. Nay, he must hold right on, with eyes wide, with head erect. It was folly, it was weakness to wail at life. So a man confessed himself beaten. So he made defeat harder. In the last worst hours a man should laugh. The right unanswerable answer to the blackest malice of fate was a jest. He was greater than all tragedy, who dared mock at his own strength, and the quiet mind were linked with gaiety. Not without that could a man know himself. There was, in fact, some humour in this desperate attempt to be humorous. He heard himself laugh out. Al-Sabadi turned and saluted across the dark. Colonel Stowe rose up and came close to him. Al-Sabadi said he, I never interested myself so much. And I was never less interesting. Resolve that. Sir, said Al-Sabadi, a man should only think of himself, while he has no need. That is not an answer, said Colonel Stowe. No, sir, it is an impertinence. Nothing is so pertinent as an impertinence. That is life. You are wise tonight, Al-Sabadi. Al-Sabadi made a gesture of despair. Because I ought to be foolish. That is my miserable nature. I like your nature. Sir, I deplore your taste. I am going to borrow it. Sir, you will be foolish when you should be wise. I hope so, said Colonel Stowe. And as he spoke, the trumpets sounded for the night guard. End of Chapter 30 Recording by Richard Kilmer Real Medina, Texas Chapter 31 of Colonel Greatheart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gary Ullman Colonel Greatheart by H.C. Bailey Chapter 31 The Commissary General is disappointed. That morning, a little before dawn, a wretched silent company had ridden into Abbington. When they turned to the marketplace, Colonel Budd spoke for the first time, saved for a savory quotations from the scripture. I go straightway to the Lieutenant General, sir. I bid you come. Colonel Royston grunted, Bad will be no worse for sleeping on it, said he. He was worn out and duly puzzled at himself for his great body hardly knew weariness. Together they came to the Lieutenant General's quarters. They were both ill enough to see, as they waded in the ghastly mingled light of candles in the first pale dawn. The Lieutenant General himself, uncombed, unshaven with his linen awry, was not more comely. But the Commissary came neat as ever. Well, friend, well, have you not sped, quote, Cromwell? Colonel Budd groaned aloud. Israel is fled before the Philistines, and there has been also a great slaughter among the people, said Colonel Budd. Why, how, now, cried Cromwell, frowning. The Commissary turned not without satisfaction upon Colonel Royston. Let thine hand, I pray thee, be against me, said Colonel Budd, for this man had done no wrong. Nay, verily, his counsel was as if a man had inquired of the Oracle of God. That which, if I had used, the children of God were not put to confusion. I have sinned greatly. Yea, I have done very foolishly. Cromwell banged his hand down on the table. Make short, man, make short. Colonel Budd mudded some solace of Scripture and began. You are to know that all the day went prospersely. We came with no man against us, safely upon the road to the west, and even as the savory member did prophecy unto us, the convoy of the men of Belial came. Yea, and by his devices, we had the advantage of it, and did possess it altogether. Then he bet his grid up our loins and begun. But I tarried a while to do execution on the Amalek kites, in the which I could not blame myself, though the Lord, whose ways are a mystery, requited me ill. What, sir, Cromwell funded, would you judge your God? My damnation is unto his glory, quote Colonel Budd. Yet may I call it damnation? Well, sir, it was full dark before we marched, and I proposed to myself the nearest road by the Ford of Bablaka. Then this good brother in the Lord contended with me. Yea, strove hard with me, that we should go round by the way we came, afar from the city of Philistines. But I would not hear him. Verily, one sinner destroyeth much good, and the labor of the fool weareth everyone away. So I would not harken unto him, but went by the broad road, which leadeth unto destruction. And behold, even at the Ford, while the half the regiment was cumbers in the river, the Philistines fell upon us, and they did undo us utterly. Whereby I bring you back no convoy, and of my regiment one broken squadron, for the wrath of the Lord is kindled against me, and my name shall be a hissing. And through thee the heathen have come unto their inheritance, said Cromwell. Truly an haughty spirit is an abomination unto the Lord. Sir, I am humbled, even unto the dust. I beseech you, show me no mercy, but truly the Lord is a jealous God. Cromwell beat his fingers on the table. The commissary was attentive to Colonel Royston, whose dejection interested him. You, sir, have you anything to say? It is not my humor to accuse a comrade, growled Royston. The gentleman is a brave gentleman. The commissary looked disappointed. You do not accuse him, neither? I have answered yes, growled Royston. You say well, friend, quote Cromwell. I, and you have done well. You promise has been fairly performed. You are in my remembrance. Oh, sir, let not be weary in well-doing. Colonel Budd, the cause of the Lord hath suffered by you. You'll face a court. Sir, I thank you, cried Colonel Budd. Royston saluted without a word, and they went their way. The Lord deliver us from fools, Henry. Arton said, Cromwell, that will he not in this world, sir. Nay, verily, and this Jacob is an ass absolute. Heard you ever such a chronicler of folly. Well, the other is a right, honest, true, sturdy fellow, what I have given him command. I am disappointed, said the commissary general. Recording by Barry Eads Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 32 Lucinda is Wooed Lucinda endured an impatient anew. Of no account, friendless in a town of Puritan soldiers, she found each hour a week. With awe she panted to hear of Royston's fortune. I suppose there was always in her heart a love for Colonel Stowe, and that very love made her yearn for tidings of his defeat, a, of his death. If she had cared nothing, she could have let him go without one touch of pain. But he had sown in her a strange yearning that would not die. Still she desired him, and it was more than desire. There was that in her soul which he had waked to life, and without him it was hungry. She might have laughed, I think, at his scorn, if scorn had been all his offence. But that he should dare to make her need him, and deny her was a wrong that wrangled and made and fed on pain. Through each weary hour she was the more enraged. It was with no good heart that Colonel Royston came to her at last. She started from her chair. What fortune! she cried eagerly. What fortune! None. How! her face was dark and distorted. You failed? You let him laugh? Him? Royston cried and snatched her wrist. How much did you know? Aye, you are hurting me. She screamed, like a child, for his hand had closed in merciless force, and struggled to escape. What do I care? You devil, you knew it. He wrenched her wrist round in his passion, then flung her from him so that she reeled against the wall. She was white with pain. You are mad, I think, she said, hardly commanding her voice. What is it I know? You knew that Jerry Stowe was coming out for the convoy. You knew it was his affair. You sent me to trap him and ruin him. You damn traitorous! Oh, La, you have lost your wits, she laughed. Of course I knew it was his. Why else should I care to destroy it? Sure, you must have guessed so much. There is no reason here. Why did you not tell me then? You swore you did not know who would command for the king. Why? Oh, because I knew you, Apollo Trun. If you had thought you had him against you, you had not dared. I know you. Royston gave a queer laugh. Are you so sure? But, by God, I would break your back sooner than beat him. She stood against him, quick-breathed, defiant. Her charm was great as so. But Royston looked down at her with a small, sneering smile. Well, tis his back I have made you break, she said. Royston shrugged. He can do without you, and me, my dear. Do you know, sweetheart? He laughed at the word. When I heard him shouting at his troopers, I thank God he had us so that there was no way out. Oh, you thank God you are a fool. Perhaps I wish I were. You would have done without me then. And do you think I'll not do without you now? She cried. Well, tell me the tale. Let me hear what a fool you are. Royston told, dwelling with malicious delight on the skill of Colonel Stowe and the utter route of the Puritans. Faith, Jerry will have his laugh at us today, my dear. I hate you, she cried, and her eyes flamed and her voice was ugly. She crouched back as if she would spring upon him. Why, that is some relish, he laughed, and approached her. That will give me some pleasure at the wedding. Wedding? She flung a shrill laugh back. Do you think I will wed such a thing as you? I wanted a man, a man to revenge me. You, a coward that cannot strike for himself, a weakling that whines for a blow. I'll eat apes in hell before I come to your arms. I, this makes it sweeter yet, said Royston with an evil smile. Rage against me. I need something to breed me love. You? What have you to offer me? What will they give you here? The whip for a false spy, branding for the force worn. Nay, I have done with you. Oh, you were no worth ever in yourself, but I thought you might win a soldier's place in this canting army. If you won power and wealth, I could use them. But you, you, why, I have loved a man. Yes, I foresee pleasure for you, said Royston, and took her in his arms. With the strength of mad passion she hurled herself free. Dare that again, and I cry out on you for a ravisher, she panted. Oh, you have nothing in you but the force of a brute. Do you think I will yield to that? No, you shall ask for it, said Royston Cooley. He sat himself down at his ease and bent his dark brows upon her. Fool, I am not a man to be cheated. You bought me to be a rogue, but by God you shall pay my price. I knew you would be false if you could. Try. Tell your tale, and I'll tell mine. You have left yourself no honor with the king. I'll see that you have none here, he laughed. Will you take a high tone to me? By heaven, you shall beg before me before I touch you again. If I choose to leave you, what resource have you? You dare not go back to the king. All the army knows you for the treacherous light of love you are. Will you go dwell among the yokels? I, till your hot ambition drives you mad, will you try your charms on these cold Puritans? Faith, that should be mirthful. I'll commend you to Cromwell. When you end with the slashed face the godly men give a camp follower, I'll provide you a pittance. She was very pale, and she shuddered, but still her eyes withstood him. I, mistress, you have cut yourself from all but me. All for love, quote she, and the world well lost. And I, well, I have sold myself cheap, but at least I will have all you can give. He leaned towards her, his full face grim and greedy. She moved her head to and fro, but her eyes could not escape his. Her lips were apart for the quick breath. Bah! Why do you play at pride? We have done with that, you and I. We are bare for each other in greed and desire. Why use to feign nice dignity? I know your soul. You need my ways. I, even now you want me, you are leaning to my arms. Fool, do you think I cannot feel it? Come! he held out his hand. Come! he cried again, his face flushing. She looked a long while, trembling a little again and again. Then she put out her hand timidly and let it fall in his. He would not grasp it. He drew her no nearer. She heard him laugh. A blush flooded all her face, her eyes fell. With a strange, wretched cry she flung herself into his arms. She was crushed against him, impotent, suffering. For a while she knew nothing but pain. Then she cast her arms about him and clung to him passionately. There is—there is something, isn't there? She said through a sobbing laugh and hid her face against his shoulder. He took her chin and forced her face to his and covered her with cruel, greedy kisses. She gave herself to them. And then, on a sudden, she shrank away from him and covered her burning cheeks and shuddered. She was away in the farthest reach of his arms and rent with sobs. Royston crushed her quivering against him. My wife, he said and laughed. My wife. CHAPTER XXXIII. Joan Normandy plays proxy. Mistress Joy Stone, the mayor's daughter of Thame, loved the River Meadows. Thither from the hospital lodged in the grammar school, she bore Joan Normandy. A quick wind came fragrant from the limes about the churchyard. The thorn breaks were a sweet flame of white. The bank's blue was speedwell. But Mistress Joy was in a great haste. They turned from the highway to the river bank, and Joan hung back watching the swift dark water. Mistress Joy snapped off a king-cup and sighed and pulled another, looked over the wide empty meadows and sighed again. Her round childish face was marked with a quaint gravity. Do you like me, Joan? said she. Truly? Why, child, who does not? I am sure I cannot tell why any one should, said Joy, with melancholy satisfaction. I am very sinful indeed. Sometimes I think I am a child of wrath, and I am quite stupid, and I—would you say that I am comely, Joan? I would laugh at you till you laugh too. I suppose one ought not to be unhappy, save concerning one's salvation. Have you ever been quite unhappy, Joan? In truth, child, if you were so you would not tell of it. I am shameful, said Joy, with decision. Dear heart, do I weary you? You are strong and noble, and I—why, it is a puzzle to be a woman, you know. To the puzzle you not get out of, dear, nor want to, maybe. Oh, shall I not? Would I could change my heart and my coats? I should go the easier. Nay, but conceive me a man. Would you love me, sweet Joan? Sure, sir, you are too bold, Joan laughed. Nay, madame, I am a good night and kiss before I speak, she cried, and slipping her arm about Joan's waist, she did it, and sprang back as if she were stung, a pretty crimson. Close upon them was David Stowe. She turned away, tugging Joan's hand. Nay, Joan, come, come away, she whispered wildly. Why, you are a good night and kiss before you speak, Joan laughed in her ear, and louder. Good morrow, sir, David Stowe saluted. And to you, madame, Joy still presented to him her back. Pray convey my greeting to Mr. Stowe's face. Major Stowe would salute your face, cousin, quote Joan. I thank him for it, Joy stammered. Sir, she thanks you for it with my lips, said Joan, her eyes gay. A fair proxy. Madame, will you walk? Why, sir, with good will. Joan laughed and proceeded to walk away. There was a cry of anguish. Joan! David Stowe arrested her. Believe me, madame, you will be in aid. Sure, Tiz scarce to be believed, but with right good will, sir, come, cousin. She linked arms with Joy, but her design to bring the two next each other was frustrated by the agility of both of them. So the three paced on over the meadows. Joan smiling in the middle, David Stowe mightily grave upon her left hand Joy hanging back out of his sight on the other. The thrushes are gay in the sunshine. Joan suggested. They had nothing to say about the thrushes. There is metal sweet and may in the wind. They were not inspired by the wind. Indeed, tiz a fair day for you. They had no gratitude for the day. But I cannot do it all. She looked from one to the other with a whimsical smile, but her eyes stayed longer upon David Stowe and the smile died. A man never knows how little he is worth till he thinks of himself with a woman, madame. Said he with the air of a discoverer. It must then be a melancholy moment, sir, says Joan. I think a man knows little of a woman, Joan, said Joy in a low voice. For then, David Stowe continued his confessions to Joan. For then he perceives how coarse and hard is man's nature, how unfit for a woman's soul. For which God made it, said Joan. Nay, madame, which of us does not know how much he falls short of the purpose of God, which designed us for happiness in his service? And good courage. David Stowe started and saluted like a soldier who has been chitin. Joan, I think it hurts sometimes when people call themselves ill. Said Joy, her voice trembling. That is when the people are dear to us, said Joan. Nay, nay, not that at all. Joy cried in alarm. But you would not have people abase themselves, would you, Joan? Tis like being a coward. Why then, cousin, I think I heard you a coward a while ago. David Stowe made an exclamation. Joy's blushes surged and fled. Hush, oh hush! she gasped. Joan obeyed. Nay, then if I am silent, what will befall you? said she. Why, madame, I could tell you of one who is a coward and weak and vain with all, who yet dares hope, hope, but he dared no more and joy dared nothing. Then Joan, with a quaint tender smile, cousin, I have to tell you of one who dares hope. Aye, aye, aye, when the people of old saw God they were sore afraid, and Joan, do you think it's even so when we know the joy of the love that he gives? I cannot tell that, said Joan, in a low voice. She drew her arm away and slipped back, leaving them side by side. It was at the man she looked, at his pale face, earnest and grave and glad. Then, with a strange gesture, she turned and fled from them. David Stowe took Joy's hands in his and drew her close. Grave eyed and pale and silent. She came and rested against his heart. He bowed over her, and so they stood in the sunlight, still and quiet. But as Joan sped away to the town, she looked through a mist of tears. Chapter 34 Lucinda Is Wed The campaign was afoot. Rupert broke out of Oxford and made a swift foray across the Midlands. Sir Thomas Fairfax, a man of method, bade his new model army draw together upon Thame, so the Lieutenant General set a strong post in Abbingdon and moved northward. Now the new model, which sought to provide itself with the newest inventions of the art of war, had got a great regiment of dragooners. There were few of the Puritans knew clearly what a dragooner ought to be or do. The Commissary General, whom is trusted them profoundly, saw in them a happy way to dispose of Colonel Royston. He might, being a veteran, know how to use them. If so, well. They might, being neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring, go down in a notable ruin, and that would not be all ill either. So it is, as major of the Lieutenant's dragooners, the weedy men on cobs with red coats and no armor nor helmet, but a sword and dragon apiece that you see Royston ride into Thame. His men were half trooper, half musketeer, and the scorn of both, but Royston liked them well enough. They were ne'er-duels, not saints. The strenuous godly souls chose regiments they understood. Royston had what was left, the fellows who wanted not salvation, but sport and eighteen pence a day. He understood them. With them he could make himself a place. The world was going well with him again. He had a cynic laugh at circumstance. Anna's friendship brought him nothing but ill. A nasty treason set him on the way to fortune and pleasure. For there was pleasure, keen pleasure, that whipped his sense in mind in Lucinda. Her hot passion, A, and her strength that strove fierce against him still, and the pain he saw her feel bore him a storm of delight. She was utterly desirable in her yearning and her scorn. A wild woman who longed for him and loathed him at once made fit food for his desperate soul. She was one now. He rode into Thame on a main morning that sparkled with frost to possess her. The mass of trees about the gray square tower were gay in their new dress, gold and white and gray as the wind played and a hundred dainty shades of green. Royston sent his men to their tents in the fields southward of the little town and strode away. Lucinda was lodged in the overhanging upper rooms of a new house by the grammar school. She kept him waiting a while, and when she came from her bedchamber, surprised him by her somberness. She was all dark gray. The Puritan bride, sir, quotes she with a mocking curtsy. Say you so, then I pity you. Well, she looked at him long, then gave a reckless laugh. O, A, we are Fitmates. You flatter me, said Royston, as he gave her his arm. Together, silent, they made their way to the church, little heated in the bustle of the gathering army. But on a sudden Lucinda checked and faltered. Royston, looking down, saw her face all crimson. It is nothing, it is a faintness. She gasped and for a moment hung heavy on his arm. Through the throng she had seen a lilting gate that she remembered and was aware of shame. But her heart played false. She knew, she knew, that it could not be he. Angry with head erect she went on her way, Royston had not seen. In the doorway of the mayor's house David Stowe made way for Joan, and turning saw the bride. He made an exclamation. Surely there are some there that we know, quote he. Joan saw and was white. I, I do not understand, she said unsteadily. Nay, but I must, said David Stowe, and turned from the house of his lady and went after them, and Joan followed him. The wind was blowing free through the great church, for the glass of its best windows had been beaten out by savory souls, zealous to destroy the works of Baal when they rabbled the vicar. On the steps of the choir, Mr. Hugh Peters, Cromwell's warrior chaplain, awaited them in gown of Geneva and bands. Say for him the church was empty. Gird up your loins, he cried. You come to a godly work, and added a joke kindly enough but something broad. Upon the mere wedding he wasted little time. It was a bluff question apiece and a hearty, I pronounce you man and wife before the living god. Mr. Peters was not a man of ceremonies, but he valued himself as a preacher, and that he had but one or two gathered together before him was never any restraint. Lucinda had to hear a history of matrimony from its origin, illuminated by the leading cases of Bathsheba, Jezebel, and Henrietta Maria, which later became a homily and an exhortation on wifely duties, distinguished by solid sense rather than delicacy. It is likely that Royston was amused. There was a grim humor mingled even in his passions, but Lucinda had nothing of that and her heart was raging, that this ruddy parson should dare to school her like a milkmaid. Cherish and obey, quota. The Lord loveth a goodly housewife, the godly rearing of children, her eyes flamed at Mr. Peters, her hands clenched and unclenched nervously, and Mr. Peters smiled upon her and spoke with some unction of a maid's fears. Lucinda was hot with a wrath, she scarce understood. There was a questioning wonder in the eyes that flamed. True, he was a gross, insolent fool, but that should not suffice to move her so. He promised her passion, the burdens of common life, the dull, daily labors of women of no account. Bah! it was ludicrous. But what matter for such anger? Why, because it filched the glamour and joy from her desires, she sought a wild reign of sensation, and he foretold her dull waifood, the life of a slave. Service of Royston, was that to be her lot, to be spent in motherhood? She turned upon Royston with a fierce stare of hate, and seeing the placid sneer on his full lips broke out in ugly laughter. It alarmed Mr. Peters, who, a man of charity, conceived her overwrought by the fears of maidenly modesty and his own eloquence, and cut the latter short. He took them apart to sign his book. The registers of the church had vanished with the exiled vicar. I dismiss you to joy, said he, but let not your private joys make you sleepy in the service of the Lord. I'll assure you they shall not, said Lucinda, and laughed again. Royston thrust her arm through his with a masterful gesture and bore her off at a gate too fast for grace. From behind a pillar of the nave came a neat man of middle size. Royston checked heavily with a thud and clatter of spur and sword and a booming oath. Lucinda was struggling to be away from him, for surely it was Colonel Stowe. Praise her. Have you any tidings of my brother? said David Stowe. Good morrow and well met, said Royston heartily. Did you know my wife when she was a maid? David Stowe saluted. I have heard much and heard less than the truth, I think, he said, and his grave eyes rested on Lucinda. Lucinda made him a curtsy, and Royston, giving room for her skirts, stepped aside and saw Joan Normandy. Ha! Here is an old affection. Yes, my dear, Jerry is very well. Lucinda, starting at the tone, turned to see the girl blushed to her brow. The two women gazed at each other, and Lucinda saw wonder and pity. I thought you and Jerry so close friends, said David Stowe in grave level tones. Why, friends, we are still, I hope, said Royston with a laugh. Jerry found his account with the King, and I could not. Face, sir, the more I know the King's cause, the worse I like it. Jerry had another mind. But I will uphold his honesty. You are very good, sir. Well, the truth is I sought a cleaner standard, and owing no face to the King was free to seek. I would that Jerry were of my mind, or I could be of his. Well, it is life. And Mistress Royston came with you from Oxford to share it. Why, madame, could not endure the license of the court, and there was none to protect her. There was none to whom she could give the right but me, said Royston with dignity. David Stowe looked keenly from one to the other. I give you joy of today, he said, and still decide to let them pass. Lucinda, as she swept by, saw the wonder in Joan's face, blunt with joy. David Stowe turned from watching them back to Joan. Shall we be gone, madame? But he saw that she did not hear. He saw her eyes. Joan was left in the great church alone. Heavy afoot, silent Lucinda was born to her lodging. Royston looked down at her with a mocking smile, but he did not understand. Fear dulled her heart. She was bound by the new dread of a jealous hate. If Colonel Stowe should fall to another woman's breast, if he should find happiness so, then was her fate intolerable. That Puritan girl dared love him, and it might be, while she was Royston's toy. Come to her lodging, safe in the upper room. Royston caught her greedily. Her lips were cold.