CHAPTER 17 INGEMINATING PEACE A disorderly crowd in the meadows beyond Wadham was disturbed by Colonel Stowe. He required the officers, nay, any officer, of Audley's horse. And the troopers of Audley's horse, lounging with dice and tanker before their slavenly tents, bade him to Beelzebub, with whom their officers ought to be, or to the ship in the corn market, where doubtless they were. Colonel Stowe rode off. But he left behind him Alcibiade and Mathew Mark, and they were soon putting up a tent. They were approached by some slouching troopers, who, coats all undone, hose gaping at the knee, stood aloof and eyed them with distrust, muttering. Then one cried out, Lookie, my buck, what be doing here? Alcibiade had a mallet in his mouth. Mathew Mark, the pessimist, made the reply. Gentlemen, said he, what does anyone do here? Tell me, then, I do not understand her, your war. She is like a bad dream. They guffawed at him. Nothing could be more absurd than being foreign. If you could see yourselves, you would not laugh at me, Cokewins, said Mathew Mark Bidderley. But yes, I am droll. To come to such a war, such soldiers. He flung up his arms at them, and turned to the tent again with the haste of despair. Alcibiade straightened himself, grinned at them, jerked his thumb knowingly at Mathew Mark, and grinned again. He wants everything better than it is made, gentlemen, even you. It is an impossible, that dear Mathew Mark. But tell, then, Alcibiade too was interested in these unsolderly soldiers. At what hour is your troop drill, and your squadron drill, how often? They guffawed again. You be an innocent. Innocent of all but sin, gentlemen, said Alcibiade politely. But and then, you have your parades, parfo. Harky, innocent. We Cavaliers do need no foreigners' drillings. We be gentlemen. We do fight. I felicitate the enemy, said Alcibiade. And what do you fight for? Find your own horse and two shillings a day. Alcibiade waved his hand. That is no matter for the gentleman soldado. Your cause, masseurs, your faith.  While they were enjoying the thought of that, one changed the subject with a simple rudeness. What be that tent for? For your Colonel, gentlemen, said Alcibiade, and saluted at the name. The shaggy jaws dropped.  He is English altogether.  They were in no way rejoiced. If he do try foreign tricks with us, I am sorry for he, says one. Masseurs, said Alcibiade sweetly, when I look at you, I also am sorry for him. But if you do try tricks with him, I am very sorry for you. They gaped and glowered at Alcibiade a while and then slouched off to impart the ill news. Alcibiade returned to the tent and Matthew Mark. Matthew Mark was interjectional in his own tongue. What a nation! What animals! What a war! Tell me, Alcibiade, he struck an attitude of despair. Why do we waste on these stupids our skill? We seek always honor. If we can made soldiers of these it is honor indeed, said Alcibiade. But even he was something chilled by the slovenly Cavaliers. Myself I would like to know why these gentlemen fight at all. Now with Gustav one fought for the religion and with Bernard to make him a kingdom and one believed in them. But these they believe in nothing. In their shilling a day, said Matthew Mark, and made scornful noises like a sheep. The others, the enemies, I wonder if they know why they fight, said Alcibiade pensively. It will make a difference. One may not suppose that Matthew Mark or even Alcibiade, always ready to talk of what they believed, understood the profundities of the English heart. But they knew the temper of conquering armies and even Alcibiade whistled a mournful lay as he drew the guy ropes fast. There were others jovial enough, the officers of oddly's horse knew no care. Their credit was good yet from the sack of Marlboro and the ship gave them all they needed. Being the forenoon it was no more than a gallon of spiced wine and a bowl of ale with toasted crabs swimming in it. At Sackville and Captain Sedley and Captain Godfrey, three lads of little beard but with faces stained already and voices going husky, were pleased to pipe up. We be soldiers three, pardon-en-moi, chevaux-en-pray. Lately come forth, O the low country, with never a penny of money, fa-la-la-la-la-lantito-dilly. And the others broke off their game of hazard to beat time with the pewter. Here good fellow I drink to thee, pardon-en-moi, chevaux-en-pray. To all good fellows wherever they be, with never a penny of money, fa-la-la-la-lantito-dilly. To which came with an explosive entry Major Dick Stewart. He flung his hat down on the dice and himself into a chair that creaked.  Speak for yourself, Major, piped corn at Sackville. It's blood, if I do not speak for you all, you be no men but so many sheep's kidneys. O split me that I should live to see it. A sour, stiff back swell had Jack Pudding from Germany to command us. Us? O burn me, tis enough to make old Sam Olly ride back on a grid iron to card him. The rest had no mind to cool his wrath. Viejo Diablo, says Captain Sedley, who had a rarefied taste in os. Would the king have us learn the high Dutch? Nay, the calf is English-born, a Jeremiah stole. Jeremiah under the fifth rib smite and spare not bare bones, zounds. He should be with Mandeville and noll Cromwell. The name is an insult to the regiment. Insult Quotha, Major Dick Stewart made away with another pint. Lads bones, tis a vile outrage, and the lad that dost not resent it is a white-livered prickster. Are we rats that the Palantines should foist a broken bully from Germany on us? Was there no gentleman in the regiment good enough to be its colonel? Odd Rotney lads, will roast this white cuckoo roundly. Ho! Ho! roared Captain Godfrey in the manner of one shearing on dogs to bait a bear. The door was opened. Safe and entirely calm, Colonel Stowe gazed upon these flushed, agitated gentlemen. Who are you, milkface? cried Major Stewart. You are the gentleman of Oddly's horse, said Captain Stowe, and on the answering shout saluted, I have the pleasure to be your colonel. Major Stewart put his elbow into the ribs of Captain Godfrey, who did the like for Cornette Sackville. The gentleman of Oddly's horse began to laugh at Colonel Stowe and laughed in volleys. Colonel Stowe leaned against the doorposts, caressed his beard and smiled upon them kindly. I fear, said he in the first lull, I fear I shall want new officers in my regiment. He looked them over with plain contempt, which was multiplied as his eye rested on the purple amplitude of Major Dick Stewart. Major, says he in a calm, small voice, you have rested so long in the tavern that the regiment has forgot what you look like. Go and show them. Major Dick Stewart flung himself back in his chair, dashed his spurred heels into the floor, and was understood to bid his colonel seek perdition. Colonel Stowe laughed.  Get to your duty. The Major glared and his neck swelled. He seemed to desire to swear. Colonel Stowe continued to regard him with a perfect calm. He heaved himself out of his chair and stood over Colonel Stowe. Make me a return of the damaged pistol locks by sundown, said Colonel Stowe, and turned from him with contempt. Major Stewart plunged out. The rest of them were whispering together. Colonel Stowe, preserving always the extreme of quiet in his manner, walked to the table, picked a pipe with care, filled it from his own silver box, and lit it and composed himself comfortably in Major Stewart's chair. Then the little Cornette Sackville did the like himself, with a comical affectation of Colonel Stowe's manner, and concluded by arranging himself in a chair precisely opposite Colonel Stowe, whom he ogled. The rest ranged themselves in a half-circle and stared at the Colonel as if he were a show. Get to do, says Captain Sedley, the Colonel has very large feet. But how sweet a nose, said Cornette Sackville affectionately. In what long ears, cried Captain Godfrey. Colonel Stowe smoked on, silent and calm. Madonna, quote Captain Sedley, he is quite tame, our Colonel. Blessed are the meek, said Cornette Sackville with unction. Had they no use for cowards in Germany, Colonel, inquired Captain Godfrey. Colonel Stowe continued to smoke. He dropped his words lazily between puffs. It is very natural you should all desire the honor of crossing swords with me. But I have no reason to think you deserve it. I shall concede you a chance. Which gentleman bears himself most soldierly in the next fight, I shall permit to try my swordplay. You, sirrah! He singled out Captain Godfrey. Go make my compliments to Prince Rupert and assure him in my name I'll have the regiment in hand by tomorrow. Captain Godfrey gaped at him. Even for inspiration to his comrades, who had none, and shambled out. The others, on whom Gloom was plainly descending, muttered together again. Sir, says Captain Sedley, with an aggrieved air, sir, we would have you know we are gentleman and will be treated for such. You shall be till you make it impossible, said Captain Stowe, and finished his pipe. Then he rose. Well, gentlemen, you will understand me in time. I understand you now, which is the chief matter. The regiment parades at five. Then he went back to his regiment and mingled with the troopers, who found him a new kind of officer. He treated them as men. He was concerned for their fortunes. He desired to listen to their grumbles of rations and pay, and was not fool enough to believe all they said. Such a colonel was vastly impressive to the soldiers of the army of the king. They turned out on parade with a smartness that disgusted their officers. Then Colonel Stowe made an oration. You know nothing of me, gentlemen. I have fought fourteen campaigns and borne my own regiment through six. It is my habit to see that my regiment fares as well as the best and deserves it. Whereafter, till sundown, he put them through a drill, the like of which they had never known. It was the opinion of the troopers, when, sweating and stiff, they came back to water their horses, that their colonel was a tough fellow. But their colonel thought less of them. In days that followed, Colonel Stowe taught them tribulation. They were schooled as never-soldiers of the king had been schooled before, and they did not affect to enjoy it. But to their surprise it bred in them a queer, surly affection for him. Indeed, if he harried them it was plainly for their good, and for their good he harried others too. My Lord Percy, who was master of the victuling as well as the ordnance, did not hide his disgust with a colonel who expected something of him and got it. Before a week was out, Sir James Griffin, the paymaster, found himself recalling the parable of the importionate widow, and Sir James was a man of religion. The officers of Colonel Stowe approved these proceedings in no particular. They condemned him for an un-gentlemanly forwardness. A fellow thus troubled by the base concerns of common troopers was plainly of low blood. But they found it extraordinarily difficult to convince Colonel Stowe of his inferiority. Attempts to make him ridiculous recoiled like an ill-backed batard with general disaster. The fascinating dream of common mutiny was shattered forever by Prince Rupert's jovial confidence to Captain Godfrey that the man who made trouble for Colonel Stowe could count on an enemy. The courtiers might mock at the Palantine, but no man in the army invited his anger till there were twenty leagues between them. Brave souls like my Lord Goring might dare it then. So Colonel Stowe's officers were sulkily submissive, an heir which became them mighty ill. Such of them as were sportsmen, and had some feeling for their trade, saw the regiment quicken under his hand and were aggrieved with themselves for being pleased. But Colonel Stowe thought of his regiment and his army he kept to himself, for it was as strange an army as King ever used to vindicate his majesty. There were indeed those in it who believed in him passionately as in their God. There were those less devout who yet counted all well lost for him. There were more who felt their own lordship over the common herd linked indesolubly with his kingdom and who fought for him kingly as for themselves. But these all told made but few, and the mass of that army cared no more for king than for Puritan and knew less of war than the Morris Dance. They were soldiers neither from a fierce zeal nor by trade. They were the loungers at bull-baitings, the idlers and broken men of village and town, who ran to war as they would have run to a street brawl. Never an army knew less of its business and its general, the Palantine, who was not demand to make good soldiers out of sots and fools, nor had he the chance. He must needs fret the best of his strength away in fighting the good gentlemen of the council who conceived themselves statesmen and generals by divine inspiration, and, having but little matter of state left them to occupy with, took hold of strategy and the government of war. Not first of generals nor last, Rupert found his most troublesome foes of his own party, and he had not the temper to wear them out. If Rupert had a plan of campaign, my Lord Digby was instant to the king with another. The king spoke both fairly and thwarted both. That was the royal conception of majesty, to trust no man and to hold himself secret from every man. He moved in a mysterious way because it was his divine right, and certainly he performed wonders. In as much he was a monarch and God's proxy, he could not commit his sacred designs to men, nor tell them the truth. Double-faced through good and ill, he lamented continually the harshness of his friends, and solemnly likened his foes to them that slew the Christ.  So he wrote in a poem that would be blasphemous if it were not too stupid. It was ill-fighting for a king who could not conceive that any man had the right to require honesty of him. By God, sir, cried Rupert once in a blaze of passion, the chief traitor to King Charles is King Charles himself. Outwardly that was forgiven, but the king did not suffer himself to forget. Never afterward could he believe Rupert loyal. He solemnly added another to list of woes which he kept with zealous precision. Played the kindly uncle to Rupert and believed no word he said. It may not have been the wise way for a king to deal with his general, but King Charles was above human wisdom. This quarrel came when the king, swayed by the sapience of my Lord Digby, was pleased to consider he had army enough. Rupert desired to enroll new regiments afoot. My Lord Digby, who grudged everything that gave the Palantine power, persuaded the king that if the army could not sweep the Puritans away, it was the fault of its general, and that the money for the new regiments were better spent in diplomacy. In fact, that it was a derogation from the divine majesty to believe a larger army needed. The king saw in this queer notion a subtlety and it captivated him as usual. So you find Colonel Royston, with a commission to form a regiment, instructed that no regiment was to be formed. In a cold rage he went off to Rupert. He would have forced a quarrel, he says, if he could, but with the first sneer Rupert himself broke out. Thunder of God, man, swear at me and have done. I swear at myself that I am fooling up to stay here. If you have any honor, lose it.  He drank heavily from the flag in Edizobo. When the king played him fault, he was apt to fly to wine.  You conceive Royston in a sorry state the next day. The gloom of things he beheld in aching discomfort twice is black. It was obvious in his aspect. He was not inclined to take meekly Colonel Stowe's shake of the head and small, reproving smile. A fine, lusty fool you have made of me, Jerry, he growled and called defiantly for a tankard of dog's nose. Colonel Stowe shrugged. Wine is a mocker, he remarked. And what a moraine have I to do but drink, cried Royston. Colonel Stowe opened his eyes and said something about a regiment. Royston swore profusely at the world. Regiment, I have no regiment and shall have none. By heaven, I was a fool to follow you. I might have known you would feather your nest, and I should go howling. What else have I ever had by you? Colonel Stowe was grave. It may be so, George, he said at last, with something like a sigh. I did not think to have heard you say it.  Then he put down the tankard with a bang. Bah! I am a churl, Jerry, and the Palantine has a better head for liquor than I, but my temper is broke, I think. Faith! There is some reason for a man that has been diddle like me. And he told how the king had forbidden the raising of one regiment more.  Then he looked wistfully at his friend. I wished to God you had my place, George. Oh, have done with that, cried Royston impatiently. But I guide, Jerry, I'll wager we are come to the wrong side. I'll not believe that, said Colonel Stowe. There are men worth making here. But faith, George, if you wish yourself out of it, I can scarce bid you stay now. Will you go? Royston hesitated some while, and often afterward, as he hints, wished that he had taken the occasion and given his friend a good-bye.  Colonel Stowe gripped at his hand with glad enthusiasm. Faith, you were made for a friend, George, says he in a low voice. Royston laughed again. He despised himself on many counts. It was a foolishness to stay where neither money was to be one nor name. It was a foolishness to be governed by friendship. It was worst foolishness of all that friendship should be mingled with what mocked it, a shameful care for the woman of his friend's love. Lucinda, who was surely very sorry for it at the last, had power with Colonel Royston, and he despised himself and stayed. Strange company for those gentlemen volunteers, who, tended, undisciplined and useless as brave, filled up the army of the king. The gentlemen volunteers had no doubt of the issue of the war. It was as certain that the king would conquer, as that neither horse nor foot could stand up for their charge. They looked for utter victory and the stamping out of Puritans and the rural absolute of their divine king. There was a fair array in Oxford of some such faith as this. Captain Rupert had still in his sanest hours a vast confidence in himself. The rout at Marston had hurt his pride and taught him the grip of fear. But if he was soured by it, he was soon his own master again. He bore his work hard and the politicians fretted him into black hours, but he could not longer together doubt himself an unconquerable artist in war. He and his friends all counted on triumph and did earnestly desire it. The politicians, my Lord Digby, Mr. Hyde and the rest, quarreling with him on all else, were agreed in this. The unhindered rule of the king, no less, was their goal, and as some of them seemed to march to it by strange ways, they were entirely sure of attaining. But the most of them, the great mass of the army, knew no such flaming faith. They fought because it was the game, and when the game was no more amusing would give it up light of heart. After king ruled, or Puritan, troubled them little, England would be a fat, pleasant country still. There were some, too, not the least wise, not the least honest, who, while they fought against the Puritan, feared the triumph of the king. Men who loved England and sane life better than any passionate creed, they saw no end to the war in the victory of either army, no future for England under either sway. It is not always the men of low spirit who rank with the Laudicians. When he walked the meadows at dawn one day, Colonel Stowe saw a gentleman of a disorderly dress and a bent back who went uncomfortably.  He knit his hands behind him strenuously and talked to himself. The matter of his discourse was but one word. In a shrill and sad accent he ingeminated, peace, peace. Colonel Stowe passed him and saw the melancholy of his eyes. It was my Lord Falkland, the Secretary of State. Colonel Stowe watched him awhile and went away thoughtful. CHAPTER XVIII.  Bah! I amuse myself, quoth my Lord German, and flicked his rustles. Precisely, said my Lord Digby. They were of the gay company, in the broad walk, where the elms were newly bright and the wood pigeons murmurous. My Lord German had just been displaying himself with Lucinda, besides whose life grace it is to be confessed he was comically brief. Lucinda was remarkable, in a gown of summer green, and she wore it worthily. Woman, says my Lord Digby, with his wise air, woman, if she is only amusing is not even that. She is not worth playing with unless she is too dangerous for play. You play with all, Harry, which means that all play with you. You are like a rattle, says my Lord Jerem, frankly. That good girl, who, thank heaven, is neither good nor much of a girl, is like a hog's head of Spanish wine. I like to taste her, but I have no mind to take the whole of her. Oh, we understand each other. My dear Harry, you never understood a woman yet. It is why you have such success with him.  She has passions. My Lord Jerem chuckled profanely. If you were a man with red blood, I might be sorry for you. She believes in herself. It is the last worst fault in woman.  He contemplated my Lord Jerem benignly. Harry, I should like to see you in a tragedy. You would be amusing. You could never be that George, said my Lord Jerem, with a yawn of candor. But my Lord Digby was born for the didactic. She is a woman of the grand order. She'll use her strength. She needs all men to be her slaves, and knows not to deny herself, a woman worth dying for, if you are of that temper. She is not for you, Harry.  But she is real, real. Non-equidim in video. Mirror matches. I adore her, but I have no use for her. And pray heaven she hath none for me. I find my own occasion in one of your shy maids, who scarce knows what womanhood is for, one whose glory is to spend herself in a man's service, not a man in hers.  I was never a tragedian, Harry. You have words in you, not blood, George, said my Lord Jerem, who honestly conceived himself a creature of romance. It was growing late for the Meadows. Who felt themselves the models of the court had made for the town already, and Lucinda was going, too, with Colonel Stowe at her side. You may guess what brought Colonel Royston to mingle without a ray of courtiers. Lucinda had taught him weakness. He would not go seek her out. What a pox she was to him. But he would walk where she might be seen. Why the fiend should he run away from a woman? When he saw her swaying on Colonel Stowe's arm, he did not deign to see her. But he heard the ring of her laugh, and when she beckoned, he thrust through to her side. You make yourself a stranger, sir, or is it an enemy? She cried, with sparkling eyes. It is an indifferent, madam, said Colonel Royston. And that is a challenge, may. But first I challenge you. Doubtless you have wished your friend joy of me. Pray give me joy of your friend. It was her first confession of surrender. Colonel Royston bowed. Do you doubt your joy, madam, or his? She looked at Colonel Stowe, and they laughed together. Nay, we know, she said. Then clinging to Colonel Stowe's arm in a dainty poise, she turned to Royston. But indeed, sir, we would have you glad with us. You are marvelous kinds, said Colonel Royston. His color was high, and he would not look in her eyes. I faith we are great happy, she murmured. Anne, drawing close, looked up at Colonel Stowe with a strange, tender smile. Then she gave some of the kindness of it to Colonel Royston. I want you to know, she said simply. Royston bowed again. His lower lip was drawn in. In truth, George should share of the best we have, said Colonel Stowe. There is much, said Lucinda, in a low voice. Colonel Royston, looking up, saw their eyes meet again, saw her hand linked close and pressing his friends.   Some day, sir, may hap you will know. Oh, you expect too much of me, cried Royston sharply. At the strange tone she seemed to start and draw against Colonel Stowe. Anne, so swaying with him, step for step, looked full at Royston. Nay, I think I know you, she said softly. If you do, cried Royston, you know why I leave you now. And he plunged away down Merton Street. Lucinda looked surprised at Colonel Stowe, who laughed. Nay, dear, I think we'd be too much lovers for George, who is not in that way. It is so, indeed, said Lucinda innocently, and was very kind to Colonel Stowe thereafter. Five and twenty miles away in the old Guild House at Aylesbury, where the wounded Puritan soldiers made hospital, one of their nurses knelt by her bedside praying. With the work that left her scant time to think of herself or days to come, Joan Normandy felt life easier. Still there were hours when a lonely fear possessed her and she found no help but in prayer. It was not much for herself. She had no right to ask of God and easy life. If she could not be happy in her lot, the fault was her own and she must cure herself. She prayed for him, her wonderful hero of the springtime. Colonel Stowe never knew how magnificent he was to one woman, his gaiety and the ease of his strength fascinated, even when she trembled for his scorn of the laws she worshipped. There was a strange glamour about him. He was clothed with the glory of a maid's first stream of man.  She had no thought nor hope to see him again in life. But with all the power of her being, she prayed for him. She pleaded with God in tears and trembling that he might be safe and given a good happiness. It was of her faith that one soul, given utterly, to striving for another's good might prevail with God. She tried. End of chapter 18. Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas. Chapter 19 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 19. Newberry Vale. Before this business be done, we shall be the longest-winded army in England, wrote Sir William Waller to his master's department. He was maneuvering across the Middle West with an army of infantry against the king's horsemen. He complains moreover that when he rebuked his men, they sang to him, and the strain was this, a low song. Home, home, we would be home. You have done with you, Thoreau. Flight ye the morrow, we'll drive our furrow, home, home. The hint was broad. An army compounded of these men will never go through with your service, Sir William Waller protested, but all the while the men who had overthrown Rupert on Long Marston Moor, the Ironside cavalry were drawn slowly south. They suffered from only one disease, their general, my Lord Manchester, his Lieutenant General, a Mr. Cromwell of Huntington mentioned it. While Waller was amid these pathetic difficulties and my Lord Manchester in no hurry to help him, the king was fighting my Lord Essex in a comical campaign that made Rupert swear, but did little else, good or ill. It served Colonel Stowe, however. His regiment, exercised daily in tactic, not tried too soon by the stern shock of a stricken field, grew ready and quick. He began to be proud of it, and the men who found he never risked them idly and always had a care for them approved him mightily. Even his officers were learning, all went well, but he discovered with surprise that half England cared nothing for the war. The country folk had an impartial disgust for Cavalier and Puritan. The Cavalier fed on them without pain. The Puritan cut down the maypole and stopped the Morristans. How should they care for either victory? What hope for them in the rule of plunderer or the rule of killjoy? Colonel Stowe, watching, understanding, it was the best part of his mind that he understood, unlike men, asked himself sometimes what he had to make in it all. But he seemed to see clear. With such fair weather armies, he had not met the iron side cavalry. The war must drag out long, and in a long war, men who knew their trade would come to power. He saw himself a conqueror among conquerors, a master in England, and Englishmen glad of him. In fine, he esteemed himself still highly. It was a state necessary to his happiness. Lucinda had long letters of joy. Do not doubt that she was happy too. I think she believed in him always. The wind of Waller's army held out, my Lord Manchester, sweet meek man, stayed his hand from breaking the head of his lieutenant general and joined them at Redding before Rupert and the king could eat them up. There was marching and counter-marching in the Vale of Kennet, and at last, under the wooded hills that sheltered Newbury, the outposts met, and the purits and troopers flung themselves from the saddle and knelt to thank God for the sight. There was no doubt of battle. Cromwell was there, and Rupert. Where Spleen Hill rises above the median rivers, Rupert chose to ground, and through an autumn day, the king's infantry scarred the hill's wealth of timber with a breastwork. Below, in the wooded angle, between the clear waters of Lamborn and Kennet, musketeers lined the hedgerows, and in the open meadows under the guns of Donnington Castle, the horsemen awaited their chance. It was a position Folly could hardly weaken. Colonel Royston, riding along the front with his friend, allowed himself to admire. If they have any gentlemen that is full enough to fight, he will break his nose here, Jerry, said he. There's Cromwell, who the Palantine calls Ironside, says Colonel Stowe. They say he is very hot in the charge. I'm glad. I need some faith to believe it, for when I knew him in stoke, he was half a natural by reason of too much religion. Colonel Royston laughed. Jerry, my dear, pray for a few fanatics. None else will dare come at you. But Colonel Stowe was something pensive. As a footman's battle I fear, I find no space for a shock. These hedgerows are mighty neat for your musketeers, but tis no gentlemanly way of fighting. Gustavus for me, and a brigade at speed. Colonel Royston shook his head. A wasteful tactic, Jerry, give me Scotch musketeers in Swedish pikes, and I'll break the best charge you bring. It's an archaic beast, your horseman. The world is the footman's now. A lack for a dull grey world, sighed Colonel Stowe. Faith, you are born out of time, Jerry. You should have ridden with Monsour a modus of Gaul, or the late Lancelot of the lake. You like your fights romantic. I only want to win. Colonel Stowe laughed. Ah, I want much more than that. Royston looked at him queerly. Yes, you want too much, you and she. They parted soon and in silence, and Colonel Stowe came back to his quarters at Donnington, shadowed with solemnity. Major Dick Stewart was awaiting him, more flamboyant than for many a day. Ah, Colonel says he, with a knowing grin at Colonel Stowe's grave face, you apprehend a battle, huh? Nay, says Colonel Stowe sweetly. My apprehension is that there may be none. Ah, you burn for one indeed. Colonel Stowe opened his eyes. I had hoped you had learned your position, Major, he said sadly. And I thought you would forget your promise, old bones cried the Major in triumph. Oh, Colonel Stowe understood. I am engaged across swords with a gentleman of the regiment who does most gallantly. But indeed, Major, I never hoped for the pleasure of meeting you. Major Stewart snarled. I wonder you think this matter worthwhile, said Colonel Stowe, pensively. It does not amuse me, and it appears painful to yourself. The sounds, sir cried the Major, we shall see if you can jeer to-morrow. I warn you, to send battle, I am most satiric, said Colonel Stowe. The Major flung away from him, muttering. On the next day, when dawn broke dull red, the king's men saw a brigade counter-marching round the base of the hills, by winter-born, to take them in the rear.  The growing light showed hill and valley alive with men. It was a strange, clicked-it-fed array, more like a dozen armies than two, for countless colors and fashions, and strange penelopees broke the dull piece of meadow and hedgerow. Trooper and Footman, of those notable iron-side regiments of the eastern counties, were indeed alike in tawny red. Rupert's horsemen had no color save blue and steel, but the rest of the army was any color in all colors, orange and green and white, violet and gray's, as it were a masquerade on the hills. Only my Lord Manchester had made his men wear green vows in their Maureans, so that they marched like a copse at war. The matches were blazing along the hedgerows. The musketeers filled their mouths with bullets and felt the powder cases in their rattling bandoliers. Already the Puritan pikemen were closing upon Spleen Hill. The quarter-canon and sacres behind the breastworks there began the fire and played hard, and, quote Sir William Waller, they made the ground mighty hot. But though their ranks were rent, the pikemen worked on steadily, and when it came to push of steel, the musketeers had no hope to stand against them, but ran from hedge to hedge. Slowly the green vows won to the foot of the hill, and Skippen, the Sergeant Major General, who knew his trade, halted them there a while, though the cannon were fierce upon them. Then he raised the shout, the sword of the Lord, and sprang forward up the hill. By the breastwork there was a long, stern fight. They had no room for skilled tactic or the power of massed numbers. It was man for man and the victory to the stronger, stubborner men. The king's men had courage. There was no question of that in the wildest, riotest regiment, but it needed more than courage and a sportsman's joy of a fight to hold out till dark, thrusting, and bearing the thrust of the 18-foot pikes. While the sun was still high, the breastwork was won, and the Puritans came over it, singing a song. Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in a generation's all, before thou ever hast brought forth the mountains great or small. They clapped their hats on the touch holes of the guns to claim them for their own, halted the form again, and charged on down the hill after the king's men. But there was to be no easy victory. As soon as they were off the hillside, the hedge-rows rattled musketry, and their front was smitten away. Still they had the heart to force advance, but it was difficult and slow, and the night near. Down in the vale, Rupert's horsemen faced Cromwell. This way, and that, they moved through the meadows, each seeking his chance to take the other at advantage. Most of Rupert's men were cursing the tactic and delay, and around Colonel Stowe, his officers, babbled of white-livered, water-blood round heads. Colonel Stowe laughed. There's a soldier commands there, gentlemen, he said, nodding to the green boughs of the Puritan troopers, a man who knows when not to fight. Your own kind of courage, Colonel, Major Stewart sneered. Yes, sir, said Colonel Stowe, I and him serenely, for I know how to fight.  It was a tribute to my Lord Cleveland. My Lord Cleveland suffered from the ability to believe himself a leader of cavalry. He had chosen to fling his regiment at Cromwell, and the Lieutenant General, who desired nothing better, split his brigade in two, and let a half fall on either flank of my Lord Cleveland's unhappy men. They had been utterly overwhelmed, but for Colonel Stowe, who swung his regiment round and made as if he would take the Puritans in the rear, they faced about to meet him, their trap was spoiled, and my Lord Cleveland's men straggled back in disorder. But their Colonel had gone down in the charge, and their standard of a lion with a beagle bane at him was gone to swell the Puritan trophies. Colonel Stowe drew off. There had been no more than some snapping of pistols between the front ranks. There was not to be one of a charge, and soon either side fell back. Twilight was darkening. Rot me, growled Major Steward. One runs no risk in this regiment. Oh, burn me, not one poor charge. Colonel Stowe was looking at the standardless, shattered ranks of my Lord Cleveland. Nay will not lose our honor, said he. Major Steward laughed. I thought we had. You are perhaps a poor judge of honor, Major, said Colonel Stowe, sweetly. The Major snarled. Well, Colonel, says he, with a scornful truculance, and since you are so honorable tonight, whom do you name to fight you? Which is the happy man? How can I tell, said Colonel Stowe? For God I thought as much, Nay will not be bubbled so, which did most gallantly, you said. And that is for you gentlemen to say, said Colonel Stowe, sweetly. Oh, it's fire with you in command. No gentleman has a chance to be gallant. You see none, Colonel Stowe inquired with some interest, and when Major Steward denied it, with oaths, he laughed. Why, sir, do you mean to slide out of your promise, cried the Major? You shall confess I have kept it, said Colonel Stowe. End of chapter 19, recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas. Chapter 20 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 20. Mistress Normandy sees a friend. Prince Rupert knew, and Cromwell knew, that those stubborn Puritan pikemen who won Splene Hill had decided the issue of the day. Cromwell and Rupert both looked often anxious to the main body of the Parliament Army about Newberry, where my Lord Manchester had command. If Manchester would but hurl his brigades on the king's infantry, they could be taken in front and rear and trampled to powder. With fierce messages, Cromwell's orderlies sped to my Lord Manchester again and again. But my Lord Manchester, that sweet McMann, would not be so harsh as to defeat his foe. Twilight fell on a half-fought fight. Prince Rupert, unlike Lord Manchester, could make up his mind. He saw swiftly that the weak position left him was not to be held, and swiftly came his orders for retreat. The gentlemen who brought them to Colonel Stowe's regiment could not find Colonel Stowe, and Major Stewart swore by his honour and much else that the white cuckoo had deserted. If he had seen the going of Colonel Stowe, he would have been more sure of it. Colonel Stowe was possessed with an idea that pleased him, and it took him a strange course. The best of the soldier that I have known, Colonel Royston calls him, and always of a great sanity, and Royston, though a friend was no fool. But Colonel Stowe lived a soldier of dreams. There were hours when he must fling sane duty away and ride with romance. A deed of wild splendour could allure the man whose nature would not let him waste a troop in rashness. He loved doubtless, as in a rare sneer at his friend Colonel Royston, hence somewhere. He loved to conceive himself, decorate it with a knight-arrance glory. He was a subject of vanity, but chiefly he desired this wild work for the throb of it, the instant peril of all that made for him the best of life. So you see him in the twilight with a Puritans green bow in his hat and a Puritans red cloak about him working craftily round the rear of Cromwell's troopers. They were dismounted and loosening girths and making ready to bivouac. Colonel Stowe came through them at an easy pace, whistling the tune martyrdom. Whence, brother, and with what fortune, cried a swart troop sergeant? Praise the Lord, Colonel Stowe exhorted him, from Sir William Waller, to whom the Lord hath been very gracious. What fortune with you? The troop sergeant groaned in spirit. The Lord hath not suffered us to do an execution. We are miserable sinners and unworthy. We have gone to and fro in the earth and walked up and down in it, yet we have accomplished nothing, save some small overthrow of one regiment of the men of Belial, from whom we took their colonel and their standard. The standard cried Colonel Stowe in righteous ecstasy. Nay, but you jest. The sergeant groaned. What have I to do with jesting? I am a vessel of wrath. Colonel Stowe asked pardon for mistaking him. Whose was this standard, then? Man, what do I know? We fight not for such gods, to his sent to the man, Henry Montague, whom the children of this world call Earl of Manchester. And the children of God call fool, said Colonel Stowe, and won a sour smile from the sergeant and wrote on. The affair prospered excellently. The darkness was falling swift and the fires made black shadows that Colonel Stowe used well. Himself, scarce seen, he watched the gathering crowds and their bearing and caught scraps of talk. They fascinated him, these soldiers, who could not joke. He saw them through the lurid, smoky light, bells loosed, corseless unlaced, but with no joy in their ease. They crowded round the soup-pots to argue whether the Lord was displeased with them for forwardness, or my Lord Manchester like Saul, who slew not a gag. He caught the strong accent of his own Buckinghamshire and checked a moment to hear Ingoltzby's regiment holding a prayer meeting till their pots boiled. They were doubtless ludicrous, but that was not what troubled Colonel Stowe. They were too much an earnest to be jealousient enemies. He liked a little humor upon the other side. Again and again a patrol challenged him for his errand and was satisfied to hear that he came from Sir William Waller. Colonel Stowe always made one lie, take him as far as it would. His first danger came as he drew upon the houses of Newbury town. He heard the ring of his own voice before him and had almost ridden against his brother. There was a party of Puritan officers too much concerned with their own debate to mark Colonel Stowe's sudden break of pace behind them. Colonel Stowe heard that his brother was displeased with the world and my Lord Manchester. The sentiment appeared general. Newbury town was noisily alive. The streets throbbed with chatter and argument. Soldiers and citizens wrangled vehemently in biblical phrases on the fortune of the day and the morrow. And Colonel Stowe had no difficulty in avoiding attention. He learned easily that my Lord Manchester's quarters were at the sun and saw with a glad relief his brother turned into the courtyard of the Blue Bear. The marketplace was half light with the glare of lanterns and torches. And by the door of the burrow hall made hospital for the hour's need grave-browed nurses stood waiting for the first convoy of wounded. There was one who was Colonel Stowe turned from the bridge and rode into the light, gave a strange choked cry of alarm and caught her breast. It is nothing, it is nothing she gasped as the others turned to her. The tiny shooting pain, it is gone, it is past. She was Joan Normandy. Colonel Stowe heard her cry and the murmuring voice and was most careful not to see her. But the heart in him beat queerly. Some tone in that cry troubled him. And Joan Normandy thanked God that he had not heard and gazed after him wide-eyed and white, trembling. He frightened her with a wild hope. He wore the Puritan tokens, the Puritan colors, and still she dared not let herself believe that he had given himself to her faith. That were too great a joy. But he was near, he was near, and her blood surged quick and she strained after him. Colonel Stowe, brazen enough, rode up to the door of the sun, my Lord Manchester's inn, dismounted and gave his horse in charge to one of the lads of the town who gaped about the doorway. The moment he stood and with swift eye considered the position. My Lord Manchester had no more guard than a single sentry at his door. The marketplace had a hundred tiny crowns of soldier and citizen all chattering together. But there was not so much as a sergeant's guard under arms. It promised well. Colonel Stowe turned by the broad gateway to the sun. He approached the sentry with a flattering air of confidence. Hark ye, brother, where will I find the captain of the guard? The sentry permitted himself to grin.  Nay, said Colonel Stowe. I have an unreasonable kindness for it. Then keep yourself away from Captain Billy Vaughn, said the sentry. Colonel Stowe scratched his nose. There is doubtless, some one more amiable, he suggested. And if so, there be, said the sentry, looking excessively wise, why should I tell you? Colonel Stowe put his hand in his pocket. The sentry grinned more broadly. Colonel Stowe was relieved to find someone corruptible in this righteous army. The shilling passed. Do axed for Sergeant Bill Willie. He'll not be far from the tap. Colonel Stowe proceeded, following the smell of liquor, not indeed in the tap. Least discipline should be shamed. But with an easy reach of it, he found a red round man, with a sergeant's orange scarf on his buff coat. Sergeant Willie, Quothe, and the round man wheezed. May I speak with you? Surely, said Sergeant Willie. Shall we crack a quart first? Surely, said Sergeant Willie and grinned, if you pay for it. Colonel Stowe remarked to himself that my Lord Manchester's quarters had a different atmosphere from the rest of the army. He drew Sergeant Willie away to a corner, and they burled their noses and tankards of the oldest October. Then, tis a little affair of my own, says Colonel Stowe mysteriously. I am a trooper of iron-tons, and when the malignates charged us to-day, I had the luck to win one of their standards by a thrust in the short ribs. While the standard, my quarter-master saith, he sent to my Lord here. But I have found a low fellow of Cromwell's regiment swears there was but one taken to-day, and he took it.  What have you here? There is but one brought in, my bully, a thing of a red lion with a yellow dog that yelps at him. Tis the true likeness of mine, cried Colonel Stowe, in an ingenuous rage. Verily, I will chastise that vain boaster with whips and with scorpions. Prithee, sir, help me to a sight of this, that I may know it, and be sure. I would not likely make strife in the army of the Lord. O faith, if you are for swinging one of Cromwell's varlots, none of my Lord's men will balk you. I'll help you to the rag, my bully. Follow on, and good luck to your quarrel. Follow on. He led the way up to a disorderly guard room where half a dozen troopers lulled and snored and drank. He took from a corner the tattered standard and shook it out carelessly. It was stiff with blood. There is the ugly rag he said with a sneer of a laugh at it and flung it down on the floor. Colonel Stowe's eyes flashed. The soul of Sergeant Willie annoyed him. Is that yours, my buck? Quoth Sergeant Willie, and stirred the blood-stained folds with his foot. Colonel Stowe picked it up with a gentle care and spread it wider, drawing back with that pretense to the door. Yes, it is mine, he said gravely, and, on the word, smote Sergeant Willie down with his staff and darted out, slamming the door. He took the stairs in a leap. He rushed across the courtyard, shouts a rose behind him, and the heavy thud of the troopers halt there, sees him, sees him, a malignant sees him, and under the gateway a man did sees him. Colonel Stowe found himself gazing closely into a red fleshy face from which gray eyes flashed pale. It was Cromwell himself. Colonel Stowe put the staff of the standard between General Cromwell's legs and, flinging himself forward, upset General Cromwell and broke away. The sentry drove a pike at him and he slipped beneath the thrust and leaped to his saddle. Men ran to snatch out his bridle, but he drove his spurs and the horse bounded forward, hurling them down. One of Cromwell's escort had time to reign round in his path, but the staff of the standard emptied the saddle like a lance and Colonel Stowe crashed across the market while the little crowd of chatterers fled out of his way. He stood up in his stirrups. For the king, he shouted, for the king, and so sped away from the half-light of the marketplace into the bloom.  Her bosom surged high and her cheeks were hot. She was alive with a strange joy. She was keenly, fiercely glad of his deed and proud.  He was her hero of the springtime and unlike him among men.  He conquered the impossible. It was good, it was good to give her heart to him. Not then, nor for many an hour, did she think to weep that his deeds were for her foes, that he was pledged still to another faith, another love. He was fearless and strong and great. While she toiled that night through to ease the pain of the wounded, her soul was singing a strange melody. Colonel Stowe was heartily anxious as he broke away through the dark streets. He could hear Cromwell's troopers behind him and he did not know the town. Only he meant to get out of it on the side remote from the armies. By the turn of the road to Hungerford, two Puritans caught him up and he heard the whirl of their wheel locks and struck out behind him with the full length of the standard. He hit something, the shots went wild and he had time for his sword before they closed. He drew rain sharply and they were borne by him before they were aware. Then from behind he came at them with the point and one went down over the horse's head and the wild blows of the other but grazed down his arm as he was away again. Still the other pressed after him and he thundered through the peace of the country night watching the hedge-rows. At last he saw a meadow clear from the road to the river and rained short off. One quick scurry over the turf and his horse took the water. The Puritans had their fill. They halted steaming horses and trained their pistols for him. But it was an ill shot for wheel likes in the gloom and the balls whistled far wide. Colonel Stowe rose on the farther bank and waved the standard round his head, shouting, for the king, for the king. Wet and ragged, his face splashed with blood, he came back to his regiment. It was mustering for retreat. Major Steward, enjoying himself in command, received his colonel with no affection of pleasure. Oh, rot me, says he. I swore you had gone over to the other side. It may surprise you, said Colonel Stowe sweetly, but you spoke the truth. If I ever knew what you meant, Major Steward grumbled, it would be better for both of us. Who knows, said Colonel Stowe. Well, I had to fetch something. Major, will you send that to Prince Rupert with the duty of Colonel Stowe's regiment? By the Lord, said Major Steward, very slowly, it is Cleveland's standard. Your surprise does not flatter me, said Colonel Stowe. End of Chapter 20, recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas. Chapter 21 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 Barry Eads. Colonel Greatheart by H.C. Bailey, Chapter 21. Colonel Stowe keeps the peace. Through the darkness, the King's army defiled past the front of my Lord Manchester's position and took the road for Oxford. My Lord Manchester was kind enough to neglect so fair a chance of attack, for which he was after mightily blamed. But it seems likely that at the moment of opportunity, my Lord Manchester had enough to do in bracing himself against a torrent of reproaches from the Lieutenant General, who loved him hourly less. So the weary Cavaliers made away north over grey uphill roads the long night through. Not till dawn did they dare stay for a Bivouac. On the reverse of the hills beyond Isley, the campfires broke against the first blue light and worn-out men slept where they fell. Colonel Stowe and his officers, gathered round a fire, looked at one another queerly through the pungent smoke. There was silence. The Suttler brought them cheese and biscuit and a jar of ale. Well, gentlemen, says Colonel Stowe, beginning to munch. There was some matter of a duelo, I think. Have you made your election? Which of you have I the honor to meet? Major Dick Stewart swore pensively at creation. Then there was silence again. Colonel Stowe shrugged. The next move is yours, gentlemen, said he, and went on with his cheese. Split me, said Major Stewart, and for a while expressed no other desire. Colonel Stowe, munching placidly, felt their eyes converge upon him. I cannot conceal that he was subject to vanity. Then, how a meringue can we fight you? The Major blurted out. If you'll fight the man that did best today, fight yourself.  I profess I have a cruel tongue. I ask pardon, Colonel, and salute you de bon cure. No cavalier can do more. And from the rest, who despised Captain Sedley's gift of words, there was a gruff muttering. Colonel Stowe was ready to make repentance easy. No need for so much, gentlemen, said he quickly, and stretched out his hand to Major Stewart. The truth is, I was only seeking the right to keep peace with you. The truth is, growled Major Stewart, you are beyond us, and we be fools. Split me, we be fools. The other gentlemen had not the same zeal and confession, but they did not deny it. It was a holy frame of mind. I foresee that we shall be a happy regiment, gentlemen, said Colonel Stowe. They looked some doubt of living up to his emotions. If only we had more beer, he said sadly, and won all their hearts. They guffawed affectionately, in the midst of which, vague through the smoky light, a large man came stalking to them. There was no mistaking the palentine. Colonel Stowe, he called out, and with Colonel Stowe, the officers scrambled to their feet. I've come for a share of your cheese, gentlemen, says he, and squatted down by their fire.  I'll swear you get the best provan in the army, Jerry Stowe. Mine is maggots, said he. Our settler is the best thief in the army, said Colonel Stowe, with modest pride. Then I shall hang him to encourage the others. He would certainly steal the rope, sir. Prince Rupert's eyes grew keen. Did he steal that standard? Oh, sir, he has no time for trifles. Consider this excellent ale, which I do trust never belong to your highness. It does now, said his highness, after an admirable quotation, and I defy your settler, but we are going to talk of that standard, my friend. Your highness will find the beer vastly more interesting. His highness finished the beer and remarked that it had no more interest. Now, my friend, who won that standard back? My regiment had the honor to present it to your highness. Your highness will be good enough to give the credit to the regiment.   I beg your highness to count it the gift of the whole regiment, and to believe you wrong, no man in thanking all. Hull and Donner, are you to order my conduct? Cried the palentine, who won the thing and how? If your highness considers the deed worth any advancement, it should be for Major Stuart here. Hang me if you need be so anxious to rob a man of his laurels, said Rupert with a sneer. Tis a cursed, mean spirit, and here, here, spluttered Major Stuart. Odd rot me, this is all topsy-turvy. Twas the colonel himself took the thing. I would be boiled before I went hawking among the iron sides. Rupert turned upon colonel's stole. Now, what a pox is this play for? Said he, with some irritation. Faith, I did take the thing, twas purely for the honor of the regiment, and I beg your highness to give your thanks to Major Stuart, to whom I owe a debt, for commanding where he might command. Humph, Rupert frowned at him. You will be so very kind as to tell me a little simple truth. It shall be purely bald, said colonel's stole, and made his tail so. But before the end of it, Rupert was clapping him on the shoulder and guffawing tumultuously. I would give my garter, he gassed, to have seen noel Cromwell on his hindor end. When all was told, he was some while in growing grave. Then, Faith, you ought to have been a knight errant, said he, and what the devil am I to do for you? Colonel's stole looked at his major. Ah, I know! And rising he gripped hands with both of them. Major Stuart was more red than nature. He grunted profusely, staring at his colonel. You made me cursed uncomfortable, said he. That is the whole matter of the standard, which, as Colonel Royston said, was neither war nor business. There are more moral people than he who admire it but little. Some of good judgment who sneer at Colonel's stole for his pains. Doubtless, there was a gaudy vanity in it all. But if you have no mercy for that, you will not understand Colonel's stole, nor why some men and women loved him strangely. End of Chapter 21. Chapter 22 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 22. Lovers' Meeting. So with no great loss, yet with no great glory, the King's army won back at Oxford. They had fought a tiresome campaign and ended it no better off than they began. There were some gentlemen, like Colonel Stroisey, of the artillery, who began to make ready for a change. The longer the war, the better the Puritan chance of victory, for the King had no money. Oxford welcomed his army with no exuberant gaiety, and even my Lord Germain's splendors were something bedraggled. But Colonel Stowe never permitted himself to borrow other people's despair. There was a lilt in his walk as he went through the snowshowers of a December morning to wait on Lucinda. She gave herself to his arms and came from them rosy, with sparkling eyes. Then, as he held her away to look at her, he was aware of an elegant morning robe, black and silver. Black became Lucinda's richness well. He was swiftly grave. You have had some lost child? My mother, said Lucinda calmly. It was hard for her to leave the manor. She never had much strength after. Colonel Stowe frowned at her. He felt a discord. I am most sorry, he said gravely. I do not know, said Lucinda. She had not been happy. I never remember her happy. Colonel Stowe repented of a rash censure.  Lucinda laughed. Oh, I, she and I were not much to each other, you know. Colonel Stowe took his hand away. She was kind to us, he said, with a shade of reproof in his tone. Was she, said Lucinda? I never knew her kind or unkind to anyone. Yes, she was like that. I do not think she was fond of life. Colonel Stowe felt a harsher discord. You are not troubled by much regret, he said severely. Why should I pretend? Colonel Stowe turned away from her to the window and looked out at the whirling snow. She heard him. He believed in tenderness and the emotions. He was of those who find the worth of man or woman in tears.  He struggled to convince himself she was not callous. He came to her.  I am stupid, I think. Indeed, I seek to keep you from sorrow. I am not afraid, said Lucinda. Indeed, sir, I think I never was afraid of anything but you. Her eyes grew dark and intent. You know too much of me, she said. I would know all to love it better. Lucinda laughed. I wonder, and I wonder if I know all of you. I need no better love, at least. That may be, she said gravely, then tossing back her curls. Well, sir, and what great deeds have you brought me back from the wars? This note was true to Colonel Stowe's taste. He smiled at last. I tell myself I have not done unworthily. There was gaiety in Lucinda's laugh. She had never been blind to Colonel Stowe's vanity and liked him for it the better. Tell me a score of the finest deeds, said she, settling herself in a deluctable pose on her cushions. I have made a rabble into a regiment and gentlemen of the tavern into officers. Lucinda yawned. It is doubtless more glorious than amusing. And they adore me for it. But why should I? Nay, heaven forbid, you should adore me. I fear it has, said Lucinda. I am content. It has bidden you love. Why, sir, there was indeed compulsion. Her eyes sparkled wickedness. But weather of heaven, well, it is not maidenly to think so. Faith, I belong to this world, Colonel Stowe admitted, but I think you are not all of another, neither.  After a while, I believe you play with me because you have nothing to boast of, she said. I have no skill in boasting, said Colonel Stowe, and doubtless believed it. But there is something to tell. And he began the exploit of the standard. It was the iron sod himself that grappled me, but I sat him down to disconsole it. The sentry at the gate advanced his pike at me, but I made under that and flung myself up in the saddle. There was one of Noel's men in my way, and I gave him the standard butt like a major's lance, and he was down too, and I was away at speed through the town. Noel's men made after me, and there was a small affair with a pair of them, for which one is now sorry before I got a chance to break to the river. We swam that with the pistols blazing always behind us, but the round heads would not bathe, and I came easily to the army and sent the standard back to the Palantine with the compliments of the regiment. He had his reward. Lucinda's breath came fast and her eyes shone for him. Her hands were close clenched. I am glad. I am glad, she cried. Yes. And what did Prince Rupert send you back? Colonel Stowe laughed. And oath or so. She sat erect in fears. Why, you see, I was more modest with him than with you and would not tell him whose the deed was. But you did. There was a hard sharp ring in her voice that he did not know. Yes, he looked his surprise at her. Faith, yes, and he chuckled. I told him and begged him give the reward to Fat Stuart, the major. He laughed happily. The boy's magnificence of it and his own naive vanity brought him pure joy.  You make everything like a boy's game. Colonel Stowe opened his eyes. Why, yes, all the world is a boy's game if you make it so. I am a woman, said Lucinda. No man will ever complain of that. Will you give me only a boy? He came close beside her. Is that all I am, he said in a low voice and slipped his arm about her. But she broke away.  How fine I am. I believe you think of nothing but making yourself a fool's hero of mad romance. What kind of man is it that longs and strives to be like mad coyote? You are so vain of it as a girl of her gown. Colonel Stowe flushed. He felt a pitiless truth about some of that and it troubled him. Tis so, in fact, dear, said he with a doleful laugh. I am something of a peacock. In the name of heaven, do not be me, cried Lucinda. This is not to be born.  Why, Colonel Stowe protested, all I have is mighty anxious to take care of me. What help is it then? You do a rare great deed and get nothing for it. You care only to look the coyote and cry, nay, pay another, not me. I am above such gods. But I have no patience for it. I despise a man that is afraid to be greedy. Colonel Stowe shrugged. I am afraid of many things. I have never denied it. And you pretend strength to me. Colonel Stowe looked in her eyes. Yes, he said. She started up.  It is not real. It is all words and a show. Do you know? Do you know? You are making yourself no more than a romance book for me. What worth is there in all you have done? How are you the better? What have you won by it? If you do not know, I cannot tell you, Madame. I detest your loftiness. Colonel Stowe bowed. I shall try to get more. Lucinda stamped her foot. Do you seek to put me in a passion against you? I hope I may never give you better reason, said Colonel Stowe.  Let it rest. Faith, I cannot afford to be at war with you. I am in no temper for peace, said Lucinda. When in a little while Colonel Stowe left her, his hand was at his chin and his brow furrowed. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 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 23. Lucinda Weeps. The court had a wintry melancholy. Its pride was decaying. The assurance of triumph that never came was enfeebled. Queen Henrietta, who expected a child, was out of spirits and there was a notable scarcity of money. It would have been disloyal to affect gaiety and impossible when one's jewels were sold. Colonel Royston compared the assembly in Merton Hall to birds at the molting time. So harsh were their voices, so stale their finery. Colonel Royston had a grim pleasure in the exhibition till he came upon one who excelled the rest in gloom, yet escaped the ridiculous. It was Lucinda. While he bowed, he sneered at himself as a fool for seeing her. Lucinda did not speak, but there was appeal in her eyes. Royston felt himself flush. I have to offer my regrets, madame, he said with a gesture to her mourning gown. My mother. Colonel Royston bowed again. Will you give me escort home? She said listlessly. There is no one else. Royston laughed. You flatter me. And he made a way for her through the crowd. Lucinda was of better fortune than some. She had still a coach. Colonel Royston handed her in and showed no zeal to follow. She leaned back with a shrug and a careless, as you will. Colonel Royston came in beside her. They were jolted up by St. Aldates. It was not possible to avoid the touch of her shoulder, her perfume. But she showed no interest in Colonel Royston, and he looked at her black and then was surprised, not all cynical, at her listless brow. He was not able to believe in a mourning Lucinda. And yet she was no creature of affectation. You are not inspiring, madame, said he. No I find, said Lucinda with a quick light in her eyes. I suppose I am not inflammable, Colonel Royston sneered. She had a trick of waking the brutality in him. I was not thinking of you, said Lucinda carelessly. Colonel Royston did not miss the inference. It was Colonel Stowe who failed to answer to her desires. He could easily believe it. And he felt some contempt for both of them, for Lucinda, because she was not high enough to be content with his friend, and for his friend, because he did not satisfy Lucinda's need. I always found Jerry asked an uncomfortable virtue of me, he admitted with a grin. I do not know why you should sneer. She looked at him with grave questioning eyes. I am made for it. Poor creature, said Lucinda. The coach drew up at her door in Hollywood. He was punctilious in handing her out. With her hand still in his she checked and turned. Will it please you to come in? I am not amusing, madame. She gave a queer, scornful laugh. Oh, if you are afraid, and passed on. But Colonel Royston, who, unlike his friend, conceived himself afraid of nothing, followed her close. He stood over her while she held out her hands to the fire, and its light fell on her neck. I wonder, do you ever want more of a woman than she had? Colonel Royston laughed, always, and therefore took nothing. I wonder, does a woman always disappoint a man? Unless he is a fool, Royston assured her. She leaned her head full back to look up at him. The light laughed about her breast. And the man, he always disappoints the woman, perhaps? She said in a low voice. If he has disappointed you, said Colonel Royston with grim emphasis, I do not admire your desires. She bent to the fire again. She was silent so long that Royston changed his place to see her fall. Her eyes were glistening, her cheeks jeweled with tears. Humpf, you are not proud of yourself, either, it seems. She looked up fierce. No one but you has ever made me do this, she cried, and roughly brushed the tears away. She started to her feet and faced him. It is true, I am ashamed. I would to God I were fit for him, but there is more. I want more. She caught Royston's arm. You know me, there is a wild blood in you, too. I am what I am. Colonel Royston tried to laugh. Something of the tiger, I think.  Would you tame me? No, Faith. You would make me as wild as yourself. I wonder if you could be. She laughed and tried to draw her arm away. I can be greedy, said Royston, gripping the other two. He looked down at her with a smile of no gaiety. And I could starve you, Lucinda laughed, leaning away from him so that her weight hung on his hands. You would not try. La, you for pride. I can conceive you tiresome as chains. They would grip all of you. That is what I doubt. Or fear? She faltered a moment. There was a faint blush on her neck. Nay, Faith, I fear nothing. She cried gaily, and laughing at him drew away. Is that my charm? Yes, so that a man wants to make you afraid. Alack, poor man, she laughed. Oh, it would be amusing for him, said Colonel Royston in measured tones. His brows were bent upon her. But if I made him fear instead? That is the damnable challenge of you. She clapped her hands. I knew. You are afraid already. Colonel Royston laughed. You are vain, madame. She flung her arms wide and stood so in the best of her beauty. Have I not the right? Nay, but I am not vain. That is little and calm. I am sure of myself. That is why I laughed at Colonel Royston. And she made him a splendid mocking curtsy. And what do you want of him, pray? Royston looked down at her with a grim smile. The joy of a fight, sir. And a defeat? She laughed. There was a baffling mystery in her eyes. Do you think you move me as I move you? There is other strength than a woman, said Colonel Royston in a low voice. His eyes were blazing. I know no other, said Lucinda, facing him full. Colonel Royston made one stride to her, flung a hard arm about her, and gripped her neck. Crushing the slim whiteness of it in his big, bronze tan, he bore her head back and bent over her. She was quivering and hot in his grasp, but her eyes brave still. This is nothing, nothing, a bore's strength, your body's strength. Is that all?  You know. And his grasp grew fiercer. She was helpless utterly in that heavy power and knew it. She laughed reckless. But the laugh broke suddenly, and she was pale. Her eyes stared wide. While he watched, his arm fell lax, and he let her go. They stood apart, gazing steadily at each other. Then Lucinda gave a little laugh of no joy. We frighten ourselves, I think. Colonel Royston did not deny it. He gazed at her still a long while silent, then caught up his cloak and strode out. CHAPTER XXIV THE HOME OF LOST CAUSES Matthew Mark Luke complained of everything, but chiefly of a nutshell. Everything was wrong, and the latter had hit his nose, a spot where dignity is apt to reside. Matthew Mark rubbed the offended nose and looked round with indignation for the offender. You would laugh more if you could always see yourself. It was a girl's voice that came through the window of a tiny pastry shop. The owner leaned out to him over her wares, and Matthew Mark found a wholesome rosy face cheek-to-cheek with his. He started back.  Matthew Mark shook his head at her. Be miserable also, Madam Umzell, it is your duty. Your dinner has fallen out with you? My dinner never falls out with me, said Matthew Mark with indignation. I am the best cook in England. Oh, dear, says the girl while Matthew Mark was pruning himself.  A woman can cook. Matthew Mark made a gesture of despair. If you can believe a batisse like that, you can believe this country a place to be happy in. He approached her pastry with a supercilious eye and helped himself to a semnel cake. The oven was not hot, says he on the first mouthful. If you want something light, why do you eat semnel? Quote she, if you want to be a man, why do you be a cook? I am also a soldier, said Matthew Mark with dignity. Which makes you look so green. It is your country, your bilious country, said Matthew Mark. Bah!  You never know what you want.  Whereas remark me, Madam Umzell, your proper soup should be a gladsome farce, your battle a noble tragedy.  You never mean anything. Sure, but I do, says the girl. I mean to make love to you. Matthew Mark recoiled. What a brave cook! Consider my modesty, Matthew Mark protested. Ludd, if I do without it, cannot you? You are a sweet thing of a man.  Madam Umzell, said Matthew Mark, you do not appreciate me. I am of a melancholic genius. The girl again flicked a nutshell at his nose. That is not a reply, said Matthew Mark. That's just what it is, said the girl. It makes you feel what you are, silly. Of what profit is it to me to feel silly, Matthew Mark inquired? When you feel silly, you'll be happy, said the girl. I know. I would rather not, said Matthew Mark sincerely. The girl pulled a face at him. That's you, said she, but you do it always. Matthew Mark made a magnificent gesture. I am too noble a nature to be happy.  Do you like me now?  Again Matthew Mark recoiled. He coughed. You look healthy, he said, with no enthusiasm. I never knew a man so slow with a woman, the girl pouted.  She put her hands on her hips and laughed without reserve. Matthew Mark swore in French, it was now he who leaned towards her, at which moment a fist was inserted between his ribs. Ha! Wickedness! Wickedness! said a jovial voice, and Matthew Mark turned in emotion to discover the roundness of Alcibiade, who shook his head sorrowfully. Oh, my evangelist! Matthew Mark retreated without dignity, blushing and muttering. Then Alcibiade entered the pastry shop. My bet, says the girl, laughing still, you owe me a shilling.  I would have had but for you. Alcibiade shook his head at her. I fear you have been forward, Molly. Go as forward as yourself, quote Molly, with a toss of her head. So bad is that, said Alcibiade, and thought he made her blush. But the truth is, Oxford was more in the temper of Matthew Mark than Alcibiade. The Cavaliers had come at last to misdoubt their fortune. They made no more scapegoats. It was not Rupert whom they condemned, but themselves. Heart and hope had gone out of them. They were not truly ready to yield. Both of them liked death better than that, but few had any faith in victory. It was no blame to them. There was no soul in their cause. Their forlorn Melancholy King was not one for whom a man might be content to die. He stirred none to a quicker life. Pity he won in devotion. He could not give a conquering zeal. Indeed he gave nothing to any man. He asked of all.  There have been armies without clothes or food or pay or store of weapons, yet have beaten down the best provided foes. But the King's army felt its lack and was afraid. It had been hard enough to make head against the Puritans when their generals were blunderers and all their regiments out of gear. Now there was a new model, and all the old Dalyan leaders were done away. Sir Thomas Fairfax and Iron Side Cromwell, the conquerors of Marstonmore, had command. Only Oxford could feel the change. The Puritan armies were drawing straight bonds about the town. Only the road to the west was open still. By each other way the foraging parties broke in vain about the Puritan outpost. If they dared an attack they found a new strength against them. They were as children fighting with men. Cromwell and Fairfax had given the fierce Puritan zeal all it needed, the strength of discipline and sheer command. So within Oxford there was desolation. All the parasites of wealth were fled, all the ministers of gaiety. The court, said Rupert, is a damned diurnal funeral. Who went there still were the King's most affectionate friends and gay as himself. Queen Henrietta was in no case to cheer them. Her one desire was to win a happier town than Oxford. The few faded courtiers, the quadrangles were now she saw little but weather-beaten soldiers over through her spirits. The very age of the place, stern and austere in its gray crumbling walls, tis my Lord Germain's judgment, affected her miserably. She was passionate to be gone. My Lord Germain found her a reason not all unworthy. He persuaded her that there was danger in Oxford and it was plainly right that her child should be born to safety. So Queen Henrietta fled away to the west and by her flight quickened fear. If Oxford itself were not safe, what used to battle more? It was the bitter day of springtime when she was born away. Colonel Stowe and Colonel Royston, walking in the meadows by Osny, watched the scant company. Rupert had spared her a squadron not his best and she had a company of the Kingsguard. Her coach was in the midst and she huddled in a corner of it and peered out through the misty windows with the face of a Peavey's child. Colonel Royston turned away with a shrug. It she has sensed, Jerry. As much as a butterfly, what else should a woman be?  Look at your mane riding by as happy as a wet cat. Happier than we, growled Colonel Royston. He is out of it. Colonel Stowe linked arms with his friend. What is wrong, George? Said he gently. Zounds, what is right? This fool king is sinking and we shall be drowned with him. Bah! We never believe and defeat, George. It is a damned lost cause. And if it were, are we to be afraid to fail? By heaven, we shall show the world we know how to lose as well as how to win. I am not a play actor, growled Colonel Royston. I do not know how to lose.  Colonel Stowe dropped his arm and stood away. Do you know what you have said? And stand to it by God, said Colonel Royston, and walked on.  His face was paled and troubled. George, he said in a low voice, and after a moment Royston turned. If we have asked too much of you, if you have given up too much for us, what can a man say? Forgive me, we can be friends still. Colonel Royston laughed. Zounds, I am already too much your friend. I, and too much hers, more do. I thank God for it, said Colonel Stowe, solemnly. Do you so, said Colonel Royston, and laughed again. Together, silent, they came back to the town, and just beyond the powder mill hit upon Colonel Streuze. Who, resplundant still while others had faded, inserted himself between them. You are not rejoicing my braves, said he, grinning at their glum faces. So, what did I tell you?  It is more amusing. I might guess it more profitable, said Colonel Royston, glancing at his finery. Colonel Streuze laughed. She is a hungry one. So said Molly of the cake shop, as she watched Lucinda go by. I have thought that Molly, who was a person of breath in many ways, may have understood Lucinda better than the men who burned for her. Molly, who had a greedy curiosity, knew all her history and was not bitter against her. Indeed, Fortune mocked a Lucinda. Had her father lived and the old order endured, or had a man won her to the Puritan side, she might have had the power that her soul needed. But with each turn of fortune, she was despoiled, and she bore it hard. Doubtless her life was gray enough, the court was dead, Oxford was naked of women. She had no gaiety, no friends, no resource but herself. Seek other home she could not. What friends she had were harried by the Puritans, even as her own manner lay in the Puritan power. She was not born for restraint. She raged against the barriers of life. Molly, the pastry girl, pronounced her fit for a queen and nothing else. Certainly there was something of nobility in her, for she could not sit down to be content with unhappiness. She set herself to new plans. She was well pleased on a day when she saw Colonel Stowe come to her with a grave face. He had long been offensively happy. When he only kissed her hand she pouted. My dear, Tis good to be with you, says he with a sigh. Faith, Tis advised to be content with so little. Nay, this is my greatest joy, dear. Is it? says Lucinda doffily. There was a full yard between them. What more do I need? said Colonel Stowe. Lucinda gave a ruthless laugh. Nothing it would seem, and she looked at him with comical despair. And you, dear? He took her hand delicately. Her eyes glowed, her lips called to him. He caught her in his arms. And then, says Lucinda to his ear. I fear, quote Colonel Stowe releasing her, that I did not shine. If you had more impudence, sir, you would be happier. You also? Oh, you improve! she laughed. There is much in good example. When she was again breathless. You see, said Colonel Stowe, Tis dangerous to be kind. And Faith, how have I earned it now? For you have been cold a long while, dear. You were looking unhappy, said Lucinda, and he was grave again. She laid her hand on his shoulder. Tell me, then, what is amiss? I am troubled about George. I brought him here, and here there is no place for him. He is in the right to reproach me. Lucinda was silent a while. Indeed, I think we are all of the wrong side here. Colonel Stowe shrugged. She took his hand in both of hers. Tell me, truly, do you believe the king can conquer? Truly! and her eyes compelled him. I tried to believe, and I doubt, said Colonel Stowe. Then why, why, why? She was passionately eager. Why should you stay with him? What bond is there? He has done nothing for you. You have served him too well and win nothing. And the others, if you go to them in time, you should be worth much to them. By heaven, you cannot think what you say, cried Colonel Stowe. What? Break my oath and my honor?  I do see clear, she said quietly. That is why. You care no more for one cause than the other. You were ready for either when I brought you here. Now we know the king as he is. A melancholy fool with no mind nor heart. What hope of him? Who can believe in him? Nay, what strength has he left? What is there in this dismal town? Tis the one chance for us to seek the others but times and win honor of them. Colonel Stowe had drawn aloof from her and was staring in utter amazement. Dessert? He said in a tone she did not know. You bid me that? Dessert from a losing cause? By heaven, it's the last infamy. Oh, I cannot endure your coyotry, she cried. You must be always strutting and posing, though you bring yourself to ruin and all those that care for you. Then suddenly she changed her tone. Nay, you think me hard, but I swear it is for you. They have no fit honor for you here. They give you no work, no chance, and you could be great. Dear, for your honor and mine you must seek a better cause. It was well done. I protest she believed each word and they were with power for Colonel Stowe. He bent and kissed her hand. Dear, forgive me. You love me too well, I think. Indeed, in all I do, I have no desire but your honor, and tis my great pride that your honor is mine too.  Nay, but there is still goodly work for me here. I come to you from Prince Rupert, who hath chosen me for a thing I like. There is a great convoy of powder and arms coming from Bristol, and if it falls to the Puritans, we are sped. All the roads are dangerous now, since the Ironside is posted at Abingdon. Rupert trusts me to ride to Whitney and bring it safe. He was smiling, pleased as a boy that has won the prize at the Poppingjay. Faith it will need some soldiering, a task very fit for me, sweetheart. But Lucinda was grave enough. If it falls to the Puritans, that is the end, she repeated. Here is the fortune of your life, then. Colonel Stowe laughed. Why, Tissa, worthy employee, dear, no more, but one is glad to be chosen. Oh, yes, I am glad you are chosen, she said, looking at him strangely. Dear, it is good to work for you. You can work for me now. I, Faith, there shall be laurels for you. Oh, we'll hurry the round-head yet. She drew in her breath, gazing at him, silent intent. Can you not see, she said in a low voice, if this convoy means so much, go you to the Puritans with the tidings and help them take it. What will they not do for the man that ends the war? Colonel Stowe stared up. Lucinda, you, my God, what devil is in you? Tis a base traitorous infamy. You have not thought. You cannot mean it. I mean that a man should fight for himself, cried Lucinda. What have they given? What can they give you here? What can you offer me but ruin? I tell you I will not bear it. If you would win me, win a fit place for me. Fit place? The place of a mean traitor whom all men loathe? Would you have me that? Would you mate me with such a one? In God's name, think again, you cannot be so mad. So what words are there? I have thought, said Lucinda calmly. Have I been easy and happy all this while, seeing you in no honor and our cause falling to dust? Yes, I have thought often. If you would have me, you must make me a place. There is nothing to be won here. Nothing, you know it. Madame, there is honor to be won if no honors, said Colonel Stowe. I am in no mood for your prettiness, Lucinda cried. Look you now. Here is occasion to your hand. You may go to the round heads with a great prize. You can make terms for high fortune there. We are so set that the chance cannot come again. Trader, you say? Who dares call a man a traitor if he has power? You can win it, if you will. Choose. I would lose you and lose all sooner, said Colonel Stowe. He was white to the lips. Lucinda smiled. You have done it, she said. No, by heaven, it cannot be. He knelt on one knee beside her and caught her hands and crushed them in his. They were cold. My love, my love, you must not fail yourself so. You who are very queen of life and strength. You cannot yield to what's base. Dear, be true. What is fame or power if true men despise you? Who cares if all fails here? We have our honor still and our love, and we are lords of life. Lucinda laughed again. Mad Coyote. Silly Mad Coyote, she said. Goodbye. Colonel Stowe looked at her a long time. His lips were trembling and she mocked at him. He rose unsteadily and went out like a blind man.