Colonel Greatheart

  Colonel Greatheart

  THE LIBRARY OF CLASSICAL HISTORICAL FICTION

  Blow the dust off the pages of history! The 1873 Press is pleased to bring you thousands of lost treasures from the golden age of historical fiction from the early 19th century to the early 20th comprises.

  For as long as novels have been written, readers have thrilled to delve into the past through the pages of fiction. Usually written as serials for scores of publications, these tales were the popular entertainment medium of their time, much as television is today, crafted to lift their audience above their ordinary existence with exotic locales, heroic deeds, and driving narrative. Hundreds of authors, many of them still household names, learned their craft by mixing documented events, period detail, and liberal measures of imagination. Napoleon and Josephine, Oliver Cromwell, Robespierre, Dick Turpin,the greatest highwayman of all time—these and innumerable other names and the events that they shaped emerged from history as full-blooded characters in stories of intrigue, crime, passion, and adventure, with supporting casts of swashbucklers, cavaliers, courtesans, dutiful servants, dedicated ministers, and many others.

  Yet, for more than a hundred years, most of these volumes have been unavailable. Until now. The editors of the 1873 Press have gathered a unique collection, and utilizing the newest publishing technology, it is our privilege to bring these books to modern readers in a variety of printed and electronic formats at prices anyone can afford.

  Now you can own your own copies of these long-lost works. Join us in relishing every word of the exciting lives and struggles of famous, infamous, and forgotten men and women.

  Welcome to unforgettable reading.

  Henry Christopher Bailey (1875-1961) is a writer who honed his craft by writing historical novels before going onto much greater fame in another genre. Born in London, he was educated at the City of London School, and studied classics at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. His first book was a historical novel, My Lady of Orange, published in 1901 while he was still an undergraduate. In 1901 he joined the staff of the Daily Telegraph, where he served as drama critic, war correspondent, and lead writer until 1946. Bailey's talent, intelligence, and scholarship are all prominently displayed in his historical fiction.

  A decade after he made his mark in historical fiction, he went on to a second writing career with the publication of the detective novelCall Mr. Fortune in 1919, and became one of England's greatest practitioners of detective fiction when interest in the genre was at its early peak. His style was distinctive enough to have influenced a generation of detective writers, known informally asThe Bailey School.

  This is an unusual story of the English Civil War. There is a good account of the Battle of Newbury, and many historic figures appear: Cromwell (very prominent), Ireton, Prince Rupert, Charles I, Fairfax, and Lambert.

  The setting for this tale of men and arms is taken from the stirring days of the Cavaliers and the Roundheads, of Puritans and the so-called malignants; but the machines of war are rather in the background, while in the spotlight is a witching woman, a conqueror of hearts and a marker of destinies.The story tells of a woman’s ambition that “urges valiant men to perilous deeds.”

  Read what the critics had to say about Colonel Stow.

  "A particularly good story." W.M. Payne, Dial November 1, 1908.

  "A story of spirit, sure to hold the reader to the last page. It is a pity that Mr. Bailey should have seen fit to burden it with a comic French cook and an Italian groom who delay the action without a compensating return of amusement." New York Times October 24, 1908.

  Colonel Greatheart

  H. C. Bailey

  1873 Press

  First Published 1908

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Published in the United States by 1873 Press, New York.

  1873 Press and colophon are trademarks of Barnes & Noble, Inc.

  Book Design by Ericka O'Rourke, Elm Design

  www.elmdesign.com

  Contents

  How The World Looked Then

  The Lady Lepe Meets Twin Brethren

  The Impertinence of Joan Normandy

  The Inspiration of Colonel Stow

  Colonel Stow Sees his Inspiration

  My Lady Lepe Takes off Her Petticoats

  A Person of Importance

  Colonel Stow is Again Inspired

  Upon The Use if a Nose

  Concerning the Angel Uriel

  Cornet Tompkins Snaps at a Shadow

  Colonel Royston Deserts a Lady

  Colonel Stow Makes a Mistake

  Mr. Bourne is Sorry

  Colonel Royston Stays by a Lady

  "Why Come Ye Not to Court?"

  Colonel Royston Breaks his Sword

  Ingeminating Peace

  My Lord Digby Upon Woman

  Newbury Vale

  Mistress Normandy Sees a Friend

  Colonel Stow Keeps the Peace

  Lovers' Meeting

  Lucinda Weeps

  The Home of Lost Causes

  The Surprise of Lucinda

  Colonel Stow Warns his Friend

  The Lietenant-General Finds an Honest Man

  At Witney Town

  At Bablockhithe

  Colonel Stow Resolves to Laugh

  The Commissary General is Disappointed

  Lucinda is Wooed

  Joan Normandy Plays Proxy

  Lucinda is Wed

  Colonel Stow is Shown his Duty

  Colonel Rich is Interrupted

  The King Turns

  Lucinda is Again an Inspiration

  The King Looks Through his Fingers

  A Cavalier Dies

  Wife and Maid

  The Night Alarm

  Molly Proposes

  Friends

  Colonel Stow is Ready

  Lucinda is Logical

  Colonel Stow is Awaked

  A Husband or So

  Colonel Royston Delivers His Soul

  The Lieutenant-General Speaks

  The Last Inspiration of Lucinda

  Lucinda Goes Out to the Night

  Colonel Stow Knows Himself

  Colonel Stow Explains Himself

  The Master of All

  Colonel Greatheart

  Introduction

  How The World Looked Then

  JERRY STOW admired himself. He was at length doing his duty. Also his legs pleased him. Through some years he had cherished ambitions for those legs and himself, linked with unworthy circumstance. Now he was off to the wars and his legs in golden silk stockings.

  Before the first beat of manhood in his blood it had been plain to him that he was born to heroic matters. He was for alarms and great deeds and a white blaze of fame. He must plunge into world wars, must win world renown, be a sober Alexander, a Caesar of respectability. Now, with the spring storms of manhood wild in him, and its first alarming wisdom, he had persuaded even a doubting father that he was not made to work his life out easily in the fat tilth of Stoke Mandeville—was at least no use there. He was emancipated from home. He was out of the worsted and linsey and into silk and brocade. He was off to ride behind the Lion of the North and hew himself greatness out of the Austrian Papists. Dreams were coming true. His legs and his soul rejoiced. Life was delectable. And his father should be taught to take him seriously.

  There was a wild wind of spring, and blue clouds clashed in a gray sky. The daylight was pale, and across it the long rampart of hills stood dull black. Over the dark green slope that swells slowly to Akeman Street the wind smote a scattered army of trees, and roared and whistled its anthem. Old trunks of silver gray tossed their great black delicate crests to the wild music, and the poplars, lea
n boughs already gemmed with gold, trembled and swayed and cowered. Glad of his strength as the wind came Jerry Stow. His brilliant legs bore him with a lilt; nostril and eye were wide, eager of joy. He seemed even to expect it at once. The sight of Sir Godfrey Weston taking the air according to custom affected him with instant delight, for Sir Godfrey had in hand his daughter. She was then a child in her first teens, and, as I infer, can have been no more beautiful than any clean, healthy girl, but she had, doubtless even so early, gaiety and an air. Certainly she was born to be a queen and might have made no blunder of it. The least nerve of her was keenly alive. She lacked, it may be, something of a child's sweet weakness, but, if she asked you nothing, she promised much. The quick scarlet lips, her valiant eyes, the vivid touch of red in her brown hair, were apt already to make men think of their manhood. You might guess that it was no more than this child that had made an end of the boy in Jerry Stow.

  Sir Godfrey Weston, who saw many things if he did little, saw this, perhaps. There was something of the contempt that made his only amusement on the lean pallid face as he stayed before the resplendent Jerry Stow. Jerry saluted him with awkward profundity. Sir Godfrey put up one finger. The child smiled gay: "Good morrow, Jerry," says she. "Whither bound?"

  Jerry Stow saluted her all over again. "I am glad we are met, my lady," quoth he, purely red, "for I am desirous to bid you farewell."

  "'Tis a most correct sentiment, Stow," Sir Godfrey agreed.

  Jerry disliked the tone. "I am off to the wars, you must know, sir," said he with some magnificence. Sir Godfrey raised level eyebrows.

  But the child was delighted. "Truly? Like the stories you tell? And will you be long?"

  "I'll not be back in the vale, my lady," says Jerry, conscious of golden legs, "till I am somewhat more than Jerry Stow."

  Sir Godfrey yawned. He did not appear to think the ambition extravagant.

  "But I like Jerry Stow," said the child.

  Jerry Stow appeared to be in some discomfort. "I shall make him better worth liking," said he with more solemnity than the child required.

  "You are a fool, boy. Probably God will be with you. Come, Lucinda," said Sir Godfrey.

  "But I want to know," the child protested. "Do you think they will make you a prince? Or a duke, perhaps? And will you be very rich?"

  "If I live," said Jerry Stow, with his chest out, "I shall win fame. I ambition no more."

  The child looked something of a different opinion. Sir Godfrey tapped his chin. "Answer a fool according to his folly, Lucinda," says he pleasantly. "Friend fool, ambition much of the world, desire much. So shalt thou surely live miserably and in misery die. And for the hereafter, happiest are you who have known hell here."

  "If I covet honor, sir," cried Jerry Stow, "'tis in an honorable emprise. I would fight for no cause but the right."

  "There is none," said Sir Godfrey Weston with another yawn. "'God with us!' roars your Lutheran. 'In the name of the Virgin!' the Papist screams. Fool, do you think God such a fool as to trust His honor to any man? There is no cause worth a man's sorrow, none whereof the victory is well bought by a man's death. 'Tis in the scheme of things no faith shall ever conquer, and thus the fools who believe hammer each other out. Your wise man stands off from all, believes nothing, as he loves nothing and hopes nothing. You have the felicity to be a fool. So again, God be with you. You should amuse Him. Come, Lucinda."

  This maker of phrases was something beyond Jerry Stow. He stood at gaze. The philosophy of Diogenes, I take it, was amazing to him even in the end. But the child smiled back at him, and he went through the wind high at heart. Already he felt himself climbing to a nobler estate than was hers of birth, beheld himself her worshipped lord.

  Bolder the wind roared, and the blue clouds marshalled heavy in the grayness. It was dark in the beech spinney above the inn, and Jerry, plunging across it, caught strange sounds, heard a ghastly voice moan from the invisible: "Mine iniquities are gone over mine head, my wounds stink and are corrupt; yea, I go mourning all the day long.…" There came the horrible music of a man's tears. Jerry Stow hurried on, ashamed.… "Of a truth I am the chief, the chief of sinners. O Lord, thou knowest.… Nay, verily, the Lord standeth up to plead.…" A break of light showed the mourner. It was a loose fellow that stood working his hands and boring his heels into the ground. Jerry Stow saw a sturdy red ridge of nose and a coarse fleshy face, swollen and dark. He went on in a hurry, for this Mr. Cromwell, cousin of Squire Hampden, was thought to be possessed at hours. The harsh voice rose higher: "The Lord, the Lord will enter into judgment with the ancients of His people and the princes thereof: For ye have eaten the vineyard, ye beat my people to pieces. The Lord shall repay."

  Jerry Stow came out of the spinney to meet the breaking storm. Quick whirls of snow blinded him, and the driven hail cut temple and cheek. All the air was a warring medley of ice.

  | Contents |

  Chapter One

  The Lady Lepe Meets Twin Brethren

  IT was the year of grace 1643 when Jerry Stow made for home again. War called him. England was rent in twain. King stood against Parliament, Church against Puritan. The second great battle of the free spirit of man against the power of the past was begun. For the sternest fighters were those who strove to make each man in England master of his own life, captain of his own soul. But to the best of their foes it seemed that the war was of mad, arrogant fanatics who would sweep away the good heritage of England and her divine faith. Both were right, it may be, and both wrong, for those who are marshalled on the stricken fields of the world's fate see no more than the spirit and fortune of their own battalion, know not the true peril or the issue of the day. But when the fight is done and the peaceful work of death, men see there has been no victory and no defeat. The battlefield is a furnace whereby all base in either cause is burned out till, when the fire dies down, there is left one fair faith to be the glory and comfort of all men after. But for Jerry Stow and his day the flame was grim.

  If you should make for the vale of Aylesbury from a southern port, you would be happy to cross the Thames at Wallingford and come like the men of old years by the Icknield Way. Then you are given the full joy of the woodland hills. By many a mile they stand sheer above you in timeless strength. Serried ranks of trees rise to the sky, beech and larch, that are red and golden yellow in the springtime, then countless quiet glad harmonies of green, then a wide flame of crimson and topaz and orange before they come to the feathery grace, the black and brown and silver of the wintertide.

  The red buds had but just come upon the larch, the beeches waved yet in naked beauty when Jerry Stow rode by. He came with a companion, with state. There were armed followers and led horses not ill laden. He had gained something about the chest also, and the air and habit of command to set off his moustachios. He rode a good horse as it deserved. He was plainly, yet with no parade, the soldier. Still he preserved his nature. The plain buff coat had a touch of original gaiety, a sash of rare blue. You behold him now, a trim fellow of the middle size, with an honest, wholesome, pale face, wherein brown eyes are earnestly glad. His companion is of larger make, big each way. He too is soldierly, but no splash of color mars the neat sobriety of him. He is plump of cheek and handsome, with lips set in demure mirth. He has the complexion of a country lass. There is to me much alluring in this Colonel George Royston. So they jingled on with their company through the swift wanton April sunshine, as proud of life as the thrushes.

  They were close upon the Oxford road where it rises through the woodland defile by Aston Rowant when they alarmed a lady. It was something of a buxom dame that rode with one serving man to her train, and rode badly enough. The sound and the sight of men of war behind her made her vacillate pathetically. Now she turned to gaze, and, misliking them, drove her horse on. Now she looked again and liked them better, and fell to her first easy pace. Then meditation brought doubt back, and she spurred again. But the end of it all was, they came upon her before the cross-roads.

>   "'Tis the common vice of woman. She thinks she matters to us," quoth Colonel Royston.

  "If she had run away she might have had charm," said Colonel Stow, and they drew level.

  The lady was of a fair comeliness. She looked at them sidewise. "Are you for the King, gentlemen?" says she.

  "He has not that happiness," quoth Colonel Royston.

  "For the Parliament, then?" she cried.

  "Nor is the King so unfortunate," quoth Colonel Stow.

  "I do not understand you, sir," says she, biting her lip.

  "Believe me," said Colonel Royston sweetly, "we did not expect it."

  "You resent my questions, gentlemen?" she cried.

  "Nay, we enjoy the answers," said Colonel Stow with a bow.

  "At least, sir, you are in truth no Roundheads?"

  "The fashion," said Colonel Royston, "is purely a discord with my complexion."

  "Which indeed I admire," says she with some spirit.

  "I am wholly of the same mind," Colonel Royston admitted.

  "Since we are thus in accord," quoth she, "I would pray leave to be of your company."