The Mercenary: A Tale of The Thirty Years' War

by W. J. Eccott

THE ROAD TO EGER.

Once clear of the town and on the open road to Olsnitz Nigel's immediate anxiety was ended. He did not fear the pursuit of the townspeople. Not despicable in quality is the valour which rouses and fills a man, and a man's fellows, in sight of their common hearthstone at the Rathhaus, or of that, possibly dearer, rallying-place the Rathskeller, where the favoured vintages of the burghers lie snug in cobwebs, only to be brought forth from the complete darkness of their resting-places to the still dim and broken daylight of the afternoon, or to the lantern-light cloven by the massive pillars of the low arches into patches of ruddy glow and pools of shadow. Not despicable in quality is it, but it carries a mighty stroke only within the town's walls. To pursue with success a troop, however small, of trained mounted men, one must have the like. Nigel and his men rode on into the darkness, which was just sufficiently permeated by the faint light of stars to let them see the road at their horses' feet and a few yards ahead; they rode sleepily, but feeling secure. The road they followed was the road to Hof, which a few miles out throws out a branch to Olsnitz, and this again at Olsnitz fathers two younglings, the road to Graslitz and Pilsen, and the road to Eger.

Nigel meant to bivouac by the roadside, beneath the pine-trees, where the bed was soft with the pine-needles and dry, and horses and men alike could sleep till an hour after dawn. He was not in the mind to lock himself in any more walled cities till he was in safer country. He had also resolved to make for Eger rather than Pilsen, because, from Eger, which was a frontier post of some quality, he could perhaps send Hildebrand von Hohendorf some assistance.

So having put an hour's riding between his troops and Plauen he called a halt, and the men led their horses up the sloping banks into the forest, where they unsaddled, tethered their horses, and lay down quite contentedly. Nigel, with his head on his saddle-bags and two sentries within hail, was asleep in a few seconds. A few seconds of sleep, so it seemed to the sleep-hungered soldier, and the persistent twittering of the birds, that outburst that hails the almost imperceptible rolling up of the night clouds, awoke him. The birds could see up there in the branches. Where he lay it was dark enough to swear it was still night. Out of the darkness he heard the voice of Sergeant Blick drowsily calling the birds "fools and heretics" for waking him, and he fell asleep again. Another two or three seconds, which were an hour by the clock at Olsnitz, and the birds, after their last nap, were again calling one another to the duty of seeing after breakfast. Nigel rose and stamped his feet and shook himself, listened for the trickle of a spring, and went off to salute it. Then he returned to his saddle and called for his horse. While this was being brought he put his hand into his saddle-bags where he carried the bulky despatches of Count Tilly: first the left, and then the right, then he searched his doublet, his holsters. There were no despatches. Sleep had played him traitor, delivered him bound into the enemy's hand. Into whose?

Nigel was possessed of common-sense, but when common-sense could give but a flimsy explanation, he was not disinclined to allow that the powers of darkness and witchcraft might, notwithstanding King Jamie and his pronouncements, be of some potency. He was cautious too. While not suspecting any of his men, he thought that to keep the loss to himself was the surest way to discover the culprit, if he was among them. So he made no inquiry of the sentries. He had a sure memory, so clear and flawless, that he could repicture himself as in a mirror placing the papers in his saddle-bag. They were there when he placed his head upon the saddle. They were not there now. He searched his lair for any sign that it might give. There was still the impress where he had lain upon the pine-needles but nothing else. The loss was inexplicable as it was irreparable. His professional honour was in jeopardy. His reputation as an officer of approved sagacity was gone. He must go on. There was no help. He must go on and carry to the Emperor the tale of his misfortune, which would sound but a sorry one in the light of Vienna, and, instead of the despatches, such details as he could remember; wherein his excellent memory would doubtless replace all that Count Tilly could have set down. But Tilly's foreshadowed plans? Tilly's recommendation of himself? Into whose hands had they fallen?

If witches had stolen the despatches, were they Protestant witches? No Catholic could be a witch. That was an incompatibility.

The men paraded in the road, and he and the lieutenant looked them over to see that every man was there and in marching order. And Nigel scanned every face and pair of hands.

No! They were as respectable a lot of ruffians in leather and headpiece as one could pick. The order was given to ride, and they rode clanking into Olsnitz, where at the first inn they demanded beer and sausages and bread with the clamour born of a fast of eight hours and a night in the forest.