Chapter 11

JOHN TALBOT. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The old Captain of the Gate--Hugh Talbot. He'll be here this day--this hour, maybe.

FENTON. That tale grows something old, Jack Talbot.

JOHN TALBOT. He swore he'd bring us succor. He--

(DRISCOLL _tries to unbar the exit door._)

Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door!

(_Thrusts_ DRISCOLL _from the door._)

DRISCOLL (_half delirious_). Let me forth! The spring--'tis just below--there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it--but a moment--and drink!

JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell's soldiers hold the spring.

DRISCOLL. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me forth!

JOHN TALBOT. 'T would be to your death.

BUTLER. And what will he get but his death if he stay here, Captain Talbot?

DRISCOLL (_struggling with_ JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, I tell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go!

NEWCOMBE (_still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terrible cry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head_). God's pity! No! no! no!

DRISCOLL (_shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing himself_). God shield us!

BUTLER. Silence that whelp!

FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him!

JOHN TALBOT (_catching_ NEWCOMBE _by the shoulder_). Newcombe! Kit Newcombe!

NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me!

JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done!

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Not that!

JOHN TALBOT (_stifling_ NEWCOMBE'S _outcry with a hand upon his mouth_). Wake! You're dreaming!

DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming!

NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my brother--my brother--they beat out his brains--Cromwell's men--with their clubbed muskets--they--

(_Clings shuddering to_ JOHN TALBOT.)

FENTON. English officers that serve amongst the Irish--'t is thus that Cromwell uses them!

BUTLER. English officers--aye, like ourselves!

JOHN TALBOT. Be quiet, Kit! You're far from Drogheda--here at the Bridge of Cashala.

BUTLER. Aye, safe in Cashala Gatehouse, with five hundred of Cromwell's men sitting down before it.

JOHN TALBOT. Keep your watch, Butler!

NEWCOMBE. You give orders? You still command, Jack? Where's Captain Talbot, then?

(_Snatches up his sword and rises._)

BUTLER (_quitting the window_). Aye, where _is_ Captain Talbot?

JOHN TALBOT. You say--

FENTON (_rising_). We all say it.

JOHN TALBOT. Even thou, Dick?

DRISCOLL. He does not come! Hugh Talbot does not come!

FENTON. He bade us hold the bridge one day. We've held it three days now.

BUTLER. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he promised?

JOHN TALBOT. He promised. He has never broken faith. He will bring us aid.

FENTON. Aye, if he be living!

DRISCOLL. Living? You mean that he--Och, he's dead! Hugh Talbot's dead! And we're destroyed! We're destroyed!

NEWCOMBE (_cowering_). The butt of the muskets!

FENTON. God!

(_Deliberately_ BUTLER _lays down his musket._)

JOHN TALBOT. Take up your piece!

BUTLER. Renounce me if I do!

FENTON. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms for us, John Talbot, or, on my soul, we'll make them for ourselves.

JOHN TALBOT. Surrender?

NEWCOMBE. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now? Will he spare us? Will he--

FENTON. 'Tis our one chance.

NEWCOMBE. Give me that white rag!

(_Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece._)

FENTON (_drawing his ramrod_). Here's a staff!

(_Together FENTON and NEWCOMBE make ready a flag of truce._)

JOHN TALBOT (_struggling with_ BUTLER _and_ DRISCOLL). A black curse on you!

BUTLER. We'll not be butchered like oxen in the shambles!

JOHN TALBOT. Your oaths!

BUTLER. We'll not fight longer to be knocked on the head at the last.

NEWCOMBE. No! No! Not that! Out with the flag, Dick!

FENTON. A light here at the grating!

(NEWCOMBE _turns to take a candle, obedient to_ FENTON'S _order. At that moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds._)

JOHN TALBOT. Hark!

DRISCOLL. The bugle! They're upon us!

BUTLER (_releasing his hold on_ JOHN TALBOT). What was that?

JOHN TALBOT. You swore to hold the bridge.

BUTLER. Swore to hold it one day. We've held it three days now.

FENTON. And the half of us are slain.

NEWCOMBE. And we've no water--and no food!

JOHN TALBOT (_pointing to the powder-keg_). We have powder in plenty.

DRISCOLL. We can't drink powder. Ah, for God's love, be swift, Dick Fenton! Be swift!

JOHN TALBOT. You shall not show that white flag!

(_Starts toward_ FENTON, _hand on sword._)

BUTLER (_pinioning_ JOHN TALBOT). God's death! We shall! Help me here, Phelimy!

JOHN TALBOT. A summons to parley. What see you, Fenton?

FENTON (_at the shot-window_). Torches coming from the boreen, and a white flag beneath them. I can see the faces. (_With a cry_) Look, Jack! A'God's name! Look!

(JOHN TALBOT _springs to the window._)

DRISCOLL. What is it you're seeing?

FENTON. It _is_--

JOHN TALBOT (_turning from the window_). 'Tis Hugh Talbot comes! 'Tis the Captain of the Gate!

BUTLER. With them? A prisoner?

JOHN TALBOT. No, no! No prisoner! He wears his sword.

(BUTLER _snatches up his piece and resumes watch._)

FENTON. Then he'll have made terms with them! Terms!

NEWCOMBE (_embracing_ DRISCOLL). Terms for us! Terms for us!

JOHN TALBOT. I told ye truth. He has come. Hugh Talbot has come.

(_Goes to door._)

HUGH TALBOT (_speaks outside_). Open! I come alone, and in peace. Open unto me!

JOHN TALBOT. Who goes there?

HUGH TALBOT (_outside_). The Captain of the Gate!

(JOHN TALBOT _unbars the door, and bars it again upon the entrance of_ HUGH TALBOT. _The latter comes slowly into the room. He is a man in his late thirties, a tall, martial figure, clad in much-worn velvet and leather, with sword at side. The five salute him as he enters._)

HUGH TALBOT (_halts and for a moment surveys his followers_). Well, lads?

(_The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break, unable for the moment to speak._)

NEWCOMBE. We thought--we thought--that you--that you--

(_Breaks into childish sobbing._)

FENTON. What terms will they grant us, sir?

JOHN TALBOT. Sir, we have held the bridge.

HUGH TALBOT. You five--

JOHN TALBOT. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and Langdale, and--and James Talbot, my brother.

DRISCOLL. And we've had no water, sir, these many hours.

HUGH TALBOT. So! You're wounded, Phelimy.

DRISCOLL. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (_At the voice_ NEWCOMBE _pulls himself together._) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand?

FENTON. 'Tis here, sir.

(_Offers his tobacco pouch._)

HUGH TALBOT (_filling his pipe_). Leave the window, Myles! They've promised us a half hour's truce--and Cromwell's a man of his word.

NEWCOMBE (_bringing a lighted candle_). He'll let us pass free now, sir, will he not?

HUGH TALBOT (_lighting his pipe at the candle_). You're not afraid, Kit?

NEWCOMBE. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now!

HUGH TALBOT. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look dead on your feet. Give me to see that arm! (_As_ HUGH TALBOT _starts toward_ DRISCOLL, _his eye falls on the open keg of powder. He draws back hastily, covering his lighted pipe._) Jack Talbot! Who taught ye to leave your powder uncovered, where lighted match was laid?

BUTLER. My blame, sir.

(_Covers the keg._)

JOHN TALBOT. We opened the keg, and then--

FENTON. Truth, we did not cover it again, being somewhat pressed for time.

(_The five laugh, half hysterically._)

HUGH TALBOT (_sitting by fire_). And you never thought, maybe, that in that keg there was powder enough to blow the bridge of Cashala to hell?

JOHN TALBOT. It seemed a matter of small moment, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Small moment! Powder enough, put case ye set it there, at the stairhead--d'ye follow me?--powder enough to make an end of Cashala Bridge for all time--aye, and of all within the Gatehouse. You never thought on that, eh?

JOHN TALBOT. We had so much to think on, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. I did suspect as much. So I came hither to recall the powder to your minds.

DRISCOLL. We thought--(BUTLER _motions him to be silent._) We thought maybe you would not be coming at all, sir. Maybe you would be dead.

HUGH TALBOT. Well? What an if I had been dead? You had your orders. You did not dream of giving up the Bridge of Cashala--eh, Myles Butler?

BUTLER (_after a moment_). No, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Nor you, Dick Fenton?

FENTON. Sir, I--No!

HUGH TALBOT (_smoking throughout_). Good lads! The wise heads were saying I was a stark fool to set you here at Cashala. But I said: I can be trusting the young riders that are learning their lessons in war from me. I'll be safe putting my honor into their hands. And I was right, wasn't I, Phelimy Driscoll?

DRISCOLL. Give us the chance, sir, and we'll be holding Cashala, even against the devil himself!

FENTON. Aye, well said!

HUGH TALBOT. Sure,'tis a passing good substitute for the devil sits yonder in Cromwell's tent.

NEWCOMBE (_with a shudder_). Cromwell!

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, he was slaying your brother at Drogheda, Kit, and a fine, gallant lad your brother was. And I'm thinking you're like him, Kit. Else I shouldn't be trusting you here at Cashala.

NEWCOMBE. I--I--Will they let us keep our swords?

HUGH TALBOT. Well, it's with yourselves it lies, whether you'll keep them or not.

FENTON. He means--we mean--on what terms, sir, do we surrender?

HUGH TALBOT. Surrender? Terms?

JOHN TALBOT. We thought, sir, from your coming under their white flag--perhaps you had made terms for us.

HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms?

NEWCOMBE. Captain!

(_At a look from_ HUGH TALBOT _he becomes silent, fighting for self-control._)

HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms that you would hear to? Cashala Bridge is the gate of Connaught.

JOHN TALBOT. Yes.

HUGH TALBOT. Give Cromwell Cashala Bridge, and he'll be on the heels of our women and our little ones. At what price would ye be selling their safety?

DRISCOLL. Cromwell--when he takes us--when he takes us--

NEWCOMBE. He'll knock us on the head!

HUGH TALBOT. Yes. At the last. Your five lives against our people's safety. You'd not give up the bridge?

JOHN TALBOT. Five? Our five? But you--you are the sixth.

FENTON. You stay with us, Captain. And then we'll fight--you'll see how we shall fight.

HUGH TALBOT. I shall be seeing you fight, perhaps, but I cannot stay now at Cashala.

(_Rises._)

DRISCOLL. Ye won't be staying with us?

BUTLER (_laughing harshly_). Now, on my soul! Is this your faith, Hugh Talbot? One liar I've followed, Charles Stuart, the son of a liar, and now a second liar--

JOHN TALBOT (_catching BUTLER'S throat_). A plague choke you!

HUGH TALBOT (_stepping between_ JOHN TALBOT _and_ BUTLER). Ha' done, Jack! Ha' done! What more, Myles Butler?

BUTLER. Tell us whither you go, when you turn your back on us that shall die at Cashala--you that come walking under the rebel flag--that swore to bring us aid--and have not brought it! Tell us whither you go now!

HUGH TALBOT. Well, I'm a shade doubtful, Myles, my lad, though hopeful of the best.

BUTLER. 'Tis to Cromwell you go--you that have made your peace with him--that have sold us--

DRISCOLL. Captain! A' God's name, what is it that you're meaning?

HUGH TALBOT. I mean that you shall hold the Bridge of Cashala--whatever happen to you--whatever happen to me--

FENTON. To you? Captain Talbot!

HUGH TALBOT. I am going unto Cromwell--as you said, Myles. I gave my promise.

DRISCOLL. Your promise?

JOHN TALBOT. We--have been very blind. So--they made you prisoner?

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Jack. When I tried to cut my way through to bring you aid. And they granted me this half hour on my parole to come unto you.

JOHN TALBOT. To come--

HUGH TALBOT. To counsel you to surrender. And I have given you counsel. Hold the bridge! Hold it! Whatever they do!

DRISCOLL. Captain! Captain Talbot! God of Heaven! If you go back--'tis killed you'll be among them!

HUGH TALBOT. A little sooner than you lads? Aye, true!

FENTON. They cannot! Even Cromwell--

HUGH TALBOT. Tut, tut, Dick! It's little ye know of Cromwell.

JOHN TALBOT. Then--you mean--

HUGH TALBOT. An you surrender Cashala, we may all six pass free. An you hold Cashala, they will hang me, here before your eyes.

(DRISCOLL _gives a rattling cry._)

BUTLER. God forgive me!

HUGH TALBOT. You have your orders. Hold the bridge!

(_Turns to door._)

JOHN TALBOT (_barring his way_). No, no! You shan't go forth!

FENTON. God's mercy, no!

HUGH TALBOT. Are you stark crazed?

FENTON. You shall stay with us.

JOHN TALBOT. What's your pledged word to men that know not honor?

HUGH TALBOT. My word. Unbar the door, Jack. Why, lad, we're traveling the same road.

FENTON. God! But we'll give them a good fight at the last. (_Goes to the shot-window._) Take up your musket, Kit.

NEWCOMBB. But I--Captain! When you are gone, I--I--

HUGH TALBOT. I'll not be far. You'll hold the bridge?

JOHN TALBOT. Aye, sir.

BUTLER. We've powder enough--you said it, sir,--laid there at the stairhead, to blow the bridge to hell.

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Myles, you've hit it!

(_Holds out his hand._)

BUTLER. Not yet, sir!

HUGH TALBOT. Hereafter, then. God speed you, lads!

JOHN TALBOT. Speed you, sir! (_All five stand at salute as_ HUGH TALBOT _goes out. In the moment's silence upon his exit_, JOHN TALBOT _bars the door and turns to his comrades._) You have--Hugh Talbot's orders. Take your pieces! Driscoll! Newcombe!

(_Obediently the two join_ FENTON _at windows._) Butler!

BUTLER. Aye! We have Hugh Talbot's orders.

(_Points to powder-keg._)

JOHN TALBOT. Are you meaning--

BUTLER. It's not I will be failing him now!

FENTON (_at window_). God! They waste no time.

JOHN TALBOT. Already--they have dared--

FENTON. Here--this moment--under our very eyes!

DRISCOLL. Christ Jesus!

(_Goes back from the window, with his arm across his eyes, and falls on his knees in headlong prayer._)

JOHN TALBOT. Kit! Kit Newcombe!

(_Motions him to window._)

NEWCOMBE. I cannot! I--

JOHN TALBOT. Look forth! Look! And remember--when you meet them--remember! (NEWCOMBE _stands swaying, clutching at the grating of the window, as he looks forth._) Lads! (_Motions to_ BUTLER _and_ FENTON _to carry the powder to the stairhead._) The time is short. His orders!

(DRISCOLL _raises his head and gazes fixedly toward the centre of the room._)

FENTON. Yonder, at the stairhead.

BUTLER. Aye.

(FENTON _and_ BUTLER _carry the keg to the door._)

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not that death! No! No!

JOHN TALBOT. Be silent! And look yonder! Driscoll! Fetch the light! Newcombe! Come! You have your places, all.

DRISCOLL. But, Captain! The sixth man--where will the sixth man be standing?

(_There is a blank silence, in which the men look questioningly at_ DRISCOLL'S _rapt face and at one another._)

JOHN TALBOT. Sixth?

FENTON. What sixth?

DRISCOLL. The blind eyes of ye! Yonder!

(_Comes to the salute, even as, a few moments before, he has saluted_ HUGH TALBOT, _living._

NEWCOMBE _gives a smothered cry, as one who half sees, and takes courage._ FENTON _dazedly starts to salute. Outside a bugle sounds, and a voice, almost at the door, is heard to speak._)

VOICE OUTSIDE. For the last time: will you surrender you?

JOHN TALBOT (_in a loud and confident voice_). No! Not while our commander stands with us!

VOICE OUTSIDE. And who might your commander be?

JOHN TALBOT. Hugh Talbot, the Captain of the Gate! The light here, Phelimy.

(JOHN TALBOT _bends to set the candle to the powder that shall destroy Cashala Gatehouse, and all within it. His mates are gathered round him, with steady, bright faces, for in the little space left vacant in their midst they know in that minute that_ HUGH TALBOT _stands._)

[CURTAIN]

GETTYSBURG[1]

Percy MacKaye

SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of a farm-house.

The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures being slightly arched at the top. (_In bad weather, these presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open now--swung back outward beyond sight._) Thus the nearer opening is the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks through the shed to the background--a grassy yard, a road with great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams.

On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small oil-stove, with steaming kettle upon it.

Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stovewood and kindlings mixed with small chips of the floor, which is piled deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust.

Not far from this mounded pile, at right centre of the scene, stands a wooden armchair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair cropped close, and gray moustache of a faded black hue at the outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and collar. Near him is a chopping-block.

In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again.

From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl of seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In one hand she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat, over the other arm a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the chopping-block, goes to the bench, and trims the wick of the oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near LINK, surveying the shed.

On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain order in its chaos; some of the splittings have been piled in irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like miniature valleys and hills. [2]

Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among the hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping and smoothing the little mounds with the hoe. As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds.

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1912, by Percy Mackaye. All rights reserved.]

[Footnote 2: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexed to the volume by Captain R.K. Beecham, entitled _Gettysburg_ (A.C. McClurg, 1911).]

LINK (_snapping his eyes wide open, sits up_)

Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?

POLLY Just A kitten-nap, I guess.

(_Laying the hoe down, she approaches_)

The yoke done?

LINK (_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_)

Thar! When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug, I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to-- (_Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two with expert eye_) and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip at birch, for ox-yokes.--Polly, are ye thar?

POLLY Yes, Uncle Link.

LINK What's that I used to sing ye?

"Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on--"

(_Chuckling'_)

We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!

POLLY The kettle's boilin'.

LINK Wall, then, steep him good.

(POLLY _takes from_ LINK _the collar-thong, carries it to the work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she then closes tight and connects--by a piece of hose--to the spout of the kettle. At the farther end of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole._)

POLLY You're feelin' smart to-day.

LINK Smart!--Wall, if I could git a hull man to swap legs with me, mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin' dead an' alive, without no legs, day in, day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats.

POLLY (_cheerfully_)

I guess you'll soon be walkin' round.

LINK Not if that doctor feller has his say: He says I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan; and looks like he's 'bout right.--Nine months to-morrer, Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke.

POLLY (_pointing to the ox-yoke_)

You're fitter sittin' than most folks standin'.

LINK (_briskly_)

Oh, they can't keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's my second natur' sence I was a boy.

(_Again in the distance a bugle sounds._ LINK _starts._)

What's that?

POLLY Why, that's the army veterans down to the graveyard. This is Decoration mornin': you ain't forgot?

LINK So't is, so't is. Roger, your young man--ha! (_chuckling_) he come and axed me was I a-goin' to the cemetery. "Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"

POLLY He meant--to decorate the graves.

LINK O' course; but I must take my little laugh. I told him I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow, my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'. I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.-- Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks, Polly?

POLLY Dear no! I told my boys and girls to march up this way with the band. I said I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how to keep school in the woodpile here with you.

LINK (_looking up at her proudly_)

Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!

POLLY (_caressing him_)

Schoolmaster, you, past seventy; that's smarter! I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach my young folks what the study-books leave out.

LINK Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'?

POLLY No, _sir!_ We're goin' to celebrate right here, and you're to teach me to keep school some more.

(_She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat._)

LINK (_looking up_)

What's thar?

POLLY Your teachin' rig.

(_She helps him on with it._)

LINK The old blue coat!-- My, but I'd like to see the boys--(_gazing at the hat_) the Grand Old Army Boys! (_dreamily_) Yes, we was boys: jest boys! Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study the books, that we was nothin' else but boys jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home-- the same as you; and when the shot was singin', we pulled their picters out, and prayed to them 'most morn'n the Almighty.

(LINK _looks up suddenly--a strange light in his face. Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds._)

Thar she blows Agin!

POLLY They're marchin' to the graves with flowers.

LINK My Godfrey!'t ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers and the young folks, their faces, and the blue line of old fellers marchin'--it's the music! that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though, legs or no legs, I'd have to up and foller to God-knows-whar, and holler--holler back to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no! I jest can't stan' the music.

POLLY (_goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming_)

Uncle Link, you want that I should steam this longer?

LINK (_absently_)

Oh, A kittleful, a kittleful.

POLLY (_coming over to him_)

Now, then, I'm ready for school.--I hope I've drawed the map all right.

LINK Map? Oh, the map!

(_Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods._)

Yes, thar she be: old Gettysburg!