Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters in the
Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled waiting room,
and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad night, probably a rather
delirious one; for even in the reality of the raw morning, her fixed
gaze comes back at moments when her attention is not strongly held.
The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is
sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine figure of a
man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially qualified,
in a respectful way, to console her.
THE SERGEANT.
You can have a quiet word with him here, mum.
JUDITH.
Shall I have long to wait?
THE SERGEANT.
No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the Bridewell for the night; and
he’s just been brought over here for the court martial. Don’t fret,
mum: he slep like a child, and has made a rare good breakfast.
JUDITH.
(_incredulously_). He is in good spirits!
THE SERGEANT.
Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see him last night; and he won
seventeen shillings off him at spoil five. He spent it among us like
the gentleman he is. Duty’s duty, mum, of course; but you’re among
friends here. (_The tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard
approaching._) There: I think he’s coming. (_Richard comes in, without
a sign of care or captivity in his bearing. The sergeant nods to the
two soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his hand. They
withdraw._) Your good lady, sir.
RICHARD.
(_going to her_). What! My wife. My adored one. (_He takes her hand and
kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry._) How long do you allow a
brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, Sergeant?
THE SERGEANT.
As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb you till the court sits.
RICHARD.
But it has struck the hour.
THE SERGEANT.
So it has, sir; but there’s a delay. General Burgoyne’s just
arrived—Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir—and he won’t have done
finding fault with everything this side of half past. I know him, sir:
I served with him in Portugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir;
and by your leave I won’t waste any more of them. (_He goes out,
locking the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and
turns to Judith with considerate sincerity._)
RICHARD.
Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. And how are you after
last night? I had to leave you before you recovered; but I sent word to
Essie to go and look after you. Did she understand the message?
JUDITH.
(_breathless and urgent_). Oh, don’t think of me: I haven’t come here
to talk about myself. Are they going to—to— (_meaning “to hang you”_)?
RICHARD.
(_whimsically_). At noon, punctually. At least, that was when they
disposed of Uncle Peter. (_She shudders._) Is your husband safe? Is he
on the wing?
JUDITH.
He is no longer my husband.
RICHARD.
(_opening his eyes wide_). Eh!
JUDITH.
I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I expected him to come here and
save you. I wanted him to come here and save you. He ran away instead.
RICHARD.
Well, that’s what I meant him to do. What good would his staying have
done? They’d only have hanged us both.
JUDITH.
(_with reproachful earnestness_). Richard Dudgeon: on your honour, what
would you have done in his place?
RICHARD.
Exactly what he has done, of course.
JUDITH.
Oh, why will you not be simple with me—honest and straightforward? If
you are so selfish as that, why did you let them take you last night?
RICHARD.
(_gaily_). Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don’t know. I’ve been asking
myself that question ever since; and I can find no manner of reason for
acting as I did.
JUDITH.
You know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more worthy man
than yourself.
RICHARD.
(_laughing_). Oho! No: that’s a very pretty reason, I must say; but I’m
not so modest as that. No: it wasn’t for his sake.
JUDITH.
(_after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at him, blushing
painfully_). Was it for my sake?
RICHARD.
(_gallantly_). Well, you had a hand in it. It must have been a little
for your sake. You let them take me, at all events.
JUDITH.
Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself that all night? Your
death will be at my door. (_Impulsively, she gives him her hand, and
adds, with intense earnestness_) If I could save you as you saved him,
I would do it, no matter how cruel the death was.
RICHARD.
(_holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at arm’s
length_). I am very sure I shouldn’t let you.
JUDITH.
Don’t you see that I can save you?
RICHARD.
How? By changing clothes with me, eh?
JUDITH.
(_disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it_). Don’t (_meaning
“Don’t jest”_). No: by telling the Court who you really are.
RICHARD.
(_frowning_). No use: they wouldn’t spare me; and it would spoil half
of his chance of escaping. They are determined to cow us by making an
example of somebody on that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by
showing that we can stand by one another to the death. That is the only
force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make America
a nation.
JUDITH.
(_impatiently_). Oh, what does all that matter?
RICHARD.
(_laughing_). True: what does it matter? what does anything matter? You
see, men have these strange notions, Mrs. Anderson; and women see the
folly of them.
JUDITH.
Women have to lose those they love through them.
RICHARD.
They can easily get fresh lovers.
JUDITH.
(_revolted_). Oh! (_Vehemently_) Do you realise that you are going to
kill yourself?
RICHARD.
The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. Anderson. Don’t be
concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death. (_Smiling_)
Bless you, nobody cares for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead?
JUDITH.
Dead!
RICHARD.
Of heart disease—in the night. Her last word to me was her curse: I
don’t think I could have borne her blessing. My other relatives will
not grieve much on my account. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I
have provided for her: I made my own will last night.
JUDITH.
(_stonily, after a moment’s silence_). And I!
RICHARD.
(_surprised_). You?
JUDITH.
Yes, I. Am I not to care at all?
RICHARD.
(_gaily and bluntly_). Not a scrap. Oh, you expressed your feelings
towards me very frankly yesterday. What happened may have softened you
for the moment; but believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don’t like a bone in
my skin or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance at 12 today
as I should have been at 12 yesterday.
JUDITH.
(_her voice trembling_). What can I do to show you that you are
mistaken?
RICHARD.
Don’t trouble. I’ll give you credit for liking me a little better than
you did. All I say is that my death will not break your heart.
JUDITH.
(_almost in a whisper_). How do you know? (_She puts her hands on his
shoulders and looks intently at him._)
RICHARD.
(_amazed—divining the truth_). Mrs. Anderson!!! (_The bell of the town
clock strikes the quarter. He collects himself, and removes her hands,
saying rather coldly_) Excuse me: they will be here for me presently.
It is too late.
JUDITH.
It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will never kill you when
they know how heroically you have acted.
RICHARD.
(_with some scorn_). Indeed! But if I don’t go through with it, where
will the heroism be? I shall simply have tricked them; and they’ll hang
me for that like a dog. Serve me right too!
JUDITH.
(_wildly_). Oh, I believe you WANT to die.
RICHARD.
(_obstinately_). No I don’t.
JUDITH.
Then why not try to save yourself? I implore you—listen. You said just
now that you saved him for my sake—yes (_clutching him as he recoils
with a gesture of denial_) a little for my sake. Well, save yourself
for my sake. And I will go with you to the end of the world.
RICHARD.
(_taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way from him,
looking steadily at her_). Judith.
JUDITH.
(_breathless—delighted at the name_). Yes.
RICHARD.
If I said—to please you—that I did what I did ever so little for your
sake, I lied as men always lie to women. You know how much I have lived
with worthless men—aye, and worthless women too. Well, they could all
rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love.
(_The word love comes from him with true Puritan scorn._) That has
taught me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out
red hot. What I did last night, I did in cold blood, caring not half so
much for your husband, or (_ruthlessly_) for you (_she droops,
stricken_) as I do for myself. I had no motive and no interest: all I
can tell you is that when it came to the point whether I would take my
neck out of the noose and put another man’s into it, I could not do it.
I don’t know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; but I could
not and I cannot. I have been brought up standing by the law of my own
nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. (_She has
slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him._) I should have
done the same for any other man in the town, or any other man’s wife.
(_Releasing her._) Do you understand that?
JUDITH.
Yes: you mean that you do not love me.
RICHARD.
(_revolted—with fierce contempt_). Is that all it means to you?
JUDITH.
What more—what worse—can it mean to me?
(_The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her heart._) Oh,
one moment more. (_She throws herself on her knees._) I pray to you—
RICHARD.
Hush! (_Calling_) Come in. (_The sergeant unlocks the door and opens
it. The guard is with him._)
THE SERGEANT.
(_coming in_). Time’s up, sir.
RICHARD.
Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (_He attempts to raise her._)
JUDITH.
(_clinging to him_). Only one thing more—I entreat, I implore you. Let
me be present in the court. I have seen Major Swindon: he said I should
be allowed if you asked it. You will ask it. It is my last request: I
shall never ask you anything again. (_She clasps his knee._) I beg and
pray it of you.
RICHARD.
If I do, will you be silent?
JUDITH.
Yes.
RICHARD.
You will keep faith?
JUDITH.
I will keep— (_She breaks down, sobbing._)
RICHARD.
(_taking her arm to lift her_). Just—her other arm, Sergeant.
They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men.
Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court martial. It is a
large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under a tall
canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the royal monogram
G. R. In front of the chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a
bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing materials on it. Several chairs are
set at the table. The door is at the right hand of the occupant of the
chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major
Swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about
45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. He
is alone until the sergeant announces the General in a subdued manner
which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his presence
felt rather heavily.
THE SERGEANT.
The General, sir.
Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in, the sergeant goes out.
General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. He is a man of
fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage by an
elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies,
aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of high
military distinction. His eyes, large, brilliant, apprehensive, and
intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: without them his fine
nose and small mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less
force than go to the making of a first rate general. Just now the eyes
are angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense.
BURGOYNE.
Major Swindon, I presume.
SWINDON.
Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. (_They bow to one another
ceremoniously._) I am glad to have the support of your presence this
morning. It is not particularly lively business, hanging this poor
devil of a minister.
BURGOYNE.
(_throwing himself onto Swindon’s chair_). No, sir, it is not. It is
making too much of the fellow to execute him: what more could you have
done if he had been a member of the Church of England? Martyrdom, sir,
is what these people like: it is the only way in which a man can become
famous without ability. However, you have committed us to hanging him:
and the sooner he is hanged the better.
SWINDON.
We have arranged it for 12 o’clock. Nothing remains to be done except
to try him.
BURGOYNE.
(_looking at him with suppressed anger_). Nothing—except to save our
own necks, perhaps. Have you heard the news from Springtown?
SWINDON.
Nothing special. The latest reports are satisfactory.
BURGOYNE.
(_rising in amazement_). Satisfactory, sir! Satisfactory!! (_He stares
at him for a moment, and then adds, with grim intensity_) I am glad you
take that view of them.
SWINDON.
(_puzzled_). Do I understand that in your opinion—
BURGOYNE.
I do not express my opinion. I never stoop to that habit of profane
language which unfortunately coarsens our profession. If I did, sir,
perhaps I should be able to express my opinion of the news from
Springtown—the news which YOU (_severely_) have apparently not heard.
How soon do you get news from your supports here?—in the course of a
month eh?
SWINDON.
(_turning sulky_). I suppose the reports have been taken to you, sir,
instead of to me. Is there anything serious?
BURGOYNE.
(_taking a report from his pocket and holding it up_). Springtown’s in
the hands of the rebels. (_He throws the report on the table._)
SWINDON.
(_aghast_). Since yesterday!
BURGOYNE.
Since two o’clock this morning. Perhaps WE shall be in their hands
before two o’clock to-morrow morning. Have you thought of that?
SWINDON.
(_confidently_). As to that, General, the British soldier will give a
good account of himself.
BURGOYNE.
(_bitterly_). And therefore, I suppose, sir, the British officer need
not know his business: the British soldier will get him out of all his
blunders with the bayonet. In future, sir, I must ask you to be a
little less generous with the blood of your men, and a little more
generous with your own brains.
SWINDON.
I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intellectual eminence, sir. I can
only do my best, and rely on the devotion of my countrymen.
BURGOYNE.
(_suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic_). May I ask are you writing a
melodrama, Major Swindon?
SWINDON.
(_flushing_). No, sir.
BURGOYNE.
What a pity! WHAT a pity! (_Dropping his sarcastic tone and facing him
suddenly and seriously_) Do you at all realize, sir, that we have
nothing standing between us and destruction but our own bluff and the
sheepishness of these colonists? They are men of the same English stock
as ourselves: six to one of us (_repeating it emphatically_), six to
one, sir; and nearly half our troops are Hessians, Brunswickers, German
dragoons, and Indians with scalping knives. These are the countrymen on
whose devotion you rely! Suppose the colonists find a leader! Suppose
the news from Springtown should turn out to mean that they have already
found a leader! What shall we do then? Eh?
SWINDON.
(_sullenly_). Our duty, sir, I presume.
BURGOYNE.
(_again sarcastic—giving him up as a fool_). Quite so, quite so. Thank
you, Major Swindon, thank you. Now you’ve settled the question,
sir—thrown a flood of light on the situation. What a comfort to me to
feel that I have at my side so devoted and able an officer to support
me in this emergency! I think, sir, it will probably relieve both our
feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further delay
(_he strikes the bell_), especially as I am debarred by my principles
from the customary military vent for my feelings. (_The sergeant
appears._) Bring your man in.
THE SERGEANT.
Yes, sir.
BURGOYNE.
And mention to any officer you may meet that the court cannot wait any
longer for him.
SWINDON.
(_keeping his temper with difficulty_). The staff is perfectly ready,
sir. They have been waiting your convenience for fully half an hour.
PERFECTLY ready, sir.
BURGOYNE.
(_blandly_). So am I. (_Several officers come in and take their seats.
One of them sits at the end of the table furthest from the door, and
acts throughout as clerk to the court, making notes of the proceedings.
The uniforms are those of the 9th, 20th, 21st, 24th, 47th, 53rd, and
62nd British Infantry. One officer is a Major General of the Royal
Artillery. There are also German officers of the Hessian Rifles, and of
German dragoon and Brunswicker regiments._) Oh, good morning,
gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you, I am sure. Very good of you to spare
us a few moments.
SWINDON.
Will you preside, sir?
BURGOYNE.
(_becoming additionally, polished, lofty, sarcastic and urbane now that
he is in public_). No, sir: I feel my own deficiencies too keenly to
presume so far. If you will kindly allow me, I will sit at the feet of
Gamaliel. (_He takes the chair at the end of the table next the door,
and motions Swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated
before sitting himself._)
SWINDON.
(_greatly annoyed_). As you please, sir. I am only trying to do my duty
under excessively trying circumstances. (_He takes his place in the
chair of state._)
Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, sits down and
begins to read the report with knitted brows and careworn looks,
reflecting on his desperate situation and Swindon’s uselessness.
Richard is brought in. Judith walks beside him. Two soldiers precede
and two follow him, with the sergeant in command. They cross the room
to the wall opposite the door; but when Richard has just passed before
the chair of state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and
posts himself behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at the
wall. The four soldiers place themselves in a squad near her.
BURGOYNE.
(_looking up and seeing Judith_). Who is that woman?
THE SERGEANT.
Prisoner’s wife, sir.
SWINDON.
(_nervously_). She begged me to allow her to be present; and I thought—
BURGOYNE.
(_completing the sentence for him ironically_). You thought it would be
a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. (_Blandly_) Give the lady a
chair; and make her thoroughly comfortable.
The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard.
JUDITH.
Thank you, sir. (_She sits down after an awe-stricken curtsy to
Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dignified bend of his head._)
SWINDON.
(_to Richard, sharply_). Your name, sir?
RICHARD.
(_affable, but obstinate_). Come: you don’t mean to say that you’ve
brought me here without knowing who I am?
SWINDON.
As a matter of form, sir, give your name.
RICHARD.
As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony Anderson, Presbyterian
minister in this town.
BURGOYNE.
(_interested_). Indeed! Pray, Mr. Anderson, what do you gentlemen
believe?
RICHARD.
I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. I cannot undertake
to complete your conversion in less than a fortnight.
SWINDON.
(_snubbing him_). We are not here to discuss your views.
BURGOYNE.
(_with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate Swindon_). I stand rebuked.
SWINDON.
(_embarrassed_). Oh, not you, I as—
BURGOYNE.
Don’t mention it. (_To Richard, very politely_) Any political views,
Mr. Anderson?
RICHARD.
I understand that that is just what we are here to find out.
SWINDON.
(_severely_). Do you mean to deny that you are a rebel?
RICHARD.
I am an American, sir.
SWINDON.
What do you expect me to think of that speech, Mr. Anderson?
RICHARD.
I never expect a soldier to think, sir.
Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost
reconciles him to the loss of America.
SWINDON.
(_whitening with anger_). I advise you not to be insolent, prisoner.
RICHARD.
You can’t help yourself, General. When you make up your mind to hang a
man, you put yourself at a disadvantage with him. Why should I be civil
to you? I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
SWINDON.
You have no right to assume that the court has made up its mind without
a fair trial. And you will please not address me as General. I am Major
Swindon.
RICHARD.
A thousand pardons. I thought I had the honor of addressing Gentlemanly
Johnny.
Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow escape from a
guffaw.
BURGOYNE.
(_with extreme suavity_). I believe I am Gentlemanly Johnny, sir, at
your service. My more intimate friends call me General Burgoyne.
(_Richard bows with perfect politeness._) You will understand, sir, I
hope, since you seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in
spite of your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang
you, we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and
military duty, without any personal ill-feeling.
RICHARD.
Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference in the world, of course.
They all smile in spite of themselves: and some of the younger officers
burst out laughing.
JUDITH.
(_her dread and horror deepening at every one of these jests and
compliments_). How CAN you?
RICHARD.
You promised to be silent.
BURGOYNE.
(_to Judith, with studied courtesy_). Believe me, madam, your husband
is placing us under the greatest obligation by taking this very
disagreeable business so thoroughly in the spirit of a gentleman.
Sergeant: give Mr. Anderson a chair. (_The sergeant does so. Richard
sits down._) Now, Major Swindon: we are waiting for you.
SWINDON.
You are aware, I presume, Mr. Anderson, of your obligations as a
subject of His Majesty King George the Third.
RICHARD.
I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George the Third is about to
hang me because I object to Lord North’s robbing me.
SWINDON.
That is a treasonable speech, sir.
RICHARD.
(_briefly_). Yes. I meant it to be.
BURGOYNE.
(_strongly deprecating this line of defence, but still polite_). Don’t
you think, Mr. Anderson, that this is rather—if you will excuse the
word—a vulgar line to take? Why should you cry out robbery because of a
stamp duty and a tea duty and so forth? After all, it is the essence of
your position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace.
RICHARD.
It is not the money, General. But to be swindled by a pig-headed
lunatic like King George.
SWINDON.
(_scandalised_). Chut, sir—silence!
THE SERGEANT.
(_in stentorian tones, greatly shocked_). Silence!
BURGOYNE.
(_unruffled_). Ah, that is another point of view. My position does not
allow of my going into that, except in private. But (_shrugging his
shoulders_) of course, Mr. Anderson, if you are determined to be hanged
(_Judith flinches_), there’s nothing more to be said. An unusual taste!
however (_with a final shrug_)—!
SWINDON.
(_to Burgoyne_). Shall we call witnesses?
RICHARD.
What need is there of witnesses? If the townspeople here had listened
to me, you would have found the streets barricaded, the houses
loopholed, and the people in arms to hold the town against you to the
last man. But you arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the
talking stage; and then it was too late.
SWINDON.
(_severely_). Well, sir, we shall teach you and your townspeople a
lesson they will not forget. Have you anything more to say?
RICHARD.
I think you might have the decency to treat me as a prisoner of war,
and shoot me like a man instead of hanging me like a dog.
BURGOYNE.
(_sympathetically_). Now there, Mr. Anderson, you talk like a civilian,
if you will excuse my saying so. Have you any idea of the average
marksmanship of the army of His Majesty King George the Third? If we
make you up a firing party, what will happen? Half of them will miss
you: the rest will make a mess of the business and leave you to the
provo-marshal’s pistol. Whereas we can hang you in a perfectly
workmanlike and agreeable way. (_Kindly_) Let me persuade you to be
hanged, Mr. Anderson?
JUDITH.
(_sick with horror_). My God!
RICHARD.
(_to Judith_). Your promise! (_To Burgoyne_) Thank you, General: that
view of the case did not occur to me before. To oblige you, I withdraw
my objection to the rope. Hang me, by all means.
BURGOYNE.
(_smoothly_). Will 12 o’clock suit you, Mr. Anderson?
RICHARD.
I shall be at your disposal then, General.
BURGOYNE.
(_rising_). Nothing more to be said, gentlemen. (_They all rise._)
JUDITH.
(_rushing to the table_). Oh, you are not going to murder a man like
that, without a proper trial—without thinking of what you are
doing—without— (_She cannot find words._)
RICHARD.
Is this how you keep your promise?
JUDITH.
If I am not to speak, you must. Defend yourself: save yourself: tell
them the truth.
RICHARD.
(_worriedly_). I have told them truth enough to hang me ten times over.
If you say another word you will risk other lives; but you will not
save mine.
BURGOYNE.
My good lady, our only desire is to save unpleasantness. What
satisfaction would it give you to have a solemn fuss made, with my
friend Swindon in a black cap and so forth? I am sure we are greatly
indebted to the admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shown by your
husband.
JUDITH.
(_throwing the words in his face_). Oh, you are mad. Is it nothing to
you what wicked thing you do if only you do it like a gentleman? Is it
nothing to you whether you are a murderer or not, if only you murder in
a red coat? (_Desperately_) You shall not hang him: that man is not my
husband.
The officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the Germans
asking their neighbors to explain what the woman has said. Burgoyne,
who has been visibly shaken by Judith’s reproach, recovers himself
promptly at this new development. Richard meanwhile raises his voice
above the buzz.
RICHARD.
I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to this. She will not believe
that she cannot save me. Break up the court.
BURGOYNE.
(_in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence at once_). One
moment, Mr. Anderson. One moment, gentlemen. (_He resumes his seat.
Swindon and the officers follow his example._) Let me understand you
clearly, madam. Do you mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or
merely—I wish to put this with all delicacy—that you are not his wife?
JUDITH.
I don’t know what you mean. I say that he is not my husband—that my
husband has escaped. This man took his place to save him. Ask anyone in
the town—send out into the street for the first person you find there,
and bring him in as a witness. He will tell you that the prisoner is
not Anthony Anderson.
BURGOYNE.
(_quietly, as before_). Sergeant.
THE SERGEANT.
Yes sir.
BURGOYNE.
Go out into the street and bring in the first townsman you see there.
THE SERGEANT.
(_making for the door_). Yes sir.
BURGOYNE.
(_as the sergeant passes_). The first clean, sober townsman you see.
THE SERGEANT.
Yes Sir. (_He goes out._)
BURGOYNE.
Sit down, Mr. Anderson—if I may call you so for the present. (_Richard
sits down._) Sit down, madam, whilst we wait. Give the lady a
newspaper.
RICHARD.
(_indignantly_). Shame!
BURGOYNE.
(_keenly, with a half smile_). If you are not her husband, sir, the
case is not a serious one—for her. (_Richard bites his lip silenced._)
JUDITH.
(_to Richard, as she returns to her seat_). I couldn’t help it. (_He
shakes his head. She sits down._)
BURGOYNE.
You will understand of course, Mr. Anderson, that you must not build on
this little incident. We are bound to make an example of somebody.
RICHARD.
I quite understand. I suppose there’s no use in my explaining.
BURGOYNE.
I think we should prefer independent testimony, if you don’t mind.
The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns conducting
Christy, who is much scared.
THE SERGEANT.
(_giving Burgoyne the packet_). Dispatches, Sir. Delivered by a
corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard riding, sir.
Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes absorbed in them.
They are so serious as to take his attention completely from the court
martial.
THE SERGEANT.
(_to Christy_). Now then. Attention; and take your hat off. (_He posts
himself in charge of Christy, who stands on Burgoyne’s side of the
court._)
RICHARD.
(_in his usual bullying tone to Christy_). Don’t be frightened, you
fool: you’re only wanted as a witness. They’re not going to hang YOU.
SWINDON.
What’s your name?
CHRISTY.
Christy.
RICHARD.
(_impatiently_). Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant idiot. Give your full
name.
SWINDON.
Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt the witness.
RICHARD.
Very well. But I warn you you’ll get nothing out of him unless you
shake it out of him. He has been too well brought up by a pious mother
to have any sense or manhood left in him.
BURGOYNE.
(_springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a startling voice_).
Where is the man who brought these?
THE SERGEANT.
In the guard-room, sir.
Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchanging looks.
SWINDON.
(_to Christy_). Do you know Anthony Anderson, the Presbyterian
minister?
CHRISTY.
Of course I do. (_Implying that Swindon must be an ass not to know
it._)
SWINDON.
Is he here?
CHRISTY.
(_staring round_). I don’t know.
SWINDON.
Do you see him?
CHRISTY.
No.
SWINDON.
You seem to know the prisoner?
CHRISTY.
Do you mean Dick?
SWINDON.
Which is Dick?
CHRISTY.
(_pointing to Richard_). Him.
SWINDON.
What is his name?
CHRISTY.
Dick.
RICHARD.
Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What do they know about Dick?
CHRISTY.
Well, you are Dick, ain’t you? What am I to say?
SWINDON.
Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be silent. Tell us who the
prisoner is.
CHRISTY.
He’s my brother Dudgeon.
SWINDON.
Your brother!
CHRISTY.
Yes.
SWINDON.
You are sure he is not Anderson.
CHRISTY.
Who?
RICHARD.
(_exasperatedly_). Me, me, me, you—
SWINDON.
Silence, sir.
THE SERGEANT.
(_shouting_). Silence.
RICHARD.
(_impatiently_). Yah! (_To Christy_) He wants to know am I Minister
Anderson. Tell him, and stop grinning like a zany.
CHRISTY.
(_grinning more than ever_). YOU Pastor Anderson! (_To Swindon_) Why,
Mr. Anderson’s a minister—-a very good man; and Dick’s a bad character:
the respectable people won’t speak to him. He’s the bad brother: I’m
the good one, (_The officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin._)
SWINDON.
Who arrested this man?
THE SERGEANT.
I did, sir. I found him in the minister’s house, sitting at tea with
the lady with his coat off, quite at home. If he isn’t married to her,
he ought to be.
SWINDON.
Did he answer to the minister’s name?
THE SERGEANT.
Yes sir, but not to a minister’s nature. You ask the chaplain, sir.
SWINDON.
(_to Richard, threateningly_). So, sir, you have attempted to cheat us.
And your name is Richard Dudgeon?
RICHARD.
You’ve found it out at last, have you?
SWINDON.
Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh?
RICHARD.
Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, was my uncle.
SWINDON.
Hm! (_He compresses his lips and looks at Richard with vindictive
gravity._)
CHRISTY.
Are they going to hang you, Dick?
RICHARD.
Yes. Get out: they’ve done with you.
CHRISTY.
And I may keep the china peacocks?
RICHARD.
(_jumping up_). Get out. Get out, you blithering baboon, you. (_Christy
flies, panicstricken._)
SWINDON.
(_rising—all rise_). Since you have taken the minister’s place, Richard
Dudgeon, you shall go through with it. The execution will take place at
12 o’clock as arranged; and unless Anderson surrenders before then you
shall take his place on the gallows. Sergeant: take your man out.
JUDITH.
(_distracted_). No, no—
SWINDON.
(_fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties_). Take that woman
away.
RICHARD.
(_springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, and seizing
Swindon by the throat_). You infernal scoundrel.
The sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers from the
other. They seize Richard and drag him back to his place. Swindon, who
has been thrown supine on the table, rises, arranging his stock. He is
about to speak, when he is anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just
appeared at the door with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a
blue dispatch.
BURGOYNE.
(_advancing to the table, elaborately cool_). What is this? What’s
happening? Mr. Anderson: I’m astonished at you.
RICHARD.
I am sorry I disturbed you, General. I merely wanted to strangle your
understrapper there. (_Breaking out violently at Swindon_) Why do you
raise the devil in me by bullying the woman like that? You oatmeal
faced dog, I’d twist your cursed head off with the greatest
satisfaction. (_He puts out his hands to the sergeant_) Here: handcuff
me, will you; or I’ll not undertake to keep my fingers off him.
The sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to Burgoyne for
instructions.
BURGOYNE.
Have you addressed profane language to the lady, Major Swindon?
SWINDON.
(_very angry_). No, sir, certainly not. That question should not have
been put to me. I ordered the woman to be removed, as she was
disorderly; and the fellow sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am
perfectly able to take care of myself.
RICHARD.
Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel with you.
BURGOYNE.
Mr. Anderson—
SWINDON.
His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. He is an impostor.
BURGOYNE.
(_brusquely_). Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dudgeon at Springtown.
RICHARD.
It was my uncle, General.
BURGOYNE.
Oh, your uncle. (_To Swindon, handsomely_) I beg your pardon, Major
Swindon. (_Swindon acknowledges the apology stiffly. Burgoyne turns to
Richard_) We are somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your
family. Well, Mr. Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this: Who is
(_reading the name from the letter_) William Maindeck Parshotter?
RICHARD.
He is the Mayor of Springtown.
BURGOYNE.
Is William—Maindeck and so on—a man of his word?
RICHARD.
Is he selling you anything?
BURGOYNE.
No.
RICHARD.
Then you may depend on him.
BURGOYNE.
Thank you, Mr.—’m Dudgeon. By the way, since you are not Mr. Anderson,
do we still—eh, Major Swindon? (_meaning “do we still hang him?”_)
RICHARD.
The arrangements are unaltered, General.
BURGOYNE.
Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Good morning, madam.
RICHARD.
(_interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is about to make some wild
appeal, and taking her arm resolutely_). Not one word more. Come.
She looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his determination.
They are marched out by the four soldiers: the sergeant, very sulky,
walking between Swindon and Richard, whom he watches as if he were a
dangerous animal.
BURGOYNE.
Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major Swindon: a word with you.
(_The officers go out. Burgoyne waits with unruffled serenity until the
last of them disappears. Then he becomes very grave, and addresses
Swindon for the first time without his title._) Swindon: do you know
what this is (_showing him the letter_)?
SWINDON.
What?
BURGOYNE.
A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their militia to come
here and arrange terms with us.
SWINDON.
Oh, they are giving in.
BURGOYNE.
They add that they are sending the man who raised Springtown last night
and drove us out; so that we may know that we are dealing with an
officer of importance.
SWINDON.
Pooh!
BURGOYNE.
He will be fully empowered to arrange the terms of—guess what.
SWINDON.
Their surrender, I hope.
BURGOYNE.
No: our evacuation of the town. They offer us just six hours to clear
out.
SWINDON.
What monstrous impudence!
BURGOYNE.
What shall we do, eh?
SWINDON.
March on Springtown and strike a decisive blow at once.
BURGOYNE.
(_quietly_). Hm! (_Turning to the door_) Come to the adjutant’s office.
SWINDON.
What for?
BURGOYNE.
To write out that safe-conduct. (_He puts his hand to the door knob to
open it._)
SWINDON.
(_who has not budged_). General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE.
(_returning_). Sir?
SWINDON.
It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not consider the threats of a
mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason for our giving way.
BURGOYNE.
(_imperturbable_). Suppose I resign my command to you, what will you
do?
SWINDON.
I will undertake to do what we have marched south from Boston to do,
and what General Howe has marched north from New York to do: effect a
junction at Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces.
BURGOYNE.
(_enigmatically_). And will you wipe out our enemies in London, too?
SWINDON.
In London! What enemies?
BURGOYNE.
(_forcibly_). Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and Red Tape. (_He
holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his face and voice_) I
have just learnt, sir, that General Howe is still in New York.
SWINDON.
(_thunderstruck_). Good God! He has disobeyed orders!
BURGOYNE.
(_with sardonic calm_). He has received no orders, sir. Some gentleman
in London forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving town for his holiday,
I believe. To avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her
American colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga with
5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable position.
SWINDON.
(_appalled_). Impossible!
BURGOYNE.
(_coldly_). I beg your pardon!
SWINDON.
I can’t believe it! What will History say?
BURGOYNE.
History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we must send the
safe-conduct. (_He goes out._)
SWINDON.
(_following distractedly_). My God, my God! We shall be wiped out.
As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. The gallows
which hangs there permanently for the terror of evildoers, with such
minor advertizers and examples of crime as the pillory, the whipping
post, and the stocks, has a new rope attached, with the noose hitched
up to one of the uprights, out of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too,
has been brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who
stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge
townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has
spread that it is the devil’s disciple and not the minister that the
Continentals (_so they call Burgoyne’s forces_) are about to hang:
consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to
its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place
without a struggle. There is even some fear of a disappointment as
midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains
the only sign of preparation. But at last reassuring shouts of Here
they come: Here they are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with
fixed bayonets, half British infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly
into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the sides.
THE SERGEANT.
Halt. Front. Dress. (_The soldiers change their column into a square
enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, energetically led by the
sergeant, hustling the persons who find themselves inside the square
out at the corners._) Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o’
you’ll get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there, will
you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin’ German to them: talk to their
toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they’ll understand that. GET
out of it, will you? (_He comes upon Judith, standing near the
gallows._) Now then: YOU’VE no call here.
JUDITH.
May I not stay? What harm am I doing?
THE SERGEANT.
I want none of your argufying. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
running to see a man hanged that’s not your husband. And he’s no better
than yourself. I told my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and
tries to strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a lunatic. So out
of it with you, double quick.
JUDITH.
Will you take these two silver dollars and let me stay?
The sergeant, without an instant’s hesitation, looks quickly and
furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his pocket.
Then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation.
THE SERGEANT.
ME take money in the execution of my duty! Certainly not. Now I’ll tell
you what I’ll do, to teach you to corrupt the King’s officer. I’ll put
you under arrest until the execution’s over. You just stand there; and
don’t let me see you as much as move from that spot until you’re let.
(_With a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the square behind
the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, shouting_) Now then
dress up and keep ’em back, will you?
Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk; and the sound
of a military band, playing the Dead March from Saul, is heard. The
crowd becomes quiet at once; and the sergeant and petty officers,
hurrying to the back of the square, with a few whispered orders and
some stealthy hustling cause it to open and admit the funeral
procession, which is protected from the crowd by a double file of
soldiers. First come Burgoyne and Swindon, who, on entering the square,
glance with distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under it by
wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves on that side.
Then Mr. Brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book
open in his hand, walking beside Richard, who is moody and disorderly.
He walks doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts himself a
little in front of it. Behind him comes the executioner, a stalwart
soldier in his shirtsleeves. Following him, two soldiers haul a light
military waggon. Finally comes the band, which posts itself at the back
of the square, and finishes the Dead March. Judith, watching Richard
painfully, steals down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its
right post. During the conversation which follows, the two soldiers
place the cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point
backwards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and
places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he climbs the tall
ladder which stands against the gallows, and cuts the string by which
the rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over the cart,
into which he steps as he descends.
RICHARD.
(_with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell_). Look here, sir: this is
no place for a man of your profession. Hadn’t you better go away?
SWINDON.
I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense of decency left, to
listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, and pay due heed to the
solemnity of the occasion.
THE CHAPLAIN (_gently reproving Richard_). Try to control yourself, and
submit to the divine will. (_He lifts his book to proceed with the
service._)
RICHARD.
Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your accomplices here
(_indicating Burgoyne and Swindon_): I see little divinity about them
or you. You talk to me of Christianity when you are in the act of
hanging your enemies. Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (_To
Swindon, more rudely_) You’ve got up the solemnity of the occasion, as
you call it, to impress the people with your own dignity—Handel’s music
and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! Do you suppose I am
going to help you? You’ve asked me to choose the rope because you don’t
know your own trade well enough to shoot me properly. Well, hang away
and have done with it.
SWINDON.
(_to the chaplain_). Can you do nothing with him, Mr. Brudenell?
CHAPLAIN.
I will try, sir. (_Beginning to read_) Man that is born of woman hath—
RICHARD.
(_fixing his eyes on him_). “Thou shalt not kill.”
The book drops in Brudenell’s hands.
CHAPLAIN.
(_confessing his embarrassment_). What am I to say, Mr. Dudgeon?
RICHARD.
Let me alone, man, can’t you?
BURGOYNE.
(_with extreme urbanity_). I think, Mr. Brudenell, that as the usual
professional observations seem to strike Mr. Dudgeon as incongruous
under the circumstances, you had better omit them until—er—until Mr.
Dudgeon can no longer be inconvenienced by them. (_Brudenell, with a
shrug, shuts his book and retires behind the gallows._) YOU seem in a
hurry, Mr. Dudgeon.
RICHARD.
(_with the horror of death upon him_). Do you think this is a pleasant
sort of thing to be kept waiting for? You’ve made up your mind to
commit murder: well, do it and have done with it.
BURGOYNE.
Mr. Dudgeon: we are only doing this—
RICHARD.
Because you’re paid to do it.
SWINDON.
You insolent— (_He swallows his rage._)
BURGOYNE.
(_with much charm of manner_). Ah, I am really sorry that you should
think that, Mr. Dudgeon. If you knew what my commission cost me, and
what my pay is, you would think better of me. I should be glad to part
from you on friendly terms.
RICHARD.
Hark ye, General Burgoyne. If you think that I like being hanged,
you’re mistaken. I don’t like it; and I don’t mean to pretend that I
do. And if you think I’m obliged to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly
way, you’re wrong there too. I take the whole business in devilish bad
part; and the only satisfaction I have in it is that you’ll feel a good
deal meaner than I’ll look when it’s over. (_He turns away, and is
striding to the cart when Judith advances and interposes with her arms
stretched out to him. Richard, feeling that a very little will upset
his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying_) What are you doing
here? This is no place for you. (_She makes a gesture as if to touch
him. He recoils impatiently._) No: go away, go away; you’ll unnerve me.
Take her away, will you?
JUDITH.
Won’t you bid me good-bye?
RICHARD.
(_allowing her to take his hand_). Oh good-bye, good-bye. Now
go—go—quickly. (_She clings to his hand—will not be put off with so
cold a last farewell—at last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws
herself on his breast in agony._)
SWINDON.
(_angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at Judith’s movement, has come
from the back of the square to pull her back, and stopped irresolutely
on finding that he is too late_). How is this? Why is she inside the
lines?
THE SERGEANT.
(_guiltily_). I dunno, sir. She’s that artful can’t keep her away.
BURGOYNE.
You were bribed.
THE SERGEANT.
(_protesting_). No, Sir—
SWINDON.
(_severely_). Fall back. (_He obeys._)
RICHARD.
(_imploringly to those around him, and finally to Burgoyne, as the
least stolid of them_). Take her away. Do you think I want a woman near
me now?
BURGOYNE.
(_going to Judith and taking her hand_). Here, madam: you had better
keep inside the lines; but stand here behind us; and don’t look.
Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him and
turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts into it. The
executioner takes off his coat and pinions him.
JUDITH.
(_resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand away_). No: I must
stay. I won’t look. (_She goes to the right of the gallows. She tries
to look at Richard, but turns away with a frightful shudder, and falls
on her knees in prayer. Brudenell comes towards her from the back of
the square._)
BURGOYNE.
(_nodding approvingly as she kneels_). Ah, quite so. Do not disturb
her, Mr. Brudenell: that will do very nicely. (_Brudenell nods also,
and withdraws a little, watching her sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes
his former position, and takes out a handsome gold chronometer._) Now
then, are those preparations made? We must not detain Mr. Dudgeon.
By this time Richard’s hands are bound behind him; and the noose is
round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft of the wagon, ready to
pull it away. The executioner, standing in the cart behind Richard,
makes a sign to the sergeant.
THE SERGEANT.
(_to Burgoyne_). Ready, sir.
BURGOYNE.
Have you anything more to say, Mr. Dudgeon? It wants two minutes of
twelve still.
RICHARD.
(_in the strong voice of a man who has conquered the bitterness of
death_). Your watch is two minutes slow by the town clock, which I can
see from here, General. (_The town clock strikes the first stroke of
twelve. Involuntarily the people flinch at the sound, and a subdued
groan breaks from them._) Amen! my life for the world’s future!
ANDERSON.
(_shouting as he rushes into the market place_). Amen; and stop the
execution. (_He bursts through the line of soldiers opposite Burgoyne,
and rushes, panting, to the gallows._) I am Anthony Anderson, the man
you want.
The crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears. Judith, half
rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose dearest
prayer has been granted.
SWINDON.
Indeed. Then you are just in time to take your place on the gallows.
Arrest him.
At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize
Anderson.
ANDERSON.
(_thrusting a paper under Swindon’s nose_). There’s my safe-conduct,
sir.
SWINDON.
(_taken aback_). Safe-conduct! Are you—!
ANDERSON.
(_emphatically_). I am. (_The two soldiers take him by the elbows._)
Tell these men to take their hands off me.
SWINDON.
(_to the men_). Let him go.
THE SERGEANT.
Fall back.
The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a cheer; and
begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment of triumph as
they see their Pastor speaking with their enemies in the gate.
ANDERSON.
(_exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his perspiring brow
with his handkerchief_). Thank God, I was in time!
BURGOYNE.
(_calm as ever, and still watch in hand_). Ample time, sir. Plenty of
time. I should never dream of hanging any gentleman by an American
clock. (_He puts up his watch._)
ANDERSON.
Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you already, General. Now tell them
to take the rope from the neck of that American citizen.
BURGOYNE.
(_to the executioner in the cart—very politely_). Kindly undo Mr.
Dudgeon.
The executioner takes the rope from Richard’s neck, unties his hands,
and helps him on with his coat.
JUDITH.
(_stealing timidly to Anderson_). Tony.
ANDERSON.
(_putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering her
affectionately_). Well what do you think of your husband, NOW,
eh?—eh??—eh???
JUDITH.
I am ashamed— (_She hides her face against his breast._)
BURGOYNE.
(_to Swindon_). You look disappointed, Major Swindon.
SWINDON.
You look defeated, General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE.
I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad of it. (_Richard jumps
down from the cart, Brudenell offering his hand to help him, and runs
to Anderson, whose left hand he shakes heartily, the right being
occupied by Judith._) By the way, Mr. Anderson, I do not quite
understand. The safe-conduct was for a commander of the militia. I
understand you are a— (_he looks as pointedly as his good manners
permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard’s coat, and adds_)
a clergyman.
ANDERSON.
(_between Judith and Richard_). Sir: it is in the hour of trial that a
man finds his true profession. This foolish young man (_placing his
hand on Richard’s shoulder_) boasted himself the Devil’s Disciple; but
when the hour of trial came to him, he found that it was his destiny to
suffer and be faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent minister
of the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, I found
that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my place was amid
the thunder of the captains and the shouting. So I am starting life at
fifty as Captain Anthony Anderson of the Springtown militia; and the
Devil’s Disciple here will start presently as the Reverend Richard
Dudgeon, and wag his pow in my old pulpit, and give good advice to this
silly sentimental little wife of mine (_putting his other hand on her
shoulder. She steals a glance at Richard to see how the prospect
pleases him_). Your mother told me, Richard, that I should never have
chosen Judith if I’d been born for the ministry. I am afraid she was
right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and I’ll keep yours.
RICHARD.
Minister—I should say Captain. I have behaved like a fool.
JUDITH.
Like a hero.
RICHARD.
Much the same thing, perhaps. (_With some bitterness towards himself_)
But no: if I had been any good, I should have done for you what you did
for me, instead of making a vain sacrifice.
ANDERSON.
Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make a world—saints as well as
soldiers. (_Turning to Burgoyne_) And now, General, time presses; and
America is in a hurry. Have you realized that though you may occupy
towns and win battles, you cannot conquer a nation?
BURGOYNE.
My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot have an aristocracy. Come
and settle the matter at my quarters.
ANDERSON.
At your service, sir. (_To Richard_) See Judith home for me, will you,
my boy? (_He hands her over to him._) Now General. (_He goes busily up
the market place towards the Town Hall, Leaving Judith and Richard
together. Burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and
turns to Richard._)
BURGOYNE.
Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be glad to see you at lunch at
half-past one. (_He pauses a moment, and adds, with politely veiled
slyness_) Bring Mrs. Anderson, if she will be so good. (_To Swindon,
who is fuming_) Take it quietly, Major Swindon: your friend the British
soldier can stand up to anything except the British War Office. (_He
follows Anderson._)
THE SERGEANT.
(_to Swindon_). What orders, sir?
SWINDON.
(_savagely_). Orders! What use are orders now? There’s no army. Back to
quarters; and be d— (_He turns on his heel and goes._)
THE SERGEANT.
(_pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of defeat_). ’Tention.
Now then: cock up your chins, and show ’em you don’t care a damn for
’em. Slope arms! Fours! Wheel! Quick march!
The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes up British
Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, and the English troops march
off defiantly to their quarters. The townsfolk press in behind, and
follow them up the market, jeering at them; and the town band, a very
primitive affair, brings up the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who
comes in with them, runs to Richard.
ESSIE.
Oh, Dick!
RICHARD.
(_good-humoredly, but wilfully_). Now, now: come, come! I don’t mind
being hanged; but I will not be cried over.
ESSIE.
No, I promise. I’ll be good. (_She tries to restrain her tears, but
cannot._) I—I want to see where the soldiers are going to. (_She goes a
little way up the market, pretending to look after the crowd._)
JUDITH.
Promise me you will never tell him.
RICHARD.
Don’t be afraid.
They shake hands on it.
ESSIE.
(_calling to them_). They’re coming back. They want you.
Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again in wild
enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on their shoulders,
cheering him.
CURTAIN.
NOTES TO THE DEVIL’S DISCIPLE
BURGOYNE
General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for the first time
(_as far as I am aware_) on the English stage, is not a conventional
stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as it is in the nature of
stage portraits to be. His objection to profane swearing is not
borrowed from Mr. Gilbert’s H. M. S. Pinafore: it is taken from the
Code of Instructions drawn up by himself for his officers when he
introduced Light Horse into the English army. His opinion that English
soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome
to the military authorities of his time, when nothing was thought of
ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be to those modern
victims of the flagellation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that
discredited sport. His military reports are very clever as criticisms,
and are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic limits, best
illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious,
that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground than that
of family influence. As a parliamentary candidate, Burgoyne took our
common expression “fighting an election” so very literally that he led
his supporters to the poll at Preston in 1768 with a loaded pistol in
each hand, and won the seat, though he was fined 1,000 pounds, and
denounced by Junius, for the pistols.
It is only within quite recent years that any general recognition has
become possible for the feeling that led Burgoyne, a professed enemy of
oppression in India and elsewhere, to accept his American command when
so many other officers threw up their commissions rather than serve in
a civil war against the Colonies. His biographer De Fonblanque, writing
in 1876, evidently regarded his position as indefensible. Nowadays, it
is sufficient to say that Burgoyne was an Imperialist. He sympathized
with the colonists; but when they proposed as a remedy the disruption
of the Empire, he regarded that as a step backward in civilization. As
he put it to the House of Commons, “while we remember that we are
contending against brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember
that we are contending in this crisis for the fate of the British
Empire.” Eighty-four years after his defeat, his republican conquerors
themselves engaged in a civil war for the integrity of their Union. In
1885 the Whigs who represented the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American
Independence in English politics, abandoned Gladstone and made common
cause with their political opponents in defence of the Union between
England and Ireland. Only the other day England sent 200,000 men into
the field south of the equator to fight out the question whether South
Africa should develop as a Federation of British Colonies or as an
independent Afrikander United States. In all these cases the Unionists
who were detached from their parties were called renegades, as Burgoyne
was. That, of course, is only one of the unfortunate consequences of
the fact that mankind, being for the most part incapable of politics,
accepts vituperation as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether
Burgoyne or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, Mr.
Chamberlain or Mr. Leonard Courtney was in the right will never be
settled, because it will never be possible to prove that the government
of the victor has been better for mankind than the government of the
vanquished would have been. It is true that the victors have no doubt
on the point; but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only
part of the human comedy. The American Unionist is often a Separatist
as to Ireland; the English Unionist often sympathizes with the Polish
Home Ruler; and both English and American Unionists are apt to be
Disruptionists as regards that Imperial Ancient of Days, the Empire of
China. Both are Unionists concerning Canada, but with a difference as
to the precise application to it of the Monroe doctrine. As for me, the
dramatist, I smile, and lead the conversation back to Burgoyne.
Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga made him that occasionally necessary
part of our British system, a scapegoat. The explanation of his defeat
given in the play is founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from
Fitzmaurice’s Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: “Lord George Germain,
having among other peculiarities a particular dislike to be put out of
his way on any occasion, had arranged to call at his office on his way
to the country to sign the dispatches; but as those addressed to Howe
had not been faircopied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his
projected visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were forgotten
on his return home.” These were the dispatches instructing Sir William
Howe, who was in New York, to effect a junction at Albany with
Burgoyne, who had marched from Boston for that purpose. Burgoyne got as
far as Saratoga, where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was
hopelessly outnumbered, and his officers picked off, Boer fashion, by
the American farmer-sharpshooters. His own collar was pierced by a
bullet. The publicity of his defeat, however, was more than compensated
at home by the fact that Lord George’s trip to Kent had not been
interfered with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the
dispatch. The policy of the English Government and Court for the next
two years was simply concealment of Germain’s neglect. Burgoyne’s
demand for an inquiry was defeated in the House of Commons by the court
party; and when he at last obtained a committee, the king got rid of it
by a prorogation. When Burgoyne realized what had happened about the
instructions to Howe (_the scene in which I have represented him as
learning it before Saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn
on him until many months afterwards_) the king actually took advantage
of his being a prisoner of war in England on parole, and ordered him to
return to America into captivity. Burgoyne immediately resigned all his
appointments; and this practically closed his military career, though
he was afterwards made Commander of the Forces in Ireland for the
purpose of banishing him from parliament.
The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the English sense of
honor when the privileges and prestige of the aristocracy are at stake.
Mr. Frank Harris said, after the disastrous battle of Modder River,
that the English, having lost America a century ago because they
preferred George III, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day
because they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones.
Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a critical period
of the War of Independence, said that the Lords could not be expected
to lose their pheasant shooting for the sake of America. In the working
class, which, like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there
is the same reluctance to discredit an institution or to “do a man out
of his job.” At bottom, of course, this apparently shameless sacrifice
of great public interests to petty personal ones, is simply the
preference of the ordinary man for the things he can feel and
understand to the things that are beyond his capacity. It is stupidity,
not dishonesty.
Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. Not only was he
thrown over, in spite of his high character and distinguished services,
to screen a court favorite who had actually been cashiered for
cowardice and misconduct in the field fifteen years before; but his
peculiar critical temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather
histrionic, and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit
and humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by stupid
people because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long after his
death, Thackeray, who had an intense sense of human character, but was
typically stupid in valuing and interpreting it, instinctively sneered
at him and exulted in his defeat. That sneer represents the common
English attitude towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which the
critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (_for both
temperaments have their genius_) “muddles through all right,” is
popular in England. But Burgoyne’s failure was not the work of his own
temperament, but of the stupid temperament. What man could do under the
circumstances he did, and did handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his
ideal empire was dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but
because Sir George Germain overestimated the importance of his Kentish
holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of conquering those remote
and inferior creatures, the colonists. And King George and the rest of
the nation agreed, on the whole, with Germain. It is a significant
point that in America, where Burgoyne was an enemy and an invader, he
was admired and praised. The climate there is no doubt more favorable
to intellectual vivacity.
I have described Burgoyne’s temperament as rather histrionic; and the
reader will have observed that the Burgoyne of the Devil’s Disciple is
a man who plays his part in life, and makes all its points, in the
manner of a born high comedian. If he had been killed at Saratoga, with
all his comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning As You Like It
into a Beggar’s Opera unconceived, I should still have painted the same
picture of him on the strength of his reply to the articles of
capitulation proposed to him by his American conqueror General Gates.
Here they are:
PROPOSITION
1. General Burgoyne’s army being reduced by repeated defeats, by
desertion, sickness, etc., their provisions exhausted, their military
horses, tents and baggage taken or destroyed, their retreat cut off,
and their camp invested, they can only be allowed to surrender as
prisoners of war.
ANSWER
1. Lieut.-General Burgoyne’s army, however reduced, will never admit
that their retreat is cut off while they have arms in their hands.
PROPOSITION
2. The officers and soldiers may keep the baggage belonging to them.
The generals of the United States never permit individuals to be
pillaged.
ANSWER
2. Noted.
PROPOSITION
3. The troops under his Excellency General Burgoyne will be conducted
by the most convenient route to New England, marching by easy marches,
and sufficiently provided for by the way.
ANSWER
3. Agreed.
PROPOSITION
4. The officers will be admitted on parole and will be treated with the
liberality customary in such cases, so long as they, by proper
behaviour, continue to deserve it; but those who are apprehended having
broke their parole, as some British officers have done, must expect to
be close confined.
ANSWER
4. There being no officer in this army, under, or capable of being
under, the description of breaking parole, this article needs no
answer.
PROPOSITION
5. All public stores, artillery, arms, ammunition, carriages, horses,
etc., etc., must be delivered to commissaries appointed to receive
them.
ANSWER
5. All public stores may be delivered, arms excepted.
PROPOSITION
6. These terms being agreed to and signed, the troops under his
Excellency’s, General Burgoyne’s command, may be drawn up in their
encampments, where they will be ordered to ground their arms, and may
thereupon be marched to the river-side on their way to Bennington.
ANSWER
6. This article is inadmissible in any extremity. Sooner than this army
will consent to ground their arms in their encampments, they will rush
on the enemy determined to take no quarter.
And, later on, “If General Gates does not mean to recede from the 6th
article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to a man proceed to any
act of desperation sooner than submit to that article.”
Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add that he had his own
way; and that when the actual ceremony of surrender came, he would have
played poor General Gates off the stage, had not that commander risen
to the occasion by handing him back his sword.
In connection with the reference to Indians with scalping knives, who,
with the troops hired from Germany, made up about half Burgoyne’s
force, I may mention that Burgoyne offered two of them a reward to
guide a Miss McCrea, betrothed to one of the English officers, into the
English lines.
The two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more sensitive of
them, as a protest against the unfairness of the other, tomahawked the
young lady. The usual retaliations were proposed under the popular
titles of justice and so forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would
certainly have followed suit by a massacre of whites on the Canadian
frontier, Burgoyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense
disgust of indignant Christendom.
BRUDENELL
Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery chaplain of that
name distinguished himself at Saratoga by reading the burial service
over Major Fraser under fire, and by a quite readable adventure,
chronicled by Burgoyne, with Lady Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet’s
husband achieved the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his
adversary, in a duel. He overbalanced himself in the heat of his
swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a pebble. Lady Harriet
then married the warrior chaplain, who, like Anthony Anderson in the
play, seems to have mistaken his natural profession.
The rest of the Devil’s Disciple may have actually occurred, like most
stories invented by dramatists; but I cannot produce any documents.
Major Swindon’s name is invented; but the man, of course, is real.
There are dozens of him extant to this day.