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The Dynasts: An Epic Drama Of The War With Napoleon, a play by Thomas Hardy |
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Part 2 - Act 3 - Scene 1. Spain. A Road Near Astorga |
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_ PART SECOND. ACT THIRD. SCENE I. [The eye of the spectator rakes the road from the interior of a cellar which opens upon it, and forms the basement of a deserted house, the roof doors, and shutters of which have been pulled down and burnt for bivouac fires. The season is the beginning of January, and the country is covered with a sticky snow. The road itself is intermittently encumbered with heavy traffic, the surface being churned to a yellow mud that lies half knee-deep, and at the numerous holes in the track forming still deeper quagmires. In the gloom of the cellar are heaps of damp straw, in which ragged figures are lying half-buried, many of the men in the uniform of English regiments, and the women and children in clouts of all descriptions, some being nearly naked. At the back of the cellar is revealed, through a burst door, an inner vault, where are discernible some wooden-hooped wine-casks; in one sticks a gimlet, and the broaching-cork of another has been driven in. The wine runs into pitchers, washing-basins, shards, chamber- vessels, and other extemporized receptacles. Most of the inmates are drunk; some to insensibility. So far as the characters are doing anything they are contemplating almost incessant traffic outside, passing in one direction. It includes a medley of stragglers from the Marquis of ROMANA'S Spanish forces and the retreating English army under SIR JOHN MOORE--to which the concealed deserters belong.]
Now he's one of the Eighty-first, and I'd gladly let that poor blade know that we've all that man can wish for here--good wine and buxom women. But if I do, we shan't have room for ourselves--hey? [He signifies a man limping past with neither fire-lock nor knapsack. Where the discarded knapsack has rubbed for weeks against his shoulder-blades the jacket and shirt are fretted away, leaving his skin exposed.] SECOND DESERTER He may be the Eighty-firsht, or th' Eighty-second; but what I say is, without fear of contradiction, I wish to the Lord I was back in old Bristol again. I'd sooner have a nipperkin of our own real "Bristol milk" than a mash-tub full of this barbarian wine! THIRD DESERTER 'Tis like thee to be ungrateful, after putting away such a skinful on't. I am as much Bristol as thee, but would as soon be here as there. There ain't near such willing women, that are strict respectable too, there as hereabout, and no open cellars.-- As there's many a slip in this country I'll have the rest of my allowance now. [He crawls on his elbows to one of the barrels, and turning on his back lets the wine run down his throat.]
Don't treat us to such a snoaching there, mate. Here's some more coming, and they'll sight us if we don't mind! [Enter without a straggling flock of military objects, some with fragments of shoes on, others bare-footed, many of the latter's feet bleeding. The arms and waists of some are clutched by women as tattered and bare-footed as themselves. They pass on. The Retreat continues. More of ROMANA'S Spanish limp along in disorder; then enters a miscellaneous group of English cavalry soldiers, some on foot, some mounted, the rearmost of the latter bestriding a shoeless foundered creature whose neck is vertebrae and mane only. While passing it falls from exhaustion; the trooper extricates himself and pistols the animal through the head. He and the rest pass on.] FIRST DESERTER (a new plashing of feet being heard) Here's something more in order, or I am much mistaken. He cranes out.) Yes, a sergeant of the Forty-third, and what's left of their second battalion. And, by God, not far behind I see shining helmets. 'Tis a whole squadron of French dragoons! [Enter the sergeant. He has a racking cough, but endeavours, by stiffening himself up, to hide how it is wasting away his life. He halts, and looks back, till the remains of the Forty-third are abreast, to the number of some three hundred, about half of whom are crippled invalids, the other half being presentable and armed soldiery.' SERGEANT Now show yer nerve, and be men. If you die to-day you won't have to die to-morrow. Fall in! (The miscellany falls in.) All invalids and men without arms march ahead as well as they can. Quick--maw-w-w-ch! (Exeunt invalids, etc.) Now! Tention! Shoulder-r-r--fawlocks! (Order obeyed.) [The sergeant hastily forms these into platoons, who prime and load, and seem preternaturally changed from what they were into alert soldiers. Enter French dragoons at the left-back of the scene. The rear platoon of the Forty-third turns, fires, and proceeds. The next platoon covering them does the same. This is repeated several times, staggering the pursuers. Exeunt French dragoons, giving up the pursuit. The coughing sergeant and the remnant of the Forty-third march on.]
What d'ye think o' that, my honey? It fairly makes me a man again. Come, wake up! We must be getting along somehow. (He regards the woman more closely.) Why--my little chick? Look here, friends. (They look, and the woman is found to be dead.) If I didn't think that her poor knees felt cold! . . . And only an hour ago I swore to marry her! [They remain silent. The Retreat continues in the snow without, now in the form of a file of ox-carts, followed by a mixed rabble of English and Spanish, and mules and muleteers hired by English officers to carry their baggage. The muleteers, looking about and seeing that the French dragoons gave been there, cut the bands which hold on the heavy packs, and scamper off with their mules.] A VOICE (behind) The Commander-in-Chief is determined to maintain discipline, and they must suffer. No more pillaging here. It is the worst case of brutality and plunder that we have had in this wretched time! [Enter an English captain of hussars, a lieutenant, a guard of about a dozen, and three men as prisoner.]
If they choose to draw lots, only one need be made an example of. But they must be quick about it. The advance-guard of the enemy is not far behind. [The three prisoners appear to draw lots, and the one on whom the lot falls is blindfolded. Exeunt the hussars behind a wall, with carbines. A volley is heard and something falls. The wretched in the cellar shudder.]
'Tis the same for us but for this heap of straw. Ah--my doxy is the only one of us who is safe and sound! (He kisses the dead woman.) [Retreat continues. A train of six-horse baggage-waggons lumbers past, a mounted sergeant alongside. Among the baggage lie wounded soldiers and sick women.]
If so be they are dead, ye may as well drop 'em over the tail-board. 'Tis no use straining the horses unnecessary. [Waggons halt. Two of the wounded who have just died are taken out, laid down by the roadside, and some muddy snow scraped over them. Exeunt waggons and sergeant. An interval. More English troops pass on horses, mostly shoeless and foundered. Enter SIR JOHN MOORE and officers. MOORE appears on the pale evening light as a handsome man, far on in the forties, the orbits of his dark eyes showing marks of deep anxiety. He is talking to some of his staff with vehement emphasis and gesture. They cross the scene and go on out of sight, and the squashing of their horses' hoofs in the snowy mud dies away.]
Poise fawlocks--open pans--right hands to pouch--handle ca'tridge--bring it--quick motion-bite top well off--prime--shut pans--cast about--load---
Shut up that! D'ye think you are a 'cruity in the awkward squad still?
I don't know what he thinks, but I know what I feel! Would that I were at home in England again, where there's old-fashioned tipple, and a proper God A'mighty instead of this eternal 'Ooman and baby; --ay, at home a-leaning against old Bristol Bridge, and no questions asked, and the winter sun slanting friendly over Baldwin Street as 'a used to do! 'Tis my very belief, though I have lost all sure reckoning, that if I were there, and in good health, 'twould be New Year's day about now. What it is over here I don't know. Ay, to- night we should be a-setting in the tap of the "Adam and Eve"-- lifting up the tune of "The Light o' the Moon." 'Twer a romantical thing enough. 'A used to go som'at like this (he sings in a nasal tone):-- "O I thought it had been day, [Retreat continues, with infantry in good order. Hearing the singing, one of the officers looks around, and detaching a patrol enters the ruined house with the file of men, the body of soldiers marching on. The inmates of the cellar bury themselves in the straw. The officer peers about, and seeing no one prods the straw with his sword.
Oh! Hell! Stop it! We'll come out! Mercy! Quarter! [The lurkers are uncovered.]
If you are well enough to sing bawdy songs, you are well enough to march. So out of it--or you'll be shot, here and now!
You may shoot us, captain, or the French may shoot us, or the devil may take us; we don't care which! Only we can't stir. Pity the women, captain, but do what you will with us! [The searchers pass over the wounded, and stir out those capable of marching, both men and women, so far as they discover them. They are pricked on by the patrol. Exeunt patrol and deserters in its charge. Those who remain look stolidly at the highway. The English Rear-guard of cavalry crosses the scene and passes out. An interval. It grows dusk.]
Quaint poesy, and real romance of war!
Mock on, Shade, if thou wilt! But others find [The scene is cloaked in darkness.] _ |
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