________________________________________________
_ 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.
SERGEANT. You can have a quiet word with him here, mum.
JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait?
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!
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?
SERGEANT. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb you till
the court sits.
RICHARD. But it has struck the hour.
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.)
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.
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.
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, 2Oth, 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?
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--
BURG0YNE. 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!
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.
SERGEANT. Yes sir.
BURGOYNE. Go out into the street and bring in the first townsman
you see there.
SERGEANT (making for the door). Yes sir.
BURGOYNE (as the sergeant passes). The first clean, sober
townsman you see.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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?
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?
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.
BUGOYNE. 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?
BQRGOYNE. 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.
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?
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.
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?
SERGEANT (guiltily). I dunno, sir. She's that artful can't keep
her away.
BURGOYNE. You were bribed.
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.
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.
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 has
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 you 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.)
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 tunes on his heel and
goes.)
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 1886
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.
_________
-THE END-
George Bernard Shaw's comedy/play: The Devil's Disciple _
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