Chapter IV: Introduction: On the Reading of Plays (3)

HILDA. No; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this for the same reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted it all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe differently! You can't hush the mind that for twenty years has thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can't give yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You see power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests._) That's your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--not what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives with those of our son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he wishes to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals for the ideals of others! (_She turns away._) Oh, Will, that's what hurts. If you were only like him, I--I could stand it.

WHITE (_quietly, after a pause_). I can't be angry at you--even when you say such things. You've been too much a part of my life, and work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't you, dear? (_He sits beside her and takes her hand._) I knew it would be difficult to make you understand. Only once have I lacked courage, and that was when I felt myself being drawn into this and they offered me the appointment. For then I saw I must tell you. You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. But when you asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would understand my going, too.--Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young; war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to accomplish my ideals.

HILDA. Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter enemies praying to the same God as they kill each other.

WHITE. Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can't. It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I'll grant all that. Only, America has gone in. The whole tide was against us, dear. It is sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki sweeping everything before it. All my life I've fought against the current. (_Wearily_) And now that I've gone in, too, my arms seem less tired. Yes; and except for the pain I've caused you, I've never in all my life felt so--so happy.

(_Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with tenderness in her eyes._)

HILDA. Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason for what you've done.

WHITE (_defensively_). I've given the real reason.

HILDA (_her heart going out to him_). You poor tired man. My dear one. Forgive me if I made it difficult for you, if I said cruel words. I ought to have guessed; ought to have seen what life has done to you. (_He looks up, not understanding her words_). Those hands of yours first dug a living out of the ground. Then they built houses and grew strong because you were a workman--a man of the people. You saw injustice, and all your life you fought against those who had the power to inflict it: the press; the comfortable respectables, like my brother; and even those of your own group who opposed you--you fought them all. And they look at you as an outsider, an alien in your own country. O Will, I know how hard it has been for you to be always on the defensive, against the majority. It is hard to live alone, away from the herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the comfort and security they find by being together.

WHITE. Yes--but--

HILDA. Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to be part of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those who have fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, to have the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reason you're going in. You're tired and worn out with the fight. I know. I understand now.

WHITE (_earnestly_). If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself.

HILDA. There's been enough killing already. I have to understand it somehow to accept it at all.

(_He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles. He goes to a chair and sits down, gazing before him. The music of Over There is now heard outside in the street, approaching nearer and nearer. It is a military band. WALLACE excitedly rushes in dressed in khaki._)

WALLACE. Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street. (_Sees father._) Dad! Mother has told you?

HILDA (_calmly_). Yes; I've told him.

WALLACE. And you're going to let me go, Dad?

HILDA. Yes.

WALLACE. Oh, thanks, Dad (_grasping his hand_).

I knew mother would make you see. (_Music nearer._) Listen! Isn't that a great tune? Lifts you up on your feet and carries you over there. Gee, it just gets into a fellow and makes him want to run for his gun and charge over the top. (_He goes to balcony._) Look! They're nearing here; all ready to sail with the morning tide. They've got their helmets on. You can't see the end of them coming down the avenue. Oh, thank God, I'm going to be one of them soon. Thank God! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and the Stars and Stripes. (_Calls off_) Hurrah! (_To them_) Oh, I wish I had a flag. Why haven't we got a flag here?--Hurrah!!

(_As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder. HILDA has gone to WHITE during this, and stands behind him, with her arms down his arms, as he sits there, gazing before him._)

HILDA (_fervently_). Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does!!

(_The music begins to trail off as WHITE tenderly takes hold of her hands._)

[CURTAIN]

ILE

Eugene O'Neill

SCENE: CAPTAIN KEENEY'S cabin on board the steam whaling ship Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment, about eight feet high, with a skylight in the centre looking out on the poop deck. On the left (_the stern of the ship_) a long bench with rough cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, a table. Over the bench, several curtained portholes.

In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain's sleeping-quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall.

On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped, sideboard. On the sideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther forward, a doorway leading to the companion way, and past the officers' quarters to the main deck.

In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of the ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are painted white.

There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence is unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking up and down on the poop deck overhead.

It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day in the year 1895.

At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of the few dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN'S dinner. He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear-flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table.

BEN enters. He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinched face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the verge of crying.

THE STEWARD (_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_). Oh, 'tis you, is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.

BEN. It's c-c-old. (_Trying to control his chattering teeth--derisively_) Who d' ye think it were--the Old Man?

THE STEWARD. (_He makes a threatening move--BEN shrinks away._) None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (_More kindly_) Where was it ye've been all o' the time--the fo'c's'le?

BEN. Yes.

THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkey-shinin' with the handstand ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry.

BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (_A trace of awe in his tones--he glances upward._) He just walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard.

THE STEWARD (_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_). He's always starin' at the ice. (_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight_) Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it like a fly in molasses!

BEN (_apprehensively_). Ssshh! He'll hear ye.

THE STEWARD (_raging_). Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this stinkin' whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! (_Subsiding, as if realizing the uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep conviction_) He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.

BEN (_solemnly_). Aye.

THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for home! (_Bitterly_) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on land again. (_Excitedly_) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le?

BEN (_going over to him--in a half-whisper_). They said if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.

THE STEWARD (_with grim satisfaction_). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs.

BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water's far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the men says.

THE STEWARD (_bitterly_). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd where they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gittin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales. (_Shaking his head_) I think the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.

BEN (_awed_). D' you really think he's crazy?

THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye hear ever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (_Pointing to the door in rear_) Who but a man that's mad would take his woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a stinkin' whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure she'll never be the same again.

BEN (_sadly_). She useter be awful nice to me before--(_his eyes grow wide and frightened_) she got--like she is.

THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have been hell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard man--a driver if there ever was one. (_With a grim laugh_) I hope he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame her? 'T is a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people--with the damned ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice.

BEN (_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_). She don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me's if she didn't know me.

THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to him--when she does talk--right enough.

BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.

THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.

BEN (_tiptoes over to the door and listens_). She's cryin' now.

THE STEWARD (_furiously--shaking his fist_). God send his soul to hell for the devil he is!

(_There is the noise of someone coming slowly down the companionway stairs._ THE STEWARD _hurries to his stacked-up dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ with a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket_, CAPTAIN KEENEY _appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, around five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account of the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots._

_He is followed into the cabin by the_ SECOND MATE, _a rangy six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face._ The MATE _is dressed about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so._)

KEENEY. (_Comes toward the_ STEWARD--_with a stern look on his face. The_ STEWARD _is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his trembling hands._ KEENEY _draws back his fist and the_ STEWARD _shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and_ KEENEY _speaks slowly._) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.

THE STEWARD (_stammering_). Y-y-yes, sir.

KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (_To_ BEN _fiercely_) Get out o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN _darts past the_ MATE _to the open doorway._) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!

THE STEWARD (_doing so with difficulty_). Yes, sir.

KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Bering Sea at the end of a rope.

THE STEWARD (_tremblingly_). Yes, sir.

(_He hurries out. The_ SECOND MATE _walks slowly over to the_ CAPTAIN.)

MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.

KEENEY (_impatiently_). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.

MATE (_unconsciously lowering his voice_). I'm afeard there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to-day.

KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her._)

KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She is silent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway._)

KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.

(_She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the_ MATE _exchange a significant glance._)

KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day. There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice.

MRS. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.

(_She makes a gesture of loathing._)

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.

KEENEY (_a touch of resentment in his voice_). I got it jest for you.

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I know. (_She turns away from them and walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._) Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice! (_She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy._) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at it, David.

KEENEY (_frowning_). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY (_desperately_). But the sun never shines in this terrible place.

KEENEY (_a tone of command in his voice_). Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_crumbling before this command--abjectly_). Very well, David.

(_She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze. The two men look at her uneasily._)

KEENEY (_sharply_). Annie!

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). Yes, David.

KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's business.

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

(_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters shut behind her._)

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones.

(_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._)

Got yourn?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (_Grimly_) I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.

MATE (_hesitatingly_). Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?

MATE (_hastily_). No, sir--but the grub's gittin' low.

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's plenty o' water.

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the courts when we git home.

KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! (_Glancing sharply at the_ MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE (_flushing_). Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco.

MATE (_slowly_). They wants to git back to their folks an' things, I s'pose.

KEENEY (_looking at him searchingly_). 'N' you want to turn back, too. (THE MATE _looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._) Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (_With grim sarcasm_) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.

MATE (_indignantly_). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

KEENEY (_with satisfaction_). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I mean. (_Desperately_) But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all.

KEENEY (_his face clouding--rebukingly but not severely_). That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. (_A pause._) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun, Annie'll perk up. (_Another pause--then he bursts forth_) It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that truth?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'--

KEENEY (_scornfully_). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believe that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms and the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin' back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (_The thought of this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard._) Hell! I got to git the ile, I tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it's breakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do git it!

(_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then_ KEENEY _goes over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter--then closes the door softly._ JOE, _the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice him._)

KEENEY (_turning and seeing him_). Don't be standin' there like a gawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE (_confusedly_). We want--the men, sir--they want send a depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY (_furiously_). Tell 'em to go to--(_checks himself and continues grimly_) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

(_He goes out._)

KEENEY (_with a grim smile_). Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let them make headway.

MATE (_worriedly_). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.

KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. Slocum.

(_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by_ JOE. _All are dressed alike--sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the_ CAPTAIN, _twirling their fur caps in their hands._)

KEENEY (_after a pause_). Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE (_stepping forward with an air of bravado_). I be.

KEENEY (_eyeing him up and down coldly_). So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it.

JOE (_trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoiding his eyes_). The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY (_icily_). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far's we kin see.

KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.

JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye.

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOB (_after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily to one another_). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse.

(_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._)

JOE (_encouraged by this support_). We ain'ta-goin' to work no more 'less you puts back fur home.

KEENEY (_fiercely_). You ain't, ain't you?

JOE. No; and the law courts 'll say we was right.

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship. (_Edging up toward the harpooner._) And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.

(_There are more angry exclamations from the crew._ MRS. KEENEY _appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notices her._)

JOE (_with bravado_). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

(_As he turns his head to look at the others_, KEENEY'S _fist shoots out to the side of his jaw._ JOE _goes down in a heap and lies there._ MRS. KEENEY _gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of_ KEENEY _and the_ MATE.)

KEENEY (_his eyes and voice snapping_). Hold still! (_The men stand huddled together in a sullen silence._ KEENEY'S _voice is full of mockery._) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and (_he gives_ JOE'S _body a contemptuous kick_) drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (_The men leave in cowed silence, carrying_ JOE _with them._ KEENEY _turns to the_ MATE _with a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._) Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em.

MATE. Yes, sir.

(_He goes out, right._ KEENEY _hears his wife's hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her side._)

KEENEY (_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff tenderness_). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY (_shrinking away from, him_). Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer!

KEENEY (_gently_). Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_hysterically_). All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence.

(_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief._)

KEENEY (_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown_). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were married--waiting, and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mind occupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead--(_her voice grows tremulous_) all I find is ice--and cold--and brutality!

(_Her voice breaks._)

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." (_Shaking his head_) But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY (_protestingly_). I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY _looks around her in wild scorn._) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. (_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth._) I won't stand it--I can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (_She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders._) Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY (_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY (_laughing hysterically_). It's the ice and the cold and the silence--they'd make anyone look strange.

KEENEY (_soothingly_). In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all, you've got to turn back.

KEENEY (_harshly_). I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY (_his jaw set stubbornly_). It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what anyone'd say--but--(_He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning._) You see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (_He glances at her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying._) Annie! (_She comes to herself with a start._) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear_). David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY (_gently_). I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY (_impatiently_). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). No--I don't know--I can't understand--(_Intensely_) Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY (_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (_not appearing to hear him_). I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine free life you must be leading. (_She gives a laugh which is half a sob._) I used to love the sea then. (_She pauses; then continues with slow intensity._) But now--I don't ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY (_thinking to humor her_). 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness_). How long would it take us to reach home--if we started now?

KEENEY (_frowning_). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY (_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile_). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY (_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him--gruffly_). Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY (_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_). My memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (_A pause--then she smiles dreamily._) It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house--they're budding.

(_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob._)

KEENEY (_disturbed_). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore out cryin' over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY (_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him_). You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY (_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_) Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him--fiercely_). But you do, don't you, David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him again--still more fiercely_). Then you do love me. Say it!

KEENEY (_simply_). I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. (_Gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her sides._ KEENEY _regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself._) I sometimes think if we could only have had a child. (KEENEY _turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her--intensely._) And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY (_his voice betraying his emotion_). No man ever had a better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me--day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. (_Sobbing._) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home!

(_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face._)

KEENEY (_dragging out the words with an effort_). I'll do it, Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_with wild joy--kissing him_). God bless you for that, David!

(_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and the_ SECOND MATE _enters the cabin._)

MATE (_excitedly_). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd, sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.

(KEENEY _straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance._ MRS. KEENEY _looks at the_ MATE _with terrified eyes._)

KEENEY (_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_). A clear passage? To no'th'rd?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (_his voice suddenly grim with determination_). Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY (_appealingly_). David!

KEENEY (_not heeding her_). Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out?

MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. (_With grim determination_) They's whale t' other side o' this floe and we're going to git 'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

(_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of scuffing feet from the deck outside and the_ MATE'S _voice shouting orders._)

KEENEY (_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_). And I was a-goin' home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY (_imploringly_). David!

KEENEY (_sternly_). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_supplicatingly_). David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY (_ignoring this question--commandingly_). You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. (_He starts for the door._) I got to git on deck.

(_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to play wildly an old hymn._ KEENEY _reënters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder._)

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (_She laughs wildly, and he starts back from her in alarm._) Annie! What is it? (_She doesn't answer him._ KEENEY'S _voice trembles._) Don't you know me, Annie?

(_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again._)

KEENEY (_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speaking_). You said--you was agoin' mad--God!

(_A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" A moment later the_ MATE'S _face appears through the skylight. He cannot see_ MRS. KEENEY.)

MATE (_in great excitement_). Whales, sir--a whole school of 'em--off the starb'd quarter 'bout five mile away--big ones!

KEENEY (_galvanized into action_). Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (_with grim decision_). I'm a-comin' with ye.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (_Jubilantly_) You'll git the ile now right enough, sir.

(_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._)

KEENEY (_turning to his wife_). Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the ile. (_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan._) I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--(_anxiously_) be you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while longer, Annie--then we'll turn hom'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't ye? I've got to git the ile. (_In sudden terror_) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

(_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The_ MATE'S _face appears again through the skylight._)

MATE. All ready, sir.

(KEENEY _turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, fighting to control his feelings._)

MATE. Comin', sir?

KEENEY (_his face suddenly grown hard with determination_). Aye.

(_He turns abruptly and goes out._ MRS. KEENEY _does not appear to notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centred in the organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as the Curtain falls._)

CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR[1]

J.A. Ferguson

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, Glasgow.]

CHARACTERS

MARY STEWART MORAG CAMERON DUGALD STEWART CAPTAIN SANDEMAN ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL JAMES MACKENZIE

SCENE: _Interior of a lonely cottage on the road from Struan to Rannoch in North Perthshire._

TIME: _After the Rising of 1745._

MORAG _is restlessly moving backwards and forwards. The old woman is seated on a low stool beside the peat fire in the centre of the floor._

_The room is scantily furnished and the women are poorly clad. MORAG is barefooted. At the back is the door that leads to the outside. On the left of the door is a small window. On the right side of the room there is a door that opens into a barn. MORAG stands for a moment at the window, looking out._

MORAG. It is the wild night outside.

MARY STEWART. Is the snow still coming down?

MORAG. It is that, then--dancing and swirling with the wind too, and never stopping at all. Aye, and so black I cannot see the other side of the road.

MARY STEWART. That is good.

(MORAG _moves across the floor and stops irresolutely. She is restless, expectant._)

MORAG. Will I be putting the light in the window?

MARY STEWART. Why should you be doing that? You have not heard his call (_turns eagerly_), have you?

MORAG (_with sign of head_). No, but the light in the window would show him all is well.

MARY STEWART. It would not, then! The light was to be put there _after_ we had heard the signal.

MORAG. But on a night like this he may have been calling for long and we never hear him.

MARY STEWART. Do not be so anxious, Morag. Keep to what he says. Put more peat on the fire now and sit down.

MORAG (_with increasing excitement_). I canna, I canna! There is that in me that tells me something is going to befall us this night. Oh, that wind! Hear to it, sobbing round the house as if it brought some poor lost soul up to the door, and we refusing it shelter.

MARY STEWART. Do not be fretting yourself like that. Do as I bid you. Put more peats to the fire.

MORAG (_at the wicker peat-basket_). Never since I.... What was that?

(_Both listen for a moment._)

MARY STEWART. It was just the wind; it is rising more. A sore night for them that are out in the heather.

(MORAG _puts peat on the fire without speaking._)

MARY STEWART. Did you notice were there many people going by to-day?

MORAG. No. After daybreak the redcoats came by from Struan; and there was no more till nine, when an old man like the Catechist from Killichonan passed. At four o'clock, just when the dark was falling, a horseman with a lad holding to the stirrup, and running fast, went by towards Rannoch.

MARY STEWART. But no more redcoats?

MORAG (_shaking her head_). The road has been as quiet as the hills, and they as quiet as the grave. Do you think will he come?

MARY STEWART. Is it you think I have the gift, girl, that you ask me that? All I know is that it is five days since he was here for meat and drink for himself and for the others--five days and five nights, mind you; and little enough he took away; and those in hiding no' used to such sore lying, I'll be thinking. He must try to get through to-night. But that quietness, with no one to be seen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag. They must know something. They must be watching.

(_A sound is heard by both women. They stand listening._)

MARY STEWART. Haste you with the light, Morag.

MORAG. But it came from the back of the house--from the hillside.

MARY STEWART. Do as I tell you. The other side may be watched.

(_A candle is lit and placed in the window. Girl goes hurrying to the door._)

MARY STEWART. Stop, stop! Would you be opening the door with a light like that shining from the house? A man would be seen against it in the doorway for a mile. And who knows what eyes may be watching? Put out the light now and cover the fire.

(_Room is reduced to semi-darkness, and the door unbarred. Someone enters._)

MORAG. You are cold, Dugald!

(STEWART, _very exhausted, signs assent._)

MORAG. And wet, oh, wet through and through!

STEWART. Erricht Brig was guarded, well guarded. I had to win across the water.

(_The old woman has now relit candle and taken away plaid from fire._)

MARY STEWART. Erricht Brig--then--

STEWART (_nods_). Yes--in a corrie, on the far side of Dearig, half-way up.

MARY STEWART. Himself is there then?

STEWART. Aye, and Keppoch as well, and another and a greater is with them.

MARY STEWART. Wheest! (_Glances at_ MORAG.)

STEWART. Mother, is it that you can--

MARY STEWART. Yes, yes, Morag will bring out the food for ye to carry back. It is under the hay in the barn, well hid. Morag will bring it.--Go, Morag, and bring it.

(MORAG _enters other room or barn which opens on right._)

STEWART. Mother, I wonder at ye; Morag would never tell--never.

MARY STEWART. Morag is only a lass yet. She has never been tried. And who knows what she might be made to tell.

STEWART. Well, well, it is no matter, for I was telling you where I left them, but not where I am to _find_ them.

MARY STEWART. They are not where you said now?

STEWART. No; they left the corrie last night, and I am to find them (_whispers_) in a quiet part on Rannoch moor.

MARY STEWART. It is as well for a young lass not to be knowing. Do not tell her.

(_He sits down at table; the old woman ministers to his wants._)

STEWART. A fire is a merry thing on a night like this; and a roof over the head is a great comfort.

MARY STEWART. Ye'll no' can stop the night?

STEWART. No. I must be many a mile from here before the day breaks on Ben Dearig.

(MORAG _reënters._)

MORAG. It was hard to get through, Dugald?

STEWART. You may say that. I came down Erricht for three miles, and then when I reached low country I had to take to walking in the burns because of the snow that shows a man's steps and tells who he is to them that can read; and there's plenty can do that abroad, God knows.

MORAG. But none spied ye?

STEWART. Who can tell? Before dark came, from far up on the slopes of Dearig I saw soldiers about; and away towards the Rannoch Moor they were scattered all over the country like black flies on a white sheet. A wild cat or anything that couldna fly could never have got through. And men at every brig and ford and pass! I had to strike away up across the slopes again; and even so as I turned round the bend beyond Kilrain I ran straight into a sentry sheltering behind a great rock. But after that it was easy going.

MORAG. How could that be?

STEWART. Well, you see I took the boots off him, and then I had no need to mind who might see my steps in the snow.

MORAG. You took the boots off him!

STEWART (_laughing_). I did that same. Does that puzzle your bonny head? How does a lad take the boots off a redcoat? Find out the answer, my lass, while I will be finishing my meat.

MORAG. Maybe he was asleep?

STEWART. Asleep! Asleep! Well, well, he sleeps sound enough now, with the ten toes of him pointed to the sky.

(_The old woman has taken up dirk from table. She puts it down again._ MORAG _sees the action and pushes dirk away so that it rolls off the table and drops to the floor. She hides her face in her hands._)

MARY STEWART. Morag, bring in the kebbuck o' cheese. Now that all is well and safe it is we that will look after his comfort to-night. (MORAG _goes into barn._)--I mind well her mother saying to me--it was one day in the black winter that she died, when the frost took the land in its grip and the birds fell stiff from the trees, and the deer came down and put their noses to the door--I mind well her saying just before she died--

(_Loud knocking at the door._)

A VOICE. In the King's name!

(_Both rise._)

MARY STEWART. The hay in the barn, quick, my son.

(_Knocking continues._)

A VOICE. Open in the King's name!

(STEWART _snatches up such articles as would reveal his presence and hurries into barn. He overlooks dirk on floor. The old woman goes towards door._)

MARY STEWART. Who is there? What do you want?

A VOICE. Open, open.

(MARY STEWART _opens door and_ CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _follows_ CAPTAIN SANDEMAN _into the house. Behind_ KILMHOR _comes a man carrying a leather wallet_, JAMES MACKENZIE, _his clerk. The rear is brought up by soldiers carrying arms._)

SANDEMAN. Ha, the bird has flown.

CAMPBELL (_who has struck dirk with his foot and picked it up_). But the nest is warm; look at this.

SANDEMAN. It seems as if we had disturbed him at supper. Search the house, men.

MARY STEWART. I'm just a lonely old woman. You have been misguided. I was getting through my supper.

CAMPBELL (_holding up dirk_). And this was your toothpick, eh? Na! Na! We ken whaur we are, and wha we want, and by Cruachan, I think we've got him.

(_Sounds are heard from barn, and soldiers return with MORAG. She has stayed in hiding from fear, and she still holds the cheese in her hands._)

SANDEMAN. What have we here?

CAMPBELL. A lass!

MARY STEWART. It's just my dead brother's daughter. She was getting me the cheese, as you can see.

CAMPBELL. On, men, again: the other turtle doo will no' be far away. (_Banteringly to the old woman_) Tut, tut, Mistress Stewart, and do ye have her wait upon ye while your leddyship dines alane! A grand way to treat your dead brother's daughter; fie, fie, upon ye!

(_Soldiers reappear with_ STEWART, _whose arms are pinioned._)

CAMPBELL. Did I no' tell ye! And this, Mrs. Stewart, will be your dead sister's son, I'm thinking; or aiblins your leddyship's butler! Weel, woman, I'll tell ye this: Pharaoh spared ae butler, but Erchie Campbell will no' spare anither. Na! na! Pharaoh's case is no' to be taken as forming ony preceedent. And so if he doesna answer certain questions we have to speir at him, before morning he'll hang as high as Haman.

(STEWART _is placed before the table at which_ CAMPBELL _has seated himself. Two soldiers guard_ STEWART. _Another is behind_ CAMPBELL'S _chair and another is by the door. The clerk_, MACKENZIE, _is seated at up corner of table._ SANDEMAN _stands by the fire._)

CAMPBELL (_to STEWART_). Weel, sir, it is within the cognizance of the law that you have knowledge and information of the place of harbor and concealment used by certain persons who are in a state of proscription. Furthermore, it is known that four days ago certain other proscribed persons did join with these, and that they are banded together in an endeavor to secure the escape from these dominions of His Majesty, King George, of certain persons who by their crimes and treasons lie open to the capital charge. What say ye?

(STEWART _makes no reply._)

CAMPBELL. Ye admit this then?

(STEWART _as before._)

CAMPBELL. Come, come, my lad. Ye stand in great jeopardy. Great affairs of state lie behind this which are beyond your simple understanding. Speak up and it will be the better for ye.

(STEWART _silent as before._)

CAMPBELL. Look you. I'll be frank with you. No harm will befall you this night--and I wish all in this house to note my words--no harm will befall you this night if you supply the information required.

(STEWART _as before._)