Part 2
My preface outstays its time. Even as I write our audience has gathered. Limber folk in front squat on the floor. Bearded folk behind perch on chairs as on a balcony. Already, behind the scenes, the captain of the pirates has assumed his hook and villainous attire. Patch-Eye mumbles his lines against a loss of memory. Paint has daubed him to a rascal. The evil Duke limps for practice on his timber leg. Presently our curtain will rise. We shall see the pirate cabin, with the lighthouse blinking in the distance, the parrot, Flint's lantern and the ladder to the sleeping loft. We shall hear a storm unparalleled, like a tempest from the ocean--hissed through the teeth. We shall see the pirates in tattered costume and in pigtails made of stockings.
And now to bring this tedious explanation to a close, permit me to hush our orchestra for a final word. I have a most important announcement. It is the sum and essence of all these pages. This play of pirates--doctored somewhat with fiercer oaths and lengthened for older actors--this play and my other play of beggars I dedicate with my love to _John Abram Flory_, who, as Red Joe, was the most frightful pirate of them all.
[Illustration]
ON CHOOSING A TITLE
I find difficulty in selecting a name for my pirate play. Children seem so easy in comparison--John or Gretchen, or Gwendolyn for parents of romantic taste. Gwendolyn I myself dislike, and I have thought I would give it to a cow if ever I owned a farm. But this is prejudice. To name a child, I repeat, one needs only to run his finger down the column of his acquaintance, or think which aunt will have the looser purse-strings in her will.
An unhappy choice, after all, is rare. Here and there a chocolate Pearl or a dusky crinkle-headed Blanche escapes our logic; but who can think of a sullen Nancy? Its very sound, tossed about the nursery, would brighten a maiden even if she were peevish at the start. I once knew an excellent couple of the name of Bottom, who chose Ruby for their offspring; but I have no doubt that the infelicity was altered at the font. The fact is that most of our names grow in time to fit our figure and our character. Margaret and Helen sound thin or fat, agreeable or dull, as our friends and neighbors rise before us; and any newcomer to our affection quickly erases the aspect of its former ugly tenant. I confess that till lately a certain name brought to my fancy a bouncing, red-armed creature; but that by a change of lease upon our street it has acquired an alien grace and beauty. Perhaps a scrawny neighbor by the name of Falstaff might remain inconsequent, but I am sure that if a lady called Messilina moved in next door and were of charming manner, a month would blur the bad suggestion of her name; which presently--if our gardens ran together--would come to sound sweetly in my ears.
But a play (more than a child or neighbor) is offered for a sudden judgment--to sink or swim upon a first impression--and its christening is an especial peril. I have fretted for a month to find a title for my comedy.
My first choice was _A Frightful Play of Pirates_. In the word _frightful_ lay the double meaning that I wanted. It held up my hands, as it were, for mercy. It is an old device. Did not Keats, when a novice in his art, attempt by a modest preface to disarm the critics of his Endymion? "It is just," he wrote, "that this youngster should die away." Yet my title was too long. I could not hope, if my comedy reached the boards, that a manager could afford such a long display of electric lights above the door. It would require more than a barrel of lamps.
_The Pirates of Clovelly_ was not bad, except for length, but it was too obviously stolen from Gilbert's opera. I could feel my guilty fingers in his pocket.
_'S Death_ was suggested, but it was too flippant, too farcical. _'S Blood_, although effective in red lights, met the same objection. _The Spittin' Devil_, named for our pirate ship, lacked refinement. Certainly no lady in silk and lace would admit acquaintance with so gross a personage.
_Darlin'_ was offered to me--the name of the old lady with one tooth who cooks and mixes the grog for my sailormen. And I still think that with better spelling it would be an excellent title for musical comedy. But it was naught for a pirate play. Its anemia would soften the vigor of my lines. One could as well call the tale of Bluebeard by the name of his casual cook.
Then _Clovelly_ seemed enough. At the very least--if my publisher were energetic--it ensured a brisk sale of the printed play among the American tourists on the Devon coast, who travel by boat or char-a-banc to this ancient fishing village where we set our plot. For even a trivial book sells to trippers if its story is laid around the corner. Would it not be pleasant, I thought, when I visit the place again, to see them thumbing me as they waited for the steamer--to see a whole window of myself placed in equal prominence with picture postal cards? When I registered at the inn alongside the wharf might I not hope that the landlady would recognize my name and give me, as an honored guest, a front room that looks upon the ocean? Perhaps, as I had my tea and clotted cream on the village staircase, I might mention casually to a pretty tourist that I was the author of the book that protruded from her handbag--and fetch my dishes to her table.
It is so seldom that an obscure author catches anyone _flagrante dilicto_ on his book. Will no one ever read a book of mine in the subway, that I may tap him on the shoulder? Do travelers never put me in their grips? Must everyone read in public the latest novel, and reserve all plays and essays for their solitary hours? At the club I shuffle to the top any periodical that contains my name, but the crowded noon buries me deep again.
At best, maybe, in a lending library, I see a date stamped inside my cover; but, although I linger near the shelf, no one comes to draw me down. I think that hunters must look with equal hunger on the bear's tread. 'T is here! 'T is there! But the cunning creature has escaped. Blackmore's pleasant ghost frequents the shadowy church at Porlock where he married Lorna and John Ridd, or roams the Valley of the Rocks to see the studious pilgrims at his pages. Stevenson haunts the gloomy inlet where the Admiral Benbow stood and where old Pew came tapping in the night. In the flesh I shall join their revels as an equal comrade. _Clovelly_, however, although its lilt was pleasant to the ear, was an insufficient title.
_Skull and Crossbones_ was too obvious, and my next choice was _The Gibbet_. But there was the disadvantage of scaring the timid. Old ladies would pass me by. It would check the sale of tickets. My nephew, who is fourteen and not at all timid, was stout in its defense. He pronounces it as if the _g_ were the hard kind that starts off gurgle. _G_ibbet! He asked me if I had a hanging in the piece. If so, he knew how the business could be managed without chance of accident--an extra rope fastened to the belt behind. I told him that it was none of his business how I ended up the pirates. I would hang them or not, as I saw fit. He would have to pay his quarter like anybody else and sit it through.
He suggested From _Dish-Pan to Matrimony_--obviously a jest. The sly rogue laughs at me. I must confess, however, that he has given me some of my best lines. "Villainy 's afoot!" for example, and "Sink me stern up!" His peaceful school breeds a wealth of pungent English.
I was in despair. _Revenge!_ Would that have done? I see a maddened father stand with smoking revolver above the body of a silky-whiskered villain. "Doris," the panting parent cries, "the butcher boy knows all and wants you for his bride." And down comes the happy curtain on the lovers. _The Wreckers_ belongs to Stevenson. _The Pirates' Nest!_ It is too ornithological. The Natural History Museum might buy a copy and think I had cheated them.
And then _Channel Lights_! It sends us sharply to the days of the older melodrama--days when we exchanged a ten-cent piece for a gallery seat and hissed the villain. Do you recall the breathless moment when the heroine implored the villain to give her back her stolen child? For answer the cruel fellow tied the darling to the buzz-saw. Or that darker scene when he tossed the lady to the black waters of the Thames, with the splash of a dipper up behind? Hurry, master hero! Your horse's hoofs clatter in the wings. Gallop, Dobbin! A precious life depends upon your speed. Our dangerous plot hangs by a single thread.
It is quite a task to find a sufficient title. I have wavered for a month.
But now my efforts seem rewarded.
There is a wharf in London below the Tower, not far from the India docks. It has now sunk to common week-day uses, and I suppose its rotten timbers are piled with honest, unromantic merchandise. But once pirates were hanged there. It was the first convenient place for inbound ships to dispose of this dirty, deep-sea cargo. Doubtless hereabout the lanes and building-tops were crowded with an idle throng as on a holiday, and wherries to the bankside and the play paused with suspended oar for a sight of the happy festival. Did Hamlet wait upon this ghastly prologue? Shakespeare himself, unplayed script in hand, mused how tragedy and farce go hand in hand. In those golden days with which our comedy concerns itself, a gibbet stood on Wapping wharf and pirates stepped off the fatal cart to a hangman's jest. We may hear the shouts of the 'prentice lads echoing across the centuries.
I cannot hope that many persons--except dusty scholars--will know of the district's ancient ill-repute, yet Wapping wharf figures often in my dialogue as the somber motif of a pirate's life. It conveys to the plot the sense of mystery. It needs but a handful of electric lamps.
If no one offers me a better title I shall let it stand.
[Illustration]
Wappin' Wharf
_A Frightful Comedy of Pirates_
[Illustration]
First produced in January, 1922, at the Play House, Cleveland, under the direction of Frederic McConnell. The settings and costumes were designed by Julia McCune Flory. The cast was as follows:
THE DUKE _William C. Keough_
PATCH-EYE _Howard Burns_
THE CAPTAIN _Ewart Whitworth_
RED JOE _K. Elmo Lowe_
DARLIN' _Mary Gilson_
BETSY _Jeanette Geoghegan_
OLD MEG _Emma Tilden_
SAILOR CAPTAIN _Ganson Cook_
SAILORS _Vance Stewart_, _Alvin Shulman_, _Arthur Kraus_
[Illustration]
Wappin' Wharf
_A Frightful Comedy of Pirates_
## ACT I
_Our scene is the wind-swept coast of Devon. By day there is a wide stretch of ocean far below. The time is remote and doubtless great ships of forgotten build stand out from Bristol in full sail for western shores. Their white canvas winks in the morning sun as if their purpose were a jest. They seek a northwest passage and the golden mines of India. But we must be loose and free of date lest our plot be shamed by broken fact. A thousand years are but as yesterday. We shall make no more than a general gesture toward the wide spaces of the past._
_The village of Clovelly climbs in a single street--a staircase, really--from the shore to the top of the cliff, and is fagged and out of breath half way. But on a still dizzier crag, storm-blown, clinging by its toes, there stands the pirates' cabin. To this topmost ledge fishwives sometimes scramble by day to seek a belated sail against Lundy's Isle. But after twilight a night wind searches the crannies of the rock and whines to the moon of its barren quest, and then no villager, I think, chooses to walk in that direction. I have visited Clovelly and have kicked a sodden donkey from the wharf to the top of the street, past the shops of Devon cream and picture postal cards, but have sought in vain the pirates' cabin. Since our far-off adventure of tonight ten thousand tempests have snarled across these giddy cliffs and we must convince our reason that these highest crags where we pitch our plot have long since been toppled in a storm. Where yonder wave lathers the shaggy headland, as if Neptune had turned barber, we must fancy that the pinnacles of yesteryear lie buried in the sea._
_We had hoped for a play upon the sea, with a tall mast rocking from wing to wing and a tempest roaring at the rail. Alas! Our pirates grow old and stiff. They have retired, as we say, from active practice and live in idle luxury on shore. Yet we shall see that their villainy still thrives._
_Our scene is their cabin on the cliff. It is a rough stone building with peeling plaster and slates that by day are green with moss. But it is night and the wind is whistling its rowdy companions from the sea. Until the morning they will play at leap-frog from cliff to cliff. Far below is the village of Clovelly, snug with fire and candles._
_We enter the cabin without knocking--like neighbors through a garden--and poke about a bit before our hosts appear. A door, forward at the right, leads to the kitchen. Back stage, also, at the right, a ladder rises to a sleeping loft. On the left wall are a chimney and fireplace with a crane and pot for heating grog, and smoky timbers above to mark the frequent thirst. On a great beam overhead are bags of clinking loot and shining brasses from wrecked ships. Peppers hang to dry before the fire, and a lighted ship's lantern swings from a hook. At the rear of the cabin, to the left, a row of mullioned windows looks at sea and cliffs in a flash of lightning. Below is a seaman's chest. Above, on the broken plaster, is scrawled a ship. In the middle, at the rear, there is a clock with hanging pendulum and weights. A gun of antique pattern leans beside the clock. To the right the cabin is recessed, with a door right-angled in the jog and other windows looking on the sea. A parrot sits on its perch with curbed profanity. The gaudy creature is best if stuffed, for its noisy tongue would drown our dialogue. Like Hamlet's player it would speak beyond its lines and raise a quantity of barren laughter. Our furniture is a table and three stools, and a tall-backed chair beside the hearth. On the table a candle burns, bespattered with tallow. The cabin glows with fire light._
[Illustration: Two pirates are discovered drinking at a table]
_At the lifting of the curtain there is thunder and lightning, and a rush of wind--if it can be managed. Two pirates are discovered, drinking at the table. By the smack of their lips it is excellent grog. One of them--Patch-Eye--has lost an eye and he wears a black patch. His hair curls up in a pigtail, like any sailor before Nelson. It looks as stiff as a hook and he might almost be lifted by it and hung on a peg. But all of our pirates wear pigtails--except one, Red Joe._
_The other pirate at the table is called the Duke, for no apparent reason as he is a shabby rogue. We must not run our finger down the peerage in hope of finding him, or think that he owns a palace on the Strand. He has only one leg, with a timber below the knee. He wears a long cloak so that the actor's rusticated leg can be folded out of sight. The Duke has a great red nose--grog and rum and that sort of thing. His whiskers are the bush that marks the merry drinking place._
_Patch-Eye is melancholy--almost sentimental at times. He would stab a man, but grieve upon a sparrow. At heart we fear he is a coward, and stupid. The Duke, on the contrary, is shrewd and he does a lot of thinking. He has heavy eyebrows. He is the kind of thinker that you just know that he is thinking. Both pirates are very cruel--and profane, but we must be careful._
_And now we hush the melancholy fiddlers. If this comedy can stir the croaking bass-viol to any show of mirth, our work tops Falstaff. Glum folk with beards had best withdraw. Only the young in heart will catch the slender meaning of our play. Let's light the candles and draw the curtain!_
PATCH: Darlin'! Darlin'! (_He lolls back in his chair and stretches out his legs for comfort._) Darlin'!
(_At this a dirty old woman with one tooth appears from the kitchen. She is called Darlin' just for fun, as she is not at all kissable. A sprig of mistletoe, even in the Christmas season, would beckon vainly._)
PATCH: Me friend, the Duke, is thirsty. Will yer fill the cups? Hurry, ol' dear! And squeeze in jest a bit o' lemon. It sets the stomich.
DARLIN': Yer sets yer stomich like it were hen's eggs. Alers coddlin' it.
(_She stirs and tastes the pot of grog, and hoists her wrinkled stockings._)
DUKE: There 's no one like Darlin' fer mixin' grog.
DARLIN': Fer that kind word I 'm lovin' yer. (_She looks at him with admiration._) Ain 't he a figger o' a man? Wenus was nothin'. Jest nothin' at all.
PATCH: It 's grog beats off the melancholy. As soon as me pipes go dry, I gets homesick fer the ocean. Here we be, Duke, thrown up at last ter rot like driftwood on the shore. No more sailin' off to Trinidad! No tackin' 'round the Hebrides! We is ships as has sprung a leak. It was 'appy days when we sailed with ol' Flint on the Spanish Main.
DUKE: 'Appy days, Patch! (_They drink._)
PATCH: Aye! The blessed, dear, ol' roarin' hulk. No better pirate ever lived than Flint. Smart with his cutlass. Quick at the trigger. Grog! A sloppin' pail o' it was jest a sip.
DUKE: I used ter tell him that his leg was holler.
PATCH: He was a vat, was Flint--jest a swishin' keg.
DUKE: Grog jest sizzled and disappeared, like when yer drops it on a red-hot seacoal.
PATCH: Fer twenty year and more me and you has seen ol' Flint march his wictims off the plank.
DUKE: "Step lively!" he 'd say. "Does n't yer hear Davy callin' to yer?" There was never a sailorman ever sat in the Port Light at Wappin' wharf which could drink with Flint.
[Illustration: "Port Light" at Wappin' Wharf]
PATCH: Wappin' wharf and gibbets is nothin' ter talk about. Funerals even is cheerfuller.
DUKE: There 's his parrot.
PATCH: She used ter cuss soft and gentle to herself--'appy all the day. She ain 't spoke since Flint was took. Peckin' at yer finger and broodin'.
DUKE: There 's his ol' clock.
PATCH: As hung in the cabin o' the Spittin' Devil.
DUKE: With the pendulum gettin' tangled in a storm. A 'ell of a clock fer a bouncin' ship.
[Illustration: "A 'ell of a clock fer a bouncin' ship"]
PATCH: She was tickin' peaceful the day Flint was hanged. But she stopped--does yer remember it?--the very minute they pushed him off the ladder.
DUKE: She ain 't ticked since.
PATCH: It makes yer 'stitious. And she won 't never run agin--that 's what Flint alers said--till his death 's revenged.
DUKE: He told us never ter wind her--says she 'd start hisself without no windin' when the right time came.
PATCH: If I was ter look up and see that pendulum swingin'--Horrers! Yeller elephants would be nothin'!
DUKE: Pooh! I 'd give a month o' grog jest ter hear the ol' dear tickin', and ter know that Flint was restin' easy in his rotten coffin--swappin' stories with the pretty angels.
PATCH: I loved Flint like a brother. (_He is quite sentimental about this._) It was him knocked this out. (_Pointing to his missing eye._) But it was jest in the way o' business. We differed a leetle in the loot. He was very persuasive, was ol' Flint.
DUKE: Yer talks like a woman. They loves yer to cuff 'em. Them was 'appy days, Patch.
PATCH: Blast me gig what 's left, Duke, but me and you has seen a heap o' sights. I suppose I 've drowned meself a hundred men. It 's comfertin' when yer lays awake at night. I feels I ain 't wasted meself. I 've used me gifts. I ain 't been a foolish virgin and put me shinin' talent inside a bushel. But me and you is driftwood now, Duke.
DUKE: Aye. But it ain 't no use snifflin' about it, ol' crocodile. Darlin' is certainly handy at mixin' grog. And we 've a right smart cabin with winders on the sea. Since I stuffed yer ol' shirt in the roof it hardly leaks.
PATCH: My shirt! Next week is me week fer changin'. How could yer ha' done it? I 'm a kinder perticerler dresser. I likes ter wash now and then--if it ain 't too often.
DUKE: Darlin', me friend Patch is thirsty. And a drop meself. (_The cups are filled._) Yer a precious ol' lady, and I loves yer.
DARLIN': Yer spoils me, Duke.
(_Lightning and a crash of thunder._)
DUKE: It 's foul tonight on the ocean. How the wind blows! It be spittin' up outside. The channel 's as riled as a wampire when yer scorns her. How she snorts!
PATCH: The devil hisself is hissin' through his teeth.
DUKE: There 'll be sailormen tonight what 's booked fer Davy Jones's locker. I 'm not kickin' much ter be ashore. I rots peaceful.
(_Patch-Eye has opened the door to consult the night. It slams wide in the wind and the gust blows out the candle._)
DUKE: Hi, there, for'ard! Batten yer hatch! Yer blowin' the gizzard out o' us.
[Illustration: "Yer blowin' the gizzard out o' us"]
(_He hobbles on timber leg to the warm chair by the fire. Patch closes the door and sits. Darlin' relights the candle._)
PATCH: Poor Flint! He was took on jest such a night.
Dropped inter the Port Light fer somethin' wet and warmin'. Jest ter kinder say goodby. Ship all fitted out. He 'd got three new sailormen--fine fellers as had been sentenced ter be hanged fer cuttin' purses, but had been let go, as they had reformed and wanted ter be honest pirates.
DUKE: I remembers the night, ol' sea-nymph. It was rainin' ter put out the fires o' hell--with the leetle devils stoakin' in the sinners. It 's sinners, Patch, as is used fer kindlers, ter keep the devils in a healthy sweat.
PATCH: He was ter sail when the tide ran out. Lord a Goody! How the tide runs down the Thames, as if it were homesick fer the ocean!
DUKE: But someone squealed.
PATCH: Squealers is worse 'n hissin' reptiles. They ketched Flint and they strung him to a gibbet. Poor ol' dear! I never touches me patch, but I thinks o' Flint.