The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays Part 40

(_Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and rests with his head upon the stool which_ BUTLER _has quitted._)

BUTLER. A'Heaven's name, ha' done with that hanging tune! Ha'

done, d.i.c.k Fenton! We're not yet at the gallows' foot.

(_Joins_ JOHN TALBOT _at the shot-windows._)

FENTON. Nay, Myles, for us 'tis like to be nothing half so merry as the gallows.

BUTLER. Hold your fool's tongue!

NEWCOMBE (_crying out in his sleep_). Oh! Oh!

JOHN TALBOT. What was that?

FENTON. 'Twas naught but young Newcombe that cried out in the clutch of a nightmare.

BUTLER. 'Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his watch.

JOHN TALBOT (_leaving the window_). Nay, 'tis only a boy. Let him sleep while he can! Let him sleep!

BUTLER. Turn and turn at the watch, 'tis but fair. Stir yonder sluggard awake, d.i.c.k!

FENTON. Aye. (_Starts to rise._)

JOHN TALBOT. Who gives commands here? Sit you down, Fenton! To your place, Myles Butler!

BUTLER. Captain of the Gate! D'ye mark the high tone of him, d.i.c.k?

JOHN TALBOT (_tying a fresh bandage about his hand_). You're out there, Myles. There is but one Captain of the Gate of Connaught--he who set me here--my cousin, Hugh Talbot.

BUTLER (_muttering_). Aye, and it's a deal you'll need to be growing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot's shoes.

JOHN TALBOT. And that's a true word! But 'twas Hugh Talbot's will that I should command, here at the Bridge of Cashala. And as long as breath is in me I--

DRISCOLL (_raising his head heavily_). Water! Water! Myles! d.i.c.k!

Will ye give me to drink, lads? Jack Talbot! I'm choked wi'

thirst.

JOHN TALBOT. There's never a drop of water left us, Phelimy, lad.

FENTON. Owen Bourke drained the last of it, G.o.d rest him!

BUTLER. 'Tis likely our clever new Captain of the Gate will hit on some s.h.i.+ft to fill our empty casks.

(DRISCOLL _rises heavily._)

JOHN TALBOT. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The old Captain of the Gate--Hugh Talbot. He'll be here this day--this hour, maybe.

FENTON. That tale grows something old, Jack Talbot.

JOHN TALBOT. He swore he'd bring us succor. He--

(DRISCOLL _tries to unbar the exit door._)

Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door!

(_Thrusts_ DRISCOLL _from the door._)

DRISCOLL (_half delirious_). Let me forth! The spring--'tis just below--there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it--but a moment--and drink!

JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell's soldiers hold the spring.

DRISCOLL. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me forth!

JOHN TALBOT. 'T would be to your death.

BUTLER. And what will he get but his death if he stay here, Captain Talbot?

DRISCOLL (_struggling with_ JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, I tell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go!

NEWCOMBE (_still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terrible cry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head_). G.o.d's pity! No! no! no!

DRISCOLL (_shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing himself_).

G.o.d s.h.i.+eld us!

BUTLER. Silence that whelp!

FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him!

JOHN TALBOT (_catching_ NEWCOMBE _by the shoulder_). Newcombe! Kit Newcombe!

NEWCOMBE. Ah, G.o.d! Keep them from me! Keep them from me!

JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done!

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the b.u.t.t of the muskets! Not that! Not that!

JOHN TALBOT (_stifling_ NEWCOMBE'S _outcry with a hand upon his mouth_). Wake! You're dreaming!

DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming!

NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my brother--my brother--they beat out his brains--Cromwell's men--with their clubbed muskets--they--

(_Clings shuddering to_ JOHN TALBOT.)

FENTON. English officers that serve amongst the Irish--'t is thus that Cromwell uses them!

BUTLER. English officers--aye, like ourselves!