The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays Part 45

GETTYSBURG[1]

Percy MacKaye

SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of a farm-house.

The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures being slightly arched at the top. (_In bad weather, these presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open now--swung back outward beyond sight._) Thus the nearer opening is the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks through the shed to the background--a gra.s.sy yard, a road with great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams.

On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn.

In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small oil-stove, with steaming kettle upon it.

Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stovewood and kindlings mixed with small chips of the floor, which is piled deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust.

Not far from this mounded pile, at right centre of the scene, stands a wooden armchair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair cropped close, and gray moustache of a faded black hue at the outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and collar. Near him is a chopping-block.

In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again.

From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl of seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In one hand she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat, over the other arm a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the chopping-block, goes to the bench, and trims the wick of the oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near LINK, surveying the shed.

On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain order in its chaos; some of the splittings have been piled in irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like miniature valleys and hills. [2]

Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among the hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, sc.r.a.ping and smoothing the little mounds with the hoe. As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds.

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1912, by Percy Mackaye. All rights reserved.]

[Footnote 2: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexed to the volume by Captain R.K. Beecham, ent.i.tled _Gettysburg_ (A.C. McClurg, 1911).]

LINK (_snapping his eyes wide open, sits up_)

h.e.l.lo! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?

POLLY Just A kitten-nap, I guess.

(_Laying the hoe down, she approaches_)

The yoke done?

LINK (_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_)

Thar!

When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug, I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to-- (_Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two with expert eye_) and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip at birch, for ox-yokes.--Polly, are ye thar?

POLLY Yes, Uncle Link.

LINK What's that I used to sing ye?

"Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on--"

(_Chuckling'_)

We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!

POLLY The kettle's boilin'.

LINK Wall, then, steep him good.

(POLLY _takes from_ LINK _the collar-thong, carries it to the work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she then closes tight and connects--by a piece of hose--to the spout of the kettle. At the farther end of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole._)

POLLY You're feelin' smart to-day.

LINK Smart!--Wall, if I could git a hull man to swap legs with me, mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin'

dead an' alive, without no legs, day in, day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats.

POLLY (_cheerfully_)

I guess you'll soon be walkin' round.

LINK Not if that doctor feller has his say: He says I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan; and looks like he's 'bout right.--Nine months to-morrer, Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke.

POLLY (_pointing to the ox-yoke_)

You're fitter sittin' than most folks standin'.

LINK (_briskly_)

Oh, they can't keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's my second natur' sence I was a boy.

(_Again in the distance a bugle sounds._ LINK _starts._)

What's that?

POLLY Why, that's the army veterans down to the graveyard. This is Decoration mornin': you ain't forgot?

LINK So't is, so't is.

Roger, your young man--ha! (_chuckling_) he come and axed me was I a-goin' to the cemetery.

"Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"

POLLY He meant--to decorate the graves.

LINK O' course; but I must take my little laugh. I told him I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow, my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'.

I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.-- Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks, Polly?

POLLY Dear no! I told my boys and girls to march up this way with the band. I said I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how to keep school in the woodpile here with you.

LINK (_looking up at her proudly_)

Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!