Wappin' Wharf Part 2

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_

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 sh.o.r.es. Their white canvas winks in the morning sun as if their purpose were a jest. They seek a northwest pa.s.sage 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 s.p.a.ces of the past._

_The village of Clovelly climbs in a single street--a staircase, really--from the sh.o.r.e to the top of the cliff, and is f.a.gged 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 bra.s.ses 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 quant.i.ty 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._

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 ba.s.s-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 sh.o.r.e. 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 cutla.s.s. 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "A 'ell of a clock fer a bouncin' ship"]