SWINDON. What?
BURGOYNE. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their militia to come here and arrange terms with us.
SWINDON. Oh, they are giving in.
BURGOYNE. They add that they are sending the man who raised Springtown last night and drove us out; so that we may know that we are dealing with an officer of importance.
SWINDON. Pooh!
BURGOYNE. He will be fully empowered to arrange the terms of — guess what.
SWINDON. Their surrender, I hope.
BURGOYNE. No: our evacuation of the town. They offer us just six hours to clear out.
SWINDON. What monstrous impudence!
BURGOYNE. What shall we do, eh?
SWINDON. March on Springtown and strike a decisive blow at once.
BURGOYNE (quietly). Hm! (Turning to the door) Come to the adjutant’s office.
SWINDON. What for?
BURGOYNE. To write out that safe-conduct. (He puts his hand to the door knob to open it.)
SWINDON (who has not budged). General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE (returning). Sir?
SWINDON. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason for our giving way.
BURGOYNE (imperturbable). Suppose I resign my command to you, what will you do?
SWINDON. I will undertake to do what we have marched south from Boston to do, and what General Howe has marched north from New York to do: effect a junction at Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces.
BURGOYNE (enigmatically). And will you wipe out our enemies in London, too?
SWINDON. In London! What enemies?
BURGOYNE (forcibly). Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and Red Tape. (He holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his face and voice) I have just learnt, sir, that General Howe is still in New York.
SWINDON (thunderstruck). Good God! He has disobeyed orders!
BURGOYNE (with sardonic calm). He has received no orders, sir. Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving town for his holiday, I believe. To avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her American colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable position.
SWINDON (appalled). Impossible!
BURGOYNE (coldly). I beg your pardon!
SWINDON. I can’t believe it! What will History say?
BURGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we must send the safe-conduct. (He goes out.)
SWINDON (following distractedly). My God, my God! We shall be wiped out.
As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. The gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime as the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, has been brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has spread that it is the devil’s disciple and not the minister that the Continentals (so they call Burgoyne’s forces) are about to hang: consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place without a struggle. There is even some fear of a disappointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains the only sign of preparation. But at last reassuring shouts of Here they come: Here they are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets, half British infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the sides.
SERGEANT. Halt. Front. Dress. (The soldiers change their column into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the persons who find themselves inside the square out at the corners.) Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o’ you’ll get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there, will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin’ German to them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they’ll understand that. GET out of it, will you? (He comes upon Judith, standing near the gallows.) Now then: YOU’VE no call here.
JUDITH. May I not stay? What harm am I doing?
SERGEANT. I want none of your argufying. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged that’s not your husband. And he’s no better than yourself. I told my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and tries to strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a lunatic. So out of it with you, double quick.
JUDITH. Will you take these two silver dollars and let me stay?
The sergeant, without an instant’s hesitation, looks quickly and furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his pocket. Then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation.
SERGEANT. ME take money in the execution of my duty! Certainly not. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do, to teach you to corrupt the King’s officer. I’ll put you under arrest until the execution’s over. You just stand there; and don’t let me see you as much as move from that spot until you’re let. (With a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the square behind the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, shouting) Now then dress up and keep ’em back, will you?
Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk; and the sound of a military band, playing the Dead March from Saul, is heard. The crowd becomes quiet at once; and the sergeant and petty officers, hurrying to the back of the square, with a few whispered orders and some stealthy hustling cause it to open and admit the funeral procession, which is protected from the crowd by a double file of soldiers. First come Burgoyne and Swindon, who, on entering the square, glance with distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under it by wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves on that side. Then Mr. Brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book open in his hand, walking beside Richard, who is moody and disorderly. He walks doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts himself a little in front of it. Behind him comes the executioner, a stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves. Following him, two soldiers haul a light military waggon. Finally comes the band, which posts itself at the back of the square, and finishes the Dead March. Judith, watching Richard painfully, steals down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its right post. During the conversation which follows, the two soldiers place the cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point backwards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he climbs the tall ladder which stands against the gallows, and cuts the string by which the rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over the cart, into which he steps as he descends.
RICHARD (with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell). Look here, sir: this is no place for a man of your profession. Hadn’t you better go away?
SWINDON. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense of decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion.
THE CHAPLAIN (gently reproving Richard). Try to control yourself, and submit to the divine will. (He lifts his book to proceed with the service.)
RICHARD. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your accomplices here (indicating Burgoyne and Swindon): I see little divinity about them or you. You talk to me of Christianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies. Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (To Swindon, more rudely) You’ve got up the solemnity of the occasion, as you call it, to impress the people with your own dignity — Handel’s music and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! Do you suppose I