CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S CONVERSION

By Bernard Shaw




ACT I

On the heights overlooking the harbor of Mogador, a seaport on the west
coast of Morocco, the missionary, in the coolness of the late afternoon,
is following the precept of Voltaire by cultivating his garden. He is
an elderly Scotchman, spiritually a little weatherbeaten, as having to
navigate his creed in strange waters crowded with other craft but still
a convinced son of the Free Church and the North African Mission, with
a faithful brown eye, and a peaceful soul. Physically a wiry small-knit
man, well tanned, clean shaven, with delicate resolute features and
a twinkle of mild humor. He wears the sun helmet and pagri, the
neutral-tinted spectacles, and the white canvas Spanish sand shoes of
the modern Scotch missionary: but instead of a cheap tourist's suit from
Glasgow, a grey flannel shirt with white collar, a green sailor knot tie
with a cheap pin in it, he wears a suit of clean white linen, acceptable
in color, if not in cut, to the Moorish mind.

The view from the garden includes much Atlantic Ocean and a long stretch
of sandy coast to the south, swept by the north east trade wind,
and scantily nourishing a few stunted pepper trees, mangy palms, and
tamarisks. The prospect ends, as far as the land is concerned, in
little hills that come nearly to the sea: rudiments, these, of the Atlas
Mountains. The missionary, having had daily opportunities of looking at
this seascape for thirty years or so, pays no heed to it, being absorbed
in trimming a huge red geranium bush, to English eyes unnaturally
big, which, with a dusty smilax or two, is the sole product of his pet
flower-bed. He is sitting to his work on a Moorish stool. In the middle
of the garden there is a pleasant seat in the shade of a tamarisk tree.
The house is in the south west corner of the garden, and the geranium
bush in the north east corner.

At the garden-door of the house there appears presently a man who is
clearly no barbarian, being in fact a less agreeable product peculiar
to modern commercial civilization. His frame and flesh are those of an
ill-nourished lad of seventeen; but his age is inscrutable: only the
absence of any sign of grey in his mud colored hair suggests that he is
at all events probably under forty, without prejudice to the possibility
of his being under twenty. A Londoner would recognize him at once as an
extreme but hardy specimen of the abortion produced by nature in a city
slum. His utterance, affectedly pumped and hearty, and naturally vulgar
and nasal, is ready and fluent: nature, a Board School education, and
some kerbstone practice having made him a bit of an orator. His dialect,
apart from its base nasal delivery, is not unlike that of smart London
society in its tendency to replace diphthongs by vowels (sometimes
rather prettily) and to shuffle all the traditional vowel
pronunciations. He pronounces ow as ah, and i as aw, using the ordinary
ow for o, i for a, a for u, and e for a, with this reservation, that
when any vowel is followed by an r he signifies its presence, not by
pronouncing the r, which he never does under these circumstances, but by
prolonging and modifyinq the vowel, sometimes even to the extreme degree
of pronouncing it properly. As to his yol for l (a compendious delivery
of the provincial eh-al), and other metropolitan refinements, amazing to
all but cockneys, they cannot be indicated, save in the above imperfect
manner, without the aid of a phonetic alphabet. He is dressed in
somebody else's very second best as a coast-guardsman, and gives himself
the airs of a stage tar with sufficient success to pass as a possible
fish porter of bad character in casual employment during busy times
at Billingsgate. His manner shows an earnest disposition to ingratiate
himself with the missionary, probably for some dishonest purpose.

THE MAN. Awtenoon, Mr. Renkin. (The missionary sits up quickly, and
turns, resigning himself dutifully to the interruption.) Yr honor's
eolth.

RANKIN (reservedly). Good afternoon, Mr. Drinkwotter.

DRINKWATER. You're not best pleased to be hinterrupted in yr bit o
gawdnin bow the lawk o me, gavner.

RANKIN. A missionary knows nothing of leks of that soart, or of disleks
either, Mr. Drinkwotter. What can I do for ye?

DRINKWATER (heartily). Nathink, gavner. Awve brort noos fer yer.

RANKIN. Well, sit ye doon.

DRINKWATER. Aw thenk yr honor. (He sits down on the seat under the tree
and composes himself for conversation.) Hever ear o Jadge Ellam?

RANKIN. Sir Howrrd Hallam?

DRINKWATER. Thet's im-enginest jadge in Hingland!--awlus gives the ket
wen it's robbry with voylence, bless is awt. Aw sy nathink agin im: awm
all fer lor mawseolf, AW em.

RANKIN. Well?

DRINKWATER. Hever ear of is sist-in-lor: Lidy Sisly Winefleet?

RANKIN. Do ye mean the celebrated Leddy--the traveller?

DRINKWATER. Yuss: should think aw doo. Walked acrost Harfricar with
nathink but a little dawg, and wrowt abaht it in the Dily Mile (the
Daily Mail, a popular London newspaper), she did.

RANKIN. Is she Sir Howrrd Hallam's sister-in-law?

DRINKWATER. Deeceased wawfe's sister: yuss: thet's wot SHE is.

RANKIN. Well, what about them?

DRINKWATER. Wot abaht them! Waw, they're EAH. Lannid aht of a steam
yacht in Mogador awber not twenty minnits agow. Gorn to the British
cornsl's. E'll send em orn to you: e ynt got naowheres to put em. Sor em
awr (hire) a Harab an two Krooboys to kerry their laggige. Thort awd cam
an teoll yer.

RANKIN. Thank you. It's verra kind of you, Mr. Drinkwotter.

DRINKWATER. Down't mention it, gavner. Lor bless yer, wawn't it you as
converted me? Wot was aw wen aw cam eah but a pore lorst sinner? Down't
aw ow y'a turn fer thet? Besawds, gavner, this Lidy Sisly Winefleet mawt
wor't to tike a walk crost Morocker--a rawd inter the mahntns or sech
lawk. Weoll, as you knaow, gavner, thet cawn't be done eah withaht a
hescort.

RANKIN. It's impoassible: th' would oall b' murrdered. Morocco is not
lek the rest of Africa.

DRINKWATER. No, gavner: these eah Moors ez their religion; an it mikes
em dinegerous. Hever convert a Moor, gavner?

RANKIN (with a rueful smile). No.

DRINKWATER (solemnly). Nor never will, gavner.

RANKIN. I have been at work here for twenty-five years, Mr. Drinkwotter;
and you are my first and only convert.

DRINKWATER. Down't seem naow good, do it, gavner?

RANKIN. I don't say that. I hope I have done some good. They come to me
for medicine when they are ill; and they call me the Christian who is
not a thief. THAT is something.

DRINKWATER. Their mawnds kennot rawse to Christiennity lawk hahrs
ken, gavner: thet's ah it is. Weoll, ez haw was syin, if a hescort
is wornted, there's maw friend and commawnder Kepn Brarsbahnd of the
schooner Thenksgivin, an is crew, incloodin mawseolf, will see the lidy
an Jadge Ellam through henny little excursion in reason. Yr honor mawt
mention it.

RANKIN. I will certainly not propose anything so dangerous as an
excursion.

DRINKWATER (virtuously). Naow, gavner, nor would I awst you to. (Shaking
his head.) Naow, naow: it IS dinegerous. But hall the more call for a
hescort if they should ev it hin their mawnds to gow.

RANKIN. I hope they won't.

DRINKWATER. An sow aw do too, gavner.

RANKIN (pondering). 'Tis strange that they should come to Mogador, of
all places; and to my house! I once met Sir Howrrd Hallam, years ago.

DRINKWATER (amazed). Naow! didger? Think o thet, gavner! Waw, sow aw did
too. But it were a misunnerstedin, thet wors. Lef the court withaht a
stine on maw kerrickter, aw did.

RANKIN (with some indignation). I hope you don't think I met Sir Howrrd
in that way.

DRINKWATER. Mawt yeppn to the honestest, best meanin pusson, aw do
assure yer, gavner.

RANKIN. I would have you to know that I met him privately, Mr.
Drinkwotter. His brother was a dear friend of mine. Years ago. He went
out to the West Indies.

DRINKWATER. The Wust Hindies! Jist acrost there, tather sawd thet
howcean (pointing seaward)! Dear me! We cams hin with vennity, an we
deepawts in dawkness. Down't we, gavner?

RANKIN (pricking up his ears). Eh? Have you been reading that little
book I gave you?

DRINKWATER. Aw hev, et odd tawms. Very camfitn, gavner. (He rises,
apprehensive lest further catechism should find him unprepared.) Awll
sy good awtenoon, gavner: you're busy hexpectin o Sr Ahrd an Lidy Sisly,
ynt yer? (About to go.)

RANKIN (stopping him). No, stop: we're oalways ready for travellers
here. I have something else to say--a question to ask you.

DRINKWATER (with a misgiving, which he masks by exaggerating his hearty
sailor manner). An weollcome, yr honor.

RANKIN. Who is this Captain Brassbound?

DRINKWATER (guiltily). Kepn Brarsbahnd! E's-weoll, e's maw Kepn, gavner.

RANKIN. Yes. Well?

DRINKWATER (feebly). Kepn of the schooner Thenksgivin, gavner.

RANKIN (searchingly). Have ye ever haird of a bad character in these
seas called Black Paquito?

DRINKWATER (with a sudden radiance of complete enlightenment). Aoh, nar
aw tikes yer wiv me, yr honor. Nah sammun es bin a teolln you thet Kepn
Brarsbahnd an Bleck Pakeetow is hawdentically the sime pussn. Ynt thet
sow?

RANKIN. That is so. (Drinkwater slaps his knee triumphantly. The
missionary proceeds determinedly) And the someone was a verra honest,
straightforward man, as far as I could judge.

DRINKWATER (embracing the implication). Course a wors, gavner: Ev aw
said a word agin him? Ev aw nah?

RANKIN. But is Captain Brassbound Black Paquito then?

DRINKWATER. Waw, it's the nime is blessed mather give im at er
knee, bless is little awt! Ther ynt naow awm in it. She ware a Wust
Hinjin--howver there agin, yer see (pointing seaward)--leastwaws, naow
she worn't: she were a Brazilian, aw think; an Pakeetow's Brazilian for
a bloomin little perrit--awskin yr pawdn for the word. (Sentimentally)
Lawk as a Hinglish lidy mawt call er little boy Birdie.

RANKIN (not quite convinced). But why BLACK Paquito?

DRINKWATER (artlessly). Waw, the bird in its netral stite bein green, an
e evin bleck air, y' knaow--

RANKIN (cutting him short). I see. And now I will put ye another
question. WHAT is Captain Brassbound, or Paquito, or whatever he calls
himself?

DRINKWATER (officiously). Brarsbahnd, gavner. Awlus calls isseolf
Brarsbahnd.

RANKIN. Well. Brassbound, then. What is he?

DRINKWATER (fervently). You awsks me wot e is, gavner?

RANKIN (firmly). I do.

DRINKWATER (with rising enthusiasm). An shll aw teoll yer wot e is, yr
honor?

RANKIN (not at all impressed). If ye will be so good, Mr. Drinkwotter.

DRINKWATER (with overwhelming conviction). Then awll teoll you, gavner,
wot he is. Ee's a Paffick Genlmn: thet's wot e is.

RANKIN (gravely). Mr. Drinkwotter: pairfection is an attribute, not
of West Coast captains, but of thr Maaker. And there are gentlemen and
gentlemen in the world, espaecially in these latitudes. Which sort of
gentleman is he?

DRINKWATER. Hinglish genlmn, gavner. Hinglish speakin; Hinglish fawther;
West Hinjin plawnter; Hinglish true blue breed. (Reflectively) Tech o
brahn from the mather, preps, she bein Brazilian.

RANKIN. Now on your faith as a Christian, Felix Drinkwotter, is Captain
Brassbound a slaver or not?

DRINKWATER (surprised into his natural cockney pertness). Naow e ynt.

RANKIN. Are ye SURE?

DRINKWATER. Waw, a sliver is abaht the wanne thing in the wy of a genlmn
o fortn thet e YNT.

RANKIN. I've haird that expression "gentleman of fortune" before, Mr.
Drinkwotter. It means pirate. Do ye know that?

DRINKWATER. Bless y'r awt, y' cawnt be a pawrit naradys. Waw, the aw
seas is wuss pleest nor Piccadilly Suckus. If aw was to do orn thet
there Hetlentic Howcean the things aw did as a bwoy in the Worterleoo
Rowd, awd ev maw air cat afore aw could turn maw ed. Pawrit be
blaowed!--awskink yr pawdn, gavner. Nah, jest to shaow you ah little
thet there striteforard man y' mide mention on knaowed wot e was atorkin
abaht: oo would you spowse was the marster to wich Kepn Brarsbahnd
served apprentice, as yr mawt sy?

RANKIN. I don't know.

DRINKWATER. Gawdn, gavner, Gawdn. Gawdn o Kawtoom--stetcher stends in
Trifawlgr Square to this dy. Trined Bleck Pakeetow in smawshin hap the
slive riders, e did. Promist Gawdn e wouldn't never smaggle slives nor
gin, an (with suppressed aggravation) WOWN'T, gavner, not if we gows
dahn on ahr bloomin bended knees to im to do it.

RANKIN (drily). And DO ye go down on your bended knees to him to do it?

DRINKWATER (somewhat abashed). Some of huz is hanconverted men, gavner;
an they sy: You smaggles wanne thing, Kepn; waw not hanather?

RANKIN. We've come to it at last. I thought so. Captain Brassbound is a
smuggler.

DRINKWATER. Weoll, waw not? Waw not, gavner? Ahrs is a Free Tride
nition. It gows agin us as Hinglishmen to see these bloomin furriners
settin ap their Castoms Ahses and spheres o hinfluence and sich lawk
hall owver Arfricar. Daown't Harfricar belong as much to huz as to them?
thet's wot we sy. Ennywys, there ynt naow awm in ahr business. All we
daz is hescort, tourist HOR commercial. Cook's hexcursions to the Hatlas
Mahntns: thet's hall it is. Waw, it's spreadin civlawzytion, it is. Ynt
it nah?

RANKIN. You think Captain Brassbound's crew sufficiently equipped for
that, do you?

DRINKWATER. Hee-quipped! Haw should think sow. Lawtnin rawfles, twelve
shots in the meggezine! Oo's to storp us?

RANKIN. The most dangerous chieftain in these parts, the Sheikh Sidi el
Assif, has a new American machine pistol which fires ten bullets without
loadin; and his rifle has sixteen shots in the magazine.

DRINKWATER (indignantly). Yuss; an the people that sells sich
things into the ends o' them eathen bleck niggers calls theirseolves
Christians! It's a crool shime, sow it is.

RANKIN. If a man has the heart to pull the trigger, it matters little
what color his hand is, Mr. Drinkwotter. Have ye anything else to say to
me this afternoon?

DRINKWATER (rising). Nathink, gavner, cept to wishyer the bust o yolth,
and a many cornverts. Awtenoon, gavner.

RANKIN. Good afternoon to ye, Mr. Drinkwotter.

As Drinkwater turns to go, a Moorish porter comes from the house with
two Krooboys.

THE PORTER (at the door, addressing Rankin). Bikouros (Moroccan for
Epicurus, a general Moorish name for the missionaries, who are supposed
by the Moors to have chosen their calling through a love of luxurious
idleness): I have brought to your house a Christian dog and his woman.

DRINKWATER. There's eathen menners fer yer! Calls Sr Ahrd Ellam an Lidy
Winefleet a Christian dorg and is woman! If ee ed you in the dorck
et the Centl Crimnal, you'd fawnd aht oo was the dorg and oo was is
marster, pretty quick, you would.

RANKIN. Have you broat their boxes?

THE PORTER. By Allah, two camel loads!

RANKIN. Have you been paid?

THE PORTER. Only one miserable dollar, Bikouros. I have brought them to
your house. They will pay you. Give me something for bringing gold to
your door.

DRINKWATER. Yah! You oughter bin bawn a Christian, you ought. You knaow
too mach.

RANKIN. You have broat onnly trouble and expense to my door, Hassan;
and you know it. Have I ever charged your wife and children for my
medicines?

HASSAN (philosophically). It is always permitted by the Prophet to ask,
Bikouros. (He goes cheerfully into the house with the Krooboys.)

DRINKWATER. Jist thort eed trah it orn, a did. Hooman nitre is the sime
everywheres. Them eathens is jast lawk you an' me, gavner.

A lady and gentleman, both English, come into the garden. The gentleman,
more than elderly, is facing old age on compulsion, not resignedly. He
is clean shaven, and has a brainy rectangular forehead, a resolute nose
with strongly governed nostrils, and a tightly fastened down mouth which
has evidently shut in much temper and anger in its time. He has a habit
of deliberately assumed authority and dignity, but is trying to take
life more genially and easily in his character of tourist, which is
further borne out by his white hat and summery racecourse attire.

The lady is between thirty and forty, tall, very goodlooking,
sympathetic, intelligent, tender and humorous, dressed with cunning
simplicity not as a businesslike, tailor made, gaitered tourist, but as
if she lived at the next cottage and had dropped in for tea in blouse
and flowered straw hat. A woman of great vitality and humanity, who
begins a casual acquaintance at the point usually attained by English
people after thirty years acquaintance when they are capable of reaching
it at all. She pounces genially on Drinkwater, who is smirking at her,
hat in hand, with an air of hearty welcome. The gentleman, on the other
hand, comes down the side of the garden next the house, instinctively
maintaining a distance between himself and the others.

THE LADY (to Drinkwater). How dye do? Are you the missionary?

DRINKWATER (modestly). Naow, lidy, aw will not deceive you, thow the
mistike his but netral. Awm wanne of the missionary's good works,
lidy--is first cornvert, a umble British seaman--countrymen o yours,
lidy, and of is lawdship's. This eah is Mr. Renkin, the bust worker in
the wust cowst vawnyawd. (Introducing the judge) Mr. Renkin: is lawdship
Sr Ahrd Ellam. (He withdraws discreetly into the house.)

SIR HOWARD (to Rankin). I am sorry to intrude on you, Mr. Rankin; but in
the absence of a hotel there seems to be no alternative.

LADY CICELY (beaming on him). Besides, we would so much RATHER stay with
you, if you will have us, Mr. Rankin.

SIR HOWARD (introducing her). My sister-in-law, Lady Cicely Waynflete,
Mr. Rankin.

RANKIN. I am glad to be of service to your leddyship. You will be
wishing to have some tea after your journey, I'm thinking.

LADY CICELY. Thoughtful man that you are, Mr. Rankin! But we've had
some already on board the yacht. And I've arranged everything with your
servants; so you must go on gardening just as if we were not here.

SIR HOWARD. I am sorry to have to warn you, Mr. Rankin, that Lady
Cicely, from travelling in Africa, has acquired a habit of walking into
people's houses and behaving as if she were in her own.

LADY CICELY. But, my dear Howard, I assure you the natives like it.

RANKIN (gallantly). So do I.

LADY CICELY (delighted). Oh, that is so nice of you, Mr. Rankin. This
is a delicious country! And the people seem so good! They have such
nice faces! We had such a handsome Moor to carry our luggage up! And two
perfect pets of Krooboys! Did you notice their faces, Howard?

SIR HOWARD. I did; and I can confidently say, after a long experience of
faces of the worst type looking at me from the dock, that I have never
seen so entirely villainous a trio as that Moor and the two Krooboys, to
whom you gave five dollars when they would have been perfectly satisfied
with one.

RANKIN (throwing up his hands). Five dollars! 'Tis easy to see you are
not Scotch, my leddy.

LADY CICELY. Oh, poor things, they must want it more than we do; and you
know, Howard, that Mahometans never spend money in drink.

RANKIN. Excuse me a moment, my leddy. I have a word in season to say to
that same Moor. (He goes into the house.)

LADY CICELY (walking about the garden, looking at the view and at the
flowers). I think this is a perfectly heavenly place.

Drinkwater returns from the house with a chair.

DRINKWATER (placing the chair for Sir Howard). Awskink yr pawdn for the
libbety, Sr Ahrd.

SIR HOWARD (looking a him). I have seen you before somewhere.

DRINKWATER. You ev, Sr Ahrd. But aw do assure yer it were hall a
mistike.

SIR HOWARD. As usual. (He sits down.) Wrongfully convicted, of course.

DRINKWATER (with sly delight). Naow, gavner. (Half whispering, with an
ineffable grin) Wrorngfully hacquittid!

SIR HOWARD. Indeed! That's the first case of the kind I have ever met.

DRINKWATER. Lawd, Sr Ahrd, wot jagginses them jurymen was! You an me
knaowed it too, didn't we?

SIR HOWARD. I daresay we did. I am sorry to say I forget the exact
nature of the difficulty you were in. Can you refresh my memory?

DRINKWATER. Owny the aw sperrits o youth, y' lawdship. Worterleoo Rowd
kice. Wot they calls Ooliganism.

SIR HOWARD. Oh! You were a Hooligan, were you?

LADY CICELY (puzzled). A Hooligan!

DRINKWATER (deprecatingly). Nime giv huz pore thortless leds baw a gent
on the Dily Chrornicle, lidy. (Rankin returns. Drinkwater immediately
withdraws, stopping the missionary for a moment near the threshold to
say, touching his forelock) Awll eng abaht within ile, gavner, hin kice
aw should be wornted. (He goes into the house with soft steps.)

Lady Cicely sits down on the bench under the tamarisk. Rankin takes his
stool from the flowerbed and sits down on her left, Sir Howard being on
her right.

LADY CICELY. What a pleasant face your sailor friend has, Mr. Rankin! He
has been so frank and truthful with us. You know I don't think anybody
can pay me a greater compliment than to be quite sincere with me at
first sight. It's the perfection of natural good manners.

SIR HOWARD. You must not suppose, Mr. Rankin, that my sister-in-law
talks nonsense on purpose. She will continue to believe in your friend
until he steals her watch; and even then she will find excuses for him.

RANKIN (drily changing the subject). And how have ye been, Sir Howrrd,
since our last meeting that morning nigh forty year ago down at the
docks in London?

SIR HOWARD (greatly surprised, pulling himself together) Our last
meeting! Mr. Rankin: have I been unfortunate enough to forget an old
acquaintance?

RANKIN. Well, perhaps hardly an acquaintance, Sir Howrrd. But I was a
close friend of your brother Miles: and when he sailed for Brazil I
was one of the little party that saw him off. You were one of the party
also, if I'm not mistaken. I took particular notice of you because you
were Miles's brother and I had never seen ye before. But ye had no call
to take notice of me.

SIR HOWARD (reflecting). Yes: there was a young friend of my brother's
who might well be you. But the name, as I recollect it, was Leslie.

RANKIN. That was me, sir. My name is Leslie Rankin; and your brother and
I were always Miles and Leslie to one another.

SIR HOWARD (pluming himself a little). Ah! that explains it. I can trust
my memory still, Mr. Rankin; though some people do complain that I am
growing old.

RANKIN. And where may Miles be now, Sir Howard?

SIR HOWARD (abruptly). Don't you know that he is dead?

RANKIN (much shocked). Never haird of it. Dear, dear: I shall never see
him again; and I can scarcely bring his face to mind after all these
years. (With moistening eyes, which at once touch Lady Cicely's
sympathy) I'm right sorry--right sorry.

SIR HOWARD (decorously subduing his voice). Yes: he did not live long:
indeed, he never came back to England. It must be nearly thirty years
ago now that he died in the West Indies on his property there.

RANKIN (surprised). His proaperty! Miles with a proaperty!

SIR HOWARD. Yes: he became a planter, and did well out there, Mr.
Rankin. The history of that property is a very curious and interesting
one--at least it is so to a lawyer like myself.

RANKIN. I should be glad to hear it for Miles's sake, though I am no
lawyer, Sir Howrrd.

LADY CICELY. I never knew you had a brother, Howard.

SIR HOWARD (not pleased by this remark). Perhaps because you never asked
me. (Turning more blandly to Rankin) I will tell you the story, Mr.
Rankin. When Miles died, he left an estate in one of the West Indian
islands. It was in charge of an agent who was a sharpish fellow, with
all his wits about him. Now, sir, that man did a thing which probably
could hardly be done with impunity even here in Morocco, under the most
barbarous of surviving civilizations. He quite simply took the estate
for himself and kept it.

RANKIN. But how about the law?

SIR HOWARD. The law, sir, in that island, consisted practically of the
Attorney General and the Solicitor General; and these gentlemen were
both retained by the agent. Consequently there was no solicitor in the
island to take up the case against him.

RANKIN. Is such a thing possible to-day in the British Empire?

SIR HOWARD (calmly). Oh, quite. Quite.

LADY CICELY. But could not a firstrate solicitor have been sent out from
London?

SIR HOWARD. No doubt, by paying him enough to compensate him for
giving up his London practice: that is, rather more than there was any
reasonable likelihood of the estate proving worth.

RANKIN. Then the estate was lost?

SIR HOWARD. Not permanently. It is in my hands at present.

RANKIN. Then how did ye get it back?

SIR HOWARD (with crafty enjoyment of his own cunning). By hoisting the
rogue with his own petard. I had to leave matters as they were for many
years; for I had my own position in the world to make. But at last I
made it. In the course of a holiday trip to the West Indies, I found
that this dishonest agent had left the island, and placed the estate in
the hands of an agent of his own, whom he was foolish enough to pay very
badly. I put the case before that agent; and he decided to treat the
estate as my property. The robber now found himself in exactly the same
position he had formerly forced me into. Nobody in the island would
act against me, least of all the Attorney and Solicitor General, who
appreciated my influence at the Colonial Office. And so I got the estate
back. "The mills of the gods grind slowly," Mr. Rankin; "but they grind
exceeding small."

LADY CICELY. Now I suppose if I'd done such a clever thing in England,
you'd have sent me to prison.

SIR HOWARD. Probably, unless you had taken care to keep outside the law
against conspiracy. Whenever you wish to do anything against the law,
Cicely, always consult a good solicitor first.

LADY CICELY. So I do. But suppose your agent takes it into his head to
give the estate back to his wicked old employer!

SIR HOWARD. I heartily wish he would.

RANKIN (openeyed). You wish he WOULD!!

SIR HOWARD. Yes. A few years ago the collapse of the West Indian sugar
industry converted the income of the estate into an annual loss of
about 150 pounds a year. If I can't sell it soon, I shall simply abandon
it--unless you, Mr. Rankin, would like to take it as a present.

RANKIN (laughing). I thank your lordship: we have estates enough of
that sort in Scotland. You're setting with your back to the sun, Leddy
Ceecily, and losing something worth looking at. See there. (He rises and
points seaward, where the rapid twilight of the latitude has begun.)

LADY CICELY (getting up to look and uttering a cry of admiration). Oh,
how lovely!

SIR HOWARD (also rising). What are those hills over there to the
southeast?

RANKIN. They are the outposts, so to speak, of the Atlas Mountains.

LADY CICELY. The Atlas Mountains! Where Shelley's witch lived! We'll
make an excursion to them to-morrow, Howard.

RANKIN. That's impoassible, my leddy. The natives are verra dangerous.

LADY CICELY. Why? Has any explorer been shooting them?

RANKIN. No. But every man of them believes he will go to heaven if he
kills an unbeliever.

LADY CICELY. Bless you, dear Mr. Rankin, the people in England believe
that they will go to heaven if they give all their property to the poor.
But they don't do it. I'm not a bit afraid of that.

RANKIN. But they are not accustomed to see women going about unveiled.

LADY CICELY. I always get on best with people when they can see my face.

SIR HOWARD. Cicely: you are talking great nonsense and you know it.
These people have no laws to restrain them, which means, in plain
English, that they are habitual thieves and murderers.

RANKIN. Nay, nay: not exactly that.

LADY CICELY (indignantly). Of course not. You always think, Howard, that
nothing prevents people killing each other but the fear of your hanging
them for it. But what nonsense that is! And how wicked! If these people
weren't here for some good purpose, they wouldn't have been made, would
they, Mr. Rankin?

RANKIN. That is a point, certainly, Leddy Ceecily.

SIR HOWARD. Oh, if you are going to talk theology--

LADY CICELY. Well, why not? theology is as respectable as law, I should
think. Besides, I'm only talking commonsense. Why do people get
killed by savages? Because instead of being polite to them, and
saying Howdyedo? like me, people aim pistols at them. I've been among
savages--cannibals and all sorts. Everybody said they'd kill me. But
when I met them, I said Howdyedo? and they were quite nice. The kings
always wanted to marry me.

SIR HOWARD. That does not seem to me to make you any safer here, Cicely.
You shall certainly not stir a step beyond the protection of the consul,
if I can help it, without a strong escort.

LADY CICELY. I don't want an escort.

SIR HOWARD. I do. And I suppose you will expect me to accompany you.

RANKIN. 'Tis not safe, Leddy Ceecily. Really and truly, 'tis not safe.
The tribes are verra fierce; and there are cities here that no Christian
has ever set foot in. If you go without being well protected, the first
chief you meet well seize you and send you back again to prevent his
followers murdering you.

LADY CICELY. Oh, how nice of him, Mr. Rankin!

RANKIN. He would not do it for your sake, Leddy Ceecily, but for his
own. The Sultan would get into trouble with England if you were killed;
and the Sultan would kill the chief to pacify the English government.

LADY CICELY. But I always go everywhere. I KNOW the people here won't
touch me. They have such nice faces and such pretty scenery.

SIR HOWARD (to Rankin, sitting down again resignedly). You can imagine
how much use there is in talking to a woman who admires the faces of the
ruffians who infest these ports, Mr. Rankin. Can anything be done in the
way of an escort?

RANKIN. There is a certain Captain Brassbound here who trades along the
coast, and occasionally escorts parties of merchants on journeys into
the interior. I understand that he served under Gordon in the Soudan.

SIR HOWARD. That sounds promising. But I should like to know a little
more about him before I trust myself in his hands.

RANKIN. I quite agree with you, Sir Howrrd. I'll send Felix Drinkwotter
for him. (He claps his hands. An Arab boy appears at the house door.)
Muley: is sailor man here? (Muley nods.) Tell sailor man bring captain.
(Muley nods and goes.)

SIR HOWARD. Who is Drinkwater?

RANKIN. His agent, or mate: I don't rightly know which.

LADY CICELY. Oh, if he has a mate named Felix Drinkwater, it must be
quite a respectable crew. It is such a nice name.

RANKIN. You saw him here just now. He is a convert of mine.

LADY CICELY (delighted). That nice truthful sailor!

SIR HOWARD (horrified). What! The Hooligan!

RANKIN (puzzled). Hooligan? No, my lord: he is an Englishman.

SIR HOWARD. My dear Mr. Rankin, this man was tried before me on a charge
of street ruffianism.

RANKIN. So he told me. He was badly broat up, I am afraid. But he is now
a converted man.

LADY CICELY. Of course he is. His telling you so frankly proves it. You
know, really, Howard, all those poor people whom you try are more sinned
against than sinning. If you would only talk to them in a friendly way
instead of passing cruel sentences on them, you would find them quite
nice to you. (Indignantly) I won't have this poor man trampled on merely
because his mother brought him up as a Hooligan. I am sure nobody could
be nicer than he was when he spoke to us.

SIR HOWARD. In short, we are to have an escort of Hooligans commanded
by a filibuster. Very well, very well. You will most likely admire all
their faces; and I have no doubt at all that they will admire yours.

Drinkwater comes from the house with an Italian dressed in a much worn
suit of blue serge, a dilapidated Alpine hat, and boots laced with
scraps of twine. He remains near the door, whilst Drinkwater comes
forward between Sir Howard and Lady Cicely.

DRINKWATER. Yr honor's servant. (To the Italian) Mawtzow: is lawdship Sr
Ahrd Ellam. (Marzo touches his hat.) Er Lidyship Lidy Winefleet. (Marzo
touches his hat.) Hawtellian shipmite, lidy. Hahr chef.

LADY CICELY (nodding affably to Marzo). Howdyedo? I love Italy. What
part of it were you born in?

DRINKWATER. Worn't bawn in Hitly at all, lidy. Bawn in Ettn Gawdn
(Hatton Garden). Hawce barrer an street pianner Hawtellian, lidy:
thet's wot e is. Kepn Brarsbahnd's respects to yr honors; an e awites yr
commawnds.

RANKIN. Shall we go indoors to see him?

SIR HOWARD. I think we had better have a look at him by daylight.

RANKIN. Then we must lose no time: the dark is soon down in this
latitude. (To Drinkwater) Will ye ask him to step out here to us, Mr.
Drinkwotter?

DRINKWATER. Rawt you aw, gavner. (He goes officiously into the house.)

Lady Cicely and Rankin sit down as before to receive the Captain. The
light is by this time waning rapidly, the darkness creeping west into
the orange crimson.

LADY CICELY (whispering). Don't you feel rather creepy, Mr. Rankin? I
wonder what he'll be like.

RANKIN. I misdoubt me he will not answer, your leddyship.

There is a scuffling noise in the house; and Drinkwater shoots out
through the doorway across the garden with every appearance of having
been violently kicked. Marzo immediately hurries down the garden on Sir
Howard's right out of the neighborhood of the doorway.

DRINKWATER (trying to put a cheerful air on much mortification and
bodily anguish). Narsty step to thet ere door tripped me hap, it
did. (Raising his voice and narrowly escaping a squeak of pain) Kepn
Brarsbahnd. (He gets as far from the house as possible, on Rankin's
left. Rankin rises to receive his guest.)

An olive complexioned man with dark southern eyes and hair comes from
the house. Age about 36. Handsome features, but joyless; dark eyebrows
drawn towards one another; mouth set grimly; nostrils large and
strained: a face set to one tragic purpose. A man of few words, fewer
gestures, and much significance. On the whole, interesting, and even
attractive, but not friendly. He stands for a moment, saturnine in the
ruddy light, to see who is present, looking in a singular and rather
deadly way at Sir Howard; then with some surprise and uneasiness at
Lady Cicely. Finally he comes down into the middle of the garden, and
confronts Rankin, who has been glaring at him in consternation from the
moment of his entrance, and continues to do so in so marked a way that
the glow in Brassbound's eyes deepens as he begins to take offence.

BRASSBOUND. Well, sir, have you stared your fill at me?

RANKIN (recovering himself with a start). I ask your pardon for my bad
manners, Captain Brassbound. Ye are extraordinair lek an auld college
friend of mine, whose face I said not ten minutes gone that I could no
longer bring to mind. It was as if he had come from the grave to remind
me of it.

BRASSBOUND. Why have you sent for me?

RANKIN. We have a matter of business with ye, Captain.

BRASSBOUND. Who are "we"?

RANKIN. This is Sir Howrrd Hallam, who will be well known to ye as one
of Her Majesty's judges.

BRASSBOUND (turning the singular look again on Sir Howard). The friend
of the widow! the protector of the fatherless!

SIR HOWARD (startled). I did not know I was so favorably spoken of in
these parts, Captain Brassbound. We want an escort for a trip into the
mountains.

BRASSBOUND (ignoring this announcement). Who is the lady?

RANKIN. Lady Ceecily Waynflete, his lordship's sister-in-law.

LADY CICELY. Howdyedo, Captain Brassbound? (He bows gravely.)

SIR HOWARD (a little impatient of these questions, which strike him as
somewhat impertinent). Let us come to business, if you please. We are
thinking of making a short excursion to see the country about here. Can
you provide us with an escort of respectable, trustworthy men?

BRASSBOUND. No.

DRINKWATER (in strong remonstrance). Nah, nah, nah! Nah look eah, Kepn,
y'knaow--

BRASSBOUND (between his teeth). Hold your tongue.

DRINKWATER (abjectly). Yuss, Kepn.

RANKIN. I understood it was your business to provide escorts, Captain
Brassbound.

BRASSBOUND. You were rightly informed. That IS my business.

LADY CICELY. Then why won't you do it for us?

BRASSBOUND. You are not content with an escort. You want respectable,
trustworthy men. You should have brought a division of London policemen
with you. My men are neither respectable nor trustworthy.

DRINKWATER (unable to contain himself). Nah, nah, look eah, Kepn. If you
want to be moddist, be moddist on your aown accahnt, nort on mawn.

BRASSBOUND. You see what my men are like. That rascal (indicating Marzo)
would cut a throat for a dollar if he had courage enough.

MARZO. I not understand. I no spik Englis.

BRASSBOUND. This thing (pointing to Drinkwater) is the greatest liar,
thief, drunkard, and rapscallion on the west coast.

DRINKWATER (affecting an ironic indifference). Gow orn, Gow orn. Sr Ahrd
ez erd witnesses to maw kerrickter afoah. E knaows ah mech to believe of
em.

LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound: I have heard all that before about
the blacks; and I found them very nice people when they were properly
treated.

DRINKWATER (chuckling: the Italian is also grinning). Nah, Kepn, nah!
Owp yr prahd o y'seolf nah.

BRASSBOUND. I quite understand the proper treatment for him, madam. If
he opens his mouth again without my leave, I will break every bone in
his skin.

LADY CICELY (in her most sunnily matter-of-fact way). Does Captain
Brassbound always treat you like this, Mr. Drinkwater?

Drinkwater hesitates, and looks apprehensively at the Captain.

BRASSBOUND. Answer, you dog, when the lady orders you. (To Lady Cicely)
Do not address him as Mr. Drinkwater, madam: he is accustomed to be
called Brandyfaced Jack.

DRINKWATER (indignantly). Eah, aw sy! nah look eah, Kepn: maw nime is
Drinkworter. You awsk em et Sin Jorn's in the Worterleoo Rowd. Orn maw
grenfawther's tombstown, it is.

BRASSBOUND. It will be on your own tombstone, presently, if you cannot
hold your tongue. (Turning to the others) Let us understand one another,
if you please. An escort here, or anywhere where there are no regular
disciplined forces, is what its captain makes it. If I undertake this
business, I shall be your escort. I may require a dozen men, just as I
may require a dozen horses. Some of the horses will be vicious; so will
all the men. If either horse or man tries any of his viciousness on me,
so much the worse for him; but it will make no difference to you. I will
order my men to behave themselves before the lady; and they shall obey
their orders. But the lady will please understand that I take my own way
with them and suffer no interference.

LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound: I don't want an escort at all. It will
simply get us all into danger; and I shall have the trouble of getting
it out again. That's what escorts always do. But since Sir Howard
prefers an escort, I think you had better stay at home and let me take
charge of it. I know your men will get on perfectly well if they're
properly treated.

DRINKWATER (with enthusiasm). Feed aht o yr and, lidy, we would.

BRASSBOUND (with sardonic assent). Good. I agree. (To Drinkwater) You
shall go without me.

DRINKWATER. (terrified). Eah! Wot are you a syin orn? We cawn't gow
withaht yer. (To Lady Cicely) Naow, lidy: it wouldn't be for yr hown
good. Yer cawn't hexpect a lot o poor honeddikited men lawk huz to ran
ahrseolvs into dineger withaht naow Kepn to teoll us wot to do. Naow,
lidy: hoonawted we stend: deevawdid we fall.

LADY CICELY. Oh, if you prefer your captain, have him by all means. Do
you LIKE to be treated as he treats you?

DRINKWATER (with a smile of vanity). Weoll, lidy: y cawn't deenaw that
e's a Paffick Genlmn. Bit hawbitrairy, preps; but hin a genlmn you looks
for sich. It tikes a hawbitrairy wanne to knock aht them eathen Shikes,
aw teoll yer.

BRASSBOUND. That's enough. Go.

DRINKWATER. Weoll, aw was hownly a teolln the lidy thet-- (A threatening
movement from Brassbound cuts him short. He flies for his life into the
house, followed by the Italian.)

BRASSBOUND. Your ladyship sees. These men serve me by their own free
choice. If they are dissatisfied, they go. If I am dissatisfied, they
go. They take care that I am not dissatisfied.

SIR HOWARD (who has listened with approval and growing confidence).
Captain Brassbound: you are the man I want. If your terms are at
all reasonable, I will accept your services if we decide to make an
excursion. You do not object, Cicely, I hope.

LADY CICELY. Oh no. After all, those men must really like you, Captain
Brassbound. I feel sure you have a kind heart. You have such nice eyes.

SIR HOWARD (scandalized). My DEAR Cicely: you really must restrain your
expressions of confidence in people's eyes and faces. (To Brassbound)
Now, about terms, Captain?

BRASSBOUND. Where do you propose to go?

SIR HOWARD. I hardly know. Where CAN we go, Mr. Rankin?

RANKIN. Take my advice, Sir Howrrd. Don't go far.

BRASSBOUND. I can take you to Meskala, from which you can see the Atlas
Mountains. From Meskala I can take you to an ancient castle in the
hills, where you can put up as long as you please. The customary charge
is half a dollar a man per day and his food. I charge double.

SIR HOWARD. I suppose you answer for your men being sturdy fellows, who
will stand to their guns if necessary.

BRASSBOUND. I can answer for their being more afraid of me than of the
Moors.

LADY CICELY. That doesn't matter in the least, Howard. The important
thing, Captain Brassbound, is: first, that we should have as few men as
possible, because men give such a lot of trouble travelling. And then,
they must have good lungs and not be always catching cold. Above all,
their clothes must be of good wearing material. Otherwise I shall be
nursing and stitching and mending all the way; and it will be trouble
enough, I assure you, to keep them washed and fed without that.

BRASSBOUND (haughtily). My men, madam, are not children in the nursery.

LADY CICELY (with unanswerable conviction). Captain Brassbound: all men
are children in the nursery. I see that you don't notice things. That
poor Italian had only one proper bootlace: the other was a bit of
string. And I am sure from Mr. Drinkwater's complexion that he ought to
have some medicine.

BRASSBOUND (outwardly determined not to be trifled with: inwardly
puzzled and rather daunted). Madam: if you want an escort, I can provide
you with an escort. If you want a Sunday School treat, I can NOT provide
it.

LADY CICELY (with sweet melancholy). Ah, don't you wish you could,
Captain? Oh, if I could only show you my children from Waynflete Sunday
School! The darlings would love this place, with all the camels
and black men. I'm sure you would enjoy having them here, Captain
Brassbound; and it would be such an education for your men! (Brassbound
stares at her with drying lips.)

SIR HOWARD. Cicely: when you have quite done talking nonsense to Captain
Brassbound, we can proceed to make some definite arrangement with him.

LADY CICELY. But it's arranged already. We'll start at eight o'clock
to-morrow morning, if you please, Captain. Never mind about the Italian:
I have a big box of clothes with me for my brother in Rome; and there
are some bootlaces in it. Now go home to bed and don't fuss yourself.
All you have to do is to bring your men round; and I'll see to the rest.
Men are always so nervous about moving. Goodnight. (She offers him her
hand. Surprised, he pulls off his cap for the first time. Some scruple
prevents him from taking her hand at once. He hesitates; then turns to
Sir Howard and addresses him with warning earnestness.)

BRASSBOUND. Sir Howard Hallam: I advise you not to attempt this
expedition.

SIR HOWARD. Indeed! Why?

BRASSBOUND. You are safe here. I warn you, in those hills there is a
justice that is not the justice of your courts in England. If you have
wronged a man, you may meet that man there. If you have wronged a woman,
you may meet her son there. The justice of those hills is the justice of
vengeance.

SIR HOWARD (faintly amused). You are superstitious, Captain. Most
sailors are, I notice. However, I have complete confidence in your
escort.

BRASSBOUND (almost threateningly). Take care. The avenger may be one of
the escort.

SIR HOWARD. I have already met the only member of your escort who might
have borne a grudge against me, Captain; and he was acquitted.

BRASSBOUND. You are fated to come, then?

SIR HOWARD (smiling). It seems so.

BRASSBOUND. On your head be it! (To Lady Cicely, accepting her hand at
last) Goodnight.

He goes. It is by this time starry night.




ACT II

Midday. A roam in a Moorish castle. A divan seat runs round the
dilapidated adobe walls, which are partly painted, partly faced with
white tiles patterned in green and yellow. The ceiling is made up
of little squares, painted in bright colors, with gilded edges,
and ornamented with gilt knobs. On the cement floor are mattings,
sheepskins, and leathern cushions with geometrical patterns on them.
There is a tiny Moorish table in the middle; and at it a huge saddle,
with saddle cloths of various colors, showing that the room is used by
foreigners accustomed to chairs. Anyone sitting at the table in this
seat would have the chief entrance, a large horseshoe arch, on his left,
and another saddle seat between him and the arch; whilst, if susceptible
to draughts, he would probably catch cold from a little Moorish door in
the wall behind him to his right.

Two or three of Brassbound's men, overcome by the midday heat, sprawl
supine on the floor, with their reefer coats under their heads, their
knees uplifted, and their calves laid comfortably on the divan. Those
who wear shirts have them open at the throat for greater coolness. Some
have jerseys. All wear boots and belts, and have guns ready to their
hands. One of them, lying with his head against the second saddle seat,
wears what was once a fashionable white English yachting suit. He is
evidently a pleasantly worthless young English gentleman gone to the
bad, but retaining sufficient self-respect to shave carefully and
brush his hair, which is wearing thin, and does not seem to have been
luxuriant even in its best days.

The silence is broken only by the snores of the young gentleman, whose
mouth has fallen open, until a few distant shots half waken him. He
shuts his mouth convulsively, and opens his eyes sleepily. A door is
violently kicked outside; and the voice of Drinkwater is heard raising
urgent alarm.

DRINKWATER. Wot ow! Wike ap there, will yr. Wike ap. (He rushes in
through the horseshoe arch, hot and excited, and runs round, kicking the
sleepers) Nah then. Git ap. Git ap, will yr, Kiddy Redbrook. (He gives
the young qentleman a rude shove.)

REDBOOK (sitting up). Stow that, will you. What's amiss?

DRINKWATER (disgusted). Wot's amiss! Didn't eah naow fawrin, I spowse.

REDBROOK. No.

DRINKWATER (sneering). Naow. Thort it sifer nort, didn't yr?

REDBROOK (with crisp intelligence). What! You're running away, are
you? (He springs up, crying) Look alive, Johnnies: there's danger.
Brandyfaced Jack's on the run. (They spring up hastily, grasping their
guns.)

DRINKWATER. Dineger! Yuss: should think there wors dineger. It's howver,
thow, as it mowstly his baw the tawm YOU'RE awike. (They relapse
into lassitude.) Waw wasn't you on the look-aht to give us a end? Bin
hattecked baw the Benny Seeras (Beni Siras), we ev, an ed to rawd for it
pretty strite, too, aw teoll yr. Mawtzow is it: the bullet glawnst all
rahnd is bloomin brisket. Brarsbahnd e dropt the Shike's oss at six
unnern fifty yawds. (Bustling them about) Nah then: git the plice ready
for the British herristoracy, Lawd Ellam and Lidy Wineflete.

REDBOOK. Lady faint, eh?

DRINKWATER. Fynt! Not lawkly. Wornted to gow an talk, to the Benny
Seeras: blaow me if she didn't! huz wot we was frahtnd of. Tyin up
Mawtzow's wound, she is, like a bloomin orspittle nass. (Sir Howard,
with a copious pagri on his white hat, enters through the horseshoe
arch, followed by a couple of men supporting the wounded Marzo, who,
weeping and terrorstricken by the prospect of death and of subsequent
torments for which he is conscious of having eminently qualified
himself, has his coat off and a bandage round his chest. One of his
supporters is a blackbearded, thickset, slow, middle-aged man with an
air of damaged respectability, named--as it afterwards appears--Johnson.
Lady Cicely walks beside Marzo. Redbrook, a little shamefaced, crosses
the room to the opposite wall as far away as possible from the visitors.
Drinkwater turns and receives them with jocular ceremony.) Weolcome
to Brarsbahnd Cawstl, Sr Ahrd an lidy. This eah is the corfee and
commercial room.

Sir Howard goes to the table and sits on the saddle, rather exhausted.
Lady Cicely comes to Drinkwater.

LADY CICELY. Where is Marzo's bed?

DRINKWATER. Is bed, lidy? Weoll: e ynt petickler, lidy. E ez is chawce
of henny flegstown agin thet wall.

They deposit Marzo on the flags against the wall close to the little
door. He groans. Johnson phlegmatically leaves him and joins Redbrook.

LADY CICELY. But you can't leave him there in that state.

DRINKWATER. Ow: e's hall rawt. (Strolling up callously to Marzo) You're
hall rawt, ynt yer, Mawtzow? (Marzo whimpers.) Corse y'aw.

LADY CICELY (to Sir Howard). Did you ever see such a helpless lot of
poor creatures? (She makes for the little door.)

DRINKWATER. Eah! (He runs to the door and places himself before it.)
Where mawt yr lidyship be gowin?

LADY CICELY. I'm going through every room in this castle to find a
proper place to put that man. And now I'll tell you where YOU'RE going.
You're going to get some water for Marzo, who is very thirsty. And then,
when I've chosen a room for him, you're going to make a bed for him
there.

DRINKWATER (sarcastically). Ow! Henny ather little suvvice? Mike yrseolf
at owm, y' knaow, lidy.

LADY CICELY (considerately). Don't go if you'd rather not, Mr.
Drinkwater. Perhaps you're too tired. (Turning to the archway) I'll ask
Captain Brassbound: he won't mind.

DRINKWATER (terrified, running after her and getting between her and the
arch). Naow, naow! Naow, lidy: doesn't you goes disturbin the Kepn. Awll
see to it.