FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I would not have dared to ask so much of
you; I will go further: were the positions changed, I should
fear to follow your example.
AUSTIN. Child, child, you could not afford it.
SCENE IV
To there, the ROYAL DUKE, C.; then, immediately, ANTHONY, L.
FENWICK crosses to MISS FOSTER, R. AUSTIN accosts the DUKE, C.,
in dumb show; the muted strings take up a new air, Mozart's
'Anglaise'; couples passing under the limes, and forming a group
behind AUSTIN and the DUKE. ANTHONY in front, L., watches
AUSTIN, who, as he turns from the DUKE, sees him, and comes
forward with extended hand.
AUSTIN. Dear child, let me present you to his Royal Highness.
ANTHONY (WITH NECKLACE). Mr. Austin, do you recognise the bribe
you gave my sister's maid?
AUSTIN. Hush, sir, hush! you forget the presence of the Duke.
ANTHONY. Mr. Austin, you are a coward and a scoundrel.
AUSTIN. My child, you will regret these words: I refuse your
quarrel.
ANTHONY. You do? Take that. (HE STRIKES AUSTIN ON THE MOUTH.
AT THE MOMENT OF THE BLOW -)
SCENE V
TO THESE, DOROTHY, L. U. E. DOROTHY, UNSEEN BY AUSTIN, SHRIEKS.
SENSATION. MUSIC STOPS. TABLEAU
AUSTIN (RECOVERING HIS COMPOSURE). Your Royal Highness, suffer
me to excuse the disrespect of this young gentleman. He has so
much apology, and I have, I hope, so good a credit, as incline me
to accept this blow. But I must beg of your Highness, and,
gentlemen, all of you here present, to bear with me while I will
explain what is too capable of misconstruction. I am the
rejected suitor of this young gentleman's sister; of Miss Dorothy
Musgrave: a lady whom I singularly honour and esteem; a word
from whom (if I could hope that word) would fill my life with
happiness. I was not worthy of that lady; when I was defeated in
fair field, I presumed to make advances through her maid. See in
how laughable a manner fate repaid me! The waiting-girl derided,
the mistress denied, and now comes in this very ardent champion
who publicly insults me. My vanity is cured; you will judge it
right, I am persuaded, all of you, that I should accept my proper
punishment in silence; you, my Lord Duke, to pardon this young
gentleman; and you, Mr. Musgrave, to spare me further
provocation, which I am determined to ignore.
DOROTHY (RUSHING FORWARD, FALLING AT AUSTIN'S KNEES, AND SEIZING
HIS HAND). George, George, it was for me. My hero! take me!
What you will!
AUSTIN (IN AN AGONY). My dear creature, remember that we are in
public. (RAISING HER.) Your Royal Highness, may I present you
Mrs. George Frederick Austin? (THE CURTAIN FALLS ON A FEW BARS
OF THE 'LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.')
THE END
----------------------------------------------------------
Play: ADMIRAL GUINEA
DEDICATED WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM TO ANDREW LANG BY THE
SURVIVORS OF THE WALRUS
SAVANNAH, this 27TH day of SEPTEMBER 1884
PERSONS REPRESENTED
JOHN GAUNT, called 'ADMIRAL GUINEA,' once Captain of the Slaver
ARETHUSA.
ARETHUSA GAUNT, his Daughter.
DAVID PEW, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the ARETHUSA
KIT FRENCH, a Privateersman.
MRS. DRAKE, Landlady of the ADMIRAL BENBOW Inn.
The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time
is about the year 1760. The action occupies part of a day and
night.
NOTE. - PASSAGES SUGGESTED FOR OMISSION IN REPRESENTATION ARE
ENCLOSED IN SQUARE BRACKETS, THUS [ ].
ADMIRAL GUINEA
ACT I.
The Stage represents a room in the Admiral Guinea's house:
fireplace, arm-chair, and table with Bible, L., towards the
front; door C., with window on each side, the window on the R.,
practicable; doors, R. and L., back; corner cupboard, a brass-
strapped sea-chest fixed to the wall and floor, R.; cutlasses,
telescopes, sextant, quadrant, a calendar, and several maps upon
the wall; a ship clock; three wooden chairs; a dresser against
wall, R. C.; on the chimney-piece the model of a brig and several
shells. The centre bare of furniture. Through the widows and
the door, which is open, green trees and a small field of sea.
SCENE I
ARETHUSA IS DISCOVERED, DUSTING
ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week to-day! Now for a new mark.
Since the last, the sun has set and risen over the fields and the
pleasant trees at home, and on Kit's lone ship and the empty sea.
Perhaps it blew; perhaps rained; (AT THE CHART) perhaps he was
far up here to the nor'ard, where the icebergs sail; perhaps at
anchor among these wild islands of the snakes and buccaneers. O,
you big chart, if I could see him sailing on you! North and
South Atlantic; such a weary sight of water and no land; never an
island for the poor lad to land upon. But still, God's there.
(SHE TAKES DOWN THE TELESCOPE TO DUST IT.) Father's spy-glass
again; and my poor Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the
great deep!
SCENE II
ARETHUSA; to her, KIT, C. [He enters on tiptoe, and she does not
see or hear him]
ARETHUSA (DUSTING TELESCOPE). At sea they have less dust at
least: that's so much comfort.
KIT. Sweetheart, ahoy!
ARETHUSA. Kit!
KIT. Arethusa.
ARETHUSA. My Kit! Home again - O my love! - home again to me!
KIT. As straight as wind and tide could carry me!
ARETHUSA. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit - O! O!
KIT. Hey? Steady, lass: steady, I say. For goodness' sake,
ease it off.
ARETHUSA. I will, Kit - I will. But you came so sudden.
KIT. I thought ten months of it about preparation enough.
ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week: you haven't counted the days
as I have. Another day gone, and one day nearer to Kit: that
has been my almanac. How brown you are! how handsome!
KIT. A pity you can't see yourself! Well, no, I'll never be
handsome: brown I may be, never handsome. But I'm better than
that, if the proverb's true; for I'm ten hundred thousand fathoms
deep in love. I bring you a faithful sailor. What! you don't
think much of that for a curiosity? Well, that's so: you're
right; the rarity is in the girl that's worth it ten times over.
Faithful? I couldn't help it if I tried! No, sweetheart, and I
fear nothing: I don't know what fear is, but just of losing you.
(STARTING.) Lord, that's not the Admiral?
ARETHUSA. Aha, Mr. Dreadnought! you see you fear my father.
KIT. That I do. But, thank goodness, it's nobody. Kiss me:
no, I won't kiss you: kiss ME. I'll give you a present for
that. See!
ARETHUSA. A wedding-ring!
KIT. My mother's. Will you take it?
ARETHUSA. Yes, will I - and give myself for it.
KIT. Ah, if we could only count upon your father! He's a man
every inch of him; but he can't endure Kit French.
ARETHUSA. He hasn't learned to know you, Kit, as I have, nor yet
do you know him. He seems hard and violent; at heart he is only
a man overwhelmed with sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and
does not know that I observe him, should his face change, and
fill with such tenderness, that I could weep to see him? Why,
when he walks in his sleep, as he does almost every night, his
eyes open and beholding nothing, why should he cry so pitifully
on my mother's name? Ah, if you could hear him then, you would
say yourself: here is a man that has loved; here is a man that
will be kind to lovers.
KIT. Is that so? Ay, it's a hard thing to lose your wife; ay,
that must cut the heart indeed. But for all that, my lass, your
father is keen for the doubloons.
ARETHUSA. Right, Kit: and small blame to him. There is only
one way to be honest, and the name of that is thrift.
KIT. Well, and that's my motto. I've left the ship; no more
letter of marque for me. Good-bye to Kit French, privateersman's
mate; and how-d'ye-do to Christopher, the coasting skipper. I've
seen the very boat for me: I've enough to buy her, too; and to
furnish a good house, and keep a shot in the locker for bad luck.
So far, there's nothing to gainsay. So far it's hopeful enough;
but still there's Admiral Guinea, you know - and the plain truth
is that I'm afraid of him.
ARETHUSA. Admiral Guinea? Now Kit, if you are to be true lover
of mine, you shall not use that name. His name is Captain Gaunt.
As for fearing him, Kit French, you're not the man for me, if you
fear anything but sin. He's a stern man because he's in the
right.
KIT. He is a man of God; I am what he calls a child of
perdition. I was a privateersman - serving my country, I say;
but he calls it pirate. He is thrifty and sober; he has a
treasure, they say, and it lies so near his heart that he tumbles
up in his sleep to stand watch over it. What has a harum-scarum
dog like me to expect from a man like him? He won't see I'm
starving for a chance to mend; 'Mend,' he'll say; 'I'll be shot
if you mend at the expense of my daughter;' and the worst of it
is, you see, he'll be right.
ARETHUSA. Kit, if you dare to say that faint-hearted word again,
I'll take my ring off. What are we here for but to grow better
or grow worse? Do you think Arethusa French will be the same as
Arethusa Gaunt?
KIT. I don't want her better.
ARETHUSA. Ah, but she shall be!
KIT. Hark, here he is! By George, it's neck or nothing now.
Stand by to back me up.
SCENE III
TO THESE, GAUNT, C.
KIT (WITH ARETHUSA'S HAND). Captain Gaunt, I have come to ask
you for your daughter.
GAUNT. Hum. (HE SITS IN HIS CHAIR, L.)
KIT. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I've left the
privateering. I've enough to set me up and buy a tidy sloop -
Jack Lee's; you know the boat, Captain; clinker built, not four
years old, eighty tons burthen, steers like a child. I've put my
mother's ring on Arethusa's finger; and if you'll give us your
blessing, I'll engage to turn over a new leaf, and make her a
good husband.
GAUNT. In whose strength, Christopher French?
KIT. In the strength of my good, honest love for her: as you
did for her mother, and my father for mine. And you know,
Captain, a man can't command the wind; but (excuse me, sir) he
can always lie the best course possible, and that's what I'll do,
so God help me.
GAUNT. Arethusa, you at least are the child of many prayers;
your eyes have been unsealed; and to you the world stands naked,
a morning watch for duration, a thing spun of cobwebs for
solidity. In the presence of an angry God, I ask you: have you
heard this man?
ARETHUSA. Father, I know Kit, and I love him.
GAUNT. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian union. To you,
Christopher French, I will speak nothing of eternal truths: I
will speak to you the language of this world. You have been
trained among sinners who gloried in their sin: in your whole
life you never saved one farthing; and now, when your pockets are
full, you think you can begin, poor dupe, in your own strength.
You are a roysterer, a jovial companion; you mean no harm - you
are nobody's enemy but your own. No doubt you tell this girl of
mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that you can change.
Christopher, speaking under correction, I defy you! You ask me
for this child of many supplications, for this brand plucked from
the burning: I look at you; I read you through and through; and
I tell you - no! (STRIKING TABLE WITH HIS FIST.)
KIT. Captain Gaunt, if you mean that I am not worthy of her, I'm
the first to say so. But, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'm a young
man, and young men are no better'n they ought to be; it's known;
they're all like that; and what's their chance? To be married to
a girl like this! And would you refuse it to me? Why, sir, you
yourself, when you came courting, you were young and rough; and
yet I'll make bold to say that Mrs. Gaunt was a happy woman, and
the saving of yourself into the bargain. Well, now, Captain
Gaunt, will you deny another man, and that man a sailor, the very
salvation that you had yourself?
GAUNT. Salvation, Christopher French, is from above.
KIT. Well, sir, that is so; but there's means, too; and what
means so strong as the wife a man has to strive and toil for, and
that bears the punishment whenever he goes wrong? Now, sir, I've
spoke with your old shipmates in the Guinea trade. Hard as
nails, they said, and true as the compass: as rough as a slaver,
but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you hear me plead: I ask you
for my chance; don't you deny it to me.
GAUNT. You speak of me? In the true balances we both weigh
nothing. But two things I know: the depth of iniquity, how foul
it is; and the agony with which a man repents. Not until seven
devils were cast out of me did I awake; each rent me as it
passed. Ay, that was repentance. Christopher, Christopher, you
have sailed before the wind since first you weighed your anchor,
and now you think to sail upon a bowline? You do not know your
ship, young man: you will go to le'ward like a sheet of paper; I
tell you so that know - I tell you so that have tried, and
failed, and wrestled in the sweat of prayer, and at last, at
last, have tasted grace. But, meanwhile, no flesh and blood of
mine shall lie at the mercy of such a wretch as I was then, or as
you are this day. I could not own the deed before the face of
heaven if I sanctioned this unequal yoke. Arethusa, pluck off
that ring from off your finger. Christopher French, take it, and
go hence.
KIT. Arethusa, what do you say?
ARETHUSA. O Kit, you know my heart. But he is alone, and I am
his only comfort; and I owe all to him; and shall I not obey my
father? But, Kit, if you will let me, I will keep your ring.
Go, Kit; go, and prove to my father that he was mistaken; go and
win me. And O, Kit, if ever you should weary, come to me - no,
do not come! but send a word - and I shall know all, and you
shall have your ring. (GAUNT OPENS HIS BIBLE AND BEGINS TO
READ.)
KIT. Don't say that, don't say such things to me; I sink or swim
with you. (TO GAUNT.) Old man, you've struck me hard; give me a
good word to go with. Name your time; I'll stand the test. Give
me a spark of hope, and I'll fight through for it. Say just this
- 'Prove I was mistaken,' and by George, I'll prove it.
GAUNT (LOOKING UP). I make no such compacts. Go, and swear not
at all.
ARETHUSA. Go, Kit! I keep the ring.
SCENE IV
ARETHUSA, GAUNT
ARETHUSA. Father, what have we done that you should be so cruel?
GAUNT (LAYING DOWN BIBLE, AND RISING). Do you call me cruel?
You speak after the flesh. I have done you this day a service
that you will live to bless me for upon your knees.
ARETHUSA. He loves me, and I love him: you can never alter
that; do what you will, father, that can never change. I love
him, I believe in him, I will be true to him.
GAUNT. Arethusa, you are the sole thing death has left me on
this earth; and I must watch over your carnal happiness and your
eternal weal. You do not know what this implies to me. Your
mother - my Hester - tongue cannot tell, nor heart conceive the
pangs she suffered. If it lies in me, your life shall not be
lost on that same reef of an ungodly husband. (GOES OUT, C.)
SCENE V
ARETHUSA
ARETHUSA. I thought the time dragged long and weary when I knew
that Kit was homeward bound, all the white sails a-blowing out
towards England, and my Kit's face turned this way? (SHE BEGINS
TO DUST.) Sure, if my mother were here, she would understand and
help us; she would understand a young maid's heart, though her
own had never an ache; and she would love my Kit. (PUTTING BACK
THE TELESCOPE.) To think she died: husband and child - and so
much love - she was taken from them all. Ah, there is no parting
but the grave! And Kit and I both live, and both love each
other; and here am I cast down? O, Arethusa, shame! And your
love home from the deep seas, and loving you still; and the sun
shining; and the world all full of hope? O, hope, you're a good
word!
SCENE VI
ARETHUSA; TO HER, PEW
PEW (SINGING WITHOUT) -
'Time for us to go!
Time for us to go!
And we'll keep the brig three pints away,
For it's time for us to go.'
ARETHUSA. Who comes here? a seaman by his song, and father out!
(SHE TRIES THE AIR) 'Time for us to go!' It sounds a wild kind
of song. (TAP-TAP; PEW PASSES THE WINDOW.) O, what a face - and
blind!
PEW (ENTERING). Kind Christian friends, take pity on a poor
blind mariner, as lost his precious sight in the defence of his
native country, England, and God bless King George!
ARETHUSA. What can I do for you, sailor?
PEW. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind mariner to a
mouthful of meat. I've served His Majesty in every quarter of
the globe; I've spoke with 'Awke and glorious Anson, as I might
with you; and I've tramped it all night long, upon my sinful
feet, and with a empty belly.
ARETHUSA. You shall not ask bread and be denied by a sailor's
daughter and a sailor's sweetheart; and when my father returns he
shall give you something to set you on your road.
PEW. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that you are in a
manner of speaking alone? or do my ears deceive a poor blind
seaman?
ARETHUSA. I live here with my father, and my father is abroad.
PEW. Dear, beautiful, Christian lady, tell a poor blind man your
honoured name, that he may remember it in his poor blind prayers.
ARETHUSA. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt.
PEW. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one other question:
are you in a manner of speaking related to Cap'n John Gaunt?
Cap'n John as in the ebony trade were known as Admiral Guinea?
ARETHUSA. Captain John Gaunt is my father.
PEW (DROPPING THE BLIND MAN'S WHINE). Lord, think of that now!
They told me this was where he lived, and so it is. And here's
old Pew, old David Pew, as was the Admiral's own bo'sun,
colloguing in his old commander's parlour, with his old
commander's gal (SEIZES ARETHUSA). Ah, and a bouncer you are,
and no mistake.
ARETHUSA. Let me go! how dare you?
PEW. Lord love you, don't you struggle, now, don't you. (SHE
ESCAPES INTO FRONT R. CORNER, WHERE HE KEEPS HER IMPRISONED.)
Ah, well, we'll get you again, my lovely woman. What a arm
you've got - great god of love - and a face like a peach! I'm a
judge, I am. (SHE TRIES TO ESCAPE; HE STOPS HER.) No, you
don't; O, I can hear a flea jump! [But it's here where I miss my
deadlights. Poor old Pew; him as the ladies always would have
for their fancy man and take no denial; here you are with your
commander's daughter close aboard, and you can't so much as guess
the colour of her lovely eyes. (SINGING) -
'Be they black like ebony;
Or be they blue like to the sky.'
Black like the Admiral's? or blue like his poor dear wife's? Ah,
I was fond of that there woman, I was: the Admiral was jealous
of me.] Arethusa, my dear, - my heart, what a 'and and arm you
HAVE got; I'll dream o' that 'and and arm, I will! - but as I was
a-saying, does the Admiral ever in a manner of speaking refer to
his old bo'sun David Pew? him as he fell out with about the black
woman at Lagos, and almost slashed the shoulder off of him one
morning before breakfast?
ARETHUSA. You leave this house.
PEW. Hey? (HE CROSSES AND SEIZES HER AGAIN) Don't you fight, my
lovely one: now don't make old blind Pew forget his manners
before a female. What! you will? Stop that, or I'll have the
arm right out of your body. (HE GIVES HER ARM A WRENCH.)
ARETHUSA. O! help, help!
PEW. Stash your patter, damn you. (ARETHUSA GIVES IN.) Ah, I
thought it: Pew's way, Pew's way. Now, look you here, my lovely
woman. If you sling in another word that isn't in answer to my
questions, I'll pull your j'ints out one by one. Where's the
Commander?
ARETHUSA. I have said: he is abroad.
PEW. When's he coming aboard again?
ARETHUSA. At any moment.
PEW. Does he keep his strength?
ARETHUSA. You'll see when he returns. (HE WRENCHES HER ARM
AGAIN.) Ah!
PEW. Is he still on piety?
ARETHUSA. O, he is a Christian man!
PEW. A Christian man, is he? Where does he keep his rum?
ARETHUSA. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my help.
PEW. No more I shall (BECOMING AMOROUS). You're a lovely woman,
that's what you are; how would you like old Pew for a sweetheart,
hey? He's blind, is Pew, but strong as a lion; and the sex is
his 'ole delight. Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips! A kiss!
Come!
ARETHUSA. Leave go, leave go!
PEW. Hey? you would?
ARETHUSA. Ah! (SHE THRUSTS HIM DOWN, AND ESCAPES TO DOOR, R.)
SCENE VII
PEW (PICKING HIMSELF UP). Ah, she's a bouncer, she is! Where's
my stick? That's the sort of female for David Pew. Didn't she
fight? and didn't she struggle? and shouldn't I like to twist her
lovely neck for her? Pew's way with 'em all: the prettier they
was, the uglier he were to 'em. Pew's way: a way he had with
him; and a damned good way too. (LISTENS AT L. DOOR.) That's
her bedroom, I reckon; and she's double-locked herself in. Good
again: it's a crying mercy the Admiral didn't come in. But you
always loses your 'ed, Pew, with a female: that's what charms
'em. Now for business. The front door. No bar; only a big lock
(TRYING KEYS FROM HIS POCKET). Key one; no go. Key two; no go.
Key three; ah, that does it. Ah! (FEELING KEY) him with the
three wards and the little 'un: good again! Now if I could only
find a mate in this rotten country 'amlick: one to be eyes to
me; I can steer, but I can't conn myself, worse luck! If I could
only find a mate! And to-night, about three bells in the middle
watch, old Pew will take a little cruise, and lay aboard his
ancient friend the Admiral; or, barring that, the Admiral's old
sea-chest - the chest he kept the shiners in aboard the brig.
Where is it, I wonder? in his berth, or in the cabin here? It's
big enough, and the brass bands is plain to feel by. (SEARCHING
ABOUT WITH STICK.) Dresser - chair - (KNOCKING HIS HEAD ON THE
CUPBOARD.) Ah! - O, corner cupboard. Admiral's chair -
Admiral's table - Admiral's - hey! what's this? - a book -
sheepskin - smells like a 'oly Bible. Chair (HIS STICK JUST
AVOIDS THE CHEST). No sea-chest. I must have a mate to see for
me, to see for old Pew: him as had eyes like a eagle!
Meanwhile, rum. Corner cupboard, of course (TAP-TAPPING). Rum -
rum - rum. Hey? (HE LISTENS.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral?
(WITH THE WHINE.) Kind Christian friends -
SCENE VIII
PEW; to him GAUNT
GAUNT. What brings you here?
PEW. Cap'n, do my ears deceive me? or is this my old commander?
GAUNT. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, my man, and what's
your business?
PEW. Here's the facks, so help me. A lovely female in this
house was Christian enough to pity the poor blind; and lo and
belold! who should she turn out to be but my old commander's
daughter! 'My dear,' says I to her, 'I was the Admiral's own
particular bo'sun.' - 'La, sailor,' she says to me, 'how glad
he'll be to see you!' - 'Ah,' says I, 'won't he just - that's
all.' - 'I'll go and fetch him,' she says; 'you make yourself at
'ome.' And off she went; and, Commander, here I am.
GAUNT (SITTING DOWN). Well?
PEW. Well, Cap'n?
GAUNT. What do you want?
PEW. Well, Admiral, in a general way, what I want in a manner of
speaking is money and rum. (A PAUSE.)
GAUNT. David Pew, I have known you a long time.
PEW. And so you have; aboard the old ARETHUSA; and you don't
seem that cheered up as I'd looked for, with an old shipmate
dropping in, one as has been seeking you two years and more - and
blind at that. Don't you remember the old chantie? -
'Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
And when we'd clapped the hatches on,
'Twas time for us to go.
What a note you had to sing, what a swaller for a pannikin of
rum, and what a fist for the shiners! Ah, Cap'n, they didn't
call you Admiral Guinea for nothing. I can see that old
sea-chest of yours - her with the brass bands, where you kept
your gold dust and doubloons: you know! - I can see her as well
this minute as though you and me was still at it playing put on
the lid of her . . . You don't say nothing, Cap'n? . . . Well,
here it is: I want money and I want rum. You don't know what it
is to want rum, you don't: it gets to that p'int, that you would
kill a 'ole ship's company for just one guttle of it. What?
Admiral Guinea, my old Commander, go back on poor old Pew? and
him high and dry? [Not you! When we had words over the negro
lass at Lagos, what did you do? fair dealings was your word:
fair as between man and man; and we had it out with p'int and
edge on Lagos sands. And you're not going back on your word to
me, now I'm old and blind? No, no! belay that, I say. Give me
the old motto: Fair dealings, as between man and man.]
GAUNT. David Pew, it were better for you that you were sunk in
fifty fathom. I know your life; and first and last, it is one
broadside of wickedness. You were a porter in a school, and beat
a boy to death; you ran for it, turned slaver, and shipped with
me, a green hand. Ay, that was the craft for you: that was the
right craft, and I was the right captain; there was none worse
that sailed to Guinea. Well, what came of that? In five years'
time you made yourself the terror and abhorrence of your
messmates. The worst hands detested you; your captain - that was
me, John Gaunt, the chief of sinners - cast you out for a Jonah.
[Who was it stabbed the Portuguese and made off inland with his
miserable wife? Who, raging drunk on rum, clapped fire to the
baracoons and burned the poor soulless creatures in their
chains?] Ay, you were a scandal to the Guinea coast, from Lagos
down to Calabar? and when at last I sent you ashore, a marooned
man - your shipmates, devils as they were, cheering and rejoicing
to be quit of you - by heaven, it was a ton's weight off the
brig!
PEW. Cap'n Gaunt, Cap'n Gaunt, these are ugly words.
GAUNT. What next? You shipped with Flint the Pirate. What you
did then I know not; the deep seas have kept the secret: kept
it, ay, and will keep against the Great Day. God smote you with
blindness, but you heeded not the sign. That was His last mercy;
look for no more. To your knees, man, and repent! Pray for a
new heart; flush out your sins with tears; flee while you may
from the terrors of the wrath to come.
PEW. Now, I want this clear: Do I understand that you're going
back on me, and you'll see me damned first?
GAUNT. Of me you shall have neither money nor strong drink: not
a guinea to spend in riot; not a drop to fire your heart with
devilry.
PEW. Cap'n, do you think it wise to quarrel with me? I put it
to you now, Cap'n, fairly, as between man and man - do you think
it wise?
GAUNT. I fear nothing. My feet are on the Rock. Begone! (HE
OPENS THE BIBLE AND BEGINS TO READ.)
PEW (AFTER A PAUSE). Well, Cap'n, you know best, no doubt; and
David Pew's about the last man, though I says it, to up and
thwart an old Commander. You've been 'ard on David Pew, Cap'n:
'ard on the poor blind; but you'll live to regret it - ah, my
Christian friend, you'll live to eat them words up. But there's
no malice here: that ain't Pew's way; here's a sailor's hand
upon it . . . . You don't say nothing? (GAUNT TURNS A PAGE.)
Ah, reading, was you? Reading, by thunder! Well, here's my
respecks (SINGING) -
'Time for us to go, Time for us to go, When the money's out, and
the liquor's done, Why, it's time for us to go.
(HE GOES TAPPING UP TO DOOR, TURNS ON THE THRESHOLD, AND LISTENS.
GAUNT TURNS A PAGE. PEW, WITH A GRIMACE, STRIKES HIS HAND UPON
THE POCKET WITH THE KEYS, AND GOES.)
DROP.
ACT II.
The Stage represents the parlour of the 'Admiral Benbow' inn.
Fire-place, R., with high-backed settles on each side; in front
of these, and facing the audience, R., a small table laid with a
cloth. Tables, L., with glasses, pipes, etc. Broadside ballads
on the wall. Outer door of inn, with the half-door in L., corner
back; door, R., beyond the fire-place; window with red half-
curtains; spittons; candles on both the front tables; night
without.
SCENE I
PEW; afterwards MRS. DRAKE, out and in.
PEW (ENTERING). Kind Christian friends - (LISTENING; THEN
DROPPING THE WHINE.) Hey? nobody! Hey? A grog-shop not two
cable-lengths from the Admiral's back-door, and the Admiral not
there? I never knew a seaman brought so low: he ain't but the
bones of the man he used to be. Bear away for the New Jerusalem,
and this is what you run aground on, is it? Good again; but it
ain't Pew's way; Pew's way is rum. - Sanded floor. Rum is his
word, and rum his motion. - Settle - chimbley - settle again -
spittoon - table rigged for supper. Table-glass. (DRINKS
HEELTAP.) Brandy and water; and not enough of it to wet your eye;
damn all greediness, I say. Pot (DRINKS), small beer - a drink
that I ab'or like bilge! What I want is rum. (CALLING, AND
RAPPING WITH STICK ON TABLE.) Halloa, there! House, ahoy!
MRS. DRAKE (WITHOUT). Coming, sir, coming. (SHE ENTERS, R.)
What can I do - ? (SEEING PEW.) Well I never did! Now,
beggar-man, what's for you?
[PEW. Rum, ma'am, rum; and a bit o' supper.
MRS. DRAKE. And a bed to follow, I shouldn't wonder!
PEW. AND a bed to follow: IF you please.]
MRS. DRAKE. This is the 'ADMIRAL BENBOW,' a respectable house,
and receives none but decent company; and I'll ask you to go
somewhere else, for I don't like the looks of you.
PEW. Turn me away? Why, Lord love you, I'm David Pew - old
David Pew - him as was Benbow's own particular cox'n. You
wouldn't turn away old Pew from the sign of his late commander's
'ed? Ah, my British female, you'd have used me different if
you'd seen me in the fight! [There laid old Benbow, both his
legs shot off, in a basket, and the blessed spy-glass at his eye
to that same hour: a picter, ma'am, of naval daring: when a
round shot come, and took and knocked a bucketful of shivers
right into my poor daylights. 'Damme,' says the Admiral, 'is
that old Pew, MY old Pew?' he says. - 'It's old Pew, sir,' says
the first lootenant, 'worse luck,' he says. - 'Then damme,' says
Admiral Benbow, 'if that's how they serve a lion-'arted seaman,
damme if I care to live,' he says; and, ma'am, he laid down his
spy-glass.]
MRS. DRAKE. Blind man, I don't fancy you, and that's the truth;
and I'll thank you to take yourself off.
PEW. Thirty years have I fought for country and king, and now in
my blind old age I'm to be sent packing from a measly
public-'ouse? Mark ye, ma'am, if I go, you take the
consequences. Is this a inn? Or haint it? If it is a inn, then
by act of parleyment, I'm free to sling my 'ammick. Don't you
forget: this is a act of parleyment job, this is. You look out.
MRS. DRAKE. Why, what's to do with the man and his acts of
parliament? I don't want to fly in the face of an act of
parliament, not I. If what you say is true -
PEW. True? If there's anything truer than a act of parleyment -
Ah! you ask the beak. True? I've that in my 'art as makes me
wish it wasn't.
MRS. DRAKE. I don't like to risk it. I don't like your looks,
and you're more sea-lawyer than seaman to my mind. But I'll tell
you what: if you can pay, you can stay. So there.
PEW. No chink, no drink? That's your motto, is it? Well,
that's sense. Now, look here, ma'am, I ain't beautiful like you;
but I'm good, and I'll give you warrant for it. Get me a noggin
of rum, and suthin' to scoff, and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot
of baccy; and there's a guinea for the reckoning. There's plenty
more in the locker; so bear a hand, and be smart. I don't like
waiting; it ain't my way. (EXIT MRS. DRAKE, R. PEW SITS AT THE
TABLE, R. THE SETTLE CONCEALS HIM FROM ALL THE UPPER PART OF THE
STAGE.)
MRS. DRAKE (RE-ENTERING). Here's the rum, sailor.
PEW (DRINKS). Ah, rum! That's my sheet-anchor: rum and the
blessed Gospel. Don't you forget that, ma'am: rum and the
Gospel is old Pew's sheet-anchor. You can take for another while
you're about it; and, I say, short reckonings make long friends,
hey? Where's my change?
MRS. DRAKE. I'm counting it now. There, there it is, and thank
you for your custom. (SHE GOES OUT, R.)
PEW (CALLING AFTER HER). Don't thank me, ma'am; thank the act of
parleyment! Rum, fourpence; two penny pieces and a Willi'm-and-
Mary tizzy makes a shilling; and a spade half-guinea is eleven
and six (RE-ENTER MRS. DRAKE WITH SUPPER, PIPE, ETC.); and a
blessed majesty George the First crown-piece makes sixteen and
six; and two shilling bits is eighteen and six; and a new
half-crown makes - no it don't! O, no! Old Pew's too smart a
hand to be bammed with a soft half-tusheroon.
MRS. DRAKE (CHANGING PIECE). I'm sure I didn't know it, sailor.
PEW (TRYING NEW COIN BETWEEN HIS TEETH). In course you didn't,
my dear; but I did, and I thought I'd mention it. Is that my
supper, hey? Do my nose deceive me? (SNIFFING AND FEELING.)
Cold duck? sage and onions? a round of double Gloster? and that
noggin o' rum? Why, I declare if I'd stayed and took pot-luck
with my old commander, Cap'n John Gaunt, he couldn't have beat
this little spread, as I've got by act of parleyment.
MRS. DRAKE (AT KNITTING). Do you know the captain, sailor?
PEW. Know him? I was that man's bos'un, ma'am. In the Guinea
trade, we was known as 'Pew's Cap'n,' and 'Gaunt's Bo'sun,' one
for other like. We was like two brothers, ma'am. And a
excellent cold duck, to be sure; and the rum lovely.
MRS. DRAKE. If you know John Gaunt, you know his daughter
Arethusa.
PEW. What? Arethusa? Know her, says you? know her? Why, Lord
love you, I was her god-father. ['Pew,' says Jack Gaunt to me,
'Pew,' he says, 'you're a man,' he says; 'I like a man to be a
man,' says he, 'and damme,' he says, 'I like YOU; and sink me,'
says he, 'if you don't promise and vow in the name of that
new-born babe,' he says, 'why damme, Pew,' says he, 'you're not
the man I take you for.'] Yes, ma'am, I named that female; with
my own 'ands I did; Arethusa, I named her; that was the name I
give her; so now you know if I speak true. And if you'll be as
good as get me another noggin of rum, why, we'll drink her 'elth
with three times three. (EXIT MRS. DRAKE: PEW EATING. MRS.
DRAKE RE-ENTERING WITH RUM.)
[MRS. DRAKE. If what you say be true, sailor (and I don't say it
isn't, mind!), it's strange that Arethusa and that godly man her
father have never so much as spoke your name.
PEW. Why, that's so! And why, says you? Why, when I dropped in
and paid my respecks this morning, do you think she knew me? No
more'n a babe unborn! Why, ma'am, when I promised and vowed for
her, I was the picter of a man-o'-war's man, I was: eye like a
eagle; walked the deck in a hornpipe, foot up and foot down;
v'ice as mellow as rum; 'and upon 'art, and all the females took
dead aback at the first sight, Lord bless 'em! Know me? Not
likely. And as for me, when I found her such a lovely woman - by
the feel of her 'and and arm! - you might have knocked me down
with a feather. But here's where it is, you see: when you've
been knocking about on blue water for a matter of two-and-forty
year, shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere out of
luck, and given over for dead by all your messmates and
relations, why, what it amounts to is this: nobody knows you,
and you hardly know yourself, and there you are; and I'll trouble
you for another noggin of rum.
MRS. DRAKE. I think you've had enough.
PEW. I don't; so bear a hand. (EXIT MRS. DRAKE; PEW EMPTIES THE
GLASS.) Rum, ah, rum, you're a lovely creature; they haven't
never done you justice. (PROCEEDS TO FILL AND LIGHT PIPE;
RE-ENTER MRS. DRAKE WITH RUM.)] And now, ma'am, since you're so
genteel and amicable-like, what about my old commander? Is he,
in a manner of speaking, on half pay? or is he living on his
fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought?
MRS. DRAKE. Well, sailor, people talk, you know.
PEW. I know, ma'am; I'd have been rolling in my coach, if they'd
have held their tongues.
MRS. DRAKE. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a
man, is little better than a miser.
PEW. Don't say it, ma'am; not to old Pew. Ah, how often have I
up and strove with him! 'Cap'n, live it down,' says I. 'Ah,
Pew,' says he, 'you're a better man than I am,' he says; 'but
dammne,' he says, 'money,' he says, 'is like rum to me.'
(INSINUATING.) And what about a old sea-chest, hey? a old
sea-chest, strapped with brass bands?
MRS. DRAKE. Why, that'll be the chest in his parlour, where he
has it bolted to the wall, as I've seen with my own eyes; and so
might you, if you had eyes to see with.
PEW. No, ma'am, that ain't good enough; you don't bam old Pew.
You never was in that parlour in your life.
MRS. DRAKE. I never was? Well, I declare!
PEW. Well then, if you was, where's the chest? Beside the
chimbley, hey? (WINKING.) Beside the table with the 'oly Bible?
MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, you don't get any information out of me.
PEW. What, ma'am? Not to old Pew? Why, my god-child showed it
me herself, and I told her where she'd find my name - P, E, W,
Pew - cut out on the starn of it; and sure enough she did. Why,
ma'am, it was his old money-box when he was in the Guinea trade;
and they do say he keeps the rhino in it still.
MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And if you want to
know, you can ask the Admiral himself! (SHE CROSSES, L.)
PEW. Hey? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if
it was the parish bull.
SCENE II
TO THESE, KIT, A LITTLE DRUNK
KIT (LOOKING IN OVER HALF-DOOR). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are
you? Come and welcome the prodigal!
MRS. DRAKE (COMING FORWARD TO MEET HIM AS HE ENTERS; PEW REMAINS
CONCEALED BY THE SETTLE, SMOKING, DRINKING, AND LISTENING). Lord
bless us and save us, if it ain't my boy! Give us a kiss.
KIT. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. (KISSES
HER.)
MRS. DRAKE. O Kit, Kit, you've been at those other houses, where
the stuff they give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog.
[KIT. Round with friends, mother: only round with friends.
MRS. DRAKE. Well, anyway, you'll take a glass just to settle it,
from me. (SHE BRINGS THE BOTTLE, AND FILLS FOR HIM.) There,
that's pure; that'll do you no harm.] But O, Kit, Kit, I thought
you were done with all this Jack-a-shoring.
KIT. What cheer, mother? I'm only a sheet in the wind; and
who's the worse for it but me?
MRS. DRAKE. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her waiting and
keeping single these two years for the love of you!
KIT. She, mother? she's heart of oak, she's true as steel, and
good as gold; and she has my ring on her finger, too. But
where's the use? The Admiral won't look at me.
MRS. DRAKE. Why not? You're as good a man as him any day.
KIT. Am I? He says I'm a devil, and swears that none of his
flesh and blood - that's what he said, mother! - should lie at my
mercy. That's what cuts me. If it wasn't for the good stuff
I've been taking aboard, and the jolly companions I've been
seeing it out with, I'd just go and make a hole in the water, and
be done with it, I would, by George!
MRS. DRAKE. That's like you men. Ah, we know you, we that keeps
a public-house - we know you, good and bad: you go off on a
frolic and forget; and you never think of the women that sit
crying at home.
KIT. Crying? Arethusa cry? Why, dame, she's the
bravest-hearted girl in all broad England! Here, fill the glass!
I'll win her yet. I drink to her; here's to her bright eyes, and
here's to the blessed feet she walks upon!
PEW (LOOKING ROUND THE CORNER OF THE SETTLE). Spoke like a
gallant seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I'm a man as has suffered,
and I'd like to shake your fist, and drink a can of flip with
you.
KIT (COMING DOWN). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you?
Who's this, mother?
MRS. DRAKE. Nay, I know nothing about him. (SHE GOES OUT, R.)
PEW. Cap'n, I'm a brother seaman, and my name is Pew, old David
Pew, as you may have heard of in your time, he having sailed
along of 'Awke and glorious Benbow, and a right-'and man to both.
KIT. Benbow? Steady, mate! D'ye mean to say you went to sea
before you were born?
PEW. See now! The sign of this here inn was running in my 'ed,
I reckon. Benbow, says you? no, not likely! Anson, I mean;
Anson and Sir Edward 'Awke: that's the pair: I was their
right-'and man.
KIT. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but you're a rum
un to look at, anyhow.
PEW. Right you are, and so I am. But what is looks? It's the
'art that does it: the 'art is the seaman's star; and here's old
David Pew's, a matter of fifty years at sea, but tough and sound
as the British Constitootion.
KIT. You're right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. And you're
a man they're down upon, just like myself, I see. We're a pair
of plain, good-hearted, jolly tars; and all these 'longshore
fellows cock a lip at us, by George. What cheer, mate?
ARETHUSA (WITHOUT). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake!
PEW. What, a female? hey? a female? Board her board her, mate!
I'm dark. (HE RETIRES AGAIN BEHIND, TO TABLE, R., BEHIND
SETTLE.)
ARETHUSA (WITHOUT). Mrs. Drake!
MRS. DRAKE (RE-ENTERING AND RUNNING TO DOOR). Here I am, my
dear; come in.
SCENE III
TO THESE, ARETHUSA
ARETHUSA. Ah, Kit, I've found you. I thought you would lodge
with Mrs. Drake.
KIT. What? are you looking for your consort? Whistle, I'm your
dog; I'll come to you. I've been toasting you fathom deep, my
beauty; and with every glass I love you dearer.
ARETHUSA. Now Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not
the way. Perhaps he thinks too much of the guineas: well,
gather them - if you think me worth the price. Go you to your
sloop, clinker built, eighty tons burthen - you see I remember,
Skipper Kit! I don't deny I like a man of spirit; but if you
care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out of taverns; and if you
could carry yourself a bit more - more elderly!
[KIT. Can I? Would I? Ah, just couldn't and just won't I,
then!
MRS. DRAKE. I hope, madam, you don't refer to my house; a
publican I may be, but tavern is a word that I don't hold with;
and here there's no bad drink, and no loose company; and as for
my blessedest Kit, I declare I love him like my own.
ARETHUSA. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake?]
KIT. Arethusa, you're an angel. Do I want to please Captain
Gaunt? Why, that's as much as ask whether I love you. [I don't
deny that his words cut me; for they did. But as for wanting to
please him, if he was deep as the blue Atlantic, I would beat it
out. And elderly, too? Aha, you witch, you're wise! Elderly?
You've set the course; you leave me alone to steer it.
Matrimony's my port, and love is my cargo.] That's a likely
question, ain't it, Mrs. Drake? Do I want to please him!
Elderly, says you? Why, see here: Fill up my glass, and I'll
drink to Arethusa on my knees.
ARETHUSA. Why, you stupid boy, do you think that would please
him?
KIT. On my knees I'll drink it! (AS HE KNEELS AND DRAINS THE
GLASS, GAUNT ENTERS, AND HE SCRAMBLES TO HIS FEET.)
SCENE IV
TO THESE, GAUNT
GAUNT. Arethusa, this is no place for you.
ARETHUSA. No, father.
GAUNT. I wish you had been spared this sight; but look at him,
child, since you are here; look at God's image, so debased. And
you, young man (TO KIT), you have proved that I was right. Are
you the husband for this innocent maid?
KIT. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. Terror is your
last word; you're bitter hard upon poor sinners, bitter hard and
black - you that were a sinner yourself. These are not the true
colours: don't deceive yourself; you're out of your course.
[GAUNT. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Christopher. It is
not I; it's God's law that is of iron. Think! if the blow were
to fall now, some cord to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a
knife into your heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to
vanish; this world to disappear like a drowning man into the
great ocean; and you, your brain still whirling, to be snatched
into the presence of the eternal Judge: Christopher French, what
answer would you make? For these gifts wasted, for this rich
mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings of your better
angel, - what have you to say?
KIT. Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by your leave I'll
have it out.
ARETHUSA. Kit, for pity's sake!
KIT. Arethusa, I don't speak to you, my dear: you've got my
ring, and I know what that means. The man I speak to is Captain
Gaunt. I came to-day as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as
fair a look-out. What did you care? what was your reply? None
of your flesh and blood, you said, should lie at the mercy of a
wretch like me! Am I not flesh and blood that you should trample
on me like that? Is that charity, to stamp the hope out of a
poor soul?]
GAUNT. You speak wildly; or the devil of drink that is in you
speaks instead.
KIT. You think me drunk? well, so I am, and whose fault is it
but yours? It was I that drank; but you take your share of it,
Captain Gaunt: you it was that filled the can.
GAUNT. Christopher French, I spoke but for your good, your good
and hers. 'Woe unto him' - these are the dreadful words - 'by
whom offences shall come: it were better - ' Christopher, I can
but pray for both of us.
KIT. Prayers? Now I tell you freely, Captain Gaunt, I don't
value your prayers. Deeds are what I ask; kind deeds and words -
that's the true-blue piety: to hope the best and do the best,
and speak the kindest. As for you, you insult me to my face; and
then you'll pray for me? What's that? Insult behind my back is
what I call it! No, sir; you're out of the course; you're no
good man to my view, be you who you may.
MRS. DRAKE. O Christopher! To Captain Gaunt?
ARETHUSA. Father, father, come away!
KIT. Ah, you see? She suffers too; we all suffer. You spoke
just now of a devil; well, I'll tell you the devil you have: the
devil of judging others. And as for me, I'll get as drunk as
Bacchus.
GAUNT. Come!
SCENE V
PEW, MRS. DRAKE, KIT
PEW (COMING OUT AND WAVING HIS PIPE). Commander, shake! Hooray
for old England! If there's anything in the world that goes to
old Pew's 'art, it's argyment. Commander, you handled him like a
babby, kept the weather gauge, and hulled him every shot.
Commander, give it a name, and let that name be rum!
KIT. Ay, rum's the sailor's fancy. Mrs. Drake, a bottle and
clean glasses.
MRS. DRAKE. Kit French, I wouldn't. Think better of it, there's
a dear! And that sweet girl just gone!
PEW. Ma'am, I'm not a 'ard man; I'm not the man to up and force
a act of parleyment upon a helpless female. But you see here:
Pew's friends is sacred. Here's my friend here, a perfeck
seaman, and a man with a 'ed upon his shoulders, and a man that,
damme, I admire. He give you a order, ma'am: - march!
MRS. DRAKE. Kit, don't you listen to that blind man; he's the
devil wrote upon his face.
PEW. Don't you insinuate against my friend. HE ain't a child, I
hope? HE knows his business? Don't you get trying to go a
lowering of my friend in his own esteem.
MRS. DRAKE. Well, I'll bring it, Kit; but it's against the
grain. (EXIT.)
KIT. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should we? It's
been glasses round with me all day. I've got my cargo.
PEW. You? and you just argy'd the 'ed off of Admiral Guinea? O
stash that! I stand treat, if it comes to that!
KIT. What! Do I meet with a blind seaman and not stand him?
That's not the man I am!
MRS. DRAKE (RE-ENTERING WITH BOTTLE AND GLASSES). There!
PEW. Easy does it, ma'am.
KIT. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot.
MRS. DRAKE. Yes, I'll trot; and I trot with a sick heart, Kit
French, to leave you drinking your wits away with that low blind
man. For a low man you are - a low blind man - and your clothes
they would disgrace a scarecrow. I'll go to my bed, Kit; and O,
dear boy, go soon to yours - the old room, you know; it's ready
for you - and go soon and sleep it off; for you know, dear, they,
one and all, regret it in the morning; thirty years I've kept
this house, and one and all they did regret it, dear.
PEW. Come now, you walk!
MRS. DRAKE. O, it's not for your bidding. You a seaman? The
ship for you to sail in is the hangman's cart. - Good-night, Kit
dear, and better company!
SCENE VI
PEW, KIT. They sit at the other table, L.
PEW. Commander, here's HER 'ealth!
KIT. Ay, that's the line: HER health! But that old woman there
is a good old woman, Pew.
PEW. So she is, Commander. But there's no woman understands a
seaman; now you and me, being both bred to it, we splice by
natur'. As for A. G., if argyment can win her, why, she's yours.
If I'd a-had your 'ed for argyment, damme, I'd a-been a Admiral,
I would! And if argyment won't win her, well, see here, you put
your trust in David Pew.
KIT. David Pew, I don't know who you are, David Pew; I never
heard of you; I don't seem able to clearly see you. Mrs. Drake,
she's a smart old woman, Pew, and she says you've the devil in
your face.
PEW. Ah, and why, says you? Because I up and put her in her
place, when she forgot herself to you, Commander.
KIT. Well, Pew, that's so; you stood by me like a man. Shake
hands, Pew; and we'll make a night of it, or we'll know why, old
boy!
PEW. That's my way. That's Pew's way, that is. That's Pew's
way all over. Commander, excuse the liberty; but when I was your
age, making allowance for a lowlier station and less 'ed for
argyment, I was as like you as two peas. I know it by the v'ice
(SINGS) -
'We hadn't been three days at sea before we saw a sail,
So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a
gale,
And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did
know
As well as ever a soul on board, 'twas time for us to go.'
Chorus, Cap'n!
PEW AND KIT (IN CHORUS) -
'Time for us to go,
Time for us to go,
As well as ever a soul on board,
'Twas time for us to go.'
PEW (SINGS) -
'We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone;
Says the skipper, "They may go or stand, I'm damned if I don't
crack on;
So the weather braces we'll round in, and the trysail set also,
And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, for it's time for us
to go.
