.
then lifts her hands like one whose dearest prayer has been granted.
SWINDON. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take your place on the gallows. Arrest him.
At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize Anderson.
ANDERSON (thrusting a paper under Swindon’s nose). There’s my safe-conduct, sir.
SWINDON (taken aback). Safe-conduct! Are you — !
ANDERSON (emphatically). I am. (The two soldiers take him by the elbows.) Tell these men to take their hands off me.
SWINDON (to the men). Let him go.
SERGEANT. Fall back.
The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a cheer; and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment of triumph as they see their Pastor speaking with their enemies in the gate.
ANDERSON (exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his perspiring brow with his handkerchief). Thank God, I was in time!
BURGOYNE (calm as ever, and still watch in hand). Ample time, sir. Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging any gentleman by an American clock. (He puts up his watch.)
ANDERSON. Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you already, General. Now tell them to take the rope from the neck of that American citizen.
BURGOYNE (to the executioner in the cart — very politely). Kindly undo Mr. Dudgeon.
The executioner takes the rope from Richard’s neck, unties his hands, and helps him on with his coat.
JUDITH (stealing timidly to Anderson). Tony.
ANDERSON (putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering her affectionately). Well what do you think of you husband, NOW, eh? — eh?? — eh???
JUDITH. I am ashamed — (She hides her face against his breast.)
BURGOYNE (to Swindon). You look disappointed, Major Swindon.
SWINDON. You look defeated, General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad of it. (Richard jumps down from the cart, Brudenell offering his hand to help him, and runs to Anderson, whose left hand he shakes heartily, the right being occupied by Judith.) By the way, Mr. Anderson, I do not quite understand. The safe-conduct was for a commander of the militia. I understand you are a — (he looks as pointedly as his good manners permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard’s coat, and adds) a clergyman.
ANDERSON (between Judith and Richard). Sir: it is in the hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. This foolish young man (placing his hand on Richard’s shoulder) boasted himself the Devil’s Disciple; but when the hour of trial came to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer and be faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent minister of the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, I found that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my place was amid the thunder of the captains and the shouting. So I am starting life at fifty as Captain Anthony Anderson of the Springtown militia; and the Devil’s Disciple here will start presently as the Reverend Richard Dudgeon, and wag his pow in my old pulpit, and give good advice to this silly sentimental little wife of mine (putting his other hand on her shoulder. She steals a glance at Richard to see how the prospect pleases him). Your mother told me, Richard, that I should never have chosen Judith if I’d been born for the ministry. I am afraid she was right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and I’ll keep yours.
RICHARD. Minister — I should say Captain. I have behaved like a fool.
JUDITH. Like a hero.
RICHARD. Much the same thing, perhaps. (With some bitterness towards himself) But no: if I had been any good, I should have done for you what you did for me, instead of making a vain sacrifice.
ANDERSON. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make a world — saints as well as soldiers. (Turning to Burgoyne) And now, General, time presses; and America is in a hurry. Have you realized that though you may occupy towns and win battles, you cannot conquer a nation?
BURGOYNE. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot have an aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my quarters.
ANDERSON. At your service, sir. (To Richard) See Judith home for me, will you, my boy? (He hands her over to him.) Now General. (He goes busily up the market place towards the Town Hall, Leaving Judith and Richard together. Burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and turns to Richard.)
BURGOYNE. Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be glad to see you at lunch at half-past one. (He pauses a moment, and adds, with politely veiled slyness) Bring Mrs. Anderson, if she will be so good. (To Swindon, who is fuming) Take it quietly, Major Swindon: your friend the British soldier can stand up to anything except the British War Office. (He follows Anderson.)
SERGEANT (to Swindon). What orders, sir?
SWINDON (savagely). Orders! What use are orders now? There’s no army. Back to quarters; and be d — (He turns on his heel and goes.)
SERGEANT (pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of defeat). ‘Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and show ’em you don’t care a damn for ‘em. Slope arms! Fours! Wheel! Quick march!
The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes up British Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, and the English troops march off defiantly to their quarters. The townsfolk press in behind, and follow them up the market, jeering at them; and the town band, a very primitive affair, brings up the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who comes in with them, runs to Richard.
ESSIE. Oh, Dick!
RICHARD (goodhumoredly, but wilfully). Now, now: come, come! I don’t mind being hanged; but I will not be cried over.
ESSIE. No, I promise. I’ll be good. (She tries to restrain her tears, but cannot.) I — I want to see where the soldiers are going to. (She goes a little way up the market, pretending to look after the crowd.)
JUDITH. Promise me you will never tell him.
RICHARD. Don’t be afraid.
They shake hands on it.
ESSIE (calling to them). They’re coming back. They want you.
Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again in wild enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on their shoulders, cheering him.
CURTAIN.
NOTES TO THE DEVIL’S DISCIPLE
BURGOYNE
General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for the first time (as far as I am aware) on the English stage, is not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. His objection to profane swearing is not borrowed from Mr. Gilbert’s H. M. S. Pinafore: it is taken from the Code of Instructions drawn up by himself for his officers when he introduced Light Horse into the English army. His opinion that English soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome to the military authorities of his time, when nothing was thought of ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be to those modern victims of the flagellation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that discredited sport. His military reports are very clever as criticisms, and are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic limits, best illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious, that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground than that of family influence. As a parliamentary candidate, Burgoyne took our common expression “fighting an election” so very literally that he led his supporters to the poll at Preston in 1768 with a loaded pistol in each hand, and won the seat, though he was fined 1,000 pounds, and denounced by Junius, for the pistols.
It