The Surrender of Calais Part 9

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

_An Apartment in the House of JOHN de VIENNE._

_Enter JULIA, in Man's Apparel, and O'CARROL._

_Julia._ Come on; bestir thee, good fellow! Thou must be my guide, and conduct me.

_O'Carrol._ 'Faith, and I'll conduct you, with all my heart and soul; and some good creature, I warrant, will be kind enough to show me the way.

_Julia._ But art thou well a.s.sured, O'Carrol, of what thou hast informed me?

_O'Carrol._ To be sure I am well a.s.sured; for I informed myself, and I never yet catched myself out in telling a lie. There was six of them, as tall fellows as any in France, with ugly ropes about their good-looking necks, going to the town-gates; and Count Ribaumont marched second in the handsome half dozen. The whole town followed them with their eyes, till they were as full of water as if they had been peeping into so many mustard pots. And so, madam, knowing he loves you better than dear life,(which, to be sure, he seems to hold cheap enough at present), and thinking you would be glad to hear the terrible news, why, I made all the haste I could to come and tell it to you.

_Julia._ And thus, in haste, have I equipped myself. Come, good O'Carrol;--dost think I shall 'scape discovery in these accoutrements?

_O'Carrol._ Escape!--By my soul, lady, one would think you had been a young man, from the very first day you were born. Och! what a piece of work a little tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and drapery makes in a good fellow's fancy! A foot is a foot, all the world over;--but take the foot of the sweetest little creature that ever tripped over green sward, and if it doesn't play at bo-peep under a petticoat--'faith, I don't know the reason of it; but it gives a clean contrary turn to a man's imagination. But what is it you would be after now, Lady Julia?

_Julia._ Something I will do; and it must be speedy: at all hazards, we will to the English camp, O'Carrol:--opportunity must shape the rest.

_O'Carrol._ The camp?--O, 'faith, that's my element; and Heaven send us success in it! If an Irishman's prayers, lady, could make you happy, your little heart should soon be as light as a feather-bed.

_Julia._ I thank thee, my honest fellow: thy care for me shall not long go unrewarded.

_O'Carrol._ Now the devil fetch rewarding, say I! If a man does his best friends a piece of service, he must be an unconscionable sort of an honest fellow, to look for more reward than the pleasure he gets in a.s.sisting them.

_Julia._ Well, well! each moment now is precious! Haste thee, O'Carrol; Time has wings.

_O'Carrol._ Och! be asey, madam; we'll take the ould fellow by the forelock, I warrant him. When honest gentlemen's business calls them on a small walk to the gallows, a man may set out a quarter of an hour behind them, and be certain of meeting them upon the road:--and, now I bethink me, madam, if we go out at the draw-bridge, from the citadel, hard by the house here, we may be at the camp, ere the poor souls have marched their body round the battlements.

_Julia._ Thou say'st well; and we will forth that way: 'Twill be most private too. Thou'lt follow me, O'Carrol?

_O'Carrol._ Ay, that I would, to the end of the wide world, and a thousand miles beyond it.

_Julia._ Yet, tarry here a while, till I prepare the means of our going forth. Join me a few minutes hence in the hall, O'Carrol.

And, Fortune, frown not on a poor weak woman!

Who, if she fail in this, her last, sad struggle, Is so surrounded by a sea of grief That she must sink for ever!

[_Exit._

_O'Carrol._ And, sink or swim, I'll to the bottom along with you.--Och!

what a sad thing it is to see sorrow wet the sweet cheeks of a woman!

Faith, now, I can't make out that same crying, for the life of me. My sorrow is always of a dry sort; that gives me a sore throat, without ever-troubling my eyes about the business. The camp! Well, with all my heart: it won't be the first time I have been present at a bit of a bustle.

SONG.--O'CARROL.

_When I was at home, I was merry and frisky;_ _My dad kept a pig, and my mother sold whisky:_ _My uncle was rich, but would never be asy,_ _Till I was enlisted by Corporal Casey._ _Oh! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey!_ _My dear little Sheelah I thought would run crazy,_ _When I trudged away with tough Corporal Casey._

_I march'd from Kilkenny, and as I was thinking_ _On Sheelah, my heart in my bosom was sinking;_ _But soon I was forced to look fresh as a daisy,_ _For fear of a drubbing from Corporal Casey._ _Och! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey!_ _The devil go with him, I ne'er could be lazy,_ _He stuck in my skirts so, ould Corporal Casey._

_We went into battle; I took the blows fairly,_ _That fell on my pate, but they bother'd me rarely:_ _And who should the first be that dropp'd? why, an plase ye,_ _It was my good friend, honest Corporal Casey._ _Och! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey!_ _Thinks I, you are quiet, and I shall be asy;_ _So eight years I fought, without Corporal Casey._ [Exit.

SCENE II.

_The English Camp._

_A Scaffold in the Back of the Scene: TWO WORKMEN descend from it._

_1 Work._ There 'tis;--and finished: as pleasing a piece of work, as man could wish to turn out of hand. If King Edward, (Heaven bless him!) give me not a pension for this, let'n make the next scaffold himself.

Ma.s.s! I would (with reverence be it spoken), build a scaffold, and fix a gallows, with any king in Christendom.

_2 Work._ Yea, marry, if he had not served his time to the trade.

_1 Work._ Yea, or if he had. I have been prime gallows maker, and princ.i.p.al hangman, now, nine-and-twenty years.--Thank Heaven!

neighbour, I have long been notorious.

_2 Work._ Thou say'st true, indeed. Thy enemies cannot deny thee that.

_1 Work._ And why, I pray you? why have I been so?

_2 Work._ Ma.s.s, I know not! I think 'tis thy good luck.

_1 Work._ Tut, I will tell thee. My parents, I thank them, bred me to the gallows: marry, then, how was it?--why, look you, I took delight in my business.--An you would be a good workman, ever, while you live, take a delight in your business. I have been an honest, pains-taking man, neighbour. No one is notorious, without taking pains for it.

_2 Work._ Truly, then, I fear my character is naught. I never can bring myself to take pains for it.

_1 Work._ Thou art the more to be pitied. I never made but one small mistake, since I entered on business.

_2 Work._ I pr'ythee, now, tell me that.

_1 Work._ 'Twas on execution day; we were much thronged, and the signal was given full soon; when, a pize on it! I whips me, in haste, the halter over the neck of an honest stander-by:--and I jerks me him up to the top of a twenty foot gibbet. Marry, the true rogue escaped by't; for 'twas a full hour ere the error was noted. But, hast heard who the six be, that will be here anon?

_2 Work._ Only that they be citizens. They are e'en now coming hitherward.

Some of our men have seen them: they march, as 'tis reported, wondrous doleful.

_1 Work._ No matter; tarry till they see my work;--that's all. An that do not content them, mark them for sour knaves. An a man be not satisfied when a sets foot on my scaffold, say he is hard to please.

Rot them, your condemned men, now-a-days, have no discernment. I would I had the hanging of all my fellow craft! I should then have some judges of my skill; and merit would not go praiseless.--[_A Flourish._]--So!--the king is coming--stand clear, now, neighbour:--an the king like not my scaffold, I am no true man.

[_They go on the Scaffold._

_Enter KING EDWARD, QUEEN, HARCOURT, SIR WALTER MANNY, ARUNDEL, WARWICK, TRAIN-BEARERS, Standards, &c._

_King._ Yes, good Philippa, 'tis our firm decree, And a full wise one too;--'tis but just recompense, For near twelve weary months, their stubbornness Has caused us linger out before their city.