The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

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 parentheses, thus ( )

ACT I

The Stage represents a room in 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 windows 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 letters 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 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.