Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated)

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  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 hain’t 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 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 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 bo’sun, ma’am. In the Guinea trade, we was known as “Pew’s Cap’n” and “Gaunt’s Bo’sun,” one for the 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 godfather. (“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 knows 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 damme,” 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 stern 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 lookout. 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 s
hare 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 courses; 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! (Exit, with Arethusa.)

  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.