Twist of Gold

  CAPTAIN: You may find it a little crowded on board to start with. Each time I head off with twice the cargo the ship can carry, but I know that ‘natural wastage’ will sadly ensure that half will never reach Boston. It used to be the same in the days of slaving. We take on board the many to the profit of the few.

  He proceeds to his cabin.

  SEAN: Is our torc safe, Mr Blundell? Is the Captain true to his word?

  MR BLUNDELL: I’ve something on my mind I want to share with you.

  SEAN: Mr Blundell?

  SEAN looks up at him.

  MR BLUNDELL: I know the torc rightly belongs to you and your sister. But now’s not the time to trouble the Captain about the torc, Sean. Gold turns a good man rotten.

  SEAN: I don’t know if I follow your meaning.

  MR BLUNDELL: You’re a bright lad. You’re ahead of the tide.

  SEAN: (Penny dropping.) Mr Blundell: we have had that torc for over one thousand years. I’ll not be the O’Brien who loses it.

  MR BLUNDELL: Take my advice: you keep out of the Captain’s eye-reach. He can be a monster when he’s roused.

  SEAN: The Captain?

  MR BLUNDELL: It’s this ship, this damned, rotten hulk of a ship and its rotten trade. It can twist your soul.

  And this segues back to…

  * * *

  Below decks. DONNELLY and ANNIE and SEAN are having a fiddle/dance lesson.

  ANNIE: It’s all my fault, Sean. Mother said to keep it hidden – and I plain forgot.

  DONNELLY: Whatever it is you have lost, you must get it back. ’Tis too precious a thing for you to lose.

  ANNIE: We didn’t lose it; the Captain took it.

  DONNELLY: And the Captain is a rogue.

  ANNIE and SEAN look at each other, bruised.

  He’ll have it under lock and key.

  SEAN: So how will we get it back?

  ANNIE: Steal the key!

  DONNELLY: No. Too dangerous.

  ANNIE: Then it’s hopeless.

  DONNELLY: You cannot go in there and knock the Captain over the head and pinch his key, can you now?

  ANNIE: Can’t we?

  DONNELLY: And even if you did manage to pick the lock, where would you hide it once you’d retrieved it? Mr Blundell would know who’s taken it and then it’ll be worse than scrubbing decks you’ll be doing, Sean.

  SEAN: So what do we do?

  DONNELLY: Nothing.

  SEAN: Nothing?

  DONNELLY: The safest place to leave it for the moment is with the Captain. It can’t walk away all by itself, can it now? Whatever it is that he’s got of yours.

  And he plays the fiddle, which segues into…

  * * *

  The CAPTAIN’s cabin. A chest is open with the lock hacked off. MR BLUNDELL has SEAN by the collar while the CAPTAIN rants.

  CAPTAIN: You, boy: I’ll rope’s-end you till you drop, you tinkering thief! Where have you hidden it?

  SEAN: Hidden what?

  CAPTAIN: Don’t give me your feigned air of puzzlement, boy! Where have you hidden the necklet?

  SEAN: Necklet?

  CAPTAIN: Necklet, necklace – the gold, you tinker!

  SEAN: I am not a tinker!

  CAPTAIN: A wild Irish tinker that needs taming! I’ve yet to meet an Irishman who has not the morals of a rat. Now, hand it over!

  SEAN: (Enraged.) The torc is ours! It belongs to our family. The O’Briens have had it for hundreds of years.

  CAPTAIN: Which is why you have stolen it from me!

  SEAN: I did not steal it!

  CAPTAIN: You people. You have such minds, such imaginings. You are the bottom of the pile, the sweepings of the world, and yet you seem to believe that everyone else around you is a fool. I am not a fool, tinker boy. You came on board my ship barefoot, dressed in nothing but rags, and you claim the fine gold necklet that your scruffy sister was wearing was your own?! I will have you thrown in irons, I will clap you in chains.

  SEAN: No. No!

  CAPTAIN: Give me the necklet and I’ll spare you the irons.

  MR BLUNDELL: Do as the Captain says.

  SEAN looks at MR BLUNDELL ganging up on him.

  SEAN: (To the CAPTAIN.) I’ve done nothing, sir!

  CAPTAIN: Then we will have to beat it out of you. Mr Blundell.

  MR BLUNDELL: Captain Murray: if we flog him, sir, it might set the other passengers into revolt. Better to send him up the crow’s nest. A night aloft in this ocean will change his mind: the freezing wind will loosen his tongue.

  The CAPTAIN hesitates. SEAN is devastated at this betrayal by MR BLUNDELL.

  CAPTAIN: He doesn’t come down until he confesses.

  MR BLUNDELL grabs SEAN by the scruff of the neck and manhandles him to the rigging. Nonetheless he speaks gently to SEAN.

  MR BLUNDELL: You’ll be all right. It’s better than a flogging or a week in chains. Just don’t look down; and see that you have a good grip with both your hands before you move your legs.

  SEAN: But where’s the torc? Have you stolen it?

  MR BLUNDELL: Take this – (He hands him a small flask.) – it’ll keep the cold out.

  SEAN climbs aloft into the night sky. The mast swings sickeningly – he slips, but manages to pull himself into the holed water barrel that is the precarious crow’s nest. He drinks a tot of the liquid – and spits it out. Rum. He takes another sip, swallows, winces – and then smiles as it puts fire in his belly. He sings the songs DONNELLY has taught him, to keep his spirits up.

  * * *

  Time passes and dawn breaks, golden and crimson on the horizon. SEAN peers ahead – and then his mouth drops and his excitement explodes.

  SEAN: (Bellowing.) Land! I see land! I see America!

  ALL clamber on deck below, the CAPTAIN spies the land through his telescope.

  CAPTAIN: I have it! A perfect landfall.

  SEAN then sees a darkening cloud on the horizon.

  SEAN: Storm-cloud! I see a storm brewing!

  CAPTAIN: What do you mean, boy? The sky is beautiful.

  MR BLUNDELL: The sky over there may look pretty, but it’s as vicious a sky as I’ve ever seen. It won’t be long before the storm hits us – we’ll need the boy down here to man the pumps.

  The CAPTAIN hesitates.

  CAPTAIN: You’re not to leave him out of your sight.

  MR BLUNDELL: Ay, ay, Captain.

  The storm brews.

  (Bellowing, to SEAN.) Descend the mast! Descend the mast! (To the crew.) Haul in the mainsail! Batten down all hatches! We may have America in sight, but there’ll be one hell of a storm before we reach her!

  But there’s a sudden lull and stillness – they all pause in the momentary calm before the storm.

  It’s on its way. Won’t be long now.

  And sure enough, the storm hits and all hell breaks loose – SEAN struggles as he makes the perilous descent from the crow’s nest. The top-mast comes down with a yawning crash. As SEAN reaches the deck, MR BLUNDELL cries out to him.

  Go to your sister! We shall go on the rocks. When she strikes, stay below until she settles.

  SEAN: Below decks? We’ll drown!

  MR BLUNDELL: You’ll never survive if you’re thrown overboard into the sea. Get below and stay there!

  SEAN does as he’s told. Pandemonium below decks. ANNIE comes running to him.

  ANNIE: Sean! Sean! Where is it? Where’s the torc?

  DONNELLY comes running too.

  DONNELLY: Here. Take my fiddle. If anything should happen to me, you’re to have it.

  SEAN: But what about the torc? Mr Blundell has betrayed us.

  DONNELLY: The torc is your talisman. It will keep you safe.

  And he runs out on deck, leaving them with the fiddle case.

  ANNIE: Quick, Sean. Let’s follow!

  SEAN: No, Mr Blundell said to wait below decks.

  ANNIE: What?!

  SEAN: It’s our only chance.

  ANNIE: And you trust him?

  There’s an
other crash from above.

  SEAN: They’ve no hope up there. No hope at all. All storms must end sometime. If the ship doesn’t break up, we’ll have a chance.

  And there’s an almighty climax where it sounds as if the ship has indeed broken up catastrophically –

  Blackout.

  Pause.

  * * *

  Calm after the storm.

  The lights rise. SEAN and ANNIE wade through the flotsam of death to the shore, clutching DONNELLY’s fiddle case.

  SEAN: Mr Blundell! Fiddler Donnelly?

  Only the gulls reply.

  ANNIE: Is this ’Merica? Do you think it’s really ’Merica?

  SEAN: ’Spose it must be.

  ANNIE: Are we alone?

  SEAN looks around him.

  SEAN: Yes.

  ANNIE: Why do we always leave everyone behind? Why does everyone we love have to leave us?

  SEAN: Donnelly left us his fiddle. Said we should play it and dance to it – and we will. And whenever we do, we shall remember him.

  He opens the case and takes out the fiddle. It rattles. He shakes it: it rattles some more. He looks inside the fiddle.

  ANNIE: What is it Sean?

  SEAN: ’Tis the torc. ’Tis the golden torc. The two of them hid it for us, Annie: Mr Blundell and Fiddler Donnelly.

  ANNIE: And we’ll never be able to thank them.

  They let this thought sink in.

  I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.

  SEAN: Then let’s find one!

  They walk along the beach.

  ANNIE: ’Merica is quite different from Ireland.

  SEAN: Do you think?

  ANNIE: Well look: more trees grow here than I’ve ever seen in my life. And they’re all great tall trees – not bent and stunted by the wind like back home. And the leaves shine scarlet and gold.

  Some of the leaves fall like snowflakes around them.

  Beautiful.

  They hear a rustling in the leaves.

  Listen. Did you hear that?

  The rustling gets louder.

  SEAN: (To the rustling.) It’s only us: Sean and Annie O’Brien! Who’s there?

  More rustling.

  We’re from the ship. Who are you?

  And a PIG lets out an almighty squeal which frightens the living daylights out of SEAN and ANNIE before it goes grunting off.

  ANNIE: (Laughing.) ’Tis a pig, a ’Merican pig! And you were so scared!

  SEAN: Wasn’t.

  ANNIE: Yes you was.

  SEAN: So were you. Let’s follow it.

  ANNIE: Why?

  SEAN: Because if it’s anything like an Irish pig, its nose will be taking it home. And its home will be a farm. And a farm will have food. And people.

  * * *

  They follow it and come to a village – where dogs yap at them.

  ANNIE: How do we know they’ll be friendly?

  SEAN: We don’t.

  The hiss of geese and cackle of hens scattering. And then a group of VILLAGERS approach, one holding a gun. Both sides keep a wary distance.

  ANNIE: Is this Boston, ’Merica?

  A VILLAGER sniggers.

  (Raising her voice and ar-ti-cu-la-ting slow-ly to foreigners) We Are Loo-king For Bos-ton, ’Me-ri-ca…

  The VILLAGERS all laugh.

  VILLAGER: Hell no! This ain’t Boston! Boston’s a mite bigger’n this.

  The VILLAGERS laugh again.

  VILLAGER: You gone and got yourself lost in them woods, I guess. Why, you ain’t more’n little children!

  ANNIE: We’re not little…

  VILLAGER: What’s your ma and pa doing lettin’ you run wild out in them woods? Where you from anyhow? You ain’t from hereabouts.

  SEAN: We come from Ireland. And the ship we were on went on the rocks in the storm.

  The smiles vanish – the gun is raised.

  VILLAGER: Ireland? You on one of them migrant ships?

  SEAN: Yes.

  VILLAGER: Did you have the sickness on board?

  ANNIE: The malady of the sea, some of them had.

  VILLAGER: I knew it! A plague ship. You keep your distance, do you hear? Don’t come any closer.

  The gun is cocked.

  SEAN: What’s the matter? Why are you looking at us like that?

  VILLAGER: ’Cos you got the plague, that’s why. Git back, else I’ll shoot. And that’s a promise.

  SEAN: But we need food. And water. Won’t you give us some water?

  VILLAGER: You got any kin-folk, any family?

  ANNIE: Of course we have! We’ve come to ’Merica to look for our father. Perhaps you know him? Patrick O’Brien’s his name. Big fellow.

  The VILLAGERS chuckle again.

  SEAN: Can you tell us how far it is to Boston?

  VILLAGER: Fifteen miles – twelve if you keep to the coast road.

  The VILLAGERS confer in whispers.

  ANNIE: Hey, what are you all whispering about?

  VILLAGER: We’re thinking it wouldn’t be right for us to have you walking all the way to Boston on an empty stomach, not with night coming on and winter in the air.

  SEAN: No.

  VILLAGER: So here’s what we’re gonna do: we’ll bring you what you need, and you kin go in with the fish wagon into Boston.

  SEAN: That’s very kind.

  VILLAGER: Hell, yes! (To themselves.) Though you ain’t smelled the fish wagon… (To ANNIE/SEAN.) Follow me.

  * * *

  They do, at a distance. The VILLAGERS bring a fresh set of clothes and two pairs of boots. Music plays under the following.

  ANNIE and SEAN change into the clothes.

  ANNIE: They’re too big!

  SEAN: But no holes. And they’re warm. And dry.

  ANNIE: How do you get these boots on? I don’t think I’ve ever worn a pair of boots in my life.

  SEAN: You squeeze ’em on with an oomph – and then stamp around. Just like Father.

  They do so.

  ANNIE: Sean, Sean, I feel like dancing!

  SEAN gets out the fiddle and plays a jig, which ANNIE dances, lifting her new woollen skirt above her boots as she does so. The VILLAGERS gather.

  VILLAGER: Where’s you learn to play and dance like that?

  ANNIE: We had a friend. He taught us. But he’s dead now, so we’ll be playing and dancing for him from now on.

  VILLAGER: You take good care in Boston. ’S’a wicked town for young folk like you to be ’lone in.

  VILLAGER: Good luck little people. Safe journey.

  And they leap up onto the cart – driven by MARTY.

  MARTY: You sits on the back thar and I’ll not catch the plague – though judgin’ by the way you dancin’ little lady, if you have got the plague then I’d like it too!

  ANNIE: Your wagon’s a bit smelly.

  MARTY: Aw, there are worse smells than fresh fish.

  He chews tobacco and spits impressively.

  SEAN: How do you do that?

  MARTY: Thar’s an art to it. Why, I kin knock a hairy-legged buzzard clean off his post at fifty paces. Don’t kill him of course, but he hears it a-coming and he knows it’s one of mine so he don’t wait around, no sir.

  ANNIE: Can I have a go?

  SEAN: Annie!

  MARTY: Why surely, ma’am. Chew on this leathery baccy until your jaw aches – then use your tongue like a catapult.

  She does – spectacularly.

  SEAN: How did you…?

  ANNIE: Away she goes!

  They spit their way to Boston.

  * * *

  Boston: a teeming city of refugees. Cold and grey and snowing.

  SEAN: ‘A Paradise aplenty where the sun’s always shining…’? – not in Boston, not in winter.

  ANNIE: Have you ever seen so many people? Sure ’tis teeming like an anthill.

  MARTY: Well good luck. Here’s half a dollar. And mind whom you talk to.

  And he rides off.

  ANNIE: How will we ever find Father?

  BOSTON
CHANCER: (Smiling broadly.) Have you just got in from the Old Country?

  The CHILDREN nod.

  And I suppose you’ll be looking for somewhere to sleep? (Not waiting for an answer.) Well you’ve met the right fellow. I’ve a little attic room, just suit you fine. Two dollars a week – ain’t that a bargain?

  ANNIE: But we’ve only half a dollar.

  SEAN looks daggers at ANNIE.

  BOSTON CHANCER: All right, I’m a fair man. You’re down on your luck, I can see that. A dollar and a half, how will that be?

  SEAN: We’re not looking for somewhere to stay, Mister.

  BOSTON CHANCER: In this winter? You’re kidding me! Now what about that fiddle? It must be worth a fair bit. I’ll take it off you and you have the room for free for a fortnight.

  SEAN: (Gripping the case tightly to him.) ’Tis not mine to sell.

  BOSTON CHANCER: (Advancing.) Then I’ll just borrow it for a while.

  A tall BLACK MAN appears.

  BLACK MAN: (To BOSTON CHANCER.) You after somethin’ friend?

  The BOSTON CHANCER weighs up the situation.

  ’Cos if you are, you gotta remember that these is my friends, an’ if they don’t like you then I don’t either. Get my meanin’, friend?

  The BOSTON CHANCER scarpers.

  Now you two is gonna get into all kinds of trouble. I’s can see I’s gonna have to keep my eye on you two.

  ANNIE: But how do we know you are our friend?

  BLACK MAN: Am I bein’ unfriendly? Hope that fiddle of yours ain’t broke, boy.

  SEAN opens the fiddle case, rattles the fiddle.

  SEAN: Nothing broken.

  BLACK MAN: You sure, boy? It rattles some, somethin’ loose inside maybe?

  SEAN: (Slamming shut the lid of the case.) No.

  BLACK MAN: That there is a fine fiddle.

  ANNIE: I’m Annie, and my brother’s called Sean. We are O’Briens.

  BLACK MAN/LIL’ LUKE: An’ I’m Lil’ Luke, Miss Annie. My privilege, my privilege.

  He raises his hat.

  ANNIE: Why are you called Little Luke? You’re not little, you’re big. We had a brother called Little Joe. But he was little – the littlest.

  LIL’ LUKE: I was lil’ when I was born, an’ that’s when my mammy first knew me, so I guess that’s why she called me Lil’ Luke, an’ it’s kinda stuck.

  ANNIE: You speak very good English.

  LIL’ LUKE: I been speakin’ it all my life, lil’ missy.