Stage Tragedies
The full texts of all these stage plays can be found below. They are mostly designed for small touring and amateur casts, with minimal sets. Full FX and soundtracks can be provided. For performance rights: mail@jclamb.com.
And both in English and Spanish
Tragedy
THE DRAMA OF THE RIVER PLATE
A 60-minute stage play with no set, for three male actors and one female voice, about the last days of the heroic captain of the Graf Spee.
THE FEATHER PILLOW
An 80-minute multi-media account of the sinister life and stories of South America’s most famous horror story writer, Horacio Quiroga, for four or more actors. Not for children.
QUINTIN’S HILL
A 40-minute play for three male voices about the UK’s worst train crash, on the Scottish borders at dawn in May 1915.
THREE TRAGEDIES
The dockside crowd on the evening of Sunday 19 December 1939, as the Graf Spee left Montevideo harbour under the guns of British warships. Click here to hear Imelda Staunton tell Minna Morton’s 80-second eyewitness account of what happened next.
THE DRAMA OF THE RIVER PLATE (‘EL DRAMA DEL GRAF SPEE’)
This play came about because its author offered guided tours of Montevideo in the 2000s, based on local heroes: beginning with the Charrua natives, who had died out by the mid 19th century, and ending with Sir Eugen Millington Drake, British envoy in 1939 at the time of the Battle of the River Plate. Visitors always seemed most interested in the story of the Graf Spee, and since there had only been a less-than-accurate film about the battle by Powell and Pressburger in the 1950s, a stage play felt appropriate. The last few days of Hans Langsdorff’s life were so dramatic, so much the stuff of tragedy, that they seemed to demand a theatrical version respecting both historical fact and personal courage. Auditions were held in London, and a cast came out to rehearse and stage the play in 2009 as the first tour by professional British actors in a sponsored scheme called ActorstoUruguay. The English script used a voiceover kindly provided by Imelda Staunton, based on the first-hand account of an elderly lady, a great friend of the author’s by the name of Minna Morton, who had been among the throng on the dockside as Langsdorff took his stricken battleship out of Montevideo on that fateful Sunday evening. The throng pictured here were actually in the line of fire between the Graf Spee and the waiting British warships: they had no more idea of what was going to happen than did Sir Eugen himself, watching from a friend’s apartment high above them. The foreboding keyboard music composed and played by the author as ‘Isla de Lobos’ (an island near where the battle began), was used for all performances of the play. It can be found in the Music and Voice section of this website, along with a version orchestrated by Santiago Gutierrez, which might one day make a soundtrack for a moving film. The stage play ran for several years on and off, in English and in Spanish thanks to the translation skills of actor Jack Sprigings, and there were various changes of cast, in most of which the author had the honour of representing Käpitan zur See Hans Wilhelm Langsdorff, a true hero and an admirable man.
From the original programme:
THE DRAMA OF THE RIVER PLATE
A play for three or more actors
by
Jonathan Lamb
RUNNING TIME APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR
Cast
1) PAPA / JUDGE / LECTURER / CAPTAIN / / LANGMANN / WATTENBERG
2) EDDIE / MIKE FOWLER / COUNSEL / HENRY HARWOOD / OFFICER / NIEBUHR / ASCHER
3) LANGSDORFF
4) SIR EUGEN MILLINGTON-DRAKE (can also be played by Judge)
In voiceover: Elderly lady, clerk, mother, boy, Admiralty
Set
Bare stage, preferably ramped, on which there are:
- Judge’s high desk and high-backed chair, upstage centre
- Counsel’s table and chair, downstage left
- Defendant’s dock, downstage right
If necessary these can be represented by three standard two-person tables, about 60cm by 120cm, as found in classrooms and canteens. One is placed on its end with the tabletop facing downstage (Judge’s desk); one stands normally at right angles to the audience (Counsel’s table); and one is placed on its side with the tabletop facing centre stage (defendant’s dock). Three lengths of strong black cloth, 70 cms by 300 cms, can be used to hide the table legs. The Judge can sit on a tall bar stool but it helps if his seat has a high back. Both desk and seat can also be on a dais, if one is available.
SCENE 1 (SEAFRONT, MONTEVIDEO)
[TRACK 1]
(DARKNESS. MUSIC, Isla de Lobos, © J C Lamb 2009. LIGHTS UP SLOWLY. OCEAN SOUNDS, CROWD, SNATCH OF TANGO MUSIC ON ACCORDION, VOICE OFF)
ELDERLY LADY: It was a Sunday evening. The weather was warm. Peñarol and Nacional were playing, but everyone was down at the seafront. There must have been two hundred thousand of us. This was right at the start of the war, you see.
(SHIP’S HORN GIVES ONE LOUD BLAST)
The Graf Spee had been in a battle at sea four days before and the German captain had had to bring her in to Montevideo. The British ships were waiting in the River Plate, to get her when she came out.
(SHIP’S HORN GIVES TWO BLASTS. ENTER EDDIE AND PAPA, RIGHT)
[END TRACK 1]
EDDIE: (TRYING TO GET THROUGH CROWD) Con permiso…excuse me, please…
PAPA: Wait for me!
WOMAN’S VOICE: (OFF RIGHT) Try and get near the tannoy, Eddie. They’ve got that American on the wireless.
EDDIE: Come on, Papa. (TO WOMAN, OFF) He’s not up to it, Mama. We should get him home.
PAPA: I’m fine, Eddie.
(PAPA SUPPORTS HIMSELF ON JUDGE’S DESK, UPSTAGE CENTRE. EDDIE HELPS HIM ONTO TALL CHAIR, FACING UPSTAGE. ENTER AMERICAN RADIO COMMENTATOR, RIGHT)
COMMENTATOR: …This is NBC news coming to you from Montevideo on a sunny evening as the drama of the Graf Spee reaches its climax and the world holds its breath. Here at the dockside thousands of Uruguayan onlookers are asking the same question: will he make a run for it? Or will he turn and fight? Stay by your set, folks, for thanks to the BBC and American broadcasting networks, you’ve got a seat in the front row. The latest news is that with only moments to go before the deadline, the Graf Spee is leaving her berth and moving towards the harbour entrance.
[TRACK 2]
ELDERLY LADY: The Uruguayans had told the German captain he had to leave Montevideo by the Sunday evening. So I went down with Papa and Mama and my brother Eddie. We were in the crowd on the breakwater, with some other Anglo-Uruguayans. You had to struggle to get a good view.
(SOUND OF CROWD CHEERING)
FOWLER: And a cheer goes up from the watching masses as the ship leaves harbour. Her battle ensign is proudly flying. They’ve patched up the hole on the side but the damage on the hull is still visible…slowly she moves out towards the sunset and the powerful fleet of warships who are waiting to seal her fate.
[END TRACK 2]
PAPA: There she goes! She’s turning to starboard. The British aren’t over that way. Why is she turning to starboard? (AGITATED, GETS OFF CHAIR AND EXITS UPSTAGE LEFT WITH EDDIE)
[TRACK 3]
ELDERLY LADY: Papa wasn’t very well, but he had been an officer in the Royal Navy so he was very interested in what the Graf Spee did when she came out of port. After a while Mama tried to lead him out of the crowd. She said, “Come on dear, that’s it. Let’s go, there’s no more to see and it’s getting cold.” He said, “Just a moment,” and he took his hand off her arm. He said, “I’m going to use the seaman’s curse”. And he lifted up his hand with the index finger and little finger stuck out, and he pointed them at the ship. “Cruz diablo, cruz diablo,” he said, “May the devil blast ye black!” And at that very moment –
(ENORMOUS EXPLOSION, DISTANT)
– there was a huge explosion and the ship blew up. We couldn’t believe it. We just stood there staring at the flames and the smoke. The first one to speak was Mama. She said, “Now look what you’ve done!’
[END TRACK 3]
SCENE 2 (COURTROOM OF HISTORY)
(ENTER JUDGE, UPSTAGE RIGHT. SITS AT DESK FACING AUDIENCE. RAPS GAVEL)
JUDGE: Silence in court. This is a trial by history. The case before us involves the Battle of the River Plate, on 13 December 1939, and subsequent events in the cities of Montevideo and Buenos Aires. As history, I shall be the judge and jury. The court is now in session.
(ENTER COUNSEL, DOWNSTAGE LEFT)
COUNSEL: My Lord, the defendant in this case is Kapitän zur See Hans Wilhelm Langsdorff, Captain of the German warship Graf Spee. As witnesses I shall be calling Commodore Henry Harwood of the Royal Navy, who commanded the British ships in the battle, and Sir Eugen Millington-Drake, the British Envoy to Montevideo. All three men were around 50. One would live until he was 83. Another would survive only five years after the Second World War. And the third would be dead within a week. Call Hans Langsdorff.
CLERK: Call Hans Langsdorff.
(ENTER LANGSDORFF, IN WHITE NAVAL UNIFORM, CAP UNDER ARM)
JUDGE: Hans Wilhelm Langsdorff, you are charged that on the 13th of December 1939, off the coast of Uruguay, you did knowingly and despite orders to the contrary engage His Majesty’s ships Exeter, Ajax and Achilles, sustaining damage to your vessel; secondly, that your tactics during and after that engagement were ill-judged; and thirdly, that you should have gone down with your ship. How do you plead?
LANGSDORFF: Not guilty.
JUDGE: Thank you. Counsel?
COUNSEL: Captain Langsdorff, I would be grateful if you could give the Court a brief account of the circumstances that led you to assume command of the Graf Spee in October 1938.
LANGSDORFF: Do you wish to know about my early life?
COUNSEL: If you please, in brief.
LANGSDORFF: I was born in 1894. I grew up in Dusseldorf where my father was a judge. We were a strong Lutheran family. We lived near the estate of Count Maximilian von Spee, who was a vice admiral.
SCENE 3 (DUSSELDORF, c 1900)
(LIGHTS FADE SLOWLY. WE HEAR CROWS, HORSES’ HOOVES, CARRIAGE WHEELS ON GRAVEL, TWO VOICES)
BOY: Mama, mama, it’s them!
MOTHER: Shush dear.
BOY: Look at that carriage. The boys are in sailor suits.
MOTHER: Come along now, it’s rude to stare.
BOY: Graf von Spee’s an admirable, mama. Can I be an admirable too?
MOTHER: An admiral, dear. Don’t you want to be a pastor like your grandfathers?
BOY: I want to be an admiral. I want to join the navy. Papa says both Graf von Spee’s sons will join the navy. Can I join the navy, mama, please?
MOTHER: We’ll see. If you do your homework. Now come along, it’s time for prayers. (EXEUNT)
SCENE 4 (COURTROOM)
LANGSDORFF: Admiral von Spee’s sons joined the navy and I did the same. Von Spee and both his sons died in the South Atlantic. I fought with the Grand Fleet at Jutland. There were many dead. The memories troubled me, but I was given an Iron Cross.
COUNSEL: So you were in the thick of the action?
LANGSDORFF: The thick?
COUNSEL: The middle, the most dangerous part.
LANGSDORFF: Yes.
COUNSEL: Do you feel that experience marked you in later years?
LANGSDORFF: It made me wish to avoid unnecessary loss of life, yes.
COUNSEL: Please go on.
LANGSDORFF: I did minesweeping after the war, married and had two sons.
COUNSEL: What happened to them?
(LANGSDORFF IS SILENT)
JUDGE: The older one died in 1944. In a midget submarine attack.
COUNSEL: And your younger son?
LANGSDORFF: Kläuschen was diabetic. He died in 1936, when he was seven.
COUNSEL: Please proceed.
LANGSDORFF: I became a torpedo boat commander and then a liaison officer for the Navy. I was made adjutant to the Minister of Defence and then Chief of Staff to the Commander-in-Chief.
COUNSEL: Most impressive. These were highly political posts, were they not?
LANGSDORFF: Too political for me. In 1934 I asked to return to sea duty.
COUNSEL: Would you describe yourself at that time as a committed supporter of National Socialism?
LANGSDORFF: I wished to serve my country.
COUNSEL: Did you wish to serve Hitler?
LANGSDORFF: I wished Hitler to serve my country.
JUDGE: You shared the same birthday.
LANGSDORFF: So did others, no doubt.
COUNSEL: Was your allegiance to Hitler, or was it to Admiral Raeder, who had got you back to sea?
(Pause)
LANGSDORFF: My allegiance was to my country.
COUNSEL: Hmm. The Graf Spee was reportedly run in a very socialist way. Were you a socialist, Captain Langsdorff?
LANGSDORFF: I was a Naval officer.
COUNSEL: Yes, but were you in touch with your times? Or were you a little idealistic?
JUDGE: Socialism. What a way to run a battleship.
LANGSDORFF: I was not an official, I was an officer. I was before all else a Christian. My task was to lead and motivate my men.
COUNSEL: Yes. You had a reputation as a leader, did you not? ‘One of the most capable German officers of his generation.’ You were a good sailor and a good leader. And you needed to be, Captain. Let us see. War is imminent. The German Navy is far smaller than the British. Even as you prepare for war, at the Royal Naval College in London, the British are considering what tactics you will have to use.
SCENE 5 (ROYAL NAVAL COLLEGE, GREENWICH)
(ENTER LECTURER)
LECTURER: Gentlemen, welcome to the Staff Course. Our lecturer today is Captain Henry Harwood, a torpedo specialist by training, but also one of the Navy’s foremost thinkers on how to deal with the threat to merchant shipping. The title of his talk is ‘Lone Raiders’. Captain Harwood. (EXIT)
(LIGHTS UP ON HARWOOD, UPSTAGE RIGHT)
HARWOOD: Good morning. I understand that you’ve been looking at the different aspects of German rearmament. You’ll be aware that the Germans have been building pocket battleships like the Graf Spee. These are powerful ships, but there are very few of them. If you were the German Navy, what would you do with these ships? Anyone?
LECTURER: (OFF) Hit and run?
HARWOOD: Exactly. You’re up against an island nation that desperately depends on shipping from overseas to keep itself armed and fed. Sink some of that merchant shipping and you can not only disrupt supplies, you can cause alarm. The alarm will slow down trade everywhere, and force your opponent to pull warships off other crucial tasks in order to guard convoys or go looking for you. You have huge expanses of ocean to hide in. You can refuel at sea. And that, gentlemen, is what the Germans will do. They will use their fast and powerful pocket battleships as lone raiders, and we will have to form hunting groups to get them. The question is, what tactics we use as hounds if we can eventually corner the fox. (LIGHTS DOWN ON HARWOOD)
SCENE 6 COURTROOM
LANGSDORFF: That was Harwood?
JUDGE: So it would seem.
LANGSDORFF: I never met him. He looks a good man.
(ENTER COUNSEL)
COUNSEL: So, Captain Langsdorff, it is 1939. You are a rising star of the German Navy. They give you a pocket battleship, and say ‘go where you want: sink trawlers and run away – for as long as you can stay alive.’ Is that a fair summary?
LANGSDORFF: Yes.
COUNSEL: How did you feel about that?
LANGSDORFF: They were my orders.
COUNSEL: Yes, but how did you feel?
LANGSDORFF: I was not proud. Of the ship, yes, my first big command. But I was not proud.
COUNSEL: Why not?
LANGSDORFF: It was not what I had been trained for.
COUNSEL: What was not?
LANGSDORFF: Sinking unarmed ships.
COUNSEL: How did your sailors feel?
LANGSDORFF: They did their duty. They were very young, like sailors in all wars. For most of them it was their first big voyage. They knew it would not be easy. There were dangers everywhere. Every ship that passes, every aeroplane, every signal you send: they can all give you away. Danger comes towards you unseen, at night, under a flat calm sea. Like a torpedo.
COUNSEL: A torpedo?
LANGSDORFF: I had trained as a torpedo officer. It makes you…alert. You know how to attack, you know when the target is most vulnerable. And then you are the target too. You have to be always on the lookout, always watching for the danger, always ready to swerve.
COUNSEL: I see. So tell us how the trip had gone.
LANGSDORFF: We left Wilhelmshaven on the 21st of August 1939. War had not yet been declared. When night fell we killed the lights and slipped out into the North Sea. Five days later we were off Newfoundland, refuelling from our supply ship, the Altmark. We could never – take landfall?
COUNSEL: Make landfall.
LANGSDORFF: We could never make landfall, we had to resupply at an arranged place in the middle of the ocean. Do you have a map?
COUNSEL: This is history, Captain, not geography.
LANGSDORFF: I see. Then this floor is the Atlantic. Over there (TABLE, LEFT) is Africa. This (DOCK, LEFT) is South America. Up there (DESK, CENTRE) is Europe. When war was declared we went south to the middle of the South Atlantic, where we met up with the Altmark again. Next day we were nearly seen by a British cruiser. We headed for Brazil and found a merchantman, British, 5,000 tons, carrying fuel. The S.S. San Clement.
SCENE 7 (CAPTAIN’S CABIN ON MERCHANT SHIP)
(SOUND OF SHIP’S ENGINE. WHISTLE OF VOICE PIPE. JUDGE AND COUNSEL DON NAVAL CAPS AND EXCHANGE PLACES)
OFFICER: (THROUGH IMAGINARY VOICE PIPE FROM JUDGE’S DESK TO COUNSEL’S) Bridge to Captain.
CAPTAIN: Captain.
OFFICER: Man-of-war sir, bearing down on us on the port bow.
CAPTAIN: That’ll be the Ajax. She’s around here somewhere. I’ll come up.
OFFICER: Can’t see who she is sir, she’s end on to us. But from the bow waves she’s closing at full speed.
CAPTAIN: I’ll put on a clean jacket. Tell Flags to run up the ensign. I’m on my way.
OFFICER: They’ve just launched a seaplane, sir.
CAPTAIN: Probably an exercise.
OFFICER: Should we show our name board?
CAPTAIN: Yes, go ahead. Oh, these damn jacket buttons.
(SOUND OF PLANE ROARING OVER. MACHINE GUN)
OFFICER: My God, it’s a Jerry. Shall I get the boats ready, sir?
CAPTAIN: Yes. Get all hands on deck and swing them out. Tell the Wireless Officer to send an SOS with our position. I’ve got to get rid of the confidential bag.
(GATHERS PAPERS. SOUND OF SHIP BEING STRAFED BY MACHINE GUN BULLETS)
OFFICER: Signal sent sir.
CAPTAIN: Good. Now maybe they’ll stop shooting. Anybody hurt?
OFFICER: Only the Chief Officer, sir. Couple of hits on the arm.
CAPTAIN: Is that all? Amazing. Okay, give the order to abandon ship. (EXIT RIGHT. OFFICER EXCHANGES CAP FOR WIG AND ROBE AND CROSSES TO COUNSEL’S DESK).
SCENE 8 (COURTROOM)
LANGSDORFF: Our seaplane machine-gunned her to stop her sending a distress signal, but they were brave men and managed to send one. We heard them do it. Then we took her men captive. When the captain was brought to me I saluted and told him I was sorry, but it was war, and I would have to sink his ship.
COUNSEL: You were sorry?
LANGSDORFF: Of course. No sailor likes to see a ship go down.
COUNSEL: What about the men in the lifeboats?
LANGSDORFF: We sent an SOS to a radio station on the Brazilian coast and asked them to come to their rescue.
COUNSEL: Wasn’t that a risk to you?
LANGSDORFF: Possibly. But when we had made sure a ship was coming we moved away.
COUNSEL: Could you not have captured that ship too?
LANGSDORFF: Certainly not. That would have been unthinkable.
COUNSEL: Then whom did you sink next?
LANGSDORFF: (SHOWING POSITIONS ON FLOOR) A ship loaded with grain, off Freetown. Then one carrying sugar.
COUNSEL: So that makes three.
LANGSDORFF: In the middle of the South Atlantic we captured a bigger ship with tea and other goods. I was hearing a lot of radio traffic on the African coast, so I thought we had been found out. We left in a hurry.
JUDGE: Can you summarize for us, Captain, the remaining five ships you sank?
LANGSDORFF: One more off Africa. Then in the Indian Ocean, a little empty petrol carrier called the Africa Shell. After that we doubled back to the South Atlantic. The Roaring Forties punished us, the seas were terrible. Off Tristan da Cunha we met the Altmark, then went back towards the African coast. There we sank two more. Next we headed west towards Brazil.
JUDGE: Why all this dodging about?
LANGSDORFF: To put the enemy on their guard. To make them come looking for us. To make them think we were more than one ship.
JUDGE: Go on.
LANGSDORFF: On 6 December we replenished from the Altmark. Next day off Rio we sank a ship carrying wheat. This was the last one. We had sunk nine ships, nearly 50,000 tons, almost as much as the great ship Emden in the First World War. Not one life was lost. I was proud that we had taken a lot of captives and we had treated them well.
JUDGE: There is some history. From your prisoners. The captain of the Africa Shell says you were most hospitable.
LANGSDORFF: Ah, Captain Dove. Captain Dove!
(ENTER DOVE)
SCENE 9 DECK OF GRAF SPEE
DOVE: Good morning, Captain Langsdorff.
LANGSDORFF: Good morning. I am glad to see they have allowed you out. Shall we take a stroll around the deck?
DOVE: I wanted to thank you for the pipe and tobacco.
LANGSDORFF: It’s a pleasure. Did the ship’s tailor find you any clothes that fitted?
DOVE: Yes, a kind of Petty Officer’s uniform.
LANGSDORFF: Good, that’ll be warmer than your white clothes when we go south.
DOVE: I had to ask him to take all the insignia off.
LANGSDORFF: (LAUGHS) What, can we not recruit you to the cause?
DOVE: No thank you. I’m most grateful for the clothes, but you can’t change the man underneath.
LANGSDORFF: Quite right too. It mystifies me why our two nations should be fighting. But Britain declared war on Germany, so I must defend my country.
DOVE: Is your heart not in it then?
LANGSDORFF: Oh yes. The Fuehrer needs me.
DOVE: But does Germany need the Fuehrer?
LANGSDORFF: Yes, I believe so.
DOVE: Hmm.
LANGSDORFF: But we are not politicians, you and I, we are men of the sea.
DOVE: May I make an observation?
LANGSDORFF: Of course.
DOVE: Your officers have treated me impeccably, but the men… I see them lounging everywhere, strolling, smoking, gossiping… like a shipboard scene in a play. It wouldn’t be allowed on one of our merchant ships, let alone the Navy.
LANGSDORFF: You are seeing them mostly at stand-easy, Captain. Discipline is tight when it needs to be. Anyway, what do you expect. Bakers’ boys and soldiers. They are good men, but they are very young. I feel like a father to them. And to my officers. It is a lonely business, being in command. (WHISTLE BLOWS) You have to go below now: I shall look forward to our next conversation.
DOVE: So shall I.
LANGSDORFF: Goodbye until then. If you need books, just let me know.
(EXIT DOVE)
SCENE 10 COURTROOM
JUDGE: He seems to have liked you, Captain Langsdorff.
LANGSDORFF: I enjoyed talking with Dove. He was a fellow sailor. He certainly had more experience of the Roaring Forties than we had.
JUDGE: He was astonished how candid you were with him. You talked about your ship. You told him what your plans were. You let one of his British colleagues leave the Graf Spee, despite the risk that he might fall into Allied hands and tell them what he had seen. This you made him promise not to do, saying “I know that the British naval authorities will not ask you to break your word”. Were you serious?
LANGSDORFF: Of course. We were led to believe that the British were men of honour.
JUDGE: Extraordinary.
(ENTER COUNSEL)
COUNSEL: So, Captain Langsdorff, you switched from one side of the South Atlantic to the other. Why did you head for the River Plate?
LANGSDORFF: Papers. We had seized papers on the last ship that told us about all the shipping there.
COUNSEL: What papers? Confidential papers?
LANGSDORFF: Newspapers. The Buenos Aires Herald.
COUNSEL: The Buenos Aires Herald. Could your Embassy in Buenos Aires not have reported this by telegram?
LANGSDORFF: No doubt they did. If so I did not see the telegram.
COUNSEL: Why not?
LANGSDORFF: I have no idea. Because the Navy and the Foreign Ministry distrusted each other. Because everybody in Berlin was working for a different hierarchy. Because someone did not think. Or because someone did.
COUNSEL: I see. So you headed for the mouth of the Plate, staying close to the Brazilian coast in the hope of meeting more merchant ships?
LANGSDORFF: Yes.
COUNSEL: Why did you do this, Captain Langsdorff? You were a lone raider far from home. You knew it was dangerous to go near a coast. Your orders were to keep to the ocean wastes and avoid enemy warships. You knew the dangers of engaging them, because you were able to intercept their signals from the Admiralty in London.
(SOUND OF MORSE CODE BEING TAPPED OUT)
ADMIRALTY: (VOICEOVER) ‘Hunting groups must be cautious of being lured away from areas where trade is thick, because the raiders must come to these areas to do serious damage. It is also to be remembered that raiders are vitally dependent on their mobility, being so far from repair facilities. Hence a weaker force, if not able to effect immediate destruction may, by resolute attack, be able to cripple an opponent sufficiently to ensure a certain subsequent location and destruction by other force.’
COUNSEL: And, Captain Langsdorff, you were under particularly clear instructions to avoid zones where merchant shipping was likely to congregate. Yet that is precisely where you were headed, knowing that the British cruisers Ajax, Achilles, Exeter and Cumberland were in the area. Why?
LANGSDORFF: We had seen so little shipping that I felt we were unlikely to meet them. I wanted it to look as though I was going south round Cape Horn into the Pacific.
COUNSEL: But then, by bad luck, you did meet them. You met one of their hunting groups. As it turned out this was the weakest of their hunting groups, but it was commanded by the Staff Course lecturer on tactics in dealing with lone raiders, Captain – now Commodore – Henry Harwood.
LANGSDORFF: How fortunate for it.
COUNSEL: I beg your pardon?
LANGSDORFF: How fortunate. The irony of fate, seen with the wisdom of hindsight. ‘Little did you know, Captain Langsdorff’. Yes, it is true, little did I know. Little do we all know, my learned friend, until the history books are written. And maybe even afterwards. But please, carry on with your questions.
COUNSEL: Ah. Well. Indeed, you don’t know this, Captain Langsdorff, as we come up to dawn on the morning of the battle. You know that the Graf Spee’s cruise will soon be over, if you can get home again, and you’re thinking about – what? Your ship? Your record?
LANGSDORFF: Not my record. One Iron Cross is enough. I was concerned for my vessel, and my crew.
COUNSEL: Why your crew?
LANGSDORFF: They were young sailors doing a lonely job, an ignoble job, far from home. Every problem that developed on that ship made it more necessary to make them believe they would soon return home with honour.
COUNSEL: Every problem?
LANGSDORFF: There were…problems.
COUNSEL: Human or technical?
LANGSDORFF: Technical. She was a great ship, please do not mistake me. I was proud to be at her command. But there were problems. Problems with the engines, the fuel supply, the aeroplane, the radar… And problems with the design of the guns, the armour and the ship. She made too much smoke and she wallowed like a pig in heavy seas. The vibration from the engines was tearing her apart.
COUNSEL: One imagines that all these problems would affect morale.
(LANGSDORFF IS SILENT)
JUDGE: I think we must assume that morale was as good as it could be. Until proven otherwise.
COUNSEL: Did you love your men, Captain? (SILENCE. LANGSDORFF BOWS HIS HEAD) I think you did. You had been through it yourself in the First World War. You knew how they felt. You tried to keep them informed. You ate the same food as them. You had written a review of the situation two weeks before, had you not?
LANGSDORFF: Yes, I had.
COUNSEL: And in this review, you recorded that the Graf Spee was fully armed and had enough fuel to stay at sea for three months, but that a dockyard overhaul was needed.
LANGSDORFF: That is correct. An overhaul had already been foreseen for January 1940.
COUNSEL: What else did you say in this review, Captain Langsdorff?
LANGSDORFF: That we should continue to cause damage and disruption to enemy shipping for as long as possible before returning home.
COUNSEL: You were aware of your instructions to avoid engaging in battle?
LANGSDORFF: I was aware of those instructions, yes.
COUNSEL: Yet you say in your review that because the period of commerce raiding was nearing an end, and you would soon have to return home, the necessity for avoiding action damage was no longer so pressing. You were confident, were you not? Or were you proud?
LANGSDORFF: I was proud because we had sunk fifty thousand tons of shipping. I was proud because the British had so many more ships than us, and we had evaded them. I was proud of my men. I wanted …
COUNSEL: Yes? What did you want?
(LIGHTS CLOSE IN ON LANGSDORFF. SOUND OF SHIP’S ENGINE, NAVAL BATTLE, UP PROGRESSIVELY)
LANGSDORFF: I wanted a victory for them that they could be proud of. I wanted something they could take home to tell their children and their grandchildren. They were brave men, they wanted to fight. The navy’s not like the army, you live with your men, you face the same dangers. You come to love them, you want them to do well. They were good men. But they were tired, they had been for months at sea, far from home, always out of sight of land… The sea, the sea, the endless South Atlantic sea: days on end without finding a single target, meeting the Altmark at night on some furtive square of ocean, refuelling, resupplying, arming with shells that would never be used in a proper battle… Always running, always hiding, hiding in the cold grey sea. And then suddenly, on that morning, just before dawn, Captain, Captain, bridge to Captain, two masts fine on the starboard bow, no, four masts, no, no, six masts, seventeen miles and closing… Someone gives you binoculars, you say ‘Maintain course and speed, action stations’, the alarm sounds, everyone starts running, doors clang shut, hatches slam… You’re on the flying bridge, it’s 6 am, four minutes after sunrise, you’re looking, you’re straining to see, someone says they’ve identified the one on the right, she’s the British cruiser Exeter… You think, six eight inch guns, you look at the others, low-lying superstructure, two destroyers, you think, screening the cruiser from U-boats. The ship powers forward, everyone’s on the bridge, they’re waiting for you to speak, you keep staring, it’s a convoy, you think, we’ll attack immediately and close to finish her off, then we’ll have the destroyers and the convoy too. Full speed ahead, you say, the ship surges, the battle ensigns are run up, howling in the wind… Then you hear they’re not destroyers, they’re cruisers, Ajax Class cruisers – bigger, more dangerous ships. Eight 6 inch guns and a speed of 32 knots. You’re racing closer, half a mile a minute, one lucky hit from them and nowhere to repair… They’re faster than you, you’ll never shake them off, it’s 15 hours to darkness… So you give new orders, you change course for a running fight to starboard, at 12 miles you open fire with the main battery at the Exeter, your ears are buffeted by the huge sound of the 11-inch guns. But you can’t divide your fire, they take so long to reload, that’s it, they’re falling short, we’ve got her, we’ve got her, turn one of the turrets on the Ajax, the Exeter’s shooting at us, change course to the north, keep away, we can’t get damaged, she’s still shooting, turn both the turrets on the Exeter again. She’s had it, look at the smoke, leave her, deal with the others. This is it, we’re in battle, it’s happening, they’re all shooting now, we’ve been hit, we’ve been hit, Gott in Himmel I’m wounded!
(EXPLOSION. EXIT LANGSDORFF. JUDGE BANGS GAVEL.)
JUDGE: Order, order. Call the first witness. Commodore Henry Harwood.
CLERK: Call Henry Harwood.
(ENTER HARWOOD)
JUDGE: You are Henry Harwood, commonly known as ‘Bobby’?
HARWOOD: I was, yes.
JUDGE: (READS) ‘Bobby Harwood was a genuinely charming and modest man. He loved shooting, fishing, golf and gardening.’ Fishing, eh? Coarse or fly?
HARWOOD: Fly, mostly.
JUDGE: Hmm. Pity. What was your golf handicap?
HARWOOD: Six, my lord.
JUDGE: Six! Good grief. So you were commanding the group of warships that engaged the Graf Spee on Wednesday 13 December 1939?
HARWOOD: She engaged us.
JUDGE: Can you tell the court what happened?
HARWOOD: Well, I was down below. Six in the morning. We’d been joined up as a hunting group only on and off, and were still exercising. The Cumberland was in dock for a refit. This left the Ajax, Achilles and Exeter.
JUDGE: What were you exercising?
HARWOOD: How to split up so as to attack a lone raider from both sides. Then the lookout spotted smoke to port. Suddenly it was action stations and I was up on the bridge with a uniform over my pyjamas. The exercise had turned real. The enemy was closing fast, then he veered off, so we split up as agreed. The Exeter was nearest so she led: they pounded each other and Exeter got the worse of it. The enemy’s front gun wasn’t working properly but he nearly finished her off, then he turned his fire on us and let her get away. He was shooting well but he seemed confused.
JUDGE: Confused?
HARWOOD: Yes. We were both worried about torpedo attacks. The Ajax tried one. He dodged; they missed. Then it was our turn to dodge. Torpedo, port twenty-five and closing. Hard a-port. Disengage port engine then hard astern. Full speed ahead starboard engine. Port twenty and closing. Come on you bastard, come round, come round, swing, swing, swing… and it missed. We were all swerving and putting up smokescreens. The Exeter had to pull out, she was shot to bits. He didn’t finish her off.
COUNSEL: Why not?
HARWOOD: Good question. Perhaps because he needed to save his shells for us. Or…
COUNSEL: Yes?
HARWOOD: I’ve often wondered…if it wasn’t out of mercy.
COUNSEL: Mercy.
HARWOOD: Yes. All those sailors. Perhaps he just took pity on them.
COUNSEL: You mean he didn’t have the heart to sink her?
HARWOOD: Or too much heart. Given what followed, I mean. I’ve often wondered…
COUNSEL: Wondered what, Commodore?
HARWOOD: (With difficulty) Whose victory it really was.
COUNSEL: Go on.
COUNSEL: Well, after about eighty minutes the Ajax and Achilles withdrew for lack of ammunition, hoping the enemy didn’t follow. But he seemed to be withdrawing too. He headed off to the West, into the Plate. We shadowed him.
JUDGE: How?
HARWOOD: From out of range of his eleven-inchers. One cruiser on each side.
JUDGE: Why do you think he turned tail?
HARWOOD: Well, at the time we didn’t know. It might have been a trap. He might have had submarines. Or he might have been more badly damaged than he looked. I was just worried that he’d break away to sea and we’d lose him.
JUDGE: And where did you think he was heading?
HARWOOD: We had no idea. Buenos Aires? Back out to sea, if he could give us the slip? Buenos Aires might have had him, but the channels were shallow and he could have got stuck. The whole thing was a complete mystery. It all started when he didn’t sink the Exeter. Then he suddenly pulled out. What on earth was going on?
Scene 11 (LANGSDORFF’s CABIN)
(KLAXEN. GROANING OF WOUNDED. ENTER LANGSDORFF, FACE BLOODED AND HOLDING HIS RIGHT ARM. STAGGERS TO VOICE PIPE)
LANGSDORFF: Captain to bridge. (SILENCE) Captain to bridge!
WATTENBERG: (OFF) Bridge here.
LANGSDORFF: Who’s that?
WATTENBERG: Wattenberg, sir.
LANGSDORFF: Who?
WATTENBERG: The Navigating Officer, sir.
LANGSDORFF: Wattenberg. How damaged are we?
WATTENBERG: Not too good, sir. We’re holed on the port side. Only about forty minutes of ammunition left. Galley damaged – no hot food or fresh water. The direction finder’s been hit. But the worst is damage to the fuel supply.
LANGSDORFF: Could we get home?
WATTENBERG: Doubt it, sir.
LANGSDORFF: I must come and inspect. There must be an inspection.
WATTENBERG: Captain?
LANGSDORFF: Yes?
WATTENBERG: Thirty-six dead, sir. Fifty badly wounded.
LANGSDORFF: Oh my God. My God. Where is the enemy?
WATTENBERG: Shadowing us, sir, one on either side. The damaged one has pulled out.
LANGSDORFF: Fire at them if they come within range. They may attack at any moment. And double the watch in case they use torpedoes again. The night is the most dangerous.
WATTENBERG: Yes, sir. Captain?
LANGSDORFF: Yes?
WATTENBERG: Could we not break out to sea?
LANGSDORFF: That’s what they want. Look how they attacked us in the battle. They would never have attacked like that if they didn’t have reinforcements. It could be a trap. And shadowing’s so easy – if we get away they can shadow us. (REPLACES VOICE PIPE. EXIT)
(ENTER HARWOOD)
SCENE 12 (COURTROOM)
HARWOOD: Shadowing was so difficult – if we shadowed them, they could get away. We had to stop them breaking out to sea. But this was the biggest estuary in the world, and I had to block him in with only two ships. If only we had reinforcements. We’ve got to make them think we’ve got reinforcements.
(EXIT HARWOOD. ENTER LANGSDORFF)
SCENE 13 (LANGSDORFF’S CABIN)
LANGSDORFF: (INTO VOICE PIPE) Captain to bridge.
WATTENBERG: Bridge.
LANGSDORFF: Get me the Navigator.
WATTENBERG: Navigator here, sir.
LANGSDORFF: I have inspected the damage. The ship is not now seaworthy for the North Atlantic. We must run into port. Check which is better, Montevideo or Buenos Aires.
WATTENBERG: Montevideo has the deeper channel, sir. If we go into Buenos Aires the mud may clog the engine’s cooling water intake.
LANGSDORFF: Ah.
WATTENBERG: And sir?
LANGSDORFF: Yes?
WATTENBERG: The fuel, sir. They’re telling me it’s touch and go. Uruguay is closer.
LANGSDORFF: Very well. Send a telegram to Berlin informing them that in view of the damage, we propose to put in to Montevideo.
WATTENBERG: Yes, sir.
LANGSDORFF: How long will it take us to get there?
WATTENBERG: All day, sir. If the engines hold out we should be there by midnight.
LANGSDORFF: Keep me informed. I’m going back to the sick bay. (REPLACES TUBE AND EXITS).
(ENTER COUNSEL)
Scene 14 (COURTROOM)
COUNSEL: So it is now the evening of Wednesday December the 13th and all three ships are approaching Montevideo. There have been some exchanges of fire off the Uruguayan coast, where news of the chase is spreading and spectators are watching from the headlands. The action is about to move from sea to land. For my next witness I would like to call Sir Eugen Millington-Drake.
CLERK: Call Sir Eugen Millington-Drake.
(ENTER SIR EUGEN)
COUNSEL: You were Sir Eugen John Henry Vanderstegen Millington-Drake, British Ambassador to Montevideo in 1939?
SIR EUGEN: No, I was His Majesty’s Minister Plenipotentiary in Montevideo.
COUNSEL: But that is like an Ambassador.
SIR EUGEN: Yes, if you wish, just like an Ambassador. Could I have a glass of milk?
COUNSEL: Milk?
SIR EUGEN: I always drank milk. Dinner parties, banquets, cocktails at the Residence: I always asked for a glass of milk.
COUNSEL: Why?
SIR EUGEN: Because I liked milk.
COUNSEL: This is a court of history, Sir Eugen, not a dairy farm.
SIR EUGEN: Oh.
COUNSEL: Where did you go to school?
SIR EUGEN: Eton College and Magdalen.
COUNSEL: Magdalen Oxford or Magdalene Cambridge?
SIR EUGEN: Oxford, dear boy. Cambridge is miles from anywhere.
COUNSEL: Hmm. As a young man you were a talented athlete, boxing and rowing for your university. You wanted to be an actor, but joined the Foreign Office. Montevideo was your sixth posting, after four years in Buenos Aires. Your wife was extremely rich: you used her money to extend the Ambassador’s Residence and to support popular local causes like culture and sport.
SIR EUGEN: Ah well. Fair play, you know. The best way to the Uruguayan heart was always through a goal post.
COUNSEL: Did you succeed?
SIR EUGEN: Oh yes. Uruguayans are free spirits. They were always keener on Churchill than Hitler. When France fell, they were proved right.
COUNSEL: So if I may, Sir Eugen, what was the first that you and the world knew about the battle?
SIR EUGEN: Well, word starting coming in around mid-day on the Wednesday. There had been some sort of a battle at sea. Do you have a map?
COUNSEL: This is history, Sir Eugen, not geography.
SIR EUGEN: My dear fellow, what on earth’s the difference? In Montevideo half the streets are named after dates. 18th of July Avenue, 26th of March Street, 8th of October Boulevard…if you stop someone you say “Excuse me, I’m lost: can you tell me when I am?”
COUNSEL: You were saying.
SIR EUGEN: Word started coming in on the Wednesday. There had been some sort of battle at sea. Crowds were gathering. There was an American visiting Montevideo who covered everything live on the radio. But the first I heard officially was a signal from HMS Ajax. Harwood told me Graf Spee was coming, and asked me to intervene with the Uruguayans so that they held her for as little time as possible.
COUNSEL: Why?
SIR EUGEN: Well, at first Harwood wanted to get at the Graf Spee before German submarines had time to arrive. I think he was also bluffing to make it look as if he had reinforcements.
COUNSEL: Bluffing?
SIR EUGEN: Yes. Disinformation became the order of the day. Our Defence Attaché in Buenos Aires went in and asked if an aircraft carrier could refuel there urgently…my staff said things loudly on insecure telephone lines…it was all rather underhand. Not my cup of tea, really.
COUNSEL: Did it work?
SIR EUGEN: Well, it seemed to. Everybody rallied round, and when the Graf Spee came in that night there were any number of eyes watching her.
(LIGHTS DOWN)
SCENE 15 LANGSDORFF’S CABIN – IN HARBOUR
LANGSDORFF: (TIRED, RIGHT ARM IN SLING, READING DRAFT TELEGRAM) ‘From Captain Langsdorff, Wednesday 13 December. Graf Spee is now in Montevideo harbour. To break out to open sea and shake off the pursuers was obviously impossible. Galleys badly damaged. Water in flour store has endangered bread supply. Direct hit in bows makes Graf Spee unseaworthy in North Atlantic winter.’ (KNOCK ON DOOR) Come in.
(ENTER NIEBUHR AND LANGMANN)
NIEBUHR: Captain Langsdorff?
LANGSDORFF: Yes.
NIEBUHR: I am Captain Dietrich Niebuhr, Naval Attaché to Buenos Aires. This is Otto Langmann, German Ambassador to Montevideo. (LANGSDORFF AND NEIBUHR GIVE NAVAL SALUTES; LANGMANN MAKES NAZI WAVE. THEY SHAKE HANDS)
LANGSDORFF: It is good to see you, gentlemen. Please forgive my appearance but we have been in the wars.
LANGMANN: I wish I could say welcome to Uruguay, Captain. You have made a mistake coming here. A serious mistake.
LANGSDORFF: I’m sorry to be a problem, your Excellency.
LANGMANN: A problem? Pah.
LANGSDORFF: My ship is badly damaged and we had little choice.
LANGMANN: But why here, for God’s sake? This is a hotbed of enemy sympathisers. The British Ambassador is one of the Foreign Minister’s oldest friends.
LANGSDORFF: It was here or Buenos Aires. The water was too shallow there.
NIEBUHR: What about Mar del Plata?
LANGMANN: This is all too late now. I must warn you that the British have much influence here, and will do all they can to get your ship interned. Or they may get the Uruguayans to keep you here long enough for them to bring reinforcements.
LANGSDORFF: We need as much time as possible to make repairs. My gunnery officer suggests 30 days.
LANGMANN: Thirty days! Are you mad? The British come in and out within 48 hours. We must do it in less for the honour of the Fatherland.
LANGSDORFF: Your Excellency, the Graf Spee is not a pleasure cruiser. I have dead and injured on board and the ship cannot put to sea. We need to stay here for as long as possible.
LANGMANN: That is dishonourable. Grossly dishonourable.
NIEBUHR: Gentlemen, please. I have brought a naval builder from Buenos Aires to compile a damage report with the Chief Engineer. It seems that local repairs will indeed take time. The only big shipyard in Montevideo is French.
LANGMANN: We’ll offer them as much money as they want. You can always buy a Frenchman.
NIEBUHR: I regret that this has already been tried. The man, a Monsieur… Voulminot, refused point blank. When asked if it was because he was French, he said yes, but it was also because he was Uruguayan.
LANGMANN: Pah. Now, Captain, perhaps you see the mistake you have made.
LANGSDORFF: Doubtless I have made many mistakes, but I will not be accused of acting dishonourably.
NIEBUHR: Gentlemen, gentlemen. We will try to get help from Buenos Aires. The builder’s damage report will be with you as soon as possible, Captain. Meanwhile you should get some sleep. Your Excellency?
LANGMANN: Pah. (THE MEN SALUTE AS BEFORE. EXIT LANGMANN AND NIEBUHR. LANGSDORFF SWAYS SLIGHTLY, WITH HAND TO HEAD. THEN RECOVERS HIMSELF AND CROSSES TO VOICE PIPE)
LANGSDORFF: Captain to Bridge.
VOICE: Bridge speaking.
LANGSDORFF: Is that the Navigator?
WATTENBERG: Yes sir, Wattenberg here.
LANGSDORFF: Have the British prisoner Captain Dove sent to me, please. We will have to free the prisoners soon.
WATTENBERG: He’s on his way, sir.
LANGSDORFF: And we will have to bury our dead. Keep me informed. Any sign of enemy reinforcements?
WATTENBERG: Some shapes on the horizon, sir, unidentified as yet. The Comms Room says that news is starting to break on local radio. There are reports that the British and American channels will soon have live coverage, from an American called Fowler.
LANGSDORFF: When it comes, let me know. It’ll be full of propaganda: don’t let the men hear it. This Fowler probably doesn’t exist. (KNOCK ON DOOR) Come in! (ENTER DOVE) Ah, Captain Dove. I am sorry that you prisoners had to be in this action. I am glad that none of you are injured.
DOVE: But you are wounded, Captain.
LANGSDORFF: Oh, only a little.
DOVE: Weren’t you under cover?
LANGSDORFF: It was impossible. I had three British ships to watch. They fought like tigers, they must have had reinforcements.
DOVE: And what are you going to do now, Captain?
LANGSDORFF: We have 48 hours to repair the ship, and that is not enough. I am not going out to sea to commit suicide with all my crew. But you, Captain, you will soon be free. My Ambassador will arrange everything. Meanwhile I would like you to have these. (HANDS DOVE TWO LONG BLACK RIBBONS) Ribbons from the caps of two of my sailors who were killed in the battle.
DOVE: Thank you, Captain.
LANGSDORFF: They are a sad memento, but it has been a pleasure to talk with you over these last weeks. I enjoyed your company. I wish you…well.
DOVE: Thank you. (THEY SHAKE HANDS AGAIN) Goodbye, Captain Langsdorff.
LANGSDORFF: Hans.
DOVE: Goodbye, Hans. (EXIT DOVE. LANGSDORFF SLUMPS INTO CHAIR, HEAD ON DESK, AND REMAINS THERE THROUGH NEXT SCENE)
SCENE 16 COURTROOM
SIR EUGEN But then it all changed. London started worrying that the Graf Spee would get out before she could be boxed in. So having gone to the Uruguayans to ask them to chuck the Graf Spee out, I got new instructions. Stop them chucking her out, so that reinforcements could get there. So I had to go back in and ask Guani to keep her.
COUNSEL: Guani?
SIR EUGEN: Alberto Guani, the Uruguayan Foreign Minister. The German Ambassador was bending his ear on one side, and me on the other.
COUNSEL: How did he react?
SIR EUGEN: Guani? Neutrally. Firmly but neutrally. The Uruguayans knew the whole of Latin America was watching them, and they played it by the book. Guani was no fool.
COUNSEL: How long had you known him?
SIR EUGEN: Oh, quite a while.
COUNSEL: There are reports that he regarded you almost as an uncle.
SIR EUGEN: My dear boy, it’s clear that you’ve never been through a war. Beware the dead hand of Allied propaganda. Guani was his own man. So was his President, Baldomir.
COUNSEL: But you would say that, wouldn’t you?
SIR EUGEN: I would, I would. In fact I just did.
COUNSEL: And this Mike Fowler, Sir Eugen: who was he?
SIR EUGEN: Oh…some American.
COUNSEL: Where was he reporting from?
SIR EUGEN: Somewhere in the port, I believe.
COUNSEL: Somewhere near any of your offices?
SIR EUGEN: Now there you have me.
COUNSEL: Yes, I believe we do. Curious how he disappeared from view afterwards, isn’t it?
SIR EUGEN: Is it?
COUNSEL: No articles, no recordings, no memoirs called ‘I was there, telling it how it was’?
SIR EUGEN: ‘Like it was’, one feels, might be more American.
JUDGE: You can’t fool history, Sir Eugen.
SIR EUGEN. Indeed not, your Honour. I wrote a history book on the battle.
COUNSEL: So what did the Uruguayans decide?
SIR EUGEN: Well, on the Friday they issued a decree. After inspecting the damage to the Graf Spee, they gave her 72 hours to carry out repairs, ending at 8pm on the Sunday. It was too soon for the Germans, and too soon for us: our aircraft carrier and battleship were nowhere near. The cruiser Cumberland arrived, but without bigger ships Harwood put his chances of stopping the Graf Spee escaping at no more than 30 per cent.
COUNSEL: So why didn’t the Graf Spee try to escape?
SIR EUGEN: It seems Langsdorff didn’t have enough fuel. The supply was damaged. He could have made for deeper water and gone down fighting, but he was injured, and he was deeply tired, and he was … misinformed.
SCENE 17 LANGSDORFF’S CABIN
(WHISTLE OF VOICE PIPE. LANGSDORFF WAKES UP AND ANSWERS IT)
LANGSDORFF: Langsdorff.
ASCHER: Gunnery Officer Ascher here, sir. In the Director Control Tower. We’ve sighted a large warship believed to be the Battleship Renown. And on the horizon the aircraft carrier Ark Royal and two or three destroyers.
LANGSDORFF: Who saw this?
ASCHER: I did, sir.
LANGSDORFF: With your own eyes?
ASCHER: Yes, sir.
LANGSDORFF: Well, you’re the expert. I knew they had reinforcements. Otherwise they wouldn’t have fought the way they did.
ASCHER: Yes sir. And we’ve got the news coverage from the American on the radio.
LANGSDORFF: Where is he?
ASCHER: Somewhere overlooking us. On the dockside.
LANGSDORFF: What is he saying?
ASCHER: That there are five, possibly seven warships out there waiting for us.
LANGSDORFF: Five, possibly seven. Ascher?
ASCHER: Sir?
LANGSDORFF: What day is it?
ASCHER: Saturday, sir.
LANGSDORFF: We must bury the dead.
ASCHER: We did that yesterday, sir. At the cemetery. The British were there to pay their respects. It’s in today’s newspapers – Langmann the Ambassador doing the Nazi salute, but not you.
LANGSDORFF: Nothing unusual in that. Officers use the naval salute.
ASCHER: Yes sir.
LANGSDORFF: I am so tired. What is next?
ASCHER: You have to go to the Legation. For instructions from Berlin. Langmann has arranged a call on Guani to try and extend the deadline. The car is waiting.
LANGSDORFF: Very well. I must look for a clean uniform. We must organise transport in case we need to get the men off the ship. I must write to my wife. I must write to the Uruguayans. Ascher?
WATTENBERG: This is Wattenberg, sir.
LANGSDORFF: What? Where is Ascher?
WATTENBERG: Preparing the detonators, sir.
LANGSDORFF: What day is it?
WATTENBERG: Sunday morning, Captain. 5 a.m. You’ve been up all night.
LANGSDORFF: Oh. Yes, so I have. I went to see Guani with Langmann. Langmann threatened to blow up Montevideo and Guani threw us out. Berlin said we should avoid internment at all costs. If we try to make it to Buenos Aires we may be attacked and sink in shallow waters. All our new kit would fall into enemy hands. We must scuttle the ship.
WATTENBERG: Yes sir. You’ve given the order. We’re breaking up the firing control dials with hammers at the moment. Then we’ll take the removable pieces and the gun breaches out so that they can be blown up together.
LANGSDORFF: I want one control point for detonation. On the bridge. A captain should go down with his ship. (REPLACES VOICE PIPE AND TAKES LETTER OUT OF POCKET) ‘My beloved Ruth. I am writing this letter on my last day as commander of this proud vessel. Against an overwhelmingly superior opponent I have decided not to send my men to an unnecessary death, but to maintain the honour of the ship and her flag to the very end. Goodbye and thank you. If this is God’s will, then I shall meet my death in good heart. Be proud in your sorrow, and show yourself to be a true soldier’s wife. Give my love to Jochen and Inge.’
(KNOCK ON DOOR. ENTER ASCHER AND WATTENBERG)
LANGSDORFF: Ascher. Wattenberg.
ASCHER: You can’t do it, Captain.
LANGSDORFF: Can’t do what?
ASCHER: Blow yourself up with the ship. The men think too highly of you. We all think too highly of you.
LANGSDORFF: You are very kind.
ASCHER: No, sir, you are very kind. There are too few good men. And a good captain alive can do more for his country than a dead one. Your country needs you.
LANGSDORFF: My country has been dishonoured. My own honour is at stake.
ASCHER: You’ve done everything you can. Anyway, we have to make sure the ship goes down. There has to be more than one circuit, just in case. We have five torpedoes left: we put them in the engine room and the big gun turrets, then we fill the turrets with shells and use hand grenades with timers to blow everything up.
LANGSDORFF: Torpedoes.
ASCHER: Yes sir.
LANGSDORFF: So torpedoes get you in the end. You watch the sea, you look for the trails, you get ready to swerve… but it’s your own torpedoes that send you down.
(ASCHER AND WATTENBERG EXCHANGE GLANCES)
WATTENBERG: There’s another thing, sir. We need to get out into deeper water before we scuttle. There’s always a chance the enemy may attack. Your responsibility is to your men. We’re evacuating them at the moment, all but a skeleton crew.
LANGSDORFF: At the moment? What time is it?
WATTENBERG: Sunday afternoon, sir. We’ll get them outside the harbour so that you and the skeleton crew can join them after the … detonation. Then we’ll try and get them across to Buenos Aires safely. But we can’t be sure. You need to be there to protect them.
LANGSDORFF: Protect them.
WATTENBERG: They still need you, Captain.
ASCHER: You’ve saved their lives so far. Don’t leave them now.
LANGSDORFF: A captain should go down with his ship.
ASCHER: But not take his men with him.
(PAUSE)
LANGSDORFF: Very well. Are we ready?
ASCHER: Yes, Captain.
LANGSDORFF: Then let us go.
(EXEUNT LANGSDORFF AND ASCHER. MUSIC. WATTENBERG REMAINS TO DON THE JUDGE’S ROBES AND WIG, AND TAKE HIS SEAT.)
SCENE 18 (COURTROOM)
JUDGE: (BANGS GAVEL) Thank you. I shall now pronounce the verdict of history. First, the principal witnesses to the events of these seven days in December 1939.
Commodore Henry Harwood, whose tactics proved successful in the Battle of the River Plate, will be feted as a national hero and promoted to Admiral, but will then be ground down by stress and prematurely retired. Five years later he will die of a heart condition in Goring-on-Thames. But his name will live on as one of the last naval commanders of the age of Nelson.
Sir Eugen Millington-Drake will be rewarded by a long and useful life. In 1964 he will write an immensely valuable book on the battle, and will lecture on it for many years; but he will not be rich for ever, and will retire for financial reasons to Rome, where he was born. Thirty-three years after the Battle of the River Plate, he will die in 1972, aged 83, of an ulcerated stomach. Possibly from drinking too much milk.
Will the defendant now please come forward. (ENTER LANGSDORFF) Hans Wilhelm Langsdorff, there were three charges against you, which I shall take in reverse order. The first is that you should have gone down with your ship. On this charge I find you not guilty. Whatever else is said, you were a compassionate commander and a good man: the wellbeing of your crew was paramount to you. It was only when you saw your men safely interned in Buenos Aires that you chose the honourable way out. Your courage in doing so is unquestionable: you may have lost your ship but you saved the lives of a thousand men and will be forever, in the eyes of history, a true hero.
On the remaining two charges, however – that you should not have engaged the enemy, and that your tactics both in and after the engagement were deeply flawed – I find you guilty. Neither your adversary nor your senior officers can understand why you did what you did. Why did you attack? Why did you retreat? Why did you choose Montevideo? Perhaps one day it will all become clear when we know more about the damage to your ship. Meanwhile the verdict of the court upon you [JUDGE puts on black cap] is that on the night of 19 December 1939, in your room where you have been interned at the Naval Arsenal in Buenos Aires, you will sit down at a desk and write three letters. One is to your wife, another is to your parents, and a third is to Baron von Thermann, the German Ambassador to Argentina. In this letter you will say: ‘I alone bear the responsibility for scuttling the pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee. I am happy to pay with my life for any possible reflection on the honour of the flag.’
[During this quotation LANGSDORFF has gone behind a screen through which we now see him in half-light. He does what the JUDGE now describes.]
You will put down the pen, seal the envelope and unfurl a German naval ensign, laying it on the floor. Then you will take out a Mauser pistol, which you have borrowed from your chief gunnery officer, and lift it to your head. History will not relate that the first shot only grazes you. There are some things that are too real for history. May the world forget your mistakes and remember your courage, Captain Langsdorff, leader of men, husband of Ruth, father of Jochen and Inge; and may God have mercy on your soul.
(A SHOT. BLACK OUT)
2). THE FEATHER PILLOW
From a good man to a bad one. Click here for the mood of this horror play.
THE FEATHER PILLOW
Horacio Quiroga
THE FEATHER
PILLOW
A story of Horacio Quiroga
by
Jonathan Lamb
A 70-minute play without interval for four or more actors
NOT FOR CHILDREN UNDER 13
70 minutes with no interval
Cast
Male, 20’s: Face at window / Prudencio / young Horacio Quiroga / Dario / servant
Male, 50’s: Older Quiroga / Barcos / Lidia’s father / Jordan
Male, 50’s or older: Narrator / Denis / Doctor
Female, 18: Lidia / Maria Esther / Egle / Ferrando / Alicia / Ana Maria
Any (eg director): Lecturer
Set
Triptych with central window and curtains, high shelf
Loose plank for lower shelf
Patch of hard floor beneath
Two upright chairs with removable seats
(If with live music: Keyboard and stool)
Props
Shotgun
Lamp
Pistol
Vase or large porcelain-headed doll
Very long stethoscope
Machete
Two light collapsible coffins with shoulder straps
Costume and makeup
White shirts
Black trousers
Black waistcoats
Two top hats
Long extendable cape (eg black cloth with arm extensions)
Wedding dress
Soft white shawl
Doctor’s white coat
Full set of quick-change whiskers
Full set of gummed whiskers
Music
- ‘Isla de Ratas’, by Jonathan Lamb
- ‘Sanctus’ from the Missa Luba
- Andante, Beethoven’s Pastoral Sonata, played live or by Daniel Barenboim (EMI)
- ‘Kichororo’ by Washington Carrasco and Cristina Fernandez
- ‘Let it Be’, by the Beatles
- ‘All My Trials’, traditional
- ‘Evil Seed’, by Pentagram
- ‘Kumbaya’, traditional
Notes for programme
- While the dialogue in this play is fictitious, the biographical events described by the Narrator are understood to be true.
‘Many people think that to be awake is the same as to be conscious, but they can be deeply hypnotised while believing that they are in ‘everyday consciousness’… Mask teachers, priests in possession cults, and hypnotists all play high status in voice and movement. A high-status person whom we accept as dominant can easily propel you into unusual states of being…The type of trance I am concerned with is the ‘controlled trance’, in which permission to remain ‘entranced’ is given by other people, either by an individual or a group. Such trances may be rare, or may pass unrecognised in this culture, but we should consider them as a normal part of human behaviour. (Keith Johnstone, ‘Impro’, Methuen Drama 1989)
THE FEATHER PILLOW
A story of Horacio Quiroga
SCENE 1
(Sinister music. House lights down. Down music, up sound of rain, wind. Thunder. Flash of lightning reveals triptych upstage centre, with small window and curtains. High shelf with vase or doll. We are inside looking out. Blackout. Rain. Thunder. Second flash reveals face at window. Hollow, bearded, top hat. Darkness, more thunder. Third flash reveals QUIROGA downstage centre, looming over audience, too quickly to have got there: the face at the window was a stand-in. QUIROGA has been hidden downstage. He wears a top hat and a black cape. Footlit, harsh.)
QUIROGA.
Well well well, so here we are then.
Last night’s mortals once again.
The handbags and the tidy ties,
The perfume and the nice disguise.
Collective solitude;
Uniform distinction.
Audience, audience,
Contemplate existence:
Your ultimate EXTINCTION
(Opens arms. Cape extends like a bat’s wing and covers the audience with darkness. Exit. Thunder. Hold under sound of a slap and a baby’s first cry.)
SCENE 2
NARRATOR, entering, to start of multimedia: In Uruguay, a land of sunsets and thunderstorms to the south east of South America, a baby was born on the last day of the year 1878. The baby’s name was Horacio Quiroga. He was the fourth child of an Argentine man and a Uruguayan woman from the border town of Salto. There were two elder sisters and a brother. Their father was fond of hunting.
(Backlight up on screen, through window. Sound of waves lapping on boat, creak of rowlocks, swan’s wings on water, man humming ‘Sanctus’ from the Missa Luba. Humming gets louder, becomes choir and drum. Enter PRUDENCIO, in silhouette, with shotgun. His movements loom and recede.)
Ten weeks after the child was bom, his father Prudencio went out shooting, returning on a boat. He was getting out of the boat when the trigger of his shotgun caught on a gunwale and discharged into his upper thorax. Such an accident is rare according to firearms experts: he could also have deliberately shot himself or been shot by others.
(BLACKOUT. CLAP OF THUNDER)
Prudencio Quiroga died instantly. His son Horacio went to a masonic primary school in Salto. He was a spoilt child who always got what he wanted. (Enter QUIROGA behind NARRATOR, unseen, threatening) From a young age he suffered from dyspepsia and from asthma. What it is like to have an asthma attack?
QUIROGA. It is like dying. You try it. (Exit QUIROGA)
NARRATOR (From here on starts to cough, occasionally at first and later more frequently. Can use inhaler.) When the boy was twelve his mother married again, to a man called Ascensio Barcos. Her son became fond of this man. At school he was a disturbed and unruly adolescent: cycling was in fashion and he took to it avidly. He smoked, chased girls, stole things and did experiments with chemistry and photography. He was surprisingly competent with his hands.
(HORACIO passes holding a large photo negative of a girl up to the light)
SCENE 3
NARRATOR. By the time Horacio was 17 he was very close to his stepfather Ascensio Barcos. But then Barcos suffered a stroke. He was paralysed down one side. (Enter HORACIO supporting BARCOS)
HORACIO (seating BARCOS). Basta, hombre. Stop writing me these notes. Suppose someone finds them?
(BARCOS moans feebly and gestures at his pocket. HORACIO kneels, takes out paper, reads, scrumples angrily.)
HORACIO. We can’t! It’s a crime. Stop writing this!
(BARCOS moans pleadingly.)
HORACIO. I’ve told Mama. What you write.
(BARCOS groans.)
HORACIO. She says she loves you and understands. The doctor says you won’t get better. I have a message for you. (Gives BARCOS paper.) We are with you. We love you. (Takes paper back.) I am going out now. (Exit HORACIO. )
(BARCOS sits staring for a minute and then hoists himself round to take out shotgun from behind triptych. Either on or half offstage he gets the barrel into his mouth and a toe into the trigger guard. Darkness. Clap of thunder. Half light up on HORACIO, who comes back and stares at the mess. Sanctus from Missa Luba.
SCENE 4
NARRATOR. It was around this time that Horacio Quiroga started writing. Poetry, prose, modernism. Cycling. He read Kipling and Poe. He moved in literary circles, dressing as a dandy and carrying a mirror to admire his appearance. At 19 he fell hopelessly in love with a girl of 13 or 14 called Maria Ester Jurkowski.
(Enter LIDIA. Music: the start of the andante from Beethoven’s Pastoral sonata, played by Barenboim. HORACIO is drawn to LIDIA/MARIA and they approach each other in a dance)
HORACIO. Who is she?
NARRATOR. Isn’t she beautiful. Pale skin and wide eyes. She’s the doctor’s niece, or something. Got here yesterday.
HORACIO. She’s enchanting. What is her name?
NARRATOR. Lidia.
HORACIO. I shall call her Maria.
NARRATOR. Her mother was mistress to the artist Blanes.
HORACIO. I worship her.
NARRATOR. Mama is on her fourth husband.
HORACIO. She is an ice goddess.
NARRATOR. You may recognize certain of your experiences in the mother.
HORACIO. Hashish? Chloroform?
NARRATOR. Morphine.
HORACIO. Ay ay ay.
NARRATOR. (To the music)
You will woo this maid Maria
You will fall in love
You are young and you have things
That she has little of
As her mother looks on fondly
You will coo and spoon
But what the mother is already
The daughter will be soon
What you don’t know
As you worship
At her altar-rail
Is that Mother is a Madam
The goddess is for sale
HORACIO. I worship you.
LIDIA. I love you with all my heart.
HORACIO. You are too innocent for love.
LIDIA. I am no longer.
HORACIO. Yes you are!
LIDIA. I know what love is now. (Enter LIDIA’S FATHER.)
FATHER. Well, I’m her father and it baffles me. What does she find in him?
LIDIA. I have found love in you.
FATHER. It’ll have to be stopped. Does he have a fortune?
HORACIO. No.
FATHER. Then I’ll call him in. Horacio! Look here, my boy –
HORACIO. Yes, sir.
FATHER. You’re not good enough. My niece is an angel. She’s destined for better things. If you call here again, I regret that you will not be received.
HORACIO. But –
FATHER. You may go. (Exit FATHER.)
NARRATOR.
So you woo her now in secret
Leaving notes in trees
(Lights down. Enter LIDIA.)
And you plan to flee together
Soon, by night –
(Enter FATHER with lamp.)
FATHER. Freeze! Ho, bring lights there. What’s going on? So, the maid was right. Child, go to your room. Pack your bags, we leave tomorrow. For good.
(Piano andante resumes)
NARRATOR.
Years go by, you do not see her, then
You find her with her raddled mother
In a squalid downtown room
Raddled by the sharps of doom
HORACIO.
So you slip her clutches deftly
Make excuses, leave her swiftly
Leave her waiting in her room
Leave her to the sharp of doom
QUIROGA.
Chalk it up to new material
One more feather for your quill
Write a story for a journal
It’s all grist to the mill
(Exit QUIROGA)
SCENE 5
NARRATOR. At 20 Horacio Quiroga founds a short-lived magazine. At 21 he follows the fashion of 1900 and travels to Genova and Paris, dressed as a dandy on the threshold of literary glory, but in Paris he starves. Three months later he retreats to Montevideo. Here he establishes a literary circle and publishes a book of modernist prose and verse which is slated by critics. His brother and one of his sisters dies of typhoid. With friends from his literary circle, around this time, Horacio consumes opium, ether and chloroform. One lunchtime in 1900, at the age of 22, with a friend named Alberto Brignole who worked in a chemist’s, Horacio Quiroga ate 20 centigrams of cannabis extract.
(Enter HORACIO.)
HORACIO. Nothing happened. Two hours later, feeling no effect, Horacio went to the chemist and bought five times the previous dose. Against the advice of his friend he swallowed the lot. (Piano) Shortly afterwards he was playing the guitar when the fingers of his left hand turned into huge green monsters, half spider, half snake, springing towards his eyes. Quiroga turned desperately to his friend for help but Brignole’s face became a monster too: disfigured, swollen, rushing towards him, so he started to his feet, heart beating – and felt suddenly as if he was flying. His heart was beating irregularly, he felt cold, he knew he was about to die. At 7pm a doctor came. There was nothing he could do. Quiroga was still seeing monsters, the monsters attacked him implacably, they were predators who kept moving in for the inevitable kill. Brignole, sitting by him and taking notes, became a terrifying green leopard. At one point Quiroga escaped from the sickbed and staggered round the room. His heart was racing. He was paralysed, he was sweating, he was dying.
(Exit HORACIO.)
NARRATOR. He was a dickhead. After about six hours he started to return to himself.
(Enter QUIROGA behnd NARRATOR)
QUIROGA. He never touched hashish again. (Exit QUIROGA)
SCENE 6
NARRATOR. Or so he says. (Coughs) In 1902, at the age of 23, Horacio Quiroga returns one Saturday to Montevideo from the interior by boat. He is met by a friend called Federico Ferrando, a fellow high priest from their literary enclave. The two young men go for a bibulous lunch. Ferrando is to fight a duel: he has been exchanging insults in the press with a hostile critic called Guzman Papini y Zas, and the critic’s last insult was so offensive that Ferrando has called him out. They are to fight with pistols.
(Enter FERRANDO and HORACIO, drunk.)
FERRANDO. Or like this. (Throws himself onto chair staring upwards with arms dangling)
HORACIO. Perforated. Ego te perforo.
FERRANDO. I shall perforate him.
HORACIO. Capital! Now where is it?
FERRANDO. What?
HORACIO. The pistol.
FERRANDO. In my bedroom. It’s French.
HORACIO. Pinfire? Double-barrelled?
FERRANDO. I – believe so, yes. Pinfire, I mean. I don’t know much about guns.
HORACIO. Be careful how you store the ammo. It can go off.
FERRANDO. I don’t know about guns. Horacio, you’re from a hunting family. I need you to train me.
HORACIO. Well, let’s have a look at it then. Is it twelve millimetres?
FERRANDO. Yes.
HORACIO. So you can take him down at twenty paces. Or less if your nerve holds. Do we know how good a shot he is?
FERRANDO. No.
HORACIO. Hmm. We’ll have to see how good you are. Catch. (Suddenly tosses FERRANDO his keys. FERRANDO catches them.) Well, you’ve got good reflexes! Show me the pistol, then.
FERRANDO (fetching pistol from off). Here it is.
HORACIO. Let me hold it. God, it’s heavy. This would stop an elephant. Tell you what, you could blow his head off with it. If he shoots first and misses, you can just walk up to him, put it in his mouth like this (puts it in FERRANDO’s mouth) and pull the trigger.
(Explosion. Darkness. Clap of thunder. Lightning reveals HORACIO staggering back on.)
Christ! Help! Help someone! Dios santo, it was loaded!
(Sounds of people running, a mother screaming, thunder. Bell tolls. Enter DOCTOR.)
DOCTOR. Killed outright. Were you there when he did it?
HORACIO. Yes.
DOCTOR. Poor fellow. I’ll tell the authorities. Try to get some sleep. (Exit DOCTOR)
HORACIO. I killed him. Oh God I’ve killed someone. I’ve killed someone. Oh God I’ve killed someone. Where’s the balcony?
(Exit HORACIO. Enter NARRATOR.)
SCENE 7
NARRATOR. A judge decides the affair was a tragic accident. After five days Horacio Quiroga is released. He goes to recover with his remaining sister in Buenos Aires. He teaches in a British school. A year later, when he is 24, he is engaged as photographer on an expedition into the jungle of Misiones, near the border of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay. This trip appears to have a profound effect on him. He leaves for Misiones as a dandy but returns as a man of the jungle. In 1904, at 25, he spends his inheritance on a plot of land in Misiones where he builds a house and tries to grow cotton. When this fails he teaches in a girls’ school. At 29 he falls in love with a schoolgirl called Ana Maria Cires. Her parents oppose the affair but on the day before Horacio!s 32nd birthday they become engaged. He takes her to the house he has built in the jungle. Life is tough. A daughter Egle is bom and then a son, Dario. Quiroga delivers his son himself, cutting and tying the umbilical cord. Their mother mends old clothes, makes corn bread, sweeps the dust. Their father tries various rural businesses that fail. He loves hunting, taking his young children with him and putting them in precarious positions, like seated on the edge of a cliff, so that they learn to live with danger.
(Sound of waterfall. Jungle, distant. EGLE and DARIO as children, seated next to each other.)
DARIO. Don’t look.
EGLE. I can’t.
DARIO. You can’t look?
EGLE. I can’t not look. Ay Dario, we’re sitting on the edge of nothing! Look down there.
DARIO. I can’t.
EGLE. I’ve never seen the jungle from above! And the river.
DARIO. I can’t open my eyes. It’ll pull me over.
EGLE. Qué? What will pull you?
DARIO. I don’t know.
EGLE. Are you scared?
DARIO. Sí.
EGLE. It’s what we’ve got to learn. Papa says.
DARIO. Papa wants to kill us.
EGLE. No, he wants us to be strong. I love Papa..
DARIO. I love him more.
EGLE. I love it when he grabs us and puts his arms around us –
DARIO. And says ‘I’ve got you in my prison –‘
BOTH. ‘And nobody escapes from my prison!’
EGLE. Listen to the birds. That’s a macaw. Papa says.
DARIO. Papa says, papa says. I’m getting wet. Papa, please come back.
EGLE. He left me a message. Here it is. ‘Challenge: get off the cliff yourselves’. He’s not coming.
DARIO. I can’t move!
EGLE. He’s watching us from somewhere.
DARIO. Like God.
EGLE. Don’t say that! We don’t believe in God. Papa says. .
DARIO. Why is he watching us?
EGLE. To see how we get off the cliff. He had his binoculars.
DARIO. He’s going to see us fall.
EGLE. Dario, we’re not going to fall. If we do it sitting down we’ll be all right.
DARIO. I can’t!
EGLE. We’re nearly in the middle. Which way?
DARIO. Back the way we came.
EGLE. But it’s got wet from the spray. The wind changed.
DARIO. What do we do?
EGLE . We have to go on. You’re first.
DARIO. I can’t move!
EGLE. Get going or I’ll push you.
DARIO. Ay! (They start edging. Lights down.)
SCENE 8
NARRATOR, entering. Later, when they are adults, both these children commit suicide. But they seem to have loved their father, who taught them many things about the jungle, for example how to handle poisonous snakes. Quiroga wrote some popular and enduring stories for children: for example ‘The Lazy Bee’, 1918. The bees in the hive all work hard to bring back pollen, but there is one lazy bee who develops a taste for pollen herself, and stays out eating what she finds. The beehive guards, wise old bees who’ve been around, warn her that if she doesn’t do her share, she won’t be allowed back in; and so one day it happens. The lazy bee is locked out, much to the interest of a large snake at the other side of the clearing. Snakes like bees.
SNAKE. Hello, little bee. What are you doing out at these hours? You can’t be much of a worker.
BEE. No. It’s true. I don’t work, and it’s my fault.
SNAKE. Well, in that case I’ll be doing the world a favour. When I eat you. I’m going to eat you, bee. Get ready for my teeth.
Sings to guitar
When I find myself a little peckish, there’s a thought that comes to me
Let’s go down the beehive, lazy bee
The bees are all safe inside but there’s just a chance that one may be
Locked outside the beehive, lazy bee
Lazy bee, lazy bee, lazy bee, lazy bee,
Now I’m gone to eat you, lazy bee
And soon the selfish greedy people living in the world will see
That they must all work harder, lazy bee
Or else they’ll all be eaten, as you’re about to be:
Hard work is the answer, lazy bee
Lazy bee, lazy bee, lazy bee, lazy bee,
Now I’m gone to eat you, lazy bee
BEE. You’re just doing that because you’re not as clever as I am.
SNAKE. What, you snotnose? I’m cleverer than you are.
BEE. Bet you’re not.
SNAKE. I bet you I can do something incredible. Like spin a child’s top with my tail.
BEE. I dare say you can. But I bet you my freedom tomorrow morning against you eating me here and now, that you can’t do this. (Grabs green material and covers herself with it)
SNAKE. Where have you gone?
BEE. I’m invisible.
SNAKE. How do you do that?
BEE. You have to let me go tomorrow morning.
SNAKE. Oh all right then.
SCENE 9
NARRATOR. And the bee spent a very uncomfortable night with the snake, who was grumpy about having lost the bet. When she got back to the hive they saw she was a changed bee, and let her in: she lived to work long and hard, and when she was old she would warn the younger bees that life was nothing without hard work. Meanwhile in Misiones, the story’s author worked hard in the house he had built, but his rural businesses kept failing.
(Enter QUIROGA with machete and stone, followed by ANA MARIA. He sits down to sharpen machete)
ANA MARIA. Horacio, basta. Enough is enough. You’ve tried everything. The cotton didn’t sell, the organic flowerpots didn’t sell, the orange liqueur was too bitter… the sweets were too lumpy…
QUIROGA. We were unlucky. We worked hard.
ANA MARIA. Too hard. I’m a skeleton. Without your stories we would have starved.
QUIROGA. It’s a tough life.
ANA MARIA. It is here. Horacio, I want to go back to Buenos Aires.
QUIROGA. And give up all we’ve done?
ANA MARIA. The children need culture.
QUIROGA. The children have culture. I’m teaching them about the jungle. They love it.
ANA MARIA. My family is in Buenos Aires. I miss them.
QUIROGA. Ha, so it’s all about you all along.
ANA MARIA. What?
QUIROGA. Typical woman, no staying power. No guts. No common sense. Ask them how to get somewhere and they’ll tell you about the clothes they were wearing when they went. Raise your left hand.
ANA MARIA. What?
QUIROGA. Three seconds. Raise your left hand. (ANA MARIA hesitates then raises left hand) Seven seconds. A horse can run fifty metres in the time it takes you to tell left from right. I suppose you’ve got a man in Buenos Aires you want to see, is that it?
ANA MARIA. No!
QUIROGA. Some young dog on the sniff?
ANA MARIA. No!
QUIROGA. Well, I’m watching you. Like a hawk.
ANA MARIA. Why do you take everything so personally?
QUIROGA. I’m a poet, woman. I take the fucking sunset personally. Now shut up about Buenos Aires or I’ll get annoyed. (Stands up with knife) And we wouldn’t want that, would we.
ANA MARIA. No Horacio.
QUIROGA. Put your thumb in your mouth.
ANA MARIA. Ay, no, Horacio…
QUIROGA. Do it! (PAUSE.) I will say this for you, you’re good in the sack. Even if you do get lippy. I’ll have to –
– stay right where you are. (Sinister bass note, snake hiss)
ANA MARIA. What?
QUIROGA. Don’t move a muscle. Stay absolutely still. Snake. Over there.
ANA MARIA. Ay!
QUIROGA. Now start moving very slowly. To and fro, to distract it. That’s it. Here snakey snakey… flickering your little tongue… here snakey snakey….
(QUIROGA takes machete and circles slowly round behind snake. Just as it darts at him he slashes down on it.)
ANA MARIA. Ahhhhh!
QUIROGA. Yarará. Poisonous bastard. Perhaps that’ll teach you, my love. I’ll clean it up in the morning. Unless of course it’s still alive… (Exit QUIROGA laughing)
ANA MARIA. In 1915, after five years of life with Horacio Quiroga in Misiones, Quiroga’s young wife Ana Maria killed herself by drinking sublimate of mercury, which was used in dilution as a disinfectant. Once you have swallowed mercury chloride there is nothing that can be done. It eats you from inside. The death of Ana Maria Cires took one week.
SCENE 10
NARRATOR. Ana Maria’s mother assumes charge of the children while Horacio returns to Buenos Aires. He secures a job in the Uruguyan Consulate-General, which he neglects in order to write. For five years he publishes more novels and collections of stories. Motorcycling is popular: he becomes a passionate motorcyclist. Now an author of some renown, with his own literary circle, he can be a dandy again. At the age of 45 he falls in love with a 17-year old neighbour, Ana María Palacio. Her parents are devout Catholics: they oppose the relationship. The writer and his disciple communicate by coded message and dead-letter box. Quiroga wants the young girl so much that he starts to dig a tunnel from his property to hers. In this he is given advice by another neighbour, an alcoholic Belgian engineer called Denis.
(Night. Enter QUIROGA and DENIS. QUIROGA carries a spirit lamp.)
QUIROGA. Here. Where they can’t see us. Her room is the one at the front of the house.
DENIS. Did you get the pit props?
QUIROGA. Yes, like you said. Treated.
DENIS. The termites eat them, you see. Even if you treat the wood, they’ll still eat them in the end. What’s she like?
QUIROGA. She’s an angel. I love her to distraction.
DENIS. You must do, mon vieux. What do you love about her?
QUIROGA. Her mouth.
DENIS. And how far in have you got?
QUIROGA. What?
DENIS. Into the tunnel.
QUIROGA. Just a couple of metres. It’s taken me two weeks. My back is killing me.
DENIS. Putting the props in as you go?
QUIROGA. Yes.
DENIS. Good. C’est gai, un tunnel. I love a good tunnel. God, I’ve built some tunnels in my time. Do you have any whisky?
QUIROGA. No.
DENIS. Cleaning alcohol?
QUIROGA. No.
DENIS. What about the spirit in that lamp? Come on, I’m thirsty.
QUIROGA. If you drink it we won’t have any light!
DENIS. I’ll fart fire for you. Allons, it can’t be any worse than your orange liqueur.
QUIROGA. You’ve got to help me with the digging. We need the light from the lamp, for God’s sake.
DENIS. What for? The house is empty. There’s nobody there.
QUIROGA. What?
DENIS. Didn’t I tell you? They’ve moved away. The hauliers came this morning.
QUIROGA. But – the tunnel –
DENIS. I should dig it anyway, mon ami. Interesting project. But by daylight would be best. Now if you’ll excuse me – (Grabs for the lamp.)
QUIROGA. Two weeks! My back!
DENIS. C’est la vie, mon cher. Such is life. Cherchez la femme. But I must say, you’re the first man I’ve ever known dig a tunnel to do it. (Lamp goes out)
SCENE 11
NARRATOR. The parents of Ana Maria Palacio take her away. The affair is ended. Three years later, when he is nearly fifty, Horacio marries another teenager. They have a daughter. It is not long before Quiroga begins to quarrel with his new wife. He is sacked from his consular job. The family moves to Misiones, back to the bungalow. By 1936 Horacio is 59. He has prostate problems. His two older children leave for Buenos Aires. So do his wife and daughter. He is left on his own in the bungalow he built. In 1937, in the Hospital de Clinicas in Buenos Aires, Horacio Quiroga is diagnosed with cancer of the stomach. As night falls on 18 February 1937, he buys rat poison containing hydrogen cyanide from a pharmacy and then either goes for a long walk around the city – there are differing accounts – or returns to the room. In the small hours of the 19th he takes cyanide and dies.
(Music: ‘Kichoruro’ by Washington Carrasco and Cristina Fernandez. Hold under)
QUIROGA. I lived in Uruguay and Argentina, mostly in the jungle bordering Paraguay, from 1878 to 1937. I wrote stories. People study these stories now: I am compared with Conrad for my heart of darkness, with Saki for my mastery of the form, with Poe for symbolism and with Thomas Hardy for doing violence to my characters. Hardy derived much pleasure from seeing women being hanged in Dorchester. He loved the rustle of their petticoats as they swung. My own particular interests were innocence and suffering.
SCENE 12
(Enter LECTURER.)
LECTURER. The first to be officially executed by cyanide gas was a Chinese gangster called Jon Gee in Nevada in 1924. Four wardens resigned rather than take part. Gee was strapped onto a chair in the chamber, next to a small window for witnesses who included news reporters and public health officials. Guards told him to “Brace up!” Gee appeared to lose consciousness in about five seconds, with his head continuing to nod up and down for six minutes. He was completely motionless after ten minutes. Doctors pronounced him dead, but did not ruffle his hair or conduct an autopsy on the body out of concern that some remaining gas could be released.
QUIROGA. Salto in Uruguay is where I was bom. My father was an official in the Argentine consulate. It is not known whether I hated him. Within a short time of my birth people close to me started dying. It is not known whether I hated them. Shooting and poisoning were the methods of the day: my father died in a shooting incident when I was still an infant. My mother married again. I did not hate my stepfather. When I was an adolescent he shot himself. I went to Paris, read de Maupassant, read Chekhov, read Baudelaire, smoked hashish and opium, and met many young men and women. It is not known whether I hated them. In 1900 I returned to Uruguay and started to write stories. A group of writers formed around me. It is not known whether I hated them. In an accident I shot one of them dead. I fled to Buenos Aires where I taught Spanish at a secondary school. I wrote stories for children, but it is not known whether I hated them. I went on an expedition to the Jesuit ruins in the jungle of north-eastern Argentina. The jungle fascinated me, its savagery, its implacability. The horror. I liked the horror. But I had to work in Buenos Aires: I taught for five years. There were girls all around me. I longed for them but it is not known whether really I hated them.
LECTURER. Today, five states authorize lethal gas as a method of execution. The condemned person is strapped to a chair in an airtight chamber, at the end of a long stethoscope that is monitored by a doctor outside. Below the chair rests a pail of sulphuric acid. The warden then gives a signal to the executioner who flicks a lever that releases crystals of sodium cyanide into the pail, and hydrogen cyanide gas is released. The prisoner is instructed to breathe deeply to speed up the process. Most prisoners, however, try to hold their breath. (Exit LECTURER.)
SCENE 13
QUIROGA. The jungle interested me. Young women interested me. Madness interested me.
NARRATOR. You wrote a story called ‘The Feather Pillow’, did you not?
QUIROGA. Yes.
NARRATOR. About a girl who marries an older man who will not unbend to her. He is remote, aloof. He locks her away in a house with statues and patios and immaculate white walls. He loves her but he cannot bear to be touched.
(Exit NARRATOR. Enter ALICIA pursued by JORDAN.
JORDAN. Alicia! Forgive me. It is just how I am.
(She turns to look at him)
I cannot bear it. Anyone. You’ve always known. I told you at the start.
(She turns away)
Our hearts may touch without our bodies touching. A pure love. We do not need a lot of fumbling and messiness.
(He approaches her)
You are thin. Each time I see you, you are thinner. I made this house for you, I chose the marble and the stucco, the wrought iron gates. I see you through them. Like a bird. You are beautiful. I worship you.
(He kneels)
I worship you. (Prompting her) You are a goddess.
ALICIA. I am a goddess.
JORDAN. You despise me.
ALICIA. I despise you.
JORDAN. You will crush me.
ALICIA. I will crush you.
JORDAN. Beneath your fine hard boot.
ALICIA. Beneath my fine hard boot.
JORDAN. I think perhaps….tonight. Tonight it may be possible. But there’s your influenza. You must get better first. (ALICIA bursts into tears, wants to throw her arms around his neck but he backs away.) We must not imperil – endanger – jeopardize your recovery. (She sobs. He moves off, and puts chairs together to form bed) You must rest. I am going out now. (Exit JORDAN.)
ALICIA, alone. I don’t want to rest. It frightens me. He frightens me too, sometimes, with his cruel eyes. Watching. (Shivers, draws shawl closer and looks round) Then he is out all day, at the morgue. He is Director. We have marble statues because he gets a good price from the stonemason. We have to have people to dinner – His Excellency the Mayor, his Excellency the Judge, His Excellency the Prison Governor. They are all excellencies. Jordan is an excellency too, he is an important man, with civic duties, such as attending executions. I always know when there is about to be one. He is more alive.
Hush little baby don’t you cry
For you know your mamma
Was bom to die
All my trials Lord
Will soon be over
The river Jordan is muddy and cold
Well it chills the body
But not the soul
All my trials Lord
Will soon be over
Too late my brothers
Too late but never mind
All my trials Lord
Will soon be over
All my trials Lord
Will soon be over
SCENE 14
(Enter JORDAN)
JORDAN. Please, Alicia, lie down. You must rest. You must get plenty of bed rest. I have brought the Doctor. Doctor?
(Enter DOCTOR, with bag)
Doctor, please tell my wife that she must rest.
DOCTOR. You must rest, señora.
JORDAN. She must relieve the strain on her pretty ankles.
DOCTOR. On her ankles.
JORDAN. And her slim waist.
DOCTOR. And her waist.
JORDAN. And her so oh so haunted eyes.
DOCTOR. On her eyes. (Alicia lies down and they stand either side of her)
JORDAN. The ghosts of a thousand births. Womankind, splitting and peeling down the ages, discarding the husk man. She looks ill.
DOCTOR. She looks ill.
JORDAN. She is ill.
DOCTOR. She is ill.
JORDAN. She looks grave.
DOCTOR. She looks grave.
JORDAN. She is grave.
DOCTOR. She is grave.
JORDAN. She looks dead.
DOCTOR. She looks dead.
JORDAN. She is dead. Lift! (They levitate her with the aid of an unseen lifter under the bed, and put her down again.) You must examine her.
DOCTOR. Must I?
JORDAN. Yes. Give her a thorough examination. Inside and out. Leave no stone unturned.
DOCTOR. Very well.
JORDAN. I shall be in my study. Take her in the bathroom and disrobe her. Examine her with spatulas and instruments of steel. Your instruments are of steel, I take it?
DOCTOR. Hardened steel, sir.
JORDAN. Good. She is a sick woman, doctor, and sickness must be extirpated. Extirpate her.
DOCTOR. Yes sir.
JORDAN. Then she must go to bed.
DOCTOR. Bed.
JORDAN. She is pale. Thin. She needs plenty of bedrest. Confine her to bed. I shall watch over her.
(The DOCTOR puts ALICIA into bed.)
You may go. Come back later with the instruments. (Exit DOCTOR . JORDAN paces up and down. His heels click. Enter QUIROGA to play him: exit JORDAN. I hope my footsteps don’t bother you, my dear. (His footsteps seem to grow louder) There is nothing to fear. I shall remain here watching you. My eyes shall be always upon you. You are so helpless. You can hardly move, can you not? Even if you wished to struggle, you would barely have the strength to cry out. You are defenceless. For the moment you loll in a monstrous lethargy, you stare from side to side. You are a poor, weak woman, you are poorly, you are weak. As time goes on you will become weaker still. Later there will be hallucinations. You will see beasts in human form. You will scream, or at least you will try to. And I shall be here, my love, to help. (JORDAN draws the curtains) Now, see, the curtains are drawn. The devil is kept outside, is he not? Unless the devil is already inside. Unless he’s there, watching, from a crack in the floorboards. Unless he’s under the bed. Unless he’s in the bed with you.(ALICIA moans) Cast out the devil, my child! The devil is in us all!
(Blackout. Thunder. ‘Evil Seed’ by Pentagram. Lightning reveals QUIROGA standing over ALICIA. Rainstorm. Parrot call. Drip.)
SCENE 15
NARRATOR. ‘Honey from the Woods’, a short story, 1911. He was a young man, of an age to have one last fling at life, like a groom the night before the wedding. So he went into the jungle on his own. He knew about the Correction, a column of ants, a terrible all-destroying wave of ants that devoured every living thing in its path, leaving only cloth and bones. He went into the jungle, and in a tree he found some honey, and he enjoyed eating the honey. Soon afterwards, however, he grew lethargic, and found it harder and harder to move. The honey he had eaten was made by bees from flowers which had narcotic properties. He was paralysed but fully conscious when the Correction came. They swarmed over his eyes, up his nose, into his mouth, his lungs, like a tide of acid. They left only cloth and bones.
HORACIO. ‘Adrift’, 1912. A man is bitten by a snake in the jungle. He knows he must get help. He finds a boat and heads downriver. On passing the house of his colleague Alves, he goes ashore, but Alves isn’t there to help him. He begs for cane spirit, it has no effect, he gets back in the boat. Agony is starting to spread throughout his body. The sun beats down on him. He loses his grip on the oar. The boat spins downstream, adrift, the man’s mouth and eye are open.
NARRATOR. ‘The Headless Chicken’, 1909. A pretty little girl has some retarded brothers. Their mother slits the gizzard of a chicken. They see her do it. The mother goes away. The brothers look at the girl’s throat. They look at the knife. The mother comes back. She screams.
(ALICIA screams)
QUIROGA (to ALICIA in the bed). Paralysed by honey, paralysed by poison, paralysed by fear, paralysed by sickness. The universe is not a pleasant endeavour, my child. Some of us have suffered from it. There are those of who know that you can only defeat the cruelty of fate by being just as cruel. Perhaps, my dear, you were… not cruel enough. (ALICIA moans.)
NARRATOR. ‘The Artificial Man’, 1910. Three eminent scientists create a man. He lies inert on the slab. They need to shock him into life, so they bring in a passer-by, connect him to the creature, and tear out his fingernails.
QUIROGA. Enough! Alicia is weaker still this morning. Call the doctor.
NARRATOR. Why did you go out and build in the jungle? What could you do there? And who did you do it to?
QUIROGA. I did it to no-one.
NARRATOR. You were very competent with your hands. You built a tunnel to get at a girl you wanted. It would not be surprising if they found a dungeon somewhere near your house, with photographic equipment. You were sick.
QUIROGA. I was not.
NARRATOR. Thank you. No further questions.
QUIROGA. Now wait a minute.
NARRATOR. Oh yes, there is one. – Do you recognize this? (NARRATOR produces bundle of papers.)
QUIROGA. I’m not sure.
NARRATOR. Letters. In your hand, signed by you, to a male friend. Here’s one about your fiancee. ‘The poor girl has a magnificent mouth, despite her stupid ideas of modesty’. These ideas clearly frustrate you, for you add ‘There is a servant girl here, and we take turns at her behind, in broad daylight and preposterous excitement.’ Preposterous?
QUIROGA. Pah. Mere teenage braggadocio.
NARRATOR. Lies, or true?
QUIROGA. I don’t recall.
NARRATOR: What drugs were you taking at the time?
QUIROGA. I never took drugs.
NARRATOR. You wrote about taking drugs!
QUIROGA. Fiction. All part of the narrative.
NARRATOR. On your ill-fated trip to Paris in 1900 you record in your journal that you had stocked up on cocaine and opium.
QUIROGA. For my asthma.
NARRATOR. For your asthma.
QUIROGA. Yes. How is yours?
NARRATOR. Writers do things when they write. To the public, to those they know, to themselves, to their characters. What were you doing with your writing, Horacio Quiroga? What did you do to your wife?
QUIROGA. Indeed, my wife. Alicia.
NARRATOR. Ana Maria.
QUIROGA. Alicia, whose skirts I have never lifted, whose alabaster thighs are but virgin territory to me. It is I who am to blame. I cannot bear to be touched. By anything…living. The story does not mention that I work in the morgue.
NARRATOR. The morgue?
QUIROGA. Yes. I am Su Excelencia the director. It is not easy. The bureaucrats are fighting. They want more staff, more resources. And the unions are flexing their muscles. We live in fear that they will get organized and engage in unprofitable strikes. I have to hold the ring in all this. And then when I get home I have to prise off this willing nymphet! Willing to me is not interesting. Unwilling holds many more possibilities. I would like her to be inert to me. Cold, but not yet stiffened.
NARRATOR. But what about Ana María?
QUIROGA. Alicia.
NARRATOR. Why did she not die instantly?
QUIROGA. Incompetence. She couldn’t even poison herself. Mercury chloride, I ask you.
NARRATOR. So is cyanide to be preferred?
QUIROGA. Infinitely.
NARRATOR. I see. Do you not regard suicide as a sin?
QUIROGA. Sin, virtue. Constructs. In life we are found wanting. Heaven is longterm planning, hell is instant gratification. Man is the only animal that knows it will die. When our minds got two eyes we fell from Grace.
NARRATOR. Do you feel split between them? These eyes?
QUIROGA. They watch each other.
NARRATOR. Do you hear voices?
QUIROGA. I hear yours.
NARRATOR. Every writer hears a narrative.
QUIROGA. Hah. I may be a psychopath, but I’m not a schizophrenic.
NARRATOR. Had you ever (coughs) experimented with hypnosis, Mr Quiroga?
QUIROGA. Hypnosis.
NARRATOR. Hypnosis, yes.
QUIROGA. I may have…dabbled.
NARRATOR. Successfully? Or with traumatic consequences?
QUIROGA. I don’t recall.
NARRATOR. You don’t recall. (Coughs) When you were young, what did you think you would become, ultimately?
QUIROGA. A ghost.
NARRATOR. A ghost?
QUIROGA. The world is full of ghosts, people who were once alive and now are dead. Their spirits walk abroad. There are those now living who will do the same, one day. Today’s schoolboy, tomorrow’s ghost.
NARRATOR. How will you haunt us?
QUIROGA. Words.
NARRATOR. Words? (Coughs)
QUIROGA. Words. You think you narrate me, but I narrate you. Your coughing will get worse. Meanwhile generations of schoolchildren will be taught my stories, and will eat the honey and be paralysed for the Correction. There will be nowhere safe, for the Feather Pillow will make them terrified of going to bed.
QUIROGA. All right, I’m coming. (SERVANT helps him into jacket) God, this is all I need. Has the Doctor been?
SERVANT. He came last night, señor.
QUIROGA. What did he say?
SERVANT. He said she was near the end.
QUIROGA. Did he say why she was screaming?
SERVANT. No, señor.
QUIROGA. Right. I can’t be long, there’s an execution today. Warrants to sign. (They go to the bed)
SERVANT. Señor! Sir!
QUIROGA. What?
SERVANT. On the pillow there. Stains. They look like blood.
QUIROGA. Where? (Bends over pillow) Good Lord. Move her head.
SERVANT. Sir, she’s cold. I think she–
QUIROGA. Move her head! (Goes to lift pillow. It is hard to move) Why is it so heavy? My God, what is this? (Tears pillow apart. Hairy insect legs appear, moving.) Aaargh, it’s a tic! A bloodsucking tic! It’s enormous!
SERVANT. (Backing off) Ay por Dios! (Exit SERVANT)
(QUIROGA strips off the pillow case and something suggesting an enormous bloated insect is part exposed. Thunder, lights flash. Something jumps off onto QUIROGA and he flings it into the wings.
QUIROGA. Aaargh!
(Enter NARRATOR)
NARRATOR. It was so swollen that its mouth could barely be distinguished. Night after night, ever since Alicia had taken to her bed, it had stealthily applied its mouth – its snout, rather – to her temples, sucking out her blood. The bite mark was almost imperceptible. At first, no doubt, the daily plumping of pillows had hindered its advance, but once the girl could no longer move, the suction of the beast was unrestrained. In five days, in five nights, it had emptied Alicia. These parasites that live on birds are usually quite small, but can in certain conditions grow to enormous size. Human blood is something they particularly favour, and it is not unusual to find them in a feather pillow.
SCENE 17
QUIROGA. The Devil is in us all. God is in us all. For there to be light, there must also be darkness. Life kills. Time discards. All there is, is how fiercely you can burn, and for how long. Before, beyond, beside, beneath, there is nothing. As you grow more intelligent, you will see. But first you must abandon hope. Nobody escapes from my prison.
NARRATOR. You’re a fiend!
QUIROGA. And you are only the story. I am the author. Your asthma got worse. (Fetches one end of very long stethoscope from behind triptych. Gets NARRATOR to hold it and then goes behind window to watch. NARRATOR coughs, collapses, dies) It drowns you, like cyanide. Leave the body and don’t ruffle its hair. (Comes from behind triptych and removes beard.) The end is upon us. That is the story of Horacio Quiroga, about whom we know only a few bare facts. We know he went into the jungle at the age of 24, and it changed him. What he wanted to do with his writing, we can only surmise. His stories are not for children. Nor was his life. He was wilful, and wanton, and jealous, and brutal; but he was also very brave. He spared himself none of the gaze he turned on others. He built with his hands, he struggled against the jungle, he knew its ways and wrote feelingly of Nature. His children loved him. His stories are among the best-known in the Spanish language. Perhaps he just grew on a blighted branch of the tree. Let us therefore forgive and forget Horacio Quiroga, who died a lifetime ago: may he rest in peace, and not end up a ghost as he might have predicted. Theatres are superstitious places, ladies and gentlemen, so after each performance of ‘The Feather Pillow’ we finish by exorcising the house, cleansing it and freeing it from any unwelcome resonance. (Lights four candles in row from upstage to downstage.) If you would like to, perhaps you could all hold hands and look at any one of these lights. We call to the memory of Horacio Quiroga. (Snuffs upstage candle.) We come in peace to the world of the departed and the still-to-be-bom, from out of time temporal to time immemorial. (Snuffs downstage candle.) We call to the memory of Horacio Quiroga. writer, born Uruguay, died Argentina. (Snuffs upstage candle.) If there is anybody there, please send us a sign. Is there anyone there? (Silence.) For the last time, we call to the memory of Horacio Quiroga. Is there anyone there?
(Silence. Huge live thump from behind audience. Eg of two hollow tree trunks. Should be like a huge hand banging on a huge door)
Are you the spirit of Horacio Quiroga, author of ‘The Feather Pillow’?
(Pause. Thump.)
We come in peace from the land of time now, to the world of time always. We speak to you, Horacio Quiroga, from the country of your birth, three-quarters of a century after your death. Your stories are still read, and admired, by many who feel your suffering. We wish you to be free of it. If you in turn no longer wish us to be frightened of death, and our children frightened of the bedroom, give us a sign.
(Thump.)
We hear your sign, Horacio Quiroga, born Salto 1878, died Buenos Aires 1937. (Cast start humming: Kumbaya) You can pass now. We lay you to rest. You had a tragic life: those around killed themselves. We choose to believe that this was not because you were a psychopath, and cared not whether they lived or died, but because they came from a blighted branch of the tree, like you. No man is entirely master of his fate. Forgive us, as we forgive you, Horacio Quiroga. May you leave this place of in between, and go to your rest. Be at peace with yourself. From the hearts of all that love you, we summon goodness and beauty to lead you to the light.
ALICIA (rising from deathbed)
Kumbaya my Lord
Kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord
Kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord
Kumbaya
Oh Lord Kumbaya
(NARRATOR gets up and joins in)
Someone’s cryin Lord
Kumbaya
Someone’s cryin Lord
Kumbaya
Someone’s cryin Lord
Kumbaya
Oh Lord Kumbaya
(HORACIO enters and joins in)
Someone’s singin Lord
Kumbaya
Someone’s singin Lord
Kumbaya
Someone’s singin Lord
Kumbaya
Oh Lord
Kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord
Kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord
Kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord
Kumbaya
Oh Lord Kumbaya
Kumbaya
(Blackout. Rumble, grows, lights up slowly on triptych, rumble grows louder, triptych starts to tremble and shake, vase starts rocking, topples, falls… and is caught by ALICIA. Lights up for curtain call. During call she replaces vase.)
(Lights suddenly down, clap of thunder, spotlight on vase, rumble, climax, vase is hurled to floor and smashed.)
Click here for exit music
END
QUINTIN’S HILL
Length: 30 mins
This play was first performed as a reading
at the Anglo-Uruguayan Cultural Institute,
Montevideo, on 26 November 2015
QUINTIN’S HILL
A Play for Voices
Cast in Order of Speaking
MAIN ROLES in capitals, subsidiary parts
or possible doubles in lower case.
For a cast of four, voice number in column 1
(Voices 1-3 Male, 4 Female)
1 Sergeant-Major Edinburgh accent 40s
2 Officer Standard received 50s
4 MRS MEAKIN Carlisle accent 30s
2 GEORGE MEAKIN Carlisle accent 30s
1 Soldier 1 Edinburgh accent 20s
4 Frederick Standard received 20
3 JUDGE Standard received 60s
2 Soldier 2 Edinburgh accent 20s
1 TINSLEY Yorkshire accent 30s
2 Edwards Standard received 20s
2 Gordon Carlisle accent 50s
4 Singer Scottish accent 20s
Rowdy male singing
Screams
SCENE 1 STATION, NIGHT
FX: ‘FLOWER OF SCOTLAND’ ON LONE BAGPIPE, HOLD UNDER. BOOTS MARCHING, HALTING. DISTANT HEAVY ARTILLERY. OWL HOOT. STEAM ENGINE STARTS TO MAKE STEAM: SOLITARY BLAST.
SERGEANT-MAJOR (1): By the right, halt! Stand at – ease. (STEAM BLAST). All right lads, welcome to Larbert Station. ‘ A’ company, train 1. Leaves 3.45am. ‘B’ company, train two, leaves 4.15. Don’t worry lads, the enemy will wait. Horses and kit in train three. Make sure you’re carrying gas masks and helmets. Eyes… right! Aten-shun! Half battalion, 7th Scots Guards, all present and correct, Sir!
OFFICER (2): Thank you Sarn’t Major. At ease.
SERGEANT-MAJOR: Stand at – ease!
OFFICER: How many are we?
SERGEANT-MAJOR: 485 Sir.
OFFICER: All fit?
SERGEANT-MAJOR: Fit as fit could be, Sir.
OFFICER: No more training. No more Stirlingshire. This is it.
FX: HORSE SNORTING
Do they know where we’re going, Sarn’t Major? After Liverpool?
SERGEANT-MAJOR: The word is Dardanelles, Sir.
OFFICER: Hmm. Do you know where that is?
SERGEANT-MAJOR: (PRUDENTLY) No, Sir.
OFFICER: Turkey, Sarn’t Major. Gallipoli. We’re going to Troy. The Trojan Horse, remember?
SERGEANT-MAJOR: Trojan Horse. Is it a regiment, Sir?
OFFICER: Oh, never mind. Well, looks like a lovely morning for it. I’ll be in the back of the train. Carry on.
SERGEANT-MAJOR: Aten-shun!
FX: BOOTS STAMP AS ONE. TWO STEAM BLASTS. ‘FLOWER OF SCOTLAND’ DOWN
SCENE 2 PIGEON LOFT IN GEORGE MEAKIN’S HOME
FX: PIGEONS ROOSTING
MRS MEAKIN (3): George Meakin! Are you coming down or not?
MEAKIN (2): Aye, just checking the birds.
FX: FOOTSTEPS GOING UP LADDER. UP SOUND OF PIGEONS
MRS MEAKIN: You should spend less time with those pigeons.
MEAKIN: (CLOSE) Yes, and win no medals. (LOUDER) This last race carries a prize of ten guineas.
FX: LATCH OPENING. PIGEON BEING PICKED UP
Come on, you beauty.
MRS MEAKIN: What are you doing?
MEAKIN: Widowing her.
MRS MEAKIN: What?
MEAKIN: Widowing her. Taking away her bairn and her mate. So when she flies in the race she’ll be in a hurry to get back.
MRS MEAKIN: Poor wee thing.
MEAKIN: Ach, she loves it. She can win. We’ll know by Saturday.
MRS MEAKIN: Ten guineas…
MEAKIN: Everyone in the signalbox has backed her. The result will be in The Racing Pigeon. Jimmy Tinsley’ll get it from the guard of his train on Saturday. He’ll give it to me when he clocks on at 6.30.
MRS MEAKIN: Has Jimmy backed her too?
MEAKIN: Yes. Jimmy Tinsley’s bet all his savings. More than he can afford to lose. His money is safe, though. This little beauty’s going to win.
FX: PIGEON COOING AS IT IS HANDLED
MRS MEAKIN: So is Jimmy replacing you on Saturday?
MEAKIN: Aye, he’s on days.
MRS MEAKIN: But shouldn’t he clock on at 6, not 6.30?
MEAKIN: We’ve been doing it for years. Half an hour a day, woman, it makes a difference. It gives us an extra while in bed.
MRS MEAKIN: You’ll get the sack.
MEAKIN: Whisht! I can cope. We know the system. After six I keep the log on scrap paper and he copies it in the book when he gets there. Don’t fret yourself.
FX: PIGEON PUT BACK, LATCH SHUT
MRS MEAKIN: Ten guineas…will you let me know?
MEAKIN: I will. If I’m not coming straight home I’ll take a bird with me and send her back. The white one.
FX: FOOTSTEPS GOING DOWN LADDER
Either way, you’ll know by breakfast.
SCENE 3 TROOP TRAIN, PUBLIC COMPARTMENT, INT
FX: UP ‘FLOWER OF SCOTLAND’, ENDING. STEAM TRAIN GATHERS SPEED. INSIDE COMPARTMENT)
SOLDIER 1 (1): I’m the corporal, I get the corner seat. Budge up, MacLeod.
SOLDIER 2: But these seats are for three!
SOLDIER 1: Aye, and there’s four of us. What d’you expect, there’s a war on. Put your rifles under the seat. So as I was saying, there was this corporal Bull, Stanley Bull, and his wife was a real terror. Known throughout the regiment. She came looking for him in the mess hall one day. Threw open the door and said ‘Is Stan Bull in here?’ And someone said, ‘No, it’s in Turkey!’
FX: LAUGHTER, FADES UNDER SOUND OF TRAIN
SCENE 4 TROOP TRAIN, PRIVATE COMPARTMENT, INT
FX: TRAIN RATTLES ON. MUSIC, ‘AE FOND KISS’, UNDER
FREDERICK (3): (YOUNG OFFICER WRITING LETTER) Dear Mother, this is my first letter to you as a Lieutenant. Lieutenant Frederick Carrington! It’s four in the morning and we’re all on a train. I’m not allowed to tell you where to. No-one can sleep. After all these months of training, the men are raring to go. Colonel P gave them a talk before we left barracks, about how this expedition – there, I’ve told you it’s an expedition – will change the course of the war. It’s going to be such an adventure, Mother, I’m so proud to be part of it. And headquarters staff! We’re in the first train. I’ll post this as soon as I can, but I don’t know how good the mail will be once we’re out there. Colonel P has lent me his copy of Homer. There’s a clue for you! Give my love to the girls, and an extra stroke to Dodger. Thank you for the cake. Affectionately, your very own, Frederick.
PS Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right – promise!
FX: FADE DOWN ‘AE FOND KISS’
SCENE 5 TROOP TRAIN
FX: RATTLE OF STEAM TRAIN AT SPEED
SOLDIER 1: And the day after she sank, this polar bear went into the P & O office and said, ‘Is there any news of the iceberg?’ (Laughter.)
SOLDIER 2: Istanbul’s Turkey, isn’t it? Colonel Peebles says we’re going to Turkey. Says we’re going to fight the Trojans.
SOLDIER 1: I thought it was France.
SOLDIER 2: Turkey.
SOLDIER 1: Frogs, Turks… Bring ‘em on, says I. We’ll show ‘em.
FX: RATTLE OF WHEELS. TRAIN HOOTS
SOLDIER 2: Hey, this is going a bit fast, isn’t it? Ropey old train like this…
SOLDIER 1: Trying to make up time. Don’t fret yourself.
FX: TRAIN LURCHES, CASES FALL OFF RACKS, TRAIN HOOTS TWICE, WHEELS RATTLE ON
SCENE 6 COURTROOM
FX: GAVEL RAPS THREE TIMES
JUDGE: The court of history is now in session. Call the first witness. (TINSLEY steps up) State your name, age and profession.
TINSLEY: James Tinsley, 32, signalman.
JUDGE: For how long have you been a signalman?
TINSLEY: Eight years.
JUDGE: And at Quintinshill?
TINSLEY: Five and a half.
JUDGE: Where are you from?
TINSLEY: Yorkshire.
JUDGE: When did you die, Mr Tinsley?
TINSLEY: 1967.
JUDGE: I see. You had to live with this for 52 years?
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: What did you do after the crash?
TINSLEY: They let me back as a porter, then a lampman. Up ladders checking lights.
JUDGE: But in 1915 you were working in Quintinshill signalbox. Mr Tinsley, what would you say a signalman does?
TINSLEY: Keeps the track clear for trains.
JUDGE: And safe?
TINSLEY: Safe, yes. Clear is safe.
JUDGE: What do you do when a fast train comes up behind a slow one, Mr Tinsley? When there are only two railway tracks beside each other, one up and one down?
TINSLEY: We move the slow train over to the other track. To let the fast one through.
JUDGE: I see. Onto the other side of the road, as it were. In the hope that there is no oncoming traffic.
TINSLEY: No, not the hope. We can make the oncoming traffic wait.
JUDGE: If you remember to tell them. (Silence) On the morning of Saturday, 22 May 1915, what time did you come on duty?
TINSLEY: Half past six.
JUDGE: 6.30 exactly?
TINSLEY: 6.32.
JUDGE: Yet you signed the register in the box as taking duty at 6 AM.
TINSLEY: Yes. It was what we did at Quintinshill between my mate and myself. So we didn’t have to get up so early in the morning. (As if reading) This was done without the knowledge of the District Inspector or of the District Superintendent of Caledonian Railways.
JUDGE: How did you keep this arrangement from the authorities?
TINSLEY: My mate George was usually on at nights – he liked that because his wife ran a pub. He wrote down the log on scrap paper after 6, and I copied it in the book when I got there.
JUDGE: Where did you live, Mr Tinsley?
TINSLEY: Gretna.
JUDGE: A mile and a half away. How did you get to Quintinshill?
TINSLEY: In the cab of the local train. We called it the Parly.
JUDGE: Why?
TINSLEY: I don’t know. Something to do with an act of Parliament that made a cheap train run every day.
JUDGE: Were you allowed to ride in the cab of this train?
TINSLEY: No. Not without a permit. But I knew the driver.
JUDGE: So you left Gretna late every morning. What was your address?
TINSLEY: Railway Cottages.
JUDGE: Where your immediate superior also lived?
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: And yet nobody noticed you leaving late for work, all those years?
TINSLEY: No.
JUDGE: Hmm. So on the morning of the 22nd you got down from the footplate of the local train, the ‘Parly’, and entered Quintinshill signal box at 6.32.
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: The train you had just got off was some 60 yards from the box. In full view.
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: Were you carrying anything?
TINSLEY: My sandwich tin and the newspaper.
JUDGE: Who was in the signal box when you mounted the steps?
TINSLEY: My mate George that I was relieving and a guard from another train.
JUDGE: Three people in all? Followed later by a fourth?
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: Was there not a rule that signalmen should work alone in a box?
TINSLEY: Rules! There were rules for everything. But people had to go in to sign registers and that. Some signalmen liked a bit of company. Quintinshill was an isolated box. Crews being held nearby would drop in for a chat. Especially early morning.
JUDGE: Why?
TINSLEY: It was when there were lots of trains coming through. More of them waiting. Chance to catch up on news of the War.
JUDGE: So you arrived in the middle of all this, to take over. What did you do first?
TINSLEY: I relieved George Meakin. He told me what trains were coming. I gave him his paper and he sat down straight way to read it. The other lads gathered round.
JUDGE: What did you do?
TINSLEY: I gave the ‘line clear’ signal to a fast train, an overnight sleeper from Euston. Then I started copying all the train movements off the scrap paper into the log. Since 6, when I should have come on.
JUDGE: You gave the ‘line clear’ signal to a sleeper from the South. And then you gave the ‘line clear’ signal to a troop train from the North.
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: With the train you had just left, the Parly, standing in the way of the troop train.
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: Why, Mr Tinsley?
TINSLEY: I forgot. There was a lot going on in the signalbox. I was upset.
JUDGE: Why were you upset?
TINSLEY: I hadn’t slept well.
JUDGE: Why not?
TINSLEY: I don’t know.
JUDGE: Did you have some kind of blackout?
TINSLEY: No. – Yes, I may have had an epileptic fit. The doctors weren’t sure.
JUDGE: The Company doctors?
TINSLEY: Yes. No – other doctors too.
JUDGE: Did you lose consciousness?
TINSLEY: No. I was all right. I forgot.
JUDGE: Did anyone else forget?
TINSLEY: Yes. Meakin had let the Parly come on, and an empty coal train, but he hadn’t told them further up the line.
JUDGE: Was there a safety device that would remind you both not to let anything through?
TINSLEY: There were things called lever collars. When you had a train backed up you were supposed to put a collar on the lever to remind you the train was there.
JUDGE: Had Meakin done this?
TINSLEY: No. We never did.
JUDGE: Why not?
TINSLEY: It wasn’t necessary.
JUDGE: So what did you do instead?
TINSLEY: We just told each other.
JUDGE: Did your employers know that the lever collar procedure was not followed?
TINSLEY: No. This was done without the knowledge of the District Inspector or of the District Superintendent of Caledonian Railways.
FX: STEAM TRAIN AT SPEED, UP SLOWLY, HOLD UNDER
JUDGE: I see. So while you were standing at the register copying in the entries, the troop train was approaching at speed from the North. Meakin was at the far end of the box reading the newspaper and the others were gathered round him. Did they talk to you?
TINSLEY: They were talking about the paper.
JUDGE: Did you look at the paper?
TINSLEY: I never saw a paper that morning.
JUDGE: Yet had you not brought it to the box?
TINSLEY: I never saw a paper that morning.
JUDGE: Did you get any information as to what was in the paper?
TINSLEY: The only information I got in connection with the paper was when my mate said, ‘There’s not much war news this morning’.
JUDGE: Yes. That was correct, there wasn’t. More Zeppelin raids on the East Coast… some agreement with the Tsar of Russia. Nothing from the Front. So what did the other men discuss?
TINSLEY: I… I don’t know. I was busy.
JUDGE: When you had finished with the register, what did you do?
TINSLEY: I went to join the others.
JUDGE: To do what?
TINSLEY: I don’t know, to see what was going on.
JUDGE: Where?
TINSLEY: In the war.
JUDGE: But there was not much news.
TINSLEY: Yes. No. I don’t recall. I’ve told you, I was upset, I hadn’t slept.
JUDGE: And then what?
TINSLEY: Then… then… THEN THERE WAS THE SMASH!
FX: APOCALYPTIC TRAIN CRASH
SCENE 7 QUINTINSHILL SIGNALBOX
(Enter MEAKIN)
MEAKIN: Whatever have you done, Jimmy?
TINSLEY: Good heavens! What can be wrong? The frame’s all right and the signals are all right.
MEAKIN: You’ve got the Parly standing there!
TINSLEY: There’s wreckage everywhere.
MEAKIN: And the sleeper’s coming up from the South…
FX: SECOND TRAIN CRASH
TINSLEY: (INTO PHONE) …Is that Gretna? We’ve had a smash up here. Send for the platelayers, send for the stationmaster, send for everybody!
SCENE 8 COURTROOM
FX: GAVEL RAPS THREE TIMES
JUDGE: Silence in court. Call George Meakin. (MEAKIN steps up) State your name, age and profession.
MEAKIN: George Illsley Latham Meakin, 31. Of the Maxwell Arms Hotel, Springfield, Gretna. Signalman.
JUDGE: For how long had you been a signalman?
MEAKIN: Ten years.
JUDGE: And how many of those at Quintinshill?
MEAKIN: Four. I’d also been there for two years before.
JUDGE: When did you die, Mr Meakin?
MEAKIN: 1957.
JUDGE: Forty-two years after the crash. What did you do after 1915?
MEAKIN: The Company let me back in as an assistant guard. Then I set myself up as a coal merchant.
JUDGE: Where?
MEAKIN: At Quintinshill.
JUDGE: On the 22nd of May 1915, how many hours had you been on duty when the crash occurred?
MEAKIN: I wasn’t on duty. Jimmy was. I’d come on at eight o’clock the previous night.
JUDGE: And Tinsley relieved you half an hour late. When was the last signal you entered on the loose sheet, for Tinsley to copy into the book?
MEAKIN: 6.33.
JUDGE: Moving his train across to the other line?
MEAKIN: Yes.
JUDGE: Did you observe the rules as to the lever collar?
MEAKIN: No.
JUDGE: And you left an empty Welsh coal train obstructing the line as well. Did you not signal this?
MEAKIN: No.
JUDGE: Why not?
MEAKIN: Because my mate was in charge by then.
JUDGE: I don’t follow. You left the thing in the middle, and thought your mate would attend to a most important operation like that?
MEAKIN: He would understand what to do as well as me.
JUDGE: Wasn’t it your duty to complete the movement?
MEAKIN: There’s no rule to that effect. I’d never get finished if that were so.
JUDGE: What did you do when you were relieved by Tinsley?
MEAKIN: I sat down and read the paper.
JUDGE: Were you reading war news?
MEAKIN: Yes.
JUDGE: Was there important war news that morning?
MEAKIN: I don’t think there was anything very important.
JUDGE: Did you read the paper to Tinsley?
MEAKIN: No.
JUDGE: Did you discuss the war news with Tinsley?
MEAKIN: There would be a few remarks passed.
JUDGE: And there were two other people in the box. Had you made them sign in the book that they were present?
MEAKIN: No.
JUDGE: Was it not your duty to do so?
MEAKIN: Yes.
JUDGE: Did your employers know that Quintinshill signalbox was being used as a social meeting place?
MEAKIN: No. This was done without the knowledge of the District Inspector or of the District Superintendent of Caledonian Railways.
JUDGE: So at 6.50 on the morning of Saturday May 22nd 1915 the first collision occurred. There was a slight gradient. The troop train from the north steamed down it at 70 mph. It was elderly rolling stock, pressed into action for wartime. Twelve of its wooden carriages were gas-lit, with full tanks of pressurised oil gas from Julius Pintsch, Berlin, as used by German flame-throwers at the Front. It weighed 500 tons and was 215 yards long before it hit the Parly. Afterwards it was a third that length. The force of the impact threw the stationary train some 90 yards. Within seconds, soldiers started climbing out of the telescoped carriages. Many of them were on the line when the Euston express, steaming up from the south, struck them and the wreckage less than a minute later. Two other stationary trains were damaged, making five in total. Then everything caught fire. And all because the signalmen were reading war news. War news. Recall James TINSLEY. (TINSLEY steps up.) Your sandwich tin, Mr TINSLEY: What was with it?
SCENE 9 COURTROOM
TINSLEY: The newspaper.
JUDGE: Nothing else?
TINSLEY: Not that I recall.
JUDGE: And what was in the newspaper?
TINSLEY: I don’t know. I never saw a paper that morning.
JUDGE: Let us be clear on this. You had been given the newspaper by the driver of the Parly?
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: To give to Meakin.
TINSLEY: Yes.
JUDGE: So how can you claim you never saw a paper that morning?
TINSLEY: I meant I never looked in it.
JUDGE: Not even when you were on the Parly? Before you got to the signalbox?
TINSLEY: No.
JUDGE: What newspaper was it?
TINSLEY: The Daily Mail.
JUDGE: Did you join the rescue attempts after the crash, Mr Tinsley?
TINSLEY: No, I was needed at the signals.
JUDGE: So you were spared some of the more harrowing sights. The men decimated by slivers of flying wood, the charred trunks of small children, unidentified, the foot that was found at the end.
TINSLEY: (STRUGGLING) I saw what I saw. And heard, and smelled.
JUDGE: Did Mr Meakin join the rescue attempts?
TINSLEY: No. He went home. His shift was over.
JUDGE: He went home, when there were hundreds dead and dying before his eyes?
TINSLEY: He’d been on all night.
JUDGE: So he went home. But others did not. Call Dr Edwards. (EDWARDS steps up)
SCENE 10 COURTROOM
State your name, age and profession.
EDWARDS: Dr Edwards. 30. Surgeon at Carlisle Infirmary.
JUDGE: What was the first you knew of the rail crash, Dr Edwards?
EDWARDS: They called me from the Infirmary. They’d laid on a special train but it was quicker for me to drive straight to Quintinshill. I got there about an hour after the crash.
JUDGE: Had rescue efforts already started?
EDWARDS: Oh yes. The local people had come running straight away. A farm labourer, two farmers, the couple who ran the marriage registry in Gretna… they all pitched in, it was heroic. But the scene was carnage even when I got there. Bits of bodies everywhere, people trapped in the fire, screaming to be put out of their misery…
JUDGE: And were they?
EDWARDS: I believe so, yes. There was an officer with a pistol… they were dreadfully burned, it was the humane thing to do. One of the soldiers cut his own throat with a bayonet. It was awful. Worse than the Front.
JUDGE: What did you do?
EDWARDS: I was with a very brave doctor called Sheehan. Where someone was trapped we gave morphine and amputated.
JUDGE: In the fire?
EDWARDS: Between it. Sheehan crawled under the goods train looking for survivors. He found some soldiers in a pile and thought he might be able to save two of them, so he called for me. I had knives and a carpenter’s saw. It was like an enormous scrum of dead men – I played rugby, you see – and there were two gas cylinders. We were in a bit of a hurry because the flames had already reached the cylinders, and ammunition was exploding in the heat. Sheehan was making a chloroform mask but it caught fire. I cut through one man’s trousers and flesh and then used the carpenter’s saw. We got him out but his good leg was charred, poor fellow.
JUDGE: Did he live?
EDWARDS: No. He died a couple of hours later. 230 people died in all – 50 of them vapourised by the gas. 246 injured.
JUDGE: And the gas cylinders you had been working next to?
EDWARDS: They exploded.
JUDGE: And you?
EDWARDS: Well, the smoke and heat had got to me so I was out for a while. But then I felt better.
JUDGE: You are a brave man, Dr Edwards.
EDWARDS: No, no, not as brave as Sheehan. And the Royal Scots. They really were quite magnificent. There was no grumbling, and the locals were heroic. The farm labourer who got there first was a Trojan.
JUDGE: A Trojan.
EDWARDS: Yes, he just kept at it. There was a man travelling past in his car who kept ferrying the wounded to hospital, all day… and there was a scoutmaster who pitched in with his troop… what those poor lads must have seen, it was awful. Awful.
JUDGE: Thank you, Dr Edwards, you may stand down.
SCENE 11 COURTROOM
JUDGE: Recall James Tinsley. (TINSLEY steps up) Mr Tinsley, when you were arrested and brought before the Sheriff, a week after the crash, you broke down: you sobbed fitfully and your body shivered compulsively. Yet a month later you looked younger, fitter – a great deal better, in fact.
TINSLEY: Oh aye? Happen.
JUDGE: Had anybody been taking care of you after the crash? Your first wife, perhaps, or the Company at their premises in Caledonian Buildings in Carlisle?
TINSLEY: I don’t recall. What do you mean, my first wife?
JUDGE: Hannah. Whom the Company later employed in the cloakrooms at Carlisle station.
TINSLEY: I don’t recall.
JUDGE: Very philanthropic of the Caledonian to take you both back on the payroll after the crash.
TINSLEY: Maybe there was pressure from the Unions.
JUDGE: Ah.
TINSLEY: Look, I forgot. People do forget. But other people’s errors don’t matter so much.
JUDGE: You forgot.
TINSLEY: We all forget. With time. We move on.
JUDGE: History doesn’t forget.
TINSLEY: Oh yes it does. Ask the people who died in the flu epidemic after the Great War. More than in the war itself. Nobody remembers them.
JUDGE: Their deaths are recorded, with the cause of death. What was the cause of all your deaths, Mr Tinsley? What was in the newspaper, that so engrossed George Meakin and the others, and so distressed you that you forgot your train? Had there been some sort of bet that you all lost? Were you distraught even before the crash? Was there perhaps some form of racing journal inside the Daily Mail? The Racing Pigeon magazine, maybe. The Caledonian ordered all the pictures of pigeons in Quintinshill signalbox to be taken down after the accident. Following a private enquiry of their own. Is that what they were trying to hide? Come on, James, just tell the truth. This is your chance to set the record straight.
(PAUSE)
TINSLEY: What record?
JUDGE: The official record. For the sake of those you killed.
TINSLEY: (CRACKING) Record! You think this is a bloody record.
JUDGE: What?
TINSLEY: All of you, with your wigs and your robes and your vested interests. What the hell do you know about what really happened? You just want your salaries and your official history.
MEAKIN: Jimmy…
TINSLEY: Epilepsy, that’ll do, that’ll get us off the hook. Pay the culprit to shut him up, make him a lampman – hah! As if, climbing ladders with epilepsy – edit the story, limit the damage, get the government to impose a news blackout. Bad for morale. The sinking of the Lusitania, carnage at Aubers Ridge… too many scandals already for Mr Asquith. Buy up the plates of any photographs and destroy them. If relatives sue the Company, pay them up to fifty quid, then contest. For the record. Whose bloody record?
JUDGE: History, Mr TINSLEY: truth.
TINSLEY: Truth! What the devil do you know. You’re not there that morning, in that sunshine, ruined, trying to do the book while everyone’s –
MEAKIN: Jimmy!
TINSLEY: I couldn’t think straight. Truth. What do you know. What does history know. For the record. Ask George Meakin, for the record, what happened when he knocked off and went home after the accident, instead of rescuing people.
MEAKIN: Jimmy, we agreed –
TINSLEY: Ask him whether it’s true that they ran out of beer in his wife’s pub, because of the crash, so he drove out to get some in such a hurry that he knocked down a small boy and killed him.
MEAKIN: I wasn’t driving!
TINSLEY: Ask him!
MEAKIN: I was the pillion passenger, Jimmy, for Christ’s sake –
TINSLEY: Ask him where he got the money to set up as a coal merchant after the war. Ask how much he got for not mentioning what was really going on that morning. Ask the Company men who wrote the dialogue. “Whatever have you done, Jimmy?” “Good heavens! What can be wrong?” Bloody hell! Ask the soldiers who went missing.
JUDGE: What soldiers?
TINSLEY: The ones who got out alive and took their chance to desert. You won’t find them in the history books. They slipped off your bloody pages, didn’t they. Not us though, we got stuck in page 1915 like dead flies. 1915. A hundred pages after Waterloo. Quintinshill, Britain’s worst railway disaster, read all about it. Buy the official history, three shillings and sixpence.
FX: KNOCKING
What do you know. What does anybody know. Ask the kids in Liverpool who saw the survivors arrive, and took them for prisoners of war, and pelted them with stones.
FX: MORE KNOCKING
SCENE 12 DOOR OF TINSLEY’S COTTAGE, EXT
GORDON: Mr Tinsley? I’m Chief Constable Gordon. I’m here with a doctor to take you to the Sheriff’s office in Dumfries.
TINSLEY: I’m coming. (To JUDGE) Here’s something for your record. Ask the historians about Gallipoli, and you know what you’ll find? Within two months that Battalion of the Royal Scots had been reduced from 1028 to 174. Nobody asks who killed them, in a bloody stupid infantry charge into heavy fire with no artillery cover. 854 of them. Because Intelligence got it wrong and because there weren’t enough shells. But no-one put the Army on trial. Or the Caledonian Railway Company. Numbers, casualties, facts, rules. So many rules you don’t stand a chance of remembering them. Then it’ll be your fault and not the Company’s. Procedures, registries, statistics.
GORDON: (Taking TINSLEY’s arm) Come along, Mr Tinsley, the ambulance is waiting.
TINSLEY: (Breaking free) Railway accidents in Britain in January 1915: Ilford, 1 Jan, 10 dead and 507 injured. Cause: signalman error. Woodley, 14 Jan, 19 injured. Cause: signalman error. Streatham, 23 Jan, one dead and 19 injured. Cause: stationmaster error. Kinsale, 28 Jan, 2 killed, 6 injured. Cause: driver error. As long as the error isn’t the Company’s. But no, that’s all right, the only error everyone remembers is ours.
GORDON: Come along now sir.
TINSLEY: We should have known better. That’s what they’ll say in a hundred years’ time. We should have known better. Well, they’re lucky. They’re Headquarters Staff, they travel in the rear of the train. They’ll never have to say what they would have done in our place. By the time they judge us there’ll be track circuiting, it’ll all be done by machines. But further up the road is Lockerbie, and further is Dunblane. That’s history for you. Go ahead, take me away. And you, make your record. State the charges. Gather the stones for pelting the prisoners of war. Take eight minutes for the jury to decide: send George Meakin down for eighteen months imprisonment, and James Tinsley for three years’ penal servitude.
JUDGE: Of which you both served about a year? Because there was a petition for your release?
TINSLEY: I served fifty-two years. Fifty-two years with that on your conscience. Everybody talking about you behind your back. The silence when you walk in the door of the Maxwell Arms. From the blacksmith and the farmers and the ones who gave evidence. What do you know. You and your history. One minute it’s six o’clock in the morning and the birds are singing and you’re walking out of your cottage into the sunlight, and the next it’s an hour later and you’ve got nothing. Nothing. Just blood on your hands. And shame. And everybody knows, and you feel their pity, this unforgiving pity. They’re all thanking God it wasn’t them. (GORDON takes his arm again) All right, I’m coming. I never said, I kept my word. I didn’t say!
FX: COTTAGE DOOR CLOSES, AMBULANCE STARTS UP
SCENE 13 COURTROOM
JUDGE: A moment’s silence. And then, perhaps, our descendants will forget these men, Tinsley the lampman who lived another half century, and Meakin the coal merchant who died in 1957, trading from Quintinshill sidings, right where the accident took place, for years after the war. A century will pass. The signal box will be demolished. Memories will fade. Which was Tinsley and which was Meakin? What was in that newspaper? Does it matter? Soldier’s wives will always weep. There will always be history. (JUDGE stands and comes forward. ‘Ae Fond Kiss’ up) But at Rosebank Cemetery, in Leith, by the communal grave, there will be a memorial to the 214 men who died as a result of Quintinshill.
(Enter MEAKIN)
MEAKIN: ‘In memory of officers, non-commissioned officers and men, 7th Battalion, the Royal Scots, Leith Territorial Battalion, who met their death at Gretna on May 22, 1915 in a terrible railway disaster on their way to fight for their country.’
JUDGE: Perhaps we will indeed forget signalmen James Tinsley and George Illsley Latham Meakin. They were only human. Perhaps the soldiers, too, were no more innocent than the poor signalmen, or the Caledonian Railway Company, which was merged into the London, Midland and Scottish in 1923; or the Generals, or the War ministers, or the whole train crash that is mankind: but the soldiers of the Royal Scots were going to do a brave thing, and they never left Scotland. In the darkness of this history we should remember them, and their brave rescuers. It only takes a small light to illuminate much darkness. They brought light, the doctors and surgeons and ploughmen and farmers: the folk of Gretna who came hurrying across the meadows to help, on a bright May morning, and found the fields of Flanders, as the folk of Waterloo had done a hundred years before. A hundred years from now, and perhaps two hundred, and three hundred, we should remember them.
SINGER. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be every joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
(From ‘Ae Fond Kiss’, by Robert Burns)
END