THE SAME. RAINBARROW’S BEACON, EGDON HEATH [Night in mid-August of the same summer. A lofty ridge of heathland reveals itself dimly, terminating in an abrupt slope, at the summit of which are three tumuli. On the sheltered side of the most prominent of these stands a hut of turves with a brick chimney. In front are two ricks of fuel, one of heather and furze for quick ignition, the other of wood, for slow burning. Something in the feel of the darkness and in the personality of the spot imparts a sense of uninterrupted space around, the view by day extending from the cliffs of the Isle of Wight eastward to Blackdon Hill by Deadman’s Bay westward, and south across the Valley of the Froom to the ridge that screens the Channel. Two men with pikes loom up, on duty as beacon-keepers beside the ricks.]

OLD MAN Now, Jems Purchess, once more mark my words. Black’on is the point we’ve to watch, and not Kingsbere; and I’ll tell ’ee for why. If he do land anywhere hereabout ’twill be inside Deadman’s Bay, and the signal will straightaway come from Black’on. But there thou’st stand, glowering and staring with all thy eyes at Kingsbere! I tell ’ee what ’tis, Jem Purchess, your brain is softening; and you be getting too old for business of state like ours!

YOUNG MAN You’ve let your tongue wrack your few rames of good breeding, John.

OLD MAN The words of my Lord-Lieutenant was, whenever you see Kingsbere-Hill Beacon fired to the eastward, or Black’on to the westward, light up; and keep your second fire burning for two hours. Was that our documents or was it not?

YOUNG MAN I don’t gainsay it. And so I keep my eye on Kingsbere because that’s most likely o’ the two, says I.

OLD MAN That shows the curious depths of your ignorance. However, I’ll have patience, and say on. Didst ever larn geography?

YOUNG MAN No. Nor no other corrupt practices.

OLD MAN Tcht-tcht!—Well, I’ll have patience, and put it to him in another form. Dost know the world is round—eh? I warrant dostn’t!

YOUNG MAN I warrant I do!

OLD MAN How d’ye make that out, when th’st never been to school?

YOUNG MAN I larned it at church, thank God.

OLD MAN Church? What have God A’mighty got to do with profane knowledge? Beware that you baint blaspheming, Jems Purchess!

YOUNG MAN I say I did, whether or no! ’Twas the zingers up in gallery that I had it from. They busted out that strong with “the round world and they that dwell therein,” that we common fokes down under could do no less than believe ’em.

OLD MAN Canst be sharp enough in the wrong place as usual—I warrant canst! However, I’ll have patience with ’en and say on!—Suppose, now, my hat is the world; and there, as might be, stands the Camp of Belong, where Boney is. The world goes round, so, and Belong goes round too. Twelve hours pass; round goes the world still—so. Where’s Belong now? [A pause. Two other figures, a man’s and a woman’s, rise against the sky out of the gloom.]

OLD MAN [shouldering his pike] Who goes there? Friend or foe, in the King’s name!

WOMAN Piece o’ trumpery! “Who goes” yourself! What d’ye talk o’, John Whiting! Can’t your eyes earn their living any longer, then, that you don’t know your own neighbours? ’Tis Private Cantle of the Locals and his wife Keziar, down at Bloom’s-End—who else should it be!

OLD MAN [lowering his pike] A form o’ words, Mis’ess Cantle, no more; ordained by his Majesty’s Gover’ment to be spoke by all we on sworn duty for the defence o’ the country. Strict rank-and-file rules is our only horn of salvation in these times.—But, my dear woman, why ever have ye come lumpering up to Rainbarrows at this time o’ night?

WOMAN We’ve been troubled with bad dreams, owing to the firing out at sea yesterday; and at last I could sleep no more, feeling sure that sommat boded of His coming. And I said to Cantle, I’ll ray myself, and go up to Beacon, and ask if anything have been heard or seen to- night. And here we be.

OLD MAN Not a sign or sound—all’s as still as a churchyard. And how is your good man?

PRIVATE [advancing] Clk. I be all right! I was in the ranks, helping to keep the ground at the review by the King this week. We was a wonderful sight— wonderful! The King said so again and again.—Yes, there was he, and there was I, though not daring to move a’ eyebrow in the presence of Majesty. I have come home on a night’s leave—off there again to- morrow. Boney’s expected every day, the Lord be praised! Yes, our hopes are to be fulfilled soon, as we say in the army.

OLD MAN There, there, Cantle; don’t ye speak quite so large, and stand so over-upright. Your back is as holler as a fire-dog’s. Do ye suppose that we on active service here don’t know war news? Mind you don’t go taking to your heels when the next alarm comes, as you did at last year’s.

PRIVATE That had nothing to do with fighting, for I’m as bold as a lion when I’m up, and “Shoulder Fawlocks!” sounds as common as my own name to me. ’Twas—- [lowering his voice.] Have ye heard?

OLD MAN To be sure we have.

PRIVATE Ghastly, isn’t it!

OLD MAN Ghastly! Frightful!

YOUNG MAN [to Private] He don’t know what it is! That’s his pride and puffery. What is it that’ so ghastly—hey?

PRIVATE Well, there, I can’t tell it. ’Twas that that made the whole eighty of our company run away—though we be the bravest of the brave in natural jeopardies, or the little boys wouldn’t run after us and call us and call us the “Bang-up-Locals.”

WOMAN [in undertones] I can tell you a word or two on’t. It is about His victuals. They say that He lives upon human flesh, and has rashers o’ baby every morning for breakfast—for all the world like the Cernal Giant in old ancient times!

YOUNG MAN Ye can’t believe all ye hear.

PRIVATE I only believe half. And I only own—such is my challengeful character—that perhaps He do eat pagan infants when He’s in the desert. But not Christian ones at home. Oh no—’tis too much.

WOMAN Whether or no, I sometimes—God forgive me!—laugh wi’ horror at the queerness o’t, till I am that weak I can hardly go round the house. He should have the washing of ’em a few times; I warrant ’a wouldn’t want to eat babies any more! [A silence, during which they gaze around at the dark dome of the starless sky.]

YOUNG MAN There’ll be a change in the weather soon, by the look o’t. I can hear the cows moo in Froom Valley as if I were close to ’em, and the lantern at Max Turnpike is shining quite plain.

OLD MAN Well, come in and taste a drop o’ sommat we’ve got here, that will warm the cockles of your heart as ye wamble homealong. We housed eighty tuns last night for them that shan’t be named—landed at Lullwind Cove the night afore, though they had a narrow shave with the riding-officers this run. [They make toward the hut, when a light on the west horizon becomes visible, and quickly enlarges.]

YOUNG MAN He’s come!

OLD MAN Come he is, though you do say it! This, then, is the beginning of what England’s waited for! [They stand and watch the light awhile.]

YOUNG MAN Just what you was praising the Lord for by-now, Private Cantle.

PRIVATE My meaning was—-

WOMAN [simpering] Oh that I hadn’t married a fiery sojer, to make me bring fatherless children into the world, all through his dreadful calling! Why didn’t a man of no sprawl content me!

OLD MAN [shouldering his pike] We can’t heed your innocent pratings any longer, good neighbours, being in the King’s service, and a hot invasion on. Fall in, fall in, mate. Straight to the tinder-box. Quick march! [The two men hasten to the hut, and are heard striking a flint and steel. Returning with a lit lantern they ignite a blaze. The private of the Locals and his wife hastily retreat by the light of the flaming beacon, under which the purple rotundities of the heath show like bronze, and the pits like the eye-sockets of a skull.]

SPIRIT SINISTER This is good, and spells blood. [To the Chorus of the Years.] I assume that It means to let us carry out this invasion with pleasing slaughter, so as not to disappoint my hope?

SEMICHORUS I OF THE YEARS [aerial music] We carry out? Nay, but should we Ordain what bloodshed is to be it!

SEMICHORUS II The Immanent, that urgeth all, Rules what may or may not befall!

SEMICHORUS I Ere systemed suns were globed and lit The slaughters of the race were writ,

SEMICHORUS II And wasting wars, by land and sea, Fixed, like all else, immutably!

SPIRIT SINISTER Well; be it so. My argument is that War makes rattling good history; but Peace is poor reading. So I back Bonaparte for the reason that he will give pleasure to posterity.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES Gross hypocrite!

CHORUS OF THE YEARS We comprehend him not. [The day breaks over the heathery upland, on which the beacon is still burning. The morning reveals the white surface of a highway which, coming from the royal watering-place beyond the hills, stretched towards the outskirts of the heath and passes away eastward.]

DUMB SHOW Moving figures and vehicles dot the surface of the road, all progressing in one direction, away from the coast. In the foreground the shapes appear as those of civilians, mostly on foot, but many in gigs and tradesmen’s carts and on horseback. When they reach an intermediate hill some pause and look back; others enter on the next decline landwards without turning their heads. From the opposite horizon numerous companies of volunteers, in the local uniform of red with green facings,5 are moving coastwards in companies; as are also irregular bodies of pikemen without uniform; while on the upper slopes of the downs towards the shore regiments of the line are visible, with cavalry and artillery; all passing over to the coast. At a signal from the Chief Intelligences two Phantoms of Rumour enter on the highway in the garb of country-men.

FIRST PHANTOM [to Pedestrians] Wither so fast, good neighbours, and before breakfast, too? Empty bellies be bad to vamp on.

FIRST PEDESTRIAN He’s landed west’ard, out by Abbot’s Beach. And if you have property you’ll save it and yourselves, as we are doing!

SECOND PEDESTRIAN All yesterday the firing at Boulogne Was like the seven thunders heard in Heaven When the fierce angel spoke. So did he draw Full-manned, flat-bottomed for the shallowest shore, Dropped down to west, and crossed our frontage here. Seen from above they specked the water-shine As will a flight of swallows toward dim eve, Descending on a smooth and loitering stream To seek some eyot’s sedge.

SECOND PHANTOM We are sent to enlighten you and ease your soul. Even now a courier canters to the port To check the baseless scare.

FIRST PEDESTRIAN These be inland men who, I warrant ’ee, don’t know a lerret from a lighter! Let’s take no heed of such, comrade; and hurry on!

FIRST PHANTOM Will you not hear That what was seen behind the midnight mist, Their oar-blades tossing twinkles to the moon, Was but a fleet of fishing-craft belated By reason of the vastness of their haul?

FIRST PEDESTRIAN Hey? And d’ye know it?—Now I look back to the top o’ Rudgeway the folk seem as come to a pause there.—Be this true, never again do I stir my stumps for any alarm short of the Day of Judgment! Nine times has my rheumatical rest been broke in these last three years by hues and cries of Boney upon us. ’Od rot the feller; now he’s made a fool of me once more, till my inside is like a wash-tub, what wi’ being so gallied, and running so leery!—But how if you be one of the enemy, sent to sow these tares, so to speak it, these false tidings, and coax us into a fancied safety? Hey, neighbours? I don’t, after all, care for this story!

SECOND PEDESTRIAN Onwards again! If Boney’s come, ’tis best to be away; And if he’s not, why, we’ve a holiday! [Exeunt Pedestrians. The Spirits of Rumour vanish, while the scene seems to become involved in the smoke from the beacon, and slowly disappears.6]