Twist of Gold (3 page)

    
They eat the bread – he plays his fiddle: a gentle tune.
SEAN
offers him their water bottle.

    Thank you. Now if I’m not mistaken – and I’m not often mistaken – you’ll be the two the Captain has taken a shining to,
will you not? Looking after you, is he?

ANNIE:
Yes and he has our –

    
ANNIE
is about to tell
DONNELLY
the whole story about the torc, but
SEAN
interrupts.

SEAN:
To be sure.

DONNELLY:
And what might he have, now?

SEAN:
He has our best interests at heart, ’tis no more than that. I’ve to be up at first light to report to Mr Blundell. But don’t
tell the others, or they’ll be as jealous as dogs.

    
Beat.

DONNELLY:
Is that what it was? Well, let’s talk no more about it. Here hold this.

    
He hands
SEAN
his fiddle.

    Now, can you by any chance play the violin, Sean O’Brien?

SEAN:
What’s a vi-o-lin?

DONNELLY:
(Laughing.)
It’s the fiddle you’re holding in your hands.

SEAN:
Oh, a fiddle! Yes, of course! Well, no. I don’t know how to play it.

DONNELLY:
Then you shall learn, for I shall teach you.

SEAN:
But you make it sound so joyful.

DONNELLY:
It’s what’s in your heart that makes it sing, Sean – ain’t that right, Annie O’Brien?

ANNIE:
I haven’t an inkling of your meaning.

DONNELLY:
When I reach Boston that’s how I shall make my living.

SEAN:
How?

DONNELLY:
Teaching fiddle to every American who wants to learn. I know every Irish tune that has ever been written, or played – or has yet to be
thought of. It would be a privilege and a pleasure, Sean O’Brien, for me to teach you. And it would assist my prospects greatly if I could be practising my teaching on you during the
voyage.

SEAN:
Why thank you.

DONNELLY:
’Tis nothing. If I can teach someone as ignorant as you, then it will be good practice for the Americans!

ANNIE:
And what about me, Mister Fiddler? Can I not learn too?

DONNELLY:
Certainly not, young Annie O’Brien.

ANNIE:
And why not?

DONNELLY:
Sure we’ve only the one fiddle between the three of us. So instead, I shall teach you to dance.

ANNIE:
Why?

DONNELLY:
Because your toes twinkle!

ANNIE:
We have no money to pay for lessons, Mister.

DONNELLY:
Nor I none to pay you.

ANNIE:
Are you travelling on your own, Mister Fiddler?

DONNELLY:
Not any more! Not any more.

    
He plays another jig and
ANNIE
dances – everyone stomps – this segues into…

    
SEAN
on deck, scrubbing the timbers. The
CAPTAIN
and
MR BLUNDELL
watch.

SEAN:
Captain.

CAPTAIN:
Yes, my lad.

SEAN:
Captain: are you sure we should be cooped up below in steerage? Didn’t you give your word to Sergeant Will?

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

    
He proceeds to his cabin.

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

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

SEAN:
Mr Blundell?

    
SEAN
looks up at him.

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

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

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

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

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

SEAN:
The Captain?

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

    
And this segues back to…

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

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

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

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

DONNELLY:
And the Captain is a rogue.

    
ANNIE
and
SEAN
look at each other, bruised.

    He’ll have it under lock and key.

SEAN:
So how will we get it back?

ANNIE:
Steal the key!

DONNELLY:
No. Too dangerous.

ANNIE:
Then it’s hopeless.

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

ANNIE:
Can’t we?

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

SEAN:
So what do we do?

DONNELLY:
Nothing.

SEAN:
Nothing?

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

    
And he plays the fiddle, which segues into…

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

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

SEAN:
Hidden what?

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

SEAN:
Necklet?

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

SEAN:
I am
not
a tinker!

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

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

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

SEAN:
I did not steal it!

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

SEAN:
No. No!

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

MR BLUNDELL:
Do as the Captain says.

    
SEAN
looks at
MR BLUNDELL
ganging up on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CAPTAIN:
I have it! A perfect landfall.

    
SEAN
then sees a darkening cloud on the horizon.

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

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

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

    
The
CAPTAIN
hesitates.

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

MR BLUNDELL:
Ay, ay, Captain.

    
The storm brews.

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

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

    It’s on its way. Won’t be long now.

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

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

SEAN:
Below decks? We’ll drown!

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

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

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

    
DONNELLY
comes running too.

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

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

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

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

ANNIE:
Quick, Sean. Let’s follow!

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

ANNIE:
What?!

SEAN:
It’s our only chance.

ANNIE:
And you trust him?

    
There’s another crash from above.

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

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

    
Blackout.

    
Pause.

    
Calm after the storm.

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

SEAN
: Mr Blundell! Fiddler Donnelly?

    
Only the gulls reply.

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