SPOKESMAN BOOKS
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Bertrand Russell Peace Foundation
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Catalogue
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Haditha Ethics - From Iraq to Iran?
The Spokesman, 91
These Are The Times
Trevor
Griffiths
This
short excerpt from Trevor Griffiths’ screenplay These
Are The Times: A Life
PAINE:
What is it?
MARTHE:
They call the people. I think there must be a danger.
Folk
call to each other in the streets. Paine looks out. When he looks back,
she’s gone. He scans the street for her. Thunder again. The bells dole out
their sombre meanings. He grabs his coat from the office.
Dusk.
Images of the moment around the city:
On
the Common,
Spring Fair slowly gives way to listening silence, a maypole swings slowly to
a stop. Men and women stare down on the summons, faces made grave by fear. A
large man wrestling a pig kneels up to listen; the pig’s teeth slice up at
him, blood gouts from his ear.
At
Dock Creek,
young swimmers, lads and lasses, stand in the settling water, arrested in
play. On the bush-lined banks, lovers and drunks lie in their separate
oblivions.
In
a Recruiting Tent,
a huge militia captain, Timothy Matlack, in the makeshift uniform of the
Philadelphia Associators, the semi-legal self-defence force paid for by the
City, stops to listen with the rest. A stocky Scots recruiter, James Cannon,
appears at the flap. The captain nods, moves out onto the Common.
The
State House Yard. Paine
hurries through the crowd converging on the State House.
People
walk fast, purposeful, concerned, without panic. Kids and dogs run on,
smelling excitement. Fine carriages arrive from the outskirts, clogging the
streets. Some way ahead, the State Yard’s already jammed; walls, trees,
roofs are being climbed for vantage. The bells begin to peal down to the one
high above in the State House. On its wide balcony,
Paine
heads for the Yard wall; gets a helping mitt from Matlack, the bear-like
militia captain, already up there. The streets behind them are choked with
people, standing, watching.
The
bell stops. Voices die. Paine checks the balcony figures. Robert Morris
arrives, brilliant in beaver coat, huddles to confer with others already out.
A gaunt ancient carrying the House Speaker’s ceremonial staff appears, a
second man in travel-stained dress in tow. More huddling. Unease begins to
seep through the waiting crowd. Voices lift here and there for news.
PAINE:
(To
Matlack) What
news, do you know?
The
militia captain doesn’t answer at once, busy contacting groups of men in the
Yard below, little nods, finger signals, waves of a grubby kerchief. We
recognize one of them: Cannon, the Scots recruiter.
MATLACK:
(Eventually;
not looking; hoarse) Uhunh.
But those buggers’re so scared up there, they’re bumpin’ into each
other, so it ain’t gonna be good. (Fast;
huge-voiced) FOR
GOD’S SAKE, LET’S
HEAR IT.
WE ARE GATHERED!
His
contacts in the Yard take up the call, spread it beyond. The balcony people
still appear unready to start, perhaps waiting for someone. Pressure grows
from below.
The
gaunt ancient HouseSpeaker steps forward abruptly, raises an arm for silence,
bangs his staff twice on the floor.
HOUSESPEAKER:
The Speaker of this House calls this meeting to order. May the good Lord guide
us. (Amens
stutter across the great crowd, as translations
below
trail the balcony English.) People
of Pennsylvania, ye’re summoned to hear a new-fetched letter from the
Congress of Massachusetts on recent happenings in that beleaguered and most
misfortunate colony. Our friend here have rode four days and nights fetching
it. I ask you to listen with your customary calm and fortitude, secure in the
knowledge that we ourselves face no present danger nor threat of one by these
events ... (Checks
a slip of
paper)
Mister
... (Relieved
to spot a tall, distinguished man hurrying out onto
the
balcony) Ah,
State President Dickenson.
The
crowd tenses as the grandees go into more huddles. House servants carry lamps
out, to light the crowded balcony. Paine scans the sombre Yard: spots his
print workers; the Baches; Mrs Downey; Aitken; Rittenhouse, his wife and two
young daughters; Will on a window ledge; and back to the captain.
PAINE:
What now?
MATLACK:
(Harsh)
...
That’s our State President, Half-Way Dickenson, he’s worried this ain’t
bein’ managed proper, he don’t want them rebel Massachusetts people
talking straight out to Pennsylvania folk, we might just get the Big Idea ... (Paine
frowns a question. The Captain grins, drops his
voice
to a hoarse whisper) Independence!
S’a word ye gotta whisper just now, ’less ye want yer neck stretchin’,
but it’s comin’, friend, it’s comin’ ...
HOUSESPEAKER:
(Backtracking)
...
Friends, let us first welcome President John Dickenson, who has an opinion to
set before you on behalf of Council ... (Boos,
cries of’ ‘No,
we will hear the news’ stop
him in his tracks. Another brief flustered consultation. Robert Morris steps
forward, lays a decisive word in Dickenson’s ear. The balcony accepts its
defeat) Very
well ... (The
swarthy
Massachusetts man steps forward again, letter in hand. Thunder, a
touch
more distant. The deep, straining silence resumes.) Mr
Revere ...
REVERE:
(Reading;
French Huguenot origins in the tough craftsman’s voice)
From
the Council, Congress and People of the colony of Massachusetts, to all
Americans:
We send hard news. Last Monday, April nineteenth, in the
forenoon,
at the town of Lexington, a body of some six hundred British
Regulars,
sent out under orders to disarm the people, being met on the
common
by a small band of townsfolk determined to defend their honour and
their
liberty, did, upon the command of their officers, deliberately take aim and
fire
upon that defenceless muster, leaving eight dead and many more wounded.
He
looks up from the page. He’s weeping. In the Yard below, people have begun
to pray, others hug their dear ones closer. Faces register the new gravity of
things. Paine’s is stunned, uncomprehending.
REVERE:
... What happened next, how townships were pillaged, old men, women, children
dragged onto the streets and publicly violated, houses burned and several
hundred Americans attacked and mutilated, we must needs leave for a later
occasion, in the hope that a few grains of truth may fill a whole barn with
justice ...
He
pauses again, to wipe his glasses and shield the paper from the sifting rain
just begun. In close up, Paine burns with the news, eyes chilled with the
dawning horror. Matlack chews on, impassive. Most folk stand whitely in the
rain, aghast, borne down. A blind old man, heavy Swedish accent, calls Is
he done? Someone
quietens him. Town lamplighters move around the edges of the vast throng,
lighting up. Torches flare here and there inside the crowd.
REVERE:
(Reading
on) ...
Fellow Americans, we ask these questions: If this be not Tyranny, how shall we
name it? And if this be not War, how shall it be called?
Fellow Americans, the crisis is come, the time to rise is upon us, and
the fate not of a colony but of a continent
hangs
on your answer. Signed, John Hancock, President, Sam Adams, John Adams,
Executive Members.
Revere
sniffs, blows his nose. Translation tails away. The balcony stands mute,
frozen in indecision, aware of the power of feeling below. Fragments of prayer
lift, fall: fear, grief, foreboding rise like steam from the silence. A
contact hands a flaming torch to Matlack, still by Paine on the wall.
REVERE:
... Made up a rough list o’ dead ’n’ wounded ...
VOICE:
... I got a boy there, town o’ Quincy. William Malley ...
Other
names are called; more. Revere turns to the balcony grandees for guidance.
REVERE:
Simpler if I just read them out ...
The
HouseSpeaker stands forward, bangs his stick. The names die away.
HOUSESPEAKER:
Calm yourselves, fellow citizens. I call now President ...
MATLACK:
(Big)
Let
their names be heard ...
HOUSESPEAKER:
... John Dickenson to the floor.
MATLACK:
(Full
fury) Shame
on your head. We are all
family
here, not a man murdered but we lose a brother.
The
HouseSpeaker clouts the balcony repeatedly with his stick. Dickenson waits
with demonstrated patience.
MATLACK:
What are ye up there? Americans? Or sacks of British snot dumped on us while
we sleep to keep us in our place?
HOUSESPEAKER:
(Over
the din) President
John Dickenson has the floor.
DICKENSON:
(As
things subside) Friends,
the agitator there who seeks to disturb our solemn meeting ... is, of course,
Mr Hothead Matlack. (Gentry
in the Yard
fill
the space he leaves them with hissing and calls of derision) The
name speaks for itself ...
MATLACK:
All ends against the middle, is it, Mr Half-Way bloody Dickenson?
The game’s up, man. Ye’ll see soon enough.
He
gives a shrill whistle, lips on teeth, drops down into the street, torch in
hand, headed off. Groups of working men begin to push out from the Yard to
follow, some of Paine’s printworkers among them. Paine watches, tense,
unsure: sees Rittenhouse leave his family abruptly, push after them.
DICKENSON:
(Soothing
tones) My
friends, as ye know, we seek peace and justice through negotiated settlement
with our British cousins ... And no bully may deflect us from our chosen path
...
Paine’s
eyes follow the exodus of Matlack’s people to a corner warehouse, where they
angrily regroup. Rittenhouse reaches them; begins to argue with Matlack,
restrain him. The Scots recruiter arrives, tries to mediate.
Paine
scans the warehouse block. Sees Marthe Daley, on a tea chest, face greasy with
tears, watching the balcony. He watches her until she sees him. A moment
between them, a graveness shared. She gets down, disappears into the crowd.
Paine looks back at the corner warehouse: the radicals are gone.
Dickenson
soothes on. Paine turns back to him.
DICKENSON:
... Fellow Pennsylvanians, like many here I’m but a simple farmer, but I do
know that He who made us will always heed the call of a troubled soul. (Pause)
I
ask the Reverend William Smith, Provost of our great college here, to lead us
in a final prayer.
Silence,
as translations tail away; the fat, creamy cleric waddles forward, bible in
hand, under a parasol borne by a black liveried slave. Approving nods from
other grandees, on the brink of another Balcony victory.
SMITH:
Let us pray. O Lord ..
The
old man’s voice sets up in Swedish from below, addressing the balcony. The
Speaker stands forward, bangs his staff, Dickenson restrains him: no danger
there. The old man talks stolidly on.
DICKENSON:
In English, if you please, sir.
YOUNG
WOMAN: (Swedish
in her English) My
papa say he came in from Lancaster for Spring Fair, he wanna know why we not
hear more ’bout these murderings ...
DICKENSON:
Well, I do believe we have dealt with them, tell him ...
The
old Swede speaks on.
YOUNG
WOMAN: ... He’s saying did our people give back fire or just stood for
shooting ...?
The
crowd lifts a little, behind the question. Revere stands forward again.
REVERE:
Yeah, we returned fire all right ...
He’s
checking his notebook.
YOUNG
WOMAN: My father’s asking how many we get?
REVERE:
Well, er, we think ’bout two hundred and seventy Redcoats killed ’n’ a
lot more hit.
Silence.
The crowd stirs, half lifted further, half more depressed. The old guy rattles
on.
YOUNG
WOMAN: My father thanks you, mister. Says he don’t like no-one shot an’ he
aint no scholar ... but he reckon if the British have a couple more victories
like this one, we’ll have them on their knees beggin’ for peace ...
Silence
for a while, as folk do their sums. Then a slow swell of chuckling laughter
sets up; applause. Faces gleam from the bright dark; grow slowly grave again.
Paine’s
face,watching, listening, finding himself at last at one with these people and
their purpose. Smith resumes the prayer. Paine again, his hand straying
unbidden to the wooden pen he carries as craft-sign on his lapel. He looks
down at the hand, the pen. Climbs from the wall. The prayer lards on. He
leaves.
Fade
sound. Bring up the sound of a side-drum, a slow solemn roll; over it,
Paine’s writing voice:
PAINE’S
VOICE: ... Whoever considers the unprincipled enemy we have to cope with will
not hesitate to declare that nothing but arms or miracles can reduce them to
reason or moderation, for they have lost sight of the limits of humanity ...
