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V 



I 



PATRIOTS 



PATRIOTS 

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 
BYSXENNOX ROBINSON 



BOSTON : JOHN W. LUCE & CO. 

DUBLIN & LONDON : MAUNSEL & CO., Ltd. 



Copyright 1912. Lennox Robinson. 
All fights reserved^ 



IIAiE IN GR&XT BH^TXm 



TO 



THE JAMES NUGENTS 
OF HISTORY 



CosUUo. It's a statue of Liberty Brian Hostjr was talking 
about in the commencement. 

Mannian. Ah» who the hell cares about liberty ? . . . 

The Image {Lady Gregory). 



O 




FAQI 

mm\0 AXa «• •• «• •• M 

Act II. . . 19 

Act III. "37 



CHAIL\CTERS. 

James Nugent. 

Ann {his Wife). 

Rose {their Chili). 

Bob ) 

> (Ann*s brothers), 
Harry ) 

Dan Sullivan 

Mrs. Sullivan. 

Willie {their Son). 

Father Kearney. 

Peter 0*Mahony. 

Jim Powell. 

Two Young Men. 



PATRIOTS 



ACT I. 

Scene. — ^Ann'$ sitting-roam over th^ shop in a country 
toum in Ireland. The room is well furnished^ and in 
fairly good taste, Ann is forty-four years old — hut her 
hair is already grey. She is capable and methodical^ 
a splendid business woman, and she has lived with two 
fools for eighteen years, so she speaks as little as possible, 
0*M4H0Ny is older than her in years, but appears younger. 
They are seated at a table with books and papers before 
them. They are making up the half-yearly accounts of the 
shop. It is evening. 

O'Mahony. Six hundred and forty pounds seven 
and eight pence f 

Ann. No. Six hundred and thirty-seven pounds 
seventeen and eight pence. 

O'Mahony. Dear me, I can't find the mistake. This 
is the third time I have gone over it. 

Ann {taking some papers from him and pushing a book 
towards him). Read the items out to me. 

O'Mahony. WolflF, twenty-five pounds ten ; Brady, 
sixteen pounds two and six pence ; Farmer, fifty-seven 
pounds ; Burke, fourteen pounds ten and sixpence ; 
Caughlan, twenty-one pounds sixteen and sixpence; 
Maybury 

Ann. You have Caughlan twenty-three pounds six 
and sixpence. That's where you're wrong. 



t Patriots 

0*Mahokt. Hare I really ? How stupid ! 

Ann finishes the accounts with a feto decisive fen- 
strokes. 

Ann. Now, it's finished. 

O'Mahony. I congratulate 70U, Ann; it's by far 
the best half-year you've ever had. 

Ann. Yes, it's been very good. 

O'Mahony. Three eighty — ^yes — ^nearly four hundred 
better than this time last year. 

Ann. And there are really not so many outstanding 
debts — ones that Pm anxious about I mean — except the 
Clarkes. 

O'Mahony. And of course the Sullivans. 

Ann. Oh, IVe made up my mind about the Sullivans. 
They've got to go. 

O'Mahony. Go ? 
/ Ann (calmly). If they won't pay their rent they've 

got to be put out. 

O'Mahony. It's not that they won't, it's that they 
can't. 

Ann. Well, it doesn't make any difference to me. 
Ten pounds is all I've got out of that house in Main 
Street during the last three years. That's not good 
enough, Peter. It's a fine house in one of the best 
positions in the town. If I put them out and do it up 
thoroughly, I can get double the rent the Sullivans 
are supposed to be giving me. 

O'Mahony. Do vou reallv mean this, Ann f 

Ann. Of course I do. 

O'Mahony. Sullivan has had a long struggle. 

Ann. It's quite easy to make a good living out of the 
grocery business ; I've proved that. 
^ O'Mahony. Well, you know they say that it's because 
you're doing so well, that he's doing badly. 
. " Ann. Yes, I have got the best part of the custom of 
the town . . . It's Sullivan's own fault. He had 
it and he^'lost it by laziness and drink. I won it by 
downright hard work. 



Patriots 3 

O'Mahoky. If they managed to par up their 
arrean ... 

Ann. No, they must go altogether. I want to put 
up the rent, ana it's not good for my property to have 
it occupied by shiftless, failing people. 

O'Mahony. But Mrs. Sidlivan's your friend . . . 
how can you ever face them if you do a thing like this 
. . . without . . . why . . . they'll never expect you to 
do such a thing ... Willie Sullivan is Rose's greatest 
friend. 

Ann. It won't hurt Willie, he's got his place with 
Hughes. 

O'Mahony. Oh, you're a rich woman, Ann; you can 
afford to be a little generous. 

Ann. I'm not rich. I can't afford it. 

O'Mahony (in a lower voice), Sullivan was one of 
James's greatest friends, Ann. Have you forgotten 
that ? 

Ann {stonily). I don't see that that makes any difference. 

O^Mahony sighs. There is a pause during which they 

put away the papers. 

Ann. Oh, I made my will to-day, Peter. 

O'Mahony. A fresh one ? 

Ann. Hm . . . nothing very different from the old 
one except that when I die the business is to be sold 
at once, and the purchase-money shared up. I've 
made you sole executor of Rose's share. 

O'Mahony. Why, Ann ? 

Ann. Well, I can't run any risk about Rose's future. 
Of course Bob and Harry might get a good manager 
for the shop — ^but then they mightn't, they might try 
to run it themselves— they'd be bankrupt in five years. 
It's better to sell it out at once. You won't find it hard 
to get a good price for it. 

O'Mahony. Yes, I see. And Rose's money is to be 
invested \ 

^''Ann. Yes . . . {f)er voice gets softer^ more anxious). 
You . • , jrou'U be verjr careful, won't jrou, Peter ? Get 



4 Patriots 

something very safe • ^ • never mind if the interest's 
small . . . it's got to be safe. We can't take any ritb 
about Rose. | 

O'Mahony. Don't you worry about Rosei Ann, 
she'll be all right. 

Ann. I'm sure she will. You've been very good to me, 
Peter, I don't know what I'd have done without you 
all these years. 

O'Mahont. Oh, nonsense. You've had your 
brothers . . . 

Ann. Ph, they're no good. 

O'Mahont. Where is Rose to-night i In bed t 

Ann. No. She took a fancy to go to that Irish concert 
at the last minute, and I hadn't the heart to stop her. 
Mn. Sullivan took her. 

O'Mahony. Had she a good day i 

Ann. Yes, very. 

O'Mahony. I really think she's getting stronger and 
stronger. 

Ann. Oh, there's no doubt of it. Doctor French 
is very pleased with her. But she'll always need great 
care and attention of course. 

O'Mahony. Yes . . . (taking a small bust off the 
chimney- fiice). Where did this come from ? 

Ann. Oh, that's Rose's. Willie Sullivan gave it 
to her the other day. 
^ O'Mahony. It's Emmet, isn't it \ 

Ann. Yee. 

O'Mahony. Willie's at the concert with them, I 
suppose I 

Ann. Oh, no. This is the Committee night of the 
League. 

O'Mahony. You don't say that Willie's on the Com- 
mittee ? Sure, he's only a boy. 

Ann. Yes, but he's very enthusiastic, I believe. 

O'Mahony. Oh, nonsense. I wish he'd keep clear 
of that political set. He's got the makings in him of a 
good business man, but that silly League would min him. 



Patriots 5 

Ann. I quite agree with you. 

O^Mahomy. That*9 what ruined his father. We 
must save Willie from it. 

Ann. I hear people passing in tlie street. I expect 
the concert is over. 

O'Mahony (going to the window). Yes, it must be. 
I see a lot of people passing, and there^s Rose and Mn. 
Sullivan. 

Ann pulls out a comfortable chair to the fire, and pours 
some milk into a saucepan and makes other preparations. 
Mrs. Sullivan and Rose come in. Mrs, Sullivan is middle- 
agedy fvith the anxious^ helpless expression of a woman 
whose business is on the edge of bankruptcy, and whose 
husband is a druuiard. It is not in her character to do 
more than pray " God help m/." Rose is eighteen, petulant^ 
enthusiastic, a torch longing for the match, a sick child — 
all in one because a cripple. 

Rose. ^Tiy, Peter, are you here ? {She kisses him 
affectionately^ 

0*Mahony. Well, Rose. Good evening, Mrs. Sullivan. 

Mrs. Sullivan. Good evening, Mr. O^Mahony. 

Ann. Come and sit by the fire, Rose ; you must be 
cold. 

Rose. No Fm not. {She sits by the fire and Ann 
takes off her coat and shoes) 

Mrs. Sullivan. I won't wait, I only wanted to see 
Rose safely in. Good-night. 

Ann. Thank you for looking after her, Susan; good- 
night. 

Mrs. Sullivan. Good-night, Rose. 

Rose. Good-night, Mrs. Sullivan, and tell Willie 
that I managed to get that book about the Fenians from 
a second-hand shop in Dublin — she'll know the book I 
mean — ^and PU give it to him if he comes round to-morrow 
night. 

Mrs. Sullivan. PU tell him. Good-night. {Goes 
out.) 

Ross. Where's everybody f 



^:- 



6 Patriots 

Ann. Your ancles haven't come in yet. 

Rose. Oh, I remember uncle Bob said they had all 
the winter lectures to settle, and that always means a 
lot of work. I do hope they'll have some one new this 
session. 

O'Mahony. You know they won't. They always 
have the same old lot set. 

Rose. Well, I like the League all the same. I'm going 
to make you come this winter, Peter. 

O'Mahony. No, you won't get me to go. That sort 
of talk, talk, talk, doesn't interest me. I've got to look 
after my baking. 

Rose. Perhaps it won't always be a place for talk. 
Willie would do something if he got the chance. 

O'Mahony. Yes, but he won't get the chance, and a 
good thing for him that he won't. That sort of thing 
is all very well as a sort of — ^well as a sort of amuse- 
ment . . . but to go in for it seriously 

Rose. Why not ? 

O'Mahony. You don't understand. 

Ann. Now, Rose, your milk is ready. 

O'Mahony. That's it. Drink up your milk and don't 
bother your head about politics and Leagues. Good- 
night, dear. Good-night, Mrs. Nugent, (fioes out.) 

Ann {holding a cup of milk). Here, dear. 

Rose, (petulantly). I don't want it, take it away. 

Ann. Oh, come, you must drink it — ^just to please me — 

Rose. No, mother. 

Ann. a tiny sip . . . that's it. (She feeds her like a 
little child.) 

Rose. I wish Peter wouldn't talk like that about the 
League. 

Ann. Never mind Peter, he was only joking you. 
Tell me about the concert. 

Rose. There's nothing to tell. 

Ann. You're tired, aren't you ? 

Rose. Yes. No. 

Ann. Is your back bad i 



Patriots 7 

Rose. No, onir a little. 

Ann. ril put this cushion behind 70a • . • There, 
is that better ? 

Rose. Yes. 

Ann. And Pll move the lamp so that'thc light won't 
catch your eyes ... Now, finish this and then PUput 
you to bed. 

Rose. I don't want to go to bed yet. I want to wait 
until Uncle Bob comes in. 

Ann. He may not be in for a long time. 

Rose. Oh, yes he will ; it's half-past ten. 

Ann. What do you want to see him for F 

Rose. I want to hear all about the meeting. 

Ann. You could hear it in the morning. 

Ross. No, mother, no. I want to hear it now. I'm 
not tired. I'm not really. 

Ann. You're looking so white, darling* 

Rose. I'm all right, I am really, do, do let me stay u^« 

Ann. Very well, dear, just for ten minutes, but if 
they're not in by that time, oflE you go. We don't want 
to have Doctor French shouting at us, do we f 

Rose. I hate Doctor French. 

Ann. I'm just going down to the shop to look for a 
receipted bill of Bolton's. I know it must be somewhere. 
Would you drink a little more milk if I heated it ? 

Rose. No, mother, I couldn't, I couldn't. 

Ann. Very well, dear. (At the door.) I hear your 
uncle's latchkey. Put on the saucepan of hot water. 

She goes out, A moment later Bob comes in. He is a 
small stout man, always very busy about nothing. 

Bob. Well, Rose. 

Rose. There you are at last ! 

Bob. Where's your mother ? 

Rose. Downstairs looking for something. Where's 
Uncle Harry i 

Bob. Oh, coming. Macnamara called after him in the 
street and I came on. Knew you'd wonder what was 
keeping us, and I couldn't risk catching cold 



8 Patriots 

Roil. Isn't it a Beautiful night out ? 

Bob. Hn). . . . Pd say there was a touch of frost. 
« I i&ust start using my winter muffler. Pm sure I caught 
a chill coming out of the hot room. 

RosB. Sit here near the fire. How did the committee 
go ? 

Bob. Ohy very well, very well. Starkie wasn't there, 
Pm glad to say. 

Rose. So I suppose you got through a lot of business. 

Bob. Well we settled the winter lectures at any rate — 
up to Christmas that is — ^and that's no joke I can tell you. 

Rose. No indeed. Who are you getting ? Do show 
me the list. 

Bob. It will be published in the "Watchword." 
Where's my cocoa ? Don't wait for Harry of course. 

Rose. Your cocoa isn't ready yet. Do read me the 
list now. 

Bob (importantly). Well, you know, Rose, it's not 
quite regular. 

Rose. Oh, rubbish. What's the good of you being 
secretary to the League if I don't hear everything before 
everyone else ? 

Bob. Well, here it is. Shall I read it to you ? 

Rose. Yes, please. 

Bob. October 4th. Hugh Tanner. "Through the 
Appenines with a Camera." October 1 8th. J. H. 
Lockley, " The Folk Songs of Ireland " (that's the new 
doctor at the Asylum — clever young chap — ^nice tenor 
voice). October 31st, Rev. Patrick Coakley, C.C, 
"Ireland under Elizabeth." 

Rose. You had something about Elizabeth and Ireland 
last session, hadn't you ? 

Bob. Yes, yes. But it's an interesting period, very 
interesting. November 14th, your uncle Harry on 
" Old Dublin Newspapers." November 28th, William 
Sullivan, " Two Irish Patriots." 

Rose. Yes, Willie told me about that. 

Bob. December 12th, Edgar Stockton, " The National!* 



Patriots 9 

sation of Irish Railways.'' That's the list up to 
Christmas. What do you think of it ? 

Rose. I think it's very good. It's so varied. 
f Bob. Yes, yes . . . Er— you've read WilKe's essay, J 

have yon. Rose ? ^ 

Ros£. He read me a rough draft of it some time ago. 

Bob. Yes. . . . Now, would you mind telling me 
is it very extreme ? 

Rosi. Extreme f Well, Willie couldn't write about 
Stephens and Emmet without enthusiasm. 

Bob. Of course no one admires Stephens and Emmet 
more than I do, but — ^but times have changed, and I 
sometimes think Willie doesn't realise it. We've some 
very respectable young men in the League now — ^new 
members — and I don't want to hurt their feelings. 
There's the two Casey boys, their father is Clerk of the 
Petty Sessions, and Smith, the Postmaster's son — you 
know — you know their fathers mightn't like it — ^to say 
nothing of Doctor Lockley, a most superior young man. 

Rose. Well, I know Willie feels that father started 
the League to revive the national spirit in Ireland, and 
he thinks it can be done better by thioJdng of Stephens 
than a trip to the Appenines. 

Bob. But sure. Tanner never saw Stephens and he did 
go through the Appenines last summer. 

Rose. Willie's terribly in earnest about things. 

Bob. He goes too far, Rose, he does indeed. 
It's very bad for him professionally. Hughes won't 
keep him if he goes on like this ; I expect Hughes will 
give him a rise soon, I know he thinks well of him, he told 
me so. But the other day I heard some one speak of Willie 
as " that wild young revolutionary clerk of Mr. Hughes." 
Now, you know, Hughes won't like it if he hears that. 

Rose. How proud Willie would be if he heard himself 
called that. Anyway, I don't see that one's political 
views need affect one's business. 

Bob. They needn't — ^if you're sensible. Look at us. 
We're— we're a desperate family. Every one knows that 



J 

A 



10 Patriots 

Ann's husband is in prison for life for murder — political 
murder. Every one Knows what Annfs own views were 
. . . every one knows what I was twenty years ago before 
my wretched health broke down — ^why, we're a desperate 
family, but we keep our views to ourselves, and the con- 
J sequence is we draw our custom from every class in the 

conununity. The shop's thriving. Willie will have to 
learn to hold his tongue if he wants to get on. 

Rose. Willie would rather earn a pound a week till the 
Day of Judgment than hold his tongue about his views. 

Bob. Ah, well, he'll grow out of it, he'll grow out of it. 
I thought the same when I was his age ... I was a 
desperate fellow. I remember one night I swore six 
soldiers into the League — six — ^Rose. 

Rose {mde-eyed). Did you really I How splendid of 
you. Uncle Bob. 

Bob. Ah, yes. I'd have had the country in a flame 
only for my wretched health. But I done what I could, 
I done what I could. It's no joke being Secretary to 
the League, I can tell you. Why, getting up these 
winter lectures is a big job in itself, and then there are 
always resolutions to be framed and addresses and — and 
people like Starkie to pacify — oh, it's very wearing. I 
sometimes think that if I had withdrawn from it altogether 
I might have got back my health. But I'll never with- 
draw. I've given my life willingly — ^for Ireland . . . 
Isn't that cocoa ready ? 

Rose. Just. Aren't you going to lecture at all this 
session i 

Bob. No, not at present. I might after Christmas 
if I could find an interesting subject. 

Rose. Why not have a lecture on father I 

Bob. Your father ? Why we've often had lectures 
about him, his life, his trial, his sentence — ^they all know 
the story. 

Rose. I was looking at the old lists yesterday. There's 
been nothing about him for three years. 

Bob. As long as that ? Are you sure ? 



Patriots iT 

Rose. Yes. And I think it's a shame that the founder 
of the League who^s in prifon to-day for his patriotism 
should be forgotten like that. 
i Bob. Oh, come, come, Rose, he's not forgotten. 
i Rose. He will be very soon . . . He's been in for 
eighteen years, he'll be released soon perhaps — ^have you 
forgotten that ? You don't want him to find hinuelf 
forgotten when he comes out. J -^-^r-i-'ii ai ^''^ 

Bob. No, of course. But how.'^can I lecture on him i 
I can't find anything fresh to say. 

Rose. Why don't you go and see him ? 

Bob. In prison i No, Rose, I couldn't do that. Noth- 
ing would make James suffer more than for me to see him 
in the day of his humiliation. I've never seen him 
since he was taken from the dock. You may think that 
heartless of me, but it would make him and me suffer 
too much. 

Rose. I hoped you'd go, because I meant to have 
gone with you. 

Bob. You, Rose i 

Rose. Yes. 

Bob. But your mother wouldn't let you. She'd never 
let you go to the prison. She's always gone alone. 

Rose. I know, I know. It's cruel, that's what it is ; 
it's unfair to father and me. 

Bob. Hush, Rose, you mustn't say that about your 
mother. 

Rose {stormily). It is unfair. She never speaks of him 
to me. If I speak of him she — she — 

Bob. Hush, hush. Rose. You don't understand these 
things, you're only a child. You must make allowances 
for your mother, she's never been the same since that 
long illness she had when you were born — ^just the time 
James was condemned to death. I've never quite 
understood her since. 

Rose. She — she loved father, didn't she ? 

Bob. Iioved him ? I should just think so. 

Rose. And she never speaks of him ... I suppose 






12 Patriots 

to have the person you love moit in the world shut up 
like that is perfectly unspeakable. 

Bob. Yes^ yes, and I think your mother was right. 
There's no use fretting over what can't be helped . . . 
m have another biscuit . . . your mother's a wonderful 
woman, Rose, a great manager . . . 

Harry enters. He is very like his brother, as iusv and 

as useless. 

Harry. Bob, Bob ! 

Bob. What is it, man, what b it ? 

Harry. Is Ann there ? Where's Ann ? I've great 
news. 

Rose. What is it, Uncle Harry ? 

Harry. James is released, at least he's going to be. 

Bob. My God ! 

Rose. What! 

Harry. It was Macnamara — ^that's^what]|Macnamara 
wanted me for — ^it was on a Dublin evening paper. 

Bob. But is it true, Harry ? 

Harry. Don't I tell you it's on the paper. Listen. 
(Opens paper.) I'm so excited I can't find the place. 
Here it is. *^ We learn on the best authority that James 
Nugent, the famous revolutionary, is about to be released 
from prison. He was condemned to death in 1893 
tor the murder of Henry Foley, one of his confederates, 
but his sentence was commuted to penal servitude for 
life. He is a native of Coolmore, where his wife and child 
are still living." There now. 

RosF. It must be true. 

Bob. It must then . . . 

Harry. But, Bob, I thought he wouldn't be out for 
another couple of years. 

Bob. It's maybe the new Chief Secretary that's done it. 

Harry. Oh, maybe you're right. 

Rose. Will he come here. Uncle Harry i 

Harry. I suppose he will. 

Bob. Where we would he go to f 

Rosb. Oh, isn't this splendid ! We must call mother. 



Patriots 13 

Bob. Who's to tell Ana ? 

Harry. You'd better do it, Bob. 

Bob. No, no, let Rose, let Rose. 

Rose. I wonder how she'll take it. 

Bob. You'll have to break it to her gently, you know. 
Sort of hint at it at first and then — oh, my God, here 
she is. 

Ann comes in» 

Ann. I've got it, Rose. 

Rose. What, mother ? 

Ann. The bill. Bolton's receipted bill. I knew I 
had paid it. ^That's the second time Boltons have done 
a thing like that. Have you had your supper yet, Bob i 
Don't forget that to-morrow's fair day, and we must have 
the shutters down by half-past seven, so you'd better go to 
bed as soon as you can. What's the matter with you f 

Harry. Ann (stops), 

Ann. Well ? 

Harry. It's something's happened, Ann. 

Ann. Happened ? What's happened ? . . . What is 
it, Harry ? There's nothing wrong in the shop J know — 
unless — ^is Clarke bankrupt ? 

Harry. No, it's not that, Ann. 
'93 Bob. Now, Ann, calm yourself. 

Ann. Oh, tell me what it is, I'm not a child; I can 
bear things. 

Harry. Well (stops). 

Rose. Father is coming, mother. ' 

Ann. What ? 

Rose. He's going to be released at once. ~^ 

Ann. James . . . coming . . . back . . . Harry, is this 
true ? 

Harry. Yes, Ann ; at least I think so. 

Ann sits doum. 

Bob. Quick, Harry, get her a glass of water. 

Ann. No, no, I'm not going to faint. Who told you t 

Harry. It's on the evening paper. 
ef- Ann. Show me. (He hands her the paper, she reads it 



X I 

* I 

I 



14 Patriots 

and hands it back). Thank you. (Her V9ice is quite 
expressionliss.) 

Bob. It's extraordinary to think after eighteen years 
. . . well, well . . . 

Harry. He'll be greatly changed. 

Bob. Bound to be after all those years ; his health 
ruined, I suppose, with jail fever and the like . . . 

Harry. And his spirit broken too. Man, but he had 
the great spirit long ago. Do you remember. Bob, 
that day in Kilkenny ? I came on the account of it the 
other day in an old " Freeman " — ^no, but an " Indepen- 
dent " it was Where are you going, Ann ? 

Ann {at the door), I'm going to write to the Governor 
to find out if it's true. 

Bob. Did — did they say nothing about this, Ann, 
when you were there last ? 

Ann. No. 

Bob. You haven't been since April, have you ? 

Ann. No. {Goes out) 

Rose {almost crying). Uncle Bob, what does she mean I 
Why doesn't she say something ? Is she disappointed 
he's coming back, or what ? 

Bob. Oh, no. Rose. 

Harry. Never think that. Rose; never think that 
about your mother. She worshipped your father — she 
gave him all her money, she went with him everywhere, 
she left me and Bob to manage the shop as best we could. 
Why, I've newspapers upstairs full of accounts of the 
speeches James made and the speeches she made and 
tne way they went about together — oh, it's very interest- 
ing reading. 

Bob. I think it's most satisfactory — ^most satisfactory — 
your mother has taken it splendidly. You know it might 
have given her a great shock — I felt quite faint myself 
for a minute . Hello, there's a ring. 

Harry. You'd better open the door. Bob, 

Bob. Oh, damn. Who on earth can it be at this hour ? 
{Goes out,) 



Patriots 15 

Rose. It's — it's til so wonderful. Somehow I never 
expected he'd come back — I don't know why. It's 
wonderful to think I'll see him. 

Harry. Ah, you'll never have seen the real James 
Nugent, Rose. You'll only see an old broken man 
creeping home to die. 

Rose. Poor, poor father . . . Why that sounds like 
Willie's voice — ^it is Willie. 

Bob and WiUie Sullivan come in. Willie is nineteen 

and very young. 

Willie. I had to come in and see you all. Isn't this 
tremendous. Think of James Nugent coming back. 
He's just what we want — ^ real fearless honest man. My 
God, he'll save Ireland. 

Harry. I'm afraid — ^as I was just saying to Rose — 
poor James won't have^much^spirit left after aUjjthose 
years in prison. 

Bob. His health, you know, will be quite broken down. 

Willie (blankly). But — do you mean — ^you thinkjhe'U 
be too broken to do anything in public ? 

Harry. Well, eighteen years in prison, you know — 

Willie. I never thought of that . . . But after he's 
had a bit of a rest — ^he's not more than forty-five, is he i 

Bob. Well, well, I dunno. Anyway"^I'm glad the 
League is still going at Coolmore. It's the only one 
of the twelve branches he started that is still in existence. 
We've kept the flag flying in great style. I'm wondering 
what sort of a demonstration we ought to have for James. 

Harry. Oh, I hadn't thought of that. 

Bob. It's so awkward now about our fight with the 
Town Band — ^we won't be able to get it now — of course 
we might try illuminations. 

Willie. I think the best thing would be a monster 
meeting at which he could make a speech. 

Bob. Well, I was thinking of that, but then he may 
not want to make a speech. 

Harry. No, no, I think we'd better not do anything 
rash. Let's wait and see what his views are, and anyhow 



i6 Patriots 

we ought to wiit till the Caaon comm back Irom 
Palestine. 

Bob. Stockton will probablj'— — '^'" "' 

Harrt. Oh, I forget, Stoddton told me to tell 70U he 
can't lecture after sdl. 
K I Bob. Can't lecture ? But he promised* 

i. I Harrt. Yes, but he didn't know then that Tanner 

was going to lecture. He says he won't let his nune 
appear in the same series as Tanner — you know they've 
never patched up that row over the building contract. 

Bob. Well, that's just like Stockton — ^he promises 

you a thing and then when your back is tumea he 

and my list all made out and ready for the " Watch- 
word " — ^who am I to get now ? 

Willie. Oh, Stockton's no loss, he's an old woman. 

Bob. He is a loss. The Nationalisation of the Railways 
is a most important question, and one which the League 
has not yet passed an opinion on. I know there are 
many important men waiting to hear what we'll say on 
the subject, and Stockton has got relations on two of the 
railways in Ireland, so he's in a position to speak with 
intimate knowledge. Who am I to get now ? 

Willie. Maybe if you ask Father Kearney he might 
speak ? 

Bob. No, he wouldn't. I know he wouldn't. He's 
another. It's most disheartening really. There he was 
in the thick of things with James and he won't open his 
mouth. He sends in his subscription all right — I wish 
others were as regular — ^but as to doing anything practical 
— helping in a commemoration or— or—decorating a grave, 
he's useless. I'll resign the Secretaryship, I dediure I 
will ; this sort of thing is killing me. 

Ro^E. Perhaps father would give a lecture. 

Willie. Yes. 

Bob. Your father i The very thing. ^ Why, he'll 
have any amount to tell us, all about the prison and how 
he was treated — most interesting-^most interesting — 
itil be the best lecture of the lot. By the way, Rose, 



Patriots ij 

this knocks out the idea for my lecture — ^it*8 a pity, but no 
matter — of course James will speak. {Ann comes j'n.) 
Oh, Ann, we're going to get James to give us a lecture. 
Stockton has played me false. 

Willie. That'll be splendid. 

Harry. It should be very interesting. 

Bob. m have to put off advertising the list until 
next week's " Watchword." I must wait and get the 
title from him. " Behind Lock and Key " would sound 
good now, or " Prison Bars," or — oh, Ann, what sort 
of a demonstration should we have for him ? 

Ann. Demonstration ? 

Bob. Yes, when he comes back. 

Harry. We can't get a band — ^unless we get one from 
Dublin. 

Bob. Too expensive, too expensive. 

Willie {a Utile doubtfully). I hope Mr. Nugent will 
like the list of lectures. I'm sure he'll think we should 
have had more national subjects. 

Bob. Oh, he can't find any fault with them, they're ^ 
so varied. I know Tanner's on the Appenines will be ],, -, 
most interesting — and your one, Harry, on Dublin 1^ ^" 
Newspapers. / \ - 

Harry. Yes, i t will be good. If I can only get that / V 
" Freeman " for May 30th, 1886. ' 

Ann laughs. 

Rose. What is it, mother ? 

Ann still laughs. 

Bob. What are you laughing at, Ann ? 

Ann. It will be very funny — ^when James comes back — 
and asks you what you've been doing — ^for eighteen 
years — and you tell him about the League^ and show him 
the list of lectures 

Bob. What's wrong with the list f 

Harry. Well, we've done a lot. 

Bob. The membership is larger than it's been for 
years. 

Harry We're the only branch that's still in existence. 

b 



i8 Patriots 

Willis. I don't suppose he'd approve of our supporting 
the United Irish League candidates. 

Harry. He'll have to realise that things have changed. 

Bob. We done what we could. 

Harry. We stood out for compulsory Irish. 

Bob. You attended classes yourself for two winters. 

Harry. Yes, indeed, I know a lot of Irish — not — not 
to speak it of course. 

Willie. Still I can realise James Nugent wanting 
something more than that. 

Harry. We passed a * resolution against die Irish 
CouncU's BiU. 

Bob. We done what we could. 

Harry. And things have changed. 

Bob. YeSy things have changed. 

Willis. I suppose they have. 

But thy look at each other uncomfortably and in silence. 

Ann laughs again. 



Curtain. 



ACT II. 



Scene — The same. A week later. Rose is aUme. 
WiUie comes in, 

Willie. Mr. Hughes sent me across with this letter 
for your mother. 

Rose. What's happened to Johnny ? 

Willie. Oh, Johnny's all right, but I offered to run 
over with it. The fact is I wanted to know if he's come. 
Has he, Rose ? 

Rose. No, not yet. The train must be late. Uncle 
Bob and Uncle Harry have gone to the station to meet 
him. They're so frightened, they've never had a minutes' 
happiness since the night they heard he was going to be 
released, and mother laughed at them. 

Willie. I know. I feel miserable too. I don't know 
what he'll expect. 

Rose. Poor father. I don't suppose he'll expect very 
much, except care and quiet and attention. It's his heart 
you know, Willie ; it's on account of his weak heart he's 
been released. The doctor wrote to mother about him. 

Willie. It's like Christ coming to earth again twenty / 

years after His ascension. I wonder will he realise how ^ 
hard it is to do things nowadays. 

Rose. But the League has done a lot, Willie. 

Willie. It's done nothing. Nothing that he'd call 
anythins. That's what makes his coming back so 
frightful. 

Rose. At any 'rate he'^^won't blame you. He can't. 
You're one of the youngest members. 

Willie. Do you hiow what, Rose, I've made up my 



10 Patriots 

mind. I'll chuck my place if necessary. I mean if he 
wants people to go with him and help him, I won't 
hesitate, rllleave Hughes! 

Rose. What would vour people say ? Oh, Willie ! 

Willie. Oh,'they'll be all right. They Ve got the shop. 

Rose. And then there's your own career, Oh, Wilhc, 
I don't like you're doing such a desperate thing. 

Willie. Do you think my career matters a hang 
compared with — ^with — 

Rose. Of course we've always said that it doesn't. 
But when it comes to the point . . . However, 
I'm sure father won't want you to do anything of the kind. 

Willie. No, he may not. Has your mother gone to 
the station ? 

Rose. No, I think she's in her room changing her dress. 

Willie. You're all dressed up. 

Rose. Of course. 

Willie. How does she — I mean what does she think 
of it? 

Rose. I don't know. I never know what mother 
thinks. She's hardly spoken about him, she got his room 
readv and everything, but — oh I don't know. She 
hanaed us the doctor's letter, but I don't know whether 
she doesn't care or whether she cares very much. 
Yesterday I was looking over a bundle of old papers of 
Uncle Harry's and I came on a long article all about her, 
her personality and her influence. It was dated about a 
year before father's trial. They spoke of her ** magnedc 
personality," her " queenly bearng " and now she's 
— she's — she's not a bit like that, Willie. 

Willie. Yes, she must have changed alot. But she's 
a splendid woman all the same. I wish we had her brains 
down at our place and maybe the shop would begin to 
look up. 

Rose. Are things very bad ? 

Willie. Ay • . . He's drinking again. 

Rose. Oh, WiUie ! 

Willie. You see at any rate I've got to get away from 



Patriots 21 

this town. I can't live here with a thing like that going 
on. 

Rose. What would your mother do without you, 
you're all she has } 

Ann comes in, 

Ann. Oh, Willie, that you f 

Willie. Yes, I just came over with this note from 
Mr. Hughes. I'll be off. 

Ann {faking note). Thank you. 

Willie goes out. 

Rose {hurrying to the window), I see people coming from 
the station. They'll be here in a minute, and — oh, 
mother, you havn't changed. 

Ann. Me f No. 

Rose. I thought you were going to. 

Ann. Oh, no, why should I? 

Rose. You — ^you don't seem to care a bit. 

Ann. Your blouse is open behind. Rose. Let me 
fasten it for you. 

Rose {looking out of window). He'll be here in a minute. 

Ann. {with sudden passion). You'll always love me, 
Rose ? 

Rose {zvith surprise). Mother ? 

Ann (kissing her passionately). My darling, my darling, 
remember he's nothing — ^nothing — ^you've been mine — Sr 
mine — 

Rose. Mother, what is it ? Don't cry. 
{Ann moves away abruptly. Rose turns to the window again,) 
They're coming, I see them. Mother, he doesn't look 
old, come and look. I'm going to open the window 
and wave to him. 

Ann. Don't, Rose. {Rose tries to lift the sash but 
stops with a little cry of pain. Going to her swiftly). 
What is it. Rose, have you hurt yourself ? 

Rose. No, I just — ^it's only my back. 

Ann. You shouldn't try to lift that sash, it's too^heavy. 
Are you sure you haven't hurt yourself ? 

Rose. Yes, quite sure. Where are they now f 



I < 



/ 



12 Patriots 

Ann (looking out). They've just turned in at the shop 
door. Come away from the window, dear. 

Rose. I wonder what he'll think of me . . . Has 
he ever seen a photograph of me, mother i 

Ann. No. 

Rose. Wouldn't the prison people let you give him one I 

Bob {very fussy and nervous outside the door). I think 
Ann is here— Pm sure she is — come in, James, come in. 
{Looks in) Oh, Ann, there you are. He's come. Come 
in, James, Ann is here. 

James comes in, followed by Harry. James Nugenfs 
hair is nearly whiter but he holds himself erect and 
walks and speaks with vigour. 

James. Ah, Ann, how are you f {He kisses her.) 

DOB. And this is Rose, James. 

James. Is this Rose ? Will you kiss me, my dear, 
I am your father. 

Rose {crying), I'm very glad to see you. 

James. We should have met long ago. Ann, why 
, would you never bring her to see me ? . . . Ah, 
well, perhaps you were right. 

Ann. Won't you sit down ? 

James {not sitting). Thanks. {Goes to the window.) 
Everything looks just the same — I might have been here 
only yesterday — ^how wonderful it is to be back again — 
the room seems bigger, I think — How wonderful — 

Ann. Had you a nice journey.? 

James. Yes, a delightful journey, Ann, the train passed 
through such beautiful country, and everything looking 
so prosperous and well-to-do. 

Bob. Yes, the country's thriving. Business is very 
good just now. 

James. How is the shop doing ? 

Ann. We've done very well the last half vear. 

Bob. My dear James, there's been a revolution since 
Ann came and looked after things. You remember 
what it was in the old days, waste, neglect— yes, Harry, 
there was neglect— but that's all altered now. We're 



Patriots z$ 

thriving, thriving, it's the best grocery shop in the 
town. 

James. I'm very glad to hear it. It used to make me 
unhappy to think that perhaps you were badly off. 

Ann (drily). Did it f 

James. Yes . . . Rose is a Nugent, Ann. Don't 
you think she's very like my father ? 

Ann. No, I don't see any likeness to the Nugents. 

James. Well, well, what matter. (He kisses Rose very 
affeetioftately.) 

Ann. (stung to jealousy). See if tea is ready. Rose. 

Rose. Kate is getting it. 

Ann. Please go and see about it. 

Rose. Oh, very well. (She limp out.) 

James (watching her). She's hurt herself, hasn't she f 

Ann. She's a cripple. 

James. Oh, ... I never knew, you never told me, 
Ann. It was the result of an accident, I suppose ? 

Ann. Yes. 

James. Recently. 

Ann. No, a good many years ago. 

James (after a fanse— briskly). Well, now, I want to 
hear all about everything. I tried to make Ann under- 
stand a code for giving me information at our interviews 
in prison, but you never understood what I was aiming 
at, did you, Ann ? 

Ann. No, I didn't. 

James. Well, now, tell me everything. 

Harry. Well, we got several of the workhouse contracts 
this winter. 

{AMES. Oh, I don't mean the shop ; I mean the Cause 
Iarry and Bob. The Cause ? 
James. I've seen some papers of course, but they had 
very little information — ^1 may say none — ^m them. I 
gathered, however, that you have been working very 
quietly and discreetly for some years. That is Quite 
nght. Discretion was what we wanted in the old oays. 
Tbe organisarion is better now, I am sur^, 



/ 






1". 



JJ 



24 Patriots 

Bob. Oh, jes, yes. 

James. I see they are still playing that old Parlia- 
mentary game. I thought they'd have learned its 
futility by this time. I'm sorry to see O'Brien in it. 
Really he was made for better things. 

Harry. I tell you, James, Parliament has done a great 
deal of late years ; there's been the Land Act and 

James. Oh yes, sops, sops. Parliament may have 

f)assed some good bills in its time, but it passed a devilish 
ot of bad ones too. And it's not the fellows at West- 
minster we have to thank for the good ones ; it was some 
man in Ireland who maimed a bullock or shot a landlord 
that did the work. I'd like to repeal every bill for the 
last thirty years. 
• Harry. What f 

James. They're only chains, Harry. The better the 
biU the stronger the chain. The better you house 
your slave, the better you feed him, the less just appears 
his demand for freedom, the less he wants freedom. 
Isn't that true ? 

Harry. I dunno. 

James. How is the League doing ? 

Bob. The membership of the Coolmore Branch is 
larger than it's been for years. 

JAMES. Splendid ! 
►OB. By the way, there's a small deputation from the 
League coming in a little while to welcome you. Only 
two or three. Father Kearney and a couple more. 

James. I'll be glad to see John Kearney again. How 
are we off for arms ? 

Bob {quickly), I want to show you, James, the list of 
lectures for the coming winter. I thought perhaps you 
might like to give us a lecture yourself about your 
experiences in prison, and how the Government treated 
you. 

James. No, I won't lecture on that. What does it 
matter how they treated me — I'm out, I'm free, that's 
what matters. But, of course, I'll speak for you. {Reads 



Patriots 25 

list,) Ah, the police are watching you at present, 
I see. 

Harry. The police ? No. 

Bob. Why do you think that ? 

James. Well, this list — ^it's so very harmless— unless — 
is there a double meaning in it ? (His voice drops 
significantly.) 

Harry. What f 

James. The lecture on the Nationalisation of Irish 
Railways, for instance ; does that by any chance point 
out the best way to set about getting possession of them 
when there's a rising ? 

Harry. Oh, no, no. But we all think that if the 
Government was to take over the railways and 

James. Well, well. The police are not active at present 
then ? 

Bob. No. Very quiet, decent men. 

James. I see. EflFete. Good. " Old Dublin News- 
papers " — ^what on earth is that about ? 

Harry {with pride). That's my lecture. 

James. But what is there interesting in old news- 
papers ? 

Harry. My dear James, you find everything interest- 
ing in old newspapers. Pve been collecting them for 
over twenty years, but lately I'm making a speciality in 
accounts of the funerals of patriots, you've no idea 
what interesting comparisons can be drawn between — 
say — ^the funeral of O'Connell and Parnell, or the 

Bob. Oh, talking of funerals, James, I want to know 
is it a kind of a twitch in the heart you feel, or a dull 
pain, or do you feel anything at all i 

James. In my heart i 

Bob. Yes. You know I've a wretchedly weak heart 
myself, and I want to compare my symptoms with yours. 

James. Oh, I won't talk about my health. 

Bob. Well, I think that's selfish of you, James. Maybe 
I could do something for you. I have a bottle recom- 
xaended to me by- 




26 Patriots 

James. What about arms ? 

liARRT. Of course the language movement has come 
along since you were imprisoned. 

James. Oh, I don't attach much importance to that. 
Let's get a country and then we'll see about the language. 
The idea's all right in moderarion, but it's apt to draw 
people's attention away from the main thing. Are we 
well armed ? 

Bob {miserably). Ann, don't you think tea is ready ? 

Ann (cruelly). Rose will call us when it is. James is 
asking you something, Bob. 

Bob. Oh, is he I 

James. I only wanted to know how we were off for arms; 
How many rifles have we ? 

Bob. Well— er — well 

Harry. You see, James, you mayn't realise it yet, 
but things have changed 

Bob. Yes, James, very much changed. 

Harry. We work in a different way nowadays. 

Bob. We've changed. 

James. In what way ? 

!Bob. Well, one organises differently — ^we believe in 
educating the people — there's the Gadic League, you 
know. 

Harry. And then I had to think of the shop and your 
wife and child, and Father Brady advised me and — 
and 

Bob. That's it. 

James (gutte bewildered). What do you mean { I 
don't understand what you're talking about. 

Ann. They mean, James, that they've no arms, and 
dont intend to get any. 

James. What . . . But — ^the League ? 

Bob. The League is flourishing. 

James. But — ^but — 

DOB. Now, James, you mustn't blame me« It's been 
my wretched health. Two months after your con- 
viction I got a dreadful chill, I've never been the better 






• Patriots 27 

of it since. Pve been to every doctor in the country — 
that's why I never went to see you in prison — ^the doctor 
said it would be too much for me, not that there's any 
doctor here who can do anything for me, the only thing 
that does me any good is the advice I get from the 
" Sunday Globe's " medical column, and they always 
say that my symptoms are very serious and that I should 
see a speciaKst. That will make you understand my 
wretched health. Only for that I'd be in the forefront 
of the battle to-day. 

James. Has nothing been done ? 

Bob. We done what we could, James, we done what 
we could. Of course your conviction was a great blow 
to us, and it cripples us for years, but we recovered it 
and went on as if nothing had happened. We've always 
stood for the best nationalism in the country, we supported 
compulsory Irish (though I don't suppose you believe 
in that) and — and the United Irish League and — and 
all the best interests of Ireland. 

Harry. And then there was the shop ; I felt it, and 
your wife and child were left to me as a sacred charge, and 
my first duty was to them. I consulted Father Brady 
about them, and he advised me to take no active part in 
politics for some years, but I've never stopped being a 
member of the League — ^never — ^and I've given them 
a lecture or a reading from the old papers every session 
for the last fifteen or sixteen years — you can look up the 
records. 

James (realising at last), I see. I've get to begin from 
the beginning, all over again. 

Bob. Well, you mayn't believe it, but I've proved 
that I've only half a lung and my heart is — ^well — 
wretched. 

James. What a fool I was to let myself be taken, but 
I didn't know I was so necessary, I thought others would 
take my place. I thought I was only one of a hundred — 
a thousand — 

Harrt. No, there was no one like you, James. 



I 



J 



28 Patriots 

James. It can't be helped now. We won't waste time 
looking back, we'll look forward. D'ye know, personally, 
I feel glad. Of course from the national point of view 
it's terrible to think that all those years have been wasted, 
but one of the thoughts that tortured me in prison was 
that when I came out I wouldn't be wanted ; that in 
the new organisation no place would be found for me. 
I see now I am wanted as badly — ^worse perhaps than 
I was wanted twenty years ago. 

Bob (sneezes). I knew. I had caught cold. That's 
from waiting at the station. 

Harry. But, James, you'll find your views considered 
a little out of date. 

James. Out of date ? They were supposed to be out 
of date then. Mitchell was out of date, £mmet was out 
of date, but I tell you that until Ireland gets out of date 
from north to south she'll never win anything. 

Bob. I'm going to take some quinine. (He goes out.) 

James. We've got to start again. It's not too late. 
There was a Nugent out in '98, my two uncles followed 
Smith O'Brien, I had a cousin mixed up in the 
Invincibles, and now, Bob, I have got to . . , why, where's 
Bob? 

Harry. I think he went out. I'll go and look for him. 
(He goes out.) 

James. Your brothers have changed, Ann. They 
were not like that long ago. Well, well, it's you and me 
again, Ann, you and me against the world again. 

Ann. No, not me, this time. 

James. Ann ? 

Ann. I have duties. There's the shop. 

James. Yes, the shop, I forgot the shop . . . Do 
ou know the shop may be one of our most useful assets, 
t makes a splendid head-quarters for an organisation. 
You remember the part Flanigan's public-house played 
long ago ? 

Ann. Yes. And the police heard an our plans next 
morning. 



{ 



Patriots 29 

James. That's where a shop like yours will have the 
advantage. There'll be no temptation to drink ourselves 
communicative. There will be only ounelves serving 
in the shop. 

Ann. (proudly). I have three assistants. 

James. Oh • . . well they must be members of the 
League, of course. 

Ann. Are you in earnest, James ? 

James. About what ? 

Ann. Do you seriously want to begin the old thing 
again ? 

James. Why, of course. 

Ann. Then we must understand each other . . 
You asked me a little while ago why I never gave you any 
information about the League or th^ political situation 
when I went to see you in prison. You said that I 
didn't understand you were trying to establish a code. 
I'm not stupid ... I saw what you wanted, but I 
wouldn't help you ... I was sick of it all. 

James. What do you mean.? 

Ann. When you were arrested, James, when you were 
dragged from my room on that awful night, I fainted. 
I went from one fainting fit to another. It was four 
months before I was able to stir from my bed. 

James. I didn't know you had been as ill as that, Ann. 

Ann. And when I got up and saw myself in the glass 
my hair was grey — ^as grey as it is now. I was an old 
woman, James. I was just twenty-six years old. {She 
can no longer keep the passion out of her voice.) 

James. Ann ! 

Ann. But it wasn't my face and hair only that were 
changed . . . while I lay there helpless for four months 
I wasn't able to do anything but think, and lying there 
I saw everything clearly at last. I saw my life here with 
mother before you met me— calm, sheltered, playing at 
patriotism as we all played in those days. Then you came 
and I was fascinated by you. You were so passionate 
and impetuous, so in earnest, so desperate, so different 



JO Patriots 

to any one I had ever met, so . . . You wooed me 
pasitonatelyy you married me passionately, and for five 
years you dtragged-— - 

James. Dragged! 

Ann. Me after you round the country kindling my 
patriotism at the flame of yours, speaking through me 
with your passionate voice. I was never myself all 
those years, I was only you. You took my health, my 
strength, my beauty, my money, and you spent them 
prodigally, and at twenty*six I found myself old and ugly 
and grey and worn out. 

jAiins. I loved you very much, Ann. 

Ann {stormily). Perhaps you did. But you never 
thought of me. You never had the least consideration 
for me. 

James. How can you say such a thing ? 

Ann. I know it because you did me a wrong — z terrible, 
unforgiveable wrong. 

James. What was it ? 

Ann. I won't tell you, I'll spare you that ... I saw 
all this, James, as I lay in bed. Sickness makes some 
people feel that nothing really matters, but I was made 
to feel that all these things mattered tremendously. 
And then by a miracle I was freed from you. For a 
certain number of years I would be my own mistress 
again. Perhaps for the rest of my life. If you had been 
dead I would have gone abroad, far away from Ireland 
and its stupid politics, but while you lived I couldn't 
do that. You still claimed me, I had a duty to do, I had 
to visit you. Well, I came here and took the shop over 
from my brothers. I found it a miserable little place, 
badly managed, on the verge of bankruptcy. It's now 
the best grocery shop in the town. I've built up a 
splendid business ; I draw my custom from the Prescotts 
and the Canon down to the poorest working man. 
Eighteen years ago I was a discredited woman ; people 
^oke of me as if I was hardly respectable, a person decent 
people would shun. I'm the most respected woman 






Patriots $1 

in the town to-day, and now, just when I've reached this 
position you come and you think I'm ging back into that 
old life, that I'll risk my position, ruin my business 
perhaps for — ^for something t care nothing about. 

James. You used to be patriotic, Ann. 

Ann. No. I'd have gone to the stake for Ireland if 
you'd told me to, and I'd have betrayed Ireland if you'd told 
me to— you were my patriotism. I suppose I can't stop 
you g(»ng back to that nonsense if you want to, but you 
go alone without me or my Ixioney or my influence. 

James. You're shrinking from it, of course. I can 
understand that. Ann, I don't understand all you've 
been saying, I don't think it's true, but perhaps there's 
some truth in it. Forgive me if I treated you badly, 
I didn't mean to, and don't let a wrong I did you twenty 
years ago stand in your way now ; don't let it stand in 
Ireland's way. Hunk of it, Ann. Think of all those 
long weary years, the injustices that have been heaped 
upon us, the way we've been plundered of money, starved 
with famine, drained of our best blood, the crucified 
of the nations. And think of it with the English driven 
out, a free country, a happy people, liberty at last. 
Think of it, Ann, Ann! (It is the old enthusiasm, 
the old eloquence that swayed a country-side twenty 
years ago,) 

Ann. It's no use. You can't kindle me again. 
{Bitterly) I suppose I'm too old. 
i^ James. Oh, well, never mind. I can do without you 
if it comes to that. 
1^ Ann. You'll find it's no use, James. People will simply / 

laugh at your kind of talk nowadays. They'll thmk 
you're mad. And I b^in to think you are. 

James. I'm not mad. But this means everything to 
me. I've shot a man for the sake of it ; I've given the 
best years of my life for it ; won't you help me, Ann, 
if not for the sake of Ireland, for the sake of the love 
we had-^we have for each other. {He catches her arm.) 

Ann. Don't, James. Let me go. That love died 



it Patriots 

eighteen years ago. I think ... I think I hate you 
now. 

James. Ann ! 

O^Mahony, Bob, Harry, Sullivan, Father Kearney 
and Willie come in, and Ann goes out. 

Bob. This, James, is the little deputation come from 
the League to welcome you. 

Father Kearney {stout, middle-aged, and good tempered). 
Not formally, James. We just came round to shake hands 
and bid you welcome home, 

James. I'm glad to see you again, John, glad to see you 
again. Peter, is that you ? 

O'Mahony. Welcome back, James ; you're looking well. 

Sullivan (a little drunk). You haven't forgotten me, 
have you ? 

James. You are . . . 

Sullivan. Dan Sullivan. 

James. Of course. But you've changed. 

Sullivan. Well, I'm older to be sure, and this is my 
son Willie, one of the old stock. 

Bob. And a most enthusiastic member of the League. 

James. How are you ? 

Willie. I'm proua to meet you, sir. 

Father Kearney. Well, now, we want to mark your 
return by some sort of a little festival, James, and we're 
wondering what you'd like. Some thought of a public 
meeting, but I think we've all decided now on a nice 
quiet dinner at Fitzy's some day next week — ^just old 
friends there. How would that suit you ? 

Sullivan. Yes, yes, a nice little dinner at Fitzy's. 

James. I ... I don't know, thank you very much. 

• . . Things are not exactly what I thought they were, 

and I've got to get to work at once. 

^ O'Mahony. Now, James, Bob has been telling me 

something of your notions and the things you've been 

'a \ saying since you came home, and you've got to under- 

r* v/ ^ \ ^^^^^ irom the beginning that that sort of thing won't 

V* vr ^ • do. You're a bit behind the times — ^naturally — but 

y 



i^ 



i 



i 



Patriots $$ 

yovL can take it from me that that sort of talk is no use 
nowadays ; it never was much use, but it's absolutely 
ridiculous now. 

James. I understand that there is no physical force 
party in Ireland at present. That is not to be wondered 
at when there are men like you at the head of the League. 

O'Mahont (coolly). Oh, I left the League fifteen years 
ago. 

James. Left it i 

O'Mahony. I hadn't time for that sort of nonsense. 

JAMES. I'm going to start a new movement. 
^ATHER Kearney (mth a fat smile). Oh, come, come, 
James, absurd. 
- James {desperately). I'm going to save Ireland, 

f Father Kearney. Don't you bother about Ireland. 

She's getting along all right. 

James. She can't be right until she's free. 

Father Kearney. What can you do anyway ? 

James. I can do what I did twenty years ago — ^rouse the 
people, go through the country, build a new League 
on the ruins of the old. 

Bob {miserably). You'll only ruin the League, James^ 
if you do that. That sort of advanced thing won't go 
down with a lot of the new members, I know it won't. 
Couldn't you keep quiet anyway till after Christmas, 
when the subscriptions are paid ? 

Harry. I don't know what the Canon will say, and 
he's on his way home. 

Father Kearney. Give it up, James. It was very good 
fun twenty years ago when we were all young and felt 
that life was a desperately serious thing, and that Ireland 
would sink under the sea if we didn't cut her free from 
England. But we're older now, and more sensible, 
and we feel that things are gradually working right. 

Sullivan. Yes, you were pretty hot-headed, John. 
Do you remember the time you went about addressing 
meetings of the farmers and the Bishop's messenger 



y 



v/y 



34 Patriots 

follo^ng you all the time with a letter forbidding you to 
speak — and the way you dodged him ? 

Father Kearney {hastily). Yes, yes, yes. But I 
stopped the minute I got the letter. 

Sullivan (jto G*Mahony). And the rifles you used to 
get, and they supposed to be crockery. Well, well, I 
love thinking of them old times. Come over to Fitzy's, 
James, and we'll have a drink. 

James. No, no. Oh, the waste of time, of oppor- 
tunity. There was such a chance after Pamell's death 
for a physical force movement — it was the only thing 
that would have quickly put heart into the people. Then 
nine years of hard, quiet, eflFective work, and in 1900 
the South African War, Ireland empty of troops, the 
best chance for a successful rising for a hundred and fifty 
years. 

Father Kearney. Pm sorry, James. . . . 

James. Oh, I don't blame you. I suppose there was 
no other leader, but if I had been out, Davitt, O'Brien 
and myself, we'd have done something ; why did I let 
myself be taken • . . 

Bob. Yes, 'twas a pity. 

James. But I had to kill Foley ; he had all the names, 
all the secret papers — ^I found he was making terms to 
betray us. I couldn't risk another Carey . . . and I 
wouldn't order another man to do what I might be 
thought afraid to do myself. 

Father Kearney. Well, you're going to spend the 
rest of your life quietly here, James. Mrs. Nugent will 
make you very comfortable, and to-night you're coming 
up to have dinner with me, and over the fire and a glass 
of whiskey we'll talk of old times. 

O'Mahony. All your troubles are over now, James. 

Sullivan. We'll have a nice happy evening, and James 
will tell us that story of his fight with Baker and the 
two policemen ; won't you, James ? 

James. Good God, you seem to think my life is an 
anecdote — a thing to be told stories about. John, 



Patriots 35 

Pve been dead for eighteen years. Pve come back from <=»^- ' 
the grave, I'm free again, the doctor says I've only a few \*V 
years to live. I've got to work desperately. I've ^^ 

dreamed of these years all the time I've been in prison. 
I was a passionate man when I went in, but I curbed my 
passion in there. I saw it was only by being very quiet 
and patient that I could ever hope to get out . . . 
and I was quiet and patient for eighteen years, and now 
that I am out and free you ask me to sit over the fire and 
exchange stories with you . . . John, you've forgotten 
me. (Father Kearney shrugs his shoulders and turns 
away). I see you won't help me. Are you aU against 
me i 

Willie. I'm with you, sir. 

James. Good man. O'Mahony ? 

O'Mahony. No. 

James. Dan ? 

Sullivan. Well, I'm . . . I'm not exactly against 
you, James . . . 

James. Will you help me ? 

Sullivan. What d'ye mean by helping you ? 

James. Just what I meant long ago. The soft way 
isn't the way to save Ireland, it's got to be the hard way ; 
it's got to be the fighting way — ^with rifle and sword. 

Sullivan (hastily). Oh, no, no, James. I couldn't do 
that. 

James. Ph, I thought not. Bob, you're the Secretary 
of the League still, aren't you ? (Bob nods.) The 
meetings are on Tuesdays ? Very well. Call a specially 
important one for next Tuesday. I am going to 
speak. 

Bob. But Tanner was going to speak next week. 

James. I don't care a damn about Tanner. Do what 
I tell you. 

Bob. Well, it's upsetting all the list . . . oh, very 
well. 

Rose comes in. 

Rose. Come in to tea, father. 



36 Patriots 

James. Yes, Rose. Come, Willie, come in to tea ^ 
with us. Good-afternoon, gentlemen. I thought that i 
at least in Coolmore — ^in my native town — ^I would be 
safe from traitors and cowards. I see I was mistaken. 

JameSy Rose and Willie go out, 

Harry. Well, well. 

Sullivan {snivelling. He needn't have called us 
cowards. I'm as brave as any man, but when a fellow 
comes to my time of life he's not fit for ... for .. . 
swords and rifles and . . . and . . . oh, I'm going over 
to Fitzy's. 

Bob. And we all thought he'd be changed. Why 
he's just the same— only worse. 

O'Mahony (slowly). He's mad of course. But he 
J makes us aU feel a bit ashamed, doesn't he ? Ashamed 

/ of the things we didn't do. 

Father Kearney. Poor James, poor James. God 
help him. 



Curtain 



ACT III. 

A Week laUr. 

Scene — The room where the League meetings are held. 
A platform and rows of empty benches. Evening. Willie 
Sullivan and Jim Powell {the caretaker of the halt) are 
alone in the room. 

Willie. I don't believe there's going to be a soul. 

Jim. Ah, sure, there might yet. Master Willie. It's not 
much after half-past seven. 

Willie. It's a quarter to eight — rafter it. Isn't it 
dreadful, Jim ? 

Jim. Well, it's a very wet night, you know, and then 
there's the Mission at the Chapel and them Moving 
Pictures at the Town Hall. 

Willie. This will break his heart. 

Jim. I'm going to see them to-morrow night ; they 
say they're a wonder entirely. Dan Clancy was saving 
there's one there of a fight between a nigger and an 
Irishman— oh, the nicest thing you ever saw. I'd have 
gone to-night, but of course with this League meeting 
I couldn't. What'U Mr. Nugent be doing ? Will 
he be stopping at Coolmore, d'ye know ? 

Willie. I don't know. This meeting was to decide 
everything. 

Jim. Well now, he'll be a foolish man if he leaves 
Coolmore, I tell you. The wife has a very tidy business 
up at the Square. Indeed I remember the Nugents 
before James came along, a queer cracked set they were, 
always having trouble about land, or poaching, or politics, 



(v 



S8 Patriots 

or divflment of some sort ; oh, believe me, theT^ll always 
be on for making trouble, them Nugents. 

Willie. How do you feel about it, Jim ? 

Jim. Well, of course I don't want to say anything 
against Mr. Bob, or any of his relations. He's been 
hiring this hall for meetings for the last twenty years, 
so I must have a respect for him, but I don't think it 
matters one way or the other. You see. Master Willie, 
this is the hall where nearly all the meetings of the town 
are held. When the Parochial Hall was burned even the 
Archdeacon had his prayer meetings here — yes, indeed ! 
And a beautiful soft speaker he is — ^and so, you see, I hear 
every side speaking, and you can't expect me to be very 
much for anything — and the longer I live the harder 
I find it to make out what difference Home Rule is going 
to make. If James Nugent wants to go about having 
meetings and rousing the people, as he calls it, I don't 
see why he shouldn't — 'tis a free country — only, mind 



me, Mr. Willie, to have been in prison isn't as respectabl e 
^ as it used to be^^no indeed — ^and that^s why there^s a 

lot of people kept away to-night . . . Here's this letter 
came a while ago for Mr. Nugent. What'U I do with 
it ? 

Willie. Leave it here on the table, I'll give it to him 

. . Ah, here's some one at last. {Goes down the 
ball) Why, Rose! 

Rose. There you are, Willie. Oh, isn't it wet . . . 
I thought the meeting was to be here. Where is it going 
to be ? 

Willie. It is here. 

Rose. But — ^but — ^there's nobody here . . . it's at 
eight, isn't it ? 

Willie. Yes. 

Rose. Don't you think any one's coming ? Oh, 
WiUie! 

Jim. You see, miss, there's them Moving Pictures 
and the Mission. 

Willie. It doesn't look as if we'd have many, Rose. 



Patriots 39 



Rose. Therell be nobody at all. I know it. And it 
will kill father. 

Willie. Oh, no, Rose. 

Rose. Yes, it'U kiU him, it'll kill him. It will be 
just the last straw. 

Willie. Perhaps I could go out and bring some 
people in. When was he to leave your house, do you 
know ? 

Rose. He left it long ago. He went over to 
O'Mahony's, they are coming down together. I came 
on by myself because mother was so slow about getting 
ready. 

Willie. Well, O'Mahony will be here and Father 
Kearney, I know, and your two uncles, and your mother. 
If I could only get ten or twelve more it wouldn't be so 
bad. 

Rose. No, it's no use, Willie. He expects a packed 
hall, great enthusiasm and crowds— oh, it's all too dread- 
ful — (She begins to cry,) 

Willie. Don't cry, Rose, it's not your fault. Ah, 
here are some people coming now. 

Two young men come in, 

1ST Man {to 2nd Man). I don't think this is the place. 

2ND Man. Searles said it was round the corner. 

1ST Man {to Willie). I beg your pardon, but is this 
where the Moving Pictures are ? 

Willie. No. 

1ST Man. I thought not. Where are they, d'ye 
know ? 

Willie. Round the corner on the right. 

1ST Man. Thank you. (Going.) 

Jim. They're at the Town Hall, and I hear they're 
grand. 

1ST Man. So I hear. 

Willie. Wait a minute. Do you know a most interest- 
ing meeting will be held here to-night, when a speech 
wUl be made by James Nugent, the famous revolutionary. 

2ND Man. The what ? 



p Patriots 

Willie. The rebel. The man who was shut up for 
eighteen years by the English Government for attempting 
to free the country. 

IST Man. What did you say his name was ? 

Willie. Nugent. James Nugent. 

1st Man. Never heard of him. 

Jim. Sure, don't you know Mrs. Nugent's shop down 
the Souare— opposite Fitzy's ? 

ist Man. Is it the grocery shop ? 

Jim. Yes, that's the one. Sure she's his wife. 

Willie. It's going to be a splendid speech. You 
shouldn't miss it. 

2ND Man {in a low voice). Come on away. 

1ST Man. Ah, well 

Willie. It's the only chance you'll have. 

1ST Man. Thank you, but we want to see the pictures 
to-night. 

Willie. They'll be here till the end of the week — 
this man is a patriot — as great as Emmet or--or Stephens 
or Tone — 

1ST Man. Yes, yes. We'll be going, I think. 

They go out 

Willie. It's pretty hopeless, isn't it ? 

Rose. Yes . . . it'll break his heart. 

Willie. I suppose it's no use trying to make a start 
down here, though yesterday — ^this morning even — 
several members told me they were coming to-night. 
I don't know what can have happened to them. Never 
mind. Rose ; it only means that he'll have to go away 
up to Dublin and start there. 

Rose. You'll go with him. 

Willie. Of course. 

Rose. I'm going too. 

Willie. You, Rose ? 

Rose. Yes, he's been deserted by every one. I'm going 
to stand by him. 

Willie. Will you ever be strong enough ? 

Rose. Oh, I'm much better-— oh, Willie, it's what 



Patriots 41 

weVe always dreamt about to be doing something — 
something definite for Ireland. 

Willie. Yes. And I sometimes was afraid it could 
never happen. I'm glad I'll have to give up Hughes. 
I want to feel I'm cutting myself right away from that 
money-making common, commercial life. Hughes gave 
me a rise this morning, Rose. He's sending me over to 
Bradyfield — ^he says I'U be manager there some day if I 
keep steady. Oh, in a few more years I'd have been so 
entangled in this business I'd never have broken free. 

Rose. You're giving up wealth and position. v 

Willie. And you're giving up a home. 

Rose. Yes. 

Jim {appearing on the platform). Here's Mr. Nugent 
now, he's after coming in the side door. 

Rose. Oh, what can we do, what can we do ? Willie, 
we mustn't let him come into the room— can't we tell 
him the meeting's put off — ^anything. (O^Mahony 
appears.) Keep him back, Peter, don't let him come in. 

James {appearing). Why, Rose, what is the matter ? 

Rose {hysterically). It's all right, father, it's all right — 
it's only the wrong night, they're all coming — all coming — 
to-morrow — ^we must go home now — ^we must — ^we 
must — 

O'Mahony. Hush, Rose, hush . . . You see, James, 
there's no one here. 

James. No one here. 

Rose. It's not the night — ^to-morrow — 

O'Mahony. Hush, Rose . . . They don't want to 
hear you speak, James, Do you understand, they don't 
want to hear you speak. 

James. They do, they do. They've been kept away 
against their will. 

O'Mahony. No, no, James, there's been no force 
used, but you've been going about all the week talking 
of arming and drilling until people are tired of it. They 
are tired even of laughing at you. 



\ 



42 Patriots 

James. You'll never get me to believe that the spirit 
that animated the men of '48 and '67 is dead. 

0*Mahony. Not dead, James, but grown wise. 
Ireland is going to be very prosperous, very well-to-do 
one of these days, but she's never going to fight again. 
She's got courage still, but it's a different sort of courage. 
f She's got to fight her own self now. I drilled secretly 

twenty years ago for Ireland, now I make bread for 
Ireland — ^that's progress. Come, and join me in the 
bakery, (yames moves away with an impatient gesture) 
I'm not laughing at you, I know what you're suffering. 
I didn't give up myself without a struggle. 

James. Do you think I'm going to go back now ? Do 
you think because a few fools in a country town laugh at 
me and pay no attention to me, I'm going to give up 
what I've spent my life for ? 

O'Mahony. What can you do ? 

James. I'll go to Dublin. There I'll find some of the 
old friends, they'll help me. 

Willie. I knew it. 

O'Mahony. Yes. You'll find Brennan — who spends 
all his time in public-houses — gassing about his 
patriotism with every glass he takes ; you'll find Regan 
sponging on his relations and never doing a stroke of work 
— ^those are all the old friends you'll find there. I tell 
you, you'll not find a man in Ireland to follow you. 

Willie. There's where you're wrong, Mr. O'Mahony. 
Mr. Nugent, I'm with you heart and soul, and I'll follow 
you wherever you go. 

O'Mahony. I thought you had more sense, Willie. 

Willie. Don't mind about this meeting, sir, it means 
nothing. Let's go away at once. 

Rose. And — father — I'm coming with you. 

James. You, Rose ? 

Rose. Yes. I can be some use, can't I ? I'm not 
very strong — ^but you said yourself the other day that 
women must play a large part in building up a nation. 
Can't I help ? 



\ 



Patriots 43 

Jamss. Of coune you can, dear. 

O'Mahont. James, it's madness, taking awav Rose 
with you. Why, she'll never stand it. She'll break 
down in a week. 

James. That's enough, O'Mahony. 

O'Mahont (under bis breath). Wait till Ann hears 
this. 

Willie. Oh, this letter came for you 

James (looking at signature). Ah, from John Kearney 
. . . Called away to Tipperary on important business 
4 . . sorry can't be here. . . The coward, the coward ! 

O'Mahony. James, you make us all feel cowards. When | 

we see you we remember all the hopes and plans we had | 

when we were young — long ago. 

James. I'll revive them for you. It's not too late, 
Peter. 

O'Mahony. It is too late. It was too late when we 
were young. You and I were born too late. 

James. Were we, I wonder? 

O'Mahony.. Yes, forty years too late. What a chance 
you'd have had sixty years ago. You'll never get that 
sort of chance now. 

James (suddenly beginning to lose heart). Won't I . . . 
Peter, are you right ? Is it too late — ^am I the last 
patriot i 

Mrs. Sullivan comes in quickly. 

Mrs. Sullivan. Is Willie here. Where's Willie ? 
Ah, there you are, Willie. 

Willie. What's happened, mother ? 

Mrs. Sullivan. Your father 

Willie. Again ? 

Mrs. Sullivan. No, no, it's not that, it's worse ; 
he's had a sort of a fit, but he's better now. The 
doctor's with him, and I ran across for you. 

O'Mahony. Oh, Mrs. Sullivan, how did it happen ? 

Willie. Mother ! 

Mrs. Sullivan. It was when he read the letter. It 
made him so angry, and then 



44 Patriots 



O'Mahony. What letter ? 

Mrs. Sullivan. The one from Ann giving us notice. 

O'Mahony. Oh ! 

Willie. Notice ? 

Mrs. Sullivan. We owe three yean' rent. We*ll 
be sold up. 

Willie. Sold up f 

James. What i 

-Willie. I don't understand. 

O'Mahont. Mrs. Nugent talked of doing this the other 
dav, but I hoped she wouldn't at present. 

MRS. Sullivan (crying), I never thought she'd do it 
on me — I never thought sh'd do it on me. Of course 
I know we owe her money, but for the 9ake of old times 
I thought ... I thought . . . 

Willie. Mother, mother, don't. 

Mrs. Sullivan. Oh, WiUie, we'll be sold up. You're 
all I've got to hold on to now. Oh, thank God, you've 
got your good place with Hughes. He told me this 
afternoon about your rise, and that you were going to 
Bradyfield. It's like the hand of God. We'll all go 
away there and live together — I'll get lodgers and maybe 
we'U manage all right— come home, Willie. 

Willie. You mean — there's nothing to live on but 
what I earn i 

Mrs. Sullivan. Yes, but it will be enough, Willie, 
we'll make it do, when we've sold everything there may 
be something left — but never mind about that, come 
home now to your father. Oh, my poor Dan. (Go^s.) 

Willie. I see . . . How — how beastly. I'm coining, 
mother. Mr. Nugent, I can't come with you at present ; 
I've got to stay, you see, and look after them. I'm — 
I'm — ^Rose, I'll never get free now. (Goes.) 

Rose. Oh, poor Willie. 

Jambs. It's shameful of Ann, shameful. How can 
she be such a grabber ? 

O'Mahony. She's in her right. 

Jambs. Oh, her right. Danid Sullivan was one of my 



Patriots 45 

most trusted comrades. She mustn't do it, I won't 
let her. 

O'Mahony. You can't stop her. 

James. I can. I will. Oh, you've all so changed 
since I was in prison. I don't know any of you, you're 
all against me. (Jnn comes in.) Ann, how could you 
do such a thing to poor Dan Sullivan ? 

Ann. What ? Do what ? 

James. Give him notice, sell him up. He's had a stroke 
— he's dying perhaps. 

Ann. I'm sorry to hear that. 

James. You must write at once and tell them they can 
stay. Dan Sullivan mustn't be treated like that. 

Ann. I'm sorry, but they've got to go. 

James. Why ? 

Ann. I've lost a lot of money on that house 

James. Money. You think of nothing but money. 
I thought Mrs. Sullivan was your friend, Ann ? 

Ann. If she wasn't she'd have been out of that house 
three years ago. 

James. You're rich, Ann. You've any amount of 
money put away in the Bank, more than you can spend, 
you usen't to be a miser. 

Ann. I'm not a miser. 

James. What are you hoarding it up for i 

Ann. Not for myself. 

James. Who for, then f 

Ann. Rose. 

James. Rose i 

Ann. If I died to-morrow could she go out and earn 
her bread like another ? 

James. Oh ... I see what you mean. But you can 
be generous now. I'm taking her off your hands, she's 
going away with me. 

Ann. Away. Where ? 

James. To Dublin. I'm going to open my campaign 
in Dublin. Rose is coming to hdp me. 

Ann. James, you don't know what you're talking about. 



\ 



46 Patriots 

James. Rose has said shell come with me. 

Ann. Nonsense, she can't. Think of her health, 
James. 

James. She is ready to come. 

Ann. Oh, Peter, can't you explain to him — ^he doesn't 
seen to understand ; 

O'Mahony. I don't think you know, James, how very 
delicate Rose is. 

Ann. It would kill her, that sort of life would kill 
her — ^I know what it is — she needs every care and 
attention — she can't do anything for herself — she can't 
put on her clothes, she can't take them off. 

Rose. Father would help me. 

Ann. No, no, no, I'm not going to let you be taken 
from me — it's madness. 

James. You've come between us before, you've kept 
her away from me for eighteen years — you're not to do 
it again, Ann, I won't let you. 

Rose. I want to go, mother. 

Ann, You can't have Rose. I won't let her go. You 
have no consideration for her or you'd never suggest 
such a thing. 

James. I am thinking of my country. If patriotism 
demands 

Ann. Oh, don't talk to me of patriotism — I'm sick 
of it. It's made Sullivan a bankrupt ; it's made Brennan 
a drunkard ; you a murderer ; its destroyed my happi- 
ness ; it's made Rose a cripple. 

James. Ann ! 

Ann. It's true, it's true. She's a cripple to-day 
because of your mad patriotic selfishness. 

James. Ann, how can you say such a terrible thing i 

O'Mahony. Mrs. Nugent, please — 

Ann. No, I won't be quiet — ^I wasn't going to tell him, 
I was going to spare him that — ^but now when he comes 
to snatch Rose away, I'll hide it no longer. Do you 
remember that summer of '93, you knew I was going to 
have a child, you knew how nervous I was about it — 



Patriots 47 



wouldn't any other man have been a little considerate 
to his wife at such a time — but you — ^you told me that 
Foley might betray us, that he must be killed — ^when he 
was found shot I knew you had killed him — ^when you 
fled from the police I knew where you hid — when you 
came to our house was it to see me, to find out how I 
was? No, you came to burn some papers I had, and when 
the police surrounded the house did you go out and say, 
" My wife is ill, I give myself up to prevent you dis- 
turbing her." No, you fought to the end, and from my 
bedroom window — ^my bedroom window — as I lay in bed 
you fired your last shot. You were dragged from my 
room. And when in the morning, I looked at the 
crippled, prematurely born child at my side I knew you 
were the cause of it. 

James. Ann ! 

Ann. She's lived in spite of you. Pve had years and 
years of unceasing watching and care — I've fought and 
fought for her life, and I'm not going to let you come in 
now and rob me of her. You've crippled her but you 
shan't kill her, you shan't. 

James. Ann, Ann — ^how horrible — 

KosE (going to him). Don't, father, don't. 

James (covering his face with his hands). Go away, go 
away. I can never look at you again. 

O'Mahony. James. (He stops, there is silence.) 
Bob and Harry come in. 

Bob. Well, well, nobody here ? I didn't think there 
would be. You know, James, I found there was hardly 
anyone coming to the meeting, and then this morning I 
heard the Canon had just come home — ^he's been in 
Palestine. 

Harry. No, Egypt. 

Bob. Ah, well, it's all the same, and before he went he 
promised us a lecture when he came back, so I sent a 
message to know will he speak, and he will to-morrow 
night. 

Harry. And there'll be limelight views with it. 

Bob. So I put off any few who were coming to-night, 



48 Patriots 

and they've all promised to come and hear the Canon 
to-morrow — ^it'll be welcoming him home again. We're 
to have a sort of conversazione, there'll be tea at seven — 
oh, Ann, you'll want to send down some cakes and things 
from the shop — and then a little address and a few Irish 
songs and a little step-dancing, and then the lecture 
on Egypt. 

Harry. And I've just been sent that " Freeman " 
I wanted ! that's splendid ? isn't it. Where's Jimmy ? 
{Goes up to platform.) 

Bob. I suppose you're a bit disappointed at things 
turning out like this, but what else could you expect — 
and indeed I've more good news for you. Who should 
I meet and I going about telling people of the meeting 
to-morrow but Major Moriarty, and he was asking meaU 
about you, and he wants you to go out and be clerk in his 
co-opeartive store at Lusk. 

James. Me ? 

Bob. Of course I said you'd be delighted to go, isn't 
it a splendid thing ! that's forty or fifty pounds a year — 
I think that's most satisfactory, most satisfactory. Jim, 
Jim, where are you ? 

Jim (appearing on platform). Here, sir. 

Bob. You can shut up, Jim; there won't be any meeting 
to-night ; but there'll be one to-morrow and I'll be 
down here at six; there's going to be a tea to Canon 
Murphy, and a meeting after it — ^at six, mind, I'll be down. 

Jim. Very good, sir. 

Bob. And listen here. (He talks apart). 

O'Mahony. Say something to him, Ann; look at him. 

Ann. James, come home. 

James. Oh, Ann ! 

Ann. We're both old, James, we'd like to undo the 
past, but we can't. Come home. 

Rose (softly). I'll always believe in you. 

James. My poor, poor child. 

O'Mahony. Go home with them, James. 

James (getting up — and be moves and looks like an old 



UNIV. OF fvilCHIUAN» 
MAY 21 1918 



/ 



Patriots 4$ 

Man — he catchesfO^Mahony^s^arm), I've killed a man, 
Pve crippled a child, Pve got myself shut up for eighteen 
years — God knows what good came of it all — ^but — 
teter — I meant — ^I tried ... I know I meant right — 
and in prison my cell used to be filled with the sad faces 
of men like me who had given everything for Ireland — 
they wouldn't have come tome, would they? if I hadn't 
been of their company. They are here now — ^I see them 
all around me — ^there is Wolfe Tone, and there is . . . 
oh, quiet watching faces, I have tried — tried as you tried — 
and been broken . . . 

JamfSf Ann^ Rose, and O^Mahony go out. 

Bob. Tnat's all right, Jim ; don't forget now, 
six o'clock — you can put out the lights — ^and of course 
we'll want a kettle boiled and the cups and saucers. 
Good-night, Come on, Harry, 

Harry. I'm coming. Good-night, Jim. 

Bob Uping out). Most satisfactory, most satisfactory. 

Jim. Good-night to you. (Looks at watch) Onlv ^ 

twenty past eight. I can go and see the pictures after all. *2I' 

( He switches off the lights by degrees .'S > 

When the stage is quite dark the Curtain faUs, ^ 



** Patriots** was first produced in the Abbey theatre on 
April nth, 191 2, with the follozving cast: 



Peter O'Mahony 
Ann Nugent 
Rose Nugent 
Mrs. Sullivan 
Bob 
Harry 

Willie Sullivan 
James Nugent 
Father Kearney 
Dan Sullivan 
Jim Powell 
First Young Man 
Second Young Man 



Sydney J. Morgan 

Sara Allgood 

Kathleen Drago 

Eileen 0*Doherty 

Arthur Sinclair 

J. A. O'Rourke 

C. Power 

Fred O'^Donovan 

J, M. Kerrigan 

Philip Quiney 

7. M. Kerrigan 

. . U. Wright 

Philip Quiney 



The Play was produced by the Author. 



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