Into the Fire

Into the Fire is a play by Jeremiah Garland. It is a war drama centred around the Spanish invasion of France in 1745. It is completely fictional.

SCENE I
''Queen ROBERTA I, the first queen of France following the unexpected death of her late husband the King, who perished without an heir in line, stood on the balcony of the royal palace of Versailles overlooking the French countryside, gazing into the night. To her left the lights of Paris could barely be seen on the horizon, breaking through the black sky. She has a troubled look upon her face and is clearly contemplating a solution. Just then, the door to the veranda opens and a man's voice interrupts. It is RICHARD LUTHER, an advisor of the queen. He speaks timidly.''

Richard: My apologies, Your Majesty... I've just gotten word from the front... The Spanish have successfully taken Limoges. General Rouen has been routed once again... And still, no word from your brother, the Duke of Orleans. We think he may have escaped to Besançon, but we're not sure, My Lady...

''ROBERTA bows her head and sighs in disappointment. Richard continues nervously.''

Richard: Is the-there anything I can do for you, My Lady? We-We've just now sent for Monsieur Lautreux, I can ready a carriage for Paris so you may speak to him...? Or perhaps some tea, My Lady...? Oui, some tea to calm the nerves would be fine, wouldn't you say, My Lady? I'll retrieve the butler at once then, it will be just a minute, My La–

Roberta: Go home, Richard.

Richard: My Lady?

Roberta: There is not much time. France has given us all the time she could. Now it is up to us. (She turns to RICHARD) Go home to Marie. Pack whatever you need and get to Reims. You two will be safe there.

Richard: B-But My Lady, what about yourself? Should we not get you to Reims as well? They are coming up fast, My Lady... Very fast indeed!

Roberta: And a leader does not abandon her people in the face of destruction. You go on, Monsieur Luther. It will relieve me to know you, at least, are safe. When the time is right, come forth and do your part for France, for she has done her part tonight. Now, be on your way. Bonne nuit, mon ami, et vive la France.

Richard: Oui, of course My Lady.

''At this, RICHARD sternly saluted and turned to exit. ROBERTA resumed examing the night from the balcony rail, when in the far-off distance, in the dark of night, she could barely make out the flash of guns and the thunder of cannons.''

SCENE II
''A massive crowd gathers in a large pub in inner London. They are watching two men brawl and are cheering on enthusiastically as a four-piece band plays jovial music. One of the brawlers, JACK PISTOL, is an older yet rugged man with a rough, unkempt appearance. He holds in his hand a bottle of whiskey, which he chugs and throws to the ground before blocking the blow of his much larger foe. Anticipating and successfully evading several more punches, he then performs a fluorish of heavy hits onto the brawny man before taking him to the ground. JACK stands up as his opponent lies knocked out. He raises his arms as the crowd cheers wildly. Then, two more scrappers emerge from the crowd to take on JACK, who once again easily prevails. He knocks one of the men into a wooden table, causing it to collapse, much to the crowd's fanatic approval. The obvious victor, admirers from the crowd embrace JACK and shower him in alcohol as the band continues to play. JACK, taking in the glory, is looking around the room when he recognises a familiar face; standing just inside the doorway of the pub, dressed in a conspicuous noble's coat and looking quite unadjusted to the strange surroundings is ANDREW MALLACE. Having witnessed the entire fight, ANDREW now stares heavily at JACK, who meets the glare.''

--

JACK and ANDREW are now sitting at a secluded table in the very same pub, with several glasses of alchohol spread out in front of them.

Andrew: It's been too long, old chap. I trust you've been well?

Jack: If you consider spending my nights at taverns all across town and my days down at the docks begging each harbourmaster for a chance at a few pence 'well', then I suppose I'm doing very well.

Andrew: What a shame, Jack. Your credentials from the navy could land you almost any job down at Northwood, I'm sure of it. Have you a loan?

Jack: Cut the bunk, Mallace. His Majesty's Lord Chancellor doesn't stroll down to the East End to find a former regiment lad he hasn't seen in some twelve years to inquire about his banking history. Let me guess: Georgy's upset another one of the continentals and you're here to make sure I impress. Well, you're barmy is what you are. Compulsory service my arse. I'll die before I have to serve again.

''JACK then reaches for a glass of liqour on the table and downs it in a matter of seconds, much to the amazement of ANDREW. He slams the glass hard on the wooden table.''

Andrew: Listen here, Jack: the past twelve years have been busy ones. I did write to you – I did! numerous times! – but never did I see a reply. Fact of the matter being I owe a great deal to the man who saved my life, and –

Jack: – and you'd like to repay me, at long last, with a free trip to God-knows-where to fire a bess at a line of colourful mainland bastards, aye?

Andrew: There's no war, Jack. At least, not yet. Here's what has happened: the Queen of France has been made prisoner in her own capital by the Spanish. I've been tasked with putting together a small force of men capable of breaking her out. We're trying to avoid war with Spain, presently, but we also need France's queen safe. 'Compile a force masterful in the avoidance of catastrophe, whilst also tactful in loyalty to the cause,' the report read, and you know what I said? 'Jack Pistol is the man for this job.' Never before have I seen so much loyalty in a man than that day at St Vincent. You saved my life, Jack.

Jack: At the cost of my sanity.

ANDREW looked down, slightly ashamed.

Jack: I'm sorry, Andy. You think I care for the Queen of France? I hardly give a rat's arse for my own bloody monarch! That was twelve years ago, Andy. Things have changed. I'm not a soldier.

Andrew: Then I'm sorry to hear that. I expected more from you, Jack.

A ragged man approaches the table.

Man: Ai, Jack. Ol'Cobham's lookin' for ye. Says it's urgent.

<p style="text-align:left;">Jack: Excuse me, Andy.

<p style="text-align:left;">''JACK stands up and begins to walk towards the door with the other man, when ANDREW calls out from the table. JACK turns around.''

<p style="text-align:left;">Andrew: That's it then? You're going to walk out and go back to pilfering your next meal when not a day's trip away the leader of a great nation is locked away, and ours is probably next? That's how you repay all that Britain has done for you? What happened to fealty?

<p style="text-align:left;">Irritated, JACK walks back over to the table and points a finger at ANDREW.

<p style="text-align:left;">Jack: You as well as anybody should know that I fought for 'His Royal Majesty' once already. I gave everything I bloody-well could. Don't you talk to me about fealty, you goddam fop.

<p style="text-align:left;">Andrew: Look at yourself man! When was the last night you slept in a bed? Or bought a hot meal with a schilling from your wallet? You could have gone on to great things, Jack! And now, now you have your chance! I can see it now: 'Jack Aloysius Pistol, the Saviour of France; the libérateur of Paris; the Protector of Christendom'. It's not too late for a second act, lad. Whatever you call this isn't healthy... (ANDREW motions at the numerous overturned glasses on the tabble as well as the whiskey-stained, torn clothing and crude, unkempt appearance of JACK) Now I know you've your mind made, but think of the glory...! Think of the glory, Jack. It's not too late.

<p style="text-align:left;">''ANDREW stands, puts on his ornate overcoat, and pushes in his chair. He looks at Jack disappointedly as he begins to walk out.''

<p style="text-align:left;">Andrew: I've a long walk. I'm sorry about this. I bid you well, Jack Pistol. God knows I do.

<p style="text-align:left;">ANDREW turns to leave.

<p style="text-align:left;">Jack: (sighing) Andy...

<p style="text-align:left;">ANDREW turns back to JACK and looks at him expectingly.

<p style="text-align:left;">Jack: Have it your way, you bastard. When do we leave? I've always fancied seeing Paris before my time's up.

SCENE III
''JONATHAN O'REILLY, an aide to the Prime Minister, makes his way through a throng of Londoners with a singular piece of paper in his hand. He enters the lobby of the Prime Minister's office, and makes his way in, where sitting at a large ornate desk was Prime Minister BENJAMIN MACMORGAN. Also in the roomy office are four well-dressed men, obviously irate.''

Benjamin: ...And that simply is not our problem to deal with presently, admiral! I apologise, but we've much larger bits to chew at the moment, if you will. What with this ordeal across the Channel, we've our hands full, and the average salaries granted to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who sails a brig of His Majesty is of least concern. You can try to bring this matter at hand with the Office of the Admiralty, but I fear –

''BENJAMIN is cut off when he sees JONATHAN standing hesitantly in the doorway with a concerned look about him. He knows exactly why he is here and dismisses the men in his office.''

Benjamin: – it is simply not logical. Now, I'm afraid you must be off. Fair winds, godspeed and all that.

Admiral: (under his breath) Bloody sob...

The four men leave disgruntled.

Benjamin: O'Reilly, my dear chap, come on in. Pray tell you've only good news. Good God in Heaven, this bloody debacle in France is setting us on edge. (JONATHAN reluctantly steps into the office.) Well, speak up lad? What have you for me?

''JONATHAN hands the parchment to BENJAMIN. He speaks in a heavy Irish accent.''

Jonathan: This, m'lord. Arrived in Dover this morning.

''BENJAMIN unfolds the paper and reads it silently to himself. Several books lie open on his desk and a recently-used cigar sits in an ashe tray within arm's reach. BENJAMIN's face slowly grows concerned.''

Benjamin: (Aloud, to himself) My God... They've taken Calais.

Jonathan: And Cherbourg last week.

Benjamin: So now we've no way into France! What's worse is knowing we're likely next! The Spanish mongrels know not where to stop...

Jonathan: One other thing, sir.

Benjamin: Yes? What is it?

Jonathan: The Duke of Orleans has gone missing. Neither the French nor the Spanish have him or know of his whereabouts. Meanwhile King Philip has put de Santos in charge of Paris, and he's purging every loyalist within an day's shot. Riots have already erupted throughout Paris – just last week, in fact, the Sainte-Chapelle was nearly burned amongst the chaos. It's madness. Prussia and Austria have already mobilised.

Benjamin: It's as I feared then. War is nigh, O'Reilly. Any word from Mallace?

Jonathan: Indeed, m'lord. He's gotten Pistol, and should arrive in Glasgow next morrow.

Benjamin chuckles hopelessly.

Jonathan: M'lord?

Benjamin: Oh, just the prospect of Pistol all frocked up in crimson uniform once more.

Jonathan: I take it you're not on good terms with him, then.

Benjamin: He's a ruffian, Pistol is. In fact, we've been after him for years. (JONATHAN looks curious.) Tax evasion. He's a mighty fine shot; probably all the reason we want him on board.

Jonathan: You mean to tell me we're hiring a criminal to save the Queen of France, sir?

Benjamin: It's, eh... Unorthodox, to say the least.

Jonathan: With all due respect, I'd say it's desparate.

Benjamin: And this is a desperate time, no? (JONATHAN does not answer, only slightly shrugs.) Now then, on your way. I've a letter to write to a contact of ours in Nantes. I'll send for you in an hour's half.

SCENE IV
''Meanwhile, in Paris, SIMÓN TOMAS DE SANTOS, the generalissimo of the Spanish army, emerges from the Palais-Royal in the heart of the city, on a balcony overlooking a mass of angry Parisians. Beside him is EL DEGOLLADOR, a dark-haired assassin who serves as his right-hand officer. The French Tricolour waving above the palace has been replaced with the Spanish standard, and rows of Spanish soldiers are lined between the palace and the mass of people, muskets ready. DE SANTOS, in ceremonial military garb, stands on the balcony waving to his new subjects, to which the people of Paris respond with shouts of "Vive le France!" and "Mort à Philippe!". The Spanish general is a large, crude man with a rough grey beard and a scarred face. He raises his arms as means to silent the crowd, but to no avail. He addresses the crowd in a booming voice.''

De Santos: Mesdames et messieurs de Paris! We are here not as your conquerors! We are here to bring about a new era of peace, liberty, and brotherhood! No longer must you squander in your indigence... We are here as your saviours from the tyrannical malice that once ruled these lands! At long last, the Bourbons are in France once more and we bring with us only prosperity!

''At this, a bold Frenchman in the throng shouted "Va-t'en donc en enfer!" ("Go to hell!") to which the crowd erupted in approval. A large cobblestone pulled from the streets is then hurled at one of the Spanish guards outside the palace; a wooden carriage in the back of the square is overturned and set aflame; the crowd at once begins finding other projectiles and continues to hurl them at the Spanish garrison. A decourated Spanish soldier amongst the guard – assumingly the captain – looks to EL DEGOLLADOR standing atop the balcony. He calmly nods his head, and the Spanish captain subsequently gives the order to open fire. A dozen or so French citizens fall to the ground as the line of Spanish soldiers open musket fire. Turmoil erupts as more French citizens begin to brawl with the Spanish guards, whilst others retreat.''

<p style="text-align:center;">--

<p style="text-align:left;">''Not far off, from the grand windows of the Louvre Palace, Queen ROBERTA watches on in sadness. She stands overlooking in a large marble room, with two armed Spanish guards standing beside her. She bows her head in sorrow, and is then marched away by the guards.''

SCENE V
''ANDREW MALLACE and JACK PISTOL walk down the bustling main hall of Glasgow University. JACK is obviously uncomfortable in the environment.''

Jack: And you're sure this man can help us?

Andrew: Most definitely. He and I go way back. We served in India together. He knows his stuff.

''The two come to a large wooden door. Andrew knocks, and enters. Sitting at a desk is an older man, with a long grey beard and a pair of spectacles. Busy writing, he does not look up from his work. He speaks in a rushed tone.''

Jeremiah: I'm very sorry, but I haven't the time for this. I'm on a very tight deadline you see, and I – (He looks up to see ANDREW, who is standing in the doorway grinning.) – My God.

Andrew: It's been too long, Jeremiah.

JEREMIAH GARLAND rises from his desk and walks over to embrace ANDREW.

Jeremiah: Blooming heck, Andrew! Look at you! I wish you'd've written before coming up here, I'm absolutely buried right now. Ah! Where are my manners? Come in then! I'll pour some tea! Will darjeeling do? I'm afraid I'm all out of the Ceylon I know you use to like. You know, they say that tea –

Andrew: You remember Mr Jack Pistol, don't you Jeremiah?

Jeremiah: Eh... Yes, I believe we've met once or twice. A pleasure, Mr Pistol. (Shaking JACK's hand)

Jack: (unenthusiastically) Charmed.

Andrew: Jeremiah here teaches economy, is that right...?

Jeremiah: Mercantilistic theory.

Andrew: Indeed. (To JACK) He's the former Chancellor of the Exchequer under Walpole, first governor of Singapore, His Majesty's Ambassador to France, Hero of Chandernagar, et cetera, et cetera.

Jack: Is that right...

There is a brief awkward silence.

Andrew: Jack, would you be ever so kind as to give Jeremiah and myself a minute to jabber?

''Without saying a word, JACK steps out of the room, closes the door, and lights a cigar. JEREMIAH and ANDREW sit down at a small table in the former's office and sip a recently brewed pot of tea.''

Jeremiah: Now then, how may I be of service to you, Mr Mallace?

Andrew: I do wish you'd call me 'Andrew', Jeremiah.

Jeremiah: You know I was never one for informalities. What brings you to Glasgow then?

Andrew: Well, no doubt you've heard the news from France, yes?

Jeremiah: Indeed. A troubling deal, it is. That's why you and Pistol are here, then?

Andrew: I suppose there's no beating around it... We're going to get her out, Jeremiah. Aye, Roberta. We need you with us. Your knowledge of France and-and the language is first class. It's me and a couple other lads – Pistol included – and we need you on board. We leave in a matter of days.

Jeremiah: I'm flattered, Andrew, really –

Andrew: Don't say that.

Jeremiah: Oh?

Andrew: 'Flattered' is a word posh people use when they're about to turn down an offer.

Jeremiah: And you're not posh?

JEREMIAH sips his tea.

Andrew: Point is, lad, we could use your facility. I've already spoken to the headmaster, he's willing to let you go on leave. Consider this a favour for an old friend, eh?

Jeremiah: Well... alright. But with St George as my witness, don't think for a minute that I'll be joining the company in a late-night debauchery with some Parisian drab. I'm very happy with Eleanor and I intend to come back in good consciousness.

Andrew: I wouldn't expect anything else. Let's head off then.

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