THE EMPEROR JONES

ORIGINAL PRODUCTION

THE EMPEROR JONES was first produced by The Provincetown Players at

The Playwrights' Theatre, 133 MacDougal St. THE EMPEROR JONES was

the second of a double bill that started out with MATINATA by Lawrence

Langer, opening on 1 November 1920. The cast and creative contributors

were:

BRUTUS JONES Charles S Gilpin

HENRY SMITHERS Jasper Deeter

AN OLD NATIVE WOMAN Christine

Ell

LEM Charles Ellis

SOLDIERS S I Thompson, Lawrence Vail, Leo Richman

James Martin & Owen White

THE LITTLE FORMLESS FEARS

JEFF S I Thompson

THE NEGRO CONVICTS Leo Richman, Lawrence Vail, S I Thompson, Owen White

THE PRISON GUARD James Martin

THE PLANTERS Frank Schwartz, C I Martin & W D Slager

THE SPECTATORS Jeannie Begg, Charlotte Grauert

THE AUCTIONEER Frederick Ward Roege

THE SLAVES James Martin, S I Thompson, Leo Richman,Owen White & Lawrence Vail

THE CONGO WITCH DOCTOR S I Thompson

Director George Cram Cook

Sets Cleon Throckmorton

THE EMPEROR JONES moved to the Selwyn Theatre on Broadway on

27 December 1920, playing special matinees. The production then moved

to the Princess Theatre, opening on 29 January 1921 and played 204

performances.

THE EMPEROR JONES was revived by The Provincetown Players

at The Playwrights' Theatre opening on 5 May 1924. The cast and creative

contributors were:

AN OLD NATIVE WOMAN Kirah Markham

HENRY SMITHERS Charles Ellis

BRUTUS JONES Paul Robeson

THE LITTLE FORMLESS FEARS

JEFF Clement O'Loghlen

THE NEGRO CONVICTS John Brewster, James

Meighan, William Stahl, John Taylor & Clement Wilenchick

THE SPECTATORS Jeannie Begg & Kirah Markham

THE AUCTIONEER Clement O'Loghlen

THE SLAVES John Brewster, Mr Forsyth, James Meighan, William Stahl & Clement Wilenchick

THE CONGO WITCH-DOCTOR John Taylor

LEM William Stahl

SOLDIERS John Brewster, Mr Forsyth, Mr Martin, James Meighan, William Stahl & Clement Wilenchick

Director James Light

Sets Cleon Throckmorton

CHARACTERS & SETTING

BRUTUS JONES, Emperor

HENRY SMITHERS, a Cockney Trader

AN OLD NATIVE WOMAN

LEM, a Native Chief

SOLDIERS, adherents of LEM

THE LITTLE FORMLESS FEARS

JEFF

THE NEGRO CONVICTS

THE PRISON GUARD

THE PLANTERS

THE AUCTIONEER

THE SLAVES

THE CONGO WITCH-DOCTOR

THE CROCODILE GOD

The action of the play takes place on an island in the West Indies

as yet not self-determined by White Marines. The form of native government is, for

the time being, an Empire.

Scene One

(The audience chamber in the palace of the Emperor--a spacious,

high-ceilinged room with bare, whitewashed walls. The floor is of

white tiles. In the rear, to the left of center, a wide archway giving

out on a portico with white pillars. The palace is evidently situated

on high ground for beyond the portico nothing can be seen but a vista

of distant hills, their summits crowned with thick groves of palm

trees. In the right wall, center, a smaller arched doorway leading

to the living quarters of the palace. The room is bare of furniture

with the exception of one huge chair made of uncut wood which stands

at center, its back to rear. This is very apparently the Emperor's

throne. It is painted a dazzling, eye-smiting scarlet. There is a

brilliant orange cushion on the seat and another smaller one is placed

on the floor to serve

as a footstool. Strips of matting, dyed scarlet, lead from the foot

of the throne to

the two entrances. It is late afternoon but the sunlight still blazes

yellowly beyond the portico and there is an oppressive burden of exhausting

heat in the air.)

(As the curtain rises, a native negro WOMAN sneaks

in cautiously from the entrance on the right. She is very old, dressed

in cheap calico, bare-footed, a red bandana handkerchief covering

all but a few stray wisps of white hair. A bundle bound in colored

cloth is carried over her shoulder on a stick. She hesitates beside

the doorway, peering back as if in extreme dread of being discovered.

Then she begins to glide noiselessly, a step at a time, toward the

doorway in the rear.

At this moment, SMITHERS appears beneath the portico.

SMITHERS is a tall,

stoop-shouldered man about forty. His bald head, perched on a long

neck with an enormous Adam's apple, looks like an egg. The tropics

have tanned his naturally pasty face with its small, sharp features

to a sickly yellow, and native rum has painted his pointed nose to

a startling red. His little, washy-blue eyes are red-

rimmed and dart about him like a ferret's. His expression is one of

unscrupulous meanness, cowardly and dangerous. He is dressed in a

worn riding suit of dirty white drill, puttees, spurs, and wears a

white cork helmet. A cartridge belt with

an automatic revolver is around his waist. He carries a riding whip

in his hand.

He sees the WOMAN and stops to watch her suspiciously.

Then, making up his mind, he steps quickly on tiptoe into the room.

The WOMAN, looking back over her shoulder continually,

does not see him until it is too late. When she does SMITHERS

springs forward and grabs her firmly by the shoulder. She struggles

to get away, fiercely but silently.)

SMITHERS: (Tightening his grasp--roughly) Easy!

None o' that, me birdie.

You can't wriggle out now I got me 'ooks on yer.

WOMAN: (Seeing the uselessness of struggling, gives way

to frantic terror, and sinks to the ground, embracing his knees supplicatingly)

No tell him! No tell him, Mister!

SMITHERS: (With great curiosity) Tell 'im? (Then

scornfully) Oh, you mean 'is bloomin' Majesty. What's the gaime,

any 'ow? What you sneakin' away for? Been stealin' a bit, I s'pose.

(He taps her bundle with his riding whip significantly.)

WOMAN: (Shaking her head vehemently) No, me no steal.

SMITHERS: Bloody liar! But tell me what's up. There's somethin'

funny goin' on. I smelled it in the air first thing I got up this

mornin'. You blacks are up to some devilment. This palace of 'is is

like a bleedin' tomb. Where's all the 'ands?

(The WOMAN keeps sullenly silent. SMITHERS

raises his whip threateningly.)

SMITHERS: Ow, yer won't, won't yer? I'll show yer what's

what.

WOMAN: (Coweringly) I tell, Mister. You no hit. They

go--all go. (She makes a sweeping gesture toward the hills

in the distance.)

SMITHERS: Run away-- to the 'ills?

WOMAN: Yes, Mister. Him Emperor--great Father. (She

touches her forehead

to the floor with a quick mechanical jerk.) Him sleep after eat.

Then they go--

all go. Me old woman. Me left only. Now me go too.

SMITHERS: (His astonishment giving way to an immense,

mean satisfaction)

Ow! So that's the ticket! Well, I know bloody well wot's in the air--when

they runs orf to the 'ills. The tom-tom'll be thumping out there bloomin'

soon. (With extreme vindictiveness) And I'm bloody glad of

it, for one!

Serve 'im right! Puttin' on airs, the stinkin' nigger! 'Is Majesty!

Gawd blimey! I only 'opes I'm there when they takes 'im out to shoot

'im. (Suddenly) 'E's still 'ere all right, ain't 'e?

WOMAN: Yes. Him sleep.

SMITHERS: 'E's bound to find out soon as wakes up. 'E's cunnin'

enough to know when 'is time's come.

(He goes to the doorway on right and whistles shrilly with his

fingers in his mouth. The old WOMAN springs to her feet

and runs out of the doorway, rear. SMITHERS goes after

her, reaching for his revolver.)

SMITHERS: Stop or I'll shoot! (Then stopping--indifferently)

Pop orf then,

if yer like, yer black cow. (He stands in the doorway, looking

after her.)

(JONES enters from the right. He is a tall, powerfully-built,

full-blooded negro of middle age. His features are typically negroid,

yet there is something decidedly distinctive about his face--an

underlying strength of will, a hardy, self-reliant confidence in himself

that inspires respect. His eyes are alive with a keen, cunning intelligence.

In manner he is shrewd, suspicious, evasive. He wears a light blue

uniform coat, sprayed with brass buttons, heavy gold chevrons on his

shoulders, gold braid on the collar, cuffs, etc. His pants are bright

red with a light blue stripe down the side. Patent leather laced boots

with brass spurs, and a belt with a long-barreled, pearl-handled revolver

in a holster complete his makeup. Yet there is something not altogether

ridiculous about his grandeur. He has a way of carrying

it off.)

JONES: (Not seeing anyone--greatly irritated and blinking

sleepily--shouts)

Who dare whistle dat way in my palace? Who dare wake up de Emperor?

I'll git de hide frayled off some o' you niggers sho'!

SMITHERS: (Showing himself--in a manner half-afraid

and half-defiant) It was me whistled to yer.

(As JONES frowns angrily)

SMITHERS: I got news for yer.

JONES: (Putting on his suavest manner, which fails to

cover up his contempt for the white man) Oh, it's you, Mister Smithers.

(He sits down on his throne with easy dignity.) What news you

got to tell me?

SMITHERS: (Coming close to enjoy his discomfiture)

Don't yer notice nothin' funny today?

JONES: (Coldly) Funny? No. I ain't perceived nothin'

of de kind!

SMITHERS: Then yer ain't so foxy as I thought yer was. Where's

all your court? (Sarcastically) The Generals and the Cabinet

Ministers and all?

JONES: (lmperturbably) where dey mostly runs to minute

I closes my eyes--drinkin' rum and talkin' big down in de town.

(Sarcastically) How come you don't know dat? Ain't you sousin'

with 'em most everyday?

SMITHERS: (Stung but pretending indifference--with

a wink) That's part of the day's work. I got ter--ain't I--in

my business?

JONES: (Contemptuously) Yo' business!

SMITHERS: (Imprudently enraged) Gawd blimey, you was

glad enough for me ter take yer in on it when you landed here first.

You didn' 'ave no 'igh and mighty airs in them days!

JONES: (His hand going to his revolver like a flash--menacingly)

Talk polite, white man! Talk polite, you heah me! I'm boss heah now,

is you fergettin'?

(The Cockney seems about to challenge this last statement with

the facts but something in the other's eyes holds and cowes him.)

SMITHERS: (In a cowardly whine) No 'arm meant, old

top.

JONES: (Condescendingly) I accepts yo' apology. (Lets

his hand fall from his revolver) No use'n you rakin' up ole times.

What I was den is one thing. What I is now 's another. You didn't

let me in on yo' crooked work out o'

no kind feelin's dat time. I done de dirty work fo' you--and most

o' de brain work, too, fo' dat matter--and I was wu'th money to

you, dat's de reason.

SMITHERS: Well, blimey, I give yer a start, didn't I--when

no one else would. I wasn't afraid to 'ire yer like the rest was--'count

of the story about your breakin' jail back in the States.

JONES: No, you didn't have no s'cuse to look down on me fo'

dat. You been in jail you'self more'n once.

SMITHERS: (Furiously) It's a lie! (Then trying

to pass it off by an attempt at scorn) Garn! Who told yer that

fairy tale?

JONES: Dey's some tings I ain't got to be tole. I kin see

'em in folk's eyes. (Then after a pause--meditatively) Yes,

you sho' give me a start. And it didn't take long from dat time to

git dese fool, woods' niggers right where I wanted dem. (With

pride) From stowaway to Emperor in two years! Dat's goin' some!

SMITHERS: (With curiosity) And I bet you got yer pile

o' money 'id safe some place.

JONES: (With satisfaction) I sho' has! And it's in

a foreign bank where no pusson don't ever git it out but me no matter

what come. You didn't s'pose

I was holdin' down dis Emperor job for de glory in it, did you? Sho'!

De fuss and glory part of it, dat's only to turn de heads o' de low-flung,

bush niggers dat's here. Dey wants de big circus show for deir money.

I gives it

to 'em an' I gits de money. (With a grin) De long green, dat's

me every time! (Then rebukingly) But you ain't got no kick

agin me, Smithers. I'se paid you back all you done for me many times.

Ain't I pertected you and winked at all de crooked tradin' you been

doin' right out in de broad day. Sho'. I has--and me makin' laws

to stop it at de same time! (He chuckles.)

SMITHERS: (Grinning) But, meanin' no 'arm, you been

grabbin' right and left yourself, ain't yer? Look at the taxes you've

put on 'em! Blimey! You've squeezed 'em dry!

JONES: (Chuckling) No, dey ain't all dry yet. I'se

still heah, ain't I?

SMITHERS: (Smiling at his secret thought) They're

dry right now, you'll find out. (Changing the subject abruptly)

And as for me breakin' laws, you've broke 'em all yerself just as

fast as yer made 'em.

JONES: Ain't r de Emperor? De laws don't go for him. (Judicially)

You heah what I tells you, Smithers. Dere's little stealin' like you

does, and dere's

big stealin' like I does. For de little stealin' dey gits you in jail

soon or late. For de big stealin' dey makes you Emperor and puts you

in de Hall o' Fame when you croaks. (Reminiscently) If dey's

one thing I learns in ten years on de Pullman ca's listenin' to de

white quality talk, it's dat same fact. And when I gits a chance to

use it I winds up Emperor in two years.

SMITHERS: (Unable to repress the genuine admiration of

the small fry for the large) Yes, yer turned the bleedin' trick,

all fight. Blimey, I never seen a bloke 'as 'ad the bloomin' luck

you 'as.

JONES: (Severely) Luck? What you mean--luck?

SMITHERS: I suppose you'll say as that swank about the silver

bullet ain't luck--and that was what first got the fool blacks

on yer side the time of the revolution, wasn't it?

JONES: (With a laugh) Oh, dat silver bullet! Sho'

was luck! But I makes dat luck, you heah? I loads de dice! Yessuh!

When dat murderin' nigger ole Lem hired to kill me takes aim ten feet

away and his gun misses fire and I shoots him dead, what you heah

me say?

SMITHERS: You said yer'd got a charm so's no lead bullet'd

kill yer. You was so strong only a silver bullet could kill yer, you

told 'em. Blimey, wasn't that swank for yer--and plain, fat-'eaded

luck?

JONES: (Proudly) I got brains and I uses 'em quick.

Dat ain't luck.

SMITHERS: Yer know they wasn't 'ardly likely to get no silver

bullets. And it was luck 'e didn't 'it you that time.

JONES: (Laughing) And dere all dem fool, bush niggers

was kneelin' down and bumpin' deir heads on de ground like I was a

miracle out o' de Bible Oh Lawd, from dat time on I has dem all eatin'

out of my hand. I cracks de whip and dey jumps through.

SMITHERS: (With a sniff) Yankee bluff done it.

JONES: Ain't a man's talkin' big what makes him big-long

as he makes folks believe it? Sho', I talks large when I ain't got

nothin' to back it up, but I ain't talkin' wild just de same. I knows

I kin fool 'em--I knows it--and dat's backin' enough

fo' my game. And ain't I got to learn deir lingo and teach some of

dem English befo' I kin talk to 'em? Ain't dat wuk? You ain't never

learned ary word er it, Smithers, in do ten years you been heah, dough

you' knows it's money in yo' pocket tradin' wid 'em if you does. But

you'se too shiftless to take de trouble.

SMITHERS: (Flushing) Never mind about me. What's this

I've 'eard about yer really 'avin' a sil-ver bullet moulded for yourself?

JONES: It's playin' out my bluff. I has de silver bullet

inoulded and I tells 'em when do time comes I kills myself wid it.

I tells 'em dat's 'cause I'm de on'y man in de world big enuff to

git me. No use'n deir tryin'. And dey falls down and bumps deir heads.

(He laughs.) I does dat so's I kin take a walk

in peace widout no jealous nigger gunnin' at me from behind de trees.

SMITHERS: (Astonished) Then you 'ad it made --'onest?

JONES: Sho' did. Heah she he. (He takes out his revolver,

breaks it, and takes the silver bullet out of one chamber.) Five

lead an' dis silver baby at de last. Don't she shine pretty? (He

holds it in his hand, looking at it admiringly, as if strangely fascinated.)

SMITHERS: Let me see. (Reaches out his hand for it)

JONES: (Harshly) Keep yo' hands whar dey b'long, white

man. (He replaces it in the chamber and puts the revolver back

on his hip.)

SMITHERS: (Snarling) Gawd Nimey! Mink I'm a bleedin'

thief, you would.

JONES: No, 'tain't dat. I knows you 'se scared to steal from

me. On'y I ain't 'lowin' nary body to touch dis baby. She's my rabbit's

foot.

SMITHERS: (Sneering) A bloomin' charm, wot? (Venomously)

Well, you'll need all the bloody charms you 'as before long, s' 'elp

me!

JONES: (Judicially) Oh, I'se good for six months yit

'fore dey gits sick o' my game. Den, when I sees trouble comin', I

makes my getaway.

SMITHERS: Ho! You got it all planned, ain't yer?

JONES: I ain't no fool. I knows dis Emperor's time is sho't.

Dat why I make hay when de sun shine. Was you thinkin' I'se aimin'

to hold down dis job for life? No, suh! What good is gittin' money

if you stays back in dis raggedy country? I wants action when I spends.

And when I sees dese niggers gittin' up deir nerve to tu'n me out,

and I'se got all de money in sight, I resigns on de spot and beats

it quick.

SMITHERS: Where to?

JONES: None o' yo' business.

SMITHERS: Not back to the bloody States, I'll lay my oath.

JONES (Suspiciously) Why don't I? (Then with an

easy laugh) You mean 'count of dat story 'bout me breakin' from

jail back dere? Dat's all talk.

SMITHERS: (Skeptically) Ho, yes!

JONES: (Sharply) You ain't 'sinuatin' I'se a liar,

is you?

SMITHERS: (Hastily) No, Gawd strike me! I was only

thinkin' o' the bloody lies you told the blacks 'ere about killin'

white men in the States.

JONES: (Angered) How come dey're lies?

SMITHERS: You'd 'ave been in jail, if you 'ad, wouldn't yer

then? (With venom) And from what I've 'eard, it ain't 'ealthy

for a black to kill a white man in the States. They burns 'em in oil,

don't they?

JONES: (With cool deadliness) You mean lynchin' 'd

scare me? Well, I tells you, Smithers, maybe I does kill one white

man back dere, Maybe I does. And maybe I kills another right heah

'fore long if he don't look out.

SMITHERS: (Trying to force a laugh) I was on'y spoofin'

yer. Can't yer take a joke? And you was just sayin' you'd never ken

in jail.

JONES: (In the same tone--slightly boastful) Maybe

I goes to jail dere for gettin' in an argument wid razors ovah a crap

game. Maybe I gits twenty years when dat colored man die. Maybe I

gits in 'nother argument wid de prison guard was overseer ovah us

when we're wukin' de roads. Maybe he hits me wid a whip and I splits

his head wid a shovel and runs away and files de chain off my leg

and gits away safe. Maybe I does all dat an' maybe I don't. It's a

story I tells you so's you knows I'se de kind of man dat if you evah

repeats one words of it, I ends yo' stealin' on dis yearth mighty

damn quick!

SMITHERS: (Terrified) Think I'd peach on yer? Not

me! Ain't I always been yer friend?

JONES: (Suddenly relaxing) Sho' you has--and you

better be.

SMITHERS: (Recovering his composure--and with it his

malice) And just to show yer I'm yer friend, I'll tell yer that

bit o' news I was goin' to.

JONES: Go ahead! Shoot de piece. Must be bad news from de

happy way you look.

SMITHERS: (Warningly) Maybe it's gettin' time for

you to resign--with that bloomin' silver bullet, wot? (He finishes

with a mocking grin.)

JONES: (Puzzled) What's dat you say? Talk plain.

SMITHERS: Ain't noticed any of the guards or servants about

the place today, I 'aven't.

JONES: (Carelessly) Dey're all out in de garden sleepin'

under de trees.

When I sleeps, dey sneaks a sleep, too, and I pretends I never suspicions

it. All I got to do is to ring de bell and dey come flyin', makin'

a bluff dey was wukin' all de time.

SMITHERS: (In the same mocking tone) Ring the bell

now an' you'll bloody well see what I means.

JONES: (Startled to alertness, but preserving the same

careless tone) Sho' I rings. (He reaches below the throne and

pulls out a big, common dinner bell which is painted the same vivid

scarlet as the throne. He rings this vigorously--then stops

to listen. Then he goes to both doors, rings again, and looks out.)

SMITHERS: (Watching him with malicious satisfaction,

after a pause--mockingly) The bloody ship is sinkin' an' the

bleedin' rats 'as slung their 'ooks.

JONES: (In a sudden fit of anger flings the bell clattering

into a corner) Low-flung, woods' niggers!

(Then catching SMITHERS's eye on him, he controls

himself and suddenly bursts into a low chuckling laugh.)

JONES: Reckon I overplays my hand dis once! A man can't take

de pot on

a bob-tailed flush all de time. Was I sayin' I'd sit in six months

mo'? Well, I'se changed my mind den. I cashes in and resigns de job

of Emperor right dis minute.

SMITHERS: (With real admiration) Blimey, but you're

a cool bird, and no mistake.

JONES: No use'n fussin'. When I knows de game's up I kisses

it goodbye widout no long waits. Dey've all run off to de hills, ain't

dey?

SMITHERS: Yes--every bleedin' man jack of 'em.

JONES: Den de revolution is at de post. And de Emperor better

git his feet smokin' up de trail. (He starts for the door in rear.)

SMITHERS: Goin' out to look for your 'orse? Yer won't find

any. They steals the 'orses first thing. Mine was gone when I went

for 'im this mornin'. That's wot first give me a suspicion of wot

was up.

JONES: (Alarmed for a second, scratches his head, then

philosophically) Well, den

I hoofs it. Feet, do yo' duty! (He pulls out a gold watch and

looks at it.) Three-

thuty. Sundown's at six-thuty or dereabouts. (Puts his watch back--with

cool confidence) I got plenty o' time to make it easy.

SMITHERS: Don't be so bloomin' sure of it. They'll be after

you 'ot and 'eavy. Ole Lem is at the bottom o' this business an' 'e

'ates you like 'ell. 'E'd rather do for you than eat 'is dinner, 'e

would!

JONES: (Scornfully) Dat fool no-count nigger! Does

you think I'se scared o' him? I stands him on his thick head more'n

once befo' dis, and I does it again if he come in my way-- (Fiercely)

And dis time I leave him a dead nigger fo' sho'!

SMITHERS: You'll 'ave to cut through the big forest--an'

these blacks 'ere can sniff and follow a trail in the dark like 'ounds.

You'd 'ave to 'ustle to get through that forest in twelve hours even

if you knew all the bloomin' trails like a native.

JONES: (With indignant scorn) Look-a-heah, white man!

Does you think I'se

a natural bo'n fool? Give me credit fo' havih' some sense, fo' Lawd's

sake! Don't you s'pose I'se looked ahead and made sho' of all de chances?

I'se gone out in dat big forest, pretendin' to hunt, so many times

dat I knows it high an' low like a book. I could go through on dem

trails wid my eyes shut. (With great contempt) Think dese ig'nerent

bush niggers dat ain't got brains enuff to know deir own names even

can catch Brutus Jones? Huh, I

s'pects not! Not on yo' life! why, man, de white men went after me

wid bloodhounds where I come from an' I jes' laughs at 'em. It's a

shame to fool dese black trash around heah, dey're so easy. You watch

me, man'. I'll make dem look sick, I will. I'll be 'cross de plain

to de edge of de forest by time dark comes. Once in de woods in de

night, dey got a swell chance o' findin' dis baby! Dawn tomorrow I'll

be out at de oder side and on de coast whar dat French gunboat is

stayin'. She picks me up, take me to the Martinique when she go dar,

and dere I is safe wid a mighty big bankroll in my jeans. It's easy

as rollin' off a log.

SMITHERS: (Maliciously) But s'posin' somethin' 'appens

wrong an' they do nab yer?

JONES: (Decisively) Dey don't--dat's de answer.

SMITHERS: But, just for argyment's sake--what'd you do?

JONES: (Frowning) I'se got five lead bullets in dis

gun good enuff fo' common bush niggers--and after dat I got de

silver bullet left to cheat 'em out o' gittin' me.

SMITHERS: (Jeeringly) Ho, I was fergettin' that silver

bullet. You'll bump yourself orf in style, won't yer? Blimey!

JONES: (Gloomily) You kin bet yo' whole roll on one

thing, white man. Dis baby plays out his string to de end and when

he quits, he quits wid a bang de way he ought. Silver bullet ain't

none too good for him when he go, dat's a fac' I-- (Then shaking

off his nervousness--with a confident laugh) Sho'! what is I

talkin' about? Ain't come to dat yit and I never will--not wid

trash niggers like dese yere. (Boastfully) Silver bullet bring

me luck anyway.

I kin outguess, outrun, outfight, an' outplay de whole lot o' dem

all ovah

de board any time o' de day er night! You watch me!

(From the distant hills comes the faint, steady thump of a tom-tom,

low and vibrating. It starts at a rate exactly corresponding to normal

pulse beat--72

to the minute--and continues at a gradually accelerated rate from

this point uninterruptedly to the very end of the play. JONES

starts at the sound. A strange look of apprehension creeps into his

face for a moment as he listens. Then he asks, with an attempt to

regain his most casual manner.)

JONES: What's dat drum beatin' fo'?

SMITHERS: (With a mean grin) For you. That means the

bleedin' ceremony 'as started. I've 'eard it before and I knows.

JONES: Cer'mony? What cer'mony?

SMITHERS: The blacks is 'oldin' a bloody meetin', 'avin'

a war dance, gettin' their courage worked up b'fore they starts after

you.

JONES: Let dem! Dey'll sho' need it!

SMITHERS: And they're there 'oldin' their 'eathen religious

service--makin' no end of devil spells and charms to 'elp 'em against

your silver bullet.

(He guffaws loudly.) Blimey, but they're balmy as 'ell!

JONES: (A tiny bit awed and shaken in spite of himself)

Huh! Takes more'n dat to scare dis chicken!

SMITHERS: (Scenting the other's feeling--maliciously)

Ternight when it's pitch black in the forest, they'll 'ave their pet

devils and ghosts 'oundin' after you. You'll find yer bloody 'air

'll be standin' on end before termorrow mornin'. (Seriously)

It's a bleedin' queer place, that stinkin' forest, even in daylight.

Yer don't know what might 'appen in there, it's that rotten still.

Always sends the cold shivers down my back minute I gets in it.

JONES: (With a contemptuous sniff) I ain't no chicken-liver

like you is. Trees an' me, we' se friends, and dar's a full moon comin'

bring me light. And

let dem po' niggers make all de fool spells dey'se a min' to. Does

yo' s'pect I'se silly, enuff to b'lieve in ghosts an' ha'nts an' all

dat ole woman's talk? G'long, white man! You ain't talkin' to me.

(With a chuckle) Doesn't you know dey's got to do wid a man

was member in good standin' o' de Baptist Church? Sho' I was dat when

I was porter on de Pullmans, befo' I gits into my little trouble.

Let dem try deir heathen tricks. De Baptist Church done pertect me

and land dem all in hell. (Then with more confident satisfaction)

And I'se got little silver bullet o' my own, don't forgits.

SMITHERS: Ho! You 'aven't give much 'eed to your Baptist

Church since you been down 'ere. I've 'card myself you 'ad turned

yer coat an' was takin' up with their blarsted witch-docters, or whatever

the 'ell yer calls the swine.

JONES: (Vehemently) I pretends to! Sho' I pretends!

Dat's part o' my game from de fust. If I finds out dem niggers believes

dat black is white, den I yells it out louder 'n deir loudest. It

don't git me nothin' to do missionary work for de Baptist Church.

I'se after de coin, an' I lays my Jesus on de shelf for de time hem'.

(Stops abruptly to look at his watch--alertly) But I ain't

got

de time to waste no more fool talk wid you. I'se gwine away from heah

dis secon'. (He reaches in under the throne and pulls out an expensive

Panama hat with a bright multi-colored band and sets it jauntily on

his head.) So long, white man! (With a grin) See you in

jail sometime, maybe!

SMITHERS: Not me, you won't. Well, I wouldn't be in yer bloody

boots for no bloomin' money, but 'ere's wishin' yer luck just the

same.

JONES: (Contemptuously) You're de frightenedest man

evah I see! I tells you I'se safe's 'f I was in New York City. It

takes dem niggers from now to dark to git up de nerve to start somethin'.

By dat time, I'se got a head start dey never kotch up wid.

SMITHERS: (Maliciously) Give my regards to any ghosts

yer meets up with.

JONES: (Grinning) If dat ghost got money, I'll tell

him never ha'nt you less'n he wants to lose it.

SMITHERS: (Flattered) Garn! (Then curiously)

Ain't yer takin' no luggage with yer?

JONES: I travels light when I wants to move fast. And I got

tinned grub buried on de edge o' de forest. (Boastfully) Now

say dat I don't look ahead an' use my brains! (With a wide, liberal

gesture) I will all dat's left in de palace to you--and you

better grab all you kin sneak away wid befo' dey gits here.

SMITHERS: (Gratefully) Righto--and thanks ter yer.

(As JONES walks toward the door in rear--cautioningly)

SMITHERS: Say! Look 'ere, you am't goin' out that way, are

yer?

JONES: Does you think I'd slink out de back door like a common

nigger?

I'se Emperor yit, ain't I? And de Emperor Jones leaves de way he comes,

and dat black trash don't dare stop him--not yit, leastways.

(He stops for a moment in the doorway, listening to the far-off

but insistent beat of the tom-tom.)

JONES: Listen to dat roll-call, will you? Must be mighty

big drum carry dat far. (Then with a laugh) Well, if dey ain't

no whole brass band to see me off,

I sho' got de drum part of it. So long, white man. (He puts his

hands in his pockets and with studied carelessness, whistling a tune,

he saunters out of the doorway and off to the left.)

SMITHERS: (Looks after him with a puzzled admiration)

'E's got 'is bloomin' nerve with 'im, s'elp me! (Then angrily)

Ho-the bleedin' nigger--puttin' an 'is bloody airs! I 'opes they

nabs 'im an' gives 'im what's what! (Then putting business before

the pleasure of this thought, looking around him with cupidity)

A bloke ought to find a 'ole lot in this palace that'd go for a bit

of cash.

Let's take a look, 'Arry, me lad.

(He starts for the doorway on right as the curtain falls.)

Scene Two

(Nightfall)

(The end of the plain where the Great Forest begins. The foreground

is sandy, level ground dotted by a few stones and clumps of stunted

bushes cowering close against the earth to escape the buffeting of

the trade wind. In the rear the forest is a wall of darkness dividing

the world. Only when the eye becomes accustomed to the gloom can the

outlines of separate trunks of the nearest trees be made out, enormous

pillars of deeper blackness. A somber monotone of wind lost in the

leaves moans in the air. Yet this sound serves but to intensify the

impression of the forest's relentless immobility, to form a background

throwing into relief its brooding, implacable silence. JONES

enters from the left, walking rapidly. He stops as he nears the edge

of the forest, looks around him quickly, peering into the dark as

if searching for

some familiar landmark. Then, apparently satisfied that he is where

he ought to be, he throws himself on the ground, dog-tired.)

JONES: Well, heah I is. In de nick o' time, too! Little mo'

an' it'd be blacker'n de ace of spades heah-abouts. (He pulls

a bandana handkerchief from his hip pocket and mops off his perspiring

face.) Sho'! Gimme air! I'se tuckered out sho' 'nuff. Dat soft

Emperor job ain't no trainin' for' a long hike ovah dat plain

in de brilin' sun. (Then with a chuckle) Cheah up, nigger,

de worst is yet to come. (He lifts his head and stares at the

forest. His chuckle peters out abruptly.

In a tone of awe) My goodness, look at dem woods, will you? Dat

no-count Smithers said dey'd be black an' he sho' called de turn.

(Turning away from them quickly and looking down at his feet,

he snatches at a chance to change the subject--solicitously.)

Feet, you is holdin' up yo' end fine an' I sutinly hopes you ain't

blisterin' none. It's time you git a rest. (He takes off his shoes,

his eyes studiously avoiding the forest. He feels of the soles of

his feet gingerly.) You is still in de pink--on'y a little mite

feverish. Cool yo'selfs. Remember you done got a long journey yit

befo' you. (He sits in a weary attitude, listening to the rhythmic

beating of the tom-tom. He grumbles in a loud tone to cover up a growing

uneasiness.) Bush niggers! Wonder dey wouldn' git sick o' beatin'

dat drum. Sound louder, seem like. I wonder if dey's startin' after

me?(He scrambles to his feet, looking back across the plain.)

Couldn't see dem now, nohow, if dey was hundred feet away. (Then

shaking himself like a wet dog to get rid of these depressing thoughts)

Sho', dey's miles an' miles behind. What you gittin' fidgetty about?

(But he sits down and begins to lace up his shoes in great haste,

all the time muttering reassuringly.) You know what? Yo' belly

is empty, dat's what's de matter wid you. Come time to eat! Wid nothin'

but wind on yo' stumach, o' course you feels jiggedy. Well, we eats

right heah an' now soon's I gits dese pesky shoes laced up. (He

finishes lacing up his shoes.) Dere! Now le's see! (Gets on

his hands and knees and searches the ground around him with his eyes)

White stone, white stone, where is you? (He sees the first white

stone and crawls to it--with satisfaction.) Heah you is! I knowed

dis was de right place. Box of grub, come to me. (He turns over

the stone and feels in under it--in a tone of dismay.) Ain't

heah! Gorry, is I in de right place or isn't I? Dere's 'nother stone.

Guess dat's it. (He scrambles to the next stone and turns it over.)

Ain't heah, neither! Grub, whar is you? Ain't heah. Gorry, has I got

to go hungry into dem woods--all de night? (While he is talking

he scrambles from one stone to another, turning them over in frantic

haste. Finally, he jumps to his feet excitedly.) Is I lost de place?

Must have! But how dat happen when I was followin' de trail across

de plain in broad daylight? (Almost plaintively) I'se hungry,

I is! I gotta git my feed. Whar's my strength gonna come from if I

doesn't? Gorry, I gotta find dat grub high an' low somehow! Why it

come dark so quick like dat? Can't see nothin'. (He scratches

a match on his trousers and peers about him. The rate of the beat

of the far-off tom-tom increases perceptibly as he does so. He mutters

in a bewildered voice.) How come all dese white stones come heah

when I only remembers one? (Suddenly, with a frightened gasp,

he flings the match on the ground and stamps on it.) Nigger, is

you gone crazy mad? Is you lightin' matches to show dem whar you is?

Fo' Lawd's sake, use yo' haid. Gorry, I'se got to be careful! (He

stares at the plain behind him apprehensively, his hand on his revolver.)

But how come all dese white stones? And whar's dat tin box o' grub

I hid all wrapped up in oil cloth?

(While his back is turned, the LITTLE FORMLESS

FEARS creep out from the deeper blackness of the forest.

They are black, shapeless, only their glittering little eyes can be

seen. If they have any describable form at all it is that of a grubworm

about the size of a creeping child. They move noiselessly, but with

deliberate, painful effort, striving to raise themselves on end, failing

and sinking prone again. JONES turns about to face the

forest. He stares up at the tops of the trees, seeking vainly to discover

his whereabouts by their conformation.)

JONES: Can't tell nothin' from dem trees! Gorry, nothin'

'round heah look like I evah seed it befo'. I'se done lost de place

sho' 'nuff! (With mournful foreboding) It's mighty queer! It's

mighty queer! (With sudden forced defiance--in an angry tone)

Woods, is you tryin' to put somethin' ovah on me?

(From the formless creatures on the ground in front of him comes

a tiny gale of low mocking laughter like a rustling of leaves. They

squirm upward toward him in twisted attitudes. JONES

looks down, leaps backward with a yell of terror, yanking out his

revolver as he does join a quavering voice.)

JONES: What's dat? who's dar? What is you? Git away from

me befo' I shoots you up! You don't?

(He fires. There is a flash, a loud report, then silence broken

only by the far-off, quickened throb of the tom-tom. The formless

creatures have scurried back into the forest. JONES

remains fixed in his position, listening intently. The sound of the

shot, the reassuring feel of the revolver in his hand, have somewhat

restored his shaken nerve. He addresses himself with renewed confidence.)

JONES: Dey're gone. Dat shot fix 'em. Dey was only little

animals--little wild pigs, I reckon. Dey've maybe rooted out yo'

grub an' eat it. Sho', you fool nigger, what you think dey is--ha'nts?

(Excitedly) Gorry, you give de game away when you fire dat

shot. Dem niggers heah dat fo' su'tin! Time you beat it in de woods

widout no long waits. (He starts for the forest--hesitates

before the plunge--then urging himself in with manful resolution.)

Git in, nigger! What you skeered at? Ain't nothin' dere but de trees!

Git in! (He plunges boldly into the forest.)

Scene Three

(Nine o'clock. In the forest. The moon has just risen. Its beams,

drifting through the canopy of leaves, make a barely perceptible,

suffused, eerie glow. A dense low wall of under-brush and creepers

is in the nearer foreground, fencing in a small triangular clearing.

Beyond this is the massed blackness of the forest like an encompassing

barrier. A path is dimly discerned leading down to the clearing from

left, rear, and winding away from it again toward the right. As the

scene opens nothing can be distinctly made out. Except for the beating

of the tom-tom, which is a trifle louder and quicker than in the previous

scene, there is silence, broken every few seconds

by a queer, clicking sound. Then gradually the figure of the negro,

JEFF, can be discerned crouching on his haunches at

the rear of the triangle. He is middle-aged, thin, brown in color,

is dressed in a Pullman porter's uniform, cap, etc. He is throwing

a pair of dice on the ground before him, picking them up, shaking

them, casting them out with the regular, rigid, mechanical movements

of an automaton. The heavy, plodding footsteps of someone approaching

along the trail from the left are heard and JONES' voice,

pitched in a slightly higher key and strained in a cheering effort

to overcome its own tremors.)

JONES: De moon's rizen. Does you heah dat, nigger? You gits

more light from dis out. No mo' buttin' yo' fool head agin' de trunks

an' scratchin' de hide off yo' legs in de bushes. Now you sees whar

yo'se gwine. So cheer up! From now on you has a snap. (He steps

just to the rear of the triangular clearing and mops off his face

on his sleeve. He has lost his Panama hat. His face is scratched,

his brilliant uniform shows several large rents.) what time's it

gittin' to be, I wonder? I dassent light no match to find out. Phoo'.

It's wa'm an' dats a fac'! (Wearily) How long r been makin'

tracks in dese woods? Must be hours an' hours. Seems like fo'evah!

Yit can't be, when de moon's jes' riz. Dis am

a long night fo' yo', yo' Majesty! (With a mournful chuckle)

Majesty! Der ain't much majesty 'bout dis baby now. (With attempted

cheerfulness) Never min'. It's all part o' de game. Dis night come

to an end like everything else. And when you gits dar safe and has

dat bankroll in yo' hands you laughs at all dis. (He starts to

whistle but checks himself abruptly.) What yo' whistlin' for, you

po' dope! Want all de won' to heah you? (He stops talking to listen.)

Heah dat ole drum! Sho' gits nearer from de sound. Dey're packin'

it along wid 'em. Time fo' me to move. (He takes a step forward,

then stops--worriedly.) What's dat odder queer clicketty sound

I heah? Den it is! Sound close! Sound like--sound like--Fo'

God sake, sound like some nigger was shootin' crap! (Frightenedly)

I better beat it quick when I gits dem notions.

(He walks quickly into the clear space--then stands transfixed

as he sees JEFF in a terrified gasp.)

JONES: Who dar? Who dat? Is dat you, Jeff? (Starting

toward the other, forgetful for a moment of his surroundings and really

believing it is a living man that he sees--in a tone of happy relief)

Jeff! I'se sho' mighty glad to see you! Dey

tol' me you done died from dat razor cut I gives you. (Stopping

suddenly, bewilderedly) But how you come to be heah, nigger? (He

stares fascinatedly

at the other who continues his mechanical play with the dice. JONES'

eyes begin to roll wildly. He stutters.) Ain't you gwine--look

up--can't you speak to me?

Is you--is you--a ha'nt? (He jerks out his revolver in a

frenzy of terrified rage.) Nigger, I kills you dead once. Has I

got to kill you agin? You take it den.

(He fires. When the smoke clears away JEFF has disappeared.

JONES stands trembling--then with a certain reassurance.)

JONES: He's gone, anyway. Ha'nt or no ha'nt, dat shot fix

him.

(The beat of the far-off tom-tom is perceptibly louder and more

rapid. JONES becomes conscious of it--with a start,

looking back over his shoulder.)

JONES: Dey's gittin' near! Dey'se comin' fast! And heah I

is shootin' shots to let 'em know jes' whar I is. Oh, Gorry, I'se

got to run. (Forgetting the path he plunges wildly into the underbrush

in the rear and disappears in the shadow.)

Scene Four

(Eleven o'clock. In the forest. A wide dirt road runs diagonally

from right, front,

to left, rear. Rising sheer on both sides the forest walls it in.

The moon is now up. Under its light the road glimmers ghastly and

unreal. It is as if the forest had stood aside momentarily to let

the road pass through and accomplish its veiled purpose. This done,

the forest will fold in upon itself again and the road will be no

more. JONES stumbles in from the forest on the right.

His uniform is ragged and torn.

He looks about him with numbed surprise when he sees the road, his

eyes blinking in the bright moonlight. He flops down exhaustedly and

pants heavily for a while. Then with sudden anger)

JONES: I'm meltin' wid heat! Runnin' an' runnin' an' runnin'!

Damn dis

heah coat! Like a strait jacket! (He tears off his coat and flings

it away from him., revealing himself stripped to the waist.) Den!

Dat's better! Now I kin breathe! (Looking down at his feet, the

spurs catch his eye.) And to hell wid dese high-

fangled spurs. Dey're what's been a-trippin' me up an' breakin' my

neck. (He unstraps them and flings them away disgustedly.)

Dere! I gits rid o' dem frippety Emperor trappin's an' I travels lighter.

Lawd! I'se tired!

(After a pause, listening to the insistent beat of the tom-tom

in the distance)

JONES: I must 'a put some distance between myself an' dem--runnin'

like dat--and yit--dat damn drum sound jes' de same--nearer,

even. Well,

I guess I a'most holds my lead anyhow. Dey won't never catch up. (With

a sigh) If on'y my fool legs stands up. Oh, I'se sorry I evah went

in for dis.

Dat Emperor job is sho' hard to shake. (He looks around him suspiciously.)

How'd dis road evah git heah? Good level road, too. I never remembers

seein' it befo'. (Shaking his head apprehensively) Dese woods

is sho' full o' de queerest things at night. (With a sudden terror)

Lawd God, don't let me see no more o' dem ha'nts! Dey gits my goat!

(Then trying to talk himself into confidence) Ha'nts! You fool

nigger, dey ain't no such things! Don't de Baptist parson tell you

dat many time? Is you civilized, or is you like dese ign'rent black

niggers heah? Sho'! Dat was all in yo' own head. Wasn't nothin' dere.

Wasn't no Jeff! Know what? You jus' get seem' dem things 'cause yo'

belly's empty and you's sick wid hunger inside. Hunger 'fects

yo' head and yo' eyes. Any fool know dat. (Then pleading fervently)

But bless God, I don't come across no more o' dem, whatever dey is!

(Then cautiously) Rest! Don't talk! Rest! You needs it. Den

you gits on yo' way again. (Looking at the moon) Night's half

gone a'most. You hits de coast in de mawning!

Den you'se all safe.

(From the right forward a small gang of negroes enter. They are

dressed in striped convict suits, their heads are shaven, one leg

drags limpingly, shackled to a heavy ball and chain. Some carry picks,

the others shovels. They are followed by a white man dressed in the

uniform of a prison guard. A Winchester rifle is slung across

his shoulders and he carries a heavy whip. At a signal from the GUARD

they stop on the road opposite where JONES is sitting.

JONES, who has been staring up at the sky, unmindful

of their noiseless approach, suddenly looks down and sees them. His

eyes pop out, he tries to get to his feet and fly, but sinks back,

too numbed by fright to move. His voice catches in a choking prayer.)

JONES: Lawd Jesus!

(The PRISON GUARD cracks his whip--noiselessly--and

at that signal all the convicts start to work on the road. They swing

their picks, they shovel, but not a sound comes from their labor.

Their movements, like those of JEFF in the preceding

scene, are those of automatons,--rigid, slow, and mechanical. The

PRISON GUARD points sternly at JONES

with his whip, motions him to take his place among the other shovellers.

JONES gets to his feet in a hypnotized stupor. He mumbles

subserviently.)

JONES: Yes, suh! Yes, suh! I'se comin'. (As he shuffles,

dragging one foot, over

to his place, he curses under his breath with rage and hatred.)

God damn yo' soul, I gits even wid you yit, sometime.

(As if there were a shovel in his hands he goes through weary,

mechanical gestures of digging up dirt, and throwing it to the roadside.

Suddenly the GUARD approaches him angrily, threateningly.

He raises his whip and lashes JONES viciously across

the shoulders with it. JONES winces with pain and cowers

abjectly. The GUARD turns his back on him and walks

away contemptuously. Instantly JONES straightens up.

With arms upraised as if his shovel were a club in his hands he springs

murderously at the unsuspecting GUARD. In the act of

crashing down his shovel on the white man's skull, JONES

suddenly becomes aware that his hands are empty. He cries despairingly.)

JONES: Whar's my shovel? Gimme my shovel 'till I splits his

damn head! (Appealing to his fellow convicts) Gimme a shovel,

one o' you, fo' God's sake!

(They stand fixed in motionless attitudes, their eyes on the ground.

The GUARD seems to wait expectantly, his back turned

to the attacker. JONES bellows with baffled, terrified

rage, tugging frantically at his revolver.)

JONES: I kills you, you white debil, if it's de last thing

I evah does! Ghost or debil, I kill you agin!

(He frees the revolver and fires point blank at the GUARD's

back. Instantly the walls of the forest close in from both sides;

the road and the figures of the convict gang

are blotted out in an enshrouding darkness. The only sounds are a

crashing in the underbrush as JONES leaps away in mad

flight and the throbbing of the tom-tom, still far distant, but increased

in volume of sound and rapidity of beat.)

Scene Five

(One o'clock. A large circular clearing, enclosed by the serried

ranks of gigantic trunks of tall trees whose tops are lost to view.

In the center is a big dead stump--worn by time into a curious

resemblance to an auction block. The moon floods the clearing with

a clear light. JONES forces his way in through the forest

on the left. He looks wildly about the clearing with hunted, fearful

glances. His pants are in tatters, his shoes cut and misshapen, flapping

about his feet. He slinks cautiously to the stump in the center and

sits down in a tense position, ready for instant flight. Then he holds

his head in his hands and rocks back and forth, moaning to himself

miserably.)

JONES: Oh Lawd, Lawd! Oh Lawd, Lawd! (Suddenly he throws

himself on his knees and raises his clasped hands to the sky--in

a voice of agonized pleading.) Lawd Jesus, heah my prayer! I'se

a po' sinner, a po' sinner! I knows I done wrong, I knows it! When

I cotches Jeff cheatin' wid loaded dice my anger overcomes me and

I kills him dead! Lawd, I done wrong! When dat guard hits me wid de

whip, my anger overcomes me, and I kills him dead. Lawd,

I done wrong! And down heah whar dese fool bush niggers raises me

up to the seat o' de mighty, I steals all I could grab. Lawd, I done

wrong! I knows it! I'se sorry! Forgive me, Lawd! Forgive dis po' sinner!

(Then beseeching terrifiedly) And keep dem away, Lawd! Keep

dem away from me! And stop dat drum soundin' in my ears! Dat begin

to sound ha'nted, too. (He gets to his feet, evidently slightly

reassured by his prayer--with attempted confidence.)

De Lawd'll preserve me from dem ha'nts after dis. (Sits down on

the stump again) I ain't skeered o' real men. Let dem come. But

dem odders (He shudders--then looks down at his feet, working

his toes inside the shoe--with a groan.) Oh, my po' feet! Dem

shoes ain't no use no more 'ceptin' to hurt. I'se better off widout

dem. (He unlaces them and pulls them off--holds the wrecks

of the shoes in his hands and regards them mournfully.) You was

real, A-one patin' leather, too. Look at you now. Emperor, you'se

gittin' mighty low!

(He sighs dejectedly and remains with bowed shoulders, staring

down at the shoes in his hands as if reluctant to throw them away.

While his attention is thus occupied, a crowd of figures silently

enter the clearing from all sides. All are dressed in Southern costumes

of the period of the fifties of the last century. There are middle-

aged who are evidently well-to-do planters. There is one spruce, authoritative

individual--the AUCTIONEER. There are a crowd of

curious spectators, chiefly young belles and dandies who have come

to the slave-market for diversion.

All exchange courtly greetings in dumb show and chat silently together.

There is something stiff, rigid, unreal, marionettish about their

movements. They group themselves about the stump. Finally a batch

of slaves are led in from the left by an attendant--three men of

different ages, two women, one with a baby in her arms, nursing. They

are placed to the left of the stump, beside JONES. The

white planters look them over appraisingly as if they were cattle,

and exchange judgments on each. The dandies point with their fingers

and make witty remarks. The belles titter bewitchingly. All this in

silence save for the ominous throb of the tom-tom. The AUCTIONEER

holds up his hand, taking his place at the stump. The groups strain

forward attentively. He touches JONES on the shoulder

peremptorily, motioning for him to stand on the stump--the auction

block. JONES looks up, sees the figures on all sides,

looks wildly for some opening to escape, sees none, screams and leaps

madly to the top of the stump to get as far away from them as possible.

He stands there, cowering, paralyzed with horror. The AUCTIONEER

begins his silent spiel. He points to JONES, appeals

to the planters to see for themselves. Here is a good field hand,

sound in wind and limb as they can see. Very strong still in spite

of being middle-aged. Look at that back. Look at those shoulders.

Look at the muscles in his arms and his sturdy legs. Capable of any

amount of hard labor. Moreover, of a good disposition, intelligent

and tractable. Will any gentleman start the bidding? The PLANTERS

raise their fingers, make their bids. They are apparently all eager

to possess JONES. The bidding is lively, the crowd interested.

While this has been going on, JONES has been seized

by the courage of desperation. He dares to look down, and around him.

Over his face abject terror gives way to mystification, to gradual

realization--stutteringly.)

JONES: what you all doin', white folks? What's all dis? what

you all lookin' at me fo'? what you doin' wid me, anyhow? (Suddenly

convulsed with raging hatred and fear) Is dis a auction? Is you

sellin' me like dey uster hefo' de war?

(Jerking out his revolver just as the AUCTIONEER

knocks him down to one of the planters--glaring from him to the

purchaser)

JONES: And you sells me? And you buys me? I shows you I'se

a free nigger, damn yo' souls!

(He fires at the AUCTIONEER and at the PLANTER

with such rapidity that the two shots are almost simultaneous. As

if this were a signal the walls of the forest fold in. Only blackness

remains and silence broken by JONES as he rushes off,

crying with fear--and by the quickened, ever louder beat of the

tom-tom.)

Scene Six

(Three o'clock. A cleared space in the forest. The limbs of the

trees meet over it forming a low ceiling about five feet from the

ground. The interlocked ropes of creepers reaching upward to entwine

the tree trunks gives an arched appearance

to the sides. The space thus encloses it like the dark, noisome hold

of some ancient vessel. The moonlight is almost completely shut out

and only a vague, wan light filters through. There is the noise of

someone approaching from the left, stumbling and crawling through

the undergrowth. JONES' voice is heard between chattering

moans.)

JONES: Oh, Lawd, what I gwine do now? Ain't got no bullet

left on'y de silver one. If mo' o' dem ha'nts come after me, how I

gwine skeer dem away? Oh, Lawd, on'j de silver one left--an' I

gotta save dat fo' luck. If I shoots dat one I'm a goner sho' I Lawd,

it's black heah! Whar's de moon? Oh, Lawd, don't dis night evah come

to an end? (By the sounds, he is feeling his way cautiously forward.)

Dere! Dis feels like a clear space. I gotta lie down an' rest. I don't

care if dem niggers does cotch me. I gotta rest.

(He is well forward now where his figure can be dimly made out.

His pants have been so torn away that what is left of them is no better

than a breech cloth. He flings himself full length, face downward

on the ground, panting with exhaustion. Gradually it seems to grow

lighter in the enclosed space and two rows of seated figures can be

seen behind JONES. They are sitting in crumpled, despairing

attitudes, hunched, facing one another with their backs touching the

forest walls as if they were shackled to them. All are negroes, naked

save for loin cloths. At first they are silent and motionless. Then

they begin to sway slowly forward toward each and back again in unison,

as if they were laxly letting themselves follow the long roll of a

ship at sea. At the same time, a low, melancholy murmur rises among

them, increasing gradually by rhythmic degrees which seem to be directed

and controlled by the throb of the tom-tom in the distance, to a long,

tremulous wail of despair that reaches a certain pitch, unbearably

acute, then falls by slow graduations of tone into silence and is

taken up again. JONES starts, looks up, sees the figures,

and throws himself down again to shut out the sight. A shudder of

terror shakes his whole body as the wail rises up about him again.

But the next time, his voice, as if under some uncanny compulsion,

starts with the others. As their chorus lifts he rises to a sitting

posture similar to the others, swaying back and forth. His voice reaches

the highest pitch of sorrow, of desolation. The light fades out, the

other voices cease, and only darkness is left. JONES

can be heard scrambling to his feet and running off, his voice sinking

down the scale and receding as he moves farther and farther away in

the forest. The tom-tom beats louder, quicker, with a more insistent,

triumphant pulsation.)

Scene Seven

(Five o'clock. The foot of a gigantic tree by the edge of a great

river. A rough structure of boulders, like an altar, is by the tree.

The raised river bank is in the nearer background. Beyond this the

surface of the river spreads out, brilliant and unruffled in the moonlight,

blotted out and merged into a veil of bluish mist in

the distance. JONES' voice is heard from the left rising

and falling in the long, despairing wail of the chained slaves, to

the rhythmic beat of the tom-tom. As his voice sinks into silence,

he enters the open space. The expression on his face is fixed and

stony, his eyes have an obsessed glare, he moves with a strange deliberation

like a sleepwalker or one in a trance. He looks around at the tree,

the rough stone altar, the moonlit surface of the river beyond, and

passes his hand over his head with a vague gesture of puzzled bewilderment.

Then, as if in obedience to some obscure impulse, he sinks into a

kneeling, devotional posture before the altar. Then he seems to come

to himself partly, to have an uncertain realization of what he is

doing, for

he straightens up and stares about him horrifiedly--in an incoherent

mumble.)

JONES: What--what is I doin? What is--dis place? Seems

like--seems like

I know dat tree--an' dem stones--an' de river. I remember--seems

like I been heah befo'. (Tremblingly) Oh, Gorry, I'se skeered

in dis place! I'se skeered! Oh, Lawd, pertect dis sinner!

(Crawling away from the altar, he cowers close to the ground,

his face hidden, his shoulders heaving with sobs of hysterical fright.

From behind the trunk of the tree, as if he had sprung out of it,

the figure of the CONGO WITCH-DOCTOR

appears. He is wizened and old, naked except for the fur of some small

animal tied about his waist, its bushy tail hanging down in front.

His body is stained all over a bright red. Antelope horns are on each

side of his head, branching upward. In one hand

he carries a bone rattle, in the other a charm stick with a bunch

of white cockatoo feathers tied to the end. A great number of glass

beads and bone ornaments are about his neck, ears, wrists, and ankles.

He struts noiselessly with a queer prancing step to a position in

the clear ground between JONES and the altar. Then with

a preliminary, summoning stamp of his foot on the earth, he begins

to dance and

to chant. As if in response to his summons the beating of the tom-tom

grows to a fierce, exultant boom whose throbs seem to fill the air

with vibrating rhythm. JONES looks up, starts to spring

to his feet, reaches a half kneeling, half-squatting position and

remains rigidly fixed there, paralyzed with awed fascination by this

new apparition. The WITCH-DOCTOR sways, stamping

with his foot, his bone rattle clicking the time. His voice rises

and falls in a weird, monotonous croon, without articulate word divisions.

Gradually his dance becomes clearly one of a narrative

in pantomime, his croon is an incantation, a charm to allay the fierceness

of some implacable deity demanding sacrifice. He flees, he is pursued

by devils, he hides, he flees again. Ever wilder and wilder becomes

his flight, nearer and nearer draws the pursuing evil, more and more

the spirit of terror gains possession of him. His croon, rising to

intensity, is punctuated by shrill cries. JONES has

become completely hypnotized. His voice joins in the incantation,

in the cries, he beats time with his hands and sways his body to and

fro from the waist. The whole spirit and meaning of the dance has

entered into him, has become his spirit. Finally the theme of the

pantomime halts on a howl of despair, and is taken up again in a note

of savage hope. There is a salvation. The forces of evil demand sacrifice.

They must be appeased. The WITCH-DOCTOR points

with his wand to the sacred tree, to the river beyond, to the altar,

and finally to JONES with a ferocious command. JONES

seems to sense the meaning of this. It is he who must offer himself

for sacrifice. He beats his forehead abjectly to the ground, moaning

hysterically.)

JONES: Mercy, Oh Lawd! Mercy! Mercy on dis po' sinner.

(The WITCH-DOCTOR springs to the river

bank. He stretches out his arms and calls to some God within its depths.

Then he starts backward slowly, his arms remaining out. A huge head

of a crocodile appears over the bank and its eves, glittering greenly,

fasten upon JONES. He stares into them fascinatedly.

The WITCH-DOCTOR prances up to him, touches

him with his wand, motions with hideous command toward the waiting

monster. JONES squirms on his belly nearer and nearer,

moaning continually.)

JONES: Mercy, Lawd! Mercy!

(The crocodile heaves more of his enormous hulk onto the land.

JONES squirms toward him. The WITCH-DOCTOR's

voice shrills out in furious exultation, the tom-tom beats madly.

JONES cries out in a fierce, exhausted spasm of anguished

pleading.)

JONES: Lawd, save me! Lawd Jesus, hear my prayer!

(Immediately, in answer to his prayer, comes the thought of the

one bullet left him. He snatches at his hip, shouting defiantly.)

JONES: De silver bullet! You don't git me yit!

(He fires at the green eyes in front of him. The head of the crocodile

sinks back behind the river bank, the WITCH-DOCTOR

springs behind the sacred tree

and disappears. JONES lies with his face to the ground,

his arms outstretched, whimpering with fear as the throb of the tom-tom

fills the silence about him

with a somber pulsation, a baffled but revengeful power.)

Scene Eight

(Dawn. Same as Scene Two, the dividing line of forest and plain.

The nearest tree trunks are dimly revealed but the forest behind them

is still a mass of glooming shadow. The tom-tom seems on the very

spot, so loud and continuously vibrating are its beats. LEM

enters from the left, followed by a small squad of his soldiers,

and by the Cockney trader, SMITHERS. LEM

is a heavy-set, ape-faced old savage of the extreme African type,

dressed only in a loin cloth. A revolver and cartridge belt are about

his waist. His soldiers are in different degrees of rag-concealed

nakedness. All wear broad palm leaf hats. Each one carries a rifle.

SMITHERS is the same as in Scene One. One of the soldiers,

evidently a tracker, is peering about keenly on the ground. He grunts

and points to the spot where JONES entered the forest.

LEM and SMITHERS come to look.

SMITHERS: (After a glance, turns away in disgust)

That's where 'e went in right enough. Much good it'll do yer. 'E's

miles orf by this an' safe to the Coast damn 'S 'ide! I tole yer yer'd

lose 'im, didn't I?--wastin' the 'ole bloomin' night beatin' yer

bloody drum and castin' yer silly spells! Gawd blimey,

wot a pack!

LEM: (Gutturally) We cotch him. You see.

(He makes a motion to his soldiers who squat down on their haunches

in a semi-circle.)

SMITHERS: (Exasperatedly) Well, ain't yer goin 'in

an' 'unt 'im in the woods? What the 'ell's the good of waitin'?

LEM: (Imperturbably--squatting down himself) We

cotch him.

SMITHERS: (Turning away from him contemptously) Aw!

Garn! 'E's a better man than the lot o' you put together. I 'ates

the sight o' 'im but I'll say that for 'im.

(A sound of snapping twigs comes from the forest. The soldiers

jump to their feet, cocking their rifles alertly. LEM

remains sitting with an imperturbable expression, but listening intently.

The sound from the woods is repeated. LEM makes a quick

signal with his hand. His followers creep quickly but noiselessly

into the forest, scattering so that each enters at a different spot.)

SMITHERS: (In the silence that follows--a contemptuous

whisper) You ain't thinkin' that would be 'im, I 'ope?

LEM: (Calmly) We cotch him.

SMITHERS: Blarsted fat 'eads! (Then after a second's

thought--wonderingly)

Still an' all, it 'might 'appen. If 'e lost 'is bloody way in these

stinkin'

woods 'e'd likely turn in a circle without 'is knowin' it. They all

does.

LEM: (Peremptorily) Sssh!

(The reports of several rifles sound from the forest, followed

a second later by savage, exultant yells. The beating of the tom-tom

abruptly ceases. LEM looks up at the white man with

a grin of satisfaction.)

LEM: We cotch him. Him dead.

SMITHERS: (With a snarl) 'Ow d'yer know it's 'im an'

'ow d'yer know 'e's dead?

LEM: My mens dey got 'urn silver bullets. Dey kill him shore.

SMITHERS: (Astonished) They got silver bullets?

LEM: Lead bullet no kill him. He got urn strong charm. I

cook urn money, make urn silver bullet, make urn strong charm, too.

SMITHERS: (Light breaking upon him) So that's wot

you was up to all night, wot? You was scared to put after 'im till

you'd moulded silver bullets, eh?

LEM: (Simply stating a fact) Yes. Him got strong charm.

Lead no good.

SMITHERS: (Slapping his thigh and guffawing) Haw-haw!

If yer don't beat all 'ell! (Then recovering himself--scornfully)

I'll bet yer it ain't 'im they shot at all, yer bleedin' looney!

LEM: (Calmly) Dey come bring him now.

(The soldiers come out of the forest, carrying JONES'

limp body. There is a little reddish purple hole under his left breast.

He is dead. They carry him to LEM who examines his body

with great satisfaction. SMITHERS leans over his shoulder--

in a tone of frightened awe.)

SMITHERS: Well, they did for yer fight enough, Jonsey, me

lad! Dead as a 'erring! (Mockingly) Where's yer 'igh an' mighty

airs now, yer bloornin' Majesty? (Then with a grin) Silver

bullets! Gawd blimey, but yer died in the 'eighth o' style, any'ow!

(LEM makes a motion to the soldiers to carry the

body out left. SMITHERS speaks

to him sneeringly.)

SMITHERS: And I s'pose you think it's yer bleedin' charms

and yer silly beatin' the drum that made 'im run in a circle when

'e'd lost 'imself,

don't yer?

(But LEM makes no reply, does not seem to hear the

question, walks out left after his men. SMITHERS looks

after him with contemptuous scorn.)

SMITHERS: Stupid as 'ogs, the lot of 'em! Blarsted niggers!

(Curtain falls.)

END OF PLAY