​​

43

 Cast

Lord Byron

Joe Murray

Bob Rushton

Fletcher

J.C. Hobhouse

Captain Kidd

​43

​

​SCENE 1

 

1809, dockside, Falmouth - after one false start and much ado-ing with luggage and passengers, the ship is about to launch

​

B(giddy with the scent of the open ocean): Huzzah, Hobby, we are going! - our embargo’s off at last! - favourable breezes blowing bend the canvas o’er the mast! (points) Look yonder! From aloft the signal’s streaming!

H: ‘Tis a fine sight! - er, is there a stationer’s perchance nearby? I feel haven’t half enough notebooks or guidebooks re. weights & measures, highway codes - d’you know - and whatnot assorted rhyming dictionaries

B(ponders his choice of travelling companion): Make haste, Mr. Hobhouse! (sits on a sack of wool - feels his familial Naval blood stirring) - hmm, I shall oppurtuize, inspect the locals and epistlize back to the Methodist Matthews - oons! he is quite uncouth - he shall be greatly interested in yon ambling Tars (surveys, frowns) - he is fairly of the pantomime, in truth

​

​​B strolls around the lively town, is impressed

​

​B: Deuced if I never saw so many charming rustics - women, men - yea, even the horses - all dashed handsome! Shan’t be doing any culling, mind - I’ll need Homeric stores of energy to keep my stomach in order ship-wise

​

Hobhouse - weighed down with stationery and anti-seasick meds catches up with B

​

​H: Hoy, Byron! - have you written to Matthews and Hodgson as we promised? (whispers) I say there is a rake of good-looking denizens - have we time?

B: Yes - and, no Hobby! - I should not care for any surprises if and when I return to this gloomy island, with my pockets full of rhyme

​

​Ship’s warning sounds

​

​B: Hark! The farewell gun is fir’d - good lord - there’s women screeching, tars blaspheming, to tell us that our time’s expir’d - by Jove, Hobby, is that a gallon of ink?!

H: Oons! Here’s a rascal come to task all, prying from the custom-house - trunks unpacking, cases cracking, not a corner for a mouse or my Japan ink - will they slap me with a tax?

B: Hide it in your greatcoat - that you are taking one at all to Portugal in June will mark you as a Lunatic of sorts, and they will fear contagion

​

H goes about the business - B walks toward the packet - looks back to the town, sighing and wondering if he’ll ever see Blighty again, which, for all its faults - he is quite fond of

​​

43

​

 SCENE 2

​​

Although the bustle is catastrophic, the admirable Tars are hoisting great amounts of luggage, Englanders, and horses with speed - Fletcher is panicking

​

​​F: My Lord - the boatmen have quit their mooring - all hands must ply the oar, the Baggage from the quay is lowering, they’re very impatient to push from shore

B: Hobby! Dashed cursed fellow - Fletcher - go find him, he’s in a laneway somewhere fiddling with his great-coat - and where are Bob and Murray?

F: Wassailing in the Hogs Head - they’re reluctant to leave their native shore, plus Murray is allergic to water - yea, ev’n to bathe

B: Well, he has something in common with Hobhouse at least - but we must scurry!

​

Fletcher dutifully scurries off, determined to be an asset to his Master

​

​​​B(to Tar): Have a care! That case holds liquor!

​

​​Tar doffs bonnet

​

Fletcher, Murray and Bob are running towards the ship - B is relieved but somewhat miffed that his holiday has gotten off to a stressful start

​

​M: Stop the boat - I’m sick - oh Lord!

B: We are not, as yet, under weigh, Murray - you’ll be sicker, ere you’ve been an hour on board (pats M on the back and offers him a dram)

Bob: There be screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks - here entangling, all are wrangling, stuck together close as wax! (sighs) How I wish for my quiet life at Newstead, measuring fields and taking tea with my Taffy

B(glares): Don’t mention that Welsh strumpet to me again! (the sea-breeze lifts both his nostrils and his spirits) Bob - Murray - we are off to lands and foodstuffs unknown - perchance as well to unsafe and unhygienic sleeping arrangements - but it is life! Oons - it is life!

​

M and Bob remain unconvinced

​

​​Bob: Lord knows when we shall come back! (looks forlornly towards The Hog’s Head)

​

​​H leaps over the gang-plank

​

​H: Phew - made it - my! such a lot of genial noise and racket, on this somewhat crowded Lisbon Packet

B: Lo! the captain, Gallant Kidd, commands the crew - some passengers, their berths are already clapt in!! - the devil take them! - Fletcher - we have priority boarding, shove those discounted fare-dodgers off the plank

Captain: Lord Byron and servants - this way!

​

​​​The party board​

​

43

​

 SCENE 3

 

Chaos and regurgitation abound

​

​Cap: This, my Lord, is your master suite

B: Hey day! - call you that a cabin? Why ‘tis hardly three feet square - not enough to stow Queen Mab in - who the deuce can harbour there?

Cap: Who, sir? plenty - nobles twenty did at once my vessel fill

B: Did they? Jesus, how you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still, then I’d ‘scape the heat and racket of your good ship, this Lisbon Packet (hurls fedora and cane onto his hammock) - Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where the hell are you? - stretch’d along the deck like logs - I don’t doubt - slumbr’ing like hogs

​

​Hobhouse is muttering fearful curses, Murray is rightly amused

​

​M: Whoops! - down the hatchway he rolls, now his breakfast, now his verses, vomits forth and damns our souls

Bob: My Lord - you promised my mother that my soul would not be damned if I left England!

B: Murray, stop frightening the stripling! - your soul will not be damned, but we may have to re-think the Eastern leg of our holiday vis-à-vis yourself, Bob

​

​​Hobhouse re-emerges, waving paper

​

​H: Look here, I’ve already written a stanza on Braganza - help! (looks for bucket) - zounds! - my liver’s coming up - I shall not survive the racket of this brutal Lisbon Packet

​

​H succeeds in making the entire party vomit - except B as he has a special relationship with things aquatic

​

B: Now at length we’re off for Turkey!

F: My Lord, how can you mention food while we’re purging so very violently

B: It could be worse, my moaning yeoman - breezes foul and tempests murky may unship us in a crack! - is that not so, Captain Kidd?

Cap: Aye - but me and all the Tars have pre-prayed to Saint Nicholas for breezes slack

B: You know, Cap - since life at most a jest is, as philosophers allow, still to laugh by far the best is - then laugh on, as I do now

Cap: That’s the spirit, my Lord - my first mate has a vast store of Shanties - I’ll fetch him up

B(to his prostrated staff): Laugh at all things, great and small things, sick or well, at sea or shore - while we’re quaffing, let’s have laughing - who the devil cares for more?

Bob, M and H(looking up from their buckets): Quaffing?

B: Yes, my worthies - you! Tar! - some good wine! - and who would lack it - ev’n on board the Lisbon Packet!

​

Spirits revive - Byron of Byzantium and Cam of Constantinople lead the crew and passengers in a queasy rendition of ‘Here’s to Swimming with Bow-Leggéd Women’

​

43

​

END