SWINDON. (_thunderstruck_). Good God! He has disobeyed orders!
BURGOYNE. (_with sardonic calm_). He has received no orders, sir. Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving town for his holiday, I believe. To avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her American colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable position.
SWINDON. I can’t believe it! What will History say?
BURGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we must send the safe-conduct. (_He goes out._)
SWINDON. (_following distractedly_). My God, my God! We shall be wiped out.
As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. The gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime as the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, has been brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has spread that it is the devil’s disciple and not the minister that the Continentals (_so they call Burgoyne’s forces_) are about to hang: consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place without a struggle. There is even some fear of a disappointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains the only sign of preparation. But at last reassuring shouts of Here they come: Here they are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets, half British infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the sides.
THE SERGEANT. Halt. Front. Dress. (_The soldiers change their column into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the persons who find themselves inside the square out at the corners._) Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o’ you’ll get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there, will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin’ German to them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they’ll understand that. GET out of it, will you? (_He comes upon Judith, standing near the gallows._) Now then: YOU’VE no call here.