The Dreadnaught Box

Logline: "Revolutionary scientific experiments are condemned as witchcraft in Salem. Conducting her own counter-investigations, an intrepid naturalist unmasks a ruthless conspiracy orchestrating the trials."

I had the extreme pleasure to collaborate with Matthew Groves in the creation of this screenplay. Trapped in the car together on a nine-hour ride, we discussed the bare bones of a story idea of his that revolved around a girl who manufactures advanced technology at the time of the Salem Witch trials. My interest was piqued immediately, and we discussed various aspects of the story before I asked him to write down a short treatment (I was still finishing PICKING UP THE PEACES at that time).

From that humble beginning, the story fleshed itself out in a most remarkable way. The excerpt below gives a hint of the broad tones of the screenplay, but there are hundreds of fascinating and well-thought-out details of the technology and the backstory that are only available upon request.

I list this story as an Alternate History genre, because I don't know what else to call it. Almost all of the characters are named for real persons, though major portions of their personalities have been fabricated for the story. I did a vast amount of research into the original trials, and I must say that they are beyond fascinating.

The chance to use language to portray characters was delightful. I usually describe this script as a cross between PIRATES OF THE CARRIBEAN and Henry Miller's play, THE CRUCIBLE.

THE CRUCIBLE is more historically-based than our story. But ours has been thematically adapted to our modern time, and deals with very specific wants and needs: the interplay between science and religion, the place of strong and independent women in society, the need for a no-holds-barred-rise-up-from-the-ashes heroine in a vacillating world.

THE DREADNAUGHT BOX by Kyle Patrick Johnson Story by Matthew Groves Represented by: Canton Literary Management (CLM) Contact: Eric Canton (866) 429-3118 ECanton@Prodigy.net www.CantonLiteraryManagement.com Registered with: Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Registration #1363435 2. FADE IN: INT. LONDON FLAT - NIGHT SUPER: “1602, London”. The ceiling used to be white before the candle soot; the small windows used to be clean before grimy hands worked them open and closed for years; the corners bright before mice bit holes in the floorboards and spiders spanned strong webs. Yellow candles on a central worktable cast a sick light on ancient manuscripts, pieces of wood, wire, string, cloth: all strewn around in an eccentric whirlwind. A black cat flits through the flickering circle. Crouched beside the workbench, WILLIAM GILBERT (60s), a low ring of white hair still clings to his head. Wears a flowing thin gown of cheap brown wool, ruffle around the neck. Puffs deep breaths, like he’s just run a marathon. Excited. Holds a slender cylinder of sparkling clean metal close to his nearsighted eyes, inspects it. Nods, satisfied. Wraps a tiny copper wire around it with thick dirty thumbs, again and again, covers the cylinder in a tube of closely packed wire. A candle snuffs out. No wax left. Impatient, Gilbert thrusts another candle into a small metal bowl filled with black and white shavings. The bowl bursts into low blue flames. Blue light competes with the candles, dance against each other on the low ceiling: now blue, now yellow, now joined in green. Brighter than before, no longer a strain to see. Gilbert cackles, delighted. With shaking fingers, he jams the wire and cylinder into a small contraption on the worktable. He turns a small vertical crank, gains speed. A small pulley runs forward, spins a cat’s-hair-lined glass wheel against the wire cylinder. The faster he cranks, the faster the wheel spins. A blinding white spark arcs across the wire, brightens the room to day. Gilbert slobbers in delight, a manic look of glee. 3. From outside, the window has a blue glow. Flashes white. Back to blue. White again, as if a lightning storm is cramped within. Gilbert grabs a heavy metal candlestick, holds it near the wire. PHUNK! With a massive spark, the candlestick sticks to the wire, magnetized. Gilbert dances a wide-eyed jig, knocks books to the floor, scatters manuscripts in excitement. GILBERT Electricus! Electricus! A yellow page drifts onto a candle. Bursts into flame. Gilbert throws his gown across the fire, pats it out, delirious. Hugs a thick manuscript to his chest. DOWNSTAIRS Gilbert dances down a staircase to a common room, chairs, a fireplace. Landlord! GILBERT LANDLORD (20s), a hunched yet imposing figure, sleeps in an armchair next to the fire. All in shadow. Landlord opens an eye, the fire glitters red in it. An evil eye. LANDLORD Be ye waking me for no purpose? GILBERT It hath been done. Electricus. Methinks I would fain burst were I to refrain from sharing my discovery. Arcs-sparks, electricus! LANDLORD Eh. A discovery, is it? GILBERT Electricus. Electricus. The plans are complete, the manuscript done. Gilbert squeals in his excitement, fists clenched. Jogs back upstairs, mutters to himself. LANDLORD A discovery? Indeed, William Gilbert. A discovery. 4. INT. LONDON FLAT - EVENING Gilbert, bloodshot eyes, feverishly plays with his invention. The door bursts open. Landlord stands there, a wide stance of control, arms on hips, now wears a black cloak. Three HOODED FIGURES stand behind him, their cloaks each made of one giant piece of fine thick cloth. Two cloaks are black, the third a purple with gold threads interspersed. LANDLORD Allow us a peek. GILBERT Oh, the consequences, oh, the possibility. Electricus! Hooded Figures fan out into the room, surround Gilbert. LANDLORD So ye say. But what good is it? What good? GILBERT LANDLORD Are ye mad, man? What. Does. It. Do. GILBERT The magic of the spheres, new captured in shavings of metal. The power to attract, to collide. Think of it. The power to rip metals from the bosom of the earth. Or, or, an army, arrayed in battle, strips the enemy’s swords and shields from their grasp. Electricus... Landlord’s thin lips smile, but his beady eyes remain evil. LANDLORD These, my Scot friends, desire to purchase this power from ye. GILBERT Purchase? Canst thou purchase power? I think not. Landlord rolls his eyes. 5. LANDLORD (to Hooded Figures) At the least, do not make it appear as murder nor plague. Bad for business. Landlord slips out the door. Closes it. Locks it. Hooded Figures advance upon Gilbert. Silent, menacing. Gilbert looks up in sudden fear. He throws the invention at them, breaks it in pieces, distracts their attention for an instant. Gilbert dives backwards, thrusts the thick handwritten manuscript into a wide, short, intricately carved wooden box. Clacks the lid shut. Throws the box through the window. GILBERT’S POV - THROUGH SHATTERING WINDOW The box tumbles towards a muddy street. Lands on the back of a farmer’s rumbling wagon full of cabbages. THROUGH WINDOW FROM OUTSIDE Gilbert’s throat is seized by the purple/gold Hooded Figure. Choking, struggling, he is dragged backwards, struggles, fingers reach out. He disappears into the murky black of the room. The black cat leaps out of the window. THE WAGON disappears into the heart of the maze that is London, bears cat and box into the night. Gilbert’s death sounds fade out. EXT. LONDON FLAT - NIGHT On fire. Burns into the night sky. Small groups of men throw water buckets on neighboring buildings, halt the spread of the fire. Landlord watches from the street, furious. A Hooded Figure materializes, bends to his ear. HOODED FIGURE The price of failure. 6. LANDLORD I shall prove my worth. FADE TO BLACK. INT. GLASSBLOWER’S SHOP - ENGLISH VILLAGE - DAY SUPER: “85 YEARS LATER” A square pane of windowglass, laid on a table. A circular hole in the middle of the glass. A spinning saw, powered by a foot pump. The glass is pushed against the saw by the confident fingers of GLASSBLOWER (60s), unblinking, intent. The square edges of the pane are shaved off, now a large circle, nine inches across. Glassblower brushes the glass free of debris. Behind him, bent over a counter, her feet hanging off the floor, hovers ANDALUCIA MATHEWES (15), dark curls around a lovely innocent face, serious gray eyes, gingham dress. ANDALUCIA And the bigging-glass, too. GLASSBLOWER Aye, little miss. Cain’t rush art. Glassblower holds a thin wooden ring, of hard wood, paints the outside of it with a thick paste. With painstaking care, he inserts the ring into the hole in the circular pane. Presses it hard against the glass. GLASSBLOWER Most o’ my customers don’t care to watch me at my work, little miss. Andalucia’s eyes do not waver, hungrily devour Glassblower’s every move. Glassblower holds a smaller circle of glass, two inches across, to the saw. He shaves down the top and bottom of the glass, makes each side convex. A magnifying glass. Glassblower whips the glass to his eye, turns to face Andalucia, makes a face. 7. She giggles. Glassblower inserts the convex glass into wooden ring. Taps it in place with a wooden mallet, snug fit. GLASSBLOWER A right worthy gift, little miss. Do not ye forget my payment. Andalucia hands over a book of thick paper, crude binding. The title: “De Motu Animalium” by Aristotle. GLASSBLOWER Ah, yes. Monday, next, then, so’s ye’ll learn me to read it. Andalucia picks up the glass, puts it into a wooden box. William Gilbert’s box. EXT. ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE - DAY Hills of tall grass, almost impossibly green, idyll of pastoral perfection. Giant spreading trees spot the landscape with the stolid promise of eternal protection. Andalucia holds the box like a schoolgirl, clasped against her stomach. She looks up through the dappled green leaves of a tree, watches a puffy white cloud sail through the sky. She blows a kiss to the cloud. She skips down a dirt lane, rounds a bend, sees a small thatched house with an attached stable. A sweating horse paws the ground near the stable door. Andalucia gives a squeal of glee, runs to the house. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - STUDY - DAY ROBERT MATHEWES (65) writes at a desk. Dirt samples and hundreds of rocks line towering shelves behind him. MARY MATHEWES (50) writes at a desk opposite Robert’s, framed by jars of preserved small animals and plant specimens. Peeks into a primitive microscope. Andalucia bursts in, hugs Mary’s head to her chest, nuzzles her nose into Mary’s hair. ANDALUCIA Mother, Mr. Clement is here? 8. ROBERT He arrived this very noon, a waystation on a longer trip, I gather. He is making ready for dinner. Robert makes a pouty face at Andalucia. She skips to him, hugs his head, nuzzles his receding hairline. MARY Where hast thou been, Lucy? ANDALUCIA In town with the glassblower, finishing another invention. Andalucia bites her lip. ANDALUCIA Mother. Could you full-name me Andalucia with Mr. Clement? It is genteel and I am an adult. ROBERT (automatic correction) “Couldst thou”. (realizes) Why, heavens, no. Thou art our one and only Lucy. Andalucia, scrunchy face, disappointed. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - HALLWAY - EVENING WILLIAM CLEMENT (40) descends the stairs. Clement is a doughnut hole of a man: round little head, round little body, round little arms. Andalucia waits for him at the dining room door. ANDALUCIA Well met, Mr. Clement. CLEMENT My, my. Thou art grown, little Andalucia. He gets a smile for that. ANDALUCIA Only as much as Father will allow. 9. CLEMENT Quite right. They smile. Some inside joke. They know each other well. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT The walls are cluttered with exotic souvenirs from all continents: wooden shields, jade, feather headdresses. A small square table. Clement and the Mathewes sip broth. Clement has changed into a simple outfit. He speaks through the soup, not quite rude, borderline. CLEMENT To my astonishment, my clocks, my life’s work, the solution to the longitude problem, were declared mere imitations of some imposter original. Inquiring at the London posts of trade, I find my own anchor escapement clocks, pride of my soul, my Pygmalion, attributed to some mediocre Scot, and my own efforts to prove my right merely a blot on my escutcheon. A SERVANT (50s) enters with a small tureen, fills up Clement’s empty soup bowl. ROBERT A blot on thy what? CLEMENT Clock term. Sorry. My reputation. CLEMENT Naturally affronted, I advanced upon Scotland to do battle. Clement dives into his soup. Stops talking. Robert and Mary exchange a knowing glance. ROBERT And the Scot? He said? CLEMENT This Scot claims inventor’s rights. He challenged me to courts, to prove his lone right. His threats were vast, and he called me a bas-- 10. CLEMENT (CONT'D) (glances at Andalucia) Names fit for lesser men. ANDALUCIA Challenge him, Mr. Clement! Clement looks surprised: girls aren’t supposed to talk at table. He glances at Robert. Robert nods, smiling, allows Clement to answer her. CLEMENT I can dear afford sprockets and cogs. Court fees would ruin me. ANDALUCIA But you are in the right. Clement shrugs. Helpless. MARY “Thou”, Lucy. ANDALUCIA (under her breath) Andalucia. (out loud) Thou art in the right. MARY Lucy, bid goodnight to Mr. Clement. Then to bed. Obedient though unwilling, Andalucia stands, curtsies. HALLWAY Andalucia stomps her feet heavily, then lighter: imitates departing footsteps. She dives to the door, presses her ear to the keyhole. She hears snippets of conversation. CLEMENT ...saw the Scot had stolen. The papers were in mine own hand... MARY ...group of Scot powermongers here a month ago. They intend to replace religion with science... bribery... ROBERT ...no society for we Dissenters, nor for scientists... 11. CLEMENT ...must flee to the Colonies... good place for a clockmaker... Servant taps Andalucia’s shoulder. Andalucia looks up, guilty, skips upstairs. ANDALUCIA’S BEDROOM Dark, only the moon provides light. Andalucia snuggles deep under her covers. Her eyes peek out, wide, wondering. A quiet conversation, unintelligible, floats up from below. INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - STUDY - DAY Clement stares with sightless eyes at the rock shelves. Andalucia enters, wears a simple, gleamingly white frock. ANDALUCIA Mr. Clement? Clement turns. A frown etched deep into his soul. Pretends to read the tiny labels attached to each sample. CLEMENT My mind is suited to gears, faces, hours, mechanics. I confess that all these look like rocks to me. ANDALUCIA But they are. CLEMENT (forced humor) Are they, now! Perhaps we should not tell thy father. ‘Twould break his heart. ANDALUCIA (smiles, shy) Perhaps you would enjoy my inventions, in my precious box. CLEMENT Methinks I would. Lead on, girl. Andalucia steps forward, takes Clement by the hand. Leads him out of the room. 12. ANDALUCIA’S BEDROOM Clement squeezes into an armchair designed for smaller buttocks. His good-natured grin reappears. Andalucia opens a dresser drawer. Pulls out Gilbert’s box. She unwraps the first bundle. The glass circle. ANDALUCIA Carving down the sides, slightly thus, and look! A bigging-glass. A gift for Mother’s birthday next, a display case for her specimens. Her face contorts through the glass. Clement belly-laughs. Andalucia hands the glass to Clement, who plays with it while she unwraps the second bundle: a metal tube, wider on one side than the other, capped at the wide end with a bulb of cured animal skin. It’s an eyedropper. ANDALUCIA Upon drawing liquid into the tube, I can then dispense it precisely, droplet by droplet. CLEMENT Thy talents overwhelm this poor clockmaker. Just as I thought nothing more remained to be invented! Andalucia, pleased, holds up a tiny gray stone and a whole dried red pepper plant. ANDALUCIA Presents from Father and Mother. A most powerful lodestone and a fire plant from the Americas. Clement smiles broadly, as though he’s never seen a finer rock or a prettier dried plant. ANDALUCIA Are you departing, Mr. Clement? To the colonies? Clement loses his good humor in an instant. He shrugs. NEIGH! A horse outside. Andalucia rushes to the window. 13. ANDALUCIA’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW Four horses. Four RIDERS, each hooded: three Riders wear black cloaks, the fourth cloak is purple with gold threads. ANDALUCIA (O.S.) Happy day. More visitors! BACK TO SCENE Clement comes to the window, looks out. Dives to the ground, pulls Andalucia down with him. She shouts in surprise, he covers her mouth. CLEMENT Shhhh. Shhh. Those are the Scots. Andalucia’s face, no fear. She doesn’t understand. Clement peeks just his eyes over the window sill. CLEMENT’S POV - THROUGH WINDOW Robert approaches the Riders. Silent conversation, the purple Rider acts like a little Hitler, gestures broadly. Robert bows, submissive. With a final flourish, the Riders pull their horses around, gallop off over the hill. EXT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DAY (MOMENTS LATER) Robert still bows, forehead in the dirt. Clement and Andalucia run from the house, help Robert to stand. Robert leans heavily on Clement. ROBERT No more. There is no more time. Andalucia looks between them, back and forth. CLEMENT The ship sails forth from Liverpool two morns hence. The Regal. Robert nods. Clement runs to the stable. ANDALUCIA What, Father? What is it? 14. Robert tenderly holds her face. ROBERT Divine Providence, as stipulated by lesser men, hath decreed a journey, my dear. Go, prepare. ANDALUCIA Prepare for a journey? INT. COUNTRY HOUSE - DINING ROOM - DAY Servant and Mary pack the fine china gently into a wicker basket. Robert races through the room, an armful of clothes. ROBERT Leave those. MARY This china is priceless! ROBERT Leave it! We must travel light, silent, fast. Mary points at the hundreds of wall souvenirs. Robert bites his lip. Andalucia comes in, drawn in by the conversation. ROBERT I value thy life higher than trinkets, Mary. ANDALUCIA And every all of thy rocks, Father? Robert looks pained. Shakes his head. Andalucia now looks properly frightened. THROUGH WINDOW Clement, atop his horse, rockets out of the stable. Gallops away, dust rises behind him. EXT. COUNTRY HOUSE - NIGHT Robert, Mary, and Andalucia climb onto a small wagon, a small horse. Robert flicks the reins. A tearful Andalucia waves goodbye to Servant. 15. Servant goes back inside the house. The wagon disappears into the dark distance. Servant reappears, arms full of valuables. She scurries off into the night. Silence. The lonely little house. Sounds of galloping hooves. Coming closer. Nearly a hundred Riders burst into frame. Skid to a halt outside the house. Jump off their horses, crash through the front door. Sounds of destruction inside, ripping, breaking, crushing. Flames in the attic. The Riders come out. Mount their horses. Ride away. The house is completely overtaken with bright red fire. EXT. WAGON - NIGHT Robert flicks the reins. Andalucia and Mary sleep in the back. Silent horses flit like ghosts through the countryside. THE REMAINDER OF THIS SCREENPLAY IS AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST