The Patriot

FADE IN:

CREDITS OVER:

EXT. SOUTH CAROLINA COUNTRYSIDE - DAY

Woodlands. Beautiful. Untamed. Soaring old-growth elms

arch over riverside maples along the shores of the gently

curving, deep-water Santee River.

SUPERIMPOSITION:

SOUTH CAROLINA:

April, 1776

Upstream, the swamps. Beautiful. Hundreds of BIRDS SING.

Shafts of sunlight pierce the canopy, cutting through the

hanging moss and kudzu, falling onto soft, swaying ferns

covering the high ground.

The water is clear, with fields of floating lily pads,

each with a stark white flower rising from it.

SUPERIMPOSITION:

THE FOLLOWING IS BASED ON A

TRUE STORY:

EXT. POND BLUFF - DAY

A farm built between the banks of the river and the deep

green of the swamps. Good, fertile land, hacked out of

the wilderness.

The perfectly tended fields are ripe with barley, hops,

alfalfa and tobacco. Two sturdy brothers, NATHAN, 13 and

SAMUEL, 12, work one of the fields, rhythmically swinging

scythes through the barley.

The house, built of native brick, is well-constructed and

well-maintained. There's a barn, a workshop and a forge.

It is a home of substance rather than wealth. On the

front porch, MARGARET, 11, pumps a butter churn while her

brother, WILLIAM, 6, watches.

GABRIEL, 18, strong and handsome, walks out of the woods

with a musket in his hand and a dozen game-birds over his

shoulder. At his side walks THOMAS, 14, also carrying a

musket.

INT. WORKSHOP - DAY

A perfect colonial workshop, fastidiously arranged with

every conceivable tool of the period. A foot-powered

lathe. A drop-forge. A lifting saw. Racks of tools,

planes, hammers, augers, drills, blocks, all hanging in

their places. All very well-worn.

FRANCIS MARION methodically works his lathe, turning a

piece of hardwood, shaving off tiny curls of wood with a

razor-sharp chisel. He's in his late-forties, strong and

weathered. His hands, though big and callused, handle the

chisel with a surgeon's precision. Self-educated and

self-sufficient, he has built himself, as he built his

farm, brick by brick, from the coarse clay of the earth.

A finely-made rocking chair, missing only the dowel on

which Marion is working, sits on the work table. The

chair is a work of art, thin and light, a spider-web of

perfectly turned wood, no nails, no glue.

Sitting on the woodpile, SUSAN, 4, a silent, stone-face

wisp of a child, watches her father.

Marion takes the piece of wood out of the lathe, carefully

fits it into the chair, inserts a peg and taps it into

place. Then he steps back and appraises his handiwork.

He picks up the chair and hooks the top rail to a scale,

countering with a three-pound weight. The chair floats.

Marion blows softly on the weight which sinks. Susan

nods, so far, so good. Marion puts the chair on the floor

and walks slowly around it, checking every angle.

Then, the acid test. He takes a deep breath and lowers

himself onto the seat, gingerly adding an ounce at a time.

Not a creak. He smiles and sits back with a sigh.

CRACK! THE CHAIR SPLINTERS under Marion's weight, DUMPING

HIM on his ass on a pile of broken wood.

MARION:

Damnation!

He picks up some of the wood, about to fling it across the

room but stops as Susan shoots him a disapproving look.

He calms himself.

MARION:

Sorry.

Susan gets down from the woodpile and puts the remains of

the chair in the fireplace. As she climbs back up to her

perch, Marion steps over to his wood rack, extracts a

fresh dowel, fits it into the lathe and starts all over

again.

END CREDITS.

EXT. WORKSHOP - DUSK

Marion leaves the workshop with Susan at his side. Nathan

and Samuel walk past, exhausted from their day in the

field.

NATHAN:

Father, I saw a post rider at the

house.

MARION:

Thank you. Did you finish the upper

field?

SAMUEL:

We got it all cut and we bundled

half of it.

MARION:

Those swimming breaks cut into the

day, don't they?

Marion walks on without waiting for a reply from his

contrite sons who jostle one another, trying to pass off

the blame. Gabriel and Thomas walk out of the barn.

GABRIEL:

Father, a post rider came from

Charleston. You have a letter

inside.

MARION:

Thank you. How's the spotted one's

milk?

THOMAS:

Better. She's near ready to calve.

Marion nods and motions for Susan to go with Gabriel and

Thomas to the house. She does so and Marion walks on

alone toward:

EXT. HILLTOP - POND BLUFF - SUNSET

The loveliest spot on the farm. A beautiful view of the

house, barns, river, fields and hills beyond. A

gravestone stands in the shade of a single apple tree. It

reads:

ELIZABETH PUTNAM MARION 1738-1773

Above her name is a carving of the night sky, at the

center of which is the NORTH STAR, steady and guiding.

Marion approaches. He gives himself a moment to look at

the grave, then he starts picking apples, speaking to the

gravestone in a quiet voice that is more matter-of-fact

than sorrowful.

MARION:

... and they bundled half... almost

no trace of the boys you knew...

A soft wind blows some dry leaves along the ground.

Marion pauses as if listening to a spoken reply.

MARION:

... no, she still hasn't spoken...

Margaret was her age when you... I

remember the time at the river when

we couldn't find Catherine... you

couldn't stop crying... and she was

asleep in the wagon the entire

time...

Marion pauses, remembering. The CRASH OF A PLATE

BREAKING, followed by the SOUND OF AN ARGUMENT rises from

the house below. Marion shakes his head with an

exasperated sigh.

MARION:

Your children.

He heads down the hill toward the house, now glowing from

the lights of candles and oil lamps.

INT. MARION'S HOUSE - EVENING

Pre-dinner chaos. Everyone talking at once. Marion's

seven children and his two family servants, ABIGAIL and

AARON, a middle-aged black couple, prepare dinner. Susan

silently watches from the stairs. Marion walks in.

MARION:

I smell turnips...

WILLIAM:

Father, Samuel broke the blue

plate...

SAMUEL:

I did not...

MARGARET:

Dinner...

Marion hands the apples to Abigail and steps over to open

his mail and dispatches.

GABRIEL:

News of Boston, father?

NATHAN:

I hate turnips...

SAMUEL:

William knocked it right out of my

hands...

GABRIEL:

Father...?

MARION:

Samuel, William, both of you clean

it up...

Marion hands a packet of pamphlets to Gabriel and opens a

letter.

MARION:

The Assembly has been reconvened,

I've been called to...

Marion's children go wild.

MARGARET:

Charleston!

NATHAN:

We're going to Charleston!

SAMUEL:

When, father, when?

MARION:

We'll leave tomorrow...

The children ERUPT INTO CHEERS and THUNDER into the dining

room.

THE CHILDREN:

Charleston! We're going to

Charleston!

Marion and Gabriel exchange a stone-faced look. Then

Marion puts on a smile and inhales deeply.

MARION:

I love turnips...

Marion follows his children into the dining room.

EXT. MARION'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Quiet. The only sounds are the soft calls of a few

NIGHTBIRDS and the DRONE OF CICADAS. A faint light moves

through the downstairs, passing windows in the otherwise

dark house.

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