The Sot-Weed Factor (52 page)

"Ah God," murmured Burlingame, "I fear my ancestor is in a pickle!"

"The proper strategie
[Ebenezer continued]
was to fyre a charge of shot at the heathens to drive them loose, but they were nigh upon us, and I confess we had not a musket loaded, for that I had thought the shoar vacated of Salvages. Then I might well have cut the pendant, and so rid us of them, but I was loath to sacrifice our anchor, that had serv'd us well in the storme just past, and w
^ch
we s
^hd
doubtlesse need againe. Besides w
^ch
, the Salvages had appear'd on such a sudden, I scarce had time to think aright. In fine, I did not choose either of these courses, but snatch'd our end of the pendant, and handing it back among the crewe, we pull'd in a line against the Salvages, to regayne our anchor & our libertie. The Salvages, luckilie, were unarm'd, hoping to have us ashoar without difficultie, and thus we were not expos'd to there arrowes. Burlingame was too possess'd by feare to aid us, but stood all witlesse on the bow, and cd nowise step back into the vessell, for that all of us were crowded behind, heaving on the rope.

"The tugg-o'-war that then insued had been a sporting match, w
^ch
methinks we had won, were it that naught had interfear'd with the murtherous game. But the Salvages giving out with terrible whoops & hollowings, did so smite with fear this Burlingame, that at last he forewent entire the hold of his reins, and standing yet in our prowe like unto an uglie figurehead, he did let flie the treasure he had been those daies a-hoarding. It was my ill fortune to be hard behind him, and moreover, crowch'd down beneath his mightie bumme, so as to better brace my feet for pulling, and looking up at that instant of time, to see whether Burlingame was yet with us, I was in a trice beshitt, so much so, that I c
^d
by no meanes see out of my eyes, or speake out of my mowth. Then the Salvages gave a great pull on the pendant, and the deck all bemir'd, I did loose the purchase of my feet, and sayling betwixt Burlingames legs, did end face downe in the mud of the shoar. This same Burlingame thus knock'd from off his ballance, he fell after, and sat him square upon my head.

"Directlie I freed my mowth of turd & mud, I hollow'd for my souldiers to load & fyre upon the Salvages, but those same Salvages did leap straightway upon me, and upon Burlingame as well, and imploying us to sheeld them & as hostages, demanded by signes the surrender of the companie. I order'd them to shoot & be damn'd, but they were loath to fyre, for feare of hitting me, and so we did surrender our selves up to the Salvage, and were led prisoner to his town.

"Thus was it, in a manner not my wont, I first touched the shoar of this scurvie place, whereof an ampler relation doth follow. . ."

The final passages Ebenezer could scarcely read for laughing; even the captive priest could not restrain his mirth. For a moment Burlingame seemed not to realize that the recitation was done, but then he sat up quickly.

"Is that the
end?"

" 'Tis the end of this portion," Ebenezer sighed, wiping his eyes. "I'faith, such intrepidity! And by what a marvelous means my county was discovered!"

"But God in Heav'n," cried Burlingame, "this is no stopping-place!" He snatched up the Journal to look for himself. "That wretched, hapless man -- how I suffer for him! And I tell you, Eben; though I do not share his form, with every new episode I feel more certain Sir Henry is my forefather. I felt it when first I learnt of him from those ladies that I saved, and more so when I read his
Privie Journall.
How much more now, then, that we have him in Dorchester! He is halfway up the Chesapeake, is he not? And 'twas there that Captain Salmon fished me out!"

"It is a curious proximity, forsooth," Ebenezer allowed, "but nearly fifty years divide the two events, if I guess aright. And since we know John Smith returned anon to Jamestown, we've no proof Sir Henry was marooned behind."

"You'd as well prove to this Jesuit that St. Joseph was a cuckold," Burlingame laughed. "I am as sure of my progenitor as he is of Christ's, though the exact line of descent we've yet to learn. 'Sheart, I'd give an arm to hear the finish of that tale!"

These remarks aroused Father Smith's curiosity, and he entreated Burlingame to explain the mystery before departing.

"Think not you'll see us go so soon!" Henry replied, but their attention to the history having dispelled the general ill will among the three, he went on to say that though his name was Timothy Mitchell he was but a foster child of Captain William Mitchell, and had reason to suspect that Sir Henry Burlingame was in some wise his ancestor. He then favored the priest with a full account of his researches and the fruit they had borne thus far, but despite this general cordiality he insisted that Father Smith be released only long enough to relieve himself under careful guard, after which the unfortunate priest was obliged to spend the night bound upright in his chair while the two visitors shared his bed.

Nevertheless, before the candle had been extinguished for half an hour, Ebenezer was the only man in the cabin still awake. Never an easy sleeper, he was additionally distracted this night by the presences of his friend and his unwilling host -- specifically because the former (in sleep, it is to be presumed) held his hand in a grip from which the poet was too embarrassed to pull free, and the latter snored; but more generally because he could not as yet reconcile and assimilate all the aspects of Burlingame's character to which he had been exposed, and because Father Smith's apparent connection with the French and Indians, while it did not in itself reflect discredit on Lord Baltimore, nevertheless cast a new and complicated light upon that gentleman's endeavor. Nor were these troublesome reflections the sum of his diversion: never far from his mind was the image of Joan Toast. Despite Burlingame's skepticism, Ebenezer was confident of Susan Warren's veracity; he fully expected to find his beloved waiting for him when he arrived at Malden. When, after such a harrowing odyssey as his -- and who knew what peregrinations of poor Joan's? -- they were at last reunited on his own estate-to-be, what would ensue? There was fuel to fire a poet's fancy!

In short, he could not sleep, and after an hour's unpleasantness, he summoned courage enough to leave the bed. From the wood-coals on the hearth he lit a new candle, and making free with the sleeping Jesuit's ink and quill, he spread out his ledger-book to ease himself with verse.

But for the sober thoughts that filled his head he could find no fit articulation; what he composed, simply because he had previously entered on the opposite page certain notes upon the subject, was nothing more sublime or apropos than two score couplets having to do with the Salvage Indians of America. The feat afforded him no solace, but at least it wearied him through: when he could hold his eyes open no longer he blew out the candle, and leaving the bed to Burlingame, laid his head upon the ledger-book and slept

The Journey to Cambridge, and the

Laureate's Conversation by the Way

When morning came,
Burlingame freed Father Smith from his bonds and took it upon himself to prepare a breakfast while the priest exercised his aching limbs. All the while, however, he kept the Journal near at hand, and despite the Jesuit's disclaimer of any further intent to stop them, he insisted that the priest be bound again when the meal was finished and they were ready to depart, nor would he listen to Ebenezer's pleas for clemency.

"You infer the rest of mankind from yourself," he chided. "Because
you
would not try farther to obstruct me if you were in his position, you believe he would not either. To which I reply, my reasoning is identical to yours, and
I
would have me back the Journal ere you reached the Choptank River."

"But he will perish! 'Tis as much as murthering him!"

"No such thing," scoffed Burlingame. "If he is a proper priest he will be missed at once by his parishioners, who will seek him out and have him loose ere midday. If not, they will repay neglect with neglect, as his God would have it or rather, his Order."

This last he directed with a smile to Father Smith, who sat impassively in his chair, and added, "We are obliged to you for bed and board, sir, and your unimpeachable
Jerez.
You may look to see John Coode in trouble soon, and know that you have done your part, albeit reluctantly." He ushered Ebenezer to the door.
"Adieu,
Father: when you commence your holy war, spare my friend here, who hath pled in your behalf. As for me, Monsieur Casteene himself could never find me.
Ignatius vobiscum."

"Et vobiscum diabolus,"
replied the priest.

Thus they left, Ebenezer too ashamed to bid their host farewell, and, after saddling their horses, struck out along a road that, so Burlingame declared, curved southward in wide arc to the Choptank River ferry, whence they planned to cross to Cambridge, inquire the whereabouts of William Smith, and then proceed to Malden. It was a magnificent autumn day, brisk and bright, and whatever the Laureate's mood, Burlingame's was clearly buoyant.

"One more portion of Smith's history to find!" he cried as their horses ambled down the road. "Only think on't: I may soon learn who I am!"

"Let us hope this William Smith is less refractory," the poet replied. "One may acquire more guilt in learning who he is than the answer can atone for."

Burlingame rode on some minutes in silence before he tried again to begin conversation.

"Methinks Lord Baltimore was ill-advised on the character of that Jesuit, but a general cannot know all of his lieutenants. There is a saying among the Papists,
Do not judge the entire priesthood by a priest."

"There is another from the Gospels," said Ebenezer.
"By their fruits ye shall know them. . ."

"Thou'rt too severe, my friend!" Burlingame showed a measure of impatience. "Is't that you did not sleep enough last night?"

The Laureate blushed. "Last night I had in mind some verses, and wrote them down lest I forget them."

"Indeed! I'm pleased to hear't; you have been too long away from your muse."

The solicitude in his friend's voice removed, at least for the time, Ebenezer's perturbation, and, though he suspected that he was being humored, he smiled and with some shyness said, "Their subject is the salvage Indian, that I am much impressed by."

"Then out on't, I must hear them!"

After some hesitation Ebenezer consented, not especially because he thought Burlingame's eagerness was genuine, but rather because in the welter of conflicting sentiment he experienced towards his friend, his poetic gift was the only ground that in his relations with his former tutor he felt he could stand upon firmly and without abashment. He fished out his notebook from the large pocket of his coat and, leaving his mare to walk without direction, opened to the freshly written couplets.

" 'Twas a salvage we saw yesterday morning that prompted me," he explained, and began to read, his voice jogging with the steps of his horse:

"Scarce had I left the Captains Board

And taking Horse, made Tracks toward

The Chesapeake, when, giving Chase

To flighty Deer, a horrid Face

Came into View: a Salvage 'twas
--

We stay'd our Circumbendibus

To look on Him, and He on us.

O'ercoming soon my first Surprize,

I set myself to scrutinize

His Visage wild, his Form exotick

Barb'rous Air, and Dress erotick,

His brawny Shoulders, greas'd and bare

His Member, all devoid of Hair

And swinging free, his painted Skin

And naked Chest, inviting Sin

With Ladies who, their Beauty faded,

Husbands dead, or Pleasures jaded,

Fly from Virtues narrow Way

Into the Forest, there to lay

With Salvages, to their Damnation

Sinning by their Copulation,

Lewdness, Lust, and Fornication,

All at once. . ."

"Well writ!" cried Burlingame. "Save for your preachment at the last, 'tis much the same sentiment as my own." He laughed. "I do suspect you had more on your mind last night than just the heathen: all that love-talk makes me yearn for my sweet Portia!"

"Stay," the poet cautioned at once. "Fall not into the vulgar error of the critics, that judge a work ere they know the whole of it. I go on to speculate whence came the Indian."

"Your pardon," Burlingame said. "If the rest is excellent as the first, thou'rt a poet in sooth."

Ebenezer flushed with pleasure and read on, somewhat more forcefully:

"Whence came this barb'rous Salvage Race,

That wanders yet 'oer
MARYLANDS
Face?

Descend they all from those old Sires,

Remarked by
Plato
and such like Liars

From lost
Atlantis,
sunken yet

Beneath the Ocean, cold and wet?

Or is he wiser who ascribes

Their Genesis to those ten Tribes

Of luckless
Jews,
that broke away

From
Israel,
and to this Day

Have left no Traces, Signs, or Clews
--

Are Salvages but beardless
Jews?

Or are they sprung, as some maintain,

From that same jealous, incestuous
Cain,

Who with twin Sister fain had lay'd

And whose own Brother anon he slay'd:

Fleeing then
Jehovah's
Wrath

Did wend his cursed, rambling Path

To
MARYLANDS
Doorsill, there to hide

In penance for his Fratricide,

And hiding, found no liv'lier Sport

Than siring Heathens, tall and short?

Still others hold, these dark-skinn'd Folk

Escap'd the Deluge all unsoak'd

That carry'd off old
Noahs
Ark

Upon its long and wat'ry Lark,

And drown'd all Manner of Men save Two:

The Sailors in Old
Noahs
Crew

(That after all were but a Few),

And this same brawny Salvage Host,

Who, safe behind fair
MARYLANDS
Coast,

Saw other Mortals sink and die

Whilst they remain'd both high and dry.

Another Faction claims to trace

The Hist'ry of this bare-Bumm'd Race

Back to Mankinds Pucelage,

That
Ovid
calls the Golden Age:

When kindly
Saturn
rul'd the Roost.

Their learned Fellows have deduc'd

The Salvage Home to be that Garden

Wherein three Sisters play'd at Warden

Over
Heras
Golden Grove,

Whose Apples were a Treasure-Trove:

That Orchard robb'd by
Hercules,

The
Garden of Hesperides;

While other Scholards, no less wise,

Uphold the
Earthly Paradise --

Old
Adams
Home, and
Eves
to boot,

Wherein they gorg'd forbidden Fruit
--

To be the Source and Fountainhead

Of Salvag'ry. Some, better read

In
Arthurs
Tales, have settl'd on

The
Blessed Isles of Avalon,

And others say the fundamental

Flavoring is Oriental,

Or that mayhap ancient Viking,

Finding MARYLAND
to his liking,

Stay'd, and father'd red-skinn'd Horsemen:

One Part Salvage, One Part
Norsemen.

Others say the grand Ambitions

Of the restless old
Phoenicians

Led that hardy Sailor Band

To the Shores of
MARYLAND,

In Ships so cramm'd with Man and Beast

No Room remain'd for Judge or Priest:

There, with Lasses and Supplies,

The Men commenc'd to colonize

This foreign Shore in Manner dastard,

All their Offspring being Bastard.

Finally, if any Persons

Unpersuaded by these Versions

Of the Salvages Descent

Should ask still for the Truth anent

Their Origins
--
why, such as these,

That are so damned hard to please,

I send to
Mephistopheles,

Who engender'd in the Fires of
Hell

The
Indians,
and
them
as well!"

"Now, that is all damned clever!" Burlingame exclaimed. "Whether 'twas the hardships of your crossing or a half year's added age, I swear thou'rt twice the poet you were in Plymouth. The lines on Cain I thought especially well-wrought."

" 'Tis kind of you to praise the piece," Ebenezer said. "Haply 'twill be a part of the
Marylandiad."

"I would I could turn a verse so well. But say, while 'tis fresh in my mind, doth
persons
really rhyme with
versions,
and
folk
with
soak'd?"

"Indeed yes," the poet replied.

"But would it not be better," Burlingame persisted cordially, "to rhyme
versions
with
dispersions,
say, and
folk
with
soak?
Of course, I am no poet."

"One need not be a hen to judge an egg," Ebenezer allowed. "The fact of't is, the rhymes you name are at once better and worse than mine: better, because they sound more nearly like the words they rhyme with; and worse, because such closeness is not the present fashion.
Dispersion
and
version:
'tis wanting in character, is't not? But
person
and
version
-- there is surprise, there is color, there is wit! In fine, there is a perfect Hudibrastic."

"Hudibrastic,
is it? I have heard the folk in Locket's speak well of
Hudibras,
but I always thought it tedious myself. What is't you mean by
Hudibrastic?"

Ebenezer could scarcely believe that Burlingame was really ignorant of Hudibrastic rhyme or anything else, but so pleasant was the reversal of their unusual roles that he found it easy to put by his skepticism.

"A Hudibrastic rhyme," he explained, "is a rhyme that is close, but not just harmonious. Take the noun
wagon:
what would you rhyme with it?"

"Why, now, let's see," Burlingame mused. "Methinks
flagon
would serve, or
dragon,
wouldn't you say?"

"Not at all," smiled Ebenezer. " 'Tis too expected; 'tis what any poetaster might suggest -- no offense, you understand."

"None whatever."

"Nay, to
wagon
you must rhyme
bag in,
or
sagging:
almost, you see, but not quite.

The Indians call their wat'ry Wagon

Canoe,
a Vessel none can brag on.

Wagon, brag on
-- do you follow me?"

"I grasp the principle," Burlingame declared, "and I recall such rhymes as that in
Hudibras;
but I doubt me I could e'er apply it."

"Why, of course you can! It wants but courage, Henry. Take
quarrel,
now:
The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel.
What shall we rhyme with it?"

Burlingame pondered the problem for a while. "What would you say to
snarl?"
he ventured at last.

"The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel:

I to grumble, he to snarl."

"The line is good," replied the Laureate, "and bespeaks some wit. But the rhyme is humorless.
Quarrel, snarl
-- nay, 'tis too close."

"Sorrel,
then?" asked Burlingame, apparently warming to the sport.

"The Man and I commenc'd to quarrel