by John Barth
Ye ask, What eat our merry Band
En Route to lovely MARYLAND?
I answer: Ne’er were such Delights
As met our Sea-sharp’d Appetites
E’er serv’d to Jove and Junos Breed
By Vulcan and by Ganymede.
There was more to be said, but no sweeter was the dream than its articulation, and so thorough his fatigue, he scarce could muster gumption to subscribe the usual E.C., Gent, Pt & Lt of Md before his eyes completely closed, his head nodded forward, and he knew no more.
It seemed but a moment that he slept; yet when roused by the noise of a groom leading a horse into the stable, he observed with alarm that the sun was well along in the western sky: the square of light from the doorway stretched almost to where he sat in the straw. He leaped up, remembered his semi-nudity, and snatched a double handful of straw to cover himself.
“The jakes is there across the yard, sir,” the boy said, not visibly surprised, “though I grant ’tis little sweeter than this stable.”
“Nay, you mistake me, lad—But no matter. See you those drawers and breeches on yonder line? ’Twill be a great service to me if you will feel of them, whether they be dry, and if so, fetch them hither with all haste, for I must catch a ferry to the Downs.”
The young man did as instructed, and soon Ebenezer was able to leave the stable behind him at last and run with all possible speed to the wharf, searching as he ran for Burlingame or the two pirate captains into whose clutches he feared his friend had fallen. When he reached the wharf, breathless, he found to his dismay that the shallop was already gone and his trunk with it, though Burlingame’s remained behind on the pier exactly where it had been placed that morning. His heart sank.
An old mariner sat nearby on a coil of rope belonging to the shallop, smoking a long clay pipe.
“I say, sir, when did the shallop sail?”
“Not half an hour past,” the old man said, not troubling to turn his eyes. “Ye can spy her yet.”
“Was there a short fellow among the passengers, that wore”—he was ready to describe Burlingame’s port-purple coat, but remembered in time his friend’s disguise—“that called himself Bertrand Burton, a servant of mine?”
“None that I saw. No servants at all, that I saw.”
“But why did you leave this trunk ashore and freight its neighbor?” Ebenezer demanded. “They were to go together to the Poseidon.”
“ ’Twas none o’ my doing,” said the mariner with a shrug. “Mr. Cooke took his with him when he sailed; the other man sails tonight oh a different ship.”
“Mr. Cooke!” cried Ebenezer. He was about to protest that he himself was Ebenezer Cooke, Laureate of Maryland, but thought better of it: in the first place, the pirates might still be searching for him—the old mariner, for all he knew, might be in their employ; Cooke, moreover, was a surname by no means rare, and the whole thing could well be no more than a temporary confusion.
“Yet, surely,” he ended by saying, “the man was not Ebenezer Cooke, Laureate of Maryland?”
But the old man nodded. “ ’Twas that same gentleman, the poetical wight.”
“I’faith!”
“He wore black breeches like your own,” the sailor volunteered, “and a purple coat—none o’ the cleanest, for all his lofty post.”
“Burlingame!” the poet gasped.
“Nay, Cooke it was. A sort of poet, crossing on the Poseidon.”
Ebenezer could not fathom it.
“Then prithee,” he asked, with some difficulty and no little apprehension, “who might that second gentleman be, the owner of this trunk here, that sails tonight on a different vessel?”
The old man sucked his pipe. “He’d not the dress of a gentleman,” he declared at length, “nor yet a gentleman’s face, but rather a brined and weathered look, like any sailor. The others call him Captain, and he them likewise.”
Ebenezer paled. “Not Captain Slye?” he asked fearfully.
“Aye, now you mention it,” the old man said, “there was a Captain Slye among their number.”
“And Scurry too?”
“Aye, Slye and Scurry they were, as like as twins. They and the third came seeking the poetical gentleman not five full minutes after he’d sailed, as you’ve come seeking them. But they went no farther than the nearest house for rum, where ’tis likely you’ll find ’em yet.”
In spite of himself Ebenezer cried “Heav’n forfend!” and glanced with terror across the street.
The old man shrugged again and spat into the harbor. “Haply there’s company more proper than sailors ashore,” he allowed, “but more merry—Out on’t!” he interrupted himself. “You’ve but to read the name from off his baggage there, where he wrote it not ten minutes past I’ve not the gift of letters myself, else I had thought of’t ere now.”
Ebenezer examined his friend’s trunk at once and found on one handle a bit of lettered pasteboard: Capt Jno Coode.
“Nay!” His legs betrayed him; he was obliged to sit on the trunk or disgrace anew his fresh-dried drawers. “Tell me not ’twas Black John Coode!”
“Black or white, John or Jim, ’twas Coode,” the other affirmed: “Captain Slye, Captain Scurry, and Captain Coode. They’re yonder in the King o’ the Seas.”
Suddenly Ebenezer understood all, though his understanding little calmed his fear: Burlingame, after learning from Ebenezer in the stable about the pirates and their quarry, had spied them and perhaps Coode as well in the neighborhood of the tavern and realized that a plot was afoot against his charge—who as Laureate to Lord Baltimore was after all a potent, even a potentially deadly enemy to their seditious schemes, for the exposure of which few better tools existed than the knife-edged Hudibrastic. What nobler course, then, or more in the spirit of faithful guardianship, than to change to his original clothes again, declare himself the Laureate (since, clearly, they knew not their victim’s face), and throw them off the scent by apparently embarking, trunk and all, for the Poseidon? It was a stratagem worthy of both the courage and the resourcefulness of his friend: an adventure equal to his escape from the pirate Thomas Pound or his interception of the letters from Benjamin Ricaud! Moreover, it had been accomplished at the risk of his own possessions, which Coode seemed now to have appropriated. The poet’s heart warmed: the solicitude, the brave self-abnegation of his friend brought moisture to his eyes.
“And to think,” thought he, “I was the while misdoubting him from the safety of my horse stall!”
Very well, he resolved: he would show himself worthy of such high regard. “How is’t you gave this Coode leave to claim my trunk?” he demanded of the old seafarer, who had returned to his pipe and meditations.
“Thy trunk, sir?”
“My trunk! Are you blind as well as unlettered, that you failed to see the Laureate and me this morning when we had our trunks put down from the London carriage?”
“Marry, I know naught of’t,” the old man declared. “ ’Tis my Joseph sails the shallop, my son Joseph, and I but mind the berth till he returns.”
“And leave your client’s trunks to any rogue that claims them? A proper ferryman you are, and your Joseph, b’m’faith! This wretch John Coode deigns not even to counterfeit, but with your aid robs openly in broad daylight, and by’s own name! I’ll have the sheriff!”
“Nay, prithee, sir!” the other cried. “My boy knew naught of’t, I swear, nor did I think to aid a robber! The merry captains strode up bold as brass, sir, and asked for the poetical gentleman, and said ‘This chest is Captain Coode’s and must be on the Morpheides, by sundown, for the Isle of Man.’ “
“And stopped thy questions with a guinea, I doubt not?”
“Two bob,” the sailor answered humbly. “How might I know the baggage wasn’t his?”
“ ’Tis compounding the felony in any case,” Ebenezer declared. “Is’t worth two bob to breathe your last in prison?”
By dint of this and similar threats Ebenezer soon persu
aded the old sailor of his error. “Yet how may I know ’tis thine, sir,” he nevertheless inquired, “now you’ve raised the question? Haply ’tis thou’rt the thief, and not Captain Coode, and who shall save me then from jail?”
“The trunk is mine in trust alone,” the poet replied, “to see it safely to my master.”
“Thou’rt a servingman, and chide me so?” The sailor set his whiskered jaw. “Who might your master be, that dresses his man like any St. Paul’s fop?”
Ebenezer ignored the slur. “He is that same poetical gentleman who took the first trunk with him—Ebenezer Cooke, the Laureate of Maryland. And ’twill go hard for you and your loutish Joseph should he speak of this nonsense in the right places.”
“I’God, then take the accursed box for all of me!” the poor man cried, and promised to send trunk and servant together to the Poseidon as soon as the shallop returned. “Yet prithee show me just one proof or token of your post,” he begged, “to ease my heart: for how shall I fare at the hands of the three captains, if thou’rt the thief and they the owners?”
“Never fear,” Ebenezer said. “I shall show you proof enough in two minutes: page upon page of the Laureate’s writing.” He had just remembered, with a mixture of concern and relief, that his notebook was yet in the horse stall. But the old man shook his head. “Were’t branded on your arse in crimson letters or graven like the Tables of the Law I’d not make hog nor dog of’t.”
“Try my patience no more, old man!” the poet warned. “The veriest numskull knows a poem by the look of’t, whether he grasp the sense or no. I’ll show you verses fit for the ears of the gods, and there’s an end to your caviling!” Charging the mariner as sternly as he could to safeguard Burlingame’s trunk and to ready the shallop, should it return, for instant sailing, he made his way in a great arc across the street, giving a wide berth to the entrance of the King o’ the Seas, traversed again the alleyway leading to the back yard of the ordinary, and with pounding heart re-entered the familiar stable, expecting at any moment to meet the horrendous trio of captains. He hastened to the stall in which he’d composed his nautical verses: there in the straw, where in embarrassment and haste he’d left it, was the precious ledger. He snatched it up. Had that stableboy, perhaps, defaced it, or filched a sheaf of pages? No, it was intact, and in good order.
“And reckless best both Wind and Tide,” he quoted from the page, and sighed with pleasure at his own artistry. “It hath the very sound of toss and tempest!”
But there was no time then for such delights; the shallop might be mooring at that very moment, and the villains in the tavern would not drink rum forever. With all possible speed he scanned the remaining stanza of the morning—those seven or eight couplets describing the shipboard feast. He sighed again, tucked the book under his arm, and hurried out of the stable into the courtyard.
“Stay, Master Poet, or thou’rt dead,” said a voice behind him, and he whirled about to face a brace of black-garbed fiends from Hell, each with his left hand leaning on an ebon cane and his right aiming a pistol at the poet’s chest.
“Doubly dead,” the other added.
Ebenezer could not speak.
“Shall I send a ball through his Romish heart, Captain Scurry, and spare ye the powder?”
“Nay, thankee, Captain Slye,” replied the other. “ ’Twas Captain Coode’s desire to see whate’er queer fish might strike the bait, ere we have his gullet. But the pleasure’s thine when that hour comes.”
“Your servant, Captain Scurry,” said Captain Slye. “Inside with ye, Cooke, or my ball’s in thy belly.”
But Ebenezer could not move. At length, belting their pistols as unnecessary, his fearsome escorts took each an elbow and propelled him, half a-swoon, to the rear door of the ordinary.
“For God’s sake spare me!” he croaked, his eyes shut fast.
“ ’Tis not that gentleman can do’t,” said one of his captors. “The man we’re fetching ye to is the man to dicker with.”
They entered into a kind of pantry or storage room, and one of his captors—the one called Slye—went ahead to open another door, which led into the steamy kitchen of the King o’ the Seas.
“Ahoy, John Coode!” he bellowed. “We’ve caught ye your poet!”
Ebenezer then was given such a push from behind that he slipped on the greasy tiles and fell asprawl beside a round table in the center of the room, directly at the feet of the man who sat there. Everyone laughed: Captain Scurry, who had pushed him; Captain Slye, who stood nearby; some woman whom, since her feet dangled just before his eyes, Ebenezer judged to be sitting in Coode’s lap; and Coode himself. Tremblingly the poet looked up and saw that the woman was the fickle Dolly, who sat with her arms about the archfiend’s neck.
Then, as fearfully as though expecting Lucifer himself, he turned his eyes to John Coode. What he saw was, if rather less horrendous, not a whit less astonishing: the smiling face of Henry Burlingame.
10
The Laureate Suffers Literary Criticism and Boards the Poseidon
“HENRY!”
His friend’s smile vanished. He pushed the barmaid off his lap, sprang scowling to his feet, and pulled Ebenezer up by his shirtfront.
“You blockhead!” he said angrily, before the poet could say more. “Who gave ye leave to sneak about the stables? I told ye to scour the docks for that fool poet!”
Ebenezer was too surprised to speak.
“This is my man Henry Cook,” Burlingame said to the black captains. “Can ye not tell a poet from a common servant?”
“Your man?” cried Captain Scurry. “I’faith, ’tis the same shitten puppy was annoying us this morning—is’t not, Captain Slye?”
“Aye and it is,” said Captain Slye. “What’s more, he was scribbling in that very book there, that ye claim is the poet’s.”
Burlingame turned on Ebenezer again, raising his hand. “I’ve a mind to box thy lazy ears! Idling in a tavern when I ordered ye to the docks! Small wonder the Laureate escaped us! How came ye by the notebook?” he demanded, and when Ebenezer (though he began to comprehend that his friend was protecting him) was unable to think of a reply, added, “I suppose ye found it among our man’s baggage on the wharf and marked it a find worth drinking to?”
“Aye,” Ebenezer managed to say. “That is—aye.”
“Ah God, what a lout!” Burlingame declared to the others. “Every minute at the bottle, and he holds his rum no better than an altar-boy. I suppose ye took ill of’t, then”—he sneered at Ebenezer—“and puked out your belly in the stable?”
The poet nodded and, daring finally to trust his voice, he asserted, “I woke but an hour past and ran to the wharf, but the Laureate’s trunk was gone. Then I remembered I’d left the notebook in the stable and came to fetch it.”
Burlingame threw up his hands to the captains as in despair. “And to you this wretch hath the look of Maryland’s Laureate? I am surrounded by fools! Fetch us two drams and something to eat, Dolly,” he ordered, “and all of you begone save my precious addlepate here. I’ve words for him.”
Captain Slye and Captain Scurry exited crestfallen, and Dolly, who had attended the whole scene indifferently, went out to pour the drinks. Ebenezer fairly collapsed into a chair and clutched at Burlingame’s coat sleeve.
“Dear God!” he whispered. “What is this all about? Why is’t you pose as Coode, and why leave me shivering all day in the stable?”
“Softly,” Henry warned, looking over his shoulder. “ ’Tis a ticklish spot we’re in, albeit a useful one. Have faith in me: I shall lay it open plainly when I can.”
The barmaid returned with two glasses of rum and a plate of cold veal. “Send Slye and Scurry to the wharf,” he directed her, “and tell them I’ll be on the Morpheides by sundown.”
“Can you trust her?” Ebenezer asked when she had gone. “Surely she knows thou’rt not John Coode, after this morning.”
Burlingame smiled. “She knows her part. Fall to, now, and I�
�ll tell you yours.”
Ebenezer did as advised—he’d had no food all day—and was somewhat calmed by the rum, which, however, made him shudder. Burlingame peered through a crack in the door leading into the main hall of the King o’ the Seas, and apparently satisfied that none could overhear, explained his position thus:
“Directly I left you this morning I went straightway to the dock to fetch fresh breeches, pondering all the while what you had told me of the two pirate captains. ’Twas my surmise they were no pirates, the more for that ’twas you they sought—what use would a pirate have for a poet? Yet, from your picture of them, their manner and their quest, I had another thought, no less alarming, which I soon saw to be the truth. Your two black scoundrels were there on the very dock where stood our chests, and I knew them at once for Slye and Scurry, two smugglers that have worked for Coode before. ’Twas clear Coode knew of your appointment and meant you no good, though what his motives were I could but guess; ’twas clear as well your hunters did not know their quarry’s face and could be lightly gulled. They were speaking with the lad that sails the shallop; I made bold to crouch behind our trunks and heard the ferryman say that you and your companion were in the King o’ the Seas—happily I’d given him no name. Slye said ’twas impossible, inasmuch as but a short time since they’d been in the King o’ the Seas, and had run out on seeing their victim in the street but had lost him.”