by John Barth
“ ’Sblood, ’twas a murtherous moment, sir! I had like to smirch me for very fright, and waited only for knife or ball. Betsy likewise, albeit her head was buried like the ostrich’s, showed great alarm: ’twas writ all over her hinder part. Yet Birdsall himself seemed no less racked: he shivered like a yawning cat and drew his breath unnaturally. Nor was’t in wrath his hands lay on me, as I soon saw. Great tears coursed down his cheeks, the which were smooth as any girl’s; he sniffed and bit his underlip, yet would not speak nor smite me down.
“ ‘Out on’t!’ I cried at last. ‘Here I lie, and there lies thy wife, right roundly rogered: ye have caught us fair enough. Then make an end on’t, sir, or get thee hence!’ He then composed himself and said, that though ’twas in his rights to slay the twain of us, yet he had no taste for bloodshed and loved his wife besides. The horns were on his brow, he said, nor could his short-sword poll him. Moreover, he declared that in bedding Betsy I had bedded him, forasmuch as marriage made them one; and on this ground averred, that whate’er Betsy felt for me, he could but feel the same—in short, to the degree I was her lover, I was his as well, and this in the eyes of God Himself!
“Now all this Jesuitry I heard amazed, yet was right glad to remain unpunctured, and I made bold to put him in mind of that ancient and consoling verity, None save the wittol knows he is no cuckold. On hearing which, the wretch straightway embraced me, and de’il I had no taste for’t, ’twas give him this head or lose my own. Betsy meanwhile, on hearing how the wind blew, soon calmed her shivering hams and, throwing off the covers, cried she had no mind to play Rub-a-dub-dub nor could she fathom how such a bedful of women had ever got her with child. At this Ralph Birdsall gave a mighty start and in a trembling tone enquired, was’t he or I had got the child? Whereupon my Betsy cried, ‘ ’Twas he! ’Twas my sweet Bertrand!’ Methought I was betrayed and cursed her for a liar; to Ralph I swore I’d ne’er laid hands on Betsy till a fortnight past, nor swived her till a good week after, whereas the child was three months in her belly if he was a day. ‘He lies!’ swore Betsy; ‘I swear’t!’ swore I. ‘Nay!’ swore she. ‘ ’Tis full six months I’ve been his whore, that had no husband to wife me! A hundred times hath he climbed and sowed me, till I am full as a full-corned goose of him!’ Ralph Birdsall then fetched out his sword, that, clerk or no, he boasted always at his hip. ‘The truth!’ he cried, and shook all over as with an ague. I still took Betsy for a traitor, and so declared, ‘ ’Fore God thy wife’s a hellish liar, sir, but nonetheless she is no whore. May I fry in Hell if the child is any man’s but yours.’
“Alas! What man can say he knows his fellow man? Who’d not have sworn, when at last I quite persuaded Birdsall, ’twould soften his wrath—the more for that ’twas not his horns that galled him? Yet when I’d said my piece and he Amen’d it, he drew himself up and scowled a fearsome scowl. ‘Whore!’ he cried at Betsy, and with the flat of his sword he fetched her a swingeing clap athwart her seat. Nor stopped he there, but made to run me through, and ’twas only the nimblest of legs that saved my neck. I snatched up my breeches and dashed for the door, with the fiddler in hot career behind, nor durst I stop to cover my shame till I was half a square before him—Better lose pride than hide, sir, as they say. As for my tattling Betsy, the last I saw her she was springing hither and yon about the room, sir, hands on her buttocks and hollowing like a hero, nor have I seen her since. The truth of’t was, as I guessed later, the babe in Betsy’s belly was the fiddler’s claim to manhood, so long as he thought himself the father; it took no more than discovering us rem in rem to quite undo him. ’Twas only to save me the wench gave out the truth, and ’sblood! I cut my throat to call her false, for albeit the cuckold lost my trail, he’d vowed to hound me to the earth’s ends and poll that horn wherewith himself was horned!
“There was naught for it then but I must flee; yet I had but three pound in my breeches, nor dared return for clothes or savings. I summoned a boy who happened through the alley where I hid and sent him with the money for shirt, hose, and shoes; then for an hour I prowled the streets, debating what to do.
“By merest chance my way led to the posthouse, at sight of which I could not but weep to think of your straits, that were but little happier than my own. ’Twas here I hit upon my plan, sir, whereof the substance was, that though ’twas past my power to help ye, yet in your misery ye might ransom me. That is to say, ye’d bought your passage to Maryland and could not sail; who knew but what ye’d bought your seat to Plymouth as well? Think not I planned to cheat thee, sir! ’Twas but to Plymouth I meant to go, to save my life, and vowed to make ye restitution when I could. I did not doubt I could play the poet, though de’il the bit I know of verse, for I’ve a gift for mime, sir, if I may say so. Aye, many’s the hour at St. Giles I’ve kept the folk in stitches by ’personating old Mrs. Twigg, with her crooked walk and her voice like an ironmonger’s! And once in Pudding Lane, sir, I did Ralph Birdsall to such a turn, my Betsy wept a-laughing, nor could contain herself but let fly on the sheets for very mirth. The only rub was, should someone challenge me I’d naught wherewith to prove my case. For that reason, though I need not say how much I loathed to do’t, I called for quill and paper in the posthouse, sir, and as best my memory would serve me I writ a copy of your commission, the which ye’d showed me ere ye left—”
At this point, Ebenezer, who had with the greatest difficulty contained his mounting astonishment and wrath as Bertrand’s tale unfolded, cried out, “Devil take it, man, is there aught of infamy you’d stop at? Steal passage, take name and rank, and even forge commission! Let me see it!”
“ ’Tis but a miserable approximation, sir,” the servant said. “I’ve little wit in the matter of language and had no seal to seal it with.” He drew a paper from his coat and proffered it reluctantly. “ ’Twould fool no man, I’m certain.”
“ ’Tis not Lord Baltimore’s hand,” Ebenezer admitted, scanning the paper. “But i’faith!” he added on reading it. “The wording is the same, from first to last! And you say ’twas done from memory? Recite it for me, then!”
“Marry, sir, I cannot; ’twas some time past.”
“The first line, then. Surely you recall the first line of’t? No? Then thou’rt an arrant liar!” He flung the paper to the floor. “Where is my commission, that you copied this from?”
“ ’Fore God, sir, I do not know.”
“And yet you copied from it in the posthouse?”
“Ye force the truth from me, sir,” Bertrand said, shamefaced. “ ’Twas indeed from the original I copied, and not from memory; neither was it in the posthouse I did the deed, but in your room, sir, the day ye left. The commission was on your writing table, where ye’d forgot it: I found it there as I was packing your trunk, and so moved was I by the grandness of’t I made a copy, thinking to show my Betsy what a master I’d lost. The original I put in your trunk and carried to the posthouse.”
“Then why this sneak and subterfuge?” the poet demanded. “Why did you not admit it from the start? Thank Heav’n the thing’s not lost!”
Bertrand made no reply, but scowled more miserably than ever.
“Well? Surely ’tis in my trunk this instant, is’t not? Why did you lie?”
“I put the paper in your trunk, sir,” Bertrand said, “on the very top of all, and fetched your baggage to the posthouse; nor thought I more of’t till the hour I’ve told of, when, to save my life, I vowed to ’personate my way to Plymouth. Then I recalled my copy and luckily found it where it had been since the hour I forged it—folded in quarters in my pocket. To try myself I marched into the posthouse, and to the first wight I met I said, ‘I’m Ebenezer Cooke, my man, Poet and Laureate of the Province of Maryland: please direct me to the Plymouth coach.’ ”
“The brass!”
Bertrand shrugged: the Burlingamelike gesture was the more startling performed as it was in Burlingame’s port-purple coat. “ ’Twas daring enough,” he admitted. “The fellow only stared and mumbled someth
ing about the coach being gone. I feared he saw through my imposture, and the more when a stout fierce fellow in black came up behind and said, ‘Thou’rt the poet Cooke, ye say? Thou’rt a knave and liar, for the poet Cooke they fetched to jail not two hours past.’ ”
“To jail!” Ebenezer cried. “What is this talk of jail, man, that ye return to here again?”
“ ’Twas what I’d feared, sir: that wretch named Bragg, that would have the law on ye for some false matter of a ledger-book. ’Twas only inasmuch as I knew ye were past rescue, as I say, sir, that I presumed to use your passage—”
“Stay! Stay! One moment, now!” Ebenezer protested. “There is a marvelous discrepancy here!”
“A discrepancy, sir?”
“It wants no barrister to see it,” the poet said. “ ’Twas you set Bragg on my trail, was’t not, when you found him in my room? And ’twas only that you knew I’d be long gone, you said. How is’t then—”
“Prithee let me finish, sir,” Bertrand pleaded, coloring noticeably. “Tales are like tarts, that may be ugly on the face of ’em and yet have a worthwhile end. This man, I say, declared ye were in jail—a fearsome fellow, he was, dressed all in black, with a great black beard, and pistols in his waist. And not far behind him was another, as like as any twin, which, when he joined the first, the man I’d queried took fright and ran. As would have I, but for access of fear.”
“They sound like Slye and Scurry!”
“The very same, sir, they called each other: a pair of sharks as may I never meet again! Yet little I knew of ’em then but that they’d challenged me, and so I said straight out, the man who’d gone to jail was an impostor, and jailed for his imposture, and I was the real Ebenezer Cooke. To prove it I displayed my false commission, scarce daring to hope they’d be persuaded. Yet persuaded they were, and even humbled, as I thought; they whispered together for a while and then insisted I ride to Plymouth with them, inasmuch as the regular coach was gone. I took the boon right readily, fearing any minute to see Ralph Birdsall and his sword—”
“And fell into their hands,” Ebenezer said with relish. “By Heav’n, ’tis no more than your desert!”
Bertrand shuddered. “Say not so, sir! Hi, what a pair of fiends! No sooner were we on the road than their intent came clear: they were lieutenants of one Colonel Coode of Maryland, that hath designs upon the government, and had been sent by him to waylay Eben Cooke—which quarry fearing bagged by other hunters, they were the more ready to believe me him. What designs they had on you, sir, I could not guess, but certain ’twas not to beg a verse of ye, for they held each a pistol ready and left no doubt I was their prisoner. ’Twas not till Plymouth I escaped; one of the twain went to see how fared their ship, and the other wandering some yards off to rouse the stableboy at the King o’ the Seas, I leaped round a corner and burrowed into a pile of hay, where I hid till they gave o’er the search and went inside for rum.”
“Take them no farther,” Ebenezer said; “I know the rest of their history. ’Twas in the hay, then, that Burlingame found you?”
“Aye, sir. I heard the sound of people and trembled for my life, the more for that their footsteps came toward me. Anon I felt a great thrashing weight upon me, and thinking I was jumped by Slye or Scurry, I gave a great hollow and grappled as best I could to save my life. ’Twas the barmaid from the tavern I found opposing me—coats high, drawers low, and ripe for rogering—and Miss Anna’s beau stood by, laughing mightily at the combat.”
“Enough, enough! How is’t you did not know each other, if as you say you’d seen him at the posthouse?”
“Not know him? I knew him at once, sir, and he me, and ’twere hard to tell which was the more amazed. Yet he asked me nothing of my business there, but straightway offered to change clothes with me—I daresay he feared my telling tales to his Miss Anna—”
“Enough!” Ebenezer ordered again.
“No harm intended, sir: no injury meant. In any case I was pleased to make the change, not alone in that I had the better of the bargain but also to escape from Slye and Scurry. Yet I went no farther than the door of the King o’ the Seas ere they spied me from inside and gave chase: ’twas only by hiding behind some baggage on a pier that I eluded them. Then fancy my amazement, sir, when I saw ’twas your own trunk had saved me, that I’d packed myself not long before! I knew—alas!—ye were not there to claim it and so resolved to carry my poor deception one step farther; to board your ship, sir, with your own commission, and hide till I deemed it safe to go ashore. To that end, so soon as I was safe aboard I unlocked your trunk—”
“What say you?”
“Ye’d left one key with me in London, what time I packed ye. But I found the paper gone, sir.”
“Gone! Great heavens, man, whither?”
“Lost, strayed, or stolen, sir,” said Bertrand. “ ’Twas on the very top I’d laid it, yet now ’twas nowhere in the trunk. I had to use my false commission instead, which happily convinced ’em for all it had no seal. I told the Captain to keep watch for my pursuers. The rest ye know.”
Ebenezer paced the cabin wildly, his finger ends pressed against his temples.
“When word came to me that some stranger was aboard that called himself the Laureate, then swore he was the Laureate’s man,” Bertrand concluded, watching his master anxiously, “I durst not leave this room. If’t was Slye or Scurry or Coode himself, I would be murthered on the spot. I had no choice but to stand here, sick at heart, and watch the ship get under way. The officer then said I must inspect ye, and so sure was I of death, I could not turn from the window till I heard your voice. How isn’t thou’rt not in jail, sir?”
“Jail!” Ebenezer said with impatience. “I never was in jail!”
“Then who is’t took your place? Slye vowed that when he and Scurry searched the posthouse for ye, they heard on every side of a man who’d been arrested not ten minutes before and carried off to jail. None knew what crime he’d done, but all knew his name was Eben Cooke, for the man had strode about declaring name and rank to the world.”
“No doubt a second impostor,” the poet replied, “bent on whoring my office to his purpose. May he rot in irons for ever and aye! As for you, since ’twas not among your plans to make a voyage, you’ll sail no farther—”
“Ye’ll have ’em fetch me ashore?” Bertrand went to his knees in gratitude. “Ah marry, what a place in Heav’n is thine, sir! What an injustice I did ye, to fear ye’d not have pity on my case!”
“On the contrary; ’tis perhaps the one injustice you did me not.”
“Sir?”
Ebenezer turned away to the stern windows. “ ’Twere well to say a prayer before you rise; I mean you’ll swim for’t.”
“Nay! ’Twere the end o’me, sir!”
“As’t were of me,” Ebenezer said, “had you not owned—”
He stopped short: master and man measured each other for an instant, then sprang together for the false commission on the floor—which laying hold of at the same instant, they soon destroyed in their struggle.
“No matter,” Ebenezer said. “ ’Twill take but a minute with the twain of us for any fool to judge which is the poet and which the lying knave.”
“Think better of’t!” Bertrand warned. “ ’Tis not my wish to harm ye, sir, but if it comes to that, there’ll be no judgment; I’ve but to send for the man that fetched ye here and swear I know ye not.”
“What! You’ll threaten me too, that have already set the law upon me, robbed me of name and passage, and well-nigh caused my death? A pretty fellow!”
For all his wrath, however, Ebenezer was not blind to the uncertainty of his position; he spoke no more of summoning an officer to judge between them nor did he further question Bertrand’s tale, though several details of it failed to satisfy him. The valet had declared, for example, that only the certainty of his master’s departure had allowed him with clear conscience to send Bragg’s bullies to the posthouse; yet it was his certainty of Ebenezer’s
arrest that had allowed him, before entering the posthouse again, to conceive the notion of posing as Laureate. And how could the commission have disappeared, if master and servant owned the only keys to the trunk? And what had the wretch to gain by his lying tale of Anna and Henry together in the posthouse? Or if it were no lie—But here his reeling fancy failed him.
“You merit no lenience,” he said in a calmer tone, “but so far shall I let mercy temper justice, I’ll speak no more of casting you astern. Haply ’twill be punishment enough to spend the balance of your years in Maryland, since you fear it so. For the rest, confess and apologize to the whole ship’s company at once, and let future merit atone for past defect.”
“Thou’rt a Solomon for judgment,” Bertrand cried, “and a Christian saint for mercy!”
“Let us go, then, and have done.”
“At once, at once, sir,” the valet agreed, “if ye think it safe—”