The Sot-Weed Factor

by John Barth

  “What is’t, lad?” a smiling jack inquired. “Got a gimp?”

  At this the party laughed aloud, and though the point of the joke escaped him, Ebenezer smiled as well: the strange serenity he’d waked with made it of no importance that their laughter was doubtless at his expense.

  “Belike I took a fall,” he said politely. “I hurt a little here and there.”

  “ ’Twere a nine-day wonder if ye didn’t!” an old fellow cackled, and Ebenezer recognized that same Ned who’d first delivered him into Bertrand’s presence and had pinched him so cruelly into the bargain. The others laughed again, but bade their shipmate be silent.

  A third sailor, somewhat less uncouth appearing than the rest, made haste to say, “What Ned means is, small wonder ye’ve an ache or two where the mizzen shroud struck ye.” He indicated a small flask near at hand. “Come have a dram to steady yourself while the mate’s on deck.”

  “I thank you,” Ebenezer said, and when he had done shivering from the rum he mildly asked, “How is’t I’m here?”

  “We found ye senseless on the main deck in the storm,” the sailor said. “Ye’d near washed through the scuppers.”

  “Chips yonder used your berth for planking,” old Ned added gleefully, and indicated the sailor who had spoken first—a lean, sturdy fellow in his forties.

  “No offense intended, mind,” said the carpenter, playing another card. “We was taking water aft, and all my planks was washed by the board. I asked in the ’tween decks which berth to use, and yours was the one they showed me.”

  “Ah well, I’ll not miss their company, I think.” On further questioning Ebenezer learned that his unconsciousness had lasted three days and nights, during which time he’d had no food at all. He was ravenously hungry; the cook, rather expecting him to die, had left no rations for him, but the crewmen readily shared their bread and cheese. They showed considerable curiosity about his three-day coma: in particular, had he felt not anything at all? His assurance that he had not seemed greatly to amuse them.

  “Out on’t, then!” the carpenter declared. “ ’Tis over and done with, mate, and if aught’s amiss, bear in mind we thought ye a dying man.”

  “Amiss?” Ebenezer did not understand. By this time the rum had warmed his every member, and the edge was off his hunger. In the lantern light the fo’c’sle looked quite cozy. He had not lately met with such hospitality as had been shown him by these uncouth sailors, who doubtless knew not even his pseudonym, to say nothing of his real identity. “If aught’s amiss,” he asserted warmly, “ ’tis that in my muddled state I’ve made no proper thanks for all your kindness. Would God I’d pence to pay you for’t, though I knew ’twas natural goodness moved you and not the landsman’s grubby wish for gold. But I’m a pauper.”

  “Think never a fart of’t,” one of the men replied. “ ’Tis your master’s lookout. Drink up, now.”

  The Laureate smiled at their innocence and took another drink. Should he tell them whom in fact they were so kind to? No, he decided affectionately; let virtue be its own reward. He called to mind tales of kings in humble dress, going forth among their subjects; of Christ himself, who sometimes traveled incognito. Doubtless they would one day learn the truth, from some poem or other that he’d write: then the adventure would become a legend of the fo’c’sles and a telling anecdote in biographies to come.

  The sailors’ cordial attitude prevailed through the following fortnight, as did the poet’s remarkable tranquility. This latter, at least, he came increasingly to understand: the second of his euphoric visions had come back to him, and he saw in it, with a quiet thrill, a mystic affirmation of his calling, such as those once vouchsafed to the saints. What was this ship, after all, but the Ship of Destiny, from which in retribution for his doubts he had been cast? What was the ocean but a Font of Rededication, a moral bath to cleanse him of despair and restore him to the Ship? The message was unequivocal even without the additional, almost frightening miracle that he had unwittingly predicted it! Hence Burlingame’s presence on the dream ship, for he it was, in the King o’ the Seas (that is to say, Poseidon!) who had scoffed at the third line of Ebenezer’s quatrain—

  Let Ocean roar his damn’dest Gale:

  Our Planks shan’t leak; our Masts shan’t fail;

  With great Poseidon by our Side

  He seemeth neither wild nor wide.

  —which, he claimed, placed the poet in the ocean. Ebenezer thought warmly of his friend and teacher, who for all he knew might long since have been found out by Slye and Scurry and sent to a watery grave. Henry had been skeptical of the laureateship, no doubt about it.

  “Would God I had him here, to tell this wonder to!” Since the momentous sighting of Corvo in the Azores, the Poseidon had been sailing a due westerly course along the thirty-seventh parallel of latitude, which if all went well would lead her straight to the Virginia Capes. The lengthy storm had scattered the fleet to the four winds, so that not another sail was visible on the horizon; but Captain Meech looked to overhaul the flagship any day, which he reckoned to be ahead of them. Although some time had been lost in making repairs, when Chips completed a masterful scarfing of the damaged spar the Poseidon bowled along for days on end in a whole-sail breeze. They were five weeks out of Plymouth; May was upon them, and landfall again on everybody’s lips.

  During this period Ebenezer seldom left the fo’c’sle: for one thing, it took him a while to regain his strength; for another, he had no desire to see his former messmates again, and anyway his musings kept him pleasantly occupied. Bertrand, of course, he could not avoid some contact with, but their meetings were brief and uncommunicative—the valet was uncertain of his position, and Ebenezer, besides enjoying the man’s discomfort, had nothing to say to him. Though he could entertain no more illusions about the ship’s magnificence, his admiration for the sailors had increased tenfold. His despair was gone completely: with tranquil joy he watched the dolphins roll along the freeboard and in the wake and, caught up in the general anticipation, he sharpened his quills, got out the volumes of Milton and Samuel Butler that he used as references, and hatched the following couplets to describe the great event that lay ahead: his first glimpse of Maryland.

  Belike Ulysses, wand’ring West

  From Ilions Sack, in Tatters drest,

  And weary’d of his ten-year Roam

  O’er wat’ry Wilds of desart Foam,

  Beholding Ithaca at last

  And seeing all his Hardship past,

  Did swear ’twas Heav’ns own Shore he’d rais’d,

  So lovely seem’d it as he gaz’d,

  Despite its Rocks and Fearsome Coast.

  How Heav’nlier, then, this Land I boast,

  Whose golden Sands and verdant Trees

  And Harbours snug, design’d to ease

  The Sailors Burthen, greet the Eye

  With naught save Loveliness! Nay, try

  As best it might, no Poets Song,

  Be’t e’er so sweet or ne’er so long,

  Could tell the Whole of MARYLANDS Charms,

  When from the Oceans boundless Harms

  The Trav’ler comes unscath’d at last,

  And from his Vessels loftiest mast

  He first beholds her Beauty!

  To which, at the foot of the ledger-sheet, he duly appended E.C., Gent, Pt & Lt of Md, and regarded the whole with a satisfaction such as he had not felt since the night of Joan Toast’s fateful visit. He was impatient to have done with disguises and assume his true position in the Province: his physical condition was better than it had been before the accident, and his spirits could scarcely have been improved upon. After considering the merits of several plans, he resolved at length to end the fraud by announcing his identity and reciting these latest verses as soon as the Poseidon made a landfall: clearly there was no plot against the Laureate aboard ship, and the passengers deserved to know the truth about him and Bertrand.

  It was not his fortune, however, to carry out t
his pleasant scheme. With their journey’s end so near at hand, passengers and crew alike grew daily more festive, and though the sailors were officially forbidden to drink aboard ship, the fo’c’sle no less than the main cabin became the scene of nightly revels. The crew’s hospitality to Ebenezer waxed proportionately: he had no money to invest in their card-games, but he readily shared their rum and cordiality.

  One evening when all had drunk a fair amount of liquor, old Ned, whose amiable deportment had most surprised the Laureate, descended the companionway and announced to the company at large that he had just returned from an interview with Mister Ebenezer Cooke on the main deck. Ebenezer’s ears pricked up and his cheeks burned, for the man’s tone implied that he had been sent as some kind of spokesman for the group. The rest avoided looking at him.

  “I told ’Squire Cooke how fairly we’d looked to’s man,” Ned continued, smiling unpleasantly at the poet. “I told him we’d fetched him from death’s door and nursed him back to health again, and shared our bed and board without complaint. Then I asked him if’t wouldn’t please him to give us somewhat for our pains, seeing we’re coming on to landfall—”

  “What did he say?” a man asked. Ebenezer’s features boiled about: he was disappointed to learn that their generosity had been at least partly venal, but at the same time he recognized his obligation to them and the legitimacy of their claim.

  Ned leered at him. “The lying wretch pled poverty! Says he lost his last farthing when we sighted Corvo!”

  “ ’Tis all too true,” Ebenezer declared, in the face of a general protest at Ned’s announcement. “He is a profligate fellow and, not content to squander his own money hath wagered mine as well, which is why I could not join your games. But I swear you shall be paid for your kindness, since you set a price on’t. Do but copy down your names for me, and I’ll dispatch the sum the day I arrive at Malden.”

  “I’ll wager ye will, and lose my money too!” Chips laughed. “A vow like that is lightly sworn!”

  “Prithee let me explain—” Ebenezer made up his mind to reveal his identity then and there.

  “No explanation needed,” said the boatswain, who in most matters spoke for the crewmen on that watch. “When sailors nurse an ailing sailor they want no thanks, but when they share the fo’c’sle with an ailing passenger, they’re paid at the voyage’s end.”

  “ ’Tis the code o’ the sea,” Ned affirmed.

  “And a fair one,” Ebenezer granted. “If you’ll but—”

  “Stay,” the boatswain commanded with a smile, and brought forth a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Your master pleads poverty, and you as well. There’s naught for’t but ye must sign this paper.”

  Ebenezer took the document doubtfully and read the rudely penned words.

  “What thing is this?” he cried, and looked up to find all the sailors grinning at his wonder.

  “ ’Tis the code o’ the sea, as Ned says,” the boatswain answered. “Sign ye that paper and thou’rt a poor jack like the rest of us, that owes his fellows not a fart.”

  Indeed, the document proclaimed that its signer was a kind of honorary member of the Poseidon’s crew and shared the rights, privileges, and obligations of a common seaman, work and pay excepted. Its language, polished by comparison with the penmanship, suggested that the gesture was in fact a traditional means of coping with what Ebenezer had assumed to be a novel predicament, and Captain Meech’s signature in one corner bespoke official sanction.

  “Then—you want no payment after all?”

  The boatswain shook his head. “ ’Twould be against the code to think of’t from a shipmate.”

  “Why, ’tis an honor!” the poet laughed, his esteem for the men redoubled. “I’ll sign my name right gladly!” And fetching out his quill he fixed his proper name and title to the paper.

  “Ah, mate,” said Chips, who watched behind his shoulder, “what prank is this ye play us for our kindness? Sign thy own name, not thy master’s!”

  “Is’t you’ve heard before about the code?” Ned asked suspiciously.

  “Nay, gentlemen, I mean no prank. ’Tis time you knew the truth.” He proceeded then to tell the whole story of his disguise, explaining as briefly as he could what made it necessary. The liquor oiled his tongue: he spoke eloquently and at length, and by way of credentials even recited from memory every couplet in his notebook. “Do but say the word,” he concluded. “I’ll fetch my valet hence to swear to’t. He could not quote a verse from memory and scarce could read ’em off the page.”

  At first openly incredulous, the men were clearly impressed by the time the poet was finished. No one suggested summoning Bertrand to testify. Their chief reservation, it turned out, was the fact that Ebenezer had been content with a fo’c’sle hammock while his servant enjoyed the favors of Miss Lucy Robotham, and the Laureate turned this quickly to account by reminding them of his hymn to virginity: such behavior as Bertrand’s was unthinkable in a man to whom virginity was of the essence.

  “ ’Sbody!” the boatswain cried. “Ye mean to say a poet is like a popish priest, that uses his cod for naught but a bilge-pump?”

  “I speak for no poet save myself,” Ebenezer replied, and went on to explain, insofar as modesty permitted, the distinction between ecclesiastical celibacy and true virginity. The former, he declared, was no more than a discipline, albeit a highly commendable one in that it turned to nobler work the time and energy commonly spent on lovemaking, spared the votary from dissipating entanglements with mistresses and wives, and was conducive in general to a longer and more productive life; but it was by no means so pure a state as actual virginity, and in point of fact implied no necessary virtue at all—the greatest lecher is celibate in later years, when his powers have fled. Celibacy, in short, was a negative practice almost always adopted either by default or by external authority; virginity, on the other hand, was a positive metaphysical state, the more to be admired since it was self-imposed and had in itself neither instrumental value nor, in the male, physical manifestation of its possession or loss. For him it had not even the posthumous instrumentality of a Christian virtue, since his interest in it was ontological and aesthetic rather than moral. He expatiated freely, more for his own edification than that of the crew, who regarded him with awe.

  “Ye mean to sit there and tell us,” the boatswain asked soberly in the middle of a sentence, “ye never caulked a fantail in your life? Ye never turned the old fid to part some dock-whore’s hemp?”

  “Nor shall I ever,” the poet said stoutly, and to forestall further prying he returned the proclamation and proposed a drink to his new position. “Think not I count your honor less as Laureate,” he assured them. “Let’s have a dram on’t, and ere the night’s done I’ll pay my toll with something more sweet than silver.” Indeed, he meant to do them no less an honor than to sing their praises for ever and all in verse.

  The sailors looked at each other.

  “So be’t!” old Ned cackled, and the others voiced approval too. “Get some rum in him, mates, ’fore the next watch!”

  Ebenezer was given the bottle and bade to drink it all himself. “What’s this?” he laughed uncertainly. “A sort of initiation ceremony?”

  “Nay, that comes after,” said Chips. “The rum’s to make ye ready.”

  Ebenezer declined the preliminaries with a show of readiness for any mock ordeal. “Let’s put by the parsley and have at the meat, then; you’ll find me game for’t!”

  This was the signal for a general uproar: the poet’s arms were pinioned from both sides; his chair was snatched from under him by one sailor, and before he could recover from his surprise another pressed his face into a pillow that lay in the center of the table, having magically appeared from nowhere. Not given by temperament to horseplay, Ebenezer squirmed with embarrassment; furthermore, both by reason of his office and from simple fear of pain he did not relish the idea of ritual bastinados on his backside, the administering of which he assumed to be the
sailors’ object.

  When to his horror it grew clear, a moment later, that birching was not their intent at all, no force on earth could keep him silent; though his head was held as fast as were his limbs, he gave a shriek that even the main-top lookout heard.

  “Captain Meech will hang you for this!” he cried, when he could muster words.

  “Ye think he knows naught o’ the code o’ the sea?” Ebenezer recognized old Ned’s evil cackle behind him. “Ye saw his name on the paper, did ye not?”

  And as if to confirm the hopelessness of his position, no sooner had he recommenced his shrieks than the mate on deck thrust his head down the companionway to issue a cheerful ultimatum: “The Captain says belay the hollering or lay the wretch out with a pistol-butt. He’s bothering the ladies.”

  His only threat thus spiked, Ebenezer seemed condemned to suffer the initiation in its ruinous entirety. But a sudden cry went up on deck—Ebenezer, half a-swoon, paid no attention to it—and in an instant every man ran for the companionway, leaving the novice to his own resorts. Weak with outrage, he sent a curse after them. Then he made shift to dress himself and tried as best he could to calm his nerves with thoughts of retribution. Still oblivious to the sound of shouts and running feet above his head, he presently gave voice to a final sea-couplet, the last verse he was to spawn for weeks to come:

  “Hell hath no fouler, filthier Demon:

  Preserve me, LORD, from English Seamen!”

  Now to the general uproar on deck was added the sound of musket fire and even the great report of a cannon, though the Poseidon carried no artillery: whatever was happening could no longer be ignored. Ebenezer went to the companionway, but before he could climb up he was met by Bertrand, in nightgown and cap, who leaped below in a single bound and fell sprawling on the floor.

  “Master Ebenezer!” he cried and, spying the poet by the ladderway, rose trembling to his knees. At sight of the man’s terror Ebenezer’s flesh tingled.