by John Barth
“What is’t, man? What ails you?”
“We’re all dead men, sir!” Bertrand wailed. “ ’Tis all up with us! Pirates, sir! Ah, curse the hour I played at Laureate! The devils are boarding us this moment!”
“Nay! Thou’rt drunk!”
“I swear’t, sir! Tis the plank for all of us!” In the late afternoon, he explained, the Poseidon had raised another sail to the southeast, which, taking it for some member of the fleet, Captain Meech made haste to overhaul before dark—the man-o’-war that was to see them safely through pirate waters had been out of sight since Corvo, and two ships together were more formidable prey than one alone. But it had taken until just awhile ago to overtake the stranger, and no sooner were they in range than a shot was fired across their bow, and they realized too late that they were trapped. “Would Heav’n I’d stayed to face Ralph Birdsall!” he lamented in conclusion. “Better my cod lost than my life! What shall we do?”
The Laureate had no better answer for this than did his valet, who still crouched trembling on his knees, unable to stand. The shooting had stopped, but there was even more shouting than before, and Ebenezer felt the shock of another hull brushing the Poseidon’s. He climbed a little way up the ladder—just enough to peer out.
He saw a chilling sight. The other vessel rode along the Poseidon’s starboard beam, made fast to her victim with numerous grappling hooks. It was a shallop, schooner-rigged and smaller than the Poseidon, but owing to its proximity and the long weeks during which nothing had been to be seen but open sea on every hand, it looked enormous. Men with pistols or torches in one hand and cutlasses in the other were scrambling over the railings unopposed, the firelight rendering them all the more fearsome, and were herding the Poseidon’s crew around the mainmast; it appeared that Captain Meech had deemed it unwise to resist. The Captain himself, together with his fellow officers, could be seen under separate guard farther aft, by the mizzen, and already the passengers were being rousted out from their berths onto the deck, most in nightclothes or underwear. The men cursed and complained; the women swooned, shrieked, or merely wept in anticipation of their fate. Over the pirates’ foremast hung the gibbous moon, its light reflecting whitely from the fluttering gaff-topsails; the lower sails, also luffing in the cool night breeze, glowed orange in the torchlight and danced with giant shadows. Ebenezer leaned full against the ladder to keep from falling. To his mind rushed all the horrors he’d read of in Esquemeling: how Roche Brasiliano had used to roast his prisoners on wooden spits, or rub their stripes with lemon juice and pepper; how L’Ollonais had pulled out his victims’ tongues with his bare hands and chewed their hearts; how Henry Morgan would squeeze a man’s eyeballs out with a tourniquet about the skull, depend him by the thumbs and great toes, or haul him aloft by the privy members.
From behind and below came the sound of Bertrand’s lamentations.
“Now belay it, belay it!” one of the pirates was commanding. It was not the passengers’ miserable carcasses they had designs on, he declared, but money and stores. If everyone behaved himself properly, no harm would befall them save the loss of their valuables, a few barrels of pork and peas, and three or four seamen, whom the pirates needed to complement their crew; in an hour they could resume their voyage. He then dispatched a contingent of pirates to accompany the male passengers back to their quarters and gather the loot, the women remaining above as hostages to assure a clean picking; another detail he ordered to pillage the hold; and a third, consisting of three armed men, came forward to search the fo’c’sle for additional seamen.
“Quickly!” Ebenezer cried to Bertrand, jumping to the floor. “Put these clothes on and give me my nightgown!” He commenced pulling the valet’s clothes off himself as hastily as possible.
“Why?” Bertrand wailed. “ ’Tis all over with us either way.”
Ebenezer had his clothes off already and began to yank at the nightgown. “We know not what’s in store for us,” he said grimly. “Belike ’tis the gentlemen they’re after, not the poor folk. At any rate ’twere better to see’t through honestly: if I’m to die I’ll die as Eben Cooke, not Bertrand Burton! Off with this, now!” He gave a final tug, and the gown came off over Bertrand’s head and arms. “I’Christ, ’tis beshit!”
“For very fear,” the valet admitted, and scrabbled after some clothes.
“Avast there, laddies!” came a voice from the companionway. “Lookee here, mates, ’tis a floating Gomorry!”
Ebenezer, the foul nightdress half over his head, and Bertrand, still naked on all fours, turned to face three grinning pirates, pistols and swords in hand, on the ladder.
“I do despise to spoil your party, sailors,” said the leader. He was a ferocious-looking Moor, bull-necked, broken-nosed, rough-bearded, and dark-skinned; a red turbanlike cap sat on his head, and black hair bristled from his open shirt. “But we want your arses on deck.”
“Prithee don’t mistake me, sir,” Ebenezer answered, pulling the skirts of his nightdress down. He drew himself up as calmly as he could and pointed with disdain to Bertrand.
“This fellow here may speak for himself, but I am no sailor; my name is Ebenezer Cooke, and I am Poet Laureate of His Majesty’s Province of Maryland!”
14
The Laureate Is Exposed to Two Assassinations of Character, a Piracy, a Near-Deflowering, a Near-Mutiny, a Murder, and an Appalling Colloquy Between Captains of the Sea, All Within the Space of a Few Pages
UNIMPRESSED BY EBENEZER’S DECLARATION, the horrendous Moor and his two confederates hustled their prisoners up to the main deck, the Laureate clad only in his unpleasant nightshirt and Bertrand in a pair of breeches hastily donned. The uproar had by this time subsided to some extent; though the women and servants wept and wailed on every hand, the officers and crew stood sullenly in groups around the mizzen and foremasts, respectively, and the gentlemen, who were returning one by one from the main cabin under the guard of their plunderers, preserved a tight-lipped silence. Thus far no physical harm had been offered either woman or man, and the efficient looting of the Poseidon was nearly complete: all that remained of the pirates’ stated objectives, as overheard by Ebenezer, was to finish the transfer of provisions and impress three or four seamen into their service.
For robbery Ebenezer cared little, his valet having picked him clean already; it was the prospect of being impressed that terrified him, since he and Bertrand had been captured in the fo’c’sle and neither was wearing the clothes of a gentleman. His fears redoubled when their captors led them toward the foremast.
“Nay, prithee, hear me!” he cried. “I am no seaman at all! My name is Ebenezer Cooke, of Cooke’s Point in Maryland! I’m the Laureate Poet!”
The Poseidon’s crew, despite the seriousness of their position, grinned and elbowed one another at his approach.
“Thou’rt a laureate liar, Jack,” growled one of the pirates, and flung him into the group. But the scene attracted notice, and a pirate officer, who by age and appearance seemed to be the Captain, approached from the waist.
“What is’t, Boabdil?” The officer’s voice was mild, and his dress, in contrast to the outlandishness of his men’s, was modest, even gentlemanly; on shore one would have taken him for an honest planter or shipowner in his fifties, yet the great Moor was clearly alarmed by his approach.
“Naught in the world, Captain. We found these puppies buggered in the fo’c’sle, and the long one there claims he’s no sailor.”
“Ask my man here!” Ebenezer pleaded, falling on his knees before the Captain. “Ask those wretches yonder if I’m one of them! I swear to you sir, I am a gentleman, the Laureate of Maryland by order of Lord Baltimore!”
In response to the Captain’s question Bertrand attested his master’s identity and declared his own, and the boatswain volunteered additional confirmation; but old Ned, though no one had asked his opinion, spitefully swore the opposite, and by way of evidence produced, to the poet’s horror, the document signed in the fo’c’sl
e, which proclaimed Ebenezer a member of the crew.
“ ’Twere better for all if ye signed them two aboard,” he added. “They’re able enough seamen, but thieves and rogues to ship with! Don’t let ’em fool ye with their carrying-on!”
Seeing their old shipmate’s purpose, some of the other men took up the cry, hoping thereby to save themselves from being forced to join the pirates. But the Captain, after examining Ned’s document, flung it over the side.
“I know those things,” he scoffed. “Besides, ’twas signed by the Laureate of Maryland.” He appraised Ebenezer skeptically. “So thou’rt the famous Eben Cooke?”
“I swear’t, sir!” Ebenezer’s heart pounded; he tingled with admiration for the Captain’s astuteness and with wonder that his own fame was already so widespread. But his troubles were not over, for although the pirate seemed virtually persuaded, he ordered both men brought aft for identification by the passengers, whereupon he was perplexed to hear a third version—neither of the men was a sailor, but it was the older, stouter one who was Laureate, and the skinny wretch his amanuensis. Captain Meech agreed, and added that this was not the servant’s first presumption to his master’s office.
“Ah,” the pirate captain said to Bertrand, “thou’rt hiding behind thy servant’s skirts, then! Yet how is’t the crew maintain the contrary?”
By this time the looting of the Poseidon was complete, and everyone’s attention turned to the interrogation. Ebenezer despaired of explaining the complicated story of his disguise.
“What matters it to you which is the liar?” Captain Meech inquired from the quarter-deck, where he was being held at pistol-point. “Take their money and begone with ye!”
To which the pirate answered, undisturbed, “ ’Tis not the Laureate’s money I want—he hath little enough of that, I’ll wager.” Ebenezer and Bertrand both vouched for the truth of this conjecture. “ ’Tis a good valet I’m after, to attend me aboard ship; the Laureate can go to the Devil.”
“Ye have found me out,” Bertrand said at once. “I’ll own I am the Laureate Eben Cooke.”
“Wretch!” cried Ebenezer. “Confess thou’rt a lying scoundrel of a servant!”
“Nay, I’ll tell the truth,” the pirate said, watching both men carefully. “ ’Tis the servant can go hang for all o’ me; I’ve orders to hold the Laureate on my ship.”
“There is your poet, sir.” Bertrand pointed shamelessly to Ebenezer. “A finer master no man ever served.”
Ebenezer goggled. “Nay, nay, good masters!” he said at last. “ ’Tis not the first time I’ve presumed, as Captain Meech declared! This man here is the Laureate, in truth!”
“Enough,” the pirate commanded, and turned to the turbaned Moor. “Clap ’em both in irons, and let’s be off.”
Thus amid murmurs from the people on the Poseidon the luckless pair were transferred to the shallop, protesting mightily all the way, and having confiscated every firearm and round of ammunition they could find aboard their prey, the pirates gave the ladies a final pinch, clambered over the rail, cast off the grapples, and headed for the open sea, soon putting their outraged victims far behind. The kidnaped seamen—Chips, the boatswain, and a youngster from the starboard watch—were taken to the captain’s quarters to sign papers, and the two prisoners confined forward in the rope- and sail-locker, which by addition of a barred door and leg irons made fast to the massive oak knees had been turned into a lightless brig.
Sick with wrath at his valet’s treachery though he was, and with apprehension for his fate, Ebenezer was also bewildered by the whole affair and demanded to know the reason for their abduction; but to all such queries their jailer—that same black giant who had first laid hands on them—simply responded, “Captain Pound hath his reasons, mate.” It was not until the leg irons were fastened and the brute, in the process of bolting the heavy door, repeated this answer for the fourth or fifth time, that Ebenezer recognized the name.
“Captain Pound, did you say? Your captain’s name is Pound?”
“Tom Pound it is,” the pirate growled, and stayed for no further questions.
“Dear Heav’n!” the poet exclaimed. He and Bertrand were alone in the tiny cell now, and in absolute darkness, the Moor having taken the lamp with him.
“D’ye know the blackguard, sir? Is he a famous pirate? Ah Christ, that I were back in Pudding Lane! I’d hold the wretched thing myself, and let Ralph Birdsall do his worst!”
“Aye, I know of Thomas Pound.” Ebenezer’s astonishment at the coincidence—if indeed it was one—temporarily gained the better of his wrath. “He’s the very pirate Burlingame once sailed with, off New England!”
“Master Burlingame a pirate!” Bertrand exclaimed. “At that, ’tis no surprise to me—”
“Hold thy lying tongue!” snapped Ebenezer. “Thou’rt a pretty knave to criticize my friend, that would throw me to the sharks yourself for tuppence!”
“Nay, prithee, sir,” the servant begged, “think not so hard of me. I’ll own I played ye false, but ’twas thy life or mine, no paltry tuppence.” What’s more, he added, Ebenezer had done the same a moment later, when the Captain revealed his true intention.
To this truth the Laureate had no rejoinder, and so for a time both men were silent, each brooding on his separate misery. For beds they had two piles of ragged sailcloth on the floor timbers, which, since their cell was in the extreme bow of the shallop, were not horizontal but curved upwards from keel and cutwater, so that they also formed the walls. The angle, together with the pounding of waves against the bow, would have made sleep impossible for Ebenezer, despite his great fatigue, even without the additional discomforts of fear and excitement. His mind returned to Henry Burlingame, who had sailed under the very brigand who now held them prisoner; perhaps aboard this very ship.
“Would he were here now, to intercede for me!”
He considered revealing his friendship with Burlingame to Captain Pound, but rejected the idea. He had no idea what name Henry had sailed under, for one thing, and his friend’s manner of parting company with his shipmates would scarcely raise the value, in the Captain’s eyes, of an acquaintanceship with him. Ebenezer recalled the story, told him in the Plymouth coach, of Burlingame’s adventure with the mother and daughter whom he’d saved from rape, and who had rewarded him with, among other things, the first real clue to his ancestry. How sorely did he miss Henry Burlingame! He could not even remember with any precision what his dear friend looked like; at best his mental picture was a composite of the very different faces and voices of Burlingame before and after the adventures in America. Bertrand’s remark came to his mind again, and brought with it disturbing memories of the valet’s encounters with Henry: their meeting in the London posthouse, never mentioned by his friend, and their exchange of clothing in the stable of the King o’ the Seas. Why had Bertrand not been surprised to learn of Burlingame’s piracy, which had so astonished Ebenezer?
“Why did you speak so ill of Burlingame?” he asked aloud, but in reply heard only the sound of snoring from the other side of the great keel timber between them.
“In such straits as ours the wretch can sleep!” he exclaimed with a mixture of wonder and exasperation, but had not the heart to wake him. And eventually, though he had thought the thing impossible, he too succumbed to sheer exhaustion and, in that unlikeliest of places, slept.
By morning the question had either gone from his mind or lost its importance, for he said nothing of it to his servant. It appeared as the day went on that their treatment at the hands of Captain Pound was not to be altogether merciless: after a breakfast of bread, cheese, and water—not punishment, but the whole crew’s morning fare—they were released from their leg irons, given some purloined clothing, and allowed to come on deck, where they found themselves riding an empty expanse of ocean. The Moor, who seemed to be first mate, set them to various simple chores like oakum-picking and holystoning; only at night were they returned to their miserable cell, and never afte
r the first time were they subjected to the leg irons. Captain Pound put his case plainly to them: he was persuaded that one or the other was the Laureate but put no faith in the assertions of either, and meant therefore to hold both in custody. He would say no more regarding the reason for their incarceration than that he was following orders, nor of its probable term than that when so ordered he would release them. In the meantime they had only to look to their behavior, and no injury would be done them.
From all this Ebenezer could not but infer that his captor was in some manner an agent of the archconspirator John Coode, at whose direction he had lain in ambush for the Poseidon. The man would stop at nothing to reach his mischievous ends! And how devilish clever, to let the pirates take the blame! The prospects of death or torture no longer imminent, the Laureate allowed himself boundless indignation at being kidnaped—which mighty sentiment, however, he was sufficiently prudent to conceal from the kidnapers—and at the same time could not but commend his foe’s respect for the power of the pen.
“ ’Tis perfectly clear,” he explained to Bertrand in a worldly tone. “Milord Baltimore had more than the muse in mind when he commissioned the Marylandiad. He knows what too few princes will admit: that a good poet’s worth two friends at court to make or break a cause, though of course the man’s too sensible of a poet’s feelings to declare such a thing outright. Why else did he send dear Henry to watch after me, d’you think? And why should Coode waylay me, but that he knows my influence as well as Baltimore? I’faith, two formidable antagonists!”
If Bertrand was impressed, he was not a whit consoled. “God pox the twain of ’em!”
“Say not so,” his master protested. “ ’Tis all very well to keep an open mind on trifles, but this is a plain case of justice against poltroonery, and the man that shrugs compounds the felony.”
“Haply so,” Bertrand said with a shrug. “I know your Baltimore’s a wondrous Papist, but I doubt me he’s a saint yet, for all that.” When Ebenezer objected, the valet went on to repeat a story he’d heard from Lucy Robotham aboard the Poseidon, the substance of which was that Charles Calvert was in the employ of Rome. “He hath struck a dev’lish bargain with the Pope to join the Papists and the salvages against the Protestants and butcher every soul of ’em! Then when he hath made a Romish fortress out of Maryland, the Jesuits will swarm like maggots o’er the landscape, and ere ye can say ‘Our Father’ the entire country belongs to Rome!”