by John Barth
Thus spake this Hicktopeake, and I heard him with amazement, for that most men, that cd not satisfye there wives, were loath to own there deficiencie to another man. Yet I did admire his truthfullnesse & candour, & his generositie, in inviting my selfe to attempt, what he cd not doe. With as much of grace as I cd muster, I accepted Hicktopeakes offer, whereupon he shew’d me a doore of his howse, the wch he said, open’d upon the chamber of the Queene. Then he lay’d him selfe down next the fyre and slept, onely fitfullie, as well a man might, that hath granted leave to another to go in unto the wife of his bed.
No sooner was the King asleep, then I straightway made for the doore, and wd have fulfill’d his everie wish, had not Ld Burlingame prevented me, and catching hold of my arme, declar’d, That he did protest my doing this thing. I enquir’d, Why did he protest? seeing that I knew him for no Catholick Saint. Whereto he reply’d, That be that as may, he purpos’d to doe the thing him selfe, for that I had receiv’d the favours of Pocahontas, and had deflowr’d that same maide by scurrilous subterfuge, whereas he had enjoy’d naught of her, nor had layn with woman, since that he set sayle from London. Moreover, he declar’d, That shd I refuse him this favour (albeit he was in my debt for his scurvie life), he meant to noyse the truth about my egg-plant receipt all over Jamestowne, and London as well.
Hereupon I told him, That he cd plough the Salvage Queene all he chose, I car’d not, and said farther, That were she halfe the Messalina good Hicktopeake made her out, it wd want more man then tenne of Burlingame, to pacifie her. This said, I bow’d him to the doore, and joyn’d my snoaring fellows at the fyre. Yet I went not to sleep my owne selfe, but rested awake & smoak’d tobacco, thinking, That in all probabilitie my nights adventures were not done.
At length Burlingame return’d, much out of humour, and upon my enquiring of him, Was the Queene so lightlie pleas’d? he but broke wind at me, and seeing the King stille slept, call’d her divers kinds of whoore & peddle-bumme. He wd, he said, have gone into her, for that she had receiv’d him with friendlinesse enow, but that when he stoode all readie to doe his carnall work, she had demanded of him, Where was his monie? and he having naught to offer, save a parcell of tobacco, she straightway turn’d upon her bellie, and wd no more of him. Whereon he had left her.
I did laugh greatlie at this tale, and said to him, that he wld ever fare ill in conquests of women, for that he was put off so lightlie. And it was a happie thing, for both our heads, that Powhatan erst had set my selfe to pierce his daughters nether armour, and not him. By way of answer, Burlingame but broke wind againe, and said, That if I wish’d to make good my boasts, the doore was yet unlatch’d, and the Queene yet flatt upon the grownd. For him, he wd nothing farther of the whoore, be she Queen or scullerie maide.
I hi’d me then without losse of time to the Queenes apartment, leaving Burlingame at the fyre to stewe in his owne cowardice. Directlie my eyes grewe us’d to the dark, I made out the Queene her selfe, once more upon her back. She was a passing comelie Salvage, I cd see, with gracious features, shapelie limbs, and a smalle flatt bellie, and her papps & other appurtenancies were such, as to whett any mans lust. Upon her directing me, in Salvage jargon, to doe my wille, I prick’d up like a doggs eare, at smelle of meate. I presented my selfe as Capt Jno Smith of Virginia, deeming it a beastlie thing, to swive a woman without first exchanging cordialities. But to this she pay’d no heed at all, onely shew’d me, by certaine movements, she mark’d such pleasantries a waste of time. Therefore I hasten’d to undoe my selfe, and had clipp’d her on the instant, but that she stay’d my ardour; and poynting to that place, the wch she had in Salvage fashion pluck’d bald as a biskett & bedawb’d with puccoon paynt, she demanded first some payment, saying, That she was not wont to bestowe her charms for naught.
This troubl’d me not a whitt, for that I was us’d to dealing with both whoores & Salvages. I fetch’d up my breeches, and withdrewe therefrom a fistfull of bawbles, that ever charme the Salvage eye. These I gave her, but she flung them awaye, and demanded something more. I gave her then a smalle charme, that I had got from a dead Moor, the wch was said to have magick powers, but this neither she deign’d to accept. After that I offer’d the slutt a lewd figure done in ivorie, a smalle coyne inscrib’d in filthie Arabick, and the pledge of twelve yardes of Scotch cloth, to be deliver’d on the next boat from London—all to no availe. She wd have six lengths of wompompeag, she said, or nine of roanoke, for her favours, and naught besides, for that her other lovers were wont to pay that summe for her bodie, she being the Queene. I made replye, That I had no Salvage monies on my person, nor meanes of acquiring any, but wd she grant me satisfaction of my lust, I wd send her a pound Sterling from Jamestowne, enough coyn to purchase a bakers dozen tarts in London. But the Queene wd none of my pound Sterling, and rolling on her bellie, let goe a fart wch had done honour to Elizabeth her selfe. I did declare, That Capt Jno Smith was not put off so lightlie, and when that she reply’d as before, I vow’d to have my fille of her regardlesse. There is a saying amongst the worldlie French, that when a man cannot eate thrush, he must perforce make doe with crowe. I tarry’d no longer, but straightway work’d upon the Queene that sinne, for wch the Lord rayn’d fyre upon the Cities of the Playne…
When that I had done, I drewe away and waited for the Queene to call her bodie-guards to fetch me, wch I suppos’d she wd forthwith. For a space she lay a-panting on the grownd, and when at last she had her winde, tooke from her necke tenne Strings of wompompeag, wch she presented me. She then declar’d, That she had got love enow that night, to give her payne till the new moone. So saying, she felle into a swoone-like sleep, and I retir’d to the other roome, to chide Burlingame for his want of fancie. This he took in his wonted ill humour, for that I had the better of him yet againe…
I did sleep late into the daye, and when I woke, found Hicktopeake in his royall chaire, with all his Lieutenants round about. He had bade them be silent, the while I slept, and on my rowsing up came forward, and embrac’d me, and declar’d I shd be second in rule over his towne, and have the comeliest Salvage of his tribe to wife, for that I had restor’d his peoples peace. I enquir’d, How was that so? and he made answer. That the Queene had come to him that dawne. and begg’d forgivenesse for her infidelitie, and swore that so satisfy’d was she of me, she never wd againe goe a-roving from the Kings bedstead. Onely, he said, he fear’d her resolve might not endure for long; it must needs have been by meanes of some uncommon virilitie I had pleas’d her, and I was leaving his towne anon.
With that I led him aside, and related to him privilie the simple trick I had employ’d, assuring him, that he cd doe the thing as well as I. For so smalle was the puddle, any frogg seem’d greate therein. Hicktopeake had never heard of such a practice (wch I had learnt from the scurvie Arabs), and he listened in amazement. Naught wd then suffice but he must put his learning to the test, and so he hi’d him selfe apace from out the roome.
While that he was gone thus a-wooing, I gather’d together my companie, and told them to make readie our vessell, for I design’d to sayle that selfe same morning, to take up the course of our explorations. They did set to at once, all save Burlingame, that grows’d about the shoarline kicking pebbles, and we were neare readie to sayle, when Hicktopeake came out from his howse. He embrac’d me againe, this time more warmlie then before, and begg’d me stay in his towne for ever, as his Prince & successor. So had he woo’d the Queene, he said, she wd be three days rysing from her bed, and costive the week. But I declin’d his offer, saying. That I had businesse elsewhere to attend. After much debate he did resigne him selfe, and gave me leave to goe, presenting me & my companie with all manner of Salvage gifts, and food & water for our vessell.
Thus at last we did set sayle once more, and headed for the maine, and whatever lay before us. I was a trifle loath to goe, and wd fain have tarry’d some smalle space, for that Hicktopeake did declare to me his intention, of journeying to the towne of Debedeavon his Brother, and th
ere so ploughing Debedeavons Queene, after the manner he had learnt, as to confound his Brother for ever. Whereupon he, Hicktopeake, shd be the Laughing King of Accomack. Wch forsooth were worth the witnessing. But the favour of Kings is a slipperie boone, lightlie granted & as lightlie forsworne, and I deem’d it more prudent to absent my selfe betimes, while that I was yet in his good graces, then to linger, and perchance weare out my welcome there in Accomack… .
Here ended the narrative, or what fragment of it Meech had brought aboard. Ebenezer read it again, and a third time, hoping to find in it something to connect Henry Burlingame with his luckless namesake in the story. But there was every indication that Captain Smith’s antagonist, who Henry hoped would prove to be his ancestor, was not only childless but unmarried, and his future with the company of explorers was far from promising. With a sigh the Laureate assembled the pages of the Journal and concealed it under his sailcloth bed, where no one was likely to find it. Then he extinguished the lantern and sat for some while in the dark. The naked sounds of rape, floating through the shallop’s fo’c’sle. conjured pictures clear enough to make him shiver. Together with the story in the manuscript—which was as much a revelation to him as it had been to Hicktopeake—they forced his reverie willy-nilly into a single channel, and before long he found himself physically moved by desire. He could not in honesty assert that his pity for the Cyprian girls was unambiguous, or his condemnation of their assault wholehearted; if he had been shocked by the spectacle, he had also been excited by it, and so fascinated that no lesser business than that of the Journal could have summoned him away. Indeed, the sight of the girl trapped in the rigging like a fly in a web, and of Boabdil climbing leisurely to envelop her like a great black spider, had aroused him as its memory aroused him now.
It was abundantly clear to him that the value of his virginity was not a moral value, even as he had explained to Bertrand one day on the Poseidon. But the mystic ontological value he had ascribed to it seemed less convincing now than it had seemed then. The recollection of Joan Toast’s visit to his room, for example, which was customarily dominated by his speech at her departure or the hymn to virginity composed afterwards, stopped now at the memory of the girl herself, sitting pertly on his bed, and would go no farther. She had leaned forward and embraced him where he knelt before her: her breasts had brushed like cool silk on his forehead; his cheek had lain against the cushion of her stomach; his eyes had lingered close to The Mystery!
From outside came another cry, a hard, high protest that trailed into lamentation. There was an ancient ring to it, an antique sorrow, that put the poet in mind of Philomela, of Lucretia, of the Sabine virgins and the daughters of Troy, of the entire wailing legion of the raped. He went to the companionway, and climbing it looked skyward at the stars. How trifling was the present scene to them, who had watched the numberless wars of men, the sack of nations, and the countless lone assaults in field and alley! Was there a year in time when their light had not been dimmed, somewhere on earth, by the flames of burning cities? That instant when he stepped out on the deck, how many women heard—in England, Spain, and far Cipango—the footfall of the rapist on the stair, or in the path behind? The ranks of women ravished, hundreds and thousands and millions strong, of every age and circumstance—the centuries rang and echoed with their cries; the dirt of the planet was watered with their tears!
The scene aboard the Cyprian was considerably less violent now, though by no means tranquil. Around the masts her crew were still tied fast, and watched the festivities in sullen silence; thus far none had been harmed. The pirates, their first lust spent, had broken out the rum and were fast succumbing to it. Already some lay senseless in the scuppers; others sprawled with their prizes on the decks and cabin roofs, taking drinks and liberties by turn, but no longer able to consummate their wooing still others had lost interest altogether in the women—they danced, sang bawdy songs, or played ombre under lanterns in the balmy air, almost as on any other evening at sea. From the cabins came the sound of more carousing, but not of violence: two girls, it seemed, were being obliged to perform some trick against their will, and Ebenezer heard several women join in the general laughter and encouragement.
“So lightly they accept their fate!” He thought again of the Trojan widows, advised by Hecuba to resign themselves without protest to being concubines and slaves.
The least enviable lot, so far as he could see, was that of seven ladies trussed hip to hip over the Cyprian’s starboard rail in classic pirate fashion, so that their heads, and upper bodies hung over the somewhat lower shallop: yet even these, despite the indignity and clear discomfort of their position, were not entirely overwhelmed with misery. One, it is true, appeared to be weeping, though she was not being molested at the moment, and two others stared expressionless at their arms, which were lashed at the wrist to the bottom of the balusters but the others were actually gossiping with Carl the sailmaker, who smoked his pipe on the shallop’s deck before them! At sight of Ehenezer, who came up beside him, they were not in the least abashed.
“Oh dear,” said one, feigning alarm, “here comes another!”
“Ah, now, he seems a likely lad,” said her neighbor, who was older. “Ye’d not do aught unchivalrous, would ye, son?”
Even as they laughed, a drunken pirate reeled up behind them.
“Ouch!” cried the one to whom he made his presence known. “Tell him, Carl, ’tis not my turn! Hi! The wretch takes me for a roast of mutton! Tell him, Carl!”
The sailmaker, by reason of his age, had some authority among his shipmates. “Have at some other, matey,” he advised. The pirate obligingly moved to the tearful youngster on the end, who at his first touch gave a cry that pierced Ebenezer to the heart.
“Nay, ye blackguard, don’t dare jilt me!” cried the woman first molested. “Come hither to one that knows what’s what!”
“Aye, leave the child in peace,” another scolded. “I’ll show ye how ’tis done in Leicestershire!” Aside to her companions she added, “Pray God ’tis not the Moor!”
“Ye asked for’t,” said the pirate, and returned to his original choice.
“Marry, there’s a good fellow!” she cried, pretending pleasure. “ ‘Sheart, what a stone-horse, girls!” To her neighbor she said in a stage whisper, “ ’Tis not the Moor by half, but Grantham gruel: nine grits and a gallon o’ water. Aie! Gramercy, sir! Gramercy!”
The other three were highly entertained.
“Your friend is yonder in the cabin,” Carl said to Ebenezer. “Hop to’t if ye’ve a mind for the ladies, for we shan’t tarry here much longer.”
“Indeed?” Ebenezer shifted uncomfortably; the women were regarding him with interest. “Perhaps I’d better see what mischief Bertrand is about.”
“Ah, ‘sbood, he doth not care for us,” one of the women said. “He likes his friend better.” The rest took up the tease, even the one being wooed, and Ebenezer beat a hasty retreat.
“I cannot fathom it,” he said to himself.
Though he had dismissed entirely the notion of stowing away aboard the Cyprian and had little or no interest in his valet’s present activities, he borrowed courage enough from those two motives to board the brigantine, having first walked aft to escape the women’s remarks. He could not deny, however, his intention to stroll back in their direction from the vantage point of the Cyprian’s deck, at least out of curiosity. He climbed to the rail and grasped the brigantine’s mizzen shrouds to pull himself over. When by chance he happened to look aloft, the moonlight showed him a surprising sight: high in the mizzen-rigging the Moor’s first conquest still hung, forgotten by all; her arms and legs stuck through as though in stocks. One could not judge her condition from below: perhaps she maintained her perch out of fear, hoping to escape further assault: or it could be she was a-swoon—her position would keep her from falling. Neither was it impossible that she was dead, from the bite of her great black spider. Assuring himself that only his curiosity wanted satis
fying, but in a high state of excitement nonetheless, Ebenezer swung his feet not to the deck of the Cyprian but onto the first of the mizzen ratlines, and methodically, in the manner of Boabdil, climbed skyward to the dangling girl…