The Sot-Weed Factor

by John Barth

  “I recall that name,” Ebenezer said. “He was the spiritual father of John Coode!”

  “As sure as Satan was of Martin Luther,” agreed the priest. “Father FitzMaurice saw how scanty were George Calvert’s provisions, and so put by a large stock for himself; regardless of the length of the expedition, he planned to live some months among the wildest heathen he could find, and bring new souls to the Supremest Lord Proprietary of All.”

  “That is good,” Ebenezer said appreciatively. “That is well said.”

  The priest smiled acknowledgment. “He packed one sea-chest full of bread, cheese, dried unripe corn, beans, and flour; in a second he packed three bottles of communion wine and fifteen of holy water for baptisms; a third carried the sacred vessels and a marble slab to serve for an altar; and a fourth was fitted with rosaries, crucifixes, medallions, and sundry gewgaws and brummagem oddments for appeasement and persuasion of the heathen. The whole was loaded in the pinnace Dove, and on the fourth of September they set sail to southwards. Howbeit, ere the afternoon was done the pinnace came about and headed up the Chesapeake instead. When Father FitzMaurice enquired the reason for’t, he was told they were simply tacking to windward, and inasmuch as he knew naught of the ways of ships, he had perforce to say no more.

  “At sunset they made anchorage in the lee of a large island, which the Piscataway guide called Monoponson, but George Calvert called Kent Island. Father FitzMaurice went ashore in the first boat and was chagrined once more, for ’twas settled and planted from shore to shore and abounded with white men, who were heretic and inhospitable enough, but in no wise heathens. Then fancy his disgust when Calvert gave out to the company that this was in fact their destination, and that his real mission was to negotiate Lord Baltimore’s disputes with Captain Claiborne!

  “Yet when he voiced his pique to Father White, that good man recommended acquiescence. ‘We must make a virtue of necessity,’ is what he counseled. ‘If Claiborne trades with salvages, ’tis logically antecedent there are Indians on this island. Who then can say but what our paths were guided hither for the improvement of these same salvages, and the furtherance of the One True Faith? Were’t not in fact impiety, a denial of God’s direction, not to remain here and reap our bounty among the heathen?’ ”

  “There is a pretty piece of casuistry,” Burlingame remarked.

  “ ’Twas reasoned closely enough,” the priest agreed, “but Father FitzMaurice would have none of’t, nor would he rest content ere he found himself amid truly salvage Indians. Such heathen as remained upon the island, said he, were already half converted by the Virginians, though like as not to some rank heresy or other; the true worth of the missionary could be assayed only among the pure and untouched heathen that had ne’er set eyes on white men.

  “Father White spoke farther, but to no avail, so incensed was Father FitzMaurice; they retired at length with some of the ship’s company, the rest being engaged in carousal ashore. Next day no trace of Father FitzMaurice was to be found, nor of his four small chests, nor of the small boat that had been tethered beside the Dove. One message alone he left, by Father White’s breviary: Si pereo, pereo, A.M.D.G. He ne’er was seen again, and in time the Society gave him up for dead and struck his name from the records. No wight e’er learned whither he rowed, or what his fate was, until I commenced my researches some fifteen years ago: ’twas my good fortune then to converse with one Tacomon, an ancient salvage that once was king of a town at Castlehaven Point, just o’er the Choptank from here, and from him I heard a tale whose hero could be none but Father FitzMaurice…

  “As best I understand it, Father FitzMaurice rowed from Kent past Tilghman’s Island and eastward into the mouth of the Choptank, and headed shorewards when he saw the salvage town. Inasmuch as he faced his vessel’s stern while rowing, the Indians had long since descried him and knew him for a white man, and King Tacomon with sundry of his Wisoes went down to greet him on the beach.

  “When the stranger stepped ashore, they observed that he wore a strange black gown, and that the image of a bird was painted on his boat. ’Tis these two details I pounced on when I heard them, for the Dove’s boat carried such an emblem on its stern, and Father FitzMaurice ne’er removed his cassock save to sleep. Moreover, he had four wooden chests aboard the boat, and when he came ashore he fell to his knees in prayer—no doubt to Maria Stella Maris, to thank her for his safe deliverance. The salvages showed great interest in all this, and greater still when Father FitzMaurice gave them baubles from his chest. Tacomon sent a man straightway into the town, who soon fetched down a goodly load of furs and all the other salvage folk as well.

  “Father FitzMaurice was delighted, I feel certain, at the numbers of the heathen that he would quite reasonably assume had ne’er seen a Christian man before. Picture him handing ’round trinkets with his left hand and blessing their recipients with his right, and all the while, so Tacomon remembered, babbling in a tongue no man among them kenned. They loaded furs into his boat until at length he saw they took him for a trader, whereupon he gave each one a crucifix and doubtless tried to explain, by signs, the Passion of Our Savior.

  “Anon this Tacomon, when he had scrutinized the crucifix, gave commands to one of his Wisoes, at the same time pointing to the cross. The man ran once more to the town and came back with a small wooden box, at sight of which all the salvages fell prostrate on the beach. Would not Father FitzMaurice guess the box contained some pagan relic sacred to the tribe? I see him rehearsing in his mind the pretty ceremony of casting their idol to the ground, as did Moses on descending from Mount Sinai, and wondering how much holy water ’twould want to baptize the lot.

  “But alas for him, his trials were not yet done; the fact of the matter was, his virgin town had been deflowered years before by some trader passing through—and what was worse, by an arrant heretic Virginian! Tacomon fetched no Golden Calf from the box, but a leathern Bible, which was fronted with a woodcut of the Crucifixion. Just opposite (for I saw the book myself) the dedication ran: To the Most High and Mighty Prince James… that the Church of England shall reap good fruit thereby… ! The King held the book aloft for all to see, whereon with one accord the assembled Indians sang by rote the Anglican Te Deum:

  We praise thee, O God, we knowledge thee to be Lord.

  All the earth doth worship thee, the father everlasting…

  The poor father must have come near swooning; in any case he snatched two or three crucifixes from Tacomon and his cawcawaassoughs, leaped into his boat, and did not pause to cross himself till he was out of arrowshot. As for the Indians, when they saw him shake his fist at them they took it for a fare-thee-well, which they returned with a reprise of their hymn.”

  “Luckless wretch!” laughed Ebenezer, and even Burlingame could not but smile and remark that the way of the saint is hard.

  “When I had learnt this much of his misfortunes,” said the priest, “I could not rest till I discovered his end. I made enquiries up and down the Province, but especially in lower Dorchester County, for I guessed that when his first try failed he would row farther south in search of heathen. For a long time my efforts bore no fruit. Then not many years past an Indian was brought to trial in Cambridge court on charges of killing an entire family of white folk, and, happening to have some business in the area, I took it upon myself to shrive the poor man of his sins. He would none of my services and was hanged anon, but in our bootless colloquy I learned, as’t were by accident, the fate of Father Fitz-Maurice.

  “The name of the salvage was Charley Mattassin. He was from a warlike band of Nanticokes that in time long past had crossed into the marshes of Dorchester and are said to live there yet in fierce seclusion. This Charley was in fact the Tayac’s son, and for all he had run off with an English whore, that later was among the souls he murthered, he bore surpassing hatred for the English, which sentiment he owned was learnt from his father the Tayac. He contemned me in especial, when I went to him with holy water and crucifix to bap
tize and shrive him: he spat upon my cassock and declared his people had once burned a man like me upon a cross! I then enquired, Did he mean an Englishman? For I had heard of no such deed. And he replied, in essence, ’twas not merely an Englishman but a black-robed priest with crucifix and breviary, such as I, who with all his magic water could not cool the fire that burnt him. And what was yet more curious, this priest was Charley’s own grandfather, so he declared, and was burnt by Charley’s father.”

  “Out on’t, this is incredible!” Ebenezer cried.

  The priest agreed. “When I had heard it I put by my holy errand and implored him to tell me more. I shall answer for the Indian’s soul to God, but i’faith, a good tale’s worth a guilty conscience, is’t not? Moreover, I can but think God sent me thither to hear’t, for when ’twas done I knew the full and tragic tale of Father FitzMaurice…

  “When that sainted wight left Castlehaven, who knows how long he drifted south, or how many were his vain sallies ashore? What force save miracle could keep his craft afloat for hours and days in the lusty Chesapeake, and wash him at last to the wild rogue Nanticokes? As Charley told me, that had the tale by rote from the Tayac his father, some threescore autumns past a fearsome hurricane swept the marsh and washed a strange boat into the Indian town. In the boat, swooned dead away, was a black-frocked Englishman, haply the first they had laid eyes upon, and sundry brass-bound chests.”

  “Then in sooth ’twas no man else than Father FitzMaurice!”

  “So said my heart on hearing it,” replied the priest, “yet ’twas so wondrous a coincidence I scarce durst believe it. Howbeit, my informant’s next words cleared all doubt: there was an old belief among his tribe, he said, that white-skinned men are treacherous as water-vipers, and should be massacred on sight. Yet so unusual was the aspect of this visitor, and so strangely was he brought into their midst, some feared he was an evil spirit bent on working mischief among them; and they feared this the more strongly inasmuch as his cassock looked like the black storm cloud, and on the transom of his boat was drawn the image of a bird!

  “Anon they overcame their fear, inasmuch as the man seemed helpless, and whilst he lay still a-swoon they fetched him to a lodge and tethered his ankles with rawhide thongs. Then they broke open his chests and decked themselves with beads and crucifixes. When the prisoner awoke he knelt for a while with lowered head and then addressed them in a tongue they knew naught of. While the elders of the town held council on what to do with him, the younger men gave him food and stood about to watch his antics, which they thought supremely funny. He caught sight of the crucifixes from his chest and for some hours repeated a ritual of gesticulation, which though not a single salvage understood, it so pleased ’em that they practiced the gestures in turn, and passed them on to succeeding generations. E’en Charley Mattassin could recall them, that had learnt them from his father, and for aught I know his tribe performs ’em yet down in the Dorset marshes. Here was the first, as ’twas shown to me—see what you make of’t.”

  Moving out from the table, Father Smith pointed to himself and then in quick succession plucked at his cassock, held up his crucifix, crossed himself, dropped to his knees in simulated prayer, jumped up, and stretched out his arms and raised his eyes in imitation of Christ on the cross.

  “Methinks he meant to show he was a priest,” said Burlingame.

  “Aye!” the Laureate agreed excitedly. “ ’Sheart, ’tis like a voice from the grave!”

  “Yet not by half so clever as this next,” the priest said.

  “How’s that? The salvages recalled e’en more?”

  Father Smith nodded proudly. “That first was mere identification, but this: ’tis no less than Christian doctrine, done in signs! First came this—” He held up three fingers, which Ebenezer correctly interpreted as symbolizing the Holy Trinity.

  “Then this—” After indicating the first of three, the priest stood on tiptoe and pointed skywards with his right hand, grasping with his left the area of his genitalia.

  “Dear me!” laughed Burlingame. “I fear ’tis the Father in Heav’n!”

  “No less,” beamed the priest. He then raised his index finger beside the forefinger and, in succession, rocked an invisible child in his arms and displayed the crucifix, unequivocally representing the Son. Raising next his ring finger beside the other two, he lay for a moment prostrate on the ground with closed eyes and then, fixing his gaze on the ceiling, rose slowly to his feet, meanwhile flapping his arms like wings to suggest the Ascension and thus the Holy Ghost.

  “Marvelous!” the poet applauded.

  “Was’t past his powers to do the Virgin Birth?” Burlingame inquired.

  Father Smith was not at all ruffled. “Faith moveth mountains,” he declared. “How can we doubt his prowess in any article of doctrine, when such a subtle mystery as the Unity of the Trinity he dispenses with so lucidly as this?” Holding forth the same three fingers as before, he alternately spread and closed them.

  “Bravo!”

  “Of course,” he said, “ ’twas an entire waste of wit, for not a heathen in the house knew what he meant. Methinks they must have rolled about in mirth, and when the poor priest wearied they would prod him with a stick to set him pantomiming farther.”

  “Surely your informant could not tell you such details,” Burlingame said skeptically. “All these things took place before his birth.”

  “He could not, nor did he need to,” Smith replied. “All salvages are much alike, be they Indian, Turk, or unredeemed English, and I know the ways of salvages. For this reason I shall speak henceforth from the martyr’s point of view, as’t were, adding what I can surmise to the things Charley Mattassin told me. ’Twill make a better tale than otherwise, and do no violence to what scanty facts we have.”

  He returned to the table and poured a fourth round of Jerez.

  “Let us say the young men mock him for some hours, aping his gestures and tormenting him with sticks. They become quite curious about the color of his skin: one grasps the priest’s hand in his own, chattering to his companions as he compares the hue; another slaps the flesh of his stomach and points to Father FitzMaurice’s cassock, wondering whether the stranger hath the same outlandish color from head to foot. The rest deride this notion, to the great indignation of the curious one; he lifts up his muskrat loincloth and voices a second conjecture, so fantastical to his brothers that their eyes brim o’er with glee. They fall to wagering—four, five strings of wompompeag—and at length deprive Father FitzMaurice of his weathered clothes, for proof. Ecce homo! There he stands, all miserable and a-shiver; his belly is as white as the belly of a rockfish, and though his parts have lain as idle as a Book of Common Prayer in the Vatican, he boasts in sooth a full set nonetheless. The challenger stalks off with his winnings, and the young Tayac, who is not above thirty years of age, gives commands to end the sport.”

  “Ah, now, prithee, wait a moment!” Burlingame protested “This is made up from the whole cloth!”

  “Say, from the Holy Cloth,” rejoined the imperturbable Smith, widening his blue eyes at the jest.

  “I for one prefer’t thus,” Ebenezer declared impatiently to his friend. “Let him flesh his bony facts into a tale.”

  Burlingame shrugged and turned back to the fire.

  “The women then bring forth the evening meal,” the priest went on. “To Father FitzMaurice, cowering naked on his grass mat in the corner, it seems interminable, but anon ’tis done; the women remain, tobacco is passed round, and a general carouse ensues. The priest looks on, abashed but curious, for albeit he is a Jesuit, he is a man as well, and plans moreover to write a treatise on the practices of the salvage if his life is spared. His presence is for the nonce ignored, and as they disport in their error he wrings his wits to hit upon a means of speaking with them, so to initiate the business of conversion.

  “The hour arrives when the young Tayac addresses certain words to all the group, sundry of whom turn round to regard the priest.
Two hoary, painted elders leave the hut to fetch back a carven pole, some ten feet long, that bears a skunk pelt at the bottom and a crudely mounted muskrat on the top. All present genuflect before it, and its bearers hold it forth toward Father FitzMaurice. The Tayac points his finger at the muskrat and speaks certain gibberish, whose imperious tone hath need of no translation: ’tis a call for similar obsequies from the priest.

  “Father FitzMaurice deems the moment opportune. His nakedness forgot, he springs to his feet and shakes his head to signify refusal. Then he once more holds aloft his crucifix, nods his head in vigorous affirmation, and makes a motion as though to fling the idol down. The Tayac now grows wroth; he repeats the same command in louder tones, and the other folk are still. But Father FitzMaurice stands firm: he raises a finger to indicate that the figure on the crucifix is the true and only God, and goes so far as to spit upon the sacred staff. At once the Tayac strikes him down; the idol-bearers place the butt of their pole upon the back of his neck to pin him fast to the dirt, and the Tayac pronounces a solemn incantation, whereto the others shout assent.”