The Sot-Weed Factor

by John Barth

  “Unhappy wretch!” sighed Ebenezer. “I fear his martyrdom is at hand.”

  “Not yet,” the priest declared. “Now the hut is cleared at once, and Father FitzMaurice is left trembling in the dirt. Anon a dozen salvage maidens enter, all bedaubed with puccoon paint; they spread their mats about the floor and to all appearances make ready for the night…”

  “ ’Tis no mystery what will ensue,” Burlingame remarked, “if these Nanticokes are like some other Indians.”

  But Ebenezer, who knew nothing of such matters, implored Father Smith to go on with the tale.

  “Father FitzMaurice is abashed tenfold at the presence of the maidens,” said the priest, “more especially as he seems the subject of a colloquy among them, carried on in mirthful whispers. He makes a mental note, for his treatise, that salvage maids all share a common chamber, and.rejoices when at last the fire burns out and he can clothe his shame with darkness.

  “But his solitude doth not live long: he hath told not more than three Ave Marias ere an Indian wench, perfumed with grease of bear and covered no more than an Adamite, flings herself upon him and bites him in the neck!”

  “I’God!” cried Ebenezer.

  “The good man struggles, but the maid hath strength, and besides, his foot is tethered. She lays hands upon the candle of the Carnal Mass, and mirabile, the more she trims it, the greater doth it wax! Father FitzMaurice scarce can conjure up his Latin, yet so bent is he on making at least one convert ere he dies, he stammers out a blessing. For reply the heathen licks his ear, whereupon Father FitzMaurice sets to saying Paternosters with all haste, more concerned now with the preservation of his own grace than the institution of his ward’s. But no sooner is he thus engaged than zut! she caps his candle with the snuffer priests must shun, that so far from putting out the fire, only fuels it to a greater heat and brilliance. In sum, where he hath hoped to win a convert, ’tis Father FitzMaurice finds himself converted, in less time than it wants to write a syllogism—and baptized, catechized, received, and given orders into the bargain!”

  Burlingame smiled at the Laureate’s absorption in the tale. “Doth that strike you closely, Eben?”

  “Barbarous!” the poet said with feeling. “To fall so from his vows by no fault of his own! What misery must his noble soul have suffered!”

  “Nay, sir,” Father Smith declared, “you forget he is the stuff of saints, and a Jesuit as well.”

  Ebenezer protested that he did not understand.

  “He explores the pros and contras of his case,” the priest explained, “and adduces four good arguments to ease his suffering conscience. To begin with, ’tis e’er the wont of prudent missionaries to wink their eyes, at the outset, at any curious customs of the folk they would convert. In the second place, he is promoting the rapport ’twixt him and the heathen that must be established ere conversion can commence. Third, ’tis to his ultimate good he sins, as is shown past cavil by holy precedent: had not the illustrious Augustine, for example, essayed the manifold refinements of the flesh, the better to know and appreciate virtue? And finally, lest these have an air of casuistry, he is tethered and pinioned from head to foot and hath therefore no choice or culpability in the matter. In fine, so far from wailing o’er his plight, he comes to see in it the hand of Providence and joins in the labor with a will. If his harvest be commensurate to his tilling of the ground, so he reflects, he might well be raised to a bishoprie by Rome!

  “When anon the maid is ploughed and harrowed, Father FitzMaurice finds her place taken by another, whom he loses no chance to prime like the first for her conversion. Ere dawn, with the help of God, he hath persuaded every woman in the hut of the clear superiority of the Faith, and inasmuch as there were in all some half-score visitants, when the last is catechized he falls exhausted into sleep.

  “Not long after, he awakes in high spirits: such strides hath he made toward conversion of the women, he feels sure of making progress with the men. Nor do his hopes seem groundless, for anon the Tayac and his cawcawaassoughs appear and order the women from the hut, after which they cut the tether from his foot. ‘Bless you, my friends,’ he cries. ‘You have seen the true and only Way!’ And he forgives them for his cruel use at their hands. They fetch him up and lead him from the hut, and he is overwhelmed with joy at what he sees: the hurricane is gone, and through its last dark clouds the sun falls on a large wooden cross, erected in the courtyard of the town, and on the priest’s four precious sea-chests at its foot. The Tayac points first to Father FitzMaurice’s crucifix and then to the larger cross.

  “ ‘This is God’s work,’ declares the missionary. ‘He hath shewed to thee thine error, and in thy simple fashion thou dost Him homage!’ He is moved to kneel in grateful prayer to God, whom he thanks both for working His divine will on the minds of the heathen men and for vouchsafing to His lowly priest the wherewithal to work His will upon their unmarried women. Then alas, his prayers are cut short by two strong men, who grasp his arms and lead him to the cross. Father FitzMaurice smiles indulgently on their roughness, but in a trice they bind him fast to the cross by his ankles, arms, and neck, and then pile faggots on the sea-chests at his feet. All in vain he cries for mercy to the gathering crowd. His novitiates of the night just past, when he addresses them, merely cluck their tongues and watch the scene with interest: ’tis the law of their land that when a man is doomed to die he may enjoy the tribe’s unmarried girls on the eve of his execution, and they have discharged their obligation!

  “Then comes this great soul’s noblest moment. The Tayac confronts him for the last time, in one hand the sacred musk-rat, in the other a flaming torch, and makes an ultimate demand for his obeisance. Yet though he sees his case is lost, Father FitzMaurice summons up his last reserves of courage and spits on the idol once again.”

  “ ’Tis a marvel he could summon any spit,” Burlingame observed.

  “At once a shout goes up, and the Tayac flings his torch upon the faggots! The salvages dance and shake their sacred pole at him—for in fact ’tis as a heretic they condemn him—and the flames leap up to singe his puccoon paint. The good man knows that our afflictions are God’s blessings in disguise, and so reasons that he was meant not for a missionary after all, but for a martyr. He lifts his eyes to Heaven, and with his final tortured breath he says, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do…’”

  Though he was not religiously inclined, so impressed was Ebenezer by the tale that he murmured “Amen.”

  “ ’Twould perhaps have made his death more easy, if no less warm, had Father FitzMaurice known that even as he roasted there were three white babes a-building in the wombs of his novitiates. Of these, one died a-bearing, another was exposed out in the marsh, and the third, when she was nubile, became the mother of my informant by the old Tayac himself. As for the Jesuit mission, when George Calvert returned at last to St. Mary’s City, his negotiations with Claiborne proving bootless, the remaining priests vowed not to report their colleague’s defection to Rome until they learned more of his whereabouts. To this end they reported, in the annual letter I read you, that both priests had returned with the expedition. After that time such various rumors were heard of him that they put off reporting his absence indefinitely. New priests came to the Province; God’s work went on less zealously but more steadily, and in time the name FitzMaurice was forgot.”

  He would have said more, but Burlingame interrupted him to ask, “And what is your opinion of him, Father? Was the man a fool or a saint?”

  The priest turned his wide blue eyes upon his questioner. “Those are not true alternatives, Mr. Mitchell: he was a fool of God, as hath been many a holy man before him, and the most that can be said is that his way was not the way of the Society. A dead missionary makes no converts, nor doth a live martyr.”

  “It is truly said,” Ebenezer declared: “There are more ways to the woods than one.”

  “Then permit me a nearer question,” Burlingame insisted. “Which way is the more c
ongenial to your temper?”

  Father Smith appeared to consider this question for some moments before replying. He tapped out his pipe and fingered the papers on the table. “Why do you ask?” he inquired at last, though his tone suggested that he knew the reason already. “ ’Tis not likely one could gauge his capacity for martyrdom ere the choice was thrust upon him.”

  To this Burlingame only smiled, but his meaning was unmistakable. Ebenezer blushed with horror.

  “The fact of the matter is,” the priest went on, “I scarcely dare deliver the Journal into your hands. The ways of Coode are infinitely devious, and your authorization is signed by Nicholson, not Lord Baltimore.”

  “So that is the stripe of’t!” Burlingame laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t trust Nicholson, that owes his post to Baltimore?”

  The priest shook his head. “Francis Nicholson is no man’s tool, my friend. Hath he not struck out already at Governor Andros, that erst was his superior? Doth he not intend to move the capital from St. Mary’s to Anne Arundel Town, for no better reason than to show his allegiance to the Protestant King?”

  “But dear God!” Burlingame cried. “ ’Twas Nicholson stole the Journal in the first place, and smuggled it to Baltimore!”

  “ ’Tis as I said before of Mister Cooke,” Father Smith explained. “All men are loyal, but their objects of allegiance are at best approximate. Thus Father FitzMaurice showed a loyal zeal for service in the Province, as did Fathers White and Altham, but once here, that same zeal led to his defection; no man knew till then ’twas some other goal he strove for. How shall I say it?” He smiled nervously.

  “Many travelers ride the Plymouth coach together,” Burlingame suggested, “but not all have Maryland for their destination.”

  “Our Laureate here could not have put it better! If I could see an authorization in Lord Baltimore’s hand, with his signature affixed, as I was instructed to demand, then I should deliver up the Journal to John Calvin himself, and there’s an end on’t.”

  Fearing the measures his friend might threaten, Ebenezer came near to imploring the priest to trust him personally, as Charles Calvert’s poet laureate, if he could not trust Nicholson or Burlingame; but he checked himself upon remembering again, with no little annoyance, that his commission was not authentic, and that even if it were, he could not produce it for inspection.

  A new expression came to Burlingame’s face: leaning over the table toward their host he drew from his belt a leather-handled, poignardlike knife, and in the candlelight ran his thumb across its edge.

  “I had thought the Governor’s note were sufficient persuasion,” he said, “but here is logic keen enough to sway the most adamant of Jesuits! Produce the Journal, an it please you!”

  Though he had anticipated some sort of threat, Ebenezer was so shaken by this move that he could not even gasp.

  Father Smith stared round-eyed at the knife and licked his lips. “I shan’t be the first to perish in the service of the Society.”

  Even to Ebenezer this remark sounded more experimental than defiant. Burlingame smiled. “ ’Twas a coward indeed that feared a clean stroke of the dirk! E’en Father FitzMaurice had a harder lot, to say naught of Catherine on her wheel or Lawrence on his griddle: what would it avail me to let you join their company? I’d be no nearer the Journal than I am.”

  “Then ’tis some torture you have in mind?” Father Smith murmured. “We Christians are no strangers there, either.”

  “Most especially the Holy Roman Church,” Burlingame said cynically, “that hath authored such delights as never Saracen could devise!” Not taking his eyes from the priest, he proceeded to describe, perhaps for Ebenezer’s benefit, various persuasions resorted to by the agents of the Inquisition: the strappado, the aselli, the escalera, the potro, the tablillas, the rack, the Iron Maiden, the hot brick, the Gehenna, and others. The Laureate was impressed enough by this recital, though it made him feel no easier about the business at hand. Father Smith sat stonily throughout.

  “Yet these are all refinements for the connoisseur,” Burlingame declared. “Who inflicts them savors his victim’s pain as an end, not as a means, and I’ve nor taste nor time for such a game.” Still thumbing the knife blade he left the table—whereat the priest gave a start despite himself—and bolted the cabin door. “I have observed among the Caribbean pirates that they may make a man eat his own two ears for sport, or fornicate his daughter with a short-sword; but when ’tis certain information that they seek, they have recourse to a simpler and wondrous quick expedient.” He advanced toward the table, knife in hand. “Since thou’rt a priest, the loss should cause you no regrets; what shall unbind your tongue, sir, is the manner of the losing. ’Tis a blow to lose a treasure in one fell stroke, but how harder to be robbed of’t jewel by jewel! Must I say more?”

  “ ’Sblood, Henry!” Ebenezer cried, jumping to his feet. “I cannot think you mean to do’t!”

  “Henry, is’t?” the priest said thickly. “Thou’rt impostors after all!”

  Burlingame frowned at Ebenezer. “I mean to do’t, and you shall aid me. Hold him fast till I find rope to bind him!”

  Although the priest showed no inclination to resist, Ebenezer could not bring himself to participate in the business. He stood about uncertainly.

  “Now that I know you for an agent of John Coode,” Father Smith declared, “I am prepared to suffer any pain. You shall not have the Journal from my hands.”

  When Burlingame growled and advanced another step, the priest snatched a letter-opener from under his papers and retreated to a farther wall, where, instead of assuming a posture of defense, he placed the point of his weapon against his heart. “Stand fast!” he cried, when Burlingame approached. “Another step and I will end my life!”

  Burlingame halted. “ ’Tis merely bluff.”

  “Hither, then, and give’t the lie!”

  “And do you believe your God excuses holy suicide?”

  “I know not what He excuses,” said the priest. “ ’Tis the Church I serve, and I know well they can justify my act.”

  After a pause Burlingame shrugged, smiled, and replaced the poignard in his belt. “Pourquoi est-ce que je tuerais un homme si loyal à la cause sainte?”

  The priest’s expression changed from defiance to incredulousness. “What did you say?”

  “J’ai dit, vous avez démontré votre fidélité, et aussi votre sagesse: je ne me confie pas à Nicholson plus que vous. Allans, le Journal!”

  This tactic mystified Ebenezer no less than Father Smith. “I cannot follow your French, Henry!” he complained. But instead of translating, Burlingame turned upon him with the poignard and backed him against the wall.

  “You will understand anon, fool!” Henry cried, and to the still-bewildered priest he ordered, “Fouillez cet homme pour les armes, et puts apportez le Journal!”

  “What hath possessed you?” the poet demanded. Coming on the heels of all his other doubts about Burlingame, this new turn of events was particularly discomforting.

  “Who are you?” asked the priest. “And what credentials can you show?”

  “Parlons une langue plus douce,” smiled Burlingame. “Je n’ai pas d’ordres écrits de Baltimore, et je n’en veux pas. Vous admettrez qu’il ne soil pas la source seule de l’autorité? Quant à mes lettres de créance, je les porte toujours sur ma personne.” He unbuttoned his shirt and displayed the letters MC carved into the skin of his chest. “Celles-ci ne sont peu connues à Thomas Smith?”

  “Monsieur Casteene!” exclaimed Father Smith. “Vous etês Monsieur Casteene?”

  “Ainsi que vous etês Jesuité,” Henry said, “et je peux faire plus que Baltimore ne rêve pour débarrasser ce lieu de protestants anglais. Vívent James et Louis, et apportez-moi le sacré Journal!”…

  “Oui, Monsieur, tout de suite! Si j’avais connu qui vous etês—”

  “Mes soupçons n’ont pas été plus petits que les vôtres, mais ils sont disparus. Cet épouvantail-ci p
araît être loyal à Baltimore, mais il n’est pas catholique: s’il fait de la peine, je le tuerai…”

  “Oui, Monsieur!” said the delighted priest. “Mais oui, j’apporterai le Journal tout de suite!” He ran to unlock an iron-bound chest in one corner of the cabin.

  “What in the name of Heav’n doth this mean?” cried Ebenezer, in an anguish of doubt.

  “What it means,” said his companion, “is that I am not this Henry you took me for, nor yet the Timothy Mitchell I am called. I am Monsieur Casteene!”

  “Who?”

  “Your fame hath not spread to London, sir,” the priest laughed from the corner. He fetched a sheaf of manuscript from the chest and turned scornfully to the Laureate. “Monsieur Casteene is known throughout the length and breadth of the provinces as the Grand Enemy of the English. He hath been Governor of Canada, and fought both Andros and Nicholson in New York.”

  “Until my enemies gained favor with King Louis and undid me,” the other said bitterly.

  “Monsieur Casteene then fled to the Indians,” Smith went on. “He lives among them, and hath taken to wife an Indian woman—”

  “Two Indian women, Father Smith: ’tis a sin God will forgive, in return for the massacre of Schenectady.”

  “I had heard you were on Colonel Hermann’s manor in Cecil County,” said the priest. “Is’t possible Colonel Hermann too is more than just Lord Baltimore’s man?”

  “With faith all things are possible; at least he denied my presence, and disclaimed any knowledge of the Naked Indians.”

  “Then thou’rt traitors, the pair of you!” cried Ebenezer. “Thou’rt a traitor,” he said specifically to his companion, “and I took you to be my dear friend Burlingame! How much doth this discrepancy explain!”

  The man with the knife laughed a brief, derisive laugh and held out his hand to Father Smith for the Journal. “Permettez-moi regarder ce livre merveilleux pour lequel j’ai risqué ma vie.”