The Sot-Weed Factor

by John Barth

  The priest gave it to him eagerly, whereupon, without hesitation, Burlingame struck him such a blow upon the back of his neck that he fell senseless to the floor.

  “I had not thought him such a fool. Find rope to bind him with, Eben, and we shall see what have we here ere we retire.”

  25

  Further Passages from Captain John Smith’s Secret Historie of the Voiage Up the Bay of Chesapeake: Dorchester Discovered, and How the Captain First Set Foot Upon It

  “COME, BIND HIM UP,” Burlingame repeated, spreading the Journal open on the table. “Already he hath commenced to stir.” But seeing that Ebenezer was still too disorganized to act, he fetched some rope himself and bound the priest’s hands and feet. “At least help me lift him into a chair!”

  Reviving, Father Smith winced and blinked, and then stared sullenly at the Journal. He found his voice before the poet did.

  “Who are you, then—John Coode?”

  Burlingame laughed. “Only Tim Mitchell, as I said at the outset, and a loyal friend of Baltimore, if not King Louis and the Pope. Thou’rt a stiff neck poorer for your lack of faith, my friend.” To Ebenezer, whose turbulent features betrayed his lingering doubts, he explained further that rumors had been rife in Maryland since 1692 of the legendary Monsieur Casteene’s presence near the Pennsylvania border. Colonel Augustine Hermann of Bohemia Manor in Cecil County had denied the presence of both Casteene and the so-called Stabbernowles, or “Naked Indians” of the north, but so great was the fear of general massacre at the hands of the French and the Indians—especially in the light of Maryland and Virginia’s persistent refusal to aid the beleaguered Governor Fletcher of New York and the mutual distrust among all the provincial governments—that the rumors still persisted, and the most bizarre details of the Casteene legend, such as that of the scarified monogram on his chest, were widely believed. “I scratched those letters with my dirk this evening in Oxford,” he concluded, displaying them again in the candlelight. “See how fresh they are? ’Twas a card I’d not have played in the light of day!”

  Ebenezer sat weakly in a chair. “B’m’faith, how you alarmed me! I know you not from one hour to the next!”

  “Nor should you try. Pour out a round of this admirable wine and reflect on what I told you at the inn some hours ago.” He clapped the priest on the shoulder. “ ’Tis an ungrateful guest that binds his host to a chair for the night, but there’s naught for’t. Besides, ’tis for that cause wherefore you’d die, and not by half so sore a martyrdom as gelding—n’est-ce pas?” He laughed at the priest’s expression of disgust, and when the wine was poured, the guests commenced to read together the verso (which was in fact the original recto) of their prize:

  Having receiv’d such cordiall use [so this fragment of the Historie began] at the hand of those Salvages at Accomack & those at the River of Wighcocomoco, we set out againe for the maine…

  “That is the town of Hicktopeake he refers to,” Ebenezer volunteered, though in truth he was entertaining such a mixture of feelings towards his former tutor that he spoke only out of a sort of shyness. “The Laughing King of whom I told you. The other Indians I know naught of.”

  “There are two rivers called Wicomico in Maryland,” Burlingame said thoughtfully. “One near St. Mary’s County on the Western Shore and one below Dorchester County. Methinks ’tis the later he intends, if he coasted up the Bay from Accomac.”

  …but for want of fresh water, in two daies had perforce to seeke out land, that we might replenishe our supplie. We found some Isles, all uninhabited & many in number, falling with a high land upon the maine.

  “Haply ’twas the Calvert cliffs he chanced on,” Ebenezer suggested, recalling his Island of the Seven Cities. “Let’s read on.”

  Upon waving and going ashoar, we chanc’d on a pond of fresh water, but wch was surpassing warme. Howbeit, we were so verie thirstie, that maugre my counsell to the contrarie, to witt, that the water was doubtlesse fowle, naught wd doe but my companie must fille there barricoes withal, & drinke therefrom, till that there verie gutts did slushe about. This they learn’d to regrett, but of that, more anon.

  From Wighcocomoco to this place, all the coast is but low broken Isles of Moras, a myle or two in breadth, & tenne or twelve in length, & foule and stinking by reason of the stagnant waters therein. Add to wch, the aire is beclowded with vile meskitoes, that sucke at a mans bloud, as though they had never eate before. It is forsooth no countrie, for any save the Salvage…

  “That picture doth apply to one place only,” laughed Burlingame, who had read the passage aloud. “Do you know it, Father?”

  And the priest, his historical curiosity aroused despite his circumstances, nodded stiffly: “The Dorset marches.”

  “Aye,” Burlingame confirmed. “The Hooper Islands, Bloodsworth Island, and South Marsh. There is a morsel for your epic, Ebenezer: the first white man to set foot on Dorset County.”

  Ebenezer made perfunctory acknowledgment, but pointed out that as yet the Captain had not gone ashore and perhaps would pass the county by. He showed less petulance in his reply to the priest, who professed great interest in the document and chagrin at having been thitherto unaware of its existence, and for his sake read the remainder of it aloud.

  “Being thus refresh’d, despite my warnings, in moving over to other Isles, we incounter’d the winde & waters so much increas’d with thunder, lightning, & raine, that for all my souldiers & my selfe reef’d & belay’d the sayles & lines, our mast & sayle went by the board. Such mightie waves overrack’d us in that smalle barge, that with great persuasions I induc’d our Gentlemen to occupie them selves with freeing out the water, in their halts, for that else we had fownder’d & sunke. We anchor’d, being not neare any place that promis’d safe harbour, and there we sat a miserable two daies, while the gusts did blowe, with little to nourish our selves withal, save the vile water in the barricoes.

  “This same water, the wch my men had taken against my warning, prov’d to be foule indeed, for that upon slaking therewith there thirst, all the companie did growe wondrous grip’d of there bowells, and loose of there bladders, & took a weakness of there reins, so that they still had need of making water, & of voiding their severall bummes. Little my men did all the day long, & the night, while that we rode thus at anchor, but besmirch them selves. At length, the wether being warm, if squallie, I did order one & all to divest them selves of there breeches, the wch were beshitt past rescue, and cast them to the fishes. This they all did, but with much compleynt, most markedlie from my rivall Burlingame, who looses no opening to sowe the seedes of discontent & faction.”

  “Thank Heav’n he is still among the party!” Burlingame exclaimed. “I feared old John had done him in after Accomac.”

  “ ’Tis no light matter to choose betwixt the two,” Ebenezer remarked. “Captain Smith is undeniably resourceful, and no leader can indulge factiousness save at his peril.”

  “True enough for you,” Burlingame replied curtly. “He’s not your ancestor. For me there is no problem in the choice.”

  “We’ve no certain knowledge he is your ancestor, either,” the poet said. “When all’s said and done, ’tis a marvelous slender chance, is’t not?”

  This observation so plainly injured Burlingame that Ebenezer at once regretted making it, and apologized.

  “No matter.” Burlingame waved him away. “Read on.”

  “Being left then, with there bummes expos’d, I did command, that they set them selves over the gunwales, inasmuch as the Bay of Chesapeake was of greate size, and cd accommodate them better then our barge. Yet this new command did little ease our plight, for that albeit they dropp’d there matter to the fishes, the aire round about was no lesse foul’d by there joynt labours. Naught cd our Dr of Physick do to improve them, and I did wish heartilie to be on shoar, where with the sapp of the sweet-gumme tree & sundrie other herbes, wch grewe a-plentie in the woods thereabouts, I cd have brew’d a decoction, that had bound the lot of them
costive for a fortnight. Forsooth, things did worsen yet, for that the sillie men wd not restrayne there thirst, but still return’d and drank farther of the water, whereon there fluxes & gripes did intensifie apace. Onely two of our number shew’d no sign of the maladie, namelie my selfe, that had not deign’d to drinke of the barricoes, but had instead made my selfe to chewe upon raw fishes, and friend Burlingame, that had drunke enough for three, but that must needs have had a grand hold on his reins, for that he never did besmirch him selfe throughout those foule two daies.

  “When the storme at length overblewe us, and the wether again shew’d faire, I did with all haste order, that the sayle be repair’d, and this the companie did with right good will, using of there shirts for clouts. They were most readie to abandon the maine, and sayle for some shoar, albeit they were now naked as Father Adam, so as to put food & cleanlie water into there bellies, and pass off there fluxes at last. For the extremitie of gusts, thunder, rayne, storms, & ill wether, we did call those Straites, wherein we had for so long layn, Limbo, but I think, with all the farting and ill businesse that did pass there, we had better call’d them Purgatorio.

  “After a surpassing clumsie daye of sayling, making smalle headway, for the crewe must continuallie hang there bummies abeame, we fell with a prettie convenient river on the East, called Cuskarawaok…”

  “That is a word from the Nanticoke tongue,” Father Smith interrupted. “In old times it was applied to that same river we call the Nanticoke today.”

  “I’faith, then!” Burlingame laughed. “ ’Tis precious little ground he gained for all those evil days!” He explained to Ebenezer that the Nanticoke River, which marks the boundary between Dorchester and Somerset Counties, empties into Tangier Sound conjointly with the Wicomico, from where, the record seemed to imply, Smith had departed several days previously.

  “All that made the day attractive to me [Ebenezer read on], for it were otherwise malodourous enow, was, that Burlingames bowells did seem to commence troubling him, for that he did still wander hither to yon in the barge, his face shewing ever more discomfort, and crost & recrost his leggs, and his want of composure was a tastie thing to watch. When that he shd finallie let flie, I guess’d it wd prove a spectacle in sooth, by reason of his greate corpulencie, and the lengthie space he had held fast his reins…”

  “Cruel man,” said Burlingame, “to savor so the wretch’s plight! And thou’rt reading with the same ungentle relish, Eben!”

  “Beg pardon.” Ebenezer smiled. “ ’Tis that the wonder of’t stirs my interest as I read. I fancy he is about to land on Dorset.”

  And in a tone somewhat less partial he continued:

  “We made straightwaye for shoar, but cd by no means land, seeing a great bodie of Salvages appear from the woods, making everie signe of hostilitie. Whenas they sawe what manner of men we were, not having seen the like before, they ran as amaz’d from place to place, divers got into the tops of trees, and they were not sparing of there arrowes, nor the greatest passion they cd expresse of there anger. Long they shot, we still ryding at Anchor without there reatch making all the signes of friendship we cd. But this was a hard matter, inasmuch as for everie cheerie wave of the band I signall’d them, some souldier or Gentlemen in my companie must needs let goe a fart, wch the Salvages did take as an affront, and threwe more arrowes.

  “Next day they return’d, all unarm’d, and with everie one a basket, and danc’d in a ring, to drawe us on shoar: but seeing there was naught in them save villainie, we discharg’d a volley of muskets charg’d with pistoll shot, whereat they all lay tumbling on the grownd, creeping some one way, some another, into a greate cluster of reedes hard by, where there companies lay in Ambuscado. We waited, and it seeming they had left the place, we way’d & approach’d the shoar, for that all were eager to quitt for a time our barge. My thought was, to land as quietlie as possible, catch what food & fresh water we might, & then to flie to some more cordiall place. For that reason I did command, that whereas none among my crewe cd leave off his bumme-shotts, the wch wd surelie give notice of our coming, then everie man, that felt the need on him, must thrust his buttockes by the board, so far as to the water, and thus immers’d, do what he wd. But the first to attempt this, one Anas Todkill a souldier, had no sooner wet his hammes, then he was stung athwart the tayle by a greate Sea-Nettle, a sort of white jellie-fish wch doth occur in number in these waters, raysing upon his buttockes a red welt, and causing him payne. Whereafter, it was onely by dint of much intreatie, that I got any other man to do the same. As for Burlingame, the imminence of his coming defecation shew’d over all his face, and he durst not even speake, lest he expload; but the business of the Sea-Nettle did give him such a fright, he wrestl’d with him selfe, to hold on but a minute more, when that we shd be ashoar.

  “The prowe of our barge striking land (the wch was but reedes & mudd), I flung our anchor as far inland as I cd, and we did make readie to disembark. As was my wont, I stepp’d up on the spritt, and wd have leapt ashoar, for that I still reserve the privilege of stepping first on everie new-found grownd, and this place was to be no exception. But Burlingame, in his passion to get off the vessell, to the end of jettisoning his filthie cargoe, did rudelie push me aside, for all I was his Captain and erst his Saviour, and assum’d the place ahead. I was on the instant wroth, at his impertinencie, and wd have layd hands on him, but that at the same moment a troup of Salvages leapt from some scrubbie growth near by, and snatch’d up the anchor pendant, purposing thereby to pull us high & drie, and capture us & our vessell as well. With this turn of affaires, I was content that Burlingame shd remayne in the van, to afford the rest of us the protection of his fatt carcase.”

  “Ah God,” murmured Burlingame, “I fear my ancestor is in a pickle!”

  “The proper strategie [Ebenezer continued] was to fyre a charge of shot at the heathens to drive them loose, but they were nigh upon us, and I confess we had not a musket loaded, for that I had thought the shoar vacated of Salvages. Then I might well have cut the pendant, and so rid us of them, but I was loath to sacrifice our anchor, that had serv’d us well in the storme just past, and wch we shd doubtlesse need againe. Besides wch, the Salvages had appear’d on such a sudden, I scarce had time to think aright. In fine, I did not choose either of these courses, but snatch’d our end of the pendant, and handing it back among the crewe, we pull’d in a line against the Salvages, to regayne our anchor & our libertie. The Salvages, luckilie, were unarm’d, hoping to have us ashoar without difficultie, and thus we were not expos’d to there arrowes. Burlingame was too possess’d by feare to aid us, but stood all witlesse on the bow, and cd nowise step back into the vessell, for that all of us were crowded behind, heaving on the rope.

  “The tugg-o’-war that then insued had been a sporting match, wch methinks we had won, were it that naught had interfear’d with the murtherous game. But the Salvages giving out with terrible whoops & hollowings, did so smite with fear this Burlingame, that at last he forewent entire the hold of his reins, and standing yet in our prowe like unto an uglie figure-head, he did let flie the treasure he had been those daies a-hoarding. It was my ill fortune to be hard behind him, and moreover, crowch’d down beneath his mightie bumme, so as to better brace my feet for pulling, and looking up at that instant of time, to see whether Burlingame was yet with us, I was in a trice beshitt, so much so, that I cd by no meanes see out of my eyes, or speake out of my mowth. Then the Salvages gave a great pull on the pendant, and the deck all bemir’d, I did loose the purchase of my feet, and sayling betwixt Burlingames legs, did end face downe in the mud of the shoar. This same Burlingame thus knock’d from off his ballance, he fell after, and sat him square upon my head.

  “Directlie I freed my mowth of turd & mud, I hollow’d for my souldiers to load & fyre upon the Salvages, but those same Salvages did leap straightway upon me, and upon Burlingame as well, and imploying us to sheeld them & as hostages, demanded by signes the surrender of the companie. I order’d th
em to shoot & be damn’d, but they were loath to fyre, for feare of hitting me, and so we did surrender our selves up to the Salvage, and were led prisoner to his town.

  “Thus was it, in a manner not my wont, I first touched the shoar of this scurvie place, whereof an ampler relation doth follow…”

  The final passages Ebenezer could scarcely read for laughing; even the captive priest could not restrain his mirth. For a moment Burlingame seemed not to realize that the recitation was done, but then he sat up quickly.

  “Is that the end?”

  “ ’Tis the end of this portion,” Ebenezer sighed, wiping his eyes. “I’faith, such intrepidity! And by what a marvelous means my county was discovered!”

  “But God in Heav’n,” cried Burlingame, “this is no stopping-place!” He snatched up the Journal to look for himself. “That wretched, hapless man—how I suffer for him! And I tell you, Eben; though I do not share his form, with every new episode I feel more certain Sir Henry is my forefather. I felt it when first I learnt of him from those ladies that I saved, and more so when I read his Privie Journall. How much more now, then, that we have him in Dorchester! He is halfway up the Chesapeake, is he not? And ’twas there that Captain Salmon fished me out!”

  “It is a curious proximity, forsooth,” Ebenezer allowed, “but nearly fifty years divide the two events, if I guess aright. And since we know John Smith returned anon to Jamestown, we’ve no proof Sir Henry was marooned behind.”

  “You’d as well prove to this Jesuit that St. Joseph was a cuckold,” Burlingame laughed. “I am as sure of my progenitor as he is of Christ’s, though the exact line of descent we’ve yet to learn. ’Sheart, I’d give an arm to hear the finish of that tale!”