The Sot-Weed Factor

by John Barth

  “Thus might others be instructed by my loss,” he reflected grimly. “But stay—” He remembered the details of his abuse at the hands of the Poseidon’s crew, the rape of the Cyprian, Burlingame’s pig, and other indelicate features of his adventure. “ ’Twill ne’er be printed.”

  For some moments he was bitterly discouraged, for this reflection implied a cruel paradox: the very wickedness of one’s afflictions can prevent one’s avenging them by public exposure. But he soon saw a means to circumvent that difficulty.

  “I shall make the piece a fiction! I’ll be a tradesman, say—nay, a factor that comes to Maryland on’s business, with every good opinion of the country, and is swindled of his goods and property. All my trials I’ll reconceive to suit the plot and alter just enough to pass the printer!”

  The sequence instantly unfolded in his imagination, and he made a quick prose outline lest it slip away. He could do no more just then; exhausted by the effort, he slept for several hours dreamlessly. However, when he reawakened, the vision was still clear in his mind and what was more, the Hudibrastic couplets wherewith he meant to render it began springing readily to hand. He could scarcely wait to launch into composition: as soon as he was strong enough he left his bed, but only because the writing desk in his chamber was more comfortable to work at; there he spent day after day, and week after week, setting down his long poem. So jealous was he of his time that he rebuffed the curiosity and occasional solicitude of Smith, Sowter, and the kitchen-women; he demanded—and, somewhat to his surprise, received—his meals at his desk, and never left his room except to take health-walks in the late October and November sun. All thoughts of suicide departed from him for the time, as did, on the other hand, all thoughts of regaining his lost estate. He was not disturbed or even curious about the absence of any word from Henry Burlingame. When, a week or ten days after his awakening from coma, his legal wife Susan Warren reappeared at Malden, he thanked her brusquely for her aid in nursing him back to health, but although he understood from the kitchen-women that at Mitchell’s and Smith’s direction she had become a prostitute exclusively for the Indians, he neither protested her activities or her return to Mitchell on the one hand, nor sought annulment of his marriage on the other.

  Malden itself was becoming every day more evidently a gambling house, tavern, brothel, and opium den: Susan brought the brown phials with her from Calvert County, and Mary Mungummory—who, the poet learned, had previously resisted Mitchell’s efforts to draw her into his organization—moved in with her entire retinue of doxies and accepted the office of madame of the house. Every night the whole point bustled: planters came from all over Dorset by horse and wagon, and by boat from Talbot County as well, and the house rang with their debauchery. From the mid-county fresh marshes and even the salt marshes of the lower county, twenty and thirty miles to the southeast, Abaco, Wiwash, and Nanticoke Indians came to engage Susan and two of Mary Mungummory’s least-favored employees in a tobacco-curing house set aside for the purpose. But Ebenezer walked obliviously past the gaming tables, through the rooms of intoxicated, narcotized, and lecherous Marylanders, and across the tobacco fields where knots of solemn Indians moved toward the curing-house. He soon became a figure of fun among the clients, but their jests met with the same indifference with which he rewarded Susan when, upon his entry into a room, she would follow him with troubled and inquiring eyes.

  Throughout November he labored at the task of casting into rhyme the sorry episodes of his journey:

  Freighted with Fools, from Plimouth Sound,

  To MARYLAND our Ship was bound;

  Where we arriv’d, in dreadful Pain,

  Shock’d by the Terrors of the Main…

  He recalled his first encounter with the planters in St. Mary’s County, whom he had mistaken for field hands——

  … a numerous Crew,

  In Shirts and Drawers of Scotch-cloth blew,

  With neither Stocking, Hat, nor Shoe…

  —and to their description appended the couplets written long before under different circumstances, painful now to remember:

  Figures, so strange, no GOD design’d

  To be a Part of Human-kind:

  But Wanton Nature, void of Rest,

  Moulded the brittle Clay in Jest…

  Shifting with masterly nonchalance from tetrametric to pentametric verses, he next proceeded to flay the inhabitants of his poetical bailiwick——

  …that Shore where no good Sense is Found,

  But Conversation’s lost, and Manners drown’d…

  —and thereafter to describe in turn, once more in four-footed lines, his trip across the Patuxent River in a canoe:

  Cut from a Poplar tree, or Pine,

  And fashion’d like a Trough for Swine…

  The encounter with Susan’s herd of pigs:

  This put me in a pannick Fright,

  Lest I should be devour’d quite…

  His lawful wife the swine-maiden herself:

  …by her loose and sluttish Dress,

  She rather seem’d a Bedlam-Bess…

  His fruitless vigil in the barnyard:

  Where, riding on a Limb astride,

  Night and the Branches did me hide,

  And I the De’el and Snake defy’d…

  The spectacle of the open-air assizes:

  …the Crowds did there resort,

  Which Justice made, and Law, their Sport,

  In their Sagacious County Court…

  The trial:

  The planting Rabble being met,

  Their drunken Worships likewise sat,

  Cryer proclaims the Noise shou’d cease,

  And streight the Lawyers broke the Peace,

  Wrangling for Plaintiff and Defendant,

  I thought they ne’er wou’d make an End on’t,

  With Nonsense, Stuff, and false Quotations

  With brazen Lies, and Allegations…

  Judge Hammaker himself:

  …who, to the Shame,

  Of all the Bench, cou’d write his Name…

  His night in the corncrib:

  I lay me down secur’d from Fray,

  And soundly snor’d till break o’ Day;

  When waking fresh, I sat upright,

  And found my Shoes were vanish’d quite,

  Hat, Wig, and Stockings, all were fled,

  From this extended Indian Bed…

  The kitchen-whores at Malden:

  …a jolly Female Crew,

  Were deep engag’d at Lanterloo,

  In Nightrails white, with dirty Mien,

  Such Sights are scarce in England seen:

  I thought them first some Witches, bent

  On black Designs, in dire Convent;

  …who, with affected Air,

  Had nicely learn’d to Curse and Swear…

  His illness:

  A fiery Pulse beat in my Veins,

  From cold I felt resembling Pains;

  This cursed Seasoning I remember

  Lasted … till cold December;

  Nor cou’d it then it’s Quarter shift.

  Until by Carduus turn’d adrift:

  And had my doct’ress wanted Skill,

  Or Kitch’n-Physick at her Will,

  My Father’s Son had lost his Lands…

  And his exploitation by the versatile Sowter:

  … and ambodexter Quack,

  Who learnedly had got the Knack

  Of giving Clysters, making Pills,

  Of filing Bonds, and forging Wills…

  When at last he had recounted the sum of his misfortunes by means of the sot-weed-factor conceit, he imagined himself fleeing to an outbound ship, and so concluded ferociously:

  Embarqu’d and waiting for a Wind,

  I leave this dreadful Curse behind.

  May Canniballs transported o’er the Sea

  Prey on these Slaves, as they have done on me;

  May never Merchant’s trading Sails explore

  This cruel
, this Inhospitable Shoar;

  But left abandon’d by the World to starve,

  May they sustain the Fate they well deserve:

  May they turn Salvage, or as Indians wild,

  From Trade, Converse, and Happiness exil’d;

  Recreant to Heaven, may they adore the Sun,

  And into Pagan Superstitions run

  For Vengeance ripe—

  May Wrath Divine then lay these Regions wast

  Where no Man’s Faithful, nor a Woman chast!

  The heat of his sustained creative passion must have either enlarged his talent or softened his critical acumen, for never before had he felt so potent, assured, and poetic as in the composition of this satire. During the first two weeks of December he smoothed and polished it—adjusting an iamb here, tuning the clatter of a Hudibrastic there, until on St. Lucy’s day, December 13, he was prepared to deem the piece truly finished. At its head he wrote: The Sot-Weed Factor: Or, a Voyage to Maryland. A Satyr. In which is describ’d, the Laws, Government, Courts and Constitutions of the Country; and also the Buildings, Feasts, Frolicks. Entertainments and Drunken Humours of the Inhabitants of that Port of America. And at the foot, with grand contempt, he affixed his full title—Ebenezer Cooke, Gentleman, Poet & Laureat of the Province of Maryland—in full recognition that with the poem’s publication, should he ever send it to a printer, he would forfeit any chance of receiving that title in fact.

  Publication, however, did not especially interest him at the moment. He put by his quill and surveyed the thousand and more lines of manuscript in his ledger.

  “By Lucy’s bloody thorn, ’tis writ!” he sighed, mocking Sowter. “And there’s an end on’t!”

  He had not the slightest idea what would happen next, nor had he just then the smallest worry. To the bone he felt the pleasure of large and sure accomplishment, which is ever one part joy and nine relief. Indeed, he was possessed with an urge to close his eyes and sleep where he sat at his writing desk; but the early winter night had only just darkened—it was, in fact, not an hour since supper—and he felt a contrary desire to celebrate in some small way, not The Sot-Weed Factor itself, whose existence was its own festivity, but the end of the labors that had brought it to birth.

  “A glass of rum’s the thing,” he decided, and went downstairs to where the evening’s activities were just getting started. His intention was to go to the kitchen, that being the only room at Malden, other than his own chamber, where he could be reasonably confident of his reception; but on his way he encountered William Smith and Richard Sowter, who had become fast friends since the fall.

  “How now, by Kenelm’s dove!” the latter said on seeing him. “Here is our poet.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Smith observed. “Thou’rt looking hale and pleased this night.”

  “I am both,” Ebenezer admitted, “with little cause for either.” The truth was, the mere sight of his undoers had cost him much of the pleasant sense of well-being with which he’d left his finished manuscript. “You were speaking of me?”

  “That we were,” Smith said. “ ’Twas a general discussion on points o’ law we were having, and I brought ye in by way of illustration.”

  “Mr. Smith here raised the question,” Sowter joined in, “whether, in a contract made to complete a job o’ work within a given time, the instrument becomes null and void directly the job is done or remains in force regardless till the designated time runs out. My answer was, it hangs altogether on the wording of the contract, whether its expiration hath a single or alternative contingency.”

  Ebenezer smiled uncertainly. “That seems a reasonable reply, but I am no lawyer.”

  “Nor am I,” Smith said, “and so to get a fairer notion of the thing, I asked him to apply it to that contract drawn ’twixt thee and me, regarding your ill health—”

  “Go to the point,” Ebenezer said stiffly. “I see your purpose.”

  “Ah, now, I have no wish to cheat ye of your due,” Smith insisted. “It hath been an honor and a pleasure to have the Laureate Poet for house guest, and nurse him back to health. Yet the fact is, as well ye can observe, I’ve a thriving little hostelry in Malden, and an idle room is to an innkeeper like a fallow field to a sot-weed planter.”

  “In short, now I’m on my feet once more you wish me gone.”

  “Calm thy heat,” Sowter urged. “ ’Tis my opinion, as your physician, thou’rt as well a man as ever braided Catherine’s tresses, and I have said farther, as Mr. Smith’s attorney, his contract in the matter hath alternative contingencies for expiration; namely, the restoration of your health or six months of bed, board, and proper care.”

  “Say no more,” Ebenezer said, “the rest is clear, and I’ll not contest it. If you’ll but grant me two small favors—nay, three—you will not see me on the morrow.”

  “Nay, hear me out—”

  “Have no fear of these requests,” Ebenezer went on contemptuously. “They’ll not interfere in any way with your profit. The first is that you give me a pot of rum, wherewith to celebrate a poem I’ve written; the second is that you send the poem to a certain London printer, whose address I shall give you; and the third is that you lend me a loaded pistol, to use when the rum is gone.”

  “A turd upon the pistol,” Smith declared. “Thou’rt no good Catholic, methinks, e’en to speak of’t, and ye spring too quickly to the worst expedient. I have no wish to turn ye out at all.”

  “What?”

  “St. Dunstan’s tongs,” Sowter laughed, “ ’tis what I tried to tell ye! Mr. Smith must have your chamber for his business, but so far from wishing ye ill, he hath proposed to be your patron, as’t were.” He explained that the cooper had directed him to draw up a remarkable indenture-bond, to sign which would entitle the poet to free room and board in the servants’ quarters indefinitely, and commit him only to a nominal amount of chemical work.

  “ ’Twill be no more than a paper to write or endorse on occasion,” Smith assured him. “The balance of the time is your own, to versify or what ye will.”

  Ebenezer shrugged. “It matters not to me one way or the other. Draw up your bond, and I shall read it.”

  “I have’t here this minute,” Sowter said, producing a document from his coat. “ ’Tis a virtual sinecure, I swear!”

  The opportunity to compose more poetry was in truth attractive to Ebenezer, though at the moment he had no ideas whatever for future poems. He considered also the possibility that Burlingame’s unexplained absence might have to do with some scheme for undoing Smith, though he had come rather to attribute it to another, perhaps, final, desertion. And ultimately, of course, the pistol was always there as a last resort: he could see no great loss in postponing its use for a time. Therefore, after reading it cursorily and finding its provisions to be as Sowter had described, he signed both copies of the four-year indenture with no emotion whatever.

  “Now thou’rt my patron,” he said to Smith, “haply you’ll indulge your protégé with a pot of rum.”

  “No pot, but an entire rundlet,” the cooper answered happily. “And hi! Yonder’s your wedded wife, fresh-come from Mitchell’s!”

  “Ye look well chilled, St. Susie,” Sowter laughed. “Warm your arse here by the fire and take a dram with our poet ere ye set to work in the curing-house: your father hath indented him to four years o’ rhyming.”

  “I’ll fetch the girls in from the kitchen,” Smith declared. “We’ll have a celebration ere the night’s work starts!”

  Susan came into the little parlor and stared at Ebenezer without comment.

  “ ’Twas that or the pistol,” he said. Something in her expression alarmed him, and his tone was defensive. Smith reappeared with two women from the kitchen; when the drams were passed round, the Frenchwoman perched on Sowter’s knees and the other on Smith’s lap.

  “So ye fled your master yet again?” Sowter called merrily to Susan. “I swear by Martin’s pox, he keeps a light hold on his wenches!”

  �
�Aye, I fled him,” Susan said, not joining in the general mirth.

  “And did you find another such fool as I,” Ebenezer inquired acidly, “to pay your escape and wait your pleasure in Mitchell’s barn?” Whether because her wretched appearance—she was shivering, and both her clothes and her face were more ruined than ever—reminded him that his legal wife was a pig-driver, an opium-eater, and the lowest sort of prostitute, or simply because he had never properly thanked her for nursing him back to health, the strangeness of her manner made him feel guilty for having ignored her during the composition of his poem.

  “Aye, I found another. A dotard too old for such schemes, says I, though there’s no law yet against dreaming.” Despite the levity of her words, both her tone and her expression were grave. “I have more cock in my eye than he hath in his breeches, and I’m not cock-eyed. A bespectacled old fool, he was, with a withered arm.”

  “Nay!” Ebenezer breathed. “Tell me not he had a withered arm!”

  “Aye, and he did.”

  “Yet surely ’twas his left arm was withered, was’t not?”

  Susan hesitated, and then in the same voice said, “Nay, as I think on’t, ’twas his right: he sat at my left in the wagon whilst I told him the tale of my misfortune, and I recall he was obliged to reach over with his far arm to tweak and abuse me.”

  Ebenezer felt a sudden nausea. “But he was a peasant, for all that,” he insisted.

  “Not a bit of’t. ’Twas clear from his clothes and carriage he was a gentleman of quality, and he said he had arrived that very day from London.”