by John Barth
During the meal Ebenezer pondered Mrs. Russecks’s strange behavior. The only theory he could devise to account for both her knowledge of the state of things at Malden and her strong adverse reaction to his name was the not unlikely one that Russecks was affiliated with William Smith the cooper and Captain Mitchell’s sinister traffic in vice. At length he mustered courage to approach the innkeeper.
“I say, friend, have you heard of Eben Cooke, that was wont to call himself Laureate of Maryland?”
“Eben Cooke?” The man’s face brightened. “Why, that I have, sir; he’s the wight that runs the Cooke’s Point whorehouse with Bill Smith.”
The poet’s heart tingled; it appeared that his inference had some truth in it. “Aye, that’s the man. But you’ve ne’er laid eyes on him, have you?”
“Indeed, Sir Benjamin, I’ve met the man but once, some days since—”
Ebenezer frowned, for he had been about to reveal himself. “You say you’ve met him?”
“Aye, that I did, sir, just once, in the very spot thou’rt standing now. An average-looking fellow he was, naught to set him off. Folks claimed he was looking for a wench that had run off from Malden—one o’ the friskers, don’t ye know—but I’ll own he made no mention of’t to me.”
The innkeeper grinned. “ ’Twas the Virgin he was after, we all knew well, and had he come a few days sooner we’d have steered him to her. But by then she was Lady Rumbly, don’t ye know, and de’il the man of us would lead him to Billy’s wife, for all she’s a simple whore. ’Twas lucky Sir Harry wasn’t about…” In defense of his characterization of Miss Bromly, which Ebenezer questioned, the innkeeper reaffirmed his conviction that she was a fugitive prostitute from Malden. The poet did not insist the contrary, both because he wished not to alienate the innkeeper and because he was suddenly struck by an alarming notion: could it be that the Church Creek Virgin was not really Miss Bromly at all, but poor Joan Toast? Certain features of the story definitely argued for the notion: the girl’s competent defense of her chastity (had not Joan, on the night he abandoned her, proposed a life of mutual celibacy in London?), her general independence and toughness of spirit (which surely did not suggest the demure Miss Bromly), her understandable confusion of Billy Rumbly with Henry Burlingame, and, alas, even her final succumbing to abduction by an Indian. But perhaps the most revealing detail of all was that hysterical moment when “Miss Bromly” had insisted that her name was Anna Cooke: that Joan, driven mad with despair, should identify herself not only in the tavern but in her own mind with the person whose ring she wore, the person of whom she could very probably have learned to be supremely jealous—this struck him with a force like that of certainty, and his conscience groaned at the blow.
But his immediate objective, however trifling by comparison, made it necessary to postpone these reflections. He changed his mind about revealing his true identity and came to his point by a different route. “ ’Tis not really Eben Cooke I am concerned with; I merely wished to test whether thou’rt a man of the world, so to speak. Now I am a stranger to this province, friend, but ’tis said a bachelor need no more sleep alone here than in London, thanks to a string of gay establishments like Malden. ’Tis only natural a man should wonder whether a genial house such as this…”
He allowed the innkeeper to complete the clause; the fellow’s eyes were merry, but he shook his head.
“Nay, worse luck, Sir Benjamin; old Sir Harry ne’er durst make a regular stews o’ the place for fear some clever Jack might roger Henrietta for a whore.”
The poet reluctantly abandoned his theory—somewhat relieved, however, that the inn was not really a brothel, for he scarcely knew how he would have retreated otherwise from his inquiry.
“All the same, I’d not have ye think there’s no sport to be had in Church Creek,” the innkeeper continued. “How would it strike ye if I should say that the lady ye must apply to is the selfsame lady ye rode in with this noon?”
“Nay!”
“I swear’t!” The innkeeper beamed triumphantly. “Her name is Mary Mungummory, the Traveling Whore o’ Dorset—she’s but the Mother Superior now, ye understand—and I’ll wager the price of admission she can find some manner o’—Hi, there! Speak of the devil!”
Ebenezer followed the man’s eyes and saw that Mary had just entered the room and was looking worriedly about. He caught her eye, and as she approached his table the innkeeper excused himself, saluted her cordially, and declared with a wink that Sir Benjamin had business to discuss with her.
“I feigned to mistake this inn for a brothel,” Ebenezer explained as soon as they were able to talk, and told her briefly of his hypothesis and its failure.
“I might have spared ye that fiction, had ye asked me,” Mary said. “I vow, Mr. Cooke, I don’t know what hath possessed poor Roxie!”
“Is she worse, then?”
“She is cousin-german to a Bedlamite!” The miller himself, she went on to say, was no better or worse than before, but Mrs. Russecks, so far from regaining her composure after Ebenezer’s departure, had grown steadily more distracted and unreasonable: she fell by turn into fits of cursing, weeping, and apathy; Mary’s attempts to divert her with stories of Henry Burlingame and Billy Rumbly had only provoked fresh outbursts; Henrietta herself had been screamed at and banished from the chamber.
“Methinks ’twas not you that set her off,” Mary asserted, “else why would she treat Henrietta so harshly? What’s more, she seems as wroth with herself as with any soul else; she tears her hair, and rakes her cheeks, and curses the day of her birth! Nay, Mr. Cooke, I am more persuaded than ever ’tis the shock o’ the day’s events hath fair unhinged her, naught more mysterious; but I fear this night she’ll fling away the pins and ne’er hinge back.”
Ebenezer was not convinced, but he could offer no more plausible hypothesis. He called for two glasses of beer, and when Mary had finished relating her news to the other patrons, he told her of his firm belief that the Church Creek Virgin was in fact Joan Toast. She scoffed at the notion at first, then listened in amazement, perplexity, and mounting concern.
“There’s naught I can say to rebut ye,” she admitted finally, “albeit I can’t see why she pitched on the name Meg Bromly. Still, ’tis as good as another, I daresay.”
“I am convinced ’tis she!” the poet declared, and tears started in his eyes. “ ’Sheart, Mary, what miseries have I not brought on that girl? Would God I might fly to her this night and beg for retribution! Would Heav’n—”
An expression of horror on Mary’s face arrested him; looking beyond him while he spoke as had the innkeeper, she too had seen someone come in, and her reaction was frightening to behold. Ebenezer’s flesh crawled.
“Is’t Harry Russecks?” he whispered.
“Dear Christ!” moaned Mary, and, expecting the worst, Ebenezer turned to see for himself. The new arrival was not Harry Russecks, but a slight statured gentleman whom the other patrons rose to greet. The poet’s heart sprang up; he moved his mouth to call “Henry!” and realized just in time to check himself that this man was not the “Nicholas Lowe” Burlingame but the Burlingame of St. Giles, grown fifteen years older and tanned by the Maryland sun: that is to say, not Burlingame at all …
“ ’Tis my Charley Mattassin come from the dead!” Mary cried aloud.
“Nay, Mary,” Ebenezer whispered. “ ’Tis Billy Rumbly!”
Everyone in the room was startled by the outburst. Rumbly himself broke off his salutations and looked over with a puzzled smile. Two of his friends murmured something, but he ignored them and came towards the poet’s table, where, still smiling, he bowed slightly to Ebenezer and addressed the ashen-faced woman.
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I must know whether you did not speak the name Charley Mattassin just then.” His voice, Ebenezer observed, was of the same timbre as Burlingame’s, but the accent was more continental than English.
“Thou’rt the breathing image o’ thy brother!” Mary replie
d, and began to weep unashamedly. The other patrons came over to see what was the trouble; Billy Rumbly politely requested that they permit him to learn for himself, and they retired.
“May I sit down with you, sir? I thank you. Now, my dear lady—”
“Pray let me explain, sir,” Ebenezer ventured. “ ’Tis a most happy coincidence that brought you hither tonight!”
“I quite agree,” said Billy Rumbly. “As for explanation, there may be no call for one: my dear lady, can it be thou’rt Miss Mungummory?”
Mary’s astonishment was followed immediately by apprehension. “Now, Mr. Rumbly, ye mustn’t think hard o’ me; I swear—”
“That you had naught to do with Mattassinemarough’s death? Let me swear, Miss Mungummory, that none save Mattassin had aught to do with Mattassin’s death. He destroyed himself—I appreciate that fact—and for all his fits of contrary passion, I know he died with your image in his heart.” He smiled. “But say, how is’t you knew I was his brother? Merely by reason of a certain likeness betwixt us?”
Mary was still too taken aback to muster a coherent answer, and so Ebenezer declared, “We’ve heard the tale of your adventures from the trapper Harvey Russecks, sir—”
“Dear Harvey! A consummate gentleman! Then thou’rt aware I was formerly called Cohunkowprets, the Bill-of-the-Goose; yet that doth not quite account for all.”
“My business will explain the rest,” Ebenezer said. “I am in Church Creek expressly to deliver you a message from the Tayac Chicamec.”
For the first time, Billy Rumbly’s composure was ruffled: his brow contracted, and his eyes flashed in a way that chilled the poet’s blood, so often had he seen that angry flash in Burlingame’s eyes.
“The Tayac Chicamec hath no messages that I care to hear,” he said dangerously.
“Haply not, sir,” the poet granted at once, “yet I must tell you that as a gentleman you cannot refuse to hear me: I swear to you that the lives of every man, woman, and child of this province are in your hands!”
Billy Rumbly fixed his attention on the glass of beer brought to him by the innkeeper; his anger seemed to have hardened into stubbornness.
“You speak of the coming war. I do not think of it.”
Ebenezer had anticipated this difficulty; he sighed as though resigned to the Indian’s obduracy. “Very well, sir, I shan’t trespass farther on your good nature. I only hope my friendship with your brother Burlingame will make him less unreasonable than you.”
The remark had its intended effect: Billy grabbed his hand and stared open-mouthed at him, as if scarcely daring to believe his ears.
“What cruel stratagem of my father’s is this?”
“The stratagem is mine, sir, to persuade you to hear me out on a number of urgent matters; but what I said is nonetheless true. As ’twas my pleasure to inform the Tayac Chicamec, your younger brother, Henry Burlingame Third, is neither dead nor lost; he was my tutor in England for six years and at present is not many miles from this spot.” Despite his fear of alienating the man, who rather intimidated him as well, his terrific responsibilities caused Ebenezer suddenly to lose patience. “Damn you, sir, put by your skepticism; ’tis mankind’s side I’m on, not Chicamec’s! Do you know this ring? Aye, ’tis the ring of Quassapelagh, that he gave me for saving his life whilst he was hiding in the cliffs. Ah, you’ve heard that tale before? Then you know that the wight I left to serve him also owed his life to me—a trussed-up Negro slave named Drepacca, that I believe hath been a friend of yours! Do you think I’ll beg you to save my companions’ lives by leading that monstrous rebellion? I come here with a plan, sir, not a plea; a plan to save both English and Ahatchwhoops!” He paused to regain his self-control and concluded in a calmer tone, “What’s more, I wish to speak with you as one gentleman to another with regard to your wife, who I have reason to believe is a woman very precious to me; and if after all this you need still more evidence of my good intention, know that we may speak here at length without fear of interruption by your enemy the miller Russecks: he is lying this moment at death’s doorsill after a bout with me and my companion this afternoon.”
Billy Rumbly was flabbergast. “Great Heavens, sir, you leave me breathless! My father, my wife, my long-lost brother—thou’rt setting my world a-spin!” He laughed. “ ’Tis clear I misapprehended you, and I humbly beg your pardon, Mr.—”
“Cooke; Ebenezer Cooke, of Malden.” The poet was relieved to observe that the name apparently meant nothing to Billy Rumbly.
“Mr. Cooke, sir.” The Indian shook his hand warmly. “May I say at the outset, Mr. Cooke, that gossip to the contrary notwithstanding, my wife is as dear to me as you declare she is to you, and her condition (which I gather thou’rt aware of) is a matter of gravest concern to me. In fact, ’twas to seek advice from Mrs. Russecks on that subject I drove hither this evening—for which praise God!”
Mary, having by this time got the better of her emotions, explained that Mrs. Russecks was indisposed and excused herself to return to the patient’s bedside.
“If ye still mean to call on Mrs. Rumbly,” she said to Ebenezer, “we’ll ride out first thing in the morning.”
“Nay,” Billy Rumbly protested, “you must be my guest tonight, sir, and tell me these wonders at your leisure; I shan’t have it otherwise! And you, Miss Mungummory, if you really must go now, take my sympathies and regards to Mrs. Russecks and tell her I’ll consult her another time; but you and I must speak together very soon about Mattassin—tomorrow, perhaps? I’ve much to ask and much to tell!”
Almost too carried away to speak, Mary managed some sort of acknowledgment and left the inn. Billy watched her intently until she was gone and then shook his head.
“I’ll wager she was beautiful once! And even now, despite all—I don’t presume to understand her, Mr. Cooke, but I quite understand my brother, I believe.” He turned to the poet with a smile. “Now, sir, what say you? If your business with regard to my wife is not to duel for her affections, let’s out at once for Tobacco Stick Bay; ’tis but four miles down the road, and I’ve a fair team to fetch us. Astonishing, this business about my brother!”
Ebenezer was altogether charmed. He had not suspected how deep was his anxiety at the prospect of encountering Billy Rumbly until now, when the man’s amiability removed it. It was like meeting Henry Burlingame again after a long and discouraging separation—but a Burlingame whose formidability was not ambivalent; whose benevolence was unequivocal; in short, the gay, efficient Burlingame who had come to his rescue once in Magdalene College. There still remained the task of inducing him to save Bertrand and Captain Cairn, and the rather more ticklish problem of what to do about Joan Toast; but in the presence of Billy Rumbly—his princely animation, his mannered power—Ebenezer could not feel pessimistic, much less despairing. On the contrary, his flagging spirits soared; his face grew flushed with the ardor of gratitude, the warmth of reciprocal good feeling. While he donned his greatcoat, Billy Rumbly (who had never removed his own) declared to the house that Miss Mungummory’s earlier commotion had been due to a simple case of mistaken identity: she had taken him for his late brother, Charley Mattassin, the misguided fellow who had been hanged for the murder of Mynheer Wilhelm Tick and family. Ebenezer was surprised at the man’s candor, but Billy apparently knew his audience: although the revelation shocked them, their murmurs seemed commiserative rather than hostile.
“Now,” Billy cried, “having blessed your wives with some gossip, let me bless you gentlemen with a dram!” When the drinks were distributed among the admiring patrons, he purchased in addition a “rundlet for the wagon,” declaring that the day Sir Harry Russecks broke his head must not go uncelebrated. This sentiment was affirmed with loud hurrahs, and when the two men made their good nights and mounted Billy’s wagon, Ebenezer felt himself envied by everyone in the tavern.
They paused briefly at the mill, where he introduced McEvoy to the object of their mission, announced his current plans, and learned tha
t while Mrs. Russecks had finally been got to sleep, there was no change whatever in the miller’s condition; then they set off westward along a dark and narrow path. The night was still and frosty; through the trees the poet spied the great triangle of Deneb, Vega, and Altair, though the constellations to which they belonged were obstructed from view.
“Our little drive takes half an hour,” Billy said. “If I may request it, spare me the message from my father till later, as I can estimate its substance out of hand. But I must hear about this gentleman who claims to be my brother, and methinks ’twere better we spoke our minds on the subject of my wife ere we arrive. Yet stay: we durst not essay these weighty matters with dry throats; the first thing to do is take Lady Rundlet’s maidenhead!”
“Marry,” Ebenezer laughed, “thou’rt more a twin than a common brother to Henry Burlingame! How of’t have I burned to hear some news he had for me, or tell him news of my own, and been obliged to sit through a chine of pork ere he’d give me satisfaction!”
They sampled the rundlet, and the good white Jamaica scalded the poet’s innards most gratifyingly. Both the Indian and himself had availed themselves of lap robes, which, together with the rum and the absence of wind, kept them as comfortable as if the month were April instead of latest December. The team stepped leisurely in the frozen path, and the wagonwheels creaked and crunched with a pleasing sharpness. Ebenezer permitted his body to rock with the motion of the springs; the task of relating once again the story of Burlingame’s quest and his own intricate history had previously appalled him, but in these circumstances it seemed a pleasant labor. He sighed as he commenced, but it was the sigh of a man certain that his story will give its bearers unusual pleasure. Making no mention of his doubts, reservations, disappointments, and astonishments, he told of Burlingame’s rescue by Captain Salmon; his boyhood as sailorman, gypsy minstrel, and Cambridge scholar; his tenure at St. Giles in the Fields and the twins’ affection for him; his adventures in the provinces as political agent and unwilling pirate; his rescue of the Russecks ladies; his vain endeavors to discover his parentage; and the poet’s recent solution of that mystery.