John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"Aye, and what way is that?" the poet asked. "Must we not add Portia to the list, and Dolly at the King o' the Seas, and Henry More, and the barky boles of trees? Why did my father cashier you at St. Giles?"

"Thou'rt overwrought," said Burlingame, still seated on the bed. "Let me calm you."

Tears streamed down Ebenezer's cheeks. "Son of Sodom!" he cried, and sprang upon his tutor. "You've had my sister's maidenhead and now you lust for mine!"

Though both height and initiative were on his side, the Laureate was no match for Burlingame, who was somewhat heavier, a good deal more co-ordinated, and infinitely more practiced in the arts of combat: in less than a minute he had Ebenezer pinned face down on the bed, his arm twisted up behind his back.

"The truth is, Eben," he declared, "I have yearned to have the twain of you since you were twelve, so much I loved you. 'Twas some inkling of this love enraged old Andrew, and he cashiered me. But on my oath, your sister is a virgin yet for all of me. As for yourself, d'you think I could not force you now, if I so chose? Yet I do not, and would not; rape hath its joys, but they are not worth your friendship, or your sister's love."

He released his grip and lay down, turning his back to Ebenezer. The poet, stricken by what he'd learned, made no move to renew the attack or even to change his position.

"Whate'er could come of a love 'twixt me and Anna?" Burlingame asked. "I have nor wealth, nor place, nor even parentage. D'you think I'd waste my seed on sows, if I could sow a child in Anna Cooke? D'you think I'd flit about the world, if I could take her to wife? Methinks your friend McEvoy spoke the truth, Eben: you know naught of the great real world!"

The Laureate, in fact, at once felt sorry for his friend's predicament, but because he wasn't sure to what extent he ought to be outraged, and because what the disclosures concerning Anna and Lord Baltimore really made him feel was a sort of bitter melancholy, neither his sympathy nor his anger found a voice. He did not see how, in the light of all this, he could endure ever to face Burlingame again, much less sleep in the same bed with him. What could they say to each other now? He felt unspeakably deceived and put upon — a by no means wholly unpleasurable feeling. Face buried in the pillow and eyes wet with pity for himself, he recalled one of the wonderful dreams he had dreamed while senseless in the Poseidon's fo'c'sle: Burlingame and Anna side by side at the vessel's rail, waving to him where he swam in the flat, green, tepid sea. So stirring was the vision that he gave himself over to it entirely; closed his eyes, and let the sea wash warmly by his loins and hams.

It was already well into the morning when the Laureate awoke: the thin fall sunshine struck his eyelids, and he was mortified to understand that for the first time since early childhood he had wet the bed. He dared not move, for fear of waking Burlingame and discovering his shame. How to conceal it? He considered accidentally spilling the water pitcher onto the bed, but rejected the scheme as insufficiently convincing. The only other alternative was to absent himself stealthily from the premises, since he could not in any case have further dealings with his friend, and to strike out on his own for Malden before anyone was awake; but he lacked the daring for such a move in the first place, and also had no way of securing food and transportation for himself and Bertrand.

While considering and rejecting these courses of action he fell asleep again, and this time it was mid-morning when he woke. Burlingame, in the interval, had donned his clothes and left, and on the table with the pitcher and bowl were a piece of soap, a razor, a complete outfit of gentleman's clothing, including shoes, hat, and sword, and — wonder of wonders — the ledger-book acquired from Ben Bragg at the Sign of the Raven! The Laureate rejoiced to behold the gift, and for all his shock and disappointment of the night just past, he could not but feel a certain warmth for his benefactor. He sprang out of bed, stripped off the clammy, verminous rags he'd worn day and night since his capture by the pirates, and scrubbed himself ferociously from top to toe. Then, before shaving, he could not resist rereading the poems in his notebook — especially the hymn to chastity, which, whether Susan Warren had been lying or not, was given a heightened significance by her mention of Joan Toast and by the Laureate's late adventure. As he shaved he repeated the stanzas over and over, with a growing sense of physical and spiritual well-being. It was a splendid morning for rededication — high and clear and fresh as April, despite the season. Off came the beard and on went the clothes, which if not a tailored fit were at least of good quality; except for his sunburned face and hands and his somewhat shaggy hair, he looked and felt more like a Laureate when he was done than he had at any time since leaving London. He could scarcely wait to set out for Malden, more particularly since Joan Toast might well be waiting there for him!

Now his brows contracted, and his features ticked and twitched: there remained still the problem of passing safely out of Captain Mitchell's clutches and of deciding on an attitude toward Burlingame. The first seemed infinitely simpler than the second, which was complicated not only by his uncertainty about how he should react to his friend's disclosures, but also by his embarrassment at wetting the bed, which childishness Henry had almost surely observed, and his gratitude for the gift of clothing. In fact, the more he considered possible attitudes to adopt, the more perplexing seemed the problem, and he ended by returning to the window sill and staring distractedly at the twin gravestones down by the riverbank.

After a while he heard someone mount the stairs and Henry himself thrust his head into the chamber.

"Shake a leg, there, Master Laureate, or you'll miss your breakfast! Hi, what a St. Paul's courtier!"

Ebenezer blushed. "Henry, I must confess — "

"Shhh," warned Burlingame. "The name is Timothy Mitchell, sir." He entered the room and closed the door. "They're waiting belowstairs, so, I must speak quickly. I've sent your man off to fetch your trunk in St. Mary's: he'll get to Malden before us and make things ready for you. Hark, now: there is an Edward Cooke in Dorchester County, a drunken cuckold of a sot-weed planter; two years ago he complained of his wife's adulteries in a petition to Governor Copley and was the butt of so much teasing that he hath drowned himself in drink. I have told Bill Mitchell thou'rt this same poor wretch, that in your cups are given to playing the Laureate, and he believes me. Act sober and shamed this morning, and there's naught to fear. Make haste, now!"

And without allowing the poet time to protest, Henry led him by the arm toward the stairs, still talking in an urgent, quiet voice:

"Your friend the swine-girl hath flown the coop, and Mitchell declares she'll make her way to Cambridge with the silver he thinks you gave her. I'm to take horse at once to find and fetch her; what you must do is beg his pardon and volunteer to aid me in the search by way of making good your sins. We can fetch the rest of the Journal on our way to Malden, and I'll deliver it to Nicholson when I return." They approached the dining-room. " 'Sheart, now, don't forget: I'm Tim Mitchell and thou'rt Edward Cooke of Dorset."

Ebenezer had no opportunity either to assent to or protest the course of events: he found himself propelled into the dining-room, where Captain Mitchell and a few of the previous evening's guests were breakfasting on rum and a meat identified by Burlingame as broiled rasher of infant bear. They regarded Ebenezer, some with amusement and others with a certain rancor, which, however, observing that he was Timothy's friend, they did not express overtly. When the two new arrivals were seated and served, Burlingame announced to the group what he had already told Mitchell — that their distinguished visitor was not Ebenezer Cooke the poet, but Edward Cooke the cuckold. The news occasioned some minutes of ribaldry, following which Ebenezer made a pretty speech of apology for his imposture and other unseemly deportment, and volunteered to aid Timothy in his search for the fugitive servant.