John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

From across the courtyard came a mocking, almost hysterical laugh, and Burlingame, Spurdance, and Susan Warren all cried out at once, but the judge said, "The Court so rules," and banged the table with his gavel. "And I shall add, sir, that in all my years upon the bench I have ne'er witnessed such a foolish generosity!"

Ebenezer bowed. "I thank you. Yet 'twere better the Justice of the sentence be praised, and not its magnanimity. 'Tis a light matter to be generous with another man's property."

The judge made some reply, but it was lost in the uproar of the crowd, who now lifted Ebenezer upon their shoulders and bore him off to the tavern down the street.

" 'Tis not I you should honor, but blind Justice," the poet said to no one in particular. "Howbeit," he added, " 'tis gratifying to find myself at last among folk not purblind to the dignity of my office. My esteem for Cambridge hath been restored entire."

Indeed there was some murmur of saintliness among the more impressionable of the crowd; one mother held up her infant child for him to kiss, but the Laureate modestly waved the lady away. He glanced about in vain for Burlingame, to savor his reaction to this triumph.

The erstwhile plaintiff William Smith was already at the inn when they arrived, and at the sight of his benefactor he ordered ale for everyone.

"How can I thank ye, sir?" he cried, embracing Ebenezer, "Thou'rt the Christianest soul in the Province o' Maryland, I swear!"

"Tut, now," the Laureate replied. "I only hope they will not cheat you of't yet."

" 'Tis what I fear as well, sir," Smith agreed, and drew a paper from his shirt. "My lawyer hath just now drawn up this paper, which if you'll sign, will seal your sentence fast in any court."

"Then let's have done with't, and to the ale," laughed Ebenezer. He took quill and ink from the barman, signed the document with a flourish, and returned it to Smith, wishing Burlingame, Anna, and his London friends were present to witness this most glorious hour of his life.

"Now," declared Smith, raising his bumper of ale in toast: "To Master Cooke, sirs, our Laureate Poet, that is the grandest gentleman e'er graced Dorset County!"

"Hear!" cried the others.

"And to Mr. Smith," Ebenezer rejoined politely, "that hath no more than just reward for all his trials."

"Hear!"

"Here's to that painted puss his daughter," someone shouted from the mob. "May Heav'n preserve us from her — "

"Nay, rather to Justice," the Laureate broke in, embarrassed by the reference to Susan. "To Justice, Poetry, Maryland — and, if you will, to Malden, whither I am bound."

"Aye, to Malden," Smith affirmed. "And ye must know, sir, once I've sacked that rascal Spurdance for a proper overseer, thou'rt ever welcome there to visit when ye will and be my honored guest however long ye choose." He laughed and winked his eye. "I'faith, sir, should Lord Calvert's false commission pay no wage, I'll hire yourself in Spurdance's stead to manage Malden. Ye could be no worse a one than he, that cheated ye blind without your knowing aught of't."

Ebenezer frowned in horror. "Dear sir, I do not follow you for a moment!"

"As well, 'tis no matter now, lad." Smith grinned and took a fresh glass from the barman. "Many a truth is spoke in ignorance, and many a wrong set right by chance. To Malden!" he said to the crowd, and clearly for the Laureate's benefit went on: "Now 'tis mine in title, I shall run it as Ben Spurdance never durst!"

"Hear! Hear! Hear!" they all cried, and quaffed so deeply of ale and enthusiasm that few saw the guest of honor swoon away upon the sawdust floor.

When he recovered his senses Ebenezer found himself on a bench in one corner of the tavern; his feet were elevated on a wooden box, and a wet cloth had been placed across his brow. Remembering why he'd fainted nearly carried him off afresh; he closed his eyes again, and wished he could perish on the instant where he lay rather than face the derision of the crowd and his own shame of the folly of his loss. When at length he dared to look about him, he saw Henry Burlingame sitting alone at the nearest table, smoking a pipe and regarding the carousers at the bar.

"Henry!" the stricken poet called.

Burlingame spun around at once. "Not Henry, Eben — Tim Mitchell is my name. I found you laid out on the floor."

Ebenezer sat up and shook his head. "Ah, dear Christ, Henry, what have I done? And in the face of your warnings!"

Burlingame smiled. "You've administered innocent Justice, I should say."

"Twit me not, in the name of Heaven!" He buried his face in his hands. "Would God I'd stayed in London!"

"Did old Andrew grant you power of attorney? If not, you had no right to make the gift."

"He never should have," Ebenezer answered, "but he did. I have signed away his estate, and my whole legacy, to that thieving cooper!"

Burlingame sucked on his pipe. " 'Twas a fool's conveyance, but what's done is done. How doth it feel, to be a pauper like myself?"

Ebenezer could not reply at once. Tears came to his eyes, and he hung his head. " 'Twas Anna's dowry too, the half of it: I shall make over to her my share of the house in Plumtree Street, and beg her pardon. But whate'er will Father say?"

"Stay, now," said Burlingame, "don't preach the funeral ere the patient is quite dead. What do we know of this William Smith? He made his exit when you fell a-swoon."

"He is a scoundrel, else he'd not have taken such advantage of my innocence."

"That only proves him human, as you shall learn. D'you think he is the William Smith we came for?"

"How could he be, a simple cooper? I had his history from Susan Warren back at Mitchell's."

But Burlingame frowned. "There is more to him than that, and her as well, but God knows what; one schemer hath an eye for others. 'Twould not at all surprise me to learn he is our man: a secret agent of Lord Baltimore's."

"What boots it if he's Governor of the Province?" Ebenezer asked gloomily. "Malden is his in any case."

"Haply so, haply so. Or haply when he learns our mission be will be more reasonable."

Ebenezer brightened at once. "I'God, Henry, do you believe it?"

Burlingame shrugged. "No behavior is impossible in the world. Leave things to me, and I shall learn what I can. You'd best assume thou'rt penniless for the nonce, as well you may be, and say nothing of our hope. Drown your loss in liquor like the lot of men."

By this time the Laureate's resuscitation had been observed by the other patrons of the inn, who so far from deriding him, invited him to drink at their expense.

"Don't they know yet of my loss?" he asked Burlingame.

"Aye, they know. Some knew it from the first, and only later learned 'twas not intended."

"What a ninny they must think me!"

Again Burlingame shrugged. "Less of a saint and more of a man. You'd as well oblige 'em, don't you think?"

Ebenezer started up from the bench, but sank back again in despair. "Nay, great God, how can I stand about and drink when I have thrown away my Malden? 'Tis the pistol I should turn to, not the ale-glass!"

"There is a lesson in your loss," his friend replied, "but 'tis not for me to teach it." He got up from his chair. "Well, now thou'rt landless like myself, will you get drunk as I intend to?"

Still the poet hesitated. "I fear liquor as I fear fevers, drugs, and dreams, that change a man's perspective. A man should see the world as it is, for good or ill."

"That is a boon you've ne'er been vouchsafed yet, my friend. Why hope for't tonight?"

"Unkind!" protested Ebenezer. " 'Tis only that I've ne'er been drunk before."

"Nor ever a placeless pauper," Henry retorted. "But do as you list." He turned his back on Ebenezer and went alone to the bar, where he was welcomed familiarly as Tim Mitchell by the other patrons. And Ebenezer, whose objections had been more cautionary than heartfelt, soon joined him — not alone because his loss was too staggering to look at squarely, but also because he did not feel altogether well. Whether owing to the flatulence of the roan, his alarm at Henry's ill treatment of Father Smith, or — what seemed most likely to him — that same period of "seasoning," endured by all new arrivals to the colonies, to which his mother had succumbed, his stomach had been uneasy since the morning, and his brow a trifle feverish since noon.