John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

Mary clucked her tongue. "I saw her this very week, near dead o' pox and opium — to say naught o' her broken heart. Didn't I tell her to come in the wagon with me and let me give her a cure? Not that there's aught can save her now, but 'twould keep the salvages off her, at the least. Ah, Mister Cooke, ye did wrong by that girl, that asked such a trifle of ye. Are ye bound for Malden, to take your medicine like a man?"

"I–I am," Ebenezer said miserably, "just as soon as I'm free to. There's much I must tell you, Mary, as we go along. . But i'faith, I've lost my manners! John McEvoy, this is Mary Mungummory."

"The Traveling Whore o' Dorset," Mary added proudly, shaking hands in the masculine fashion with McEvoy.

"So she calls herself," Ebenezer declared, "but she is the most Christian lady in the Province, I swear." He then introduced McEvoy as an old and dear friend from London, and though he could scarcely wait to tell Mary about the coming Indian uprising, her late lover Charley Mattassin's brothers, and the urgent mission to which he was committed, his curiosity and bad conscience led him first to inquire further about the state of things at Malden.

Mary cocked her head and clucked her tongue again. "There's much hath changed since ye ran off: all manner o' queer goings-on, that nor Joan Toast nor any soul else seems to know the sense of — myself included, that left my girls and bade Bill Smith adieu as soon as Tim Mitchell disappeared."

"Is my father there, do you know? Andrew Cooke? And what of the cooper?"

"There's a wight that calls himself Andrew Cooke, all right," Mary said. "Whether he's your father is past Joan's proving, and mine, that ne'er laid eyes on him in England. He is a hard-hearted wretch in my case, I swear! Bill Smith's there too, and still hath title to the place, albeit I hear there's every sort o' lawsuits on the fire. But i'Christ, I'll say no more; there's much afoot, that ye'll learn of better for yourself." She chuckled. "What a stir 'twill make when you walk in!"

"One question more," begged Ebenezer. "I must know whether my sister Anna is there with Father."

"Ye mean to say ye do have a sister?" Mary glanced at him thoughtfully and urged the mare on through the twilight.

"You have news of her? Where is she?"

"Nay," Mary answered, "I've not heard aught of her. The truth is, this wight that calls himself your father told Bill Smith's lawyer — ye recall that blaspheming thief Dick Sowter? — told Sowter ye was the only heir to Cooke's Point: no brothers or sisters. Then when some fellow recollected ye was born twins, he changed his story and swore the other twin died o' the Plague."

"This is fantastic!" Ebenezer pressed the woman for a description of this Andrew Cooke; the detail of the withered right arm convinced him it was his father, but she could shed no light on the strange assertions.

"Ye'll see what's what soon enough, I'll wager," she repeated. By this time their intended lodging was far behind them, and marshy ground began to appear once more not far from the road. A cold wind sprang up in the gathering darkness.

"Marry, I've much to tell you!" the poet cried with new enthusiasm. "I scarce know where to commence!"

"Why, then, think it out tonight and start fresh in the morning," Mary replied. With her whip she pointed to a lighted window in the distance. "Vender's where we'll stop: 'tis an old friend o' mine lives there."

"I'God, don't put me off! If aught I said distressed you, prithee forgive me for't; but what I have to say concerns you as well as me."

"Indeed, sir? How might that be?"

Ebenezer hesitated. "Well — did you know Charley Mattassin had a brother?"

She regarded him pensively. "Aye, a salvage down on Bloodsworth Island. What do ye know of him?"

Ebenezer laughed distractedly. "There's so much to tell! Stay, now — did you know he had two brothers, and Henry Burlingame — that is to say, Tim Mitchell, that I said had the same strange character as your Charley--- I'm all entangled! Tell me this, Mary: when did you last see Tim Mitchell, and where is he now?"

Full of wonder, Mary replied that she had not seen Tim Mitchell for weeks, even months; it was rumored, in fact, that he had not been Captain Mitchell's son at all, but an impostor of some sort, the agent of certain powerful and unidentified interests hostile to the equally powerful and unidentified syndicate in which Captain Mitchell was a major figure. Tim's disappearance had been the occasion for great alarm and mutual suspicion among Captain Mitchell, William Smith, and the other operatives in the organization, but for Mary herself, by her own admission, it had been a stroke of good fortune, for he had been a hard taskmaster for her girls at Malden.

"Then you don't know where he is?" Ebenezer interrupted. "I must find him within a fortnight, or I and three companions will die — nay, I'll explain in time. Know, Mary, that the man you called Tim Mitchell is really Henry Burlingame the Third, son of the Tayac Chicamec of the Ahatchwhoops and brother to Charley Mattassin and Cohunkowprets, whom we must find also or perish! All we know of him is that he was sent on a mission by his father, as was Mattassin before him, and like Mattassin he was detained by some English Calypso — " He smiled in order to indicate to Mary that he had not betrayed her confidence to McEvoy. "This was some days or weeks ago, I gather, and the Tayac hath not seen him since. I hoped you might have heard rumors in the County of a half-breed salvage turned proper Englishman."

"Dear Heav'n!" Mary threw back her head and closed her eyes. "Did ye say he plays the Englishman, Mister Cooke?"

"That is the story as Chicamec heard it. The man took an English name, an English wife, and an English house."

"What did ye say was his English name?" Mary's voice was husky; her face quite white.

"I've no idea. Cohunkowprets, so we're told, means Bill-of-the-Goose. What ails you, Mary? Have you seen him, then?"

Mary turned Aphrodite stiffly into the lane of the lighted cabin, and the occupant stepped outside with a lantern to meet them.

"Nay, Mister Cooke, I've not seen him, but I have heard tell of a half-breed named Rumbly: Billy Rumbly — "

"You have? Marry come up, John, this sainted lady will save me once again!" He squeezed her plump arm, but instead of her usual meaty laugh she gave a groan and shrank from his cordiality.

"What in the name of Heaven is wrong with you, Mary?" he demanded. Already their host for the night recognized the sailcloth-covered wagon and called his greetings down the lane.

"No time to tell ye now," the woman muttered. "I'll spin the tale for ye tomorrow morning on our way to Church Creek — that's where this Billy Rumbly's said to live, and I was bound for his place ere ever I met ye yonder on the road."

"Bound for there — " Ebenezer's laugh rang over the marsh. "D'you hear that, John? This woman's an angel of God, I swear! Not only hath she heard of Lord Cohunkowprets; she means to pay him a call!"

Mary shook her head slowly. "Go to, go to, Mister Cooke. Go to." They were close enough to the lantern of their host for Ebenezer to see the consternation on her face, and though he could not imagine what so alarmed her, his heart turned cold.

"D'ye not recall who I am, and what business I have in Church Creek? I am the Traveling Whore o' Dorset, Mister Cooke, and the trollop I lately got wind of, that may wish to join my traveling company — Whoa, Aphrodite! Whoa, girl! — I have a notion — just a notion, mind ye now — this tart may be your sister. ."