John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"Yet, surely," he ended by saying, "the man was not Ebenezer Cooke, Laureate of Maryland?"

But the old man nodded. " 'Twas that same gentleman, the poetical wight."

"I'faith!"

"He wore black breeches like your own," the sailor volunteered, "and a purple coat — none o' the cleanest, for all his lofty post."

"Burlingame!" the poet gasped.

"Nay, Cooke it was. A sort of poet, crossing on the Poseidon."

Ebenezer could not fathom it.

"Then prithee," he asked, with some difficulty and no little apprehension, "who might that second gentleman be, the owner of this trunk here, that sails tonight on a different vessel?"

The old man sucked his pipe. "He'd not the dress of a gentleman," he declared at length, "nor yet a gentleman's face, but rather a brined and weathered look, like any sailor. The others call him Captain, and he them likewise."

Ebenezer paled. "Not Captain Slye?" he asked fearfully.

"Aye, now you mention it," the old man said, "there was a Captain Slye among their number."

"And Scurry too?"

"Aye, Slye and Scurry they were, as like as twins. They and the third came seeking the poetical gentleman not five full minutes after he'd sailed, as you've come seeking them. But they went no farther than the nearest house for rum, where 'tis likely you'll find 'em yet."

In spite of himself Ebenezer cried "Heav'n forfend!" and glanced with terror across the street.

The old man shrugged again and spat into the harbor. "Haply there's company more proper than sailors ashore," he allowed, "but more merry — Out on't!" he interrupted himself. "You've but to read the name from off his baggage there, where he wrote it not ten minutes past I've not the gift of letters myself, else I had thought of't ere now."

Ebenezer examined his friend's trunk at once and found on one handle a bit of lettered pasteboard: C aptJ noCoode.

"Nay!" His legs betrayed him; he was obliged to sit on the trunk or disgrace anew his fresh-dried drawers. "Tell me not 'twas Black John Coode!"

"Black or white, John or Jim, 'twas Coode," the other affirmed: "Captain Slye, Captain Scurry, and Captain Coode. They're yonder in the King o' the Seas."

Suddenly Ebenezer understood all, though his understanding little calmed his fear: Burlingame, after learning from Ebenezer in the stable about the pirates and their quarry, had spied them and perhaps Coode as well in the neighborhood of the tavern and realized that a plot was afoot against his charge — who as Laureate to Lord Baltimore was after all a potent, even a potentially deadly enemy to their seditious schemes, for the exposure of which few better tools existed than the knife-edged Hudibrastic. What nobler course, then, or more in the spirit of faithful guardianship, than to change to his original clothes again, declare himself the Laureate (since, clearly, they knew not their victim's face), and throw them off the scent by apparently embarking, trunk and all, for the Poseidon? It was a stratagem worthy of both the courage and the resourcefulness of his friend: an adventure equal to his escape from the pirate Thomas Pound or his interception of the letters from Benjamin Ricaud! Moreover, it had been accomplished at the risk of his own possessions, which Coode seemed now to have appropriated. The poet's heart warmed: the solicitude, the brave self-abnegation of his friend brought moisture to his eyes.

"And to think," thought he, "I was the while misdoubting him from the safety of my horse stall!"

Very well, he resolved: he would show himself worthy of such high regard. "How is't you gave this Coode leave to claim my trunk?" he demanded of the old seafarer, who had returned to his pipe and meditations.

"Thy trunk, sir?"

"My trunk! Are you blind as well as unlettered, that you failed to see the Laureate and me this morning when we had our trunks put down from the London carriage?"

"Marry, I know naught of't," the old man declared. " 'Tis my Joseph sails the shallop, my son Joseph, and I but mind the berth till he returns."

"And leave your client's trunks to any rogue that claims them? A proper ferryman you are, and your Joseph, b'm'faith! This wretch John Coode deigns not even to counterfeit, but with your aid robs openly in broad daylight, and by's own name! I'll have the sheriff!"

"Nay, prithee, sir!" the other cried. "My boy knew naught of't, I swear, nor did I think to aid a robber! The merry captains strode up bold as brass, sir, and asked for the poetical gentleman, and said 'This chest is Captain Coode's and must be on the Morpheides, by sundown, for the Isle of Man.' "

"And stopped thy questions with a guinea, I doubt not?"

"Two bob," the sailor answered humbly. "How might I know the baggage wasn't his?"

" 'Tis compounding the felony in any case," Ebenezer declared. "Is't worth two bob to breathe your last in prison?"

By dint of this and similar threats Ebenezer soon persuaded the old sailor of his error. "Yet how may I know 'tis thine, sir," he nevertheless inquired, "now you've raised the question? Haply 'tis thou'rt the thief, and not Captain Coode, and who shall save me then from jail?"

"The trunk is mine in trust alone," the poet replied, "to see it safely to my master."

"Thou'rt a servingman, and chide me so?" The sailor set his whiskered jaw. "Who might your master be, that dresses his man like any St. Paul's fop?"

Ebenezer ignored the slur. "He is that same poetical gentleman who took the first trunk with him — Ebenezer Cooke, the Laureate of Maryland. And 'twill go hard for you and your loutish Joseph should he speak of this nonsense in the right places."

"I'God, then take the accursed box for all of me!" the poor man cried, and promised to send trunk and servant together to the Poseidon as soon as the shallop returned. "Yet prithee show me just one proof or token of your post," he begged, "to ease my heart: for how shall I fare at the hands of the three captains, if thou'rt the thief and they the owners?"

"Never fear," Ebenezer said. "I shall show you proof enough in two minutes: page upon page of the Laureate's writing." He had just remembered, with a mixture of concern and relief, that his notebook was yet in the horse stall. But the old man shook his head. "Were't branded on your arse in crimson letters or graven like the Tables of the Law I'd not make hog nor dog of't."

"Try my patience no more, old man!" the poet warned. "The veriest numskull knows a poem by the look of't, whether he grasp the sense or no. I'll show you verses fit for the ears of the gods, and there's an end to your caviling!" Charging the mariner as sternly as he could to safeguard Burlingame's trunk and to ready the shallop, should it return, for instant sailing, he made his way in a great arc across the street, giving a wide berth to the entrance of the King o' the Seas, traversed again the alleyway leading to the back yard of the ordinary, and with pounding heart re-entered the familiar stable, expecting at any moment to meet the horrendous trio of captains. He hastened to the stall in which he'd composed his nautical verses: there in the straw, where in embarrassment and haste he'd left it, was the precious ledger. He snatched it up. Had that stableboy, perhaps, defaced it, or filched a sheaf of pages? No, it was intact, and in good order.

"And reckless best both Wind and Tide," he quoted from the page, and sighed with pleasure at his own artistry. "It hath the very sound of toss and tempest!"

But there was no time then for such delights; the shallop might be mooring at that very moment, and the villains in the tavern would not drink rum forever. With all possible speed he scanned the remaining stanza of the morning — those seven or eight couplets describing the shipboard feast. He sighed again, tucked the book under his arm, and hurried out of the stable into the courtyard.