John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

Burlingame confessed his inability to grasp the metaphor, and so the poet explained in simple language that he had used four blank pages of his notebook to clean himself with and had filled another two with sea-poetry.

"I swore then never to betray myself again, Henry: 'twas only my surprise allowed this last deception. Should Slye and Scurry come upon us now, I'd straightway declare my true identity."

"And straightway take a bullet in thy silly head? Thou'rt a fool!"

"I am a poet," Ebenezer replied, mustering his failing courage. "Let him who dares deny it! Besides which, even were there no impostor to confront, 'twould yet be necessary to cross on the Poseidon: all my verses name that vessel." He opened his notebook to the morning's work. "Hear this, now:

Let Ocean roar damn'dest Gale:

Our Planks shan't leak; our Masts shan't fail.

With great Poseidon at our Side

He seemeth neither wild nor wide.

Morpheides would spoil the meter, to say nothing of the conceit."

"The conceit is spoiled already," Burlingame said sourly. "The third line puts you overboard, and the last may be read as well to Poseidon as to Ocean. As for the meter, there's naught to keep you from preserving the name Poseidon though you're sailing on the Morpheides."

"Nay, 'twere not the same," Ebenezer insisted, a little hurt by his friend's hostility. " 'Tis the true and only Poseidon I describe:

A noble Ship, from Deck to Peaks,

Akin to those that Homers Greeks

Sail'd east to Troy in Days of Yore,

As we sail'd now to MARYLANDS Shore."

"Thou'rt sailing west." Burlingame observed, even more sourly. "And the Poseidon is a rat's nest."

"Still greater cause for me to board her," the poet declared in an injured tone, "else I might describe her wrongly."

"Fogh! 'Tis a late concern for fact you plead, is't not? Methinks 'twere childsplay for you to make Poseidon from the Morpheides, if you can make him from a livery stable."

Ebenezer closed his notebook and rose to his feet. "I know not why thou'rt set on injuring me," he said sadly. " 'Tis your prerogative to flout Lord Baltimore's directive, but will you scorn our friendship too, to have your way? 'Tis not as if I'd asked you to go with me — though Heav'n knows I need your guidance! But Coode or no Coode, I will have it out with this impostor and sail to Maryland on the Poseidon: if you will pursue your reckless plot at any cost, adieu, and pray God we shall meet again at Malden."

Burlingame at this appeared to relent somewhat: though he would not abandon his scheme to sail with Slye and Scurry, he apologized for his acerbity and, finding Ebenezer equally resolved to board the Poseidon, he bade him warm, if reluctant, farewell and swore he had no mind to flout his orders from Lord Baltimore.

"Whate'er I do, I do with you in mind," he declared. " 'Tis Coode's plot against you I must thwart. Think not I'll e'er forsake you, Eben: one way or another I'll be your guide and savior."

"Till Malden, then?" Ebenezer asked with great tears in his eyes.

"Till Malden," Burlingame affirmed, and after a final handshake the poet passed through the pantry and out the rear door of the King o' the Seas, in great haste lest the fleet depart without him.

Luckily he found the shallop at its pier, making ready for another trip. Not until he noticed Burlingame's chest among the other freight aboard did he remember that he had posed as a manservant to the Laureate, and repellent as was the idea of maintaining the deception, he realized with a sigh that it would be folly now to reveal his true identity, for the ensuing debate could well cause him to miss the boat.

"Hi, there!" he called, for the old man was slipping off the mooring-lines. "Wait for me!"

"Aha, 'tis the poet's young dandy, is it?" said the man Joseph, who stood in the stern. "We had near left ye high and dry."

Breathing hard from his final sprint along the dock, Ebenezer boarded the shallop. "Stay," he ordered. "Make fast your lines a moment."

"Nonsense!" laughed the sailor. "We're late as't is!"

But Ebenezer declared, to the great disgust of father and son alike, that he had made an error before, which he now sincerely regretted: in his eagerness to serve his master he had mistaken Captain Coode's trunk for the one committed to his charge. He would be happy to pay ferry-freight on it anyway, since they had been at the labor of loading it aboard; but the trunk must be returned to the pier before Captain Coode learned of the matter.

" 'Tis an indulgent master will suffer such a fool to serve him," Joseph observed; but nevertheless, with appropriate grunts and curses the transfer was effected, and upon receipt of an extra shilling apiece by way of gratuity, the ferrymen cast off their lines once more — the old man going along as well this trip, for the wind had risen somewhat since early afternoon. The son, Joseph, pushed off from the bow with a pole, ran up the jib to luff in the breeze, close-hauled and sheeted home the mainsail, and went forward again to belay the jib sheet; his father put the tiller down hard, the sails filled, and the shallop gained way in the direction of the Downs, heeling gently on a larboard tack. The poet's heart shivered with excitement; the salt wind brought the blood to his brow and made his stomach flutter. After some minutes of sailing he was able to see the fleet against the lowering sun: half a hundred barks, snows, ketches, brigs, and full-rigged ships all anchored in a loose cluster around the man-o'-war that would escort them through pirate-waters to the Virginia Capes, whence they would proceed to their separate destinations. On closer view the vessels could be seen, bristling with activity: lighters and ferries of every description shuttled from ship to shore and ship to ship with last-minute passengers and cargo; sailors toiled in the rigging bending sails to the spars; officers shouted a-low and aloft.

"Which is the Poseidon?" he asked joyously.

"Yonder, off to starboard." The old man pointed with his pipestem to a ship anchored some quarter of a mile away on their right, to windward; the next tack would bring them to her. A ship of perhaps two hundred tons, broad of bow and square of stern, fo'c'sle and poop high over the main deck, fore, main, and mizzen with yards and topmasts all, the Poseidon was not greatly different in appearance from the other vessels of her class in the fleet: indeed, if anything she was less prepossessing. To the seasoned eye her frayed halyards, ill-tarred shrouds, rusty chain plates, "Irish pennants," and general slovenliness bespoke old age and careless usage. But to Ebenezer she far outshone her neighbors. "Majestic!" he exclaimed, and scarce could wait to board her. When at last they completed the tack and made fast alongside, he scrambled readily up the ladder — a feat that would as a rule have been beyond him — and saluted the deck officer with a cheery good day.

"May I enquire your name, sir?" asked that worthy.

"Indeed," the poet replied, bowing slightly. "I am Ebenezer Cooke, Poet and Laureate of the Province of Maryland. My passage is already hired."

The officer beckoned to a pair of husky sailors standing nearby, and Ebenezer found both his arms held fast.

"What doth this mean?" he cried. Everyone on the Poseidon's deck turned to watch the scene.

"Let us test whether he can swim as grandly as he lies," the officer said. "Throw the wretch o'er the side, boys."

"Desist!" the poet commanded. "I shall have the Captain flog the lot of you! I am Ebenezer Cooke, I said; by order of Lord Baltimore Poet and Laureate of Maryland!"