John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

"I see," said the officer, smiling uncordially. "And hath His Laureateship anyone to vouch for his identity? Surely the gentlemen and ladies among the passengers must know their Laureate!"

"Of course I can bring proof," said Ebenezer, "though it seems to me 'tis you should bear the burden! I have a friend ashore who — " He stopped, recalling Burlingame's disguise.

"Who will swear to't through his teeth, for all you've bribed him," declared the officer.

"He lies," said the young man Joseph from the shallop, who had climbed aboard behind Ebenezer. "He told me he was a servant of the Laureate's, and now I doubt e'en that. What servant would pretend to be his master, when his master's near at hand?"

"Nay, you mistake me!" Ebenezer protested. "The man who calls himself Ebenezer Cooke is an impostor, I swear't! Fetch the knave out, that I may look him in the eye and curse him for a fraud!"

"He is in his cabin writing verse," the officer replied, "and shan't be bothered." To the sailors he said, "Throw him o'er the side and be damned to him."

"Stay! Stay!" Ebenezer shreiked. He wished with all his heart he were at the King o' the Seas with Burlingame. "I can prove the man's deceiving you! I have a commission from Lord Baltimore himself!"

"Then prithee show it," the officer invited with a smile, "and I shall throw the other wight o'er the side instead."

"Dear God!" the poet groaned, the facts dawning on him. "I have mislaid it! Belike 'tis in my chest somewhere, below."

"Belike it is, since the chest is Mr. Cooke's. In any case 'tis not mislaid, for I have seen it — the Laureate produced it on request by way of voucher. Toss the lout over!"

But Ebenezer, realizing his predicament, fell to his knees on the deck and embraced the officer's legs. "Nay, I pray you, do not drown me! I own I sought to fool you, good masters, but 'twas only a simple prank, a mere April Foolery. I am the Laureate's servant, e'en as this gentleman affirmed, and have the Laureate's notebook here to prove it. Take me to my master, I pray you, and I shall beg his pardon. 'Twas but a simple prank, I swear!"

"What say ye, sir?" asked one of the sailors.

"He may speak truly," the officer allowed, consulting a paper in his hand. "Mr. Cooke hired passage for a servant, but brought none with him from the harbor."

"Methinks he's but a rascally adventurer," said Joseph.

"Nay, I swear't!" cried the poet, remembering that Burlingame had hired berths that morning for Ebenezer and himself in the guise of the servant Bertrand. "I am Bertrand Burton of St. Giles in the Fields, masters — Mr. Cooke's man, and his father's!"

The officer considered the matter for a moment. "Very well, send him below instead, till his master acknowledges him."

For all his misery Ebenezer was relieved: it was his plan to stay aboard at any cost, for once under way, he reasoned, he could press his case until they were persuaded of his true identity and the mysterious stranger's imposture.

"Ah God, I thank thee, sir!"

The sailors led him toward the fo'c'sle.

"Not at all," the officer said with a bow. "In an hour we shall be at sea, and if your master doth not own you, 'twill be a long swim home."

Thus it happened that not long afterwards, when anchors were weighed and catted, buntlines cast off, sails unfurled, and sheets, halyards, and braces belayed, and the Poseidon was sea-borne on a broad reach past The Lizard, Ebenezer was not on hand to witness the spectacle with the gentlemen of the quarter-deck, but lay disconsolate in a fo'c'sle hammock — alone, for the crew was busy above. The officer's last words were frightening enough, to be sure, but he no longer really wished he were back in the King o' the Seas. There was a chance, of course, that the impostor could not be intimidated, but surely as a last resort he'd let the genuine Laureate pose as his servant rather than condemn him to drown; and Ebenezer saw nothing but certain death in Burlingame's scheme. All things considered, then, he believed his course of action was really rather prudent, perhaps the best expedient imaginable under the circumstances; had he acquiesced to it at Burlingame's advice, and were his friend at hand to lend him moral support in the forthcoming interview, he might still have been fearful but he'd not have been disconsolate. The thing that dizzied him, brought sweat to his palms, and shortened his breath was that he alone had elected to board the Poseidon, to pose as Bertrand Burton, to declare to the officer his real identity, and finally to repudiate the declaration and risk his life to reach Malden. He heard the rattling of the anchor chain, the scamper of feet on the deck above his head, the shouted commands of the mate, the chanteys of the crew on the lines; he felt the ship heel slightly to larboard and gain steerage-way, and he was disconsolate — very nearly ill again, as in his room that final night in London.

Presently an aged sailor climbed halfway down the compan-ionway into the fo'c'sle — a toothless, hairless, flinty-eyed salt with sunken cheeks, colorless lips, yellow-leather skin, and a great sore along the side of his nose.

"Look alive, laddie!" he chirped from the ladder. "The Captain wants ye on the poop."

Ebenezer sprang readily from the hammock, his notebook still clutched in his hand, and failing to allow for the incline of the deck, crashed heavily against a nearby bulkhead.

"Whoa! 'Sheart!" he muttered.

"Hee hee! Step lively, son!"

"What doth the Captain wish of me?" the poet asked, steadying himself at the foot of the ladder. "Can it be he realizes who I am, and what indignities I suffer?"

"Belike he'll have ye keelhauled," the old man cackled, and fetched Ebenezer a wicked pinch upon his cheek, so sharp it made the tears come. "We've barnacles enough to take the hide off a dog shark. Come along with ye!"

There was nothing for it but to climb the ladder to the main deck and follow his comfortless guide aft to the poop. There stood the Captain, a florid, beardless, portly fellow, jowled and stern as any Calvinist, but with a pink of debauchery in both his eyes, and wet red lips that would have made Arminius frown.

Ebenezer, rubbing his injured cheek, observed a general whispering among the gentlemen on the quarter-deck as he passed, and hung his head. When he stepped up on the ladderway to the poop, the old sailor caught him by the coat and pulled him back.

"Hold, there! The poop deck's not for the likes of you!"

"Good enough, Ned," said the Captain, waving him off.

"What is't you wish, sir?" Ebenezer asked.

"Nothing." The Captain looked down at him with interest. " 'Tis Mr. Cooke, thy master, wants to see ye, not I. D'ye still say thou'rt his man?"

"Aye."

"Ye know what sometimes happens to stowaways?"

Ebenezer glanced at the sky darkening with evening to the east and storm clouds to the west, the whitecapped water, and the fast-receding rocks of England. His heart chilled.

"Aye."

"Take him to my cabin," the Captain ordered Ned. "But mind ye knock ere ye enter: Mr. Cooke is busy rhyming verses."

Ebenezer was impressed: he would not himself have dared to request such a privilege. Whoever this impostor was, he had the manner of the rank he claimed!

The sailor led him by the sleeve to a companionway at the after end of the quarter-deck which opened to the captain's quarters under the poop. They descended a short ladder into what appeared to be a chartroom, and old Ned rapped on a door leading aft.

"What is it?" someone inside demanded. The voice was sharp, self-confident, and faintly annoyed: certainly not the voice of a man fearful of exposure. Ebenezer thought again of the dark sea outside and shivered: there was not a chance of reaching shore.