John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

Let Ocean roar his damn'dest Gale:

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

With great Poseidon by our Side

He seemeth neither wild nor wide.

— which, he claimed, placed the poet in the ocean. Ebenezer thought warmly of his friend and teacher, who for all he knew might long since have been found out by Slye and Scurry and sent to a watery grave. Henry had been skeptical of the laureateship, no doubt about it.

"Would God I had him here, to tell this wonder to!" Since the momentous sighting of Corvo in the Azores, the Poseidon had been sailing a due westerly course along the thirty-seventh parallel of latitude, which if all went well would lead her straight to the Virginia Capes. The lengthy storm had scattered the fleet to the four winds, so that not another sail was visible on the horizon; but Captain Meech looked to overhaul the flagship any day, which he reckoned to be ahead of them. Although some time had been lost in making repairs, when Chips completed a masterful scarfing of the damaged spar the Poseidon bowled along for days on end in a whole-sail breeze. They were five weeks out of Plymouth; May was upon them, and landfall again on everybody's lips.

During this period Ebenezer seldom left the fo'c'sle: for one thing, it took him a while to regain his strength; for another, he had no desire to see his former messmates again, and anyway his musings kept him pleasantly occupied. Bertrand, of course, he could not avoid some contact with, but their meetings were brief and uncommunicative — the valet was uncertain of his position, and Ebenezer, besides enjoying the man's discomfort, had nothing to say to him. Though he could entertain no more illusions about the ship's magnificence, his admiration for the sailors had increased tenfold. His despair was gone completely: with tranquil joy he watched the dolphins roll along the freeboard and in the wake and, caught up in the general anticipation, he sharpened his quills, got out the volumes of Milton and Samuel Butler that he used as references, and hatched the following couplets to describe the great event that lay ahead: his first glimpse of Maryland.

Belike Ulysses, wand'ring West

From Ilions Sack, in Tatters drest,

And weary'd of his ten-year Roam

O'er wat'ry Wilds of desart Foam,

Beholding Ithaca at last

And seeing all his Hardship past,

Did swear 'twas Heav'ns own Shore he'd rais'd,

So lovely seem'd it as he gaz'd,

Despite its Rocks and Fearsome Coast.

How Heav'nlier, then, this Land I boast,

Whose golden Sands and verdant Trees

And Harbours snug, design'd to ease

The Sailors Burthen, greet the Eye

With naught save Loveliness! Nay, try

As best it might, no Poets Song,

Be't e'er so sweet or ne'er so long,

Could tell the Whole of MARYLANDS Charms,

When from the Oceans boundless Harms

The Trav'ler comes unscath'd at last,

And from his Vessels loftiest mast

He first beholds her Beauty!

To which, at the foot of the ledger-sheet, he duly appended E.C., G ent, P t& L tof M d, and regarded the whole with a satisfaction such as he had not felt since the night of Joan Toast's fateful visit. He was impatient to have done with disguises and assume his true position in the Province: his physical condition was better than it had been before the accident, and his spirits could scarcely have been improved upon. After considering the merits of several plans, he resolved at length to end the fraud by announcing his identity and reciting these latest verses as soon as the Poseidon made a landfall: clearly there was no plot against the Laureate aboard ship, and the passengers deserved to know the truth about him and Bertrand.

It was not his fortune, however, to carry out this pleasant scheme. With their journey's end so near at hand, passengers and crew alike grew daily more festive, and though the sailors were officially forbidden to drink aboard ship, the fo'c'sle no less than the main cabin became the scene of nightly revels. The crew's hospitality to Ebenezer waxed proportionately: he had no money to invest in their card-games, but he readily shared their rum and cordiality.

One evening when all had drunk a fair amount of liquor, old Ned, whose amiable deportment had most surprised the Laureate, descended the companionway and announced to the company at large that he had just returned from an interview with Mister Ebenezer Cooke on the main deck. Ebenezer's ears pricked up and his cheeks burned, for the man's tone implied that he had been sent as some kind of spokesman for the group. The rest avoided looking at him.

"I told 'Squire Cooke how fairly we'd looked to's man," Ned continued, smiling unpleasantly at the poet. "I told him we'd fetched him from death's door and nursed him back to health again, and shared our bed and board without complaint. Then I asked him if't wouldn't please him to give us somewhat for our pains, seeing we're coming on to landfall — "

"What did he say?" a man asked. Ebenezer's features boiled about: he was disappointed to learn that their generosity had been at least partly venal, but at the same time he recognized his obligation to them and the legitimacy of their claim.

Ned leered at him. "The lying wretch pled poverty! Says he lost his last farthing when we sighted Corvo!"

" 'Tis all too true," Ebenezer declared, in the face of a general protest at Ned's announcement. "He is a profligate fellow and, not content to squander his own money hath wagered mine as well, which is why I could not join your games. But I swear you shall be paid for your kindness, since you set a price on't. Do but copy down your names for me, and I'll dispatch the sum the day I arrive at Malden."

"I'll wager ye will, and lose my money too!" Chips laughed. "A vow like that is lightly sworn!"

"Prithee let me explain — " Ebenezer made up his mind to reveal his identity then and there.

"No explanation needed," said the boatswain, who in most matters spoke for the crewmen on that watch. "When sailors nurse an ailing sailor they want no thanks, but when they share the fo'c'sle with an ailing passenger, they're paid at the voyage's end."

" 'Tis the code o' the sea," Ned affirmed.

"And a fair one," Ebenezer granted. "If you'll but — "

"Stay," the boatswain commanded with a smile, and brought forth a sheet of paper from his pocket. "Your master pleads poverty, and you as well. There's naught for't but ye must sign this paper."

Ebenezer took the document doubtfully and read the rudely penned words.

"What thing is this?" he cried, and looked up to find all the sailors grinning at his wonder.

" 'Tis the code o' the sea, as Ned says," the boatswain answered. "Sign ye that paper and thou'rt a poor jack like the rest of us, that owes his fellows not a fart."

Indeed, the document proclaimed that its signer was a kind of honorary member of the Poseidon's crew and shared the rights, privileges, and obligations of a common seaman, work and pay excepted. Its language, polished by comparison with the penmanship, suggested that the gesture was in fact a traditional means of coping with what Ebenezer had assumed to be a novel predicament, and Captain Meech's signature in one corner bespoke official sanction.

"Then — you want no payment after all?"

The boatswain shook his head. " 'Twould be against the code to think of't from a shipmate."

"Why, 'tis an honor!" the poet laughed, his esteem for the men redoubled. "I'll sign my name right gladly!" And fetching out his quill he fixed his proper name and title to the paper.