John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

" 'Twill draw the Indians, will it not?" Bertrand asked.

"It might," the poet said glumly. "On the other hand, 'twill keep away the beasts. Do as you please."

Indeed, even as Bertrand commenced striking on the flint from his tinderbox — in which also he had brought from the beach a small supply of dried sea-grass for tinder — the two men heard the grunt of an animal somewhere among the trees not many yards upstream.

"Hark!" Goose flesh pimpled the Laureate's arms, and he jumped to his feet. "Make haste there with the fire!"

The grunt sounded again, accompanied by a rustling of leaves; a moment later another answered from farther away, and then another and another, until the wood was filled with the sound of beasts, advancing in their direction. While Bertrand struck furiously at the flint, Ebenezer called once more across the river for help, but there was no one to hear.

"A spark! I have a spark!" cried Bertrand, and cupped the tinder in his hands to blow up a flame. "Make ready the kindling wood!"

" 'Sheart, we've not got any!" The sound was almost upon them now. "Run for the river!"

Bertrand dropped the seaweed, and they raced headlong into the shallows; nor had they got knee-deep before they heard the animals burst out of the woods behind them and squeal and snuffle on the muddy shore.

"You there!" cried a woman's voice. "Are ye mad or merely drunken?"

"Marry!" said Bertrand. " 'Tis a woman!"

They turned around in surprise and in the last light saw standing on the mud bank a disheveled woman of uncertain age, dressed, like the men on the landing, in bleached and tattered Scotch cloth and carrying a stick with which she drove a number of swine. These latter grumped and rooted along the shore, pausing often to regard the two men balefully.

"Dear Heav'n, the jest's on us!" the poet called back, and did his best to laugh. "My man and I are strangers to the Province, and were left stranded here by some dolt for a prank!"

"Come hither, then," the woman said, "These swine shan't eat ye." To reassure them she drove the nearest hog off with her stick, and the two men waded shorewards.

"I thank you for your kindness," Ebenezer said; "haply 'tis in your power to do me yet another, for I need a lodging for the night. My name is Ebenezer Cooke, Poet and Laureate of the Province of Maryland, and I — nay, madam, fear not for your modesty!" The woman had gasped and turned away as they approached. "Our clothes are wet and ragged, but they cover us yet!" Ebenezer prattled on. "In sooth I'm not the picture of a laureate poet, I know well; 'tis owing to the many trials I've been through, the like of which you'd ne'er believe if I should tell you. But once I reach my manor on the Choptank — i'God!"

The woman had turned in his direction and raised her head. Her black hair showed no signs of soap or comb, nor had she plagued her skin overmuch with scrubbing. But what caused Ebenezer to break off in midsentence was the fact that except for her slovenliness and the open sores that even in the shadow were conspicuous on her face and arms, the swine-maiden could have passed for the girl in the Cyprian's rigging; and but for a decade's difference in their apparent ages, she bore a certain resemblance to the youthful whore Joan Toast.

"Am I such a sight as that?" the woman asked harshly.

"Nay, nay, forgive me!" Ebenezer begged. " 'Tis quite the contrary: you look in some ways like a girl I knew in London — how long since!"

"Ye do not tell me! Had this wench my lovely clothes and fine complexion, and did ye show a nice concern for her maidenhead?"

"Ah, prithee, speak less sourly!" the Laureate said. "If I said aught to hurt thee, I swear 'twas not intended!"

The maid turned sullenly away. "My master's house lies just round yonder point, a mile or two. Ye can bed there if ye've a mind to." Without waiting for reply she smote the nearest hog upon its ham-butt with her stick, and the procession grunted upstream toward the point.

"She bears some likeness to Joan Toast," Ebenezer whispered to Bertrand.

"As doth a bat to a butterfly," the valet replied contemptuously, "that make their way through the world by the selfsame means."

"Ah, now," the poet protested, and the memory of his adventure on the Cyprian made him dizzy, "she's but a swineherd and unclean, yet she hath a certain air. ."

" 'Tis that she's windward of us, if ye should ask me."

But Ebenezer would not be discouraged; he caught up to the woman and asked her name.

"Why, 'tis Susan Warren, sir," she said uncordially. "I suppose ye want to hire me for your whore?"

"Dear Heavens, no! 'Twas but an idle pleasantry, I swear! D'you think a laureate poet plays with whores?"

For answer, Susan Warren only sniffed.

"Who is your master, then?" Ebenezer demanded, somewhat less gently. " 'Twill be surpassing pleasant to meet a proper gentleman, for I've met no Marylander yet who was not either a rogue or a simpleton. Yet Lord Baltimore, when he wrote out my commission, made much of the manners and good breeding in his Province and charged me to write of them."

Instead of answering, the swine-maiden, to Ebenezer's considerable surprise, began to weep.

"Why, what is this? Said I aught to affront you?"

The procession halted, and Bertrand came up chuckling from behind. " 'Tis that the lady hath tender feelings, sir. 'Twas boorish of ye not to hire her services."

"Enough!" the poet commanded, and said to Susan Warren, " 'Tis not my wont to traffic in harlotry, ma'am; forgive me if I gave you to think otherwise."

" 'Tis none o' your doing, sir," the woman replied, and resumed her pace along the path. "The truth is that my master's such a rascal, and uses me so ill, e'en to think on't brings the tears."

"And how is that? Doth he beat you, then?"

She shook her head and sniffed. "If 'twere but a birching now and again I'd not complain. The rod's but one among my grievances, nor yet a very great one."

"He doth worse?" Ebenezer exclaimed.

"I'faith, he must be hard pressed for diversion," said the valet, and drew a stern look from his master.

Susan Warren permitted herself another round of wails and tears, after which, heaving a sigh to Heaven and kicking in the bacon a pig that stopped before her to make water in the path, she poured out to the Laureate the whole tale of her tribulations, as follows:

"I was born Susan Smith," she said, "and my mother died a-bearing me. My father had a small shop in London, near Puddle Dock, where he coopered casks and barrels for the ships. One day when I was eighteen and pretty as ye please, I took a stroll down Blackfriars o'er to Ludgate, and was bowed to by a handsome wight that called me Miss Williams, and asked to walk along with me. 'Ye may not do't,' I told him, 'nor is my name Miss Williams.' 'How's this?' he cried. 'Thou'rt not Miss Elizabeth Williams from Gracechurch Street?' 'I am not,' said I. 'Then pardon me,' said he, 'thou'rt like as twins.'

" 'Twas clear to me the lad spoke truly, for he was a civil gentleman and blushed at his mistake. He said he was in love with this Miss Williams, but for all she said she loved him she'd have none o' him for her husband, and spoke of some great sin that damned her soul. Yet this Humphrey Warren (that was his name) declared he'd have her to wife with all the sins o' man upon her conscience.

"I saw poor Humphrey often then by Ludgate, for Miss Williams grew less ardent day by day; he told me all his trials on her account, and said we looked so much alike, 'twas as if he spoke to her instead of me. For my part, I envied this Miss Williams not a little, and thought her a great fool to scorn so fine a gentleman. Dear Humphrey was not rich, but he held a decent post in the firm of a Captain Mitchell, that was Miss Williams' older half brother, and had every other virtue that could please a woman's heart.