The Sot-Weed Factor (40 page)

He had not reached two hundred when Bertrand caught his arm.

"Hark!" he whispered. "Listen yonder!"

They stood still. From behind a fallen tree not far ahead, a hackle-raising sound came down on the breeze: it was half a moan, half a tuneless chant, lugubrious and wild.

"Let us flee!" Bertrand whispered. " 'Tis one of those monsters!"

"Nay," Ebenezer said, his skin a-prickle. "That is no beast."

"A hungry salvage, then; come on!"

The cry floated down to them again.

"Methinks 'tis the sound of pain, not of hunger, Bertrand. Some wight lies hurt by yonder log."

"God save him, then!" the valet cried. "If we go near, his friends will leap us from behind and make a meal of us."

"You'll give up your post so lightly?" Ebenezer teased. "What sort of god are you, that will not aid his votaries?"

A third time came the pitiable sound, and though the valet stood too terrified to move, Ebenezer approached the fallen tree and peered over it. A naked black man lay there on the sand, face down, his wrists and ankles bound; his back was striped with the healed scars of floggings, and from myriad cuts and scratches on his legs he bled upon the sand. He was a tall, well-muscled man in the prime of life, but obviously exhausted; his skin was wet, and a spotty trail of blood ran from where he lay to the water's edge. Even as Ebenezer watched him from above, unobserved, he lifted his head with a mighty effort and resumed his cry, chanting in a savage-sounding tongue.

"Come hither!" the poet called to Bertrand, and scrambled over the log. The Negro wrenched over on his side and shrank against the tree trunk, regarding the newcomer wildly. He was a prepossessing fellow with high cheekbones and forehead, massive browbones over his great white eyes, a nose splayed flat against his face, and a scalp shaved nearly bald and scarified -- like his cheeks, forehead, and upper arms -- in strange designs.

"God in Heaven!" Bertrand cried on seeing him. The black man's eyes rolled in his direction. " 'Tis a regular salvage!"

"His hands are bound behind him, and he's hurt from crawling over the stones."

"Run, then! He'll ne'er catch up with us!"

"On the contrary," said the Laureate, and turning to the black man he said loudly and distinctly,
"Let-me-untie-the-ropes."

His answer was a string of exotic gibberish; the black man clearly expected them to kill him.

"Nay, nay," Ebenezer protested.

"Prithee do not do't, sir!" said Bertrand. "The wretch will leap on ye the minute he's free! Think ye these salvages know aught of gratitude?"

Ebenezer shrugged. "They could know no less of't than some others. Hath he not been thrown, like us, into the sea to die and made his way by main strength to this shore?
I-am-the-Poet-Laureate-of-Maryland,"
he declared to the black man;
"l-will-not-harm-you."
To illustrate he brandished a stick as though to strike with it, but snapped it over his knee instead and flung it away, shaking his head and smiling. He pointed to Bertrand and himself, flung his arm cordially about the valet's shoulders and said,
"This-man-and-l-are-friends. You"
-- he pointed to all three in turn --
"shall-be-our-friend-as-well."

The man seemed still to be fearful, but his eyes showed more suspicion now than dread. When Ebenezer forcibly moved behind him to release his hands and Bertrand, at his master's insistence, reluctantly went to work on the ropes that bound his feet, the fellow whimpered.

Ebenezer patted his shoulder. "Have no fear, friend."

It took some labor to undo the ropes, for the knots were swollen from the water and pulled tight by the captive's exertions.

"Whose prisoner do ye take him for?" asked Bertrand. "My guess is, he's one of those
human sacrifices
ye told me of, that the folk in golden cities use in lieu of money on the Sabbath."

"That may well be," the poet agreed. "His captors must in sooth be clever men, and no mere salvages, else they ne'er could make such fine stout rope or tie such wondrous hitches in't. Haply they were ferrying him to the slaughter when he escaped; or belike 'twas some sea-god he was meant for. Confound these knots!"

"In any case," said Bertrand, " 'twill scarcely please 'em to learn we set him loose. 'Tis like stealing from the collection plate in church."

"They need not know of't. Besides, we are their rightful gods, are we not? What we do with our offerings is our own affair."

That last, to be sure, he spoke in jest. They loosened the final knots and retreated a few paces for safety's sake, not certain what the man would do.

"We'll run in different directions," Ebenezer said. "When he takes out after me, the other will pursue him from behind."

The black shook off the loosened bonds, still looking warily about, and rose with difficulty to his feet. Then, as if realizing that he was free, he stretched his limbs, grinned mightily, raised his arms to the sun, and delivered a brief harangue, interspersing his address with gestures in their direction.

"Look at the size of him!" Bertrand marveled. "Not e'en Boabdil was so made!"

Ebenezer frowned at mention of the Moor. "Methinks he's speaking to the sun now; belike 'tis a prayer of thanks."

"He is a very percheron stud!"

Then, to their discomfort, the fellow ended his speech and turned to face them; even took a step towards them.

"Run!" cried Bertrand.

But no violence was offered; instead, the black prostrated himself at their feet and with muttered reverences embraced their ankles each in turn; nor would he rise when done, but knelt with forehead on the sand.

" 'Sbody, sir! What doth this signify?"

"I would not say for certain," Ebenezer replied, "but it seems to me you have what erst you wished: This wight hath bid his farewells to the sun and taken us for his gods."

"I'faith," the valet said uncomfortably. "We did not ask for this! What in Heav'n would he have us do?"

"Who knows?" the poet answered. "I never was a god till now. We gave him his life, and so he's ours to bless or bastinado, I suppose." He sighed. "In any case let's bid him rise ere he takes a backache: no god keeps men upon their knees forever."

The Laureate Meets the Anacostin King and

Learns the True Name of His Ocean Isle

"One
thing
is
certain,"
Ebenezer said, when they resumed their exploration of the beach: "we must demand obedience of this fellow, if we're to be his deities. That is the clearest common attribute of gods, for one thing, and the safest policy besides: he may slay the twain of us if he learns we're mortal."

They had raised the black man up and bade him wash his wounds, which happily were no worse than scratches from the shells, and had moreover presented him with the extra soft crabs -- cold and linty from their pockets, but edible nonetheless -- and stood by while he made short work of them. Their charity provoked a fresh display of prostrate gratitude, which acknowledged, they had squatted with him some while on the sand and tried by words, gestures, and pictures drawn with sticks to hold converse. What was the name of the island? Ebenezer had asked him. What was his name? Where was his town? Who had bound his limbs and flung him into the sea, and for what cause? And Bertrand, not to be outdone, had added queries of his own: How distant from where they sat was the first of the golden cities? What sort of false gods had its citizens, and were the ladies dark or fair?

But though the black man had heard their inquiries with worshipful attention, his eyes had shown more love than understanding; all they could get from him was his name, which -- though it was doubtless from no civilized tongue at all-sounded variously to Ebenezer like
Drehpunkter, Dreipunkter, Dreckpachter, Droguepecheur, Droitpacteur, Drupegre, Drecheporteur,
or even
Despartidor,
and to Bertrand invariably like
Drakepecker.
For that matter it may have been not his name at all but some savage call to worship, since every time they said the word he made a genuflection.

"What shall we do with him?" Bertrand asked. "He shows no mind to go about his business."

"So be't," Ebenezer replied. "Let him help with ours, then. 'Tis readiness to take orders that makes the subject, and readiness to give them that makes the lord. Besides, if we set him labors enough he can plot us no mischief."

They resolved, therefore, to let the big black man accompany them as food-and wood-gatherer, cook, and general factotum; indeed, they were given little choice, for he clearly had no intention of leaving and could if angered have destroyed them both in half a minute. The three set out northward once again, Ebenezer and Bertrand in the lead and Drakepecker a respectful pace or two behind. For an hour or more they trudged over pebbles, soft sand, and beds of red, blue, and egg-white clay, always with the steep unbroken cliff-face on their left and the strangely placid ocean on their right; every turn Bertrand expected to discover a golden city, but it would reveal instead only a small cove or other indentation of the shoreline, which in the main ran still directly north. Then, leg weary and footsore, they stopped to rest beneath the mouth of a natural cave some ten or twelve feet up on the cliff wall. The savage, to whom Ebenezer had entrusted the rude spear with which he'd caught their breakfast, indicated by brandishing it and rubbing his stomach a desire to forage for dinner; upon receiving permission he scrambled like a monkey up the rock-face and disappeared.

Bertrand watched him go and sighed. " 'Tis the last we'll see of Drakepecker; and good riddance, says I."

"What!" Ebenezer smiled. "Thou'rt so soon tired of being God?"

The valet admitted that he was. "I had rather do the work myself than lord it o'er so fearsome a wight as he. This very minute he might be plotting to spit the twain of us on his spear and fry us up for's dinner!"

"I think not," said the poet. "He likes to serve us."

"Ah, sir, no man enjoys his bondage! Think you there'd be a servant in the world, if each man had his choice? 'Tis ill luck, force, and penury that make some men serve others; all three are galling masters."

"What then of habit, and natural predilection?" teased Ebenezer. "Some men are born to serve."

Bertrand considered these for a moment and then said, "Habit's no first cause, but a child of bleak necessity, is't not? Our legs grew calloused to the pirates' shackles, but we wished them off us nonetheless. As for this natural bent to slavery, 'tis a tale hatched by the masters: no slave believes it."

"A moment past you spoke of doing the chores thyself," Ebenezer said, "but never a word of
me
doing them; yet 'twas I proposed we forget our former stations, since the wilderness knows naught of classes."

Bertrand laughed. "Then to my list of yokes add
obligation;
he's no more mild a master."

"Call him
gratitude
or
love
instead," said Ebenezer, "and watch how men rejoice in their indenture! This Drakepecker, as you call him, chose his present bondage when we set him free of a worse, and he may end it by his own leave when he lists. Therefore I fear him not, and look to have him serve us many a day." He then asked the valet how he proposed to lord it over an entire city alone, if one subject shared between them scared him so.

" 'Tis god I want to be, not king," the valet said. "Let others give and take commands, or lead and put down mutinies; I'll stock me a temple with food and drink and sleep all morning in my golden bed! Ten young priestesses I'll have for company, that shall hear confessions and say the prayers in church, and a brace of great eunuchs to take collection and guard the money."

"Sloth and viciousness!"

"Would ye not do the same, or any wight else? Who wants the chore of ruling? 'Tis the
crown
men lust for, not the scepter."

"Who wears the one must wield the other," Ebenezer answered. "The man men bow to is lead sheep in a running flock, that must set their pace or perish."

"Ye'll rule, then, in your city?" Bertrand wanted to know.

"Aye," said Ebenezer. They were sitting side by side, their backs against the cliff, gazing idly out to sea. "And what a government would I establish! 'Twould be an anti-Platonist republic."

"I should hope, sir! What need have you of the Pope, when thou'rt the god?"

"Nay, Bertrand. This Plato spoke of a nation ruled by philosophers, to which no poets might be admitted save those that sing the praises of the government. There is an antique quarrel 'twixt poet and sage."

"Marry, as for that," Bertrand said, " 'tis little different from England or any place else; no prudent king would let a poet attack him. Why did Lord Baltimore employ ye, if not to sing the praises of his government, or John Coode work to your ruin, if not to squelch the poem? Why, this wondrous place ye speak of could as well be Maryland!"

"You miss my point," Ebenezer said uncomfortably. "To forbid a subject for verse is one thing; to prescribe, another. In my town philosophers will all be welcome -- so long as they do not start insurrections -- but a poet shall be their god, and a poet their king, and poets all their councillors: 'twill be a
poetocracy!
Methinks 'twas this Sir William Davenant had in's mind, what time he sailed in vain to govern Maryland. The poet-king, Bertrand -- 'tis a thought to conjure with! Nor is't folly, I swear: who better reads the hearts of men, philosopher or poet? Which is in closer harmony with the world?" He had more to say to Bertrand on the subject, which had been stewing all morning in his fancy, but at this instant a pair of savages fell, as it were, out of the blue and stood before them, spears in hand. They were half-grown boys, no more than ten or twelve years old, dressed in matchcoats and deerskin trousers; their skin was not brown-black like Drakepecker's but copper-brown, the color of the cliffs, and their hair, so far from being short and woolly, fell straight and black below their shoulders. They put on the fiercest look they could manage and aimed their spears at the white men. Bertrand shrieked.

" "Sheart!" cried Ebenezer, and raised his arm to protect his face. "Drakepecker! Where is Drakepecker!"

"He hath undone us!" Bertrand wailed. "The wretch hath played us false!"

But it was unthinkable that the boys had leaped from the cliff top, and unlikely that they had climbed down without making a sound or dislodging a pebble. It seemed probable to Ebenezer that they had been hiding in the cave, above their heads, waiting their chance to jump. One of them addressed the prisoners sharply in an unknown tongue, signaling them to rise, and pointed to the mouth of the cave.

"Must we climb up?" asked Ebenezer, and for answer felt a spear point prick his ham.

"Tell them we're gods!" Bertrand urged. "They mean to eat us alive!"

The command was repeated; they scrambled up the rocks to the lip of the cave. The boys chattered as though to someone inside, and from the shadow an older, calmer voice answered. The prisoners were forced to enter -- bent over, since the roof was never more than five feet high. The inside stank of excrement and other unnameable odors. After a few moments, when their eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they saw a full-grown savage lying naked on a blanket on the floor, which was littered with shells, bones, and crockery pots. At least part of the stench came from his right knee, wrapped in ragged bandages. He raised himself on his elbows, wincing, and scrutinized the prisoners. Then, to their unspeakable surprise, he said "English?"

"I'God!" Ebenezer gasped. "Who are you, sir, that you speak our tongue?"

The savage considered again their matted hair, torn clothing, and bare feet. "You seek Quassapelagh? Did Warren send you for Quassapelagh?" The boys moved closer with their spears.

"We seek no one," the poet said, clearly and loudly. "We are Englishmen, thrown into the sea by pirates to drown; we reached this isle last night, by great good fortune, but we know not where we are."

One of the boys spoke excitedly and brandished his spear, eager to have at them, but the older man silenced him with a word.

"Prithee spare us," Ebenezer pleaded. "We do not know this
Warren
that you speak of, or any soul else hereabouts."

Again the youths made as if to run them through. The injured savage rebuked them more sharply than before and apparently ordered them to stand guard outside, for they evacuated the clammy cave with some show of reluctance.

"They are good boys," the savage said. "They hate the English as much as I, and wish to kill you."

"Then there are English on this island? What is the name of't?" Bertrand was still too frightened to speak, but Ebenezer, despite his recent daydreams of a poet's island, could not contain his joy at the prospect of rejoining his countrymen.

The savage regarded him narrowly. "You do not know where you are?"

"Only that 'tis an ocean isle," the Laureate replied.

"And you know not the name of Quassapelagh, the Anacostin King?"

"Nay."

For some moments their captor continued to search their faces. Then, as though persuaded of their innocence, he lay back on the pallet and stared at the roof of the cave.

"I am Quassapelagh," he declared. "The Anacostin King."

"King!"
Bertrand exclaimed in a whisper to Ebenezer. "D'ye think he's king of one of our golden towns?"

"This is the land of the Piscataways." Quassapelagh went on. "These are the fields and forests of the Piscataways. That water is the water of the Piscataways: these cliffs are our cliffs. They have belonged to the Piscataways since the beginning of the world. My father was a king in this land, and his father, and his father; and so for a time was I. But Quassapelagh is king no more, nor will my sons and grandsons rule."

"Ask him which way to the nearest golden town," Bertrand whispered, but his master gestured him to silence.

"Why do you lie here in this miserable den?" Ebenezer asked. " 'Tis no fit dwelling for a king, methinks."

"This country is Quassapelagh's no more," the King replied. "Your people have stolen it away. They came in ships, with sword and cannon, and took the fields and forests from my father. They have herded us like animals and driven us off. And when I said, 'This land belongs to the Piscataways,' they turned me into prison. Our emperor, Ochotomaquath, must hide like an animal in the hills, and in his place sits a young whelp Passop, that licketh the English emperor's boots. My people must do his bidding or starve."

"Injustice!" Ebenezer cried. "Did you hear, Bertrand? Who is this
Warren
that so presumes, and makes me feel shame to be an Englishman? Some rogue of a pirate, I'll wager, that hath claimed the island for his own. I'faith!" He clutched at the valet's sleeve. "I recall old Carl, the sailmaker, spoke of a pirate town called Libertatia, on the Isle of Madagascar; pray God 'tis not the same!"

"I know not the Emperor's name," Quassapelagh said, "for he hath but lately come to oppress my nation. This Warren is but a jailer and chief of soldiers --"

At this moment a great commotion began outside the cave.

"Drakepecker!" Bertrand cried.

There at the cave's mouth the great black stood indeed: at his feet, dropped in anger, lay the rude spear improvised by Ebenezer, on which two bloody rabbits were impaled, and in each great hand he held a young sentry by the neck. One he had already by some means disarmed, and before the other could use his weapon to advantage, the fearsome Negro cracked their heads together and flung them to the beach below.

"Bravo!" Ebenezer cheered.

"In here, Drakepecker!" Bertrand called, and leaped to pinion Quassapelagh. "Come hither and crack this rascal's head as well!"

The Negro snatched up his spear and charged into the cave with a roar, plainly intending to add Quassapelagh to his other trophies.

"Stay!
Drakepecker!"
Ebenezer commanded.

"Stick him!" shouted Bertrand, holding Quassapelagh's arms from behind. The savage offered no resistance, but regarded the intruder with stern contempt.

"I forbid it!" said Ebenezer, and grasped the spear.

Bertrand protested: " 'Tis what the wretch designed for us, sir!"

"If so, he showed no sign of't. Release him." When his arms were free Quassapelagh lay back on the blanket and stared impassively at the ceiling. "Those young boys were his sons," Ebenezer said. "Go with Drakepecker and fetch them here, if he hath not killed them." The two men went, Bertrand with considerable misgivings which he did not hesitate to give voice to, and Ebenezer said to Quassapelagh, "Forgive my man for injuring your sons; he thought we were in peril. We mean you no harm at all, sir. You have suffered enough at English hands."