The Sot-Weed Factor (59 page)

Mary mused at the stable door: " 'Twas the whole o' God's creation Charley laughed at! I can hear him laugh at Kate when he did our thing to her, and again when she barked, and he put her to the knife; when I ride about my rounds or eat a meal, I hear that laugh, and it colors the world I look at, and sours the food in my belly! Naught remains o' Wilhelm Tick but his wretched ghost, that some say wanders nightly down Tick's Path; and naught remains o' Charley save that laugh. The while I told this tale to you I've heard it. Each night I see him laughing in the hangman's noose, and must needs liquor myself to sleep; yet all in vain, for sleep is but a hot dream of my Charley, and I wake with his voiceless laugh still in my ears. Ah God! Ah God!"

She could speak no more. Ebenezer accompanied her out to her wagon and helped her up to the seat, thanking her once more for her generosity and for telling him the tale.

" 'Twas curiosity alone that pricked me," he remarked with a rueful smile. "I took an interest in your Charley when first I heard of him from Father Smith in Talbot, and could not have said wherefore; but this tale of yours hath touched me in unexpected ways."

Mary picked up the reins and took her whip in hand. "Then ye must pray 'twill touch ye no farther. Master Laureate, for as yet thou'rt still an audience to that laugh."

"What do you mean?"

She leaned toward him, her great face puffed and creased with mirth, and answered in a husky whisper: "Yesterday at court, when ye keelhauled poor Ben Spurdance and signed your whole plantation o'er to that devil William Smith --"

Ebenezer winced at the memory. "I'God, then you were there to see my folly?"

"I was there. What's more, Cooke's Point was erst a station on my route: Ben Spurdance is an old and honest friend and client o' mine, and did your father as good a job as any overseer could. I had as great a wish as Ben to see Bill Smith undone. . ."

The Laureate was aghast. "You mean you saw what I was doing and knew 'twas done in ignorance? Dear Heav'n, why did you not cry out, or stay me ere I signed Smith's wretched paper?"

"I saw the thing coming the instant ye cried out who ye are," Mary replied. "I saw poor Ben grow pale at your speech, and the knave Bill Smith commence to gloat and rub his hands. I could have checked your folly in a moment."

"Withal, I heard no frenzied warnings," Ebenezer said bitterly, "from you or anyone else save Spurdance, his trollop of a witness, and my friend Henry -- I mean Timothy Mitchell, that all had other reasons for alarm. The rest of the crowd only whispered among themselves, and I even heard some heartless devil laugh --" He checked himself and frowned incredulously at his benefactor. "Surely 'twas not
you!"

" 'Twas
my
ruin as well as yours I laughed at, as Tim Mitchell might explain if ye should ask him. 'Tis a disease, little poet, like pox or clap! Where Charley took it, God only knows, but yesterday showed me, for the first time, I've caught it from him!" She snapped the reins to start her horse, and chuckled unpleasantly. "Stay virgin if ye can, lad; take your maidenhead to the tomb, and haply ye shan't ever be infected!
Hup
there!" She whipped up the horse and drove away, her head flung back in mute hilarity.

Having Agreed That Naught Is in Men Save

Perfidy, Though Not Necessarily That
Jus

est id quod cliens fecit,
the Laureate at

Last Lays Eyes on His Estate

M
uch moved and disconcerted,
Ebenezer stood for some moments in the courtyard. Disturbing enough had been the insight into Burlingame afforded him by the tale of Mynheer Tick: this final disclosure was almost beyond assimilation!

"I must seek Henry out at once," he resolved, "despite what he hath said of himself and Anna."

When he recalled Burlingame's taunting confessions of the night past, his skin broke into heavy perspiration, his legs gave way, and he was obliged to sit for a time in the dust with chattering teeth. In addition he took a short fit of sneezing, for it was not wholly perturbation that afflicted him: he very definitely was feverish, and his night in the corncrib had given him a cold as well. Many hours had passed since his last meal, yet he had no appetite for breakfast, and when he got to his feet in order to seek out Burlingame and lodge a complaint with the innkeeper regarding the theft of his clothes, the ground swayed under him, and his head pounded. He entered the inn and, oblivious to the stares his unusual appearance drew, went straight to the barman -- not the same who had served him on the previous evening.

"By Heav'n!" he cried. " 'Tis the end of religion, when a man cannot sleep safely e'en in a corncrib! Is't a den of thieves you keep? Shall the Lord Proprietor learn that such crimes go unredressed in the inns of his province?"

"Haul in thy sheets, lad," the barman said. " 'Tis not wise to go on so of Lords Proprietors in these times."

Ebenezer scowled with embarrassment: in his dizziness he had forgotten, as he was increasingly wont to do, that Lord Baltimore had no authority in the Province and that he himself had never met that gentleman.

"Some wretch hath filched my clothes," he grumbled. The other patrons at the bar laughed -- among them a plump, swarthy little man in a black suit who looked familiar.

"Ah well," the barman said, "that's not uncommon. Belike some wag threw your clothes in the fire for a joke, or took 'em to replace his own as was burnt. No hurt intended."

"As a joke! Marry, but you scoundrels have a nice wit!"

"If't gripe your bowels so, I'll not charge ye for last night's lodging. Fair enough?"

"You'd charge a man money to sleep in that rat's nest? You'll return me my clothes or replace 'em, and that at once, or laureateship be damned, all of Maryland shall feel the sting of my rhymes!"

The barman's expression changed: he regarded Ebenezer with new interest. "Thou'rt Mister Cooke, then, the Laureate of Maryland?"

"No other soul," Ebenezer said.

"The same that signed his property away?" He glanced at the black-suited man, who nodded confirmation.

"Then I have a message for ye, from Timothy Mitchell."

"From Timothy? Where is he? What doth he say?"

The barman fished a folded scrap of paper from his breeches. "He left us late last night, as I understand it, but writ this poem for ye to read."

Ebenezer snatched the paper and read with consternation:

To Ebenezer Cooke, Gentleman,

Poet & Laureate of the Province of Maryland

When from the Corn thou hiest thy Bum,

And to the Tavern haply come,

AII stiff from chill Octobers Breezes,

Full of Sniffs, and Snots, and Sneezes,

Go not with many a Sigh and Groan

To seek out Colt or fragrant Roan;

For
Roan,
that seldom us'd to falter,

Hath fairly this time slipt her Halter,

And
Colts
gone with her, and I as well,

Leaving thee to fry in
Hell

With all thy Poses and Buffoonery.

Perchance this Piece of fine Poltroonery

Will teach thee that with mortal Men

'Tis Folly to call any
Friend;

For Friendship's but a fragile Farce

'Twixt Man and Man. So kiss my Arse,

Poor
Ebenezer,
foolish Bard
--

And henceforth ne'er relax thy Guard!

Timothy Mitchell, E
^sq

For some moments after reading Henry's parting insults, Ebenezer was dumb struck.

"Friendship a farce 'twixt man and man!" he cried at last. " 'Twixt thee and me. Henry, let us say, for 'twixt me and thee it was no farce! Ah God, deliver me from such another friend!"

The swarthy fellow in the black suit observed these lamentations with amusement and said, "Bad news is't, Mister Cooke?"

"Bad news indeed!" the Laureate groaned. "Yesterday my whole estate; today my clothes, my horse, and my friend lost in a single stroke! I see naught for't but the pistol." Despite his anguish, he recognized the man as the advocate who had pled for William Smith in court.

"By Blaise's wool comb, 'tis a wicked world," the fellow observed.

"Thou'rt no stranger to its evils, methinks!" the poet said.

"Ah now, take no offense at me, friend: St. Windoline's crook, 'twas yourself that worked your ruin, not I! I merely labored for the interests of my client, as every advocate must. Sowter's my name -- Richard Sowter, from down the county. What I mean, sir, your advocate's a most pragmatical wight, that looks for justice no farther than his client's deeds. He tweaks Justinian's beard and declares that
jus est id quod cliens fecit.
Besides, the law's but one amongst my interests. Will ye take an ale with me?"

"I thank you," Ebenezer sighed, but declined on the grounds that his last night's liquor was still taking its toll on his head. "Forgive my rudeness, sir: I am most distraught and desperate."

"As well ye might be, by St. Agatha's butchered bosoms! 'Tis a wicked world, and rare ye find some good in't."

" 'Tis a wicked province; that I'll grant."

"Why," Sowter went on, " 'twas just last month, or the one before, a young sprat came to see me, young fellow from down-county, he was, came into the smithy where my office is -- I run a smithy on the side, ye know -- came in and says to me, 'Mr. Sowter,' he says, 'I need a lawyer.' 'St. Huldrick's crab lice!' says I: 'What have ye done to need a lawyer?' 'Mr. Sowter,' he says, 'I am a young fool, that I am,' he says, 'I have lived the spendthrift life, have I, and got myself in debt.' 'Ah well,' says I, 'by Giles's hollow purse, I am no money-lender, son.' 'Nay, sir,' says he, 'the fact of't is, my creditors were pressing hard, and I feared 'twas the pillory for me, so what did I do? I hied me to Morris Boon, the usuring son o' Sodom.' 'Peter's fingers, boy,' says I, 'Ye did not!' 'I did,' says he: 'I went to Morris Boon and I says,
Morris, I need money,
I says. So Morris lent me on his usual terms: that directly my debts are paid I must surrender me to his beasty pleasures.' 'Thou'rt a Mathurin's fool!' cries I. 'That I am,' says the lad. 'Now I've settled all my debts, and Morris is waiting his pleasure.' 'Son,' I says then, 'pray to St. Gildas, for I cannot aid ye.' 'Ye must,' says he. 'I have faith in ye.' 'It wants more than faith,' says I. 'I have more than faith,' says he. 'I've wagered money on ye.' And so I asked him, how was that? And he replied, 'I wagered old Morris ye'd get me out o' my pickle.' 'St. Dymphna protects ye,' says I. 'What did ye wager?' 'If ye get me fairly out,' says he, 'Morris pays me again what he loaned me before, and 'tis yours for saving me. If not, why then Morris vows he'll ravish the twain of us from stump to stopgap.' 'Wretch!' says I. 'Had ye to fetch me thus into thy unclean bargain?'

"But there was no help for't," Sowter sighed. "On the morrow the lad comes back, with Morris the usurer hard upon his heels. 'Preserve me!' says the boy. 'Preserve thyself,' says Morris, and eyes me up and down. 'I want the payment we agreed upon.' But I'd not been idle since the day before, and so I said, 'Hold on, sir, by Appolonia's eye-teeth! Rein your horse! What sum was't ye lent this idler here?' 'Twelve hundredweight o' sot-weed,' says Morris. 'And for what purpose?' 'To pay his debts,' says Morris. 'And under what conditions?' 'That his debts once clear, he's mine whene'er I fancy him this month.' 'Well, then,' says I to the lad, that was like to beshit himself for fear, 'the case is closed, by Lucy's wick dipper: see to't ye never return him his twelve hundredweight. 'Why is that?' asks the boy, and Morris as well. 'Why, Fridoline's eyeglasses.' says I, 'don't ye see't? If ye do not repay him, your debts aren't clear, and so long as thou'rt encumbered, ye need not go to Morris. The truth is, while thou'rt in debt thou'rt free!'

"St. Wulfgang's gout, sirs, I can tell ye old Morris set up a hollowing at that, for I had swived him fair, and he's a man of his word. He paid the young scamp another twelve hundredweight and sent him off with a curse; but the more he thought of't, the more my trick amused him, till at the end we laughed until we wept. Now then, by Kentigern's salmon, what was I after proving?"

"That naught's in men save perfidy," said Ebenezer. "Yet the lad was not wicked, nor were you in saving him."

"Ha! Little ye know," laughed Sowter. "My actual end was not to save the lad but to fox old Morris, who many a time hath had the better of me. As for the lad, by Wulstan's crozier, he never paid me, but took the tobacco-note himself and doubtless went a-whoring. There is a small good in men." He sighed. "Why, there's a redemptioner this minute in my boat --"

"No more!" cried Ebenezer, clutching his head in his hands. "What use have I for farther tales? The pistol now is all I crave, to end my pain."

"Oh la, St. Roque's hound-bitch!" Sowter scoffed. " 'Tis but the vagrant track o' life, that beds ye now in clover, now in thistles. Make shift to bear't a day at a time, and ten years hence ye'll still be sleeping somewhere, and filling thy bowels with dinner, and rogering some wench from Adrian to St. Yves."

" 'Tis light to advise," said the poet, "but this day itself shall see me starve, for I've naught to buy food with and nowhere to go."

"Cooke's Point is but a few hours' sail downriver. If
I
came half around the world to find a place, by St. Ethelbert I'd not blow out my brains till I laid eyes on't!"

This suggestion greatly surprised Ebenezer. "My valet awaits me there," he said thoughtfully, "and my -- my betrothed as well, I hope. Poor Joan, and loyal Bertrand! What must they think of me!" He gripped Sowter's arm. "D'you think that scoundrel Smith hath turned them out?"

"There, now, by Pieran's millstone!" Sowter said. "Thou'rt angry, and anger's e'er a physic for despair. I know naught o' these folk ye speak of, but I'm sure they'll meet no ill reception at Malden. Bill Smith hath his shortcomings, yet he'd ne'er turn out your guests to starve, much less the Laureate himself. Why, haply your friend Tim Mitchell's there as well, and they're all at a game o' ducks and drakes, or dancing a morris dance!"

Ebenezer shook his head. "Yet e'en this last small joy shall be denied me, for I've not the hire of a boat."

"Why then, by Gudule's lantern, ye must come with me," the lawyer said, and explained that he meant to sail out to Malden that very morning, and the Laureate was welcome to come along as ballast. "I have some business there with Mr. Smith," he said, "and must deliver him a servant that I bought this morning for a song."

Ebenezer murmured some words of gratitude; he was, in fact, scarcely able to attend Sowter's speech, for his fever seemed to mount with every passing minute. When they left the inn and walked toward the wharf nearby, he viewed the scene before him as with a drunkard's eyes.

"-- most cantankerous wight ye ever did see," he heard Sowter saying as they reached the wharf. "Swears by Gertrude's mousetrap he's no redemptioner at all, but a servant seller out o' Talbot, that is victim of a monstrous prank."

"I am not a well man," the Laureate remarked. "Really, I feel not well at all."

"I've heard my share o' clever stories fro'm redemptioners," Sowter went on, "but St. Tom's packthread, if this one doth not take the prize! Why, would ye believe it --"

" 'Tis the seasoning, belike," Ebenezer interrupted, though it could not be said with certainty whether he was addressing Sowter or himself.

"Ye'll be all right, with a day in bed," the lawyer said. "What I was about to say -- nay, not there: my boat's that small sloop yonder by the post -- what I was about to say, this great lout claims his name is --"

"Tom Tayloe!" roared a voice from the sloop. "Tom Tayloe o' Talbot County, damn your eyes, and ye know't as well as I, Dick Sowter!"

"St. Sebastian's pincushion, hear him rave!" chuckled Sowter. "Yet his name is writ on the indenture for all to see: 'tis
John McEvoy,
plain as day, from Puddledock in London."

Ebenezer clutched a piling for support. " 'Tis my delirium!"

"Aye, St. Pernel's ague, thou'rt not thyself," the lawyer admitted.

"Ye know full well I'm not McEvoy!" shouted the man in the boat. "McEvoy was the wretch that duped me!"

Focusing his eyes on the sloop, Ebenezer saw the complainant shackled by one wrist to the gunwale. His hair was red, as was his beard, but even through the swimming eyes of fever Ebenezer saw that he was not the John McEvoy he had feared. He was too old, for one thing -- in his forties, at the least -- and too fat: a mountain of flesh, twice the size of fat Ben Oliver, he was quite the most corpulent human the poet had beheld.

"That is not John McEvoy," he declared, as Sowter helped him into the sloop.

"There, now, ye blackguard!" the prisoner cried. "E'en this skinny wretch admits it, that ye doubtless bribed to swear me false!" He turned imploringly to Ebenezer. " 'Tis a double injury I've been done, sir: this Sowter knows I'm not McEvoy, but he got the papers cheap and means to carry out the fraud!"

"Tush," Sowter answered, and bade his crewmen, of whom there were two, get the sloop under way. "I'm going below to draw up certain papers," he said to Ebenezer. "Ye may take your ease in the cabin till we raise Cooke's Point."

"I beg ye hear me out," the servant pleaded. "Ye said already ye know I'm not McEvoy: haply ye'll believe this is unjust."