The Sot-Weed Factor

by John Barth

  “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 n
ot 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.”

  But the savage remained impassive. “Shall I rejoice to find an Englishman with mercy?” He pointed to his evil-smelling knee. “Which is more merciful, a spear in the heart or this poisoned knee, that I cut while fleeing like a rabbit in the night? If my sons are dead, I starve; if they live I die of this poison. Your heart is good: I ask you to kill Quassapelagh.”

  Presently Bertrand and the Negro returned, marching at the points of their spears the two young boys, who seemed to be suffering only from bruises and sore heads.

  “It is enough that my sons live,” Quassapelagh said. “Tell your man to kill me now.”

  “Nay, I’ve better work for him,” Ebenezer said, and to Bertrand he declared, “Drakepecker will remain here with the king and mind his wants while we sound the temper of these English bandits. The boys can lead us to the outskirts of their settlement.”

  “ ’Tis not mine to argue,” Bertrand sighed. “I only hope they’ve not snatched all the goden towns and set themselves up as gods.”

  Ebenezer then made clear to the Negro, by means of signs, that he wished him to feed the King and dress the infected knee; to the latter item, presented more as a query than a command, the black man responded with bright affirmative nods and an enthusiastic chatter that suggested acquaintance with some prophylactic or therapeutic measures. Without more ado he removed the dirty dressing and examined the malodorous inflammation with a clearly chirurgical interest. Then, in his own tongue, accompanying his orders with enough gesticulation for clarity, he directed one of the boys to clean and cook the rabbits and sent the other to fetch two crockery pots of water.

  “ ’Sheart!” Bertrand said respectfully. “The wight’s a physician as well! ’Tis an honor to be his god, is’t not, sir?”

  The poet smiled. “Haply he merits a better, Bertrand; he is in sooth a masterly creation.”

  Before two hours had elapsed, the rabbits were cooked and eaten—along with raw oysters provided by the youths and a kind of parched and powdered corn called rockahominy, of which the King had a large jarful—and Quassapelagh’s wound had been lanced with his own knife, drained of pus, washed clean, and dressed with some decotion brewed by the Negro out of various roots and herbs which he had gathered in the woods while the rabbits were roasting. Even the savages were impressed by the performance: the boys fingered their lumps with more of awe than of resentment, and Quassapelagh’s hard eyes shone.

  “If the English are not far distant, I should like to have a look at them ere dark,” the Laureate announced. When Quassapelagh replied that they were not above three miles away, he repeated his orders to the Negro, who, kneeling as usual at the sound of his name, acquiesced tearfully to the separation.

  “If we find them to be pirates or highwaymen, we’ll return at once,” Ebenezer told the King.

  “The Emperor of the English will not harm you,” Quassapelagh said, “nor need you fear for my sons, who are unknown to him. But speak not the name of the Anacostin King to any man unless you wish me dead, and do not return to this cave. Your kindness to Quassapelagh will not be forgotten.” He spoke in the native tongue to one of the boys, fetched him a small leather packet from the rear of the cave.

  “ ’Tis a map of the Seven Cities he means to show us!” Bertrand whispered.

  “Take these,” said the King, and gave to each of the men a small amulet, carved, it appeared, from the vertebra of a large fish—a hollow, watery-white cylinder of bone perhaps three quarters of an inch in width and half that in diameter, with small projections where the dorsal and ventral ribs had been cut off and the near-translucence characteristic of the bones of fish. Bertrand’s face fell. “It seems a small repayment for my life,” Quassapelagh said sternly, “but it was for one of these that Warren turned me free.”

  “This Warren is a fool,” grumbled Bertrand.

  The King ignored him. “Wear it as a ring upon your finger,” he told Ebenezer. “One day when Death is very close, this ring may turn him away.”

  Ebenezer too was somewhat disappointed by the present, the rude carvings of which could not even be called decorative, but he accepted it politely and, since the outside diameter was too large for comfort, strung it upon a thin rawhide thong and wore it around his neck, under his shirt. Bertrand, on the other hand, stuffed his ungraciously into a pocket of his trousers. Then, it being already late in the afternoon and the beach in shadow from the cliffs, they bade warm goodbyes to the big Negro and Quassapelagh and, with the savage boys as guides, ascended to the forest and struck out more or less north-westward, moving slowly because of their bare feet.

  “Thou’rt not o’erjoyed at traveling to our countrymen,” Ebenezer observed to Bertrand.

  “I’m not o’erjoyed at walking into a pirates’ nest, when we could as lightly search for golden towns,” the valet admitted. “Nor did we drive a happy bargain with that salvage king, to trade Drakepecker for a pair of fishbones.”

  “ ’Twas not a trade, nor yet a gift,” the poet said. “If he was obliged to us for his life, then saving ours discharged his obligation.”

  But Bertrand was not so easily mollified.

  “ ’Sbody, sir, I mean nor selfishness nor blasphemy, but ’tis precious rare a valet gets to be a god! Yet I’d scarce commenced to take the measure of the office, as’t were, and get the hang of’t, ere ye trade off my parishioner for a pitiful pair of fishbones! I wanted but another day or two to god it about, don’t ye know, ere we turned old Drakepecker loose.”

  “Not I,” the Laureate said. “ ’Tis a post I feel well quit of. We found him cast up helpless from the sea and left him helpful in a cave; he hath been slave to a god and now is servant to a king. Whither he goes thence is his own affair. We twain did well to start him on his journey—is that not godding it enough? Besides which,” he concluded, “you had not the chore of keeping him occupied, as I did, or you’d not complain; I was pleased to find that work to set him to. If we reach our golden cities, my own shall be republican, not theocratic, nor have I any wish to be its ruler. That much Drakepecker hath taught me.”

  Bertrand smiled. “Ye’ve been not long a master, thus to speak, sir! D’ye think I mean to fill my head with dogmas and decretals, once I’m in my temple? That is the work of the lesser fry—priests and clerks and all that ilk. A god doth naught but sit and sniff the incense, count his money, and take his pick o’ the wenches.”

  “Methinks your reign in Heaven shan’t be long,” Ebenezer observed.

  “Nor doth it need be,” said his valet.

  After a while the woods thinned out, and to westward, through the trees, they saw a cleared field of considerable size in which grew orderly green rows of an unfamiliar broad-leaved plant. Ebenezer’s heart leaped at the sight.

  “Look yonder, Bertrand! That is no salvage crop!” He laid hold of one of their guides and pointed to the field. “What do you call that?” he demanded loudly, as if to achieve communication by volume. “What is the name of that? Did the English plant that field?”

  The boy caught up the word happily and nodded. “English. English.” Then he launched into some further observation, in the course of which Ebenezer heard the word tobacco.

  “Tobacco?” he inquired. “That is tobacco?”

  “How can that be?” Bertrand wondered.

  “ ’Tis not so strange, after all,” said the Laureate. “Captain Pound was wont to sail the latitude of the Azores, that ran to the Virginia Capes, and any isle along that parallel would have Virginia’s climate, would it not?”

  Bertrand then demanded to know why a band of pirates would waste their time on agriculture.

  “We have no proof they’re pirates,” Ebenezer reminded him. “They could as well be sot-weed smugglers, of which Henry Burlingame declares there are a great number, or simply honest plante
rs. ’Tis a thing to hope for, is’t not?”

  A contrary sentiment showed in Bertrand’s face, but before he had a chance to voice it the two boys motioned them to silence. The four moved stealthily through a final grove of trees to where the forest ended at a riverbank on the north and a roadway paved with bare logs on the west. Sounds of activity came to them from a large log structure like a storehouse, obviously the work of white men, that ran from the roadside back into the trees; at their guide’s direction they crept up to the rear wall, from which point of vantage, their hearts in their mouths, they could safely peer down the road toward the river.

  “I’God!” Ebenezer whispered. The noise they had heard, a rumbling and chanting, was made by several teams of three Negroes each, who, barefoot and naked to the waist, were rolling enormous wooden hogsheads over the road down to a landing at the river’s edge and singing as they worked. On a pier that ran out from the shore was a group of bareheaded, shoeless men dressed in bleached and tattered Scotch cloth, who despite their sunburnt faces and generally uncouth appearance were plainly of European and not barbaric origin, they were engaged in nothing more strenuous than leaning against the pilings, smoking pipes, passing round a crockery jug (after each drink from which they wiped their mouths on the tops of their hairy forearms), and watching the Negroes wrestle their burdens into a pair of lighters moored alongside. At sight of them Ebenezer rejoiced but more marvelous still—so marvelous that the beholding of it brought tears to his eyes—out in mid-channel of the broad river, which must have been nearly two miles wide at that point, a stately, high-pooped, three-masted vessel rode at anchor, loading cargo from the lighters, and from her maintop hung folds of red, white, and blue that could be no other banner but the King’s colors.

  “These are no brigands, but honest English planters!” Ebenezer laughed. “ ’Tis some island of the Indies we have hit on!” And for all the others warned him to be silent, he cried out for joy, burst out onto the roadway, and ran whooping and hallooing to the wharf. The young savages fled into the forest; Bertrand, filled with gloom and consternation, lingered by the warehouse wall to watch.