Author: John Barth
Category: Fiction
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“ ‘Naught but what ye know already,’ said he: ‘that ye was fished like a jimmy-crab from the waves of the Chesapeake.’ ”
“Stay!” Ebenezer cried. “I’ve ne’er heard you speak of’t, Henry!”
“ ’Twas as new to me then as to you now,” Burlingame said. “I expressed your surprise tenfold and assaulted Captain Hill with questions. When at length I convinced him I was a perfect stranger to the matter, he explained ’twas in the early part of 1654 or ‘55, to the best of his memory, during a run up the Chesapeake from Piscataway to Kent Island, Captain Salmon’s vessel had come upon an empty canoe driven before the wind. The sailors guessed ’twas blown from some salvage Indian and would have taken no further note of it, save that on passing closer they heard strange cries issuing from it. Word was sent to Captain Salmon, who ordered the vessel hove to and sent a boat over to investigate.”
“Marry, Henry!” Ebenezer said breathlessly. “Was’t you?”
“Aye, a lad of two or three months, stark naked and like to perish of the cold. My hands and feet were bound with rawhide, and on my skin, like a sailor’s tattoo, was writ the name Henry Burlingame III, in small red letters. They fetched me aboard—”
“Wait, I pray you! I must assimilate these wonders, that you drop as light as a goose-dung! Naked and tattooed, i’faith! Is’t still to be seen?”
“Nay, ’tis long since faded.”
“But how come you to be there? Surely ’twas some villainy!”
“No man knows,” Burlingame said. “The canoe and the thongs wherewith I was bound bespoke salvagery, yet there’s not a salvage in the country knows his letters, to my knowledge, and my skin and scalp were whole.”
“Agad!” Ebenezer cried. “What creature is’t could bear such malice to a silly babe, that not content to do him to death, must do’t in such a hard and lingering fashion?”
“ ’Tis a mystery to this day. In any case, Captain Salmon had me clapped under coverlets in his own cabin, where for ten days and nights I hung ’twixt here and hereafter, and fed me on fresh goat’s milk. At length my fever abated and my health returned; Captain Salmon took a fancy to me and resolved ere his ship returned to Bristol I would be his son. More than this my Captain Hill knew naught, and though ’twas volumes more than erst I’d known, yet so far from laying my curiosity, it but pricked him up the more. I offered then and there to join the Hope’s crew for the voyage back to Maryland, where I meant to turn the very marshes inside out for clues.”
“ ’Twas a desperate resolve, was’t not?” Ebenezer smiled. “The more since you knew not whence the canoe had blown, or where the ship o’ertook it.”
“It was indeed,” Burlingame agreed, “though a desperate resolve may sometimes meet success. In any case, ’twas that or give over my quest. I had a fortnight’s time ere the Hope sailed, and like a proper scholar I ransacked the records of the Customs-House. My end this time was to search out all the Burlingames in Maryland, for once in the Province I meant to make my way to each, by fair means or foul, and dig for what I sought.”
“Well,” said Ebenezer, “and did you find any?”
Burlingame shook his head. “To the best of my knowledge not a man or woman of that name lives now in the Province, or hath ever since its founding. Next I resolved to search the records of all the other provinces in like manner, working north and south in turn from Maryland. The task was rendered harder by the many changes in grants and charters over the years, and farther by the fear of civil war, which ever works a wondrous ruin to the custom clerk’s faith in his fellow man. I started on Virginia, working back from the current year, but ere I’d got past Cromwell’s time my fortnight was run, and off I sailed to Maryland.” Burlingame smiled and tapped ashes from his pipe. “Had the wind held bad another fortnight, I’d have found somewhat to fan my hopes enormously. As ’twas, I waited near two years to find it.”
“What was that? News of your father?”
“Nay, Eban—of that gentleman I know no more today than I knew then, nor of my mother or myself.”
“Ah, ’twere better you’d not told me that,” Ebenezer declared, clucking his tongue, “for it spoils the story. What man could pleasure in a quest, or the tale of one, that he knew ere he launched it was in vain?”
“Would you have me forego the rest?” Burlingame asked. “The news was merely of my grandfather, or so I believe—I’ve come to know somewhat of that fellow, at least.”
“Ah, thou’rt teasing me, then!”
Burlingame nodded and stood up. “I know no more of my father than before, but ’tis not to say I’m no nearer knowing. Howbeit, the tale shall have to keep.”
“What! Thou’rt not affronted, Henry?”
“Nay, nay,” Burlingame replied. “But I hear our driver harnessing the team in the yard. Stretch your legs a bit, lad, and relieve thyself ere we go.”
“But surely you’ll take up the tale again?” Ebenezer pleaded.
Burlingame shrugged. “ ’Twere better you slept if you can. If not, why then ’tis good to have a tale to wait the dawn with.”
At that moment the new driver burst in, cursing the rain, and told the travelers to make ready for departure. Accordingly they went outside, where a high March wind was whipping the light rain into spray.
5
Burlingame’s Tale Continued, Till Its Teller Falls Asleep
ONCE SETTLED IN the carriage for the second leg of their journey, Ebenezer and Burlingame tried to sleep, but found the road too rough. Despite their weariness, a half hour of pitching and bouncing persuaded them the attempt was vain, and they gave it up.
“Fie on it,” Ebenezer sighed. “Time enough to rest in the grave, as Father says.”
“True enough,” Burlingame agreed, “though to put it off too long is but to get there the sooner.”
At Ebenezer’s suggestion they filled and lit their pipes. Then the poet declared, “As for me, I welcome the postponement. Were my bladder full of Lethean dew instead of Bristol sherry, I still could ne’er forget the tale you’ve told me, nor hope to sleep till I’ve heard it out.”
“Thou’rt not bored with it?”
“Bored! Saving only the history of your travels with the gypsies, which you told me years ago in Cambridge, I ne’er have heard such marvels! ’Tis well I know thee a stranger to prevarication, else ’twere hard to credit such amazements.”
“Methinks then I had best leave off,” Burlingame said, “for no man knows another’s heart for certain, and what I’ve said thus far is but a tuning of the strings, as’t were.”
“Prithee strike ’em, then, without delay, and trust me to believe you.”
“Very well. ’Tis not so deadly long a story, but I must own ’tis a passing tangled one, with much running hither and thither and an army of names to bear in mind.”
“The grapes are no fewer on a tangled vine,” Ebenezer replied, and Burlingame without further prelude resumed his tale:
“ ’Twould have pleased Dick Hill well enough,” he said, “to keep me in his crew, for a week aboard caused all my sailor’s craft, which I’d not rehearsed for over fifteen years, to spring to mind. But once in Maryland I left his vessel and, not wishing to bind myself to one location by teaching, I took a post on Hill’s plantation.”
“Was’t not equally confining?” Ebenezer asked.
“Not for long. I began by keeping his books—for ’tis a rare planter there can do sums properly. Soon I so gained his confidence that he trusted me with the entire management of his sot-weed holdings on the Severn, declaring that though ’twas too considerable a business to let go, yet he had small love for’t, and had rather spend his time a-sailoring.”
“I’faith, then thou’rt a Maryland sot-weed planter before me! I must hear how you managed it.”
“Another time,” Burlingame replied, “for here the story makes sail and weighs its anchor. ’Twas 1688, and the provinces were in as great a ferment as England over Papist and Protestant. In Maryland and New England trouble
was particularly rife: Baltimore himself and most of the Maryland Council were Catholics, and both the Governor and Lieutenant Governor of New England—Sir Edmund Andros and Francis Nicholson—were also known to be no enemies of King James. The leader of the Maryland rebels was one John Coode—”
“Aye, I had that name from Baltimore,” Ebenezer said. “He is the false priest that snatched the government.”
“An extraordinary fellow, Eben, I swear’t! Haply you’ll meet him, for he’s still at large. His counterpart in New York was Jacob Leisler, who had designs on Nicholson. Now it happened that winter that Leisler came to Maryland for the purpose of conniving with Coode. Word had just reached us of King William’s landing, and ’twas their design to strike together, the one at St. Mary’s, the other at New York. To be brief, Captain Hill got wind of’t and sent me to New York in January, ere Leisler returned, to warn Nicholson.”
“Then Captain Hill is a Papist?”
“No more than you or I,” Burlingame replied. “ ’Twas not a matter of faith, in Maryland. Old Coode is no more for William than for James: ’tis government itself he loathes, and any kind of order! Leisler’s but a fop beside him.”
“May I never meet this Coode!” said Ebenezer. “Did you reach New York?”
“Aye, and Nicholson swore like a cannoneer at the news I brought him. He himself had come to Andros in ‘86 as captain of an Irish Papist troop, and in New York he’d celebrated the birth of James’s son; he knew well the rebels marked him for a Romanist and would lose no chance to turn him out. He tried in vain to keep the news suppressed, and inasmuch as Dick Hill had placed me at his service, he sent me on to Boston to warn Andros. I gained the confidence of both men, and at my own request spent the next few months as private messenger betwixt them—my virtue being that I was not a member of their official family and hence could move with ease among the rebels. Nay, I will own I more than once took it upon myself to pass as one of their number, and thus was able on occasion to report their doings to the Governor.”
“But thou’rt fearless, Henry!”
“Eh? Ah well, fearless or no, I did the cause of order small good. The rebels seized Andros that spring, as soon as they heard of William’s progress, and clapped him in the Boston jail. In New York they spread a tale that Nicholson meant to fire the town, and on the strength of it Leisler mustered force enough to take the garrison.”
“What of Nicholson? Did he escape?”
“Aye,” said Burlingame. “In June he fled by ship for London, and for all Leisler called him a privateer, he got back safely.”
“Safely!” Ebenezer cried. “Was’t not a case of frying pan to fire, to flee from Leisler into William’s arms?”
Burlingame laughed. “Nay, Eben, Old Nick is not so simple a fool as that, as you shall see betimes.”
“Well, what of thee, Henry? Did you make your way back to Maryland?”
“Nay again, for that were a leap to the fire indeed! ’Twas in July that Coode made his play, and by August had the Governor’s Council besieged in the Mattapany blockhouse. Nay, I stayed behind in New England—first in New York and then, when Nicholson was safely out, in Boston. My design was to get Sir Edmund Andros out of Castle Island prison.”
“B’m’faithl” said Ebenezer. “ ’Tis a tale out of Esquemeling!”
“In more ways than one,” Burlingame replied with a smile. “There lay in Boston harbor an English frigate, the Rose, designed to guard the local craft from pirates. John George, her captain, was friend enough of Andros that the rebels held him hostage, lest he bombard the town for the Governor’s release. ’Twas my wish to do exactly that, if need be, and spirit him off to France aboard the Rose.”
“However did you manage it?”
“I didn’t, though ’twas no fault of my plan. I found me a friend of Captain George’s named Thomas Pound, a pilot and mapmaker, who was ready for a price to show his loyalty to Andros. The Governor escaped, and five days later we slipped out of the harbor into Massachusetts Bay, put on the guise of pirates, and commenced to harass the fishing fleet.”
“ ’Sbody!”
“ ’Twas our intention so to nettle them that at last they’d send out Captain George in the Rose frigate to reduce us; then we’d sail to Rhode Island, pick up Andros, and set our course for France. But ere we’d brought them to such straits, word reached us Andros was already recaptured and on his way to England.”
“In any case,” Ebenezer said, “ ’twas a worthy attempt.”
“Belike it was, to start with,” Burlingame replied, “But as’t turned out, when Tom Pound learned ’twas all for naught, he was in a pickle: he could not sail into Boston harbor lest he be hanged for a pirate; nor could he cross to France for lack of provision. The upshot of it was, we turned to doing in earnest what before we’d feigned.”
“Nay, i’God!”
“Aye and we did: turned pirate, and prowled the northern coast for prey.”
“But marry, Henry—you were with them?”
“ ’Twas that or be thrown to the fishes, Eben. Aye, I fought along with the rest, nor can I say in truth I loathed it, though I felt it wrong. There is a charm in outlawry that the good man little dreams of… ’Tis a liquor—”
“I pray you were not long drunk with it!” Ebenezer said. “It seems a perilous brew.”
“ ’Tis no pap for sucklings, I must own. For full two months Pound robbed and plundered, though he seldom got aught for his pain save salt pork and fresh water. In October he was set on by a Boston sloop off Martha’s Vineyard, and every soul aboard killed or wounded. I, thank Heav’n, had made my escape some weeks before, in Virginia, and inasmuch as I’d assumed another name throughout my stay in New England, I little feared detection. I made the best of’t back to Maryland and rejoined Dick Hill in Anne Arundel, who’d long since given me up for dead. I was the more anxious to leave Pound for that John Coode knew Captain Hill for an enemy and was sure to work him some injury ere long. Moreover, I had another reason, more selfish, it may be, but no less pressing: I had word that there were Burlingames in Virginia!”
“Nay, ’tis marvelous!” cried Ebenezer. “Kin of thine?”
“That I knew not, nor whether any were yet alive; I had it only that a Burlingame—in sooth a Henry Burlingame—was among the very first to settle in that dominion, and I meant to find excuse to go there and make enquiries.”
“How ever came you to hear of’t, while you sailed willy-nilly o’er the ocean? ’Tis of the stature of a miracle!”
“No miracle, or ’tis an odd God worked it. The tale is no marvel of brevity, Eben.”
“Yet it must be told,” Ebenezer insisted.
Burlingame shrugged. “ Twas while I was with Pound, at the height of his pirating. Our usual prey was small merchantmen and coasting vessels; we would overhaul them, steal what pleased us, and turn ’em loose, offering hurt to none save those who made to resist us. But once when a nor’easter had blown us into Virginian waters we came upon an ancient pinnace at the mouth of the York River, bound up the Chesapeake, which, when we had turned out all her crew for looting, we found to carry three passengers besides: a coarse fellow of fifty years or so; his wife, who was some years younger; and their daughter, a girl not yet turned twenty. She was an uncommon tasty piece, by the look of her, dark-haired and spirited, and her mother not much less. At the sight of them our men put by all thought of plunder, which had in truth been lean, and made to swive the twain of ’em then and there. Captain Pound durst not say them nay, albeit he was himself opposed to violence, for such was their ferocity, having seen nor hide nor hair of woman, as’t were, since we sailed from Boston, they’d have mutinied on the spot. And had I made the smallest move to stay them, they’d have flung me in an instant to the fishes!
“In a trice the ruffians stripped ’em and fetched ’em to the rail. ’Tis e’er the pirates’ wont to take their captives at the rail, you know, whether bent on’t backwards or triced hand to foot o’ertop. A mate of
mine saw a maid once forced by thirteen brigands in the former manner, with the taffrail at the small of her back, till at last they broke her spine and heaved her over. ’Tis but to make the thing more cruel, methinks, they do it thus: Captain Hill once told me of an old French rogue he’d met in Martinique, that swore no woman pleased him save when staring at the sharks who’d have her when the rape was done, and that having once tasted such refined delights he ne’er could roger mistresses ashore.”
“No more, I pray you!” Ebenezer cried. “ ’Tis not a history of the salvagery I crave, but news of the hapless victims.”
“Thou’rt overly impatient, then,” Burlingame said mildly. “The vilest deed hath a lesson in it for him who craves to learn. Howbeit, where did I leave the women?”
“At the ship’s rail, with their virtue in extremis.”
“Ah, indeed, ’twas a bad hour to be female, for sixteen men lined up to ravage ’em. The husband all the while was begging mercy for himself, with never a word for the women, and the wife resisting with all her strength; but the girl, when she saw the pirates’ design, spoke quickly to her mother in French, which none aboard could ken save me, and she made no resistance, but asked the sailors calmly, with a French cast to her voice, which they had more use for, her chastity or a hundred pounds apiece? At first the men ignored her, so taken were they by the sight of her unclothed. But all the way to the rail she pled her case—or rather posed her offer, for her voice was cold and merchantlike. She was of French nobility, she declared, and her mother likewise, and should they meet with injury the entire crew would surely hang for’t; but if they were set free unscathed, every man aboard would have a hundred pounds within the week.
“Here I saw a chance to aid them, if I could but stay the pirates’ lust a moment. To that end I joined their fondling—even pushed some others aside and forced her to the rail myself, as if to take first place—but then delayed, and when she made again her offer I cried, ‘Hold back, mates, and let us hear the wench out ere we caulk her. ’Tis many a tart we could have with a hundred pounds.’ I reminded them further of our plan to cross to France when we’d had our fill of pirating, and questioned whether ’twere prudent so to imperil our reception there. My chief intention was to stay them for a time at least and make them reflect, for reflection is a famous foe of violence—’tis a beast indeed who rapes on second thought! So far did the stratagem succeed, the men began to jeer and scoff at the proposal, but made no farther move for the nonce.