"The tugg-o'-war that then insued had been a sporting match, wch methinks we had won, were it that naught had interfear'd with the murtherous game. But the Salvages giving out with terrible whoops & hollowings, did so smite with fear this Burlingame, that at last he forewent entire the hold of his reins, and standing yet in our prowe like unto an uglie figure-head, he did let flie the treasure he had been those daies a-hoarding. It was my ill fortune to be hard behind him, and moreover, crowch'd down beneath his mightie bumme, so as to better brace my feet for pulling, and looking up at that instant of time, to see whether Burlingame was yet with us, I was in a trice beshitt, so much so, that I cd by no meanes see out of my eyes, or speake out of my mowth. Then the Salvages gave a great pull on the pendant, and the deck all bemir'd, I did loose the purchase of my feet, and sayling betwixt Burlingames legs, did end face downe in the mud of the shoar. This same Burlingame thus knock'd from off his ballance, he fell after, and sat him square upon my head.
"Directlie I freed my mowth of turd & mud, I hollow'd for my souldiers to load & fyre upon the Salvages, but those same Salvages did leap straightway upon me, and upon Burlingame as well, and imploying us to sheeld them & as hostages, demanded by signes the surrender of the companie. I order'd them to shoot & be damn'd, but they were loath to fyre, for feare of hitting me, and so we did surrender our selves up to the Salvage, and were led prisoner to his town.
"Thus was it, in a manner not my wont, I first touched the shoar of this scurvie place, whereof an ampler relation doth follow. ."
The final passages Ebenezer could scarcely read for laughing; even the captive priest could not restrain his mirth. For a moment Burlingame seemed not to realize that the recitation was done, but then he sat up quickly.
"Is that the end?"
" 'Tis the end of this portion," Ebenezer sighed, wiping his eyes. "I'faith, such intrepidity! And by what a marvelous means my county was discovered!"
"But God in Heav'n," cried Burlingame, "this is no stopping-place!" He snatched up the Journal to look for himself. "That wretched, hapless man — how I suffer for him! And I tell you, Eben; though I do not share his form, with every new episode I feel more certain Sir Henry is my forefather. I felt it when first I learnt of him from those ladies that I saved, and more so when I read his Privie Journall. How much more now, then, that we have him in Dorchester! He is halfway up the Chesapeake, is he not? And 'twas there that Captain Salmon fished me out!"
"It is a curious proximity, forsooth," Ebenezer allowed, "but nearly fifty years divide the two events, if I guess aright. And since we know John Smith returned anon to Jamestown, we've no proof Sir Henry was marooned behind."
"You'd as well prove to this Jesuit that St. Joseph was a cuckold," Burlingame laughed. "I am as sure of my progenitor as he is of Christ's, though the exact line of descent we've yet to learn. 'Sheart, I'd give an arm to hear the finish of that tale!"
These remarks aroused Father Smith's curiosity, and he entreated Burlingame to explain the mystery before departing.
"Think not you'll see us go so soon!" Henry replied, but their attention to the history having dispelled the general ill will among the three, he went on to say that though his name was Timothy Mitchell he was but a foster child of Captain William Mitchell, and had reason to suspect that Sir Henry Burlingame was in some wise his ancestor. He then favored the priest with a full account of his researches and the fruit they had borne thus far, but despite this general cordiality he insisted that Father Smith be released only long enough to relieve himself under careful guard, after which the unfortunate priest was obliged to spend the night bound upright in his chair while the two visitors shared his bed.
Nevertheless, before the candle had been extinguished for half an hour, Ebenezer was the only man in the cabin still awake. Never an easy sleeper, he was additionally distracted this night by the presences of his friend and his unwilling host — specifically because the former (in sleep, it is to be presumed) held his hand in a grip from which the poet was too embarrassed to pull free, and the latter snored; but more generally because he could not as yet reconcile and assimilate all the aspects of Burlingame's character to which he had been exposed, and because Father Smith's apparent connection with the French and Indians, while it did not in itself reflect discredit on Lord Baltimore, nevertheless cast a new and complicated light upon that gentleman's endeavor. Nor were these troublesome reflections the sum of his diversion: never far from his mind was the image of Joan Toast. Despite Burlingame's skepticism, Ebenezer was confident of Susan Warren's veracity; he fully expected to find his beloved waiting for him when he arrived at Malden. When, after such a harrowing odyssey as his — and who knew what peregrinations of poor Joan's? — they were at last reunited on his own estate-to-be, what would ensue? There was fuel to fire a poet's fancy!
In short, he could not sleep, and after an hour's unpleasantness, he summoned courage enough to leave the bed. From the wood-coals on the hearth he lit a new candle, and making free with the sleeping Jesuit's ink and quill, he spread out his ledger-book to ease himself with verse.
But for the sober thoughts that filled his head he could find no fit articulation; what he composed, simply because he had previously entered on the opposite page certain notes upon the subject, was nothing more sublime or apropos than two score couplets having to do with the Salvage Indians of America. The feat afforded him no solace, but at least it wearied him through: when he could hold his eyes open no longer he blew out the candle, and leaving the bed to Burlingame, laid his head upon the ledger-book and slept
26: The Journey to Cambridge, and the Laureate's Conversation by the Way
When morning came, Burlingame freed Father Smith from his bonds and took it upon himself to prepare a breakfast while the priest exercised his aching limbs. All the while, however, he kept the Journal near at hand, and despite the Jesuit's disclaimer of any further intent to stop them, he insisted that the priest be bound again when the meal was finished and they were ready to depart, nor would he listen to Ebenezer's pleas for clemency.
"You infer the rest of mankind from yourself," he chided. "Because you would not try farther to obstruct me if you were in his position, you believe he would not either. To which I reply, my reasoning is identical to yours, and I would have me back the Journal ere you reached the Choptank River."
"But he will perish! 'Tis as much as murthering him!"
"No such thing," scoffed Burlingame. "If he is a proper priest he will be missed at once by his parishioners, who will seek him out and have him loose ere midday. If not, they will repay neglect with neglect, as his God would have it or rather, his Order."