"I ne'er have heard its like," swore Ebenezer. " 'Tis pathetic and terrible at once, and I am still astonished by the likeness of this Indian to my friend and former tutor! I would venture to say that if your Charley had been born an Englishman he could play this world like a harpsichord, as doth my friend, and that if my friend had been born a salvage Indian, he too could die with just that laugh." He shook his head. "What is behind it? Your Charley and my friend, each in his way, came rootless to the world we know; each hath a wondrous gift for grasping it, e'en a lust for't, and manipulates its folk like puppeteers. My friend hath not yet laughed after Charley's fashion, and God grant he never shall, but the potential for't is there; I see it plainly from your tale. A certain shrug he hath, and a particular mirthless smile. 'Tis as though like Jacob he grapples yet with some dark angel in the desert, the which had got the better of your Charley; and 'tis no angel of the Lord whose votaries have this laugh for their stigma, do you think?"
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.
30: 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
Much 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