Bertrand watched him go and sighed. " 'Tis the last we'll see of Drakepecker; and good riddance, says I."
"What!" Ebenezer smiled. "Thou'rt so soon tired of being God?"
The valet admitted that he was. "I had rather do the work myself than lord it o'er so fearsome a wight as he. This very minute he might be plotting to spit the twain of us on his spear and fry us up for's dinner!"
"I think not," said the poet. "He likes to serve us."
"Ah, sir, no man enjoys his bondage! Think you there'd be a servant in the world, if each man had his choice? 'Tis ill luck, force, and penury that make some men serve others; all three are galling masters."
"What then of habit, and natural predilection?" teased Ebenezer. "Some men are born to serve."
Bertrand considered these for a moment and then said, "Habit's no first cause, but a child of bleak necessity, is't not? Our legs grew calloused to the pirates' shackles, but we wished them off us nonetheless. As for this natural bent to slavery, 'tis a tale hatched by the masters: no slave believes it."
"A moment past you spoke of doing the chores thyself," Ebenezer said, "but never a word of me doing them; yet 'twas I proposed we forget our former stations, since the wilderness knows naught of classes."
Bertrand laughed. "Then to my list of yokes add obligation; he's no more mild a master."
"Call him gratitude or love instead," said Ebenezer, "and watch how men rejoice in their indenture! This Drakepecker, as you call him, chose his present bondage when we set him free of a worse, and he may end it by his own leave when he lists. Therefore I fear him not, and look to have him serve us many a day." He then asked the valet how he proposed to lord it over an entire city alone, if one subject shared between them scared him so.
" 'Tis god I want to be, not king," the valet said. "Let others give and take commands, or lead and put down mutinies; I'll stock me a temple with food and drink and sleep all morning in my golden bed! Ten young priestesses I'll have for company, that shall hear confessions and say the prayers in church, and a brace of great eunuchs to take collection and guard the money."
"Sloth and viciousness!"
"Would ye not do the same, or any wight else? Who wants the chore of ruling? 'Tis the crown men lust for, not the scepter."
"Who wears the one must wield the other," Ebenezer answered. "The man men bow to is lead sheep in a running flock, that must set their pace or perish."
"Ye'll rule, then, in your city?" Bertrand wanted to know.
"Aye," said Ebenezer. They were sitting side by side, their backs against the cliff, gazing idly out to sea. "And what a government would I establish! 'Twould be an anti-Platonist republic."
"I should hope, sir! What need have you of the Pope, when thou'rt the god?"
"Nay, Bertrand. This Plato spoke of a nation ruled by philosophers, to which no poets might be admitted save those that sing the praises of the government. There is an antique quarrel 'twixt poet and sage."
"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."