July 13, 2007

Bradford's Fobbing Rock

Another excerpt from:

John Alden’s Faire and Homologous History of
The Plymouth Settlement
1620-1621

Original Letters Rendered into Modern English by
Dr. Theodore Nightshade
PhD, Elementary School Teacher

November 15, 1620

Dearest Eleanor,

Once again I gather what little strength I have at the end of a hard day to pick up my quill and write to tell you this...my tender body aches! With exhaustion, yes, this is true, but also with longing for you, my flowering wafer-cake. Before I fall asleep and dream of us in a warm embrace, I must press on and write before I forget the sundry of amazing things that have happened as of late.

A party of ten of us sailed ashore yesterday for the second time. We travel to and fro in a rickety little boat that barely fits all of us. I don’t see what the purpose of it is since we spend almost the entire voyage wading through water that barely reaches my navel. I could simply walk in it and make better time.

After a light breakfast of cheese and beer, our adventure started with a brisk single-file march up the beach. We were all in such delightful spirits to be off the smelly Mayflower that we sang this bold song as we marched:

O Martin said to his man
Fie, man fie
O Martin said to his man
Who's the fool now?
Martin said to his man
Fill thou the cup and I the can
Thou hast well drunken man
Who's the fool now?

I saw a snail drive a nail
From Penzance out to Hale

I saw the man in the moon
Clouting on St. Peter's shoon

I saw the goose wring the hog
And the cat bite the dog

I saw a hare chase the hound
Fourteen miles above ground

I saw a maid milk a bull
Every stroke a bucket full

In back of me was Mr. Ely, who is my new best friend. More on him in a bit. In front of me was Moses Fletcher, and I don’t have to tell you I wasn’t very pleased with this. The man has the most toad-spotted Rump of any man I’ve ever seen. It looks like a sack of pudding with rocks in it. Imagine having to stare at something like that for hours on end. As soon I finish this letter I’m going to put in a formal request to Standish to change places with Fletcher so he can look at my Rump for a change. Although I’m sure you will agree that’s more of a favor to Fletcher than a punishment.

The marching this way and that was getting to be quite a bore until, suddenly, we saw six Savages!

They were walking around on all fours and barking like dogs. Or maybe just the dog they had with them was doing that...things happened so quickly it’s hard to say. They ran into the bushes as soon as they saw us and we immediately gave chase. But our two legs couldn’t compete with their four, and we never found them. The only thing we came across was a little path, which led to an opening with a bunch of heaps of sand, some covered with dirty mats. Bradford said it was a burial ground and that we shouldn’t disturb it. Mind you he said this as I was digging up a fine clay pot I found next to one of the mounds. I suspect he was jealous and wanted the pot for himself, which would be so typical Bradford.

From behind one of the sand heaps we saw some colored feathers peak out. Thinking it was one of the savages wearing a headdress, we all readied our weapons. But, alas, it was only a Turkey. We all had a good laugh when it came strutting out. A few of us strutted around mimicking the Bird for the fun of it. But then Bradford got mad, called us all a bunch of sheep-biting foot lickers, and then he shot the bird to end our game. What a waste of gunpowder. Those nasty birds, with their tough, dry tasteless flesh, aren’t even good enough for stew. I know Bradford was just mad because he can’t lift his knees as high as I can when I do the Turkey Strut. Again, typical Bradford.

I must say that I hope there aren’t too many of those Savages around. A few here and there would be nice, just to spice things up a bit, but I don’t know if I can deal with hordes of these Wild Men roaming around freely. We have guns and swords, yes, but little good that would do against a stampeding Savage horde. Especially since I honestly have no idea how to fire my musket. Standish must have assumed I knew how, but he was grossly mistaken. I figure I’ll just throw rocks at the Savages if it ever comes down to it.

Speaking of rocks, Bradford came across a somewhat large White Rock on the beach that he wouldn’t stop talking about.

"By the eyes of the Corinthians, would you look at that Rock!” he said. “I think I'll go stand on it. Lo, the view from up here is spectacular."

The rock was maybe a foot in height.

"Is this great, or what?” he said “Now this is why we crossed the ocean. To stand on mighty rocks like this. Everyone, everyone look at me. I said look at me, you tottering foot-lickers! There, that’s better. Now, I want everyone to remember this Rock. Got it? Because I saw it first and it's mine, that’s why. It’s not yours or yours or yours. From here on out let this rock be known as 'William Bradford's Magnificently White And Massive Plymouth Rock of Holy Power, Religious Freedom, and Manly Love.' Someone write that down before I forget it. And if I ever, and I mean ever, catch one of you stepping on it with your filthy feet, then you will be killed in a most disturbing manner. I don’t want to frighten anyone, but it involves me shoving hot coals up your Arse and then using your steamy farts to roast corn on the cob while I watch you die. Is it too late to add all that to the Mayflower Compact? It is? Well that's just not fair. No, no I won't come down. I'm upset."

After Standish convinced Bradford to come down by promising he’d shoot anyone who stepped on the Rock, we continued our exploration.

We marched for miles upon miles through the boughs and bushes, tearing my nice new armor to shreds. We found some fresh water, which was nice, but I’ll be dammed if I’m going to walk ten miles for water when I can walk a few steps on the ship and get a cup of beer. We also found some newly harvested corn, and Standish made us take as much of it as we could carry. Yes, yes, yes, I told him about my bad back but he wouldn’t listen. I don’t see why though. There’s Holland cheese and biscuits waiting for us on the Ship.

Enough of the expedition. What I really want to talk about is Mr. Ely. He’s a seaman on the Mayflower, but not really, if you know what I mean. And I’m sure you do. Wink. Double tap on the nose. Head nod with knowing look. Eye bulge.

Maybe I should just tell you what I mean.

Don’t tell anyone, but he misrepresented himself to get on board. He's not really a sailor! Ha! Turns out he had a bit of a run in with the law in Sussex and had to get out of England toot sweet. Don't worry, he was falsely accused. His neighbor told the court that he saw Mr. Ely engaged in a most wicked round of vile buggery with a sheep.

Mr. Ely (who is an unusually small man, no bigger than most children) explained that he was tired from a long walk and was simply attempting to mount the sheep and ride her back to his house, much as a larger man would mount a horse. But it had just rained, and he kept slipping off the sheep and so had to struggle to stay on, which from afar could be construed to be buggery. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.

As you know, the penalty for buggery in Sussex is death for both the man and beast. The court believed the neighbor and Mr. Ely was set to be arraigned. Luckily, he was able to flee to Southampton where he joined the crew of the Mayflower.

I hope Mr. Ely doesn’t die from the illness that is spreading and you can meet him one day. He’s a most intriguing little man. His arms are covered with the thickest black hair I’ve ever seen. I’d almost say it was fur. Mind you, he doesn’t show his naked arms to many people, Eleanor, probably because he’s embarrassed about the fur. The fact that he shows it to me shows you that we are destined to be best friends forever.

Soon I will be off this Ship for good, and I can begin to build our future home. When I go ashore I always look for good trees to chop down later. There are fine walnut, chestnut, and maple trees in great abundance. But with my bad back it will be torture to chop down such mighty trees. Thankfully, I have a brilliant idea. Yesterday I saw a Beaver biting through a log in a river where we stopped for water.

If I could simply use some rope to tie one of those Beavers to a long thick stick, I should be able to use it as a tool. It would be similar to a saw, but all I would have to do is hold the stick up to a tree and let the Beaver have at it. I suppose I'd have to keep the Beaver’s stomach filled with beer to give it the proper energy it’ll need. And I may need to construct a pump and hose contraption to get the beer down the Creature's throat. Then there's the matter of waking the Beaver up every time it falls asleep. Maybe I could tie a rope around its neck and give it a good yank whenever I need its services. Or perhaps I could stick a small grooved metal object up its arse and turn it until the bugger awakes. But these are minor details. The point is this: I am a Genius.

Enough for now. Until next time, assuming I don’t die a horrible death at the hands of a mad savage, by stepping on Bradford's Rock, or by being mauled by my own Beaversaw.

Your thunder-darting valentine,

John Alden

Trackback Pings

TrackBack URL for this entry:
http://www.chrisgenoa.com/cgi-bin/mt-tb.cgi/254