Fanny (17 page)

I clamber’d out of Bed to seek for it, walkt gently upon the Floor so as not to wake Tunewell again, flipp’d o’er the Tablecloth—and lo! found that my Words were smudged out of the Linen! Bits of Charcoal clung here and there where my Epick’s grand Opening Lines had been! Whether ’twas due to the Suddenness with which I flipp’d it, or to unremember’d Sliding of the Tablecloth during our Great Debauch, I could not say. But O my Heart came near to bursting with Remorse. That must be a Lesson to me, I thought. Venus had driven out Apollo! A suitable Punishment for my Wickedness! Now I would ne’er be a great Epick Poet, but merely a degraded Sensualist, a Female Rake, the very sort of Creature I most abhorr’d in the other Sex. And what of those Juvenile Verses I had carried with me from Lymeworth? They were gone as well! Lost either at the Fair or at the Witches’ Meeting, I knew not where. O this boded ill for my Career as Bard!

With a heavy Heart, I descended to the Stables to seek my beloved Horse. There, a dim-witted Boy of about a dozen Years of Age sat picking his yellow Teeth with a Straw. He drool’d slightly, and his Eyes seem’d to cross as he humm’d the first few Bars of “Roger of Coverley.”

“Boy!” I cried. “Pray saddle my Horse!”

“Your Horse?” says he, coming out of his Reverie. “What Horse is that?”

“A Chestnut Stallion, Lustre by Name. And be quick about it, too. I can’t tarry here all Day.”

The Boy stood up as slowly as a Body e’er did, dusted off his Breeches, squinted up at me with his pink-rimm’d Eyes, and said: “Would that be the Chestnut Stallion with the Blaze upon his Forehead?”

“Indeed, ’twould. And the white Stocking as well.”

“Would that be the
rear
left Leg, Sir?”

“Indeed, ’twould, Boy. Come, why are you standing like that, gawking at me?”

“Sir, I fear another Fellow hath fetch’d that Horse durin’ the Night.”

“What?”

“Yes, Sir. He swore he was sent at your Command to fetch the Horse.”

“And you gave it him without asking me?”

“Please Sir, I had the Kitchen Maid rap at the Door of your Chamber, Sir, but there came no Reply. Only terrible Noises within, Sir, shoutin’ an’ yelpin’ an’ pantin’ like Dogs, Sir.”

I pal’d at this Reminder of last Night’s Debauch; the Boy continu’d: “Beggin’ your Pardon, Sir, but this Fellow seems a Person of Quality, Sir. He gave me a Guinea an’ said he was a Famous Player. He said he was in Partnership with you, Sir. Pray tell me, are you a Player, Sir? For what I wish, Sir, is to go up to London an’ see one of the great Playhouses. I wish I might be a Player, Sir. ’Tis all I wish for in the World.”

“You Fool!” I cried. “You’ve given my Horse to a Thief!”

The Boy cower’d in Fear.

“Please, Sir, don’t tell the Landlord, Sir. He’ll sure send me to the Workhouse. I have a poor sick Mother, Sir, an’ five Sisters at Home, one with a sickly Babe. I’m only a ’Prentice, Sir, an’ my Life is a Misery.”

The Poor Wretch pleaded with me, and I was so touch’d by his pathetick Dream of Acting in a Play (when all he had in Life were cross’d Eyes and a drooling Mouth) that I could not find the Strength to blame him. I’faith, I was more disgusted with myself than I was with the Boy.

So Doggett had come for Lustre! How had he follow’d me here? Had he been on my Trail all thro’ my Time with the Witches? Had he witness’d the Meeting of the Coven upon Stonehenge Down? Where had he taken Lustre?

“Boy,” says I, “whither did the Man ride?”

“Up to London, Sir. I’m certain of it.”

“Have you a Horse for hire?”

“No, Sir, for another Gentleman that was with him took the last of our Hire-Horses. But Sir, in less than an Hour the London Stagecoach comes thro’ here. You can take the Stage up to London, an’ it please you, Sir.”

I curst myself for my Folly as I paced the Stables, trying to decide what to do. Without Lustre, I was truly friendless. My Horse was my Partner, my Familiar (unless the Witches were all mad), my Rescuer, e’en my Coach—for who is the Latin Poet that says,
“Comes jucundus in via pro vehiculo est”!
(An agreeable Companion on the Road is as good as a Coach.) And what was Lustre if not an Agreeable Companion? O I was now more wretched than e’er!

“Very well, Boy,” says I, returning to the Spot where the poor miserable ’Prentice sat, “I’ll take the London Stage.”

And the Boy lookt up at me, as to say, “Take me, too, Sir, and I’ll serve you faithfully fore’er.” But alas, ’twas impossible, tho’ my soft Heart e’en wisht it for a Moment.

And so ’twas thus that I came to be riding in the London Stage (with a Fine Lady nam’d Mrs. Pothers and Sally, her Maid—both of whom took frequent Draughts from a silver Bottle which the Lady claim’d was only Hungary Water—a puff’d-up Lawyer from Bath nam’d Slocock and his Black Servant from Barbadoes, a jolly Fellow call’d Paul) upon that fateful Day when Lancelot Robinson and his Merry Men made up their Minds to set upon the London Stage and rob us all.

But so illustrious an Encounter, so destin’d to change my whole Philosophy of Life, surely demands a new Chapter.

CHAPTER XIV

In which Lancelot Robinson and his Merry Men are Introduced and our heroine meets her Fate in all its Nakedness.

W
E WERE RIDING ALONG
as roughly as you please, the English Drizzle misting the entire Countryside (in spite of what the Ballad Singers may say about fine June Weather), when, in a trice, there comes a Stampede of Hoofbeats beside us, and a Pearl-handl’d Pistol is thrust in at the Window next to my Nose, and Shouts are heard from the Postilion and Coachman (who presently come flying past the Window and roll Head o’er Heels into a Ditch by the side of the Road), whereupon the Coach begins to move at such a Pace that we are all rattl’d like Apples in a rolling Barrel, and Mrs. Pothers screams (and Sally can do nothing but press the Hungary Water to her Lips), and Lawyer Slocock vows Vengeance in Terms no one but another Lawyer can comprehend, and at last the Door flies open and a very pretty red-headed Fellow (with Hair as curly as Lambswool and Eyes as slant and green as a Cat’s, and Tartar Cheakbones like the God Pan himself) leaps into the Coach, saying:

“Not one Move or I’ll blow yer Brains to the Moon!”

He slams the Door, points the Pistol at each Passenger in turn, reaches into his embroider’d Waistcoat and removes a folded Sack, made of some homespun Stuff, pulls it open, sticks it under our Noses one by one, and demands:

“Jewels an’ Valuables first, then Clothes. An’ be quick about it!”

“Must we strip?” cries Mrs. Pothers in a Panick.

“Aye,” says the green-eyed Highwayman.

“’Tis a Capital Crime and punishable by Hanging in Chains,” says Lawyer Slocock (as ugly and puff’d-up a Fellow as I have e’er clapp’d Eyes upon).

“I’ll hang ye from the nearest Oak an’ ye don’t keep yer Mouth shut,” says the Highwayman, relieving Lawyer Slocock of his Pocket Pistol, then stripping him of his Watch, his Rings, his Snuff-Box, his Silver-hiked Sword, his Silver-button’d Coat and Waistcoat, likewise his Periwig and Beaver Hat, and e’en his Linen—all this as quickly as one might pluck ripe Fruit from a Tree. Presently Slocock sat shiv’ring in the very Skin he was born in, crossing his Legs to make quite certain that his poor Peewee (for certainly one could hardly use a grander Term for his Masculine Equipage) was guarded from both Sight and Assault; whereupon the Highwayman stripp’d his Black Servant quite as expeditiously, but that jolly Fellow made no Effort whatsoe’er to hide his glist’ning black Body; on the Contrary, he seem’d to revel in his very Nakedness, holding his big black Master of Ceremonies in his Hand and pointing it at Mrs. Pothers to make her whimper.

“O me! A naked Man! A naked Savage! O me!” she cried, hiding her Head in her Petticoat (whereas her maid Sally could do nothing but stare in amazement at the great strapping Black Man, and not for a Moment did she take her Eyes away from his prodigious Masculine Member).

“You great Oaf!” cries Lawyer Slocock to his Manservant. “Don’t just sit there playing with yourself! Kill the Blackguard!”

“Sir,” says Paul, “’tis Common Sense i’faith to know that Nature and Wisdom ne’er disagree, or, as Juvenal says,
‘
Nunquam aliud Natura, aliud Sapientia dixit
.’ And truly, Sir, Nature tells me I am naked as the Day I was born, and quite as unarm’d as a babbling Babe. Therefore, ’tis Wisdom to deduce that I had as soon play with myself as attempt to o’erwhelm this Worthy Gentleman of the Road.”

“Scoundrel! Blackguard! I’ll have you transported back to the wretched Jungle where your wretched Ancestors spawn’d you!”

Paul smil’d chearfully, saying, “O no, Sir, anything but that! What a terrible Fate!” Whereupon the Bandit clapp’d him upon his stout Back, saying, “What a jolly Fellow an’ Latin Scholar to boot! May I make bold to invite ye to join our Merry Band if e’er ye require new Means o’ Gainful Employment?”

“I’ll think on’t,” says Paul, smiling like a Lawyer himself.

Now the Highwayman begins to strip Mrs. Pothers, who kicks and screams as if, i’faith, she anticipates she will be ravish’d forthwith. Off comes her Cloak, her Watch, her Rings, her Earrings, her Shoes with their silver Buckles, her Boddice with its gold Lace, her Gold-embroider’d Stomacher and e’en her Side-Hoops (tho’ what use the Highwayman might make of ’em I could not fathom).

“Off with it all!” cries the Highwayman, whereupon the poor Lady whimpers, “Spare me! Spare me! I’m Virgin as the Day I was born!” To which her Maid can only snicker, as she, too, strips off her Clothes (without first being askt) and says, “As for me, Sir, I’ve no Maidenhead at all to get in the Way, so why not have me here in the Coach and leave my poor Lady in Peace.”

“Jade! What makes ye think I’d want ye—or yer Mistress either—with or without Maidenhead! Sorry Slut! D’ye think yer poor Cunny is made o’ Gold? Can I fence yer Cunny? Can I melt it down an’ coin it into Guineas? Keep it an’ be damn’d! Give me yer Gold an’ Silver!” Whereupon he turns to me, commanding, “Strip!”

O this is a fateful Moment! My Horse gone, my Friends murder’d, and now stripp’d of the one Thing that guards me from the Evils of the World—my Disguise!

’Tis oft’ in Moments like these, when, in Peril for our very Lives, we act purely upon what we term in lesser Creatures, lower down the Great Chain of Being, Instinct. In short, Belinda, I stripp’d.

Off came the scarlet Cloak and black Beaver Hat! Off came the excellent Riding Wig purloin’d from my scurvy Step-Brother! Off came the Jack-Boots, the Riding Breeches, the Stockings, the Silver-hilted Sword, the green Redingote, e’en the Neckcloth and Linen!

With each Article of Clothing I remov’d, the Eyes of my fellow Passengers widen’d. “Bless me—’tis a Wench!” Lawyer Slocock said, looking Goats and Monkies at me; “by my Troth, I wish I had a Writ of Entry into that Abode!” And then he laugh’d, being well-pleas’d with his meagre Wit. Paul, the Black Man, smackt his Lips as if preparing to enjoy a great Banquet of Delicacies, whilst his prodigious Masculine Member stood straight up, like unto a Compass pointing True North; Sally, the Lady’s Maid, lookt on my Breasts as if she would steal ’em for her own; and Mrs. Pothers sputter’d and mumbl’d, “O! I am mortified! O! That it should come to this! O! O! O!”—to which the Highwayman replied, “Fie on yer damn’d Sputt’rin’!”

At last, when I had stripp’d entirely naked but for my Garter and sat demurely (demurely as a naked Body can sit in a Stage-Coach rattling along the Highway at top Speed), Lancelot lookt straight at me saying, “I might have known ’twas a Lass!” Whereupon, staring at my red Garter, he says with a Wink, “I shan’t be needin’ that fer
me
Bewitchments!” To say the Truth, that Remark terrified me more than all my shiv’ring Nakedness. Did he know it for a Magick Garter, and me for a Witch, or was that merely a Jest?

“A scarlet Garter and a scarlet Fleece as well,” says Paul, looking straight at my Boskage of Venus (if I may so call it). “Damme if Jason wouldn’t have sail’d for that Fleece as well as the Golden one! Here, let’s have a bit of it….” But before Paul could reach out to stroke my poor naked Belly-Whiskers, the Highwayman interceded.

“None o’ that! D’ye hear? We’ll have no Cunny-Catchers in this Coach! ’Tis Golden Fleece I’m after, not Fleece-Hunters! Hands off, d’ye hear, or I’ll blow yer own Captain Standish to High Heaven. I’ll have no Cunny-haunted, Cunt-struck Rogues in this Coach be they black or white!”

“Begging your Pardon, Sir,” said Paul, quite wither’d from the Tongue-lashing, “I was merely admiring the young Lady’s Plumage and thinking how rare ’tis, i’faith, that the Tail Feathers are of the self-same Hue as those on high, for, as Horace says, ‘
Mutum est pictura poema
,’ or, for those ignorant of Latin, ‘A Picture is a silent Poem,’ and what is this Lady’s precious Cunnicle but a Picture, which e’en if we ne’er enter it, we can nonetheless enjoy with our Eyes.”

“What an Excellent Fellow!” said the Highwayman. “By Jove, I like yer Wit!”

“His Wit,” says Lawyer Slocock, “will be but half as great when I see his wretched Skull split with an Axe!”

“Come now, Mr. Slocock,” says Paul. “Pray where will you get the Axe in your present Condition?”

“Quiet!” shouts the Highwayman, and in a trice he leans his Head outside the Window of the Coach, shouts something to his Confederates, and lo! the Coach begins to slow. Whereupon the Highwayman puts a Gun to the Lawyer’s Head and says:

“Out, or be blown straight down to Hell—fer I ne’er met a Lawyer yet who would go to Heaven!” And then he opens the Door of the Coach, and as nicely as you please, pushes Lawyer Slocock out into the Road, after which he puts a Gun to Paul’s Head, saying: “Are ye with me or against me, Horatio?”

“Sir, in a Word: with.”

“Very well then,” says the Highwayman, “but I’m expectin’ no Mutinies nor Insubordination, nor Cunny-catchin’ neither.”

Then he turns his Pistol on Mrs. Pothers and her Maid, Sally. “Out with the both of ye!”

“O Sir, spare me! I can cook for your Troupe. I can sew. My poor dear Father himself was a Highwayman and transported to the Plantations.”