Fanny (19 page)

At length our Caravan of Horses and Riders came to a Stop. Lancelot help’d me from the Horse, unbound my Eyes, and what I saw before me in the Darkness seem’d a pleasant half-timber’d thatch’d Cottage in the Tudor Style, with a large Barn attach’d to it. Where we were—whether in Wiltshire, Hampshire, or e’en Dorset—I could not tell. But to say the Truth, I was more occupied with my Ague Fits and Discomfort than with observing the Landscape. I had always been a healthy enough Girl, and in the Manner of the Healthy, had taken Health itself for granted. But now I was, for the first Time, beginning to know that ’twas a precious Gift from the Almighty.

Lancelot carried me into the Cottage, whose Rooms were low-ceiling’d, after the Tudor Style, tho’ not without Chear. The Furniture was plain yet serviceable in the rustick Manner; the Floors were broad Oak Boards.

Yet what was most amazing about the Cottage was that it resembl’d a vast Warehouse of Goods; ’twas indeed a kind of Lock or Repository of Stolen Goods, for I presum’d that all these Objects were stolen. Ev’rywhere, on ev’ry Table Top and Bureau Top and Mantelpiece, Objects were pil’d, oft’ one atop the other. There were silver and pewter Goblets, gilt Salvers, silver Sugar Bowls and Tea Kettles (with and without Stands). There were silver Tea Caddies and Ewers, Casters, Spoon Trays, Inkstands, and Loving Cups. There were silver Centrepieces and Candlesticks, Tapersticks, and Snuffers. There were silver Cream Jugs and Cake Baskets, engrav’d Beakers, Tankards, Cups, Wall Sconces, Chocolate Potts, Flasks, and a great Variety of Snuff-Boxes. One that caught my Eye bore the Arms and Crest of the Weavers’ Company. “Weave Truth with Trust,” it said, almost as if in satyrical Commentary upon the Company of Stolen Articles in which it found itself.

Nor were the Stolen Articles confin’d to domestick Plate, for there were also Clocks of ev’ry Description, gold Watch-Cases, Chains, Jewelry of all Sorts, and also an amazing Array of Periwigs, set up on Periwig Blocks, as in a Shop. There were Full-bottom’d Wigs, and Campaign Wigs, Ramillies Wigs, Bob-Wigs, Tye-Wigs, and Bag-Wigs. There was also rich laced Clothing of ev’ry Type: Men’s Suits embroider’d with Silver and Gold, Women’s Boddices and Aprons, Doublets and Petticoats, Fans and Hats, and Muffs.

Lancelot set me down upon a rustick Bed, cover’d me at once with an Eider-Down Coverlet, whereupon he strode away, mumbling Promises of Tea, which Promises, I was, by that Time, too weaken’d either to applaud or gainsay.

He return’d not long after with a silver Pott upon a filigreed Stand and Chinese Porcelain Tea Dishes—all doubtless stolen. By then I had grown e’en weaker and I could scarce lift my Head to sip the Tea; I had, as well, a raging Fever, Fits of Trembling and Shiv’ring which seem’d to throw Terror into his stony Heart. I’faith, I believe, ’twas my Illness which just began to melt him towards me, for he show’d an Apprehension that I might be carried off by it, and not only did he nurse me with his own Hand, but he sat by my Bedside, speaking to me betwixt Fits of Fever that whole first Night. ’Twas thus that I learnt about Lancelot’s Life; for I truly believe that but for my weaken’d Condition, the Hardness of his Heart might have been such that he should not have reveal’d his History to me. And what a History ’twas! E’en thro’ my Fever and Trembling, I could come to understand how his Soul had been shap’d and indeed warp’d.

“I was born,” he began, “in the third Year o’ the Reign o’ William an’ Mary durin’ the hot Month o’ August, under the Sign o’ Leo—tho’ damme if I believe one Whit in that Parcel o’ Lies call’d Astrology. Me Mother was a prim Popish Heiress, me Father an agin’ Restoration Rake who would ne’er confess that the Age o’ the Wits had pass’d, an’ who sought to make our decayin’ Family Seat in Oxfordshire—a ruin’d Gothick Pile known as Wilderknoll—into a little Replica o’ the Court o’ Charles II, with ancient decayin’ Courtiers scribblin’ their execrable Verses an’ agin’ Belles playin’ nauseously at bein’ irresistible young Mistresses. I was the youngest Son o’ Seven—an’ a Rebel from Birth—which me Mother’s Strictness only serv’d to inflame. ’Twas clear I should ne’er inherit anythin’ but me Father’s Affectations—fer me Brothers—damn ’em all—were too disgustin’ly healthy, so I early conceiv’d the Fancy o’ runnin’ away to Sea, an’ at not much above thirteen Years o’ Age I ran away with a Strollin’ Player I met at a Country Fair, journey’d to London with him, bound meself as a ’Prentice to a Ship’s Surgeon an’ shipp’d out on a West Indiaman, headed, I thought, fer Jamaica. But, alas, not before it stopp’d upon the West Coast o’ Africa to fetch a Cargo o’ Black Human Bein’s call’d Slaves.”

I shut my fev’rish Eyes and let myself drift amidst the Visions Lancelot’s History conjur’d. Sick as I was, I seem’d to enter his Fancy as if ’twere my own Dream. No wonder I had felt this Highwayman the Brother of my Heart; why, he was orphan’d, too—in Spirit, if not in Law—and his Adventures had taken him e’en farther from Home than mine!

“Ah, to be apprenticed to a Surgeon on a Slave Ship at Thirteen is to know, ere the Waters o’ the Womb are fully dry behind yer Ears, the full Extent o’ the Degradation o’ the Human Heart!” Lancelot went on. “Like many another Sea-struck Lad, bound to a Home he hated, a Father he fretted o’er, a Mother to make him mutter under his Breath, I read Dampier’s
New Voyage Round the World
an’ dreamt o’ driftin’ from a Jamaican Plantation to Campeachy, o’er the Isthmus with Buccaneers, back to Virginia, ’round Cape Horn, across the Pacific to the Philippines, an’ thence to the East Indies, Land o’ incredible Riches, Jewels, an’ Spices, an’ strange slant-eyed brown-skinn’d Boys in Turbans an’ with bare Breasts (for e’en then, at the tender Age o’ Thirteen, I had forsworn all Womankind, havin’ been cruelly spurn’d by me first True Love in Oxfordshire! An’ lucky ’twas, too, fer a Boy bound to Sea fer seven Years!).”

“Then did you love a Woman once?” I askt Lancelot, coming back to Life most suddenly (for I reason’d that if he had done so once, he might again).

“I have no Use fer Womankind!” he snapp’d. But the very Swiftness of his Protestation made me doubt his Words, and e’en as he spoke of Slaves and Voyages, I dreamt myself his own True Love drifting on exotick Tropick Seas. Lancelot knew nothing of this; he continu’d with his Tale unaware of the Fancies brewing in my fever’d Brain.

“Imagine then me Astonishment,” he said, “when after all me Readin’ o’ the Marvels o’ Sea-Travel in Dampier, I found meself on a Slave Ship—nam’d, with pow’rful Irony, the
Grace o’ God
—with a Cargo o’ dyin’ Africans, manacl’d to each other in the stinkin’ Hold, beaten within an Inch o’ their Lives by Men not fit to be their Masters (fer they were not e’en Masters o’ themselves), forced daily into the Hold to provide Rancid Food an’ Fruitless Medicine fer Men who needed nought but Air an’ Space an’ the Sight o’ their own Native Lands, who could not speak me Language, nor I theirs, but who, in their mass’d black, naked, shiv’rin’, vomitin’ Humanity, seem’d far superior to the Englishmen who lorded it o’er ’em. No, Lass, I’ll not trouble ye now with Stories o’ the Horrors o’ the Slave Trade, sick as ye are. ’Tis one o’ those Tales, which, tho’ we know it to be true—still it strains our very Bein’s to believe that Men like ourselves, might to this very Day, practise it.”

“Ah, Lancelot, ’tis true, ’tis true,” I sigh’d, tho’, i’faith, I knew little or nothing of the Slave Trade then.

“Me Surgeon’s Crafts were well-nigh useless on a Slave Ship,” said he. “I had learnt o’ Cuppin’ an’ Bleedin’ an’ the Use o’ Cordial Powders, Dulcifers o’ the Blood an’ such. Likewise I knew the Use o’ Jesuits’ Bark fer Ague an’ Fever, Volatile Spirit o’ Viper ’gainst all Faintin’s, Sweatin’s, an’ Lowness o’ Spirits, Powder o’ Burnt Toads ’gainst the Smallpox, as well as Powder o’ Goose Dung ’gainst the Yellow Jaundice. Besides, I knew the Use o’ Lancet, Forceps, an’ Saw as well as—nay better than—any o’ yer Black-Velvet-suited, bewigg’d Physicians an’ Surgeons with their Coaches an’ Four, chargin’ Guineas fer their Visits, an’ their useless Medicaments.”

“Useless?” askt I in a Sweat. “Wherefore useless?” O I took this Word as fearful Portent of my own Fate.

“Aye, useless,” said Lancelot. “Fer mark ye well, Madam Fanny, most o’ these Remedies are wholly fruitless, whether on a reekin’ Slave Ship or no—an’ as our Friend Voltaire says, the Physician but amuses the Patient whilst Nature makes him better!”

“Dear Goddess!” I cried.

“Alas,” said Lancelot, “’tis true: most Illnesses get better despite all the Doctors do to kill the Patient, an’ others get worse, quite independently of his lethal Remedies—whereupon the Gen’rous Earth hides his Errors at the Last, an’ the Survivors pay his Bills or go to Gaol.”

These last Words quite penetrated my delirious State, whereupon I sat up suddenly in Bed and star’d at Lancelot with burning Eyes.

“Pray, what of me, Sir Lancelot? Am I to perish, too, and the Earth hide your Errors?”

“Nay, Fanny,” said he, with unaccustom’d Gentleness, “I shall use all me Arts to get ye well, I swear it.” So saying, he call’d for Horatio to bring more Tea and hot Compresses, and he gave me as well, dried Powder of Rosehips to eat and whole West India Limes. The Limes stung my Tongue sorely, but Lancelot assur’d me that of all the Remedies he had met with on his Travels, none was so sovereign for Chills and Fever as the simple West India Lime. Moreo’er, he swore that tho’ Apothecaries, Physicians, and Surgeons might scoff, the Lime would one Day be seen as a Cure-All beyond any on Land or Sea, for entire Crews of Ships had perish’d that might have been sav’d by this simple Fruit and instead they were cupp’d and blooded, purged, and cover’d with Leeches.

I hardly believ’d him then, but thought him merely pacifying me that I might dye in Peace. O I abus’d Lancelot sorely, as a fever’d Child will abuse the most loving of Mothers. Whilst my Fever rose, I ranted, rav’d, and saw Visions of Fantastical Sailing Ships with royal purple Sails and golden Masts. Lancelot, meanwhile, washt my fever’d Body with Lavender Water and ne’er suggested the least Lewdness to me—tho’ Black Horatio, I remember, stood by, lusting mightily, yet restrain’d by his new Master from so much as laying a Finger upon me!

“Me Years in the Slave Trade taught me a Reverence fer Black People which hath lasted to this very Day,” Lancelot continu’d, as he bath’d me most tenderly, “fer I truly believe that if we, the English Race, were treated as we treat the Negro Race, we would be nought but Animals grovellin’ upon the Ground, whereas they still maintain a kind o’ High Spirit, a Love o’ Laughter an’ Life, such as we ourselves would do well to mimick. But more o’ that anon. Durin’ me Days at Sea ’twas me Fate to fall in Love with a Pretty Fellow nam’d Martin Faulk, a Boy about two Years me senior, an’ with a Family as low as mine was high. O I lov’d him as I ne’er lov’d me Brothers! I mimickt his Dress, his Walk, his Speech (so that if I lapse out o’ the cultivated Speech o’ my Birth an’ into the Gutter-Language o’ London Street Urchins, ’tis all fer the Love o’ him, me first Lover!). He’d been born in Newgate, Martin had, o’ a Mother who was a Cut-Purse an’ a Father who was Child-Getter to half the Prison and father’d well-nigh most o’ the squallin’ Brats in that vile Dungeon. His Mother was due to be transported to the Plantations after her Lyin’-in, but by some Stratagem escap’d, Martin with her, an’ resum’d her Life o’ Crime, bringin’ the Boy up in the Trade ere his Swaddlin’ Clothes were outgrown or his Bum dry. When his Mum was at last apprehended and sadly hang’d (bein’ too old now to avail herself o’ the Services o’ the Newgate Child-Getter), little Martin ran away to Sea, much like meself, an’ ’twas our Fate to meet upon that wretched Slave Ship an’ comfort each other thro’ the Horrors o’ that first Middle Passage.”

My Fever was subsiding now and I was coming back as from a Dream. What had Lancelot said about loving a Woman once? And could he love one again?

“From then on, we were ne’er apart,” he said. “Martin taught me all there was to know about Love betwixt Men, a Catalogue o’ Lovin’ Practices that would inflame yer Ears, e’en if ye weren’t fever’d as ye are. But Martin also taught me about London Low Life, the private Language that Thieves have amongst ’emselves—
Dead Swag
fer Booty that can’t be fenced, an’ Clink fer Gaol, an’
Bridle-Cull
fer Highwayman, an’
Buttock an’ File
fer the Bloke what robs a Shop, an’
Priggism
fer Thievin’, an’
nubb’d
fer hang’d, an’
Mill’Ken
fer House-Breaker, an’
The Cheat
fer the Gallows.”

“The Gallows?” I gasp’d.

“Aye, Lass, the Gallows,” said he. “Sure enough, when our Time was up at Sea, an’ our Articles were at their End, we went into the Priggism Trade in London in a royal Way. We were proud Fellows an’ sure we knew too much to be petty Pickpockets, or
Filin’ Lays,
as they call ’em—so we form’d a veritable Army o’ Boys and took in more Swag in a Week than most o’ yer Newgate Prigs do in a whole Lifetime o’ Priggism!”

“Bravo, Lancelot!” I cried.

“Not so fast, Fanny,” said he. “Fer we were caught, too, turn’d in by one o’ our own Fellows fer the Reward—and we were sent to the Gallows and hang’d.”

“Hang’d?” I askt. “But how comes it you are here to tell the Tale?”

“Ah, Lass, ’tis the very Nub o’ me Story. I’faith, I cheated The Cheat.”

CHAPTER XVI

Lancelot Robinson concludes his astonishing History, showing that a Man may be wise in all Things, both sublunary and divine, yet still be a Ninny where Women are concern’d.

N
O SOONER HAD HE
said those Words than my Body was wrackt with a Fit of Coughing so severe that I fear’d my very Soul should grow faint in me and depart my Body forthwith. Yet as I cough’d and sputter’d and shook with Chills, I retain’d a pow’rful Curiosity to know the Outcome of Lancelot’s History, so that, like that fam’d Sultan of Old (who would not slay his Wife because she was such an excellent Story-Teller), I kept Body and Soul together in Hopes of hearing the Conclusion of Lancelot’s History. If this were part of his Physick, ’twas extraordinary Physick indeed; whereupon when my Fit of Coughing subsided I begg’d to know how he had cheated The Cheat, and, tho’ my Eyes water’d, and my Breath wheez’d in my Windpipe like Winter Winds in an ill-clean’d Chimney, I vow’d to stay alive long enough to hear the End of this remarkable Tale. Ah Belinda, I fear that I was more than half in Love with Lancelot and his wond’rous Words; for at that Season in my Life, soft Syllables could woo me more than Sensuality and my Love of Language was deeper than my Love of Men!