Fanny (22 page)

Lancelot frown’d at the Latin, but I was fascinated by Horatio’s odd Upbringing. No wonder he was so strange a Combination of Savagery and Civilization! I wisht to hear more of his History.

“But was that not illegal in the New World—teaching Slaves to read and write?” I askt eagerly. “For I have read so.”

“My Master was a peculiar Man, Madam Fanny. He believ’d he could create a Little Rome there on the Tropick Plantation. He’d brought marble Sculptures without Heads from his Grand Tour to Italy. Some were Forgeries, I’ll warrant, but he lov’d ’em ne’ertheless. He brought Renaissance Coffers of gilded Wood, and gilded Cherubim from Venice, and Paintings of golden-hair’d, blue-eyed Angels from Florence and Siena. When he took it into his Head to rebuild his Villa in the Roman Style, he brought a Family of Italian Painters to his Plantation and there they liv’d painting and drinking and playing their bawdy Games right under his very Nose. I’faith, they could do no wrong—tho’ they laugh’d at him behind his Back. Whate’er I’ve learnt about drinking and wenching, I learnt from those Tuscan Rogues—and mark you, they knew plenty! But to go on about my Master—why, he e’en built Roman Baths and an Amphitheatre and he e’en wanted his Slaves to play Gladiatorial Games. He was a strange one, my Master was, part Lunatick, in truth.”

“Then damn yer Master an’ be done!” says Lancelot, perhaps not pleas’d to have another Witsnapper in our midst. But I begg’d to hear Horatio’s Tale, for now my Curiosity was e’en more arouz’d.

“How did you leave Barbadoes and come to England?” I askt Horatio.

“I had read Books and Gazettes from Europe and I knew that the Condition of Blacks in the Old World was not what it was in the New. I thought to run away to France, where by dint of my Knowledge of the Classicks and the fine French Tongue I’d learnt at my Master’s House (not to mention my Smatt’ring of Italian, pickt up from those roguish Painters), I would be consider’d a Marvel, taken into a Salon as a Pet, and ador’d by Learned Ladies for my Colour and my Wit—so I ran away to Sea, but alas, I did not get to France.”

“What happen’d, Horatio?” I askt.

“O ’tis a long and breathless Tale, and as Virgil says, ‘
Ipsi sibi somnia fingnut
,’ ‘They fashion their own Dreams’—so I, too, fashion’d my own Dreams, made my own Destiny, and all such Poetick Stuff.”

“Do tell of it, Horatio,” I said.

“But, pray, leave the blasted Latin out,” says Lancelot, “fer I love Latin about as much as I love to fuck a Pig’s Arse when there’s a fine black one in me Bed instead!”

“My Master hath spoken,” said Horatio, with all possible Irony, “I must obey.”

“Pray tell your Tale!” I begg’d.

“Very well, then. I stow’d away on a French Ship which had call’d at Barbadoes for Careening. ’Twas nam’d the
Esperance
and its Home Port was Dieppe, which I had been told was a fine Modern Town, having been rebuilt after the War of the League of Augsburg. I thought I would sail thither and easily make my Way to Paris, where the French People were said to be very tolerant of Blacks—more tolerant than the blasted English and the cruel, cruel Spanish, by Jove. But alas, my Plans were thwarted, not by Man, but by God, for when I was discover’d (and the Slave-Brand upon my Shoulder seen), the Captain vow’d to return me to my Master on the next Crossing and swore that until then I should be his personal Servant, his
Valet de Chambre,
Man of all Work, and the like. None of this troubl’d me much, howe’er, for I knew that the Winter Months were coming upon us (’twas already September) and that not many Ships made more than one Atlantick Crossing
per Annum
, as we say in Latin—” With this he gave a hasty Look towards Lancelot, who scowl’d now at the slightest Mention of that Tongue, whereupon Horatio smil’d mischievously, then continu’d:

“Verily the Winter Crossings upon the Atlantick are harsh indeed, and only the greediest of Captains—or the most desperate—venture across the Sea in those Months, so I trusted to my own Charm to ingratiate myself with the Captain in the Weeks to come and I doubted not but I should find a Way to escape when we came to the beauteous Shores of France. That was not to be, howe’er, for our Ship was wreckt in a monstrous Hurricano—whilst still in the Waters of the Main, and those of the Crew who were not drown’d were eaten horribly by Sharks, the Waters running red with Blood and the Screams of the Victims echoing in my Ears….”

“Pray, how did you escape?” I askt.

“Again, ’twas my Learning that sav’d me. There was a Sack of Victuals in the Dinghy in which the Captain and I were put o’er the Side—”

“Did he not go down with the Ship, Horatio, as a true Captain ought?” said I.

Horatio laugh’d merrily. “My dearest Girl, he was the first one off the sinking Ship, and in the best Dinghy, too! Do not believe Heroick Tales of Captains going down with their Ships. I’ve ne’er seen it nor heard of it in all the Time I spent at Sea….”

“Nor I,” said Lancelot, agreeing heartily.

“But the Captain,” Horatio continu’d, “was swiftly punish’d for his Desertion of his Men—for the greatest Shark I’ve e’er seen (in Pictures or at Sea) fairly seiz’d him from the Boat and snapp’d him in two! ’Twas verily as if the Devil himself had come in the Guise of a Fish and in an Instant he ate his Hindquarters, then his Torso and his Arms, but left his Head bobbing like an Orange upon the Sea. Then he swam away, contented, for the nonce, this Devil Fish did, whilst I lay at my full Length in the Bottom of the Boat and prepar’d to meet my Maker, for surely the Fish should return to take me as well. But as I lay there in the Dinghy, I chanced to feel in the Darkness a Sack of Oranges left as Food for shipwreckt Seamen, and, remembering Stories I had read of Sharks being deceiv’d by Stillness, the Absence of thrashing Limbs, I resolv’d to remove the Oranges and wriggle myself into the Sack, which, after some Difficulties, I accomplish’d. Whereupon the monstrous Shark return’d in a Feeding Frenzy, butted the Boat with his evil Head, fairly chomp’d into the Wood with his huge Jaws, near destroying the Boat, but at last swimming away, leaving me in my Sack, clinging to a bit of Board (which had once been the Dinghy’s Seat), and the Seas all around awash with Oranges, and one ghastly sever’d Head as well—namely the Captain’s! How long I waited there (as stilly as I could, to be sure), I cannot say. The Shark circl’d the Area curiously. I saw his hideous Fin and fear’d for my Life. I pray’d to Jove, to the Supreme Being, to the African Gods of my Ancestors (whose sacred Names I did not e’en know). I pray’d to dye swiftly, if at all, and go to Heaven, there to mingle with Horace and Juvenal, Catullus and Petronius Arbiter—for surely such Great Writers must be in Heaven, must they not?”

“Bah,” says Lancelot. “Italian Bastards—all of ’em!”

“So I linger’d in my Sack, keeping still as I might whilst the Shark circl’d closer, toying with the Oranges, but not eating ’em, coming e’er closer, finally circling me, and then—just as I was prepar’d to dye, and be done—the big Blackguard turns Fin and swims away!

“By Jove, I’ll ne’er understand how I came to be sav’d, but surely, ’twas God’s Will, and ’twas also His Will that not long after I was pickt up by a Pyrate Ship nam’d the
Good Intent
, flying the red Pyrate Flag (for mark you, ’tis a Lye that Pyrates e’er fly the darksome Skull and Crossbones—they only do so to affright their Prey before Attack), and taken aboard amongst the Buccaneers.”

“Buccaneers!” I gasp’d. O few Words struck such Terror in my Heart unless it were the Word “Pyrates” itself!

“Bah!” said Horatio. “I’d sooner see a Pyrate than Politician any Day! Now these were the most Freedom-loving Fellows I e’er met. Black or white, they judged a Man solely by his Learning, his fighting Ability, his Pluck. Many were uneducated Rogues from the Streets of London, Newgate Prison, or runaway Apprentices and Indentur’d Men from the New World. They were amaz’d by my Learning, amus’d by the Stories I could tell at Night to pass away the lonely Hours at Sea, and not a little impress’d by my physical Strength, which was also great despite the Years I had spent speaking Latin with my strange Master (who, by the by, e’en wore a Toga whilst on his Plantation!).

“We took many Ships in the Time I sail’d with the Pyrates, for as you know, their Slogan is ‘
No Prey, no Pay
,’ and ev’ry Man must do his Share, black or white, literate or illiterate. Had I not had Brawn as well as Brain, they would no doubt have toss’d me o’erboard again. But I did my goodly Share of Work—and into the Bargain told ’em Tales all Night, adapted from the Latin Authors I knew so well—but told in simple English to suit their simple, un-Book-learnt Hearts!”

“Then be brief, fer God’s sake,” said Lancelot, growing e’er more jealous of Horatio’s Skill in Story-telling. But the Faces of the Merry Men clearly pled to hear the Rest. And as for me, I was as fascinated by Pyrates as I was horrified.

“What a Time we had!” Horatio rav’d. “We rais’d Spanish Plate from well-nigh half a dozen sunken Galleons, took Ships with Cargoes as divers as these Merry Men here. We were true ‘Sea-Artists’—as the Saying goes. Our Vessel was small—a mere twenty-ton Sloop—but ’twas all the better to come in like the Wind and escape like the Wind after the Capture was made. We fought with Cutlass and Flintlocks. Some Men were equipp’d with Boarding Pikes to cut thro’ the Enemy’s Rigging (as well as their Nets and Bulwarks), others hurl’d Stinkpotts at the Prey—homemade Crocks of Sulphur with a horrible Smell—or homemade Grenades of Pistol Shot and old Iron. Still others us’d Petereros, firing old Spikes and Nails, Pieces of Glass and Crockery, that could make a Man’s Face look like a Swiss Cheese in no Time at all. After the initial Attack, we’d throw the Grapnel Hooks o’er the Side to snare the Prey like a wriggling Fish on an Angler’s Line. Then some of the Sea-Artists would drive Wedges betwixt the Enemy’s Rudder and Sternpost, jamming it and making Escape impossible. O we were very quick indeed and better drill’d than the King’s Armies! Each Man had his Task and each Man did it—and did it swiftly because the first Man on board the Prey got a double Share of the Booty. Once on board, ’twas Hand-to-Hand, Thrust and Cut, firing at close Range, and e’en using the Pistol Butts as Batt’ring Pieces. We were a season’d Crew—Men who had surviv’d Prison, Poverty, many pestilential Voyages—and we were hardy, much hardier than any King’s Navy we might meet. ’Twas ne’er a long Contest and when the Prey surrender’d, we swarm’d o’er the Ship looking first for Rum or Wine, then for other Booty, but sometimes the Men got drunk so fast that in their Frenzy they kill’d all the Crew—especially if they were the detested Spaniards—tho’ ’twas in fact our Policy to offer ’em to join our Pyrate Company and sign our Pyrate Articles instead of being thrown o’er the Side or strung up from the Yards for Musket Practice! But Men who had drunk too much Rum were ne’er Solomon-like in their Judgement….”

“Amen to that!” cries Sotwit.

“And once or twice the Prey was pistol’d point blank! But many of our Company objected to such wholesale Slaughter, and if a Man was a Surgeon, a Gunner, a Bosun, a Carpenter, or Sail-Maker, his Life was surely spar’d and he was press’d into Service.”

“What Booty did you take?” I askt, proud to be using a Pyrate Word.

“O the Booty was divers as the blooming Flow’rs of the Tropicks, beautiful as the Green Isle of Barbadoes! We took Spices, Silks, and Perfumes from the East; Indigo, Cochineal, and Logwood for Dyes; precious Woods, and Sugar; Tobacco, Hides, e’en soft Llama Wool from the Spanish Territories to the South. Sometimes we’d come upon Bales of Damask, Strip’d Silks for the Colonial Ladies, Bolts of sheerest Linen, pieces of cut Velvet; Stands of Arms, Fowling Pieces, Pistols damascen’d with Silver and Gold; or sometimes fine Casks of Wine (which ne’er reach’d Port but in the Pyrates’ Bellies!) and sometimes Religious Articles, Statues, Chalices, Missals, and the like.

“We sold the Booty at Auction at Tortuga. The Trollops and the Alehouses took most Men’s Shares—and tho’ many a Doxy went Home rich to Europe, her Pockets stuff’d with Pyrate Gold, the Pyrates themselves were Spenders, not Hoarders—and few of ’em had anything to show for all their Bravery but Scars and loop’d-off Limbs!

“But sometimes, we attackt Prey we could do nothing with—a Shipload of fine Arabian Stallions we had no Use nor room for. Some of the Men rode wildly about the Decks for a Time, hollering like Lunaticks, but when one of our Crew was thrown and had his Neck broke, we retreated, leaving the Steeds to their Fate with what remain’d of the enemy Crew.”

“O no,” I cried, my Eyes filling with Tears at the Plight of these Horses. What if my dearest Lustre should be lost at Sea?

“D’ye weep more fer Horses or fer Men, Fanny?” says Lancelot.

“I weep for both,” I said, but in my Heart, I knew that Horses won the Palm.

“Then hear the Rest of my Tale,” said Horatio. “For we next met a Shipload of indentur’d English Felons bound for Slavery in Jamaica. Some of ’em begg’d to join us, thinking the Pyrate Life a far better Thing than Slavery in the Plantations, but such Fighting broke out amongst the Lot of ’em concerning who should be taken, who left behind, that we had to leave ’em all, giving ’em Sailing Directions for Montego Bay, where we doubted not but they might escape and hide in the Bush. We had no Love for putting Men in Chains to toil in the Sun, but our Ship was too small to take ’em all, alas.

“But the very sorriest Dilemma came for me when we chanced upon a Slaver fresh from the Middle Passage and the Guinea Coast. She lookt a fine Prize upon the Horizon, but as we drew closer, we saw the Gear all foul aboard her, the Sails backt and gyb’d, and none of ’em trimm’d to the Wind. We boarded her and found a Cargo of Africans that had broken loose from the Holds and slaughter’d all the Crew, but since none of the Slaves was a Sailor they’d floated thus for Days, unable to return to their Homeland, unable to make for Shore.

“O what Turmoil in my Heart when I saw this Shipload of my People and yet could not speak a Word of their African Language, nor communicate my Grief in any Way. All my Latin, my French, my English avail’d me not! And my Skin was almost that of another Race compar’d to their gleaming Ebony, and I knew not whether to love ’em as Brothers or disdain ’em as Savages who knew nothing of Catullus and Virgil! For my Education had verily made me a Freak of Nature—not African, not Roman, nor yet a True-born Englishman; pray then, what was I?”