Fanny (57 page)

The Captain laugh’d. “I do not wish to bear the Heavy Burden of your Souls, Ladies.”

“Then who shall bear it?” I askt. “For we are but foolish Women and you our Lord and Master.”

The Captain knew me not well enough to presume that these Words were, in fact, the direct Opposite of my Beliefs. Perhaps he suspected me of jesting with him, yet, being a thoroughgoing Patriarch, and being, as well, caught off guard by Flattery—that Universal Lubricant—he tumbl’d headlong into the Pit of Philosophical Disputation. “Satyre,” my Friend Presto us’d to be fond of saying, “is a sort of Glass wherein Beholders do gen’rally discover ev’rybody’s Face but their own.” So, too, with Mockery, unless it be of the most unsubtle sort; ’tis gen’rally miss’d by those we mock—protected as they are by the heavy Armor of their Self-Love.

Captain Whitehead was a Perfect Deist, and as ’tis characteristick of that Breed to try to convert others to their Lack of Faith, he could not resist my Invitation.

“Ladies,” said he, “Reason teaches us that Moses himself was guilty of known Blunders in his Account of the Creation, and the Miracles in both Testaments—Old and New—are inconsistent with Reason, which it hath pleas’d God to give us to aid us in our Pursuit of Happiness. Reason teaches us that there must be a First Cause of all Things, an
Ens Entium,
which we, all unreasoningly, call God, but this First Cause is perfectly indiff’rent to our Fates, for as He is wholly self-sufficient, happy, perfect, and neither loves nor hates, why should He be concern’d with us? And why indeed should He be affected in any Way by our Beseechments? Our Sins neither discomfit Him nor do our Adorations please Him. He hath set the Earth in Motion upon its Axis, spun this Planet we call Home amidst the alien Spheres, and gone away. What we term Religion is nought but Human Policy for Governing the unruly Passions of Man, and as such, it hath e’er pleas’d the Tyrant to enlist the Priest in his Service….”

“Then is Pray’r useless?” askt the unhappy Susannah.

“’Tis nought but the Opiate of Child-like Minds,” said Whitehead. “You may pray to pass the Hours away, but it availeth nought. Sometimes Fortune chooses to turn the Way you pray, but she doth not turn so as a
Consequence
of your Pray’rs. ’Tis all Caprice and Chance and Circumstance.”

“Then is Spirit wholly fled from the World?” I askt. “Is there no Covenant betwixt Man and God?”

“Let me put it to you thus, Ladies. Circumcision is said to be a Sign of the Covenant, is it not?”

We nodded our Heads.

“Yet the Negroes of Africa, who have read neither Old nor New Testament, circumcise their Men-Children, for they inhabit the Southern Climes, and not wishing perspir’d Matter to consolidate beneath the Prepuce and possibly fester, with fatal Consequences, they remove this Flap of Skin. And yet, as they know nothing of our Bible, it cannot be said to be a Sign of the Covenant. Thus, would I put it to you, Ladies, that all the Rituals we take for Signs of the Interest of God in the Affairs of Men, have rather a most logical and scientifick Cause. If, despite this Logick, we wish to believe in Spirits, either friendly or hostile, we may do so, as Serving Maids believe in Ghosts and Goblins, Witches, Apparitions, and Prophecies, but Men of Understanding and Good Judgement do not.”

This Speech was hardly design’d to augment Susannah’s Faith in God, nor mine, for that Matter; for confronted with Captain Whitehead’s cold Logick, I myself, who had
seen
Witches, who had been heal’d (when Men of Science fail’d) by the Pow’r of the Goddess, thro’ Her Devotee, Isobel, falter’d in my Faith. Faith is the Knowledge of the Heart, Logick the Knowledge of the Mind. “
Le Coeur a ses Raisons
,” as Monsieur Pascal hath said, “
que la Raison ne connaît point
.” I quoted this Line to Captain Whitehead, hoping to fend off his Tidal Wave of Deism with a single French Phrase.

“Pascal, Pascal,” quoth he, “when I hear French, I reach for my Pistol. Quote me no Garlick-eating French
Philosophes
,” he said. “For I doubt ’em more than Hottentots. A Frenchman thinks if he can purse his Garlick-Lips and pout a pretty Phrase, he hath defeated you in Argument. Bah—they make me sick with their fine Philosophy and fancy Cookery. Just as a Frenchman can make a Roast Beef look like a Quail Pye, or a Quail Pye look like a Roast Beef, so, too, can he make Falsehood look like Truth and Superstition like Science. I’d sooner argue with a Roman Papist than a French
Philosophe
!”

“Sir, I only mean to say that we know Truth by the Heart, not by the Head. The Head oft’ deceives—”

“So say Weaklings and Scoundrels!” snapp’d Whitehead. “The Heart would dictate Mercy for Llewelyn. D’ye think ’tis easy to hear him whimper so and bear the Burden of the Crew’s Hatred? D’ye think ’tis easy to be Captain o’er a scurvy Lot of Rogues, a Parcel of Lazy Poltroons who’d as soon rot in the Grog Shops of the Sugar Isles as go to Sea and work for an honest Shilling? No! The Heart recoils, but the Head bids it be strong. The Dictates of the Heart are Weakness, Sentiment, and womanish Cowardice; but the Head is manly and courageous. Heart me no Heart and Head me no Head! ’Tis a World of much Cruelty and little Justice, and Woe to him who lives in Expectation of Mercy from his Brethren; he shall be eaten by the Sharks ere his Ship has properly set Sail! Life in Society is little diff’rent from Life in the State of Nature, as Hobbes himself hath described it: ‘Continual Fear and Danger of Violent Death; and the Life of Man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.’ Those who live by the Heart make their Lives e’en shorter and nastier than those of Savages. Those who live by the Head may increase their Pleasures. For ’tis true, is it not, that ‘little else can Life supply but some Good Fucks and then we dye’?”

“What a dismal Philosophy!” said Susannah.

“Dismal, but true,” said Whitehead. “A short Life and a merry one, as the Pyrates say.”

“Sir, I did not know you for a Poet,” said I.

Whitehead smil’d, flatter’d. “O I scribble Couplets now and again,” said he.

“So I see,” said I.

“Come, Ladies, shall we act out the Truth of that last Couplet? For I am very keen to try a Black Lady and a White one in the same Bed, like black Caviar spread upon white Bread, and whilst the Sea is calm and the Men not yet quite mutinous, let us take our Pleasure where we may. Before long, we’ll be in the hot and humid Equatorial Climes and who knows but Ship Fever may carry us off ere we reach our Guinea Castlekeep.”

“Pray—what Guinea Castlekeep do you speak of?” I askt. “For ’twas my Understanding we sail’d for the Azores and thence to the Bahamas and up the Coast of the Colonies.”

“That is true enough, Ladies, true enough. We shall indeed sail to the Bahamas and by and by find ourselves in Charlestown, New York, and Boston, but first we shall touch the Guinea Coast and fetch a fine Cargo of Africans to sell in the New World.”

“Then you mean to take us Slaving?” I askt incredulously.

“The Head dictates it, tho’ the Heart refuses,” Whitehead laugh’d. “A Cargo of fine Guinea Slaves shall fetch a good Price in the New World, e’en if but half of ’em live. Why I could e’en sell Susannah here… if she’ll oblige me not in Bed….” He laugh’d as if the Menace were but Jest, yet Susannah shudder’d; such a Fate would be the final Proof of God’s Displeasure with her.

“Sirrah, when we came aboard,” I said, “we paid Mr. Cocklyn handsomely for our Passage—but not to be taken Slaving.”

“He shar’d neither your Wealth nor your Flesh with me,” said Whitehead, “and as you know, he did not beg Permission of his beloved Captain. Moreo’er, he hath lost both Mast and Sail and his Hull is severely damaged. His Spying-Glasses have the Birds pluckt out to make their Dinner—”

“Enough!” said I. “I will hear no more! I am in Pursuit of my lost Child and I will countenance no further foolish Jests.”

“Come, come,” says Whitehead, “we shall make another Child. Children are cheap and easily made. They cost nothing and there is some Pleasure in it, too. Was this Child a Son that you take on so?”

“A Daughter, Sirrah, and as dear to me as twenty Sons…” I said with a sinking Heart.
Dear Goddess, why hast thou forsaken me?
I thought.

“Daughters, Daughters…why they are cheaper than Sons, until they come to wed and one must find them Marriage Portions. Come, if ’tis a Babe you want, we’ll make another…” said Whitehead.

“Captain,” I rejoin’d briskly despite my Grief, “we would not have come aboard did we know you meant to take us Slaving….”

Whitehead sneer’d. “Nor would the Men,” said he, “for the Guinea Coast teems with Distempers, Agues, and Fevers. If the Men knew our Destination, many would refuse to board. Why half of ’em will dye ere we start the Middle Passage. And as for those that live, the Middle Passage is no Pleasure Cruise for Seamen or for Slaves. Death comes so oft’ upon a Slaving Ship that Man-eating Sharks will chase us ’cross the Ocean and our Wake will oft’ be red with Blood.” He smil’d. “’Tis a Lesson for us: We must snatch our Pleasure whilst we may. The Jaws of Death are sharp and trail us constantly beneath the Waves. Death swims behind us with his cold grey Eyes and scaly Skin….”

My Flesh crept to hear Whitehead talk so. He seem’d to take particular Pleasure in frightening us out of our Wits. Death, it seem’d, arous’d him more than all the Beguilements of the Fair Sex. O Whitehead claim’d to hate the Disciplines he was driven to perform as Captain, but for my own part, I would have sworn he lov’d ’em. The more he talkt of Slaving, the hotter and more passionate he became. At length, he went to a lockt Cabinet and brought out a Box full of curious Instruments, which at first Sight reminded me of those Devices I had seen depicted in Books on Midwifery. But no, they were not Forceps nor Extracting Hooks; they were Hand-Cuffs and Leg-Shackles, Thumb-Screws and such—all the iron Implements of the loathsome Slave Trade.

“This,” said Whitehead devilishly, “is a Device call’d the
Speculum Oris
, with which we open the clos’d Jaws of an unwilling Slave—like so.” He grasp’d me ’round the Waist and thrust two metal Points into my Mouth, then crankt a sort of Screw that strove to open my Mouth to its widest Extent.

“Cease an’ desist, Sirrah,” said Susannah, leaping to her Feet and challenging Whitehead, who now quickly unscrew’d and withdrew the Device, as if he had been using it in Jest. The
Speculum
resembl’d a Pair of Compasses or, indeed, Calipers.

“I’ll not hurt your Mistress,” Whitehead said, withdrawing it, but ne’ertheless I was shaken by this sudden Assault upon my Person—I who was already fell’d by the News that we were sailing to a Region of the World where we had little Hope to find beloved Belinda. Whitehead petted me upon the Back, saying, “There, there.” O what a Creature of Whim and Caprice we had drawn for a Master!

“Well then, Ladies,” said he, “shall we make merry ere the Shark of Death dispatches us?”

“Have we a Choyce?” I askt dismally.

Alas, Belinda, I wish I could tell you now that your Mother and her loyal Retainer, Susannah, found some clever Way to hold the loathsome Whitehead at bay. I fancy two Warrior Maidens—one White, one Black, fending off the mutual Rape that is their Destiny—fending it off with Words, if not with Cutlasses, with clever Tricks, if not with Pistols. But, alas, ’twould not be true. A Ship is a sort of Prison, and the Captain is both Warden and Turnkey. Nay, he is King of the Seas, Prince Regent of all he surveys, and where can his Prisoners run but into the Briny Deep? Dishonour is worse than Death, say some—but I say that Dishonour is a trifling Thing compar’d with Death. For where there’s Life, Honour may oft’ be recaptur’d—many’s the Duchess who started out a Whore—but where no Life is, what use is Honour? Honour will neither feed the Hungry, nor clothe the Shiv’ring, nor heal the Sick. Honour’s like a Badge of Merit: worthless at Pawn, useless to warm the Bones, inedible, and sooner to tarnish than a silver Watch. (Susannah herself, for all her Piety, was fond of saying that any Woman who rates her Honour according to the Diameter of one of her Nether Organs is a pure Fool.)

In short, Belinda, we lay with Captain Whitehead. “Lay with” is a curious Term for what we did; for, in truth, not much lying went on, unless ’twere of the verbal sort, but I use the Phrase out of Custom and the Shyness that o’ertakes my Quill when I remember I am writing for a Daughter. I wish I were not sworn to Truth above Modesty and could afford to be coy! For, tho’ I wish neither to inflame nor to disgust by writing of my Life with all its Vicissitudes, yet I must assume—or I would not have chosen this perilous Profession of Scribbler—that describing Vice is oft’ the best Guarantee of future Virtue, whilst describing Virtue is no Guarantee against the Pow’rs of Vice!

Many foolish and credulous Folk believe the Opposite. They accuse the Chronicler of Vice as if he were the
Creator
of it; and conversely do they believe that honey’d, insipid Writings are the best Assurance of Virtue in this World of Vice. Piffle! Do they not understand that we Scribblers must scourge the World to bring it to its Senses? Do they not understand that an Author doth not necessarily
approve
the Sins his Love of Truth causes him to chronicle? And, as for depicting Female Venery and Lust, I hardly do so to recommend the same to my Daughter, but only to give her the Benefit of Experience, that sublime Teacher. Let virtuous Ladies snicker at my Exploits, feeling superior to me, a sometime Whore. I answer them as Mr. Pope hath answer’d those who would deride poor Jane Shore, to wit:

There are, ’tis true, who tell another Tale,

That virtuous Ladies envy while they rail;

Such Rage without betrays the Fire within;

In some close Corner of the Soul, they sin;

Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,

Amidst their Virtues, a reserve of Vice.

Those who are pure of Soul—altho’ the Body may sometimes sin—need not, Belinda, denounce your hapless Progenitrix. But those who lust inside their teeming Brains and yet confess it not—
they
must condemn!