Fanny (60 page)

“O wherefore do you put such Faith in Reason?” I askt. “O wherefore do you believe that Men have only to see Evil to denounce it? Men look upon Evil with great Complaisancy when it touches ’em not directly. And e’en when it comes close to their own Families they shut their Eyes and steadfastly refuse to see it.”

“Ah Fanny, you are bitter with the Bitterness of Innocence first Affrighted, but Time shall mellow you. I do not mean that one Word changes the World at once or that one Book transmutes all Grief to Glory, as ’twere. I only mean to say that Books are like Bricks wherewith we build the House of Justice. We build with one Brick at a Time. Each Seeker of Truth toils like a Bee in a Hive, as ’twere, but all together we shall make the Honey of the World!”

“Honey?” askt Susannah. “Honey?” During that Interval whilst Dennison and I had talkt, she had been huddl’d in her Berth in the Great Cabin, with the Quilt pull’d up almost o’er her Head. I was not e’en sure she listen’d to our Talk, but now she rose out of her Berth, wrapt in her Eider-Down, and walkt the Floorboards like an Apparition. With her small Head almost shav’d and her Arms and Shoulders thin from the Poverty of our Shipboard Rations, she lookt a sable Ghost walking the Floor.

“The Honey o’ the World?” she askt. “Ah seek not the Honey o’ the World upon the Earth—seek it in Heaven!” She stopp’d and rais’d her Arms, letting the Quilt drop to the Floor. Her Ribs show’d thro’ her brown Flesh and her Ankles and Wrists were raw where she had oft’ been manacl’d to serve Whitehead’s Lusts. “See, see how the Air is bright with Honey,” she cried, “how it dazzles the Eye an’ ye can taste it upon the Tongue! ’Tis God’s Honey—this Honey o’ the World, but how shall we eat it without bein’ stung?”

So saying, she ran in all her Nakedness out of the Great Cabin and upon the Deck. Dennison and I pursu’d her, reaching the Deck in Time to see her scramble up the Shrouds, naked as the Day of her Nativity, and spread her Wings as if to fly o’er the Ocean straight into the Bosom of God.

“God Bless ye both, an’ also Sweet Belinda!” she cried. Whereupon she flapp’d a little with her scrawny Arms and flew, like Icarus, up for a Moment, then down, down, down into the Depths of the all-enveloping, all-forgiving Sea.

CHAPTER X

In which our Heroine learns that no Man is such a Scoundrel that he doth not wish to be an Author, that e’en Slavers account themselves patriotick and virtuous, that the Sea is as full of Magick and Mystery as the Land, and that Ships oft’ become Pyrate Prizes as much thro’ the Connivance of their own Tars as thro’ any other Means.

S
USANNAH’S UNTIMELY FATE DID
not affect me quite as I would have sup’ pos’d. Melancholy I was, and melancholy I remain’d. Lost and friendless I was—except for Bartholomew Dennison—and lost and friendless I remain’d. Yet, tho’ I griev’d for Susannah most piteously, and miss’d her sorely, the Example of her Suicide, far from making me wish to imitate it, made me most determin’d to survive. The Deaths of our Friends are most curious in that regard: they oft’ inspire in us a hot Desire to live. Susannah had sav’d my Life and shar’d with me that Moment when my Soul split—O irrevocably!—in twain and I became a Mother. From that Moment onward no Movement I made would fail to take Belinda’s Fate into Account. ’Twas the Way of Motherhood, the Sorrow and the Glory of the Female of the Species: that once having borne a Child, the Soul divides itself betwixt the Child and Mother and the Mother cannot toss her own Life away without consid’ring what will become of her Babe.

Yet did I ponder long and hard regarding Susannah’s Fate and what it might mean. Susannah was Faith itself, my self-appointed Intermediary with God, and when she abandon’d her Faith and perish’d, ’twas as if God sent a Rebuke to me about the Danger of losing Faith. Yet, at the Last, she seem’d to have a Vision ere she dy’d; and like her African Forbears, seem’d to believe that in her Dying, she’d rejoin her Ancestors. How I hop’d ’twas verily the case!

Bartholomew Dennison wrote it all faithfully in his Book, betwixt his Visits to the Sick and Dying and his Attendance upon me. As for Captain Whitehead, tho’ it piqued him to lose one of his private Whores, it did nought but confirm his Beliefs concerning the predestin’d Inferiority of the Negro Race, their Fitness to be Slaves, their Deficiency in Reason and his own Righteousness in engaging in the Slave Trade. The Crew, for their part, took it as a Sign, if more Signs were needed, that this Voyage was doom’d. All their Seamen’s Superstitions now came to the Fore and they murmur’d of curst Ships that have Women aboard, of ghostly Galleons pursuing us across the Seas, and other Vapourish Fantasies to which all Tars, so Bartholomew avow’d, were prone.

As for me, I could not decide what the Meaning of Susannah’s Death might be, but it acted upon me as a pow’rful Goad to my Resolution to endure this wretched Voyage. As Bartholomew believ’d himself to be set upon Earth to chronicle the Slave Trade, I knew that I was destin’d for some Mission which had not yet become clear to me. I knew that I must save Belinda and I also dimly sens’d that all my thwarted Efforts to scribble Epicks and Romances were leading me perhaps towards a Destiny not unlike Dennison’s. Yet I lackt his Conviction—perhaps because of my Sex. ’Tis easier for a Man to believe in the Nobility of his Destiny than for a Woman; the Fair Sex faces so many Obstacles, not the least of which are: Whoredom, Motherhood, the Distractions of Love.

But sure there was some Reason why I had surviv’d the Witches’ Massacre, surviv’d the Birth that should have kill’d me, surviv’d e’en this Voyage. Let me find my tatter’d red Garter, I thought, and put it on. Whereupon, as I was seeking it in the Depths of the Portmanteau Susannah and I had dragg’d aboard, I chanced to remember the Witches’ Prophecy recited to me by poor dead Joan all those Months ago. The Words echo’d in my Ears as if in Joan’s Voice, transform’d by Trance, but I heard the Lines with new Understanding:

Your own Father you do not know.

Your Daughter will fly across the Seas.

Your Purse will prosper, your Heart will grow.

You will have Fame, but not Heart’s Ease.

From your Child-Womb will America grow.

By your Child-Eyes, you will be betray’d.

You will turn Blood into driven Snow.

By your own strong Heart will the Devil be stay’d.

So many Predictions had already come true! If I was to have Fame, then surely I must survive! If I was to stay the Devil, then surely I must survive! The Prophecy had not yet been proven wrong! O my dear, dead Friends, my Sister Witches, Susannah, my sable Sister lost at Sea, I shall not forget you. Your Deaths shall not have been in vain. I shall carry the Blessings of the Goddess across the Seas, and with my Life and Belinda’s avenge all your cruel Deaths!

E’en as I was drawing on the tatter’d Garter, the Ship began to heave and rock; Water slapp’d against the Hull and the Cabin tilted perilously, causing all the Captain’s Charts and Papers to slide off his Writing Bureau upon the Floor. Then, ’twas as if some Creature rose from the Deep, exactly under our Keel, lifted us for a Moment out of the Water, whereupon it plunged us back down into the Waves with great Noise and Tumult.

So shaken was I by this strange Occurrence—taking place exactly at the Moment I was standing upon one Leg slipping the red Garter on the other—that I fell to the Floorboards upon my Bum. I was still sitting there, astounded and stunn’d, when Bartholomew rusht in to enquire after my Health, bringing with him the News that the Helmsman had been momentarily much affrighted, for he could neither steer in one Direction nor the other whilst the Obstacle remain’d.

“What could it be?” I askt.

“The Helmsman says a Whale—or else a Sea-Monster, as ’twere,” Bartholomew laugh’d nervously; “for Whales are rare in this Latitude.”

In a trice, I knew that this “Whale” was not a Whale at all. “I know who ’tis,” I said.

“Pray who?” askt Bartholomew.

“I cannot say—but ’tis a Sign.” For as I live and breathe and write this Book, I knew ’twas the Great Goddess.

“Pray tell,” said Bartholomew.

“That I cannot, for you will take me for a Lunatick, but mark my Words, ’tis no Whale.”

“Susannah’s Ghost?” askt Bartholomew.

“Exactly so,” said I. And in a Sense, ’twas true, too.

“Thank God, she’s a friendly Ghost, as ’twere,” said Bartholomew, laughing as if I had spoken but in jest.

At the Time I receiv’d the aforesaid Sign from the Goddess upon High (or from the Heavenly Spheres, the Supreme Being, or whatsoe’er you may wish to call Her), we had been at Sea, as I have said, six Weeks, and we were already in most southerly Climes. Our Destination was the Mouth of the Gambia River, where Captain Whitehead plann’d to trade some of the Commodities most in demand in Guinea (or Negroland—as that and the adjoining Lands are call’d upon Old Maps) for the fresh Provisions which we sorely lackt. Then, we were to continue ’round the Coast of Sierra de Leon, the Ivory Coast, and the Gold Coast, in search of Slaves. As far as I could ascertain, the African Coast was full of great Rivers from the Gambia to the Callebar and e’en beyond. ’Twas down these Rivers that the Canoos bearing dark-complexion’d Slaves were brought to be sold into a Life of Misery or a Hellish Death. For the Purposes of Trading, Captain Whitehead had brought along pewter Basons of sev’ral Sizes, old Sheets, Iron Bars, large Flemish Knives, Cases of Spirits, and the large good-colour’d Coral said to be much belov’d by the African Kings. He also carried divers Supplies for the Castle of the Trading Company, such as Muskets, brass Kettles, English Carpets, Lead Bars, Firkins of Tallow, Powder, et cetera. Our Crew was much reduced, ’twas true, but Tars he hop’d to enlist when we reach’d our Trading Fort. I was, of course, most desirous of Escape so I lost no Time in quizzing Captain Whitehead upon his Plans, since I knew little of the Slave Trade but for the Horrors Bartholomew (and Lancelot, before him) had recited. I thought that the more I knew, the better were my Chances for Escape, but Whitehead was most evasive concerning the Stops he plann’d to make. He seem’d to know that I was too interested in his Intentions, thus he was deliberately vague concerning both the Location of the Trading Company’s Factory and the various African Rivers where we would barter for Slaves.

Upon one Occasion, not long after Susannah’s Death, I chanced to find, in the Great Cabin, an Old Map of the Guinea Coast, showing all the Rivers, Islands, and Shoals. I was essaying to burn it into my Memory when Whitehead appear’d, and despite my best Efforts to conceal what I was doing, discover’d me at my secret Studies.

“Your Interest in Geography is keen, I see,” said Whitehead, snatching away the Map and rolling it tightly.

“O Captain Whitehead, I am a slow Scholar,” said I. “Maps confuse me; I can hardly read ’em at all.” But, clearly in my Mind’s Eye, I saw the Names of Countries from Negroland to Guinea, from Mandinga to Zanfara; and the Names of Rivers, from Gambia to Sestro, from Formosa to Callebar.

“You’ll not escape, Madam,” said Whitehead coldly, “for I have Ways to keep you in my Care—Manacles, Leg-Irons, and the like—which would chafe your lovely Skin most sorely. Do not fail to take into consideration how merciful I have been till now, but you try my Patience in the extream.” So saying, he reach’d for his Supplejack and whipp’d it thro’ the Air most menacingly to show me his Severity.

“Captain,” says I, “my Intentions are scarcely to escape, but merely to learn more about this Expedition, for I am most intrigued with this Trade you engage in, and having oft’ been a Devotee of Narratives of Explorations and Expeditions, I fancy I may someday wish to write of these Travels….”

“And if you do, Madam,” says Whitehead, “pray, depict ’em in the proper Light, for I am sick to Death of those who say the Slave Trade is a brutal Calling. Wherefore brutal? Why, Slaves upon a Slave Ship are far better treated than e’en indentur’d Whites. They are plentifully fed; Mirth and Jollity are oft’ their predominant Humours, and they are rouz’d to bodily Exercise to prevent their unhealthy dwelling upon their Change of State and Loss of Home. Crowded in some small Degree, they must necessarily be, but Crowding, alas, is the Fate of all who sail the Seas….”

I was amaz’d at this Recital of the Pleasures of Slaving, for Whitehead himself had told me that Man-eating Sharks would follow our Ship thro’out the Middle Passage and that many Tars would have refus’d to board had they known we were going Slaving.

“Wherefore, then, do you deceive your Tars,” I askt, “if Slaving is so sweet?”

“O Seamen are a Parcel of slothful Poltroons,” said he, “who cannot bear an honest Day’s Work and many dread the Southern Seas, for they have been corrupted by the Horror Tales soft-hearted Fools bring back from Guinea.”

“And what of the Sharks that trail the Ships?” I askt.

“O ’twas a Jest,” said he, “a mere Bagatelle. Why, the Ocean Floor is pav’d with Bones and most of ’em are the Bones of White Men! The Sea’s no easy Calling—that I grant. But those Lily-liver’d Souls who denounce the Slave Trade are ignorant both of the Sea and of the very Nature of the Negro Heart. Life is cheap in Africa; they do not feel about their Fates as White Men do. Why, Time out of Mind, it hath been their Custom to make Slaves of all the Captives taken in War. Now, before they had the Golden Opportunity of selling ’em to White Men, they oft’ were obliged to kill Great Multitudes, for fear that they should mutiny ’gainst their Captors. The Slave Trade, therefore, spares many Lives, and great Numbers of Useful Persons are kept in being. Secondly, these Slaves, when carried to the Plantations, live far better there than they did in their own Countries; for the Planters, having paid dear for them, have a great Stake in keeping ’em alive and in good Health. Thirdly, the Trade is patriotick in the Highest Sense, for as ’tis the Wish of ev’ry True-born Englishman to see his Country prosper both at Home and abroad, what could be more pleasing to the Patriotick Englishman than to view the great Advantages which have accru’d to our Nation thro’ the Bountiful Harvests of the Sugar Isles? Why, e’en the most middling sort of Londoner takes Sugar in his Tea, and buys printed Calicoes of Cotton for his Lady. Wherefore would our Capital be such a Pleasure Fair without the Trade that issues from our fine Plantations in the West Indies, which, lying in a Climate near as hot as the Coast of Guinea, the Negroes are fitter to cultivate the Lands there than the White People? In a Word, from this Trade proceed Benefits, far outweighing all, either real or pretended, Mischiefs and Inconveniences. The worst that can be said of it may be, that like all other Earthly Advantages, the Advantages of the Slave Trade are temper’d with a Mixture of Good and Evil—but in that regard ’tis like all the Rest of Life! Pray Madam, write this if you write about the Slave Trade! By Jove, it hath done England more Good than all the Riches of India! Besides, as all Civiliz’d Nations engage in it—the Dutch, the Portuguese, the Spanish, e’en the damnable French—only a Person of greatly deficient Wit and Reason might be so misled by the Tenderness of his Heart that he should fail to see the Blessings of this Trade and dwell upon the Curses. Sure, ev’ry Blessing comes with added Curses, but taken as a Whole, by a Man of Reason, ’tis an admirable Calling, albeit a demanding one. And ’tis more patriotick than leading a conquering Army; for whilst the Army depletes our Nation of Wealth, our Plantations and the Slaves who work ’em bring in Riches undreamt of by the very Moguls of India. Write
this
, Madam, and do not fail to praise the Reasonableness of the Trade, tho’ I know you are no great Believer in Reason!”