Fanny (61 page)

I was quite stunnn’d by this long Apologia for a Calling which, until now, I had ne’er heard spoken of but in the blackest of Lights.

“What a pretty Speech,” said I. “My Captain hath a Way with Words, i’faith.”

Whitehead preen’d a bit, pleas’d yet careful not to show his Pleasure too clearly.

“I have oft’ thought to write my Adventures, too, Madam; for the Narratives of Voyages I have read are full of egregious Errors. At the very least,” said he, “I may put my Pen to a Pamphlet, explaining the Blessings of this Trade which hath been so oft’ malign’d.”

Aha, I thought to myself, in all of England and her Colonies, is there no Fool nor Knave so debas’d and illiterate that he doth not delude himself he is an
Author
? Is ev’ry Knave a Scribbler in his Soul? What a Curse is Education then—if ev’ry Cretinous Criminal thinks to tell his Tale and justify his foul, felonious Trade!

“Perhaps I may be your Amanuensis, Sir,” said I, “for I write a fine Hand—for a Wench, that is—and I have some small Degree of Skill at making Sentences, e’en Verses, despite my Sex.”

“Hmmmm,” said Whitehead, not a little tempted by my Proposal. “Your Offer interests me. Let me think on’t Madam.”

Thus did I achieve, by dint of my Education and Skill in Scribbling, what e’en my Brothel Tricks could not secure for me: namely, the Captain’s wary Trust. For tho’ he still watch’d me closely, he grew so carried away with his Desire to justify the Slave Trade in his Memoirs (which now I began to scribble for him) that he could not treat me quite as he had before. ’Tis said that no Man’s a Hero to his Valet—how much more true ’tis for an Amanuensis! For I was privy to the Workings of his Mind and ’twas I who fram’d his Thoughts in good plain-spoken English whilst he rambl’d and reminisced of his Adventures.

From Whitehead, I learnt immeasurably about what motivates some Men to conceive themselves superior to their Fellows on account of the Colour of their Skins. For Whitehead, whose own Erotick Proclivities were none too fastidious, seem’d to think himself better than the Negroes, owing to their Proximity to the Beasts and his own to the Angels. In speaking of the Blacks of Guinea, he oft’ describ’d ’em as “Monkies,” or remarkt that their Teeth, being fil’d into Points, had a “canine” Appearance. Likewise he avow’d that their Song was a “wild and savage Yell, more befitting Beasts than Men.” Now, I, who had the highest Regard both for Dogs and Horses (and accounted those Species oft’ superior to Mankind), could not but find this a curious “Justification” for the sad Traffick in Human Flesh in which Whitehead engaged. ’Twas remarkable to me that a Man who lov’d Piss and Shit as Whitehead did, should account the Negro Slaves “bestial” for what he term’d “the filthy Habit of depositing their natural Excretions where they sleep.” Were these poor Creatures not manacl’d where they lay? Were they not depriv’d of Chamber-Potts or any other civiliz’d Article in which to do Nature’s Bidding? Why e’en the Tars of the
Hopewell
had no better Accommodations for Nature’s Necessity than to climb out along the Bowsprit and thence discharge their Excrement into the Sea; for none but the Captain, the Surgeon, and the Sick had Close-Stools aboard our dismal little Brigantine. Yet Whitehead blam’d the Negroes for their Filth as if they themselves, not their Captors, were responsible for their Conditions. That same Effusion which he call’d “Nectar” or “Vintage Wine” in his Hot Fits of Lust, that same Excretion he term’d “Eggs,” were nought but Objects of Disgust when they issu’d from the Negro Slaves! Ah, give me Dogs before Men any Day, for they make no Bones (if I may be permitted a low Pun) about their Love of sniffing Shit and do not fault other Canines for it!

Whitehead’s Memoirs, as he dictated ’em, were full of Phrases like “Common Decency” and “Personal Cleanliness,” as if he himself were but the Height of Civilization and Fastidiousness and ’neath him lay all God’s other Creatures. Indeed, I have oft’ noted this is the case with Memoirs both of Politicians and of Criminals: that tho’ they be guilty themselves of the most heinous Crimes, yet they are very quick to judge their Fellow Man and find him wanting.

We were not far from the Mouth of the Gambia River, and the Weather had become almost unbearably hot and humid, when our Ship found itself suddenly becalm’d and Fog-bound and unable to proceed under Sail.

The Tops of our own Masts were invisible and the Shrouds themselves seem’d to vanish into the Mist, like Ladders up to Heaven. ’Twas impossible to see our own Bowsprit, not to mention the other Ships about us! Vapourish and ill as the Tars were—given our Shortness of Rations, owing to our Failure to stop in Madeira—the Fog seem’d still another perilous Omen to ’em. By now, ’twas Common Knowledge that Whitehead had deceiv’d the Crew as to our Destination, and the more season’d Seamen amongst ’em had deduced we were going Slaving. Were it not that the Example of Llewelyn’s Torture still haunted their Dreams, the Crew should have kill’d the Captain forthwith and taken o’er their own Destinies.

O what a curious Creature is the Fog! It blunts the Eyes, the Ears, e’en the Sense of Touch, and it encourages Fancies in the Brain. Seamen who ne’er experience Vapours in a Tempest do so in the Fog, for it seems a sentient Being in itself, a sort of Sea-Monster of amorphous Shape, lying ev’rywhere and nowhere.

I remember that I was in the Great Cabin on just such a Fogbound Night (scribbling down the Captain’s Recollections from previous Voyages whilst he paced and drank his Grog and talkt like one possess’d), when the Watch came in to report that he heard the Rowing of a Boat not far off. The Captain started for the Deck, bidding me follow—for, now as his Chronicler, I had such Privileges—and lookt about for the reported Boat, but all was Eerieness and Mist. We were anchor’d somewhere off Cape Verde then, awaiting the Lifting of the Fog, and feeling we had sail’d straight to Hades, owing to the Closeness of the Weather, when, thro’ the Tropick Darkness, the soft Splash of Oars and the Rattle of Oar-Locks could be heard. Whitehead quickly order’d the First Mate who had replaced Cocklyn to go down into the Steerage and send up as many arm’d Men as possible. Then we listen’d as the Slap of Oars drew closer. “Hail the Visitors,” he order’d his Second Mate, which the Latter duly did, asking, according to Custom, whence she came and who she was. Thro’ the Fog, the Reply came back:

“From the Seas!”

“Pyrates!” cried Whitehead, for this was the traditional Pyrate Reply and now he knew what Manner of Men he was addressing.

“Where are the Men I call’d for?” he shouted down into the Steerage, but all was Silence below.

I lookt out, into the Fog, wond’ring what Fate awaited us in the misty Darkness, yet no further Sound was heard but for that ominous Dip and Splash of Oars. I thought of the Stories I had read of Pyrates; of Henry Morgan’s notorious Practice of hoisting the decapitated Corpse of one of his Enemies from a Yardarm whilst the grisly Head dangl’d by a Tarry Rope from its Feet; of Ears and Noses sliced off as if they were so many Lumps of Butter; of maroon’d Men smear’d in Honey and left to the Ants; of Prisoners roasted alive to tell the Porto Bello Pyrates of their hidden Gold. “From the Seas!” The very Phrase was enough to freeze the Blood! O I was horribly afraid.

“Where are my Men—you mutinous Dogs!” shouted Whitehead desp’rately. Silence in the Steerage was all the Reply he receiv’d; whereupon he drew his Sword and stood upon the Deck as if he would duel with the Fog-Creature. O ne’er had I seen him so panickt as he stood awaiting his Fate like some Don Quixote that would joust with Mist!

“Go into the Steerage,” he commanded the Second Mate, “and summon the Men!”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” said the Second Mate, who now disappear’d in turn; but no Sound of must’ring Men was heard in the Hold. Finally, in dire Desperation, he bade
me
summon the Men, which I was upon the very Point of doing, when the Sounds in the Water below convinced us that the Boarding Party had already arriv’d and was scrambling up the Side.

“Open Fire, you Mutinous Dogs!” Whitehead shouted to his Crew, yet the Pyrates, who were already clambering upon the Deck, encounter’d no Resistance whatsoe’er in Boarding; and taking Whitehead’s Words as if they were Commands intended for themselves, they open’d Fire upon the Instant, fell’d the Captain with a Volley of Musket Shot, and would have fell’d me had I not duckt in Time.

“Send for Dennison!” cried Whitehead, bleeding upon the Deck; whereupon I rusht down into the Steerage in search of my Friend, the Surgeon, and saw, to my Horror, all the Tars reclining at their Ease, awaiting the Moment to turn Pyrate.

“Is the old Bastard dead yet?” askt the Second Mate.

“Tell the Pyrates we’re their Men!” shouted the First Mate.

“A gold Chain or a wooden Leg, we’ll follow ’em!” cried another Tar.

“A short Life and a merry one!” cried another.

“The Captain’s wounded,” said I. “He requires the Surgeon.”

“Let the old Bastard bleed to death!” declar’d the Second Mate. “He’d do no less for us.”

“Will you just lye there and let the Ship be taken?” I askt, incredulous.

“With any Luck, we will!” said the First Mate.

“Where’s Dennison?” I askt.

“Scribblin’ in his Cabin,” cried the Second Mate, “an’ deaf to the World.”

Just then, we all turn’d and star’d as one, as the Pyrate Boarding Party, a Group of five, descended into the Steerage with their Cutlasses rais’d in Menace and their Muskets and Pistols pois’d for fire. I lookt into their Faces and I swoon’d.

“Lancelot! Horatio!” I cried.

CHAPTER XI

Containing a better Explanation for the Prevalence of Pyracy than any Authors, ancient or modern, have yet advanced; together with our Heroine’s tragick but true Realization that most Revolutionaries are none where Women are concern’d, and what ingenious Stratagem she made Use of to alter this sad State of Affairs.

’T
WAS LANCELOT AS SURE
as this Quill I write with scratches, and Horatio dress’d as a perfect Pyrate Prince, and with ’em were three other Black-skinn’d Men—as fierce a Parcel of Pyrate Potentates as you might hope to clap your Eyes upon, on Land or Sea!

“Lancelot!” I cried, to the Vision of my former Love, now with a long red Beard plaited with Sea-green Ribbands, and the Sea-green Eyes which had a lunatick Look. But Lancelot regarded me blankly as if he neither understood nor recogniz’d me. Likewise Horatio seem’d stunn’d to be call’d by Name. He had let his Hair grow into a ferocious Bush and atop it wore a tatter’d Hat, laced with tarnish’d Silver. Like legendary Blackbeard, he’d taken to putting lighted Matches ’neath his Hat, which glow’d along their Fuses and made him look the Compleat Vision of a Fiend from Hell. The other Black Men had Faces cut with Tribal Scars and Teeth fil’d into Points: their Skins were dark as Ebony. ’Twas clear they were Africans, not former Slaves from the Sugar Isles; and they’d clearly turn’d Pyrate with great Gusto. Astounded that a Wench dar’d to address their Captain and Quartermaster so familiarly, they seiz’d me by the Arms and held me fast.

For a Moment, I was terrified. Can I be dreaming? I askt myself; was there ne’er a smooth-cheakt Lancelot nor any Black Horatio? O my Brain was addl’d by the Torments of this Voyage, by Whitehead’s Excesses, Susannah’s Suicide, Belinda’s Kidnapping, and all I had endur’d. Perhaps my Recollection of a Love call’d Lancelot was nought but something I had read in a Romance or dreamt abed. Perhaps Horatio was no Horatio at all, but only a sable Apparition. But e’en as I thought this, my Lips began to speak without my Will: “
Segnius irritant Animos dismissa per Aures
,” they said, quoting Horace, “
Quam quae sunt Oculis submissa fidelbus
!” (Which, translated into good, plain English, means: “What the trusty Eyes behold piques the Mind more than that which issues thro’ the Ears.”)

“By Jove!” cried Horatio, “’tis the Beauteous Fanny! For tho’ the Lass is shorn of all her Hair, yet still she hath a silver Latin Tongue!”

“Damme!” cried Lancelot, “I’ll not call that bald Wench me own Sweet Fanny just because she babbles in damn’d Pig Latin! Speak English, Wench. Wherefore d’ye claim to be Fanny Hackabout the Fair, fer if yer lyin’ I’ll pierce yer lyin’ Heart fer takin’ me True Love’s Name in vain!”

Whereupon I recited the Robin Hood Oath, to prove my Identity beyond a Doubt, and as I finish’d, all my Shipmates cried, “Aye! Aye! We’ll take that Oath and turn Pyrate, too!”

“Just a Moment, Lads,” cried Lancelot, “not so fast. Not ev’ryone can join the Merry Men.” And then to me: “What Villain cut yer Hair? Fer ye look worse than a pluckt Duck! ’Tis the Rape o’ the Lock as sure as I’m Robin Hood reborn!”

“O Lancelot, Horatio! I’m so happy to see you both,” and breaking free of my Captors, who now stood back, I ran to the Arms of my Merry Men and fell upon ’em weeping.

“First the Ship, Lass, then the Celebration!” said Lancelot, “fer we’re here to take a Prize, not a Pudendum!” And he wriggl’d out of my Arms like the Lancelot of Old.

“Let’s kill the Captain!” shouted the First Mate.

“Killin’s too good fer him!” shouted the Second Mate.

“Let’s do to him what he hath done to Llewelyn!”

“What’s this? What’s this?” askt Lancelot.

“O Lancelot,” said I, “there is so much to tell—my beauteous Babe is gone, kidnapp’d by an evil Nurse—and as for the Captain here, not only hath he cut my Hair, but he is a Monster of Cruelty who hath done such Deeds to all the Men and me as not e’en deranged Popish Monks in a Roman Monastery could be guilty of! He is a Torturer, a Slaver, and a Lover of the Supplejack. He despises Women and the Negro Race and he hath no Use for his own Seamen, whom he uses as mere Beasts of Burden and flings into the Sea when they dye of Distempers. O I could go on and on detailing his Cruelties, but we must not tarry here, for perchance he will escape if left alone upon the Deck!”

“Is this true, me Lads?” askt Lancelot of my fellow Travellers.

“True! True!” they cried.

“The Wench is no Liar!” said the First Mate.

“Let’s put the Captain to the Jog o’ Death!” said the Second Mate.