Fanny (20 page)

“I’faith,” Lancelot continu’d, “we languish’d in Newgate fer the better part o’ the Year—Martin an’ I did—an’ I was e’en put to the
Peine Forte et Dure
on account o’ me Refusal to plead guilty or no. Fer three Days I was lyin’ upon me Back with an iron Plate upon me Chest an’ iron Weights placed upon that until me Lungs was fair to burstin’ an’ Stars twinkl’d before me Eyes an’ the Pain gave way to a Numbness so prodigious that I’d have sworn I dy’d an’ came back to Life from the Great Beyond. But that was not the case indeed, fer mark ye, Fanny, I was to learn o’ the Great Beyond soon enough—an’ ’twas nothin’ like that.”

“Pray what is the
Peine Forte et Dure
!” I askt, puzzl’d in the extream.

“’Tis a hard Punishment sometimes call’d
Pressin’ to Death
which is us’d to make a Prisoner plead guilty or not guilty, an’ ’tis barbarick, fer verily ’tis worse than the Rack o’ Old. Each Day, they increase the Weight an’ each Day they give ye barley Bread alone or Water alone so that indeed ye cannot perish swiftly as ye wish, an’ if ye continue in Obstinacy, they leave ye in that Condition till ye slowly an’ horribly dye.”

“Is that how you dy’d, Lancelot, and return’d from the Dead? Tell me, pray do.” I had almost forgotten how ill I was and I wisht to sit up in Bed to better hear the Rest of the History, whereupon Lancelot pusht me back on the Pillows again—but he did so gently enough, to be fair.

“Nay, Lass, ’twas more astoundin’ still than that. After the third Day, I gave up me wretched Obstinacy an’ confess’d, thinkin’ that if I was to be hang’d in Chains like a proper Highwayman, I might as well go to me Death in a Blaze o’ Glory, an’ become a Legend to Posterity.”

“A Legend to Posterity?” askt I.

“Aye,” said Lancelot gravely. “So we pleaded guilty—Martin an’ I did—an’ makin’ a Lovers’ Pact, we vow’d to dye as grandly as two Prigs e’er did and meet once more to love again in the Great Beyond. When the Day o’ Hangin’ came, we rode in no common Cart with the common Lot o’ Rogues, but hir’d a golden Coach an’ six white Horses to ride to the Fatal Tree, an’ we got ourselves up in gorgeous Gold-laced Clothes—all Snow-white Silk, with gold Embroidery an’ white cockt Hats, heavy with golden Lace, an’ flutt’rin’ Feathers as well. Our Boots were Cream-white Leather, our Breeches milky Satten, an’ our Waistcoats Eggshell-colour’d Silk; our Gloves were fine French Kid. We studied rhym’d Speeches to bid Farewell to the World, an’ our priggish Friends made certain that all along the Way up Holborn Hill, we should be follow’d by Maids in white, with great silk Scarves a-wavin’ an’ Baskets o’ Flow’rs an’ Oranges. Rose Petals strew’d our Way to Tyburn—O ’twas a Grand Spectacle indeed!”

I clos’d my Eyes again and fancied beauteous Lancelot all in white, riding upon Rose Petals in a golden Coach and waving to the Crowd like any King!

“We arriv’d at the Gallows at Twelve,” said he, “drank Burnt Brandy very grandly, an’ had our Men offer it to the thirsty Throng as well. The Girls threw Oranges at ’em an’ scatter’d Rose Petals, an’ Martin an’ me put up a fine Show o’ Courage. What animal Faces I saw around us then! Poor Wretches whose only Entertainment was an Execution! The Squallin’ Gin-soakt Rabble lusted fer our Blood as if ’twould preserve their own! What makes a Man love Death, Fanny? Is it because he hopes to avert his own by watchin’ the Deaths of others? Doth he hope to devour Death by devourin’ Executions with his Eyes? I’ll ne’er understand it, if I live to be eight hundred Years. The Human Beast is more Beast than Human, ’tis true….”

I only sigh’d in answer.

“By special Permission o’ the Hangman,” he went on, “(which we paid dear fer, I’ll warrant ye), Martin an’ I were to dye together in the very same Cart, so after we had said our pretty Speeches, an’ been duly blest by the drunken Preacher, we climb’d into the Cart just as jaunty as ye please, kiss’d each other full upon the Lips before the whole Crowd—which, I’ll warrant ye, drove ’em wild—(fer ne’er had they seen two lovin’ Men, lovin’ in Publick before such a Crowd o’ scurvy Rogues no less!), an’ then the Executioner puts a Noose around each o’ our Necks, fastens the other End to that ill-favour’d Beam, an’ this done, he gives the Horse a Lash with his Whip, an’ away goes the Cart, and lo! we are hoisted up in the Air by our Ears!”

“Dear Lord!” I cried, for as Lancelot spoke, I seem’d to feel the very Rope around my own Neck!

“A piteous Snap o’ his Neck told me that Martin had gone to his Reward with Merciful Dispatch—but I dangl’d in grievous Pain, unable to dye, yet unable to live. Some o’ our Gang came forward pullin’ on me Legs an’ poundin’ on me Chest to dispatch me, an’ still the Pain grew greater, but still I would not dye. The Crowd jeer’d, me Body grew stiff, e’en me Bowels loosen’d an’ me Cock stood up, as if I were a Corpse already, but yet I would not dye—an’ then, just when I thought I could bear the Pain no longer, the Shouts an’ Jeers o’ the Crowd were drown’d out by a horrible buzzin’ Noise that engulf’d me entire Bein’, an’ at the same Time I seem’d to be movin’ thro’ a dark Tunnel, like a Sewer or an underground Cave…. Then suddenly, the Pain vanish’d an’ I seem’d to be floatin’ in a dark Space an’ I thought to meself, I am dead, an’ yet ’twas not an awful Feelin’, ’twas a Comfort to me in truth to be dead; ’twas the strangest Feelin’ I’ve e’er known. I floated o’er the Heads of the Multitude then. I saw the Orange Girls passin’ in the Crowd, bein’ pinch’d an’ grop’d by the Gin-drunk Louts who’d come to watch me dye. I saw the Gin-Sellers with their pockmarkt Faces, their Wigs askew, their greasy Coat Pockets stuff’d with Coppers. I e’en saw the Pickpockets an’ Cut-Purses passin’ in the Crowd as I meself had done so many Times, an’ I thought to meself how much better a Filin’ Lay I’d been in me Time, an’ how clumsy these Rogues were, how thick an’ fumblin’ their Fingers! Almost as if I was a Bird, I saw the Soldiers standin’ at attention, their Spears pointin’ upward towards Heaven, their three-corner’d Hats near-perfect Triangles from above—but the strangest Thing of all came when I lookt at the Gallows: there hung poor Martin, his Face already black and blue with clotted Blood—and there hung I, surely as dead as he!”

I gasp’d. Lancelot, encouraged e’en more, went on: “How long I floated thus I cannot say. I knew the Body on the Gallows was mine an’ yet, I did not properly
care.
’Twas the strangest Feelin’ to see meself hangin’ there, lookin’ like a proper Corpse, an’ know it fer meself yet not feel sad! Lass, i’faith I cannot e’en describe it properly. I was so amaz’d by this State o’ Affairs that I resolv’d to try an’ inform a Pretty Fellow that was havin’ his Pocket pickt o’ that Fact. (I knew the Prig that was pickin’ it fer a scurvy Blackguard; ’twas
he
that first turn’d me in!) But ’twas no Use tryin’ to warn the Victim in me present State, fer the Fellow could no more hear me when I whisper’d in his Ear than he could feel me ghostly Hand upon his Shoulder. I’faith, I had no Substance nor Voice at all! So I floated on o’er the Rabble like a Feather, watchin’ all the mischievous goin’s-on in the Crowd, an’ bein’ mightily amus’d to be dead—fer mark ye, Fanny, ’twas nothin’ like what I expected. ’Twas calm, ’twas painless, ’twas serene!”

“Alas,” I sigh’d, “that we should fear Death if Death be so sweet!” And yet I fear’d Death still.

“’Twas a grey and rainy Day, the Day I dy’d,” Lancelot continu’d, “an’ I tell ye this because perhaps ’twill help explain the next astoundin’ Thing that happen’d. I don’t understand it rightly meself, but suddenly, ’twas as if the Sun exploded in me Eyes, an’ a great Ball o’ Fire, but a
gentle
Ball o’ Fire, come to surround me like a glowin’ Fog. The Rabble was gone then, an’ Martin’s Corpse hangin’ there, an’ mine as well, an’ this Light came to surround me, an’ ’twas a Godly Light, fer it clearly askt me if I were happy with me Life an’ if I was ready to dye….”

“Pray, how did it ask you, Lancelot, in Words?”

“Nay, Fanny, it askt clear as ye askt me just now, yet not in proper Words. I’faith, Lass, I can’t explain it rightly neither. ’Twas the damn’dest Thing I e’er heard or saw. ‘Are ye ready to go with me?’ it askt, an’ then, as if ’twere the Master o’ Ceremonies at a Country Fair, it show’d me whole blasted damnable Life in Review! There was Wilderknoll, an’ me accursed Father! There was me accursed Brothers an’ me accursed Mother! There was me Cruel Sweetheart, damn her Soul! There was little Pranks I’d play’d as a Child—like stealin’ me blasted Father’s Snuff-Box an’ fillin’ it with ground black Peppercorns! An’ there were the Rogues I met on the Road up to London, an’ the scurvy Captain o’ the Grace o’ God—that wretched Slavin’ Ship. An’ there was Martin himself wavin’ an’ sayin’: ‘’Tis not so bad to be dead, me Lover—we’ll be together now fore’er, Lad….’ An’ there was e’en twelve Black Slaves thrown o’erboard alive fer bein’ sick with Pox durin’ that blasted Middle Passage. An’ I had pleaded with the Captain not to toss ’em to the Sharks, an’ he had boxt me Ears, an’ now the Blacks was here beside me, thankin’ me (tho’, i’faith, they could ne’er speak English before). They was thankin’ me in a kind o’ Silent Language an’ tellin’ me I was a Good Sort, an’ that they had dy’d in Pain but woke to Bliss, an’ we would be together now for all Eternity! Lass, ’twas the damndest Thing! Me whole Life, all the Rogues an’ Pretty Fellows I had known, was there before me! An’ the Ball o’ Fire, askin’ me whether I was ready to go with Martin, an’ me bein’ sorely tried, wantin’ to go with him, yet wantin’ to return to the World o’ Men to tell ’em what I knew, to tell ’em that God an’ the Angels verily guide our Ways, to tell ’em not to oppress their Fellows an’ make ’em Slaves, to show ’em their Cruelty an’ Barbarous Treatment o’ their Fellows.’ ’Tis yer Mission,’ says the Ball o’ Fire, ‘to spread the Word o’ Love an’ heal the Sick an’ give to the Poor an’ be the Heir to Robin Hood’s Legacy….’ An’ I says to him swiftly, ‘I accept this Task, I will go back, tho’ I hate the World an’ all its Laws…’ An’ he bids me then return. Suddenly the Buzzin’ starts again, an’ I am pull’d, like a silk Scarf thro’ a Buttonhole, an’ lo! I am back in me own Body, an’ in horrible Pain as the Blood returns to its proper Channels, an’ with horrible Pain in me Neck as I hang upon the Fatal Tree. An’ there hangs Martin dead, swingin’ beside me—but I now know ’tis only his Body, not his Soul, an’ then, thinkin’ me dead, me fellow Thieves lay me in me Coffin, an’ I am carried away in the golden Coach with Martin’s Corpse, but no sooner do we come down Holborn Hill again than I leap out o’ the Coach an’ run as fast as me Legs will carry me, whereupon twelve o’ me Fellows follow, screamin’ o’ the Resurrection an’ the Messiah, an’ I tell ’em to shut their Mouths an’ get back in the Coach like nothin’ happen’d an’ I will send fer ’em by an’ by….”

“And did you, Lancelot? Pray, did you?”

“I did, Lass, I did, but not before I had establish’d meself in the Forest an’ had me a long Talk with meself about me Death. Fer it changed me Soul, it did, an’ made me lose all Fear o’ Death. The Curse o’ Man is Fear o’ Death, Fanny, an’ when ye lose it, I warrant ye, there’s nothin’ ye can’t do. Conceive yerself to be God’s Tool, nothin’ more. He will provide an’ protect ye. He keeps ye on Earth to do what He needs ye to do, an’ when He lets ye go, ’tis because yer Work is done.”

“Lancelot,” says I, “did you e’er think that He might be a She?”

Whereupon Lancelot breaks into a Laughter so profound, I think it might cause his Soul to fly out of his Body once again.

CHAPTER XVII

An improving philosophical Conversation upon the Nature of Orphans, after which the Merry Men are introduced, Lancelot discloses his future Plans, and Horatio’s curious History is reveal’d.

H
IS MOCKERY MADE ME
melancholy once more. For a Time I had thought him the Brother of my Soul, despite his earlier Ill-Usage of me, but now I was pow’rfully disappointed. His Laughter and Mockery reminded me of how far I was from Home, how wretched was my Physical State, how truly orphan’d I was by Fate. First Lord Bellars had seem’d to be a God, but then he show’d me his Feet of Clay. Then the Great Poet Mr. Pope had seem’d to possess a more than human Wisdom, whereupon all his lofty Philosophies had turn’d out to be not Nurturance for my Soul, but lowly Snares for my Body! Then the Witches had seem’d to point a Way towards Higher Truth, a Supreme Being of Female Compassion; and yet, despite their devout Prayers to that puissant Goddess, they were cruelly murder’d. At last, Lancelot had seem’d to know about Heaven and Earth, Good and Evil, Life and Death, yet was he not as foolish as the Rest where the Fair Sex was concern’d? O I began to weep, taking such Pity on myself as would make the very Devils in Hell weep piteously themselves.

At once my Tears arrested Lancelot’s Laughter.

“Come now, Lass, don’t take on so. I meant no Harm.”

“No Harm! No Harm!” I said. “You ne’er mean Harm, but you do it!”

Lancelot himself lookt suddenly melancholy.

“How’s that, Lass?”

“O I can’t make my Meaning clear. I’m so alone!” and I sobb’d and sobb’d until he took me in his Arms and strove to comfort me.

“O Lancelot, I’m an Orphan. No one cares for me. My own Step-Father rap’d me! My own Step-Brother nearly did so, too. I have been betray’d by Men and seen my dearest Friends kill’d and my beloved Horse stolen! I have no one, no one, no one!”

I sobb’d and shook in his Arms like one possess’d.

“Lass, we’re all Orphans, until we come into the Sight o’ God an’ find our own true Father. Don’t ye know that ev’ry Soul on Earth feels itself to be an Orphan? I do—sure as I’m holdin’ ye. Me Lover, Martin, did, I’ll warrant ye. Those Slaves we toss’d to the Sharks did…. E’en the Captain who had ’em toss’d felt so. E’en the
King
feels like an Orphan, I’ll warrant ye!”

“Do you truly feel like an Orphan yourself?”

“O’ course I do, Lass. Me own Parents are good fer nothin’—hardly Parents to me at all. Me Lover is gone. An’ yet I know that he waits somewhere fer me—so, i’faith I’m better off than ye, because I don’t believe in the Finality o’ Death….”

“And yet you laugh’d at my Female God. You laugh’d when I said the Supreme Being might be a Woman.”