Fanny (21 page)

“Woman or Man, what’s it to me, Lass? ’Twas like a Ball o’ Fire, I told ye. It hath no Cock nor Cunny neither any more than that Fire in the Hearth hath one. The Supreme Bein’, Lass, is all Heat an’ Fire an’ Love. That’s why when we love one another an’ our Bodies heat with Passion, we begin to know the Supreme Bein’. That’s why Love is the Path that takes us to Heaven an’ not to Hell—as yer Drunken Lout of a Clergyman will say. I’faith, Fanny, I don’t care one Fig fer the Sex o’ the Supreme Bein’—’twas just Surprize that made me laugh so—I swear it. I may have no Use fer Women in me Bed, but I don’t deny they’re wily an’ shrewd an’ oft’ have more Brains in ’em than the Gentlemen o’ the Species. Yer fine Self, fer example, have the Makin’s o’ as great a Prig as e’er swung o’er Tyburn. In one Week I could make ye into a Cut-Purse to be the Envy o’ ev’ry Female Prig in Newgate—what say ye, Lass?”

“If I live thro’ the Night, Lancelot, I’ll have no more Thieving and no more Shiv’ring in the Road either.”

“An’ what o’ the Robin Hood Oath?”

“That’s your Oath, not mine, Lancelot.”

“Ye swore it, Lass.”

“Under protest, I swore it, and at Pistol-Point.”

“Nonetheless, ye swore. D’ye think ye can shuck yer Destiny? D’ye think the Supreme Bein’—whether male or female, an’ beggin’ yer Pardon if I offend—put ye in me Path, just fer Foolish Pranks, Rhodomontade, an’ such like? No! There’s a Greater Plan by which ye fall into me able Hands an’ I mold ye an’ teach ye me Trade. I’faith, yer a lucky Girl. Not many have the Chance to study Priggism with Lancelot Robinson—an’ give their Lives to such a worthy Cause. Now go back to sleep an’ get well an’ when ye awake all healthy an’ sound again, I’ll have the Boys in here to parade before ye an’ introduce ’emselves. There’ll be John Littlehat an’ Puck Goodfellow an’ Sir Foplin’ an’ Mr. Twitch an’ Beau Monde an’ a goodly Parcel o’ other Fine Fellows.”

“Did you give them all their Names, Lancelot?”

“I did, Lass, includin’ meself. An’ Horatio o’ course, that luscious Black Morsel who, i’faith, wishes I were
ye.
Bless me if he isn’t as mad fer ye as I am meself mad fer him! Now you sleep, Lass, whilst I creep into Horatio’s Bed—if he’ll have me—which is far from likely. Wish me Luck, Lass.”

“Good Luck, Lancelot,” I said, sinking back on my Pillows, too weak to protest any more that I would not be a Thief and risk The Cheat myself. But in Truth I was growing fonder and fonder of Lancelot (tho’ I’d not tell him for all the Tea in China, Limes in the West Indies, or Silver and Gold in this curious Cottage of his).

“Good Night, Lass,” he said and crept out the Door.

I awoke the next Morning to see the Sun streaming thro’ the mullion’d Windows. My Fever had abated, my Cough was less troublesome to me, and standing before my Bed like a Vision out of some Stage Play were thirteen Highwaymen in all their Finery, standing at attention, with Lancelot saluting me at their Head.

“Mornin’ Lass!” said he. O he was all gotten up in his Best as well. They lookt fine enough to be hang’d that Day—all of ’em!

“Here’s John Littlehat,” said Lancelot, pointing to a short fat Fellow with a black Beard, a scarlet Coat, and yellow Breeches. “I call him that because his Prickle’s as small as his Heart is big.”

“Old Sot!” says John Littlehat. “Ye lye betwixt yer Teeth.” But still he saluted me and wisht me Good Morning.

“An’ this here is Puck Goodfellow,” he said, pointing to a fearsome, strapping Fellow almost six Foot tall, with a Scar on his Face nearly as long as the Sword he wore at his Waist. “I call him that because he’s such a bad Fellow an’ his Christian Name rhymes with what he likes to do best.”

“Blackguard!” says Puck, laughing and saluting me.

“An’ this here is Sir Foplin’, because he dresses so fine,” says Lancelot, introducing a Fellow with a purple Waistcoat embroider’d with yellow Daisies, red Breeches with yellow Stockings, and a Coat of Parrot-green Silk. Sir Fopling wore a purple silk Eyepatch with an embroider’d Eye upon it, a Pyrate’s Earring upon his right Ear, and had a Face so pockmarkt it seem’d it might be made of Sponge, not Flesh. He, too, saluted me.

“Mr. Twitch is next,” says Lancelot, indicating another Colleague, whose Eyebrows went up and down with each Beat of his Heart. This gave him a constant Expression of Surprize, a kind of Lunatick Glee, such as you might see amongst the Inmates at Bedlam.

“
Enchanté
, Mademoiselle Fanny,” says Mr. Twitch, bowing low, as if he were a Courtier in the Time of Charles II.

“An’ this is Beau Monde,” says Lancelot, pointing to a Fellow with a perfectly curl’d, Full-bottom’d Wig such as Louis XIV himself might have worn. “I call him Beau Monde because he e’er prefers Style to Comfort an’ insists upon dressin’ as ye see him, e’en on the Road.”

Beau Monde bow’d still lower than Mr. Twitch, and with e’en more Grace. He was a Man of medium Stature, much addicted to Snuff, which he kept in a round enamell’d Box, painted with Birds and Bees.

“Next is Grudge because he hath such a sweet Temper, an’ Smooth because his Face is so pockt, an’ Thunder because he talks so soft, an’ Sotwit because he will ne’er take a Dram whether o’ Gin or Madeira, an’ Sancho because he verily resembles Don Quixote’s Squire, an’ Sir Francis Bacon because he eats not Meat, an’ Caveat because he always bids me beware, beware, an’ o’ course, Horatio, me darlin’ Boy—tho’ the Bugger toss’d me out on me Arse last Night merely for failin’ to resemble ye! I told him the Colours o’ our Hair was the same—but, i’faith, he hardly set much store by that!”

After each of the Merry Men had greeted me in turn, Horatio came forward, saying: “Madam Fanny, I trust you’re faring better than you were last Night?”

“Thank you,” said I, “that I am.”

“Excellent,” says Horatio, “for, as Horace says: ‘
Quaesitam Meritis sume Superbiam
,’ or, in our own sweet Mother English, ‘Accept the proud Honour won by thy Merits’; and indeed what could you merit more than Health? May all the Blessings of the Goddess Hygeiea be upon you!”

“Enough o’ yer Latin Palaver,” says Lancelot, responding, I fear, to the petty Promptings of the Goddess of Jealousy, if such there be.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” says Horatio, mockingly. O what a Lovers’ Triangle we’d form’d in so short a Time!

’Twas droll also how Lancelot had nam’d his Disciples. Grudge was kind and had no Grudge anywhere about him. Smooth had a Face more pockmarkt than Sir Fopling’s. Thunder’s Voice was tiny and squeaky as a Mouse’s. Sotwit inveigh’d endlessly against the Evils of Drink, and Sir Francis Bacon was pow’rfully oppos’d to good English Roast Beef. Caveat, for his Part, worried continually about Lancelot’s Welfare as if he were Lancelot’s own Mother. What a fine Assortment of Fellows! Whate’er their Names had been before they join’d Lancelot’s Band, they seem’d so suited to their present Names, that, truly, I could imagine them having no others.

“Very well then,” said Lancelot, “let’s bring on the Breakfast.”

In a trice, Horatio and the Merry Men march’d out of my Chamber and into the adjoining one, busied themselves there for a Time, whereupon they march’d back, carrying a long Trestle Table set with Breakfast for all of us, and serv’d in such resplendent golden Plates and Goblets that I should have thought myself the Queen of England to merit it.

’Twas hearty Country Fare serv’d in Court Utensils, and no sooner had the Table been brought in than two of the Men went out again to fetch Benches. Before long we were all sitting at Table, toasting my new-found Health with Ale.

“Here’s to our Fanny,” says Lancelot, “the most courageous Wench in all o’ England!”

“Hear! Hear!” says Thunder in his tiny Voice.

“And beauteous,” too, says Horatio, “for, as Virgil says—”

“Damn Virgil,” says Lancelot, “an’ be done!”

“Yes, your Highness,” says Horatio mockingly.

“Now then, Men,” says Lancelot. “On the Morrow, we are goin’ to carry all the Swag up to London to deliver it to a Vessel call’d the Hannibal, bound fer the Port o’ Boston an’ the Port o’ New York. ’Tis a delicate Operation which calls fer cratin’ up the Booty as if ’twere not what ’tis—namely ‘Swag.’”

“An’ what shall it be, Lancelot?” says Sir Fopling.

“That I’ll tell ye when the Time comes.”

“Pray why do you ship it to the Colonies, Lancelot, instead of selling it back to its proper Owners as most Thieves do?” I askt him.

“Because we get good cold Cash from the Captain an’ we ne’er hear o’ the Swag again. I’ll not be a Blackguard like most o’ yer Newgate Prigs an’ fence the Swag, then turn in me own Men fer the Reward. I’ll not peach on me Fellows—an’ if any o’ ye e’er peach on me, ye’ll regret it in Hell as on Earth. D’ye hear?”

“Aye, Lancelot,” said the Men in Unison. “We’re true.”

“But shan’t these Wigs and Clothes be quite out of Fashion when they arrive in the Colonies?”

“Ah, Lass, the damn’d Colonists know nothin’ o’ Style. Last Year’s Fashion Plate dazzles ’em as well as this Year’s—nay better. The
Hannibal
sails to Kingston, Charlestown, New York, an’ Boston. Horrid Hell-holes all of ’em. ’Tis Wild Land, the New World is, an’ full o’ Savages!”

“And who is the Captain of the
Hannibal
that he takes such a Risque?”

“Risque! Why he stands to make a great Fortune off this new Shipload. I’faith, Lass, his Eyes light up when he sees me. He’s a Fellow I met in me Sailin’ Days an’ not a bad Sort himself. No Slaver he; he trades in Stolen Swag, not Human Flesh.”

“And what do you do with the Money?”

“We distribute it to the poorest Wretches we can find.”

“And you keep none?”

“Aye. We keep enough to live. What ye must understand, Fanny, is that most o’ yer wealthiest Rogues live by Peachin’, not honest Stealin’. They’re Thief-Takers, not Thieves. Now, Stealin’ is the most honourable Occupation ye can name. Why e’en the Good Lord stole Adam from the Earth an’ Eve from his Rib! Jesus stole, ye might say, the Loaves an’ the Fishes! But to steal a gold Watch from a puff’d-up Lawyer who has a fine House, a Coach an’ Six, an’ a Wife who doth nought but visit her Dressmaker, is to do nothin’ more than to snap an Apple from a Tree that hath a thousand Apples. ’Twill ne’er be miss’d. ’Twill grow back two fer ev’ry one ye take—an’ some poor Wretch (whose Brother that same Lawyer doubtless bled dry) will live instead o’ dye!”

“What I love best about Lancelot, i’faith, is how he doth go on about the fine Art o’ Priggism,” says Caveat. “What a golden Tongue that Boy hath! But, ah, I worry lest the Lad be taken on the Road an’ hang’d again despite his fine Philosophies.”

“’Tis Drink that’s at the Root of the Evils of the Poor,” says Sotwit, sadly. “If we could wean ’em off their Mother Gin, in truth, we’d not have to give ’em all our Money.”

“
Our
Money?
Our
Money?” says Lancelot. “’Tis the
Lord’s
Money. We but redistribute it! Ne’er forget that, Sotwit!”

“The Lord’s Money, Lancelot?” I askt, all incredulous. I had e’er been told that Money was an Invention of the Devil, not of God.

“Aye, the Lord’s Money! ’Tis the Lord’s Corn, the Lord’s Gin, the Lord’s Apples, an’ the Lord’s Money! We but pluck it from His Tree an’ pass it about.”

“But is not Money the Root of all Evil, Lancelot?”

“Nay, Fanny, Mankind is the Root o’ all Evil! Give him Glass Beads to trade with or Barrels o’ Herrin’, an’ I warrant ye, he’ll do the same! The loftiest Minds will fall into the Gutter fer the Hope o’ Gain. John Locke, fer one, with all his Palaver o’ the Natural Happiness o’ Mankind an’ the Right to the Fruits o’ yer own Labor—why, e’en he put Money into the Royal African Company an’ profited mightily from the Sale o’ Human Flesh! Where was the Social Contract fer the Black Man? Where was the Pursuit o’ Happiness an’ Pleasure fer him? Is the Social Contract only fer the White, the Land-owner, the Property-Holder? I say: Fie on’t! Would ye believe Locke? Well then believe him fer Blacks as well as Whites! Believe him fer the Poor as well as the Rich! Have they not the Right to Life, Health, Liberty, an’ Possessions? I hate Philosophers worse than I hate e’en Lawyers an’ Priests an’ Physicians, because in the Name o’ the Mighty Mind, with its Mighty
Tabula Rasa
—or what have ye—they
lye!
Is not ev’ry Man entitl’d to the Inevitable Pursuit o’ Happiness an’ Pleasure? We bring that Pleasure to the Poor as well as the Land-Owner, the Merchant, the damn’d thievin’ Lawyer, the damn’d lyin’ Priest, not to mention the damn’d Physician who kills ye fer his Fee! Truly, Fanny, we do the Good Lord’s Work!”

“Hear! Hear!” squeaked Thunder.

“I’faith,” said Mr. Twitch, working his Eyebrows all the while, “Lancelot is a Poet amongst Prigs, is he not? A very Shakespeare of Priggism! I’d go to the Gallows anytime for such fine Speeches!”

“But, Lancelot,” say I, “I have read that it is the African Kings
themselves
that sell the Blacks to the English on the Gold Coast, or at the Mouth of the River Calabar or the River Niger.”

“’Tis true, Lass, ’tis true. But I could tell ye Tales about Africa an’ the People there. Why Slavery to ’em is not what ’tis in the Wild New World. Such Savagery is quite unknown. Why, an African Slave may be taken in Battle as a Prisoner o’ War or bought by Strangers because his Kinfolk are too poor to feed him—yet when he comes to his new Village, he is a Slave, not an
Animal
! An’ many, I’ll warrant ye, are treated well, adopted into Families, freed after a Time, by workin’ off their Bondage with the Sweat o’ their Brows—an’ some e’en become Tribal Kings! Is this not true, Horatio?”

“In Truth,” says he, “I know as little about Africa as you know about Ancient Rome, for I was born in Barbadoes, to a Master who car’d for nothing but the Study of the Classicks, and early he took me from my poor Mama, forbade me to speak ought but Latin, French, or the King’s English, kept me in the Great House, and train’d me up to be a Latin Scholar and Tutor to his Children. In truth, I am not sure I’m not a Child of his myself, for my Mother was black as Ebony and my Skin, as you can see, is the Colour of Sweet Chocolate. ‘
Sic visum Veneri
,’ as Horace says, ‘
cuis placet impares Formas atque animos sub juga ahenea Saevo mittere cum joco
’—‘Ah the cruel Decree of Venus who takes Delight in yoking together Bodies and Hearts that so ill-mated are’!”