Fanny (40 page)

“The
Cimmarones
are the Outlaw Blacks that live in all the Sugar Isles as Fugitives—but most particularly in Cuba, where they build Stockades they call
Palenques
and defend their Freedom from the
Rancheadores
—the Evil Slave-Hunters. The
Quilombos
in Brazil are much the same—Settlements of Runaways who hide the Bush and make their Raids upon the White Planters. I’faith, they oft’ have Plantations themselves, and live in Harmony with the Indians, plotting the Day when they may make a great Rebellion and have their own Nation. There I might survive—but in the Colonies I’m sworn to prove myself a Freed Man on Pain of being sold into Slavery again. And how can I prove such? I’m wanted by a Master in Barbadoes and by another in Bath!”

“But Lancelot speaks of settling perhaps in Massachusetts, perhaps in the Hudson Valley of New York,” says Puck. “He means to build a true Democracy and take all Fugitives who come, whether Indentur’d Servants, Debtors, Blacks, or Indians.”

“They keep Slaves in the Colony of New York, too, my Friend. Why, since the last Slave Insurrection, the whole Metropolis of New York is so inflam’d with Fear that no Black Man may walk upon the Streets at Night! Bah—Lancelot claims to be a Christian Saint, but he knows not how ’tis with me—I wear my Destiny upon my Skin! And there’s the Difference betwixt him and me!”

I lookt at Horatio solemnly, knowing his Fate as akin to my own. Only when I walkt the World
en Homme
was I safe from Rape; a Woman’s Fate was not much diff’rent from a Black’s. I could wear Breeches and Peruke, but how could he disguise his very Skin?

“Then shall you not sail with Lancelot?” I askt.

“Truly, Fanny, I am torn. I love that Boy—Fool that he is, and I love the Merry Band—like my own Family. But where can I be safe but with the Pyrates or the Fugitives? E’en so, I must defend my Freedom Day by Day. It doth not drop from Heaven as the Rain.”

“May Lancelot not lead the Pyrate Life?” said I. “Sure, on the Sea, you’re free.”

“So I’ve proposed,” said Horatio, “but he is daft to build this Eden of his, this Sacred ‘Deocracy’ he calls it, upon God’s Soil. He longs to found this Second Eden, this New Jerusalem, this Prig’s Utopia! He doth not know that Eden is nought but an Oasis in the midst of Hell and that Hell threatens to encroach upon it by the Hour! E’en the Eden of the Bible was surrounded by Hades—and the Serpent penetrated soon enough. I’faith, Eden is like nought so much as a Maidenhead—a passing Fancy, the most temporary of Conditions.
‘Heu pietas! Heu prisca fides!’
says the Great Bard, Virgil—by which he means: ‘Alas for Goodness, alas for Old-World Honour!’ But there’s the Rub, for e’en in the Old World, Honour did not exist, and ne’er was Goodness so invincible that Evil could not penetrate her Heart—or shall I say—looking at my beauteous Fanny—her Divine Pudendum, her Sacred Slit, her God-like Gash!”

“Blasphemy!” cries Bacon.

“Is it Blasphemy to honour the most God-like Eden we know upon this Earth? I mean the Female Garden, the Bow’r of Earthly Bliss!” asks Horatio.

“And perhaps heavenly as well,” says Puck. “For all we know, Heaven itself is nought but a Great Cunnicle on High!” And here he bow’d his Head as if in Pray’r. “Deliver me soon, O Lord,” says he, winking at me.

“Come, you Rogues,” I say, “stop your infernal Jesting and tell me how I shall join Lancelot in his Great Rebellion.”

“Fannikins, my Sweet,” Horatio declares, “you are our only Hope of making him see Reason. If you will pledge to join us and essay to convince him to found his bloody Eden aboard a Pyrate Ship, instead of the bloody New England Soil, I’ll risque my Freedom and come, too. But if you stay behind, I shall not sail with Lancelot! There’s the Long and the Short of it.”

“And what convinces you I have such Pow’r with Lancelot?” I askt. I was trembling now, for I knew I must make my Mind up and be quick about it.

“Fannikins, my Love,” says Horatio, “can you not know that Lancelot adores you? He struggles in his Heart betwixt the Love of Men and the Love of you, but sure he loves Men with nought but Lust, yet you have all his Heart.”

“Is this true, Francis?” I askt. “Is this true, Puck?”

Both Merry Men nodded their Heads solemnly.

“’Tis true as the Gospels, Madam Fanny,” said Francis.

“’Tis true as my Lust for you, and also Horatio’s,” said Puck.

I paus’d awhile in Thought, as the intent Faces of the Merry Men studied my own. What would I do? ’Twas now September and I was three Months gone with Child. An Atlantick Crossing might take two Months in mild Weather, but if we waited till the Winter was upon us ’twould be perilous indeed and longer still. And yet if I departed now with Lancelot, I would ne’er see Bellars again. O how my Heart was sunder’d by that Thought! Yet my Longing for Bellars was nought but Lust—and was Lust a worthy enough Emotion on which to build one’s Destiny? Certainly not! Lust but toppl’d the House that Friendship built; Lust but sunder’d the worthiest Alliances. Let Bellars seek me in vain at the next Costume Ridotto! Let him wander sadly amidst the Dominoes and Dandies, the Virgins of the Sun, the Popes and Pantaloons, the Devils and the Jesters, the May-Day Sweeps and the Corsican Brigands. Let him whisper in the Ear of ev’ry Nun he sees, and find me not at all. ’Twould pay him back for all his Villainies to me! And to the Whole of the Fair Sex as well!

“Very well, then,” said I, “I’ll join our Robin Hood and sail the Seas.”

“Bravo!” cried Horatio.

“Praise the Lord!” said Puck.

“Thank Heavens,” said Francis Bacon with a deep-fetch’d Sigh.

“But how doth Lancelot plan to make this Great Rebellion a Reality?” I askt. “For I am sure that there is Peril in his Plan.”

“Peril indeed is Lancelot’s Meat,” says Puck, “but he hath contriv’d to win the Fealty of certain of the Guards, and he hath brib’d the Turnkey with the Money you sent. Those that he cannot convert to his Cause, he can convert to the Great Cause of Cash! At this very Moment, i’faith, he has a Following of Debtors and Felons so great that they can easily o’erpow’r the Guards. Verily, the Debtors love Lancelot for preaching that there is no such Thing as Debt. They would follow him to the Ends of the Earth!”

“Or Seas,” says Horatio.

“But fear not, Madam Fanny,” says Bacon, “for you need not join us at Newgate in the midst of the Rebellion. Littlehat will send a Coach to carry you to our Ship, an’ there you’ll wait for Lancelot an’ the Men.”

“When shall we sail?” I askt.

“That hath not been decided yet, nor indeed have we determin’d whether we shall sail from Southampton or the Isle of Wight,” says Horatio, “but soon you shall know all. You must be ready daily to depart and wait for Word from Littlehat.”

“And if I bear my Babe at Sea?”

“Praise God! Are you with Child?” askt Bacon.

“Did Lancelot not tell you?” I askt.

“Lancelot is so daft with Plans for his glorious Rebellion that he hardly remembers to eat a Bite of Food or sleep a Wink at Night,” Horatio declar’d. “But this is shocking News. Who, pray, is the Father? I wish ’twere myself.”

“And so I wish, too, good Horatio,” said I. “For I was seduced by my own Step-Father before I met the Merry Men and this is the Issue of it. I ran away, ne’er dreaming I might be with Child and only when I was a Captive in Coxtart’s House did I discover it.”

“And you are sure ’twas your Step-Father?” Horatio askt.

“It could be no other. I was a Virgin until he seduced me.”

“And there were no other Swains?” Horatio askt, more with curiosity than blame.

I thought of my Night at the Inn with Tunewell, and my Sapphick Scenes with Coxtart. But no; such am’rous play could not bear Human Fruit. Bellars was the only Man to pierce my Virginity before I learnt I was
Enceinte.

“No others,” said I. “By the Time I began my Brothel Life, I knew I was with Child.”

“Praise God,” says Puck, “Lancelot shall deliver it himself, for he is train’d in all the Healing Arts.”

“And I doubt not but he shall put some religious Interpretation to it as well. A Virgin Birth, i’faith!” says Horatio, mockingly. “Another young Disciple for his Deocracy! Ye Gads, your Child shall be a very Proving Ground for all his Theories!”

“So I fear,” said I, “but a Child could have a worse God-Father than Lancelot!”

“I’faith, your Son shall have
all
the Merry Men as God-Fathers!” said Horatio warmly. “What a blessed Child!”

I smil’d. “And what if ’tis a Daughter?” I then askt. “Is she still blest?”

Horatio, Puck, and Francis lookt at me quizzically as if the Birth of a Daughter were more miraculous and impossible than the Birth of a new Jesus.

“It cannot be a Daughter,” said Horatio.

“Certainly not,” said Puck.

“Impossible,” said Francis.

“And why impossible?” said I.

“Because if ’tis a Daughter, how can we call him Lancelot the Second?”

“Indeed,” said I, smiling mischievously (in part at their Masculine Vanity and in part with the sheer Pleasure of being back amidst the Merry Men again), “now I understand your Logick.”

CHAPTER XI

Containing a most curious Exchange of Letters thro’ which our Fanny learns more concerning the Capriciousness of Destiny than all her Adventures have taught her until now; after which she is summon’d by her one True Love, as the Reader of this most stirring epistolary Chapter shall shortly see.

A
ND SO I WAITED
, as I had promis’d, for Word from Littlehat, wond’ring when I should be summon’d to join Lancelot’s great Sailing and feeling considerable Anxiety for Lancelot’s Fate and the Fate of his Historick Rebellion. Tho’ the Merry Men would scarce speak to me of it, ’twas clear enough that the Rebellion might misfire and Lancelot might swing once more at Tyburn. This Time, the cursed Beam could well dispatch his Soul with Speed, and ne’er again would Lancelot’s lovely Form and Face be seen upon this Globe!

In the Days that follow’d my Meeting with Horatio, Puck, and Francis Bacon, I was nervous as a Cat, awaiting Letters. The other Girls went about their Business, ne’er noticing my Condition, but Kate, with an Enemy’s Attentiveness to all my Griefs (as well as Envy of my Joys) watch’d me most closely. She perceiv’d that I waited for the Post as if ’twere for an Annunciation from an Angel, and she smil’d sourly to herself when a Letter came for me.

Many Letters came, i’faith, but all from Bellars, not Littlehat nor Lancelot. Indeed, Bellars sent me sev’ral Letters each Day—one more pitiful and pleading than the next. It took all my Courage to ignore ’em since they touch’d me to the Core. But Kate, for her part, still had not been summon’d by her mysterious Tradesman, so she conceiv’d a Fear that I would leave the Brothel before her (tho’, in truth, I’d been there so little Time compar’d to her) and this Apprehension made her most grievously envious.

Oft’ she herself would snatch a Letter from Coxtart’s Hands, and carry it up the Stair, then wait at the Door slyly, hoping I would open it in her Presence. I ne’er did so, but her Slyness caus’d me Grief. I worried lest she steal the fateful Letter and I miss Lancelot’s Sailing. But no; she was too much a Coward to play such Pranks. She would rather linger and smirk by my Door than take Fate into her own Hands. Tho’ harden’d by Life in the Brothel, still she was a cowardly Enemy—more inclin’d to hope for Ill-Fortune to claim me, than to be the Author of my Ill-Fortune herself.

“Another
Billet Doux
, Fanny,” says she, handing me a Letter with Lord Bellars’ Seal.

“What a curious Post-Boy you are, Kate,” says I. “Pray, have you nothing better to do with your Time than deliver my Letters?”

“’Tis the least Service I can perform for me dearest Friend,” says she, mockingly; whereupon she gives me the Letter and flounces away.

I lockt the Door of my Chamber and sat down upon the Bed to read:

Adorable Creature,

Pledged as I am to await the next Costume Ridotto at The King’s Theatre, ne’ertheless, my Passion for you bids me nourish the perhaps Vain Hope that you will hear my Plea and grant me an Audience sooner. My Love is as a Thunder Cloud about to break, and I can no more contain it than Nature can contain a Flood once the Waters have begun to rise. Pray send to me presently that I may call upon you, and you will assuage the Torment that afflicts the Heart of your most devoted,

Bellars.

I took this pathetick Missive to the Escritoire (which, by the by, already contain’d a Box full of similarly pleading Missives) and forthwith penn’d my Answer.

My Lord,

My Word is unbreakable, nor can I be mov’d by Entreaties, howe’er honey’d. If your Lordship continues to plead with me to break my Word, I shall have no Choyce but to put our next Meeting still farther into the Future. Do not tempt me to such stern Expedients.

Yours,

“Sister” Hackabout-Jones.

I laugh’d a little to myself as I penn’d this harsh Epistle, thinking how far I had come since that Day at Lymeworth when I read Lord Bellars’ Letter to his Mistress and wept. I had, i’faith, discover’d the Key to Lord Bellars’ Heart: namely, Sternness. What I had sought to win by Kindness, Trust, and Innocent Love—his Heart, in short—I should win instead by Disdain. Ah Cruel Irony! Bellars despis’d Love that was freely given, but grew mad as a rabid Dog for Love denied, niggardly Love, Love that was not e’en Love but only Coquetry. He was the Living Proof of the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld, who said, upon one Occasion, that ’twas harder to be faithful to a Woman when all went well than when she was unkind. As long as I remain’d unkind I should secure Bellars’ Heart, for ’twas the Chase itself he favour’d and not the Companionship of a Loving Heart. But damn him! By the Time the next Costume Ball came due, I should be at Sea with Lancelot, and Bellars should sigh in vain for his moist-thigh’d Spanish Nun!

How consistent with his low Character that he should interpret my forbidding Missive as nought but a Plea for a Bribe! For the next Letter to arrive from Bellars contain’d a gold Bracelet emblazon’d with Diamonds and a Plea to allow him to be my Keeper under any Terms I might propose: