Fanny (55 page)

“Correct, Lass!” said Cocklyn, beaming. “Now, that Ship there”—he indicated a Three-master call’d the
Rover
—“is one ’o yer biggest Merchant Ships afloat, a West Indiaman. She’s seven hundred tons, with a main Deck one hundred sixty Foot long an’ near thirty-six Foot wide. She’ll carry as many as three hundred in Crew an’ fifty-four Cannon—tho’ she scarce carries e’en twenty-five since she’d rather have the Space fer Cargo. She’s got a gilded Stern with a fine painted Taffarel an’ she’s square-rigg’d on all her Masts—Fore, Main, an’ Mizzen—so she’s not the swiftest Sailor, save in a quarterin’ Wind; but fer Space an’ Cannon Pow’r, she’s unbeatable, tho’ I’d rather sail a Brigantine in any Weather.”

“Do they really saw away the Mast,” I askt, “when in Danger of Shipwreck?”

“That they do, Lass, fer it keeps the Ship on an even Keel when ye clear the Decks in a Storm.”

“And pray, how do they return Home with no Sail?” I askt.

“Slowly, me Lasses, slowly,” said the First Mate of the
Hopewell
, laughing.

I tried to imagine the
Hopewell
without her Masts. How should we get back to London? Would we merely float until some kindly Vessel rescu’d us? ’Twas a terrifying Prospect. But clearly, ’twas not one Cocklyn car’d to linger o’er, for in a trice he gloss’d o’er my Question and went on to describe various Rigs to us, naming the Sails from Foreskysail to Cross-Jack, from Hying-Jib Boom to Spanker. Likewise he pointed out the Parts of the Ship from Bowsprit to Dolphin-Striker to Taffarel, but I thought ’twould be Years before I got ’em all right, so many were they, and so odd. Cocklyn told us the Diff’rence betwixt a Flute and a Merchantman (“The Flute is a Two-master o’ Dutch Design, square-rigg’d an’ with plenteous Space fer Cargo, owin’ to her great flat Bottom—like an old Amsterdam Whore!”). And also the Diff’rence betwixt a Navy Snow and a square-rigg’d Brigantine (“She’s got a fore-an’-aft Trysail, the Snow has, which gives Speed in a quarterin’ Wind.”). He e’en show’d us, thro’ the Glass, a great Man o’ War of 360 Tons and twenty-six Guns, which he said could beat any Pyrates in the Caribee (tho’ a Ship of the Line mounted sixty Cannon at least), but my Thoughts drifted back to Belinda in all this Talk and I could not keep my Mind upon sailing Gibberish, e’en if both our Lives might depend upon it.

“I hope you are learning all this well,” I said to Susannah, “for ’tis beyond me.”

“Nonsense, Lass,” said Cocklyn, “ye’ll be a fine Sailor in a Matter o’ Days, mark me Words.” Whereupon he bade us return to the Cabin forthwith since the Watch was about to change and he did not want our Presence upon Deck to raise Questions.

Thro’ all this Time aboard, Cocklyn had offer’d no Lewdness to our Persons, notwithstanding our being both Messmates and Cabinmates. I suspected such a Situation was too good to last, for why should he have taken us aboard save to be his private Whores, and would he not soon wish to collect what he deem’d his Due?

We had been sav’d up till now, I reckon’d, by the Business of getting the Voyage under way, but soon we should have to submit to his pock-markt, Peg-legg’d am’rous Advances. I shudder’d to think on’t.

Before too long we had weigh’d Anchor again and were under Sail on our Way to the Downs, where we did not tarry owing to an Easterly Wind (so Cocklyn later told us) which took us, with great Dispatch, ’round the Isle of Wight, and thro’ the choppy and blust’ry Channel. I long’d to go up on Deck to see if the
Cassandra
might be sighted, but Cocklyn swore he would call me at the first Sighting of her and, more than that, would make certain I boarded her if such were possible. He swore upon a Bible that he’d seen neither Stem nor Stern of her and he reckon’d that the favourable Wind had set her upon her Course for the Azores a Day or so before us. Yet despite her earlier Start, we might still catch up with her at Sea, said he, for our Route was much the same, namely, south to the Azores, across the Atlantick to the Bahamas, then up the Coast of the Colonies from Charlestown to New York, to New Providence, to Boston. I was not at all certain I trusted him to call us if the
Cassandra
were sighted, nor did I have any Way of knowing if indeed he were lying to me, ne’ertheless what could I do but stay close to my Berth and pray for Belinda’s Deliverance? Cocklyn had ne’er ceas’d swearing to tye us together like Malefactors and drown us both should we disobey his Orders.

“God,” Susannah said soberly, “takes care o’ Fools an’ Babes. Belinda shall not perish. That I may promise ye since the Angel promis’d it to me.” I lookt at her with Desperation, wanting with all my Heart to believe her, hoping I was not deceiving myself mightily. Susannah was fore’er hearing the Voices of Angels and Demons—and since I heard ’em not, I was obliged to use her as a sort of Post-Boy betwixt me and the Supreme Being.

Going thro’ the Channel, the Ship pitch’d and toss’d extreamly and the Unsavouriness of our Mess, combin’d with the Motion of the Ship, made me most grievously ill. I had ne’er been Sea-sick before (having ne’er been at Sea before!) but, i’faith ’twas so unpleasant an Experience that I vow’d to eat no more than barely necessary for Survival thro’ all the Rest of this Voyage. The Distemper in my Stomach together with my regrettable Discovery that certain diminutive Visitors had come to sojourn in my long red Hair (without so much as a By-Your-Leave) made me miserable in the extream. When Cocklyn return’d to the Cabin to inform us that we were well upon our Way (and to make it plain that he now desir’d Payment in Flesh for his Magnanimity in carrying us aboard), ’twas all I could do to keep from vomiting upon his loathsome Person.

“I’ve a Mind to board ye both, Lasses,” said Cocklyn, as if this were the very Apogee of Wit, “but with yer Decks awash so, I’ll ’ave to save me Sail fer a better Wind, tho’ me Bowsprit is sound as any, ho, ho!”

Susannah, who was an excellent Sailor, and bearing up far better than myself, thought she might as well pacify the old Tar’s Lust and keep him from bothering me; for Am’rous Dalliance represented no Sin to her if ’twere the Price of Survival. So she offer’d herself quite graciously to Cocklyn, who was upon the Point of accepting her Blandishments with Gusto (mutt’ring of the clever Things he could do with his Peg-Leg) when the Wind blew up such a Gale that all three of us were knockt clear across the Cabin amongst our slithering, sliding Possessions. E’en the Rats took Shelter in their Holes in such a Gale!

“O ’tis nothin’ but a Capful o’ Wind,” says Cocklyn, grabbing for Susannah upon the Cabin Floor.

“A Capful? A Capful?” I cried in Distress. “If that be not a Tempest, then I know not what the Word means!”

The Ship’s Timbers creakt mightily, the Floor heav’d up under us as if propell’d by a Rift in Hell itself, and we could already hear the Clanking of the Chain Pumps, the Shouts of the Crew, and the Wind howling like a Demon thro’ the Shrouds.

“A Tempest!” laugh’d Cocklyn, grappling for Susannah. “By Jove—if ye call that a Tempest, what’ll ye call it when we’ve a
real
Tempest! Peep out above Deck, me Girl, and have a Look at yer Tempest. ’Twill do yer Stomach good to have a bit o’ Fresh Air.”

In his Zest to ravish Susannah, Cocklyn had forgotten all his previous Warnings about not showing my Face above Deck. I dragg’d myself along the Cabin Floor to the Ladder, climb’d it with unsteady Feet, and soon found myself looking out o’er the most terrifying Prospect my Eyes had e’er beheld. The Waters of the Sea had turn’d from glitt’ring blue to blackish green and they swell’d up into liquid Mountains upon which our Ship perch’d for a perilous Instant before being dropp’d into the Valley below. Sometimes, whilst in the Valley, we rode betwixt two mountainous Waves which threaten’d to break above our Heads and sweep us away to a watery Grave without a Moment’s Hesitation. Our Masts trembl’d and quiver’d like Reeds in the Wind; our Sails were ripp’d and torn; and our Tars ran to and fro not knowing what to do first. Some clung to the Shrouds straining to see what had become of other Ships around us (as if that might portend our Fate) and some hung on to the Yards like veritable Monkies, essaying to straighten the torn and flapping Sails; others scurried to man the Pumps, shouting that all was lost, we should surely founder; and still others fell to bended Knee in Pray’r. I saw a Man blown from the Bowsprit and drown’d faster than a wicked Child can drown an Insect in a garden Rivulet. I saw the Sea go Mountains high, break upon our Deck once, twice, thrice, until I thought that with one more Crash of Water, we should surely be split in twain. And yet, tho’ the Decks were pounded and drown’d, we somehow did not crack, tho’ all around us, Ships were foundering, or cutting down their Masts, e’en before the Wind could do it for ’em.

Thro’ all this Disaster, Cocklyn was below, making love to Susannah, caring little for the Fate of his Men. And a sorry Fate ’twas indeed, for one Man was flung from a Yardarm and suffer’d both a broken Arm and a broken Leg (which later, I heard, had to be amputated), and one was drown’d, as I have said, and another was washt o’erboard but managed to sustain himself by holding fast to a floating Spar until one of his Messmates risqued his own Life to pull him out of the Drink.

Before this, I’d no very real Idea of the Perils of Sea-Travel. O I had read all the Travel Books which a bookish Young Lady dreams o’er, and I had fancied ’twas a Pity my Sex forbade me the Privilege of going to Sea as a Cabin Boy to seek my Fortune! But ne’er did I imagine Sea-Sickness, nor Lice, nor rotted Salt Pork, nor soggy Biskit, nor spoilt Water, nor, most especially, the Perils of a Storm at Sea. For ’tis one Thing to read of Tempests and another to understand quite quickly how little stands betwixt your own Flesh and Bone and the mountainous Waves. Why, we might as well have gone to Sea in a Thimble as in this Brigantine! ’Twas ev’ry bit as small when consider’d against the Immensity of the Sea.

Somewhere in that Immensity was Belinda. I had as much Chance to find her as to find one particular Pebble upon a Stretch of rocky Beach, or one Grain of Sand in a Glass, or one Drop of Wine in an Oaken Cask that hath sprung a Leak. ’Twould require potent Magick indeed—more potent than the Magick of the Witches, more potent than the Magick that had heal’d my Belly, more potent than the Magick that had spar’d my Life in Childbed—to find Belinda in this Troubl’d Sea, which was my Destiny.

But just as I was musing thus, the Storm seem’d to blow away as fast as it had risen up. Suddenly the Seas calm’d, the Air clear’d, and where black Clouds had lain, murderous and low o’er the Face of Heaven, there was suddenly a Rainbow. Ah, it glitter’d and shimmer’d as if in Revelation of the Existence of Miracles despite Human Despair. And ’twas as marvelous as Rainbows are said to be; a Promise, a Covenant, a Sign. The Tars fell to their leathery Knees to thank God; for the Masts still stood in good Repair and the Sails could be repair’d in Time. The Tempest had pass’d.

With the immediate Danger o’er, Cocklyn’s Presence was miss’d. A Messmate of the Tar who had been flung from the Bowsprit into the Sea and drown’d, began calling for Cocklyn in an angry Voice, vowing Vengeance, blaming his Friend’s Death upon the First Mate. Perhaps ’twas an old Quarrel they had, but the Tar, who was a rough Welshman, sounded as if he could ne’er be pacified.

“I’ve sail’d the Seven Seas,” said he, “since I was a Lad o’ Eight—an’ I’ve ne’er seen a First Mate so callous to the Fate o’ his Men. I’ll kill the mangy Dog, the Son o’ a Bitch, the Cur!” (Indeed, the whole time I was at Sea, I wonder’d about this Habit the Tars had of calling each other Dogs—for those playful, loving, four-legged Creatures are, to my mind, far more meritorious than any Humans—particularly those Humans whose Calling ’tis to sail the Seas!)

“Cocklyn, ye Dog!” cried the Welsh Tar, descending the Ladder where I still stood peeping above Deck. He pusht me roughly aside (whereupon I lower’d myself hastily, making way for him, since ’twas clear he was in a Devil of a Humour).

Leaping the last few Ladder Rungs into Cocklyn’s Cabin, he found the First Mate with his Breeches gaping, and Susannah with her woollen Sailor’s Shirt sufficiently unbutton’d to make her Sex quite plain.

“Swine! Cur! Ye’ll pay fer the Death o’ Thomas!” (Thomas, to be sure, was the Name of his drown’d Friend.)

He pounced upon Cocklyn with such Fury that it seem’d he might rush him with his bare Arms. I saw a Dagger twinkle at his Waist; in a trice, ’twas in his Hand. Cocklyn, for his part, grabb’d Susannah to him, using her as a sort of Shield for his Body.

“Would ye kill this defenceless Wench, then?” cried he, ripping open the remaining woollen Cloth that conceal’d her coffee-colour’d Breasts with their Nipples the Colour of Chocolate. Susannah mutter’d Pray’rs for Deliverance as Cocklyn hopp’d about the Cabin with her, tapping his wooden Leg, and using her bare and beauteous Breast as if ’twere the Shield of Achilles, forged by the God of War himself.

“Ye Cowardly Cur!” scream’d the Welsh Tar. “I’ll teach ye to use a Wench fer yer Armor!” Whereupon he fell upon all fours, and with a deft, well-placed Stroke of his practis’d Dagger, pinion’d Cocklyn’s one sound Foot to the Floor.

Now Cocklyn howl’d like the Hound of Hell, let go of Susannah (who took this Opportunity to make good her Escape), and tapp’d his Peg-Leg upon the Floor in sheerest Agony. But the more he pull’d and tapp’d, the more Blood spill’d from his sound Foot, which, I reckon’d, would not be sound for long.

The Cabin had fill’d with Tars now and they were already gaming o’er the Issue of this Single Combat, wagering Doubloons and Guineas, Pistols, Cutlasses and Muskets, Rations of Rum, Water, and e’en Salt Pork and Pease. Men who had no Weapons and no Money and had e’en lost the Clothes upon their Backs in other Wagers, stak’d their future Pay, their Pills or Potions to cure Clap—if these were all the Riches they possess’d!

Cocklyn, I soon saw, was no popular Fellow with the Crew, for most of the Sailors put their Faith in the Victory of the Welshman, whose Name, it appear’d, was Llewelyn. He was favour’d to win, and indeed he had commenced his Victory by staking Cocklyn’s Foot, but each Time he came near the First Mate, the Latter so deftly cockt his Peg-Leg as to frighten Llewelyn with dire Damage to his Privities. This horrid Spectacle continu’d for a Time, Cocklyn’s crucified Foot bleeding heavily whilst he stabb’d the Air with his Peg-Leg, and Llewelyn dancing about the Room like a Pugilist. Yet Llewelyn was too Blood-thirsty to be content with such paltry Torture and Cocklyn was in too much Pain to continue thus for long. Suddenly, Llewelyn drew another Dagger from I knew not where (perhaps a fellow Seaman stealthily slipp’d it to him) and, going up behind Cocklyn, embraced him evilly ’round the Waist. In a trice, he slit his Nose. That astoundingly juicy Organ spurted Blood as readily as any Heart. I, who had been none too well before this, felt myself retch and my Stomach contract into a shiv’ring Ball; but had I known what was to come, I should have truly bedew’d the Floor with my vile shipboard Dinner. For Llewelyn, not being satisfied with these Measures, took the Opportunity of Cocklyn’s Confusion and Bleeding to grab his Arms, tye ’em behind him with a leather Thong, whereupon, whilst all the Tars lookt on in Horror, he slit his Gullet from his Rib Cage to his Navel, then drew out a Length of his Gut with his bare Hand and pinion’d the bloody Mess to the Ladder by Means of the second Dagger. Now he releas’d his screaming Victim’s Foot and drove him with that pointed Implement of Slaughter ’round the Ladder in a hideous Jog of Death until he mercifully dropp’d. This took longer than I would have guess’d; the Force of Life is stronger than we think until we test it. Cocklyn utter’d Noises fit for no Human Ear as he retch’d and hopp’d in Agony. I could no longer bear to look; indeed I hid my Eyes in Terror until a heavy Thud upon the Cabin Floor convinced me he had expir’d. When I finally open’d my Eyes, I saw that Cocklyn had wound his Intestines ’round the Ladder no less than six Times before Death (or a Merciful Swoon) took him and he fell in a Pool of his own Blood.