Fanny (56 page)

The Tars had stopp’d their Gaming to view this Torture Scene in husht Reverence. O the Gaping of a Man’s Guts hath a most chastening Effect upon Human Hubris. We know we are nought but Flesh and Ordure inspirited by one mere Lungful of Divine Breath, and yet we ne’er know it truly until we see a Man slit open before us and the dark and murky Omen of his Entrails reveal’d to our astounded View.

The Cabin was, i’faith, so still, that I felt I had happen’d amongst the Waxwork Figures at Westminster Abbey. Tho’ the Tars had doubtless witness’d Attacks of Sailors’ Vapours before (wherein Mariners lost Ears, Eyes, and Noses as if they were so many Baubles), ne’er till now had most of ’em seen such a Torture as this carried out before ’em. Sure they had heard
tell
of it, as I had, in Accounts of the Cruelties of Pyrates; but ’tis one Thing to hear such Barbarity recounted, and another to behold it.

Suddenly the Door open’d and the Captain appear’d. He was a tall Man with a grey Beard and a red Nose which much resembl’d an o’ergrown Strawberry. ’Twas no difficult Thing for him to perceive who was the Murderer and who the Murder’d, since the Murder’d still lay in a Pool of his own Blood whilst the Murderer still stood above him with a bloody Dagger in Hand. As for the Spectators, they remain’d frozen as waxen Effigies.

At the Entrance of the Captain, they turn’d and star’d as one, knowing (as I did not then) that such mutinous Behaviour could not be tolerated aboard Ship, howsoe’er unpopular the Victim. A Crewman who would kill a First Mate might as readily kill a Captain, and such a severe Break with Discipline could ne’er be countenanced at Sea, where, e’en more than upon Land, each Man’s Fate depends upon his Brothers.

“How many have witness’d this Murder?” the Captain askt, all unnecessarily, for ’twas clear all the Men present had done so.

No one spoke or stirr’d so much as a Finger; neither Ayes nor Nays were proffer’d.

“Come, come,” said the Captain drily, “any Man who fails to answer yea or nay shall share the Murderer’s Blame.”

Still, there came no Reply. The Cabin was silent but for the Creaking of the Ship’s Timbers and the Slap of Sea-Water against the Hull. But little by little, Fear began to glow in the Eyes of the assembl’d Tars, for Flogging and Keel-hauling were all too real to their Imaginations.

“Aye, aye,” said one. “Aye,” said another, until a Chorus of Ayes rose to drown the Silence in the Cabin.

“Very well,” said the Captain, whose name was Whitehead (as if in contradiction of his Strawberry Nose), “I think we may dispatch Mr. Llewelyn to his Fate without further Ado.”

“Look ye,” cried Llewelyn, “I deserve a Trial by Jury as well as any Man here!”

“Mr. Llewelyn,” said the Captain, “’tis clear in the Eyes of all that no one but you hath uncaulkt the Seams, as ’twere, of this poor Fellow who bleeds upon the Ground. No mere Careening shall save him from Shipworms now, for neither Oakum nor Tar shall put him back together. The only Question is whether we should flog you first, then keel-haul you, before hanging you from the Yardarm, whether we should do to you what it hath pleas’d you to do to him, or whether we should be merciful and tye you to what remains of Mr. Cocklyn, and toss you in the Sea to drown with him.”

“I’ll have a Trial by Jury, I will!” said Llewelyn. “Fer I was but avengin’ a Messmate’s Death. ’Twas Justice I serv’d, look ye, not fanciful Murder, an’ I’ll not be hang’d like a Dog fer avengin’ the Murder o’ a Friend!”

“That is debatable,” said the Captain, whose ironical, elegant Speech was that of a Gentleman, with a Gentleman’s perfect Coldness and Disdain for Sentiment; “wherefore do you term the Loss of a Seaman at Sea ‘Murder’? If anyone is the Murderer here, ’tis the Sea itself. Who hath appointed you Neptune’s Scourge?”

“If Cocklyn was above on Deck, not below makin’ Love to a Wench, Thomas would be here still!” cried Llewelyn.

“What? Do you, in your Fit of Seaman’s Vapours, imagine Wenches? There are no Wenches here. Pray, Mr. Llewelyn, take hold of your outrageous Fancy. I’ll have no Bedlamites aboard the
Hopewell
.”

“There’s Wenches here aplenty,” Llewelyn said, whereupon he dragg’d Susannah and me out of the Shadows where we were cow’ring, brought us to the bloody Centre of the Circle of Tars, and ripp’d off our Shirts before Captain Whitehead’s astounded Eyes, revealing our womanly Breasts.

Whitehead was as amaz’d to see us as the other Men, yet since ironical Detachment was the Secret of his Rule, he would not show it. He made as if to hide his Eyes before our Breasts, but Light show’d betwixt his parted Fingers. “Pray, cover these Ladies up again,” said he, “for I’ll countenance no Lewdness to the Fair Sex upon my Ship.” He said this with all Gallantry and
Politesse
, but it seem’d more Form than Feeling.

“Cocklyn brought ’em,” Llewelyn cried, “to be his private Whores!”

“And would you have been more content,” askt Whitehead, “if he had shar’d these Ladies with you?”

The Crew laugh’d uproariously at this Witticism. Whitehead swiftly silenced ’em with his stern Visage.

“Mr. Llewelyn, in consideration of your Grief at the Loss of your Friend, I shall be merciful and you shall be neither flogg’d, nor keel-haul’d, nor tortur’d.”

At this, the assembl’d Tars seem’d to breathe more freely.

“But you shall be ty’d to your Victim upon Deck and left there for a Week ’neath Sun and Moon, then thrown together into the Arms of Neptune.”

The Crew gasp’d in Horror. Susannah grabb’d my Hand and squeez’d it.

“I’ll have a Trial by Jury, I will,” cried the distraught Llewelyn.

“Be silent and thank God for my Mercy,” said the frosty Whitehead. “Place these Men in Irons upon the Fo’c’sle Deck,” said he, pointing to the Corpse of Cocklyn and the future Corpse of Llewelyn. The Latter was already shaking with Terror of rotting upon the Deck.

“And send these Ladies to the Great Cabin,” said the Captain. “When I have seen the Murderer in Irons, I shall deal with them as I see fit.” Whereupon Susannah and I were hustl’d into the Captain’s Cabin to await the perilous Issue of this new Rotation of Fortune’s Wheel.

CHAPTER VIII

In which ’tis prov’d that Sea Captains are as lustful as they are reputed to be, that Deists do not always make the best Lovers, and that many Persons in their Erotick Habits crave that Treatment which, in Truth, they deserve, in consequence of their Characters.

F
OR A WHOLE WEEK,
whilst the Body of Cocklyn rotted upon Deck, bringing all Manner of Vermin up from the Hold to seek Nourishment in the Decay of its gaping Guts, Llewelyn lay under it moaning in Agony which soon turn’d to Madness, and the Tars of the
Hopewell
(having been strictly forbidden to save him upon Pain of sharing his Punishment) grumbl’d mutinously amongst themselves.

Llewelyn and Thomas had been Favourites of the Crew; the First Mate and the Captain were cordially hated by all—Cocklyn for always lining his own Pockets or Belly at the Crew’s Expence, and Whitehead for his Cruelty and
Hauteur.
The Crew’s Grievance seem’d, in the Main, to be Whitehead’s Denial of a Trial to Llewelyn, for they knew he must be punish’d, but they felt all Trueborn Englishmen were entitl’d at least to a Trial by Jury, howsoe’er abridged and unfair it must necessarily be with Captain Whitehead acting as Judge.

What, then, kept the Men from avenging Llewelyn’s Torture—or indeed from dispatching him more speedily into the Drink? The Knowledge of how severe the Captain would surely be with ’em. For Whitehead was known for unspeakable Cruelties—such as forcing Men to swallow live Cockroaches, stuffing Oakum in their Mouths and setting it aflame, flogging and keel-hauling ’em within an Inch of their Lives, and making very free with his Supplejack e’en for minor Infringements. One Tar had been flogg’d no less than fifty Times for taking one Swallow of Water above his Ration, the Cook who brought our Mess inform’d us; therefore, the Men were attempting to close their Ears to the Ravings of poor Llewelyn upon Deck, tho’ it hurt ’em sorely to do so. Still, Mutiny was mutter’d of in the Steerage, and the Cook whisper’d to us that the Men were sick at Heart, and that when Carrion Birds had come to pluck out Cocklyn’s Eyes, they had torn at Llewelyn’s Flesh as well. ’Twas only a Matter of Time before his Eyes should suffer the same Fate as Cocklyn’s, whereupon there’d be no telling what the Crew would do.

Susannah and I shiver’d to hear all this, for we were Whitehead’s Prisoners in the Great Cabin, tho’ as yet he had treated us quite civilly. Outwardly, our Fortunes had improv’d; the Captain’s Cabin was provided with Windows, Light, Air, a Writing Bureau, and dry Berths lin’d with Eider-Downs, as well as Plate and Pewter bearing his Family Crest. But we liv’d in Terror of the Captain’s Whims, and we both felt we had fallen into the Hands of a crueller Master than e’en murder’d Cocklyn.

Susannah, for her part, was certain God was testing her for some grievous Error she had made. First, she’d been responsible for the Kidnapping of Belinda; then she’d caus’d the Murder of Cocklyn, bringing us both into the Clutches of a Villain. What Lesson was she meant to learn thereby, she askt. O Day and Night she could not refrain from reproaching herself upon these Accounts.

“I ne’er e’en submitted to Cocklyn’s Am’rous Advances,” said she, “fer I was able to use the Pretext o’ the Tempest an’ the Rockin’ o’ the Ship to fend him off. Yet was the poor Man disembowell’d fer his sup-pos’d Seduction o’ me.”

“Pray, do not blame yourself, Susannah,” said I. “’Twas an old Quarrel they surely had, which caus’d his Downfall.”

“God’s testin’ me, Fanny. He is. Yer too innocent o’ the Devil’s Ways, Fanny, so ye cannot comprehend the Danger, but I see Demons ev’rywhere, tryin’ us sorely. If ye had any Friend besides me, I’d throw meself away to feed the Fishes—fer me Life is worth no thin’ to me now! O I curse the Day I went to the Wharves fer Prue! Alas that I should have been her Messenger—I, who am God’s Messenger! Whitehead—I trust him e’en less than Cocklyn. How shall we find the
Cassandra
when he is no Friend o’ ours, an’ the Sea—the Sea is bigger an’ colder than Hell itself?”

A strange Calm had o’ertaken me in these dire Circumstances; for ’tis paradoxical that when our Fortunes reach their lowest Ebb, we oft’ find a sort of Resignation in Despair, and to ward off Disaster become most erect in the Face of Grief that should, by all the Laws of Reason, bow us down. O there are stronger Things in Life than Reason; of that I am sure.

“Do not despair, my dearest Friend,” said I to Susannah. “Disaster is oft’ a Cloak for Fortune, as Fortune is oft’ Disaster’s own Disguise. We shall find Belinda in this great Immensity, the Sea, and make a Heaven in the Place of Hell!”

Susannah fell into my Arms and wept, and as she wept I felt my Strength grow. We could not both give way; one of us must be strong to aid the other.

“Mistress Fanny, ’tis little I remember o’ me Youth—fer Years I remember’d nought but the Shipwreck in me fourth Year, but last Night, fallin’ asleep to the Moanin’ an’ Ravin’ o’ Poor Llewelyn upon Deck, I dreamt o’ me Black Mama in the Sugar Isles an’ she spoke to me as plainly as a Flesh-an’-Blood Woman.”

“What did she say?” I askt Susannah, hoping to distract her from her Thoughts of Self-Murder which, i’faith, frighten’d me.

Susannah lookt into my Eyes and chanted these stirring Words:

“‘We were pluckt from the Bosom o’ the Continent o’ Magick an’ Darkness an’ brought into the White Man’s Light. His God is Reason—a false God—a God that flashes Numbers in Place o’ Lightnin’, a God that is but the Devil in Disguise. Spirit alone is real; Spirit alone endures. ’Tis the Curse o’ the White Man that he hath made a God o’ Reason; the End o’ the World shall be at hand when the Black Man comes to worship Reason, too.’”

I listen’d, stunn’d into Silence by this Prophecy, which seem’d drawn from the Depths of a Dream like the Witch’s Prophecy of many Moons ago. The Dream was daft, yet was there Wisdom in it. O doth not Dryden himself say that “Great Wits are sure to Madness near allied; / And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide”?

“But wherefore have you abandon’d Spirit, Susannah?” I askt.

“O—I am doubtin’ all, Mistress Fanny, doubtin’ all. Since Llewelyn raves upon the Deck, I doubt me God, an’ find me Heart drawn unto the Devil’s faulty Reasonin’s. I think o’ Self-Slaughter—tho’ I know that Suicides must go to Hell, an’ yet I think I
merit
Punishment. I lov’d Belinda like me own sweet Babe an’ caus’d her to be taken. Likewise, I caus’d Cocklyn’s hideous Fate. I was sent to lead ye to Salvation, an’ here I doubt me God meself!”

“Wherefore do you take all Blame upon your own Shoulders? Is that not Hubris, Susannah? Would God wish to hear such Self-Reproach? ’Tis for Jesus to take Man’s Sins upon his Shoulders—not Susannah.” Susannah only whimper’d in reply. Whereupon the Door open’d and Whitehead strode in.

“Do I interrupt a Metaphysical Discussion betwixt you Ladies?” said he, curling his lower Lip in Disdain. “Pray forgive me if I do.”

He said this with the Mockery of one who believes Women wholly unfit for Metaphysicks, but polite enough ne’er to say it in so many Words. Yet did his Mocking Visage announce his View. “Ladies,” said he, “shall I leave you to your Philosophical Disputations?”

Amaz’d as I was by Whitehead’s Calm, his lack of Response either to Llewelyn’s Cries or to our Presence aboard Ship, I strove to answer his Ice with Ice and his Intellect with Intellect. Perhaps I fancied that if he knew me for an educated Wench, not just an ignorant Whore, ’twould save my Life.
Why
I should have believ’d this I did not know, for had my Education spar’d me Grief before?

“Pray join us, Captain,” said I, playing at his frosty Game. “My friend Susannah is suff’ring a Loss of Faith in God because of the Shrieks that issue Moment by Moment from the Fo’c’sle Deck. Pray, what can you do to reassure her? As Captain you are Custodian of our Souls as well as our Bodies, and we look to you for Guidance.”

I said this with just a Hint of Mockery but then fell before him in a Curtsey so complaisant that all Mockery was eras’d.