Fanny (59 page)

The Surgeon, a fine young Man of Twenty-Seven or so, comes into the Great Cabin presently, bows to the Captain, acknowledges our Presence politely, and asks Whitehead what Service he desires.

“I desire that you inspect these Ladies’ Hair for Lice and then dispatch those Creatures instantly. For, as these Ladies share my Cabin, I cannot risque their Infestations being transmitted to me.”

“Very good, Sir,” the Surgeon says, whereupon he sets about inspecting first my Scalp, then Susannah’s, pronounces, not surprizingly, that I have Lice, whilst Susannah may have ’em in the incipient Stage and suggests a thorough Ablution with Vinegar as the Cure, or possibly e’en our being shorn.

“O no!” I cry, not thinking that such Resistance will surely seal our Fates with Captain Whitehead (for he loves most to do to Ladies what most displeases ’em).

“Vinegar is much too crude a Fluid for such Fine Ladies,” says Whitehead. “Bring on the Brandy and let me watch the Show!” Whereupon he leans back in his great oak Captain’s Chair and watches with Pleasure whilst we are stripp’d, then washt from Head to Toe in Brandy, then—Goddess preserve us!—shorn.

Our Nether Curls are shav’d, so that our Mounts-Pleasant resemble those of tiny Girls (O this fills me with Longing for my own Sweet Belinda!), but our Scalps are merely cropp’d close, so that the hair stands up in Prickles all ’round.

As I see my long red Curls fall one by one from my Head upon the Cabin Floor, I weep most piteously; for verily, ’tis as if all Strength and all Resistance ebb out of me with the Loss of my Hair!

My Defeat pleases Whitehead well. Rather than Pity for me, he feels Lust. The Debasement of a Woman is the very Essence of his Lust, and, since Whitehead is an unavow’d Molly-Coddle or Mary-Ann, he likes nothing better than to see a Woman shorn of her Crown of Curls and to be robb’d of one of the greatest Glories of her Sex.

Naked, shorn, shiv’ring, Susannah and I are perfect Quarry for Whitehead’s Perversities. Dismissing the Surgeon, whose fair Face is full of Pity for our Plight, he manacles us to each other once again and delights himself with poking Fingers, Dildoes, and other Objects up our Bums until he hath procur’d for himself his chosen celebratory Feast.

This Perversion he calls “Making the Hen Lay,” and the Fruit of his Efforts he terms an “Egg.” Verily, he exclaims o’er it as if ’twere an Egg of Gold—and Susannah and I the Golden Geese of Song and Story! ’Twould be comical, I think, if ’twere not supremely sad. But depriv’d of my Hair, my Spirit, e’en my own Shit (which ne’er seem’d to have Value before Whitehead desir’d it), I am too lugubrious to laugh. O the Loss of my red Hair hath depriv’d me of all Capacity for Mirth.

I shall not, dear Reader and Daughter, trouble you with further Details of Captain Whitehead’s Perversities. Suffice it to say that like most Men of his Stamp—Mollyish, yet playing the Tyrant to cover his Effeminacy—he was interested in ev’ry Part of the Female Form, save that Bow’r of Delight, that Divine Monosyllable, which is the Summit of the usual Sensualist’s Search for Pleasure. That Part alone he disdain’d; that Part alone he ignor’d, as if, indeed, ’twould bite him.

And so we sail’d southward to go Slaving, in the Grip of a capricious Master, who us’d us more as Boys than Women, as Jakes or Close-Stools rather than Human Beings. The Weather grew humid and hot as we drifted into the Southern Seas, and many Men sicken’d with the various Maladies to which all Tars are prone (and the Risque of which had been greatly increas’d by those Rotting Bodies upon the Deck). Captain Whitehead had given out the Word that we would not stop at Madeira to take on new Provisions because doubtless he dar’d not stop in any civiliz’d Port lest all his Men jump Ship. We were to continue directly to the Mouth of the Gambia River, there take on Water and Provisions, and thence steer for the Gold Coast of Guinea. It scarce needs saying that the Tars were not pleas’d about this, distemper’d and unhappy as they were.

The Surgeon neither slept nor ceas’d to toil, for, of our tiny Crew, as many as half were laid up at any Time and four more dy’d and were committed to the Deep. Nor did this dampen Whitehead’s gloomy Lusts; he pursu’d ’em as doggedly upon this Ship of Death as another Man might in a bright Spring Meadow. His Appetites were endless and insatiable, albeit carried out in an Atmosphere of dogged Determination in lieu of enthusiastick Ecstacy—which I fear, is oft’ the case with perverse Lusts such as his. O I tried to interest him in other Entertainments, such as Sporting in the Masks and Costumes which had so intrigued Lord Bellars during my Lying-in, but his Proclivities were not of that Persuasion. They lackt e’en that Hint of Whimsy which Lord Bellars’ Lusts possess’d; they were Earth-bound to a Degree my Step-Father and his Hell-Fire Brothers could not have known.

Ah, Belinda, Lust is a curious Thing! ’Tis oft’ the Obsession of disorder’d Minds and takes its Lineaments from the very Nature of Mind’s Disorder. Those Joyless Puritans who denounce all Lust alike are foolish and innocent of the Ways of the World; for, as there is a Diff’rence betwixt sound and rotten Meat, so, too, there is a Diff’rence betwixt chearful Lust and that gloomy Variety which sickens the Soul. For ’tis in the Nature of distemper’d Lust to be insatiable, whilst the robust and loving Lover takes his Pleasure, then basks in the Satiety of a Thing well done, enjoying the Afterglow of Ecstacy as much as the Act itself. As for the distemper’d Lover, there is scarce a Moment of Peace or Rest; he is fore’er searching for a Satiety he will ne’er discover.

Imagine, then, our Plight: we drift inexorably toward Africa upon a Sailing Ship full of distemper’d Tars, enslav’d to a Maniack with an insatiable Passion for Piss and Shit, shorn of our Curls and Courage, cast into the most melancholick of Humours, knowing that each Day takes us further from finding Belinda alive upon this Earth and knowing also that we ourselves are not likely to survive the myriad Distempers of this Voyage. We felt as Castaways must, or as maroon’d Pyrates who know that nought but Birds of Prey visit their doom’d Islet. ’Twas true we had the Company of each other, but Melancholy had cast us down in such a Pit that betwixt us was less Chear than may be found in a Pott of Ale. E’en Grog made us weep, not laugh, and each new Day brought further Degradation.

“God hath abandon’d us,” Susannah said.

“Hush, Susannah. If you believe it, ’twill be true.” I had ne’er seen a Friend in such Despair. E’en her Body revolted against her Mind: her Stomach heav’d; her Breath came short as broken Straws; and tho’ she suffer’d, said the Surgeon, no Distemper, she seem’d curiously upon the Point of Death.

“’Tis true, Fanny, ’tis true,” she sigh’d.

“Bite your tongue, Susannah, and fall upon your Knees and pray.” And so she did, but more out of Habit than Conviction. She pray’d to her God, and I to mine, and perhaps they were the same. Yet my own Thoughts were gloomy despite my Encouragement of Susannah. How many since Time began have pray’d and pray’d in vain? How many Greeks, Romans, Mahometans, Jews, Turks, Gypsies, Witches, and e’en good Christians have pray’d to various Gods and been slaughter’d nonetheless? The Witches pray’d to the Great Goddess and dy’d with Her Sacred Name upon their Lips. How many others had dy’d by Burning, Stoning, Flaying, Drowning, Blooding—and dy’d whilst deep in Pray’r? The Supreme Being—howsoe’er you nam’d Him or Her—did not promise to save the Body but only the Soul. Only! The Soul was, indeed, the only Part worth saving, but without knowing my Belinda safe and sound, the Salvation of my Soul was useless to me until I might secure the Salvation of her little Body. If I had liv’d but eighteen Years to learn what I had learnt and bear a Babe, well then, sobeit; I could accept my own Dying ere I had a score of Years to tally—yet I could not accept Belinda’s! As sure as I had borne that Babe at Risque of Life, I must do anything within my Pow’r to see her bloom and flourish ere I dye!

I was in the Grip of great Remorse! I blam’d my Romance for the Taking of Belinda, and blam’d my Foolishness in choosing Wet-Nurses, and beat my Breast until ’twas blue with Bruises; I would have torn my Hair if I had had any! We had been at Sea now for upwards of six Weeks and ’twas not impossible to make the Mouth of the Gambia River in two or three more Weeks, if the Winds were favourable. I’faith, we had best arrive there soon or all our Crew would perish!

Besides the Cook, who brought our Meals, the only Member of the small Crew that remain’d who could visit us without incurring the Captain’s Suspicions was the Surgeon; he was directed to take special care of our Health owing to the close Contact we had with the Captain. Sometimes, whilst Whitehead was engaged upon Deck, we would converse with Mr. Dennison, the Surgeon, who seem’d to me verily like a floating Spar bobbing upon that vast Ocean of Despair. Bartholomew Dennison, as I have said, was fair of Face, mild-manner’d, and not a little abash’d by Ladies. He was not above twenty-seven Years of Age, but shy as a Country Boy of Twelve in Love with a Milkmaid. He was the sort of Man who wins Women by thinking he has nothing winning about him, the sort of Man, in short, who will ne’er be call’d a Rake or Man of Pleasure, tho’ indeed he gives more True Pleasure than those who are term’d such.

Dennison was from Hampshire, the By-Blow of a Lord of Great Estate and a Housemaid turn’d out of Doors by the Lady of the House when she was big with Child. He grew up in a Workhouse, made his Way to London at Fourteen, fell in with the kind of Company that preys upon Country Boys with City Dreams, and found himself, like so many, drunk in a Publick House one Night, and signing his Life away in Exchange for a few Rounds of Ale on Credit. But Dennison was more fortunate than most. Once he had sign’d those cheating Articles and shipp’d away, he was made Assistant to a Surgeon upon a Liverpool Slaver; thus he learnt a useful Craft, and, upon long Sea-Voyages he read the Classicks, thus giving himself the Gentleman’s Education the Fates had denied him. Yet Freedom eluded him, for the Trading Company had Snares, it seem’d, to keep the Men perpetually in Debt, and the more they sail’d the larger their Debts grew. Thus, they were as much Slaves as the Blacks from Guinea, and scarce better treated either.

Dennison sought to distract us from our Woes by telling us Stories of his Sailing Life. His Intent was to make us feel less unfortunate and raise our Spirits, for he knew that People perish as much for Want of Hope as for Want of Food or Air.

“The worst Fear I e’er knew, my Girls,” said he, “was upon my first Voyage, when I, like you, first realiz’d that a Ship’s a Prison and that I was damn’d to stay aboard it come what may—or perish in the Deep.

“Until the Vessel clears the Channel,” he said, “the Seamen are not so badly us’d; for the Captain knows that any Wind may drive them back into an English Port and the Tars will then jump Ship. Rations are plentiful enough and Discipline slack. But O when you reach the Open Sea—what a Change is there! One Quart of Water a Day for toiling Men—and some grow so thirsty that they drink up their whole Ration when ’tis serv’d and live the next twenty-four Hours in a Hell of Thirst. Upon my first Voyage, one Tar found a Way of licking Dew Drops off the Hen Coop at Dawn and when he was discover’d, he was keel-haul’d for it and later dy’d of the Wounds inflicted by the Barnacles. The farther we got from England, the worse the Food and the crueller the Discipline….”

“Then how did you endure?” I askt, from the Depths of my Despair.

“Ah, my Friend, God uses us for many Things, teaches us many Lessons that we may be Instruments of His Will. For the past fourteen Years, I have kept a Book of all my Travels and of the worst Excesses of the Slave Trade, and I dream someday that I shall publish it and show the World the Horrors of this Evil Practice. I live only to heal the Sick and write my Book. I turn my Face away from the World and into the Pages of my Secret Journal, dreaming of that Day when I shall publish it and the World shall stand amaz’d.”

“When was the World amaz’d by Cruelty?” I askt wearily.

Dennison lookt at me most pensively and shook his Head. “The Word can change the World,” he said, “we must believe it.”

“So would I have said one Year ago, but since then I have seen Cruelty which astounds the very Soul. When I dreamt in a Library o’er Mr. Milton’s and Mr. Shakespeare’s Books, I verily believ’d the Word could change the World, but now ’tis ‘dark, dark, dark, amid the Blaze of Noon, / Irrecoverably dark… / Without all Hope of Day!’”

I spoke in Milton’s Words; so Dennison answer’d me the same: “‘Hence loathed Melancholy’!” said he; whereupon he added: “‘Haste thee Nymph, and bring with thee / Jest and youthful Jollity, / Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, / Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles.’” And he smil’d the sunniest Smile I had seen in Months.

“O where shall I find those wreathed Smiles upon this Ship of Death?” I askt; “and how shall I go on when e’en my Friend, Susannah, is shaken in her changeless Faith?”

“By Rights,” said Dennison, “given what I have witness’d in these Years of Slaving, I should be faithless and melancholick as you yourself. But the first Voyage is the worst, for there is no sadder State than new-affrighted Innocence, as ’twere. You think yourself the first Soul upon this Earth to discover the World’s Wickedness; but ’tis not the case. You discover Hypocrisy and Guile as if you were Adam discovering the Serpent’s first Duplicity, and you rail at an indiff’rent God, but later, as you endure, you will learn that He hath put you here for many Lessons. Why, upon my first Voyage I saw Tars so ill-us’d that they committed Suicide in Shark-fill’d Waters. I saw Black Men stackt upon each other as if they were so many Logs of Wood, as ’twere. I went down into the Hold to treat Slaves who were ill with Bloody Flux and I swoon’d there of the Smell and could not rise e’en when I was cover’d with Blood and Ordure. O the Hold was as awash with Blood as ’twere an Abbattoir and all that Blood issu’d from the Roiling Guts of these poor Slaves from Guinea! I saw Slaving Captains who would stuff the sick Slaves’ Anuses with Oakum before the Scramble or Auction in the West Indies, and I saw Seamen flogg’d till their Backs were raw—for the most trivial Offences—and then a Mixture of Sea-Water and Chian Pepper rubb’d in those very Wounds. But I believe that God hath sent me upon this Earth to be a Scribe, God’s Quill, as ’twere, His Amanuensis, as ’twere, so I observe all most faithfully and put it in my Book. For I know that when the Inhuman Abuses of the Slave Trade are commonly known, all reasoning Men shall rise up as one Body and protest these Evils.”