Fanny (62 page)

“Let’s have him walk the Plank!” said another Tar.

“Torture’s no cure fer Torturers!” cried Lancelot, “but Kindness is!”

“Nay!” cried the First Mate, “if ye show that filthy Cur Kindness, ye’ll have to deal with me and all my Men.”

“We’ll not turn Pyrate if ye show him Kindness,” said the Second Mate.

Lancelot rais’d his Cutlass; he was now properly piqued.

“Ye’ll not turn what?” said he. “Ye’ll not turn what?” He took the Second Mate by the Scruff of the Neck. “I take no forced Men,” said he. “Only Rogues an’ Cut-Throats take forced Men. Ev’ry Man who sails with me sails out o’ Love o’ True Democracy! We take the Oath o’ Robin Hood. We sign the Pyrate Articles which guarantee that no Man sails against his Will, nor dares be King o’er any other Man. Ev’ry Prize we take is subject to a Vote. Each Man’s Share is written in our Code o’ Laws an’ Woe to him that breaks it! If knowin’ that, ye now will swear the Oath o’ Robin Hood in all Solemnity an’ with a faithful Heart, we’ll clap the Captain o’ this Ship in Irons an’ take a Vote as to his Fate when there be Time! If any disagree, let him speak up now!”

The Men of the
Hopewell
listen’d, aw’d, to Lancelot; like ev’ryone meeting him for the first Time, they were a bit bedazzl’d by his great Gifts as a Tonguepad, his unfailing Knack of rallying Men ’round him. A bit mad he might be, but his very Presence, Bearing, and the Sound of his Voice made Men wish to follow him to the Ends of the Earth.

“Let’s swear the Oath!” cried the First Mate.

“Aye, aye!” cried the Second.

“Very well, then,” says Lancelot, “repeat the Oath after Madam Fanny,” and he had me recite the Robin Hood Oath yet again, with great Solemnity (as I repeat it here for the Reader who hath, perhaps, forgotten it):

“I swear by the Ghost o’ Robin Hood

That I shall steal—but steal for Good” (I chanted),

“That I his Creed shall e’er uphold.

And love True Justice more than Gold.”

To which the Men echo’d their Assent and Agreement, repeating the Oath Line for Line.

“Come then, Lads,” said Lancelot, “let’s clap the Captain in Irons!” Whereupon Lancelot started for the Deck with Horatio and his Black Pyrates trailing him, after which the Officers and Tars of the
Hopewell
also follow’d with great Whoops of Delight.

Arriving above, we saw at once that Whitehead had struggl’d to his Feet, despite his considerable Wounds. He was tott’ring upon the misty Fo’c’sle Deck with his Pistol in his shaky Hand.

Seeing the howling, whooping Hordes come to fetch him, he’d train’d his Pistol upon Lancelot, and, as if still the Master of his Ship, he cried: “Welcome! Win her and wear her!” ’Twas a brave Stand for a Captain, but more Bluster than Ferocity, for Whitehead lurch’d upon his Feet and his Voice quaver’d like an old Man’s. Ne’ertheless Horatio ran immediately to disarm the Villain; as Lancelot’s self-appointed Guard, he could not risque Shots being fir’d.

“Are ye the Captain o’ the
Hopewell
?” askt Lancelot, knowing the Answer perfectly well.

“I had been so till now!” cried Whitehead in great Distress. Already the three fierce Black Men had run to aid Horatio and were beginning to bind Whitehead Hand and Foot.

“Tye him to the Foremast!” Lancelot order’d.

The Black Pyrates did his Bidding whilst Horatio led the Men of the
Hopewell
in firing a Victory Salvo into the Air. Lancelot’s Party had only been aboard a few Minutes and already the Ship was theirs! But apparently, the Pyrates upon the Mother Ship, hearing Fire, concluded that their belov’d Lancelot had been taken, and they began to cannonade the
Hopewell
in Vengeance for the presum’d Murder of their Master and his Boarding Party. Pandemonium reign’d then upon our Decks as the Pyrate Ship all needlessly attackt the Pyrate Prize.

“Hoist the
Joli Rouge
!” cried Whitehead, who could not now, like the Rest of us, duck to avoid Fire and was therefore in Terror of being hit again.

“What’s that? Ye cowardly Cur,” cried Lancelot, “are ye afraid o’ goin’ to the Devil by a Great Shot?”

“That’ll be nothin’ compar’d to what we’ll do to you!” shouted the First Mate of the
Hopewell
, flattening himself upon the Deck to avoid being hit by what seem’d an eighteen-pound Ball. It thunder’d upon the Deck quite near him and crasht thro’ the Wood as if ’twere Paper.

“If ye were wise, ye’d ask God to take ye now!” cried the Second Mate.

In a trice, Horatio drew a crusht and folded Pyrate Flag from his Coat and made quick Work of hoisting it. ’Twas a red Banner, showing a fierce Skeleton with an Hourglass in one Hand (to show Time running out for the Prey) and a rais’d Cutlass in the other. Below the Skeleton was the Motto “
A Deo a Libertate
,” for God and Liberty, to show all who came near Lancelot’s Ships that he was no Common Cut-Throat Pyrate, but Pyrate of Principle. Tho’ the Flag soon flutter’d on high, the Mother Ship still blaz’d away in the Darkness, and the vigorous Cannonade did not cease. Were it not that the Fog caus’d as many Cannon to miss us as to hit, we surely should be sunk!

“They cannot see our
Joli Rouge
!” cried Horatio, “for the Fog obscures all but the Ghosts of our Lights!”

“Then send a Party to hail the Mother Ship!” cried Lancelot. “An’ be quick about it!”

“Don’t give me Orders, White Man!” snapp’d Horatio. “Send a Party yourself!” With all deliberate Speed, Lancelot dispatch’d a Boat containing the Black Pyrates and the new First Mate of the
Hopewell.
Their Task was to inform the Mother Ship that the Prize had been taken, the Tars turn’d Pyrate, and all was well. Those of us still aboard the
Hopewell
duckt below the Waists and pray’d that the Boat should arrive at the Pyrate Flag Ship before Lancelot’s Men destroy’d our Rigging utterly in their o’er-zealous but misguided Revenge.

Whitehead, for his part, now rav’d upon the Deck where the huge Cannon Balls kept missing him.

“Have Mercy upon my Sinful Soul,” he cried, turning away from Reasonable Deism and towards a Personal, if Unreasoning, God in his Hour of Need. O ’twas pitiful to see him raving there! He was as frighten’d and cowardly as any Man I’ve seen. Stripp’d of his Supplejack, Pistols, and Captain’s Authority, he shrank from a great Villain into a Little Boy, begging us for Mercy.

In all this Riot, the last Person on my Mind was Bartholomew Dennison, who had been scribbling away in his Cabin whilst these Events occurr’d on Deck. (Only a Scribbler could be so oblivious of a Cannonade!) Now he show’d his Face e’en as the Broadsides flew. Standing upon the Ladder, half above Deck, half below, he rais’d his Piece in Lancelot’s Direction.

“Get down! Get down!” I cried to him. “These Men are Friends, not Foes!” But daz’d from Writing in his Book, and not comprehending what was going on, Bartholomew cockt his Pistol and made as if to fire.

“These Men are Friends!” I cried again. “Put down your Pistol.” Bartholomew star’d at me in utter confusion, his Eyes having the bleary Look of one just sprung from Sleep. Whereupon Horatio, seeing the Lancelot he both lov’d and hated in Danger, could not wait and risque the Loss of his Captain and Lover; thus, he open’d Fire upon Bartholomew.

“Cease and Desist, Horatio!” I cried, but ’twas too late. Being hit in the Belly, Bartholomew fell backwards into the Galley. At once I ran to him thro’ Cannon Fire to see what Damage had been wrought.

He lay upon the Floor ’neath the Cooking Stove, holding his Bowels in place with one Blood-stain’d Hand.

“I am mortally wounded, Fanny,” mutter’d he. “That much I know.”

“Hush,” said I. “I’ll bind your Belly. Say nought of Mortal Wounds….” But as I strove to bind him with a Piece of Cotton torn from my own tatter’d Skirt, I saw ’twas true, his Guts gap’d almost like poor dead Cocklyn’s had, and ’twas all I could do to keep from swooning at the very Sight.

“I might have lov’d you all Life long, Fanny,” said Bartholomew, “had I the Courage to say so ere this Wound.”

I lookt into his sweet angelick Face, halo’d with golden Hair, and wept. Was he embolden’d only by Death to reveal his Love?

“I might have lov’d you, too!” said I. “O I do love you! That I do!” Whereupon Bartholomew put out a feeble Hand to take mine, and as I press’d it, I knew ’twas cold as Death.

“I bequeath my Book to you, Fanny, my sweetest Love. If you e’er return to London, publish it and tell the World about the Slave Trade…” Here he falter’d and drew Breath. “The Word can change the World,” he said, “do not doubt it…” And then he breath’d the Last.

I fell o’er his Body weeping, so shaken with Sobs and Tears that I fail’d to notice that the Mother Ship had ceas’d to fire, and suddenly the Air was still.

Sev’ral small Boats were arriving at the
Hopewell
, whilst Pyrates of ev’ry Description were swarming o’er the Sides in search of Grog for their Victory Celebration. The Musicians began to play upon the Fo’c’sle Deck with a raucous Cacophony of Drums and Trumpets. Bare Feet thump’d o’er my Head as the Sailors danced their Hornpipes and their Jigs. Pyrates crowded into the Hold seeking Rum and Brandy, and their foul Imprecations fill’d the Air. Our Provisions were almost out, so there could be no Pyrate Feast of Salmagundy—that great peppery Stew of divers Meats and Fishes—which was usually cookt to celebrate the Taking of a Prize; but the Men made merry with the Grog, rolling Puncheons of Rum along the Decks only to hack ’em open with their Boarding Axes, and nicking Bottles of Brandy with their Cutlasses instead of troubling to uncork ’em. O they little noticed the broken Glass which pav’d the very Deck whereon they danced!

What a Debauch ’twas! The Tars of the
Hopewell
join’d in as if they’d ne’er been fell’d by Sickness. And whilst the Dancing thunder’d all above, I lay with my Cheak to Bartholomew’s dead Cheak, weeping for all my dear, dead Friends, the brightest and most beauteous who had fallen. “Only spare Belinda,” I askt the Goddess of the Skies, “and blessed be Thy Name for reuniting me with my own Merry Men!”

Life is e’er a Mixture of Sweets and Bitters! I regain my Lancelot and Horatio only to lose Bartholomew! I lose Susannah only to regain Lancelot! But Belinda must I find again or dye. On that Score will I countenance no Bargains or Barters e’en with the Goddess on High!

The Musick play’d and play’d, the Pyrates danced and drank, sang Pyrate Songs, and swarm’d into the Great Cabin and the Hold in search of Booty. Coral and Iron Bars were heap’d on Deck, Firkins of Tallow, e’en the Basons that Whitehead had brought for Trading. All the Captain’s Belongings—his Personal Plate, Wigs, and Clothes—were thrown upon the Booty Pile. The Necklace that Cocklyn took from us ere he dy’d—e’en this they found and threw upon the Heap—together with the Costumes in which I had woo’d Lord Bellars during my Lying-in. ’Twas verily as if the Remnants of my whole Life lay upon that Deck! I fear’d for Bartholomew’s Book in all this Fray; Jewels could I lose, and Costumes, but the Book was a sacred Trust to a departed Friend. I ran down to the Surgeon’s Cabin, where I search’d for a Time before I found it rudely thrown upon the Floor, in a great Pool of Rum. Pyrates consider’d Books of little Value. I pickt it up and wip’d it with my Skirt, wrapping the sodden Leather in a rough woollen Sailor’s Shirt, then running back on Deck.

Abruptly, the Musick stopp’d and Lancelot summon’d the Men from their Drinking, Dancing, Singing, and Heaping great Piles of Booty.

“Silence, ye Rogues!” he cried. “Silence on Deck!” The Men obey’d but slowly, stagg’ring about in Drunkenness. After some Confusion, they found Places where they might sit or stand amidst the broken Glass and flowing Rum. Clutching Bartholomew’s Book, I found a quiet Corner of the Deck and there sat down. I recogniz’d a few of the Merry Men of Old—Littlehat and Francis Bacon, Caveat the Worrier and Puck Goodfellow with his scarry Face—but most of the others were Strangers, both Black and White. O Lancelot must have taken many a Slaver to liberate so many Ebony Souls!

“Gentlemen!” cried Lancelot. “We have taken a Pretty Prize—the
Hopewell
here, a most Sea-worthy Brigantine, tho’ damaged she be in her Riggin’ by yer daft O’er-Zealousness in defendin’ me. Yet still I warrant she’ll make a fine Member o’ the Fleet if she be not foul-bottom’d. Her Captain’s ours, her Men will join our Band; an’ after they have sign’d our Articles, we’ll share out all the Booty! Accordin’ly, an’ since I’ll have no forced Men upon me Ships, I would now read to ye our Sacred Articles to make sure ye agree. What say ye, Lads?”

“Aye! Aye!” cried the Pyrates, new and old.

“Ye must swear to uphold our Flag as well, Lads, since ’tis no common black Pyrate Banner, meant only to strike Terror in the Hearts o’ Prey, but a proud Emblem o’ our Faith:
‘A Deo a Libertate’
—which Motto hath been chosen by our fine Quarter-master an’ Latin Scholar, Horatio the Fierce….” Here he introduced the terrible-visaged Horatio to the Men, whereupon my old Friend stood and bow’d, making sure to bare his Teeth and snarl most ferociously. (Like many bookish Fellows who dream a Life of Action, Horatio delighted in seeming e’en more fearsome than he was!)

“Bring the Bible, Horatio!” Lancelot said to his fierce Compatriot. Out of his Waistcoat, Horatio produced a small octavo Bible bound in black Morocco, edged in Gold, with a fore-edge Painting which represented Jesus Christ as a Pyrate, looking for all the World as red-hair’d and green-eyed as Lancelot! (O certainly I could not see it from where I sat, but later I was to have a good Look at this curious Object.)

“Now—the Articles!” Lancelot said, drawing a tatter’d Parchment Scroll from his own Coat. “Listen well!” He ceremoniously unroll’d the Scroll; the Men, drunk as most of ’em were, tried ne’ertheless to attend to Lancelot.

“Article I,” read he. “Ev’ry Man shall have an equal Vote in Affairs o’ Moment….” At this the Men chear’d loudly; Lancelot went on: “Ev’ry Man shall have an equal Title to the fresh Provisions or strong Liquors where’er they be seiz’d an’ shall use ’em at Pleasure unless a Scarcity make it necessary fer the Common Good that a Retrenchment may be voted.” The Men chear’d e’en more loudly at this Provision, for Grog is e’er more important than Votes.