Fanny (64 page)

“Very well then,” said Lancelot. “No Woman sails with us as private Whore or Mascot, but only as a Member o’ the fightin’ Band!”

“Aye, aye!” shouted the Men.

And so the Articles were amended, the Men sworn, and I became a Pyrate.

CHAPTER XII

Containing divers Dialogues betwixt Lancelot, Horatio, and our Heroine in which the History goes backward somewhat and we learn what these Gentlemen have been doing whilst the Queen of our Narrative was extending her Education and Adventures; thereto is added a brief History of Buccaneering for the Reader who is bent upon the noble Cause of Self-Improvement as well as the more pleasant one of Entertainment.

R
EUNITED THUS WITH LANCELOT
upon the Seas, and committed to fight as fiercely as any Pyrate—as soon as I should learn how to wield a Cutlass—my only Thought was now to enlist Lancelot in finding my Beauteous Babe. I’faith, I would have sworn the Sea was rose and the Sky green if it had brought me an Inch closer to Belinda.

After the Reading of the Articles and the Swearing-in of the Pyrates, the Festivities resum’d upon the Deck and Lancelot and I were able to slip away to the Great Cabin to speak most privily. Horatio remain’d to watch o’er the great Pile of Booty, for, as Quartermaster, ’twas his Task to see that no Man receiv’d more than his proper Share.

At first, Lancelot and I sat and faced each other dumbly, little knowing what to say. We had not seen each other in almost a Year and O what momentous Events had interven’d! So many Thoughts rusht thro’ my Mind—the Friends I’d lost, Lancelot’s near-Betrayal of his Promises to make a true “Deocracy,” all that I had borne with Whitehead, my own Metamorphosis from Maiden to Mother! Then, quite abruptly, Lancelot spoke:

“Ye came not to sail with me as ye swore,” said he. “The first Lass I trusted, an’ ye fail’d me, Wench….”

Suddenly, I understood why Lancelot had been so testy with me; Trust came hard for him; he had laid his whole Heart out in a Letter and then I had not come!

“O Lancelot,” said I, “I would have given my right Arm to come—my Starboard Arm as the old Tars say—but I was prevented by a jealous Wench within the Brothel where I earn’d my Keep. Doubt not my Loyalty, for I was lockt in my Chamber when Littlehat came to fetch me and I shouted to him all fruitlessly. If only you knew how hard I sought to escape and how I was injur’d as I did so! Ne’er would I have betray’d you willingly, I swear it on Belinda’s Life….”

“Belinda? Then did ye not have a Son and name him Lancelot?”

I lookt at Lancelot and smil’d. Ah, Vanity, thy Name is Man! But I held back the Mockery and Jests that might have sprung to my Lips upon that Instant.

“For your Sake, Lancelot, I wish the Babe had been not only yours, but a Boy to be call’d Lancelot the Second; yet for my own part, ’twas fated that I bear a Daughter.”

Lancelot view’d me quizzically. “An’ why, I pray, is that?”

“Because only when a Woman bears a Daughter doth she journey through the Pier-Glass of her Destiny and see the World thro’ her own Mother’s Eyes. To
be
a Daughter is but half our Fate; to
bear
one is the other. And suddenly that Bearing changes all our Views: our Fury at the Fates, our grim Denunciations of our Destinies, our very Rage at Womanhood itself—such Things are soften’d by the Bearing of a Daughter.”

Lancelot understood not; that much I could see, yet he did not argue with me.

“I must find Belinda,” I went on, “and you must help me.”

“An’ wherefore must I do anythin’ ye say?”

“Because you love me, Lancelot, and our Destinies are intertwin’d. Because your soft Heart will not allow a Babe to perish in the Deep. But most, because you’ll ne’er establish a True Deocracy without me. Passion you have aplenty and perhaps you’ve seen God as you avow, but you fly too fast, too far, and without a Woman’s steadying Hand, your Dreams will perish in the Deep. These Men are Rogues and Slavers, most of ’em, who’ll follow you for Hope of Gain, not Principle; but if they have no Chest of Gold to show for all their Pains, surely they’ll kill you in a trice. The Merry Men of Old are outnumber’d here. You need more than Passion now; you need Reason, too.”

“An’ I’m to let a Wench tell me what Reason is? By Jove! No Wench tells Robin Hood what he must do!”

“Lancelot, Lancelot, my Love,” said I. “I may be in Rags and Tatters, and I may be shorn of my Hair, but I am no mere Wench to do your Bidding as I was before. Lancelot, I am a Woman now, and wiser than I’d wish my Girl to be at merely nineteen Years. Why, the Things I’ve known would stand your Hair on End if I would care to tell.”

“Pray tell, Madam Fanny; I’m all Ears.”

“Not now—someday you’ll know, but now we must away and find Belinda. Can you permit the only Babe your Love may e’er bear to perish in the Deep? Ah, Lancelot, you whose soft Heart melts at the Suff’rings of Slaves and Debtors…. Picture a pink Babe, still washt with the Waters of the Womb, kidnapp’d by a wicked Wet-Nurse whose only Art is to bind and swaddle its tender Limbs and clout its Face to drive out what the old Bitch deems Original Sin! Why, if you believe in Freedom and the Goodness of the Newborn Soul, you must do all within your Pow’r to help me find Belinda!”

Just thinking of Belinda I began to weep most piteously and my Belly began to ache with that primal Separation. She was part of me and yet not part of me. She was close as a Limb and yet so far away, protected within my Heart, yet Miles away across the Sea beyond my Pow’r to protect her. O the Sorrow of a Mother whose sweet Babe is pluckt away! Suddenly and without knowing why I did so, I rais’d my torn and tatter’d Skirt and bar’d my Scar to Lancelot. ’Twas red and pucker’d as a Newborn Babe and angry as if the very Skin were wroth with all the World’s Cruelties.

“Behold!” I cried. “I bore this Babe at cost to my own Life and if I lose her now ’twill be worth nought to me!”

Lancelot star’d in utter amazement at the Wound. He was torn betwixt Revulsion and Pity—he whose Fear of the Fair Sex vy’d with his unvoiced Attraction. His green Eyes star’d; his very Beard seem’d to flame. He fell to bended Knee and kiss’d me there.

“O let me kiss away the Pain!” cried he, running his Lips up and down the awful Scar. His Beard tickl’d me and yet my Heart was melted utterly, for I knew ’twas e’en more difficult for him than for another Man and it quite stirr’d my Blood. I, who had thought the Pow’r of Lust had dy’d for me with Childbirth, had dy’d twice and thrice more with Whitehead’s Abuses, until the carnal Acts of Love came to disgust me more than e’en Torture or Murder—e’en I began to feel once more the sweet Stirrings of Carnality like Sap oozing from the Bough in Spring. If Lancelot makes love to me, I thought, I will be his utterly. And sure as I stood there, Lancelot’s Hands play’d about my Thighs, his Fingers began to twine in my womanly Vegetation whilst his Tongue danced along my Scar, cooling its Rage and sweetening its Sourness. O I was mov’d beyond my Pow’r to tell by the Sight of his Head tenderly bent against my Belly, as if headstrong Lancelot were humbl’d quite by the Mysteries of Birth. I swear we seem’d about to fall into a Reverie of Passion right there in that Cabin where Whitehead had so oft’ assaulted me with his disgusting Lusts, and Lancelot, the Lover of Boys and Men, was upon the Point of being converted to the Love of Women fore’er!

But alas, ’twas not to be. For just at that Moment when his Privy Part had stiffen’d to Ramrod Strength and wisht to seek Admission to that Bow’r of Bliss (which he had mockt before), Horatio raced in, crying,

“Lancelot! Lancelot! The Men are flogging Whitehead without a proper Trial or Vote!” Whereupon, perceiving what was happening, he grabb’d Lancelot by the Scruff of his Neck, calling him all Manner of Swine and Cur, and raving, “You’ll not have Fanny as I live and breathe, or I will have her, too!”

Then he seiz’d Lancelot by the Beard, and tore him from my aching Body, pulling him most violently out of the Great Cabin and up the Ladder leading to the Deck.

“An’ am I Captain o’ this Fleet or no? Ye filthy Cur, ye Black Tyrant! Unhand me, Villain!” Lancelot was buttoning his gaping Breech e’en as he scream’d.

I sigh’d profoundly as I saw him go. Would I ne’er find Love, but only Lovers’ Triangles? O I might break thro’ Lancelot’s Revulsion of the Fair, but what of Horatio’s Jealousy of Lancelot? How would we three resolve our curious Minuet? ’Twas a thorny Problem, yet I could not ponder long, for upon the Deck such Shrieks and Shouts were heard as might echo within Hell itself. I ran above to see a Pandemonium of Pyrates, and in the midst of all, Whitehead stripp’d naked and ty’d now to the Mizzenmast, not the Fore, and his Back a piteous Wreck of Blood and Gore where he had been mercilessly flogg’d. Having given off Flogging, the drunken Pyrates were now pelting him with broken Bottles, some empty, some half-full, some still uncorkt. For the drunken Orgy was yet in full force and the Men were nicking Bottles, drinking two Swallows or three from ’em, and tossing the Rest at Whitehead, who seem’d nearly dead with such Abuse. His Head loll’d to one side, hideously; his Beard itself was cak’d with clotted Blood. He hung there like an anti-Christ upon a bloody Cross. Not only the former Tars of the
Hopewell
(now turn’d Pyrate) but Lancelot’s Pyrates, too, took the greatest Pleasure in pelting him with Bottles.

“Cease an’ Desist!” cried Lancelot. “No man dyes without a proper Trial an’ Vote!” But the Pyrates were far too frenzied now to heed him.

“He’s a Villain an’ deserves to dye!” cried the Second Mate of the
Hopewell.

“Aye, aye!” shouted sev’ral of the Pyrates.

“Take not Justice into yer own Hands,” cried Lancelot, “Justice belongs to God!”

“We’ll give ye Justice,” said the First Mate of the
Hopewell
, raising his Cutlass and threatening Lancelot. Whereupon Lancelot leapt upon him in a Fury and began to throttle him with his bare Fists.

I could scarce believe my Eyes! The same Lancelot who just a Moment before was making love to me, now had his Fingers about the First Mate’s Neck and seem’d upon the Point of choking him.

“Ye’ll not take the Law into yer own Hands!” cried Lancelot, “I am Captain here!”

“And we’ll vote another Captain if we choose!” said the First Mate in all Insolence. Whereupon Lancelot, now being heated to a Pitch of Rage such as I had ne’er seen before—in him or any Man—kickt the First Mate in his Privy Parts until he howl’d in Pain. Then, he hoisted him upon his brawny Shoulders and made as if to pitch him in the Deep.

“I require Obedience from me Men!” he cried. “No Ship sails without Obedience. Ocean Currents may carry a Ship whose Masts are broken. Rainwater we may catch in the Sails when Barrels run dry. But without Obedience, we’re done for.” So saying, he toss’d the First Mate o’er the Portside of the Ship and into the foggy Drink.

His Cries were heard a little Time and yet in Fog he would ne’er be found alive. The Men gasp’d, their Lesson learnt; Lancelot was not a Man to cross. Whitehead, for his part, was finish’d; he had quietly given up the Ghost whilst Lancelot rav’d at the Men. O what a quiet Death for such a Villain! He dy’d unlamented by any but Satan himself!

Be that as it may, ’twas from this Incident that Lancelot learnt how perilous his Authority might be amongst these Mutinous Tars. Chaos was ne’er far from these unruly Sea-Dogs, and Principle mov’d ’em less than Rum and Wine. Perhaps this was the Reason Lancelot now agreed to take off in search of Belinda and heed my Warnings about his Need of my Advice; for he perceiv’d I had been right about the Pyrates, and perhaps ’twas true he needed a Woman’s Hand in his “Deocracy.”

“But can we find
Cassandra
?” I askt later, when Lancelot, Horatio, and I met within the Great Cabin to chart a Course.

“The Currents must carry her South to the West Indies like any other Ship,” said Horatio, “and tho’ she sail’d full six Weeks past, who knows but she might be becalm’d or encounter other Difficulties. If she was bound for Charlestown, or e’en Boston, still she’d sail first to the West Indies, for to sail South along the North American Coast is to beat against the Wind. ’Tis a fairer and more favourable Sail from South to North.”

“But which Port would she anchor in?” I askt.

“That could we learn in the West Indies—and there’s good Prey there, too—to content our Men. We could tell the Men we’re off to the West Indies to prey upon the Main Shipping Roads—indeed we will!—but the
Cassandra
should be not hard to find. And Women are so scarce upon those Isles that a Wet-Nurse should be noted easily. Ah, methinks I recall from my Days with Captain Thack, a certain
Cassandra
which call’d at the Port of St. Christopher’s—or was it Tartola? No matter, we’ll find your Babe, for, as Virgil says:
‘Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lembun / Remigiis subigit: si brachia forte remisit; / Atque illum praceps prono rapit alveus amni!’
Which means, as you know, my dearest Fanny—I only translate for our ignorant Lancelot—that when we are most exhausted and cannot row with Oars, oft’times the Current itself sweeps us along! So ’twill with our Search for your Babe! You have row’d long and hard enough; now let the Current sweep us to our Prize, the beauteous Belinda! But if I catch you two in Bed, there’ll be no Belinda, and no Lancelot nor Fanny neither! For I have not regain’d my delicious Fanny only to see her devour’d by my delicious Lancelot! And if you make the Beast with two Backs, I’ll stab ’em both as sure as I can play Othello!”

Lancelot and I regarded each other sadly. O we moon’d o’er the forced Separation and yet were curiously reliev’d by it as well. For Lancelot’s part, he was not so sure yet that he did not fear the Fair; and for my own, the Thought of carnal Love (that Culprit which had caus’d so many of the Pains of my short Life) was still a Thing to view with some Alarm. “Let us first find Belinda,” I thought to myself, “and let Eros wait for me as I have done so oft’ for Him!”

’Twas determin’d that as soon as we could repair the Rigging of the
Hopewell
and capture fresh Provisions, Water, and e’en Men from some outward-bound Slaver, our Pyrate Flotilla should head across the South Atlantick for the Sugar Isles. ’Twas Lancelot’s Policy to liberate as many Slave Ships as possible and to invite the Crews, but most especially the Slaves, to turn Pyrate; for thus he hop’d to subvert the evil Practice of Slaving, which he saw as an Atrocity in the Eyes of God. Horatio was only willing to risque sailing to the Sugar Isles (where he was still wanted as a Runaway Slave) because of his great Love for me. Moreo’er, Horatio had grown infinitely more brazen in the Year he and Lancelot had sail’d the Pyrate Round. He’d taken, as I’ve said, to wearing Matches ’neath his Hat like Blackbeard, and to wearing his Hair in a most outrageous Bush. He also affected gorgeous Clothes, Hats trimm’d with silver Lace, embroider’d Waistcoats, Boots of gilded Leather, and all the most dandyish
Accoutrements
—French Snuff-Boxes, Silver-hiked Swords, damascen’d Pistols with pearl Handles. The Fear I’d seen upon his Face in The George &. Vulture was gone now utterly. Pyracy had driven out the Slave and the new Horatio had as little Fear of Death as the old Lancelot.