Fanny (71 page)

Those who have given Chase in a Sailing Ship in rough Weather will readily know how treacherous this Chase was. The
Happy Delivery
had gone too long without Careening, and when her Timbers creakt so, she readily sprung small Leaks. A Host of Tars were constantly needed to man the Pump, and the Loss of our Cargo had made us too light upon a heavy Sea.

Still, by the Pow’rs of the Goddess, we gain’d upon our Prize, and i’faith, when I was able to spy her Name, I saw that indeed, ’twas
Cassandra
! Having so recently been careen’d, and doubtless less foul-bottom’d than we, she seem’d at first our Match in Speed and more, yet being very deep-loaden, and much larger than our Brigantine, we had nonetheless a slight Edge. The
Cassandra
was an East Indiaman, and seem’d at least six hundred tons. She’d twenty-four Ports for Cannon on her starboard Side alone, but Horatio reassur’d me that doubtless she carried half as many Guns as it appear’d, for she needed Space for Cargo. ’Twas useless to debate whether to attack or no, for we were bound to take her or dye trying. Perhaps the rough Seas would e’en give us an Advantage; we had to hope so, for our other Advantages were few.

’Twas Noon upon the first Day of October, but dark as Night withal, when we got within random Gunshot of the
Cassandra
and struck our British Colours. Our Ship was in a Posture of Attack, but the
Cassandra
was wholly taken by Surprize, for the rough Seas had occupied her Tars so busily that she did not sight us until we were almost upon her. Whereupon she struck British Colours, too; whereupon we hoisted up our Pyrate Flag, and tackt about, Guns and small Arms at the ready, to affright her with a great Show of Strength. The Sea rose in vast Mountains and gap’d in great Valleys, and the Tars of the
Cassandra
were engaged in furling Sail, (for she had such great Quantities of it, on all three Masts, that it took well-nigh fifty Men just to reef ’em), whilst we could manoeuvre much more rapidly.

I drank a Dram to give myself Courage, order’d my Men to their Guns, and deliver’d a warning Broadside to the
Cassandra
, hoping she would surrender quickly, for I had no Wish either to sink her with my Babe aboard or damage her so that we could not take her as our Prize if that prov’d convenient.

This Broadside—which penetrated her thick Hull but slightly—together with the Sight of our Pyrate Colours, so affrighted the Tars of the
Cassandra
(many of whom were pois’d, as ’twere, in mid-Air upon the Masts and Shrouds and clinging piteously in the Squall) that it threw the whole Ship into Confusion. They attempted to return our Fire, but we were already tacking about to approach ’em Bow-on in our wonted Pyrate Fashion.

Now began a Sort of curious Minuet in which the Sea and both Ships danced their Parts; for as the Waves carried us up, they carried the
Cassandra
down; and as the Waves carried the
Cassandra
up, they carried
us
down. In consequence there was ne’er a Moment when it seem’d propitious to board, for no sooner were we pois’d to do so than a Chasm of boiling Sea yawn’d betwixt our adjacent Ships. Yet here, too, it appear’d the Weather was our Friend, for just when it seem’d we’d ne’er take the
Cassandra
at all, the Waves gave us just the Boost we needed to send our Bowsprit shuddering athwart her Waist—like a Rake accosting the Honour of a trembling Virgin!

Now Horatio twirl’d his Grappling Hook above his Head and, with a furious Cry, led our Boarding Party—myself, Littlehat, Caveat, Puck, Francis Bacon, and a Horde of our most fearsome liberated Slaves—onto the Decks of the
Cassandra.
Sev’ral of our Black Brothers ran to wedge the
Cassandra
’s Rudder, whilst Littlehat and Caveat and Puck swung their Boarding Axes at
Cassandra
’s Rigging, bringing down both Rope and Sail as well as the Tars who clung there in Terror for their Lives. Men and Boys verily rain’d upon the Decks. In the gen’ral Melee that follow’d, the Weather impeded the Defense of the Cassandra more than it harm’d our own Offensive, for Pyrates are better skill’d with Cutlass and Dirk than Common Tars, and steadier on their Feet upon a pitching Deck.

Leaving Horatio to lead the Attack, I slipp’d below to search for my Daughter in the Steerage, descending into the very Bowels of the Ship to seek my Persephone like some madden’d Demeter. Tars were must’ring upon Deck in all their Numbers; thus the Passengers were unprotected below and highly alarm’d by our warning Cannonade. They ran to and fro, the Men with their Wigs askew, the Women in Déshabillée. Mistaking me, in his Panick, for a fellow Passenger, one old Codger, with a Wen as big as a Piece of Eight upon his Cheak, shouted, “Look lively, me Boy, ’tis said we’re taken by Pyrates!”

“Is that so?” I cried in Mock-Horror. “Pray, where is the Babe, for I’d not have the Pyrates take her lest they roast her alive and eat her!” Saying this, e’en as a Fetch, made all my Flesh creep and my Teeth chatter, since I could not e’en
speak
of such an Occurrence without sickening at the Thought.

“She’s below, sleeping in a Hammock with her Mum!” And the old Fellow pointed to the lowest Section of the Ship, not knowing what a Service he’d done me.

Her Mum! thought I. Her Mum! How dare that old Bitch pass herself off as Belinda’s Mum! On the sheer Fury of that Thought, I fairly leapt down the Ladder of the Rolling Ship, made my Way amidst the Forest of swaying Hammocks where the poorer Passengers slept, and lo! found Prue Feral snoring like an old Dragon, with the beauteous Belinda in her Arms!

The Child was just stirring out of Sleep when I came upon ’em; her Face was flusht as the Dawn; her reddish Lashes were like thick Fringes upon her Infant Cheaks; and she had grown most prodigiously since last I saw her. She was too old for Swaddling now—at seven Months—but Prue had bound her to her own ugly Body by an Assortment of Rags and Twine, so that only her Arms might move. So they did, reaching out into the Air as if they recogniz’d me. I bent o’er my Child in wonder and amazement.

What a diff’rent Creature is a Child of seven Months from one of three! At three Months all is Possibility unform’d; ’unfixt, but at seven Months a Child has join’d the World of Men and Women, and a Human Creature has come to manifest itself in Infant’s Form! The little Hands reach’d out as if to grasp for me as they issu’d from the half-Death of Sleep, whereupon the Heavenly Blue Eyes open’d, star’d a Moment in Perplexity, lookt piercingly into my great brown Eyes—which were wet with Tears—whereupon, in a trice, you let a Scream that would thaw Hell itself!

I grabb’d at my Hair—my Stubble, rather—thinking ’twas my wretched State that so affrighted you (for I had too little Experience with Babes then to know that after six Months of Life the Sight of a strange Face can terrify a Child). No; since you were the Lodestar of my Longing, I presum’d that I was the Lodestar of yours as well—but ’twas not the case! (The Love of Parents for Children is oft’, at any rate, an unrequited Amour, tho’ as Parents we hardly care, knowing that our Children will return to
their
Children the Passion we lavish’d upon them, if not to us. Alas, in Life ’tis frequently the melancholy Fact that the Favours we do for certain Persons are not return’d by those Persons at all, but by others who owe us no Debt whatsoe’er!)

Thus you scream’d and scream’d, and Prue awoke just as I had my Cutlass pois’d, ready to cut you loose from your Kidnapper. Whereupon Prue, thinking me a Murderer, scream’d e’en more loudly than you yourself, and sundry Passengers rallied ’round, more out of Curiosity than to proffer Aid, tho’ they cloakt their Curiosity, like most, in Offers of Aid.

“Help! Kidnap!” cried Prue, accusing me, in her Confusion, of the Crime she had committed.

In a trice, a Big Bully who had decided to make himself the Hero of this Pyrate Engagement, drew his Sword and challenged me to a Duel.

Prue took this Opportunity to lumber out of her Hammock with captive Belinda and make as if to flee, but a Crowd of Onlookers, already laying Bets, impeded her Progress; and she was trapp’d betwixt the Mob and the Ladder which led to the Deck.

As for my Opponent, he was skillful with his Rapier—despite the Fact that he lookt the veriest Booby. O he had Blubber Lips and a Nose as red as Autumn Apples, but he knew the Art of Self-Defence! His Sword was a Flicker of Silver to the broad Curve of my Cutlass; and either he should pierce my Heart at once, or I should snap his Sword in twain with one quick Cutlass Slash. We danced betwixt the swaying Hammocks, feinting, thrusting, parrying, and playing Hide and Seek. My small Size was some Advantage, as was the Swaying of the Ship—now somewhat diminish’d, as if the Squall were passing—but there was no Question that in an open Field he should cut me down in one deft Stroke, the Point of his Rapier seeking my Heart as ’twere some Homing Pigeon and my Heart its Coop.

He thrust his Rapier and sliced my Cheak; the hot thick Blood amaz’d me as it flow’d out and trickl’d into my open Mouth. Ah the salty Taste of one’s own Blood is a strange Aphrodisiack! It must have fir’d me with some Rage to live—as my old Friend Pope hath term’d it—for I rais’d my Cutlass and snapp’d my Opponent’s Rapier at the very Root!

“Have Mercy upon my Soul!” cried the Booby, his Rapier lost; but now I leapt in for the Kill and slasht his fat, red Neck. He fell, spouting Blood like any Fountain; whereupon my Spectators jump’d back in Awe.

But ’twas too late for me; Prue was already fleeing with Belinda and the Stealing of the Babe distress’d me far more than the Killing of a Man. I chas’d the porcine Prue up to the Deck, where I soon saw that the Squall indeed had abated, but the Battle had not. The Planks of the
Cassandra
now ran with Blood and enough Wounded had fallen or been thrown o’erboard to lure Man-eating Sharks in these Tropick Waters. O some Prizes are taken upon a Tidal Wave of Blood, whereas others are taken without a single Drop!

As for my Belinda, who clung to her Nurse, the Child seem’d more terrified at her attempted Rescue than she had at her Kidnap, for she scream’d and scream’d, her whole Face contorted and red. Prue was hobbling across the Deck, dodging Combattants at ev’ry Turn, and I was in Pursuit (my Shirt now gaping open, revealing my Sex for all to see), following the Squalling of the Babe, praying that she would not be kill’d by Chance, and fighting off all Comers. Chief amongst them was the Captain of the
Cassandra
, who, it now appear’d, was prepar’d to defend the Honour of our Prize with his Life itself! Ne’er had I seen such unaccustom’d Bravery from a Sea Captain!

“I’ll dye before I let ye have this Ship!” he cried. I swear his Words enraged me—or perhaps ’twas the Screaming of the Babe. Whereupon, in a Frenzy of Bloodlust, Hatred for the whole Race of Mankind, and Pique at having to rescue my Babe single-handed, I slasht my Cutlass across the Captain’s Chest, drawing one great Rivulet of Blood which bloom’d upon his Holland linen Shirt, travers’d his Sash and Breeches, and pool’d upon the Floorboards, where it ran, like Tar, into the Cracks betwixt the Planks. He scream’d and scream’d yet did not fall; and he came back at me most hatefully, as if he wisht to kill all Womankind.

“Bitch! Witch! Shrew!” he cried, his red Face reminding me of the very ugliest of the ugly Rogues who’d rap’d my Sister Witches.

“For Joan! For Isobel!” I cried, running him thro’ with one great Stab of Strength. O the Word “Witch” had unleash’d in me Pow’rs I ne’er had known before. Our Captain fell; my Heart exulted in my Chest. But where was Prue? And where was my Belinda? No sooner had I dispatch’d our disputatious Captain than I lookt about wildly for ’em. If Prue car’d enough to steal you, she car’d enough to spare your Life, I reason’d, yet where would she have gone? ’Twas clever enough Logick—like Solomon’s Judgement concerning another disputed Babe—tho’ it scarcely prov’d true, for no sooner had the mighty Captain fallen than I lookt up, and in a dizzying Moment beheld Prue climbing the Shrouds with my Babe ty’d, like some Savage’s Papoose, about her Waist!

O Prue was fat and cumbersome, but sheer Spite made her climb against the grey and brooding Sky.

“If I can’t have her, she shall go to God!” screams crazy Prue. My Knees are weak with Grief, my Stomach heaves with Fear. I think of Susannah and Bartholomew, of Joan and the slaughter’d Coven, of all my lost and lovely Friends who sleep with Davy Jones beneath the Sea or in the Witchy Mists of Wiltshire. Dear Goddess, not again!

Prue clings to the Shrouds with the screaming Babe at her Waist; the whole Battle stops
in Medias Res
to observe this most terrifying Sight. Horatio leaps into Action and scales the Shrouds behind Prue Feral—whereupon she climbs higher, whereupon Horatio follows.

“Cease!” I cry to Horatio. “Pray don’t drive her any higher!” My Heart is like to choke me with its Grief, for it hath lodged squarely within my Throat. The Shrouds tower above like Cathedral Windows; the Masts sway like Trees in a Forest of Giants. The whole Ship creaks in Anticipation, tho’ not a Human Voice is rais’d but mine.

My Pray’rs ascend upon the Tarry Ropes to the Goddess; I eat my Heart as if ’twere a Cake, but a bitter one, made of Gall and Sorrow. O I pray that Prue shall reconsider and not jump, or that if she jumps, her fat Body shall break my sweet Babe’s fall. Otherwise she should surely be crusht by the sheer Weight of the all-devouring Sea. But no—the Goddess is not listening to my Pray’rs. How have I wrong’d her? What Lessons have I drawn upon myself that I should lose my Child after such a long and perilous Chase? Prue leaps from the Shrouds into the savage Sea with the screaming Babe lasht to her pond’rous Waist. Horatio follows, sailing thro’ the Air without a Minute’s, nay a Second’s, Hesitation; he is an Arrow flying straight to meet its Mark.

“Quick! The Boat!” shouts Littlehat, low’ring the
Cassandra
’s Skiff. We lose no Time in launching it, yet that Time seems as Hours, nay Centuries, nay Eons, to me. Now Horatio is splashing in the Water, and as for Prue, I cannot see her.