Fanny (23 page)

“A Human Bein’!” cries Lancelot. “A pox on yer Obsession with yer Skin!”

“Ah your Lancelot’s a very unfeeling Rogue!” said Horatio to the assembl’d Company. “He knows not what Torture a Black Man feels being e’er a Raven in a Nest of Swans, an Orange in a Basket of Apples. He thinks he loves the Blacks—but how can he love when he doth not understand? Where is Love without Sympathy? Where is Charity without Understanding?”

“Damn ye!” shouts Lancelot. “I’m an Orphan as much as ye, as much as Madam Fanny! She cries always about the Lot of damn’d simperin’ Females! Ye cry about yer damn’d Colour—but are we not all the same? Human Souls, orphan’d by our Fates, seekin’ Solace, seekin’ Friendship, seekin’ God?”

“Yea, Lancelot, that we are—but we seek in diff’rent Ways. My Colour will set me apart as long as I shall live and Fanny’s Sex shall do the same as long as
she
shall live….”

“But in Heaven yer Soul shall have no Colour an’ no Sex neither! Ah, damn ye all with yer Short-sightedness an’ yer Whimperin’ an’ Simperin’! Can ye not see that ’tis all foolish Trifles in the Light o’ Eternity?”

“Pray, what did you do with the Slave Ship, Horatio?” I askt politely as I could, hoping to staunch Lancelot’s new Tirade; for you have seen that he was a famous Tonguepad himself and ’twas clear he resented Horatio’s Skill in Spell-binding the assembl’d Company.

“We boarded her, as I have said, and then, seeing that we could not accommodate the Slaves on our Vessel (and would not auction ’em in Port, Slaving being strictly against our Articles), we tried to teach ’em the Rudiments of Sail-handling, gave ’em Maps of the Guinea Coast, set ’em on course for Africa, and then left ’em to their Fate! What became of ’em, I’ll ne’er know. Oft’ in my Dreams I see that Ghostly Ship of Africans, sailing fore’er on a Storm-toss’d Sea, unable to make for Home, neither slave nor free, imprison’d by their Fates and by the Roiling Mystery of the Sea! O ’tis a Vision to make a strong Man weep!”

Here e’en Lancelot was silenced by the Ghostly Vision Horatio had conjur’d.

“I sail’d with the Pyrates for more than two Years,” Horatio said, “feeling the Pyrate Life well-suited to my Temper and seeing no Need of any other Life. But our Captain, Mr. Thackaberry (also known as ‘Calico Thack’ because of his Habit of wearing Calico Trowsers), had made too many Enemies in his Days at Sea, had taken too many Prizes, and what was more, had refus’d to pay the expected Share of Booty to the Colonial Governours (calling ’em Cowardly Rogues, who claim’d to hate Pyracy, yet demanded their Share of the Spoils), and so, many a Ship was sent after him in hot Pursuit and a fine Price had been put upon his Head. ’Twas now within the Pow’rs of the Colonies to try Pyrates themselves, without sending ’em back to England—and the Governour of Carolina, whom Captain Thack had especially offended, took it into his Head to have him hunted like a Fox, enlisting another famous Pyrate as the Bloodhound; for he knew that none but a Pyrate could take a Pyrate such as Calico Thack. This Pursuer was a terrible Man, Name of Seabury, with a red Beard to his Waist in which he had plaited colour’d Ribbands, and he was known as a Blackguard who did not e’en keep the Pyrate Code, but play’d into the Plans of the Colonial Governours, e’en turning in his own Men if the Reward were high enough. He was the lowest Sort, lacking the Pyrate’s Honour, but he rounded up a Crew of Villains and a light but Sea-worthy Brig call’d the
Devil’s Revenge
, and he gave Chase o’er the High Seas till he boarded us and either kill’d or took us Prisoner, to a Man.

“Some he had walk the dreaded Plank, for truly he was the only Barbarian I e’er knew to use that Punishment—contrary to Pyrate Lore. Calico Thack he deliver’d to Charlestown to be hang’d and then left to rot in Chains whilst the Governour chear’d. And my own poor self he sold for a small Fortune to a British Lawyer (who chanced to be in Charlestown then) and who plann’d to use me as a Manservant and also avail himself of my Latin Scholarship to teach his Children. Lawyer Slocock was as surly and stingy as he lookt when you met him on that London Coach! He was the sort of Man who wants one Servant to do the work of ten. I was Tutor, Valet, e’en sometime Cook and Coachman in the Months I spent with him, and I itch’d for my Freedom you may be sure. When I saw your fine fierce Faces, I knew I’d found my Pyrate Band again!

“O what Melancholy I knew when my Beloved Captain Thack was hang’d! He was the finest Pyrate that e’er sail’d the Spanish Main! From Barbadoes to Boston Harbour, he was a Legend—and ’twas his Fame that did him in, I fear!”

“Ah, Horatio, thy Tale makes me tremble, too, for Lancelot’s Fate,” says Caveat, “for that Lad is also too famous for his own Good.”

“And haven’t I cheated The Cheat once?” cries Lancelot. “Fain would I have the Chance to cheat it again, an’ prove meself a walkin’ Miracle!”

“The Lad is deluded,” Caveat exclaims. “He hath the Notion he is Jesus Christ!”

“Not Jesus,” says Lancelot, “but the Ghost o’ Robin Hood! I am he that cannot swiftly Dye, an’ e’en dyin’ I shall live again!”

“If my Beloved could dye, then so can you!” cries Horatio. “For he also felt himself invulnerable and well-nigh immortal. ’Tis the Common Curse of Highwaymen and Pyrates, that having dar’d so much, they eat Daring as their Daily Bread—and before long someone slips ’em a Poison’d Slice!”

CHAPTER XVIII

Containing some mischievous and am’rous Play in which ’tis presently seen that Lancelot’s Protestations of sexual Preference are not as fixt as he would have had us believe, nor indeed are those of our Friend Horatio, whereupon our Heroine finds herself in a Predicament which Prudes will applaud but the Hot-blooded will find (nearly) tragic; after which we ponder a prophetic Dream and thereafter begin our Voyage to London.

Y
OU MAY WONDER, BELINDA
, why I grew so fond of Lancelot, Horatio, and the Merry Men in the short Time I spent with ’em, and I will reply that, truly, I did not then understand why, tho’ I do now. In the Great Pageant of our Lives, from Time to Time, we chance to meet certain Persons who seem closer to us than our own Kin, and who promise to lead our Souls where they must go. Surely Lancelot and Horatio were such Guides and Teachers to me. Criminal they might be, yet they seem’d to have master’d the World’s Vicissitudes, each in his own Way, nor did they seem lacking in Wit and Understanding—tho’ these they chose to apply to Lives of Crime. Moreo’er, having lost the Good Witches so recently, and my own adoptive Parents before that, and then e’en my beloved Horse, ’twas not surprizing that I found in Lancelot and the Merry Men a new Family, to whom I swiftly form’d a most prodigious Attachment. Thus, when Lancelot inform’d us that we were shortly to set out for London with the Swag, my Heart leapt in my Bosom like a spawning Salmon and I fear’d for him as much as for myself.

We were somewhere in the Chiltern Hills of Buckinghamshire (’twas all Lancelot would disclose of the Location of his Hideaway—lest, he said, I e’er be apprehended and put to grievous Torture), and we were to journey by Land to a small Stream call’d the Mill Brook, thence tow the Swag by Barge and Dray Horse to the River Thames, thence remove it to another, greater Barge, and enter London triumphally by River.

We were to be disguis’d as Maltsters and the Swag to be hidden in Barrels ’neath a large Shipment of Malt. Lancelot had a Confederate who was a Maltster at Great Marlowe and would provide us with a spacious Barge to convey us to the Metropolis. ’Twas not an easy Journey, nor lacking in Danger, for the Barges, said Lancelot, had to shoot the Weirs on the River thro’ Flash-Locks, and oft’ many Barges were lost, their Cargoes capsiz’d and their Sailors wreckt. But ’twas safer than risquing the Turnpikes, where each Gate might conceal a Traitor, ready to turn Lancelot in for the Reward.

All Night the Merry Men were busy crating the Swag, and I was to prepare myself to dress
en Homme
once again for the Journey up to London, which would begin at Daybreak. I was now almost recover’d of my Coughing and felt nearly myself again.

Was I to remain a Member of Lancelot’s Band and travel with the Merry Men, robbing Coaches and hazarding my Neck in the Noose? I’d not play Decoy again and shiver naked in the Road for him, but should I travel with the Band as a proper Cut-Purse, or should I make my Escape in London and continue to seek my Fortune?

’Twas a hard Dilemma, for as I have said, I had truly come to know great Fondness for Lancelot, Horatio, and the Merry Men and to feel ’em almost my Brothers. When I had found Friendship again, should I toss it all away so swiftly for nought but drear Loneliness and Solitude? And yet was it not rash indeed to risque Prison or The Cheat all for a bit of Friendship with a motley Assortment of Rogues? I would ponder well all Night and make my Decision come Daybreak, I thought. Morning would be Time enough to make up my Mind.

Just as I was laying out my Costume for the following Morning (for my manly Attire had been restor’d to me by Lancelot, together with the Addition of some still more splendid purloin’d
Accoutrements
), the Door of my Chamber creakt open and Lancelot himself appear’d. He paced the Room with a Degree of Uncertainty, as if not knowing where to alight, or what indeed to say. Then he sat himself down upon the edge of the Bed and began, awkwardly, in Fact—which was scarce his wont:

“I’faith, Lass, I hope ye won’t hold me earlier Ill-Usage of ye amiss—fer I confess that tho’ at first I thought ye a worthless Baggage, I have come to see the Error o’ me Ways an’ to know ye fer a fine young Woman, a trustworthy Wench o’ great Learnin’ an’ Sensibility.”

He said this with much Abashment—he who ne’er hesitated o’er which Word to choose—and so, inspir’d by this new Humility of his, I clasp’d his Hand warmly, saying,

“And I am fond of you, too, Lancelot. Pray, let us bury the Hatchet and let nought but Good come betwixt us two from this Hour forth.”

As soon as I seized his Hand, he drew it quickly away, almost as if ’twere a red-hot Coal, and I was surpriz’d and affrighted by the Rapidity of this Motion, and, to say the Truth, not a little offended.

“Fanny,” says he, “forgive me, but the Touch o’ Woman’s Flesh fills me with Fear. I cannot lye to ye. ’Tis the one Terror neither comin’ back from the Dead nor all the Dangers I’ve endur’d can save me from. I’ve but to touch a Woman’s Skin an’ I quake as I ne’er did before the Hangman’s Noose.”

Now, this strange Tale stirr’d my proud Blood as nothing had since Lord Bellars’ false Avowals of Eternal Love, and taking Lancelot’s Hand again in mine, I carried it slowly to my Bosom, unpinn’d my Handkerchief, and placed his Hand betwixt the swelling Hillocks of my Breasts.

“There,” says I, “’tis nothing to be afraid of.”

Again he drew his Hand away, but methinks he linger’d a Moment first, savouring the Heat betwixt those twin Globes.

Encouraged by this slight Hesitation (which truly, I told myself, I did not fancy so much as feel), I took his Hand again—ah, ’twas not altogether unwilling!—and brought it ’neath my Petticoat and rested it upon my Thigh. There it linger’d for more than a Moment, then drew back, as from a fiery Furnace.

“Lancelot,” said I, now much embolden’d by the Pow’r of Injur’d Vanity coupl’d with the mischievous Abandon a Woman feels when she knows she must play the Seducer to an Unwilling Swain: “Lancelot, pray help me to undress for Bed.”

“Nay, Fanny, ’tis not me Taste nor Style, I swear it. Ladies I revere fer their Wits, their Will, their Cleverness—ye may be sure I give the Sex its Due—but Lust I ne’er felt yet fer one o’ the Female Kind. Don’t take it to Heart, Lass. If I lov’d Women, I’d take ye to Wife as well as Bed….”

“If you’ll be not tempted, what Harm, then, in helping me undress the Way a Brother helps his Sister?”

“Nay, Fanny, I’ll be goin’ now….”

But I held his Hand, so he could not depart.

“Pray, just this Boddice, help me to unlace it. I have no Chambermaid and I can’t sleep like this.”

Coming towards him, I bade him unlace my Boddice, the which he did, with extream Caution, as if the Touch of my Skin could Kill. As I felt the Stays loosen, I took his two Hands and brought them to cup my Breasts. Again, he linger’d longer than was needful, almost tempted by the melting Flesh, but then once more, his Fingers flew away like Birds, and I was left alone.

“Fanny, adieu, I go. Good Night….”

Now I fell upon him and press’d my naked Bosom to his Chest. His silver Lace-embroider’d Waistcoat scratch’d my Breasts, but I continu’d and still he did not flee.

“Come, Lancelot,” I said (with perhaps more Mischief than Passion), “since nought will come of it, pray, put me in my Bed.”

“Nay, Fanny,” he protested; but when I led him by the Hand, he follow’d.

I gradually undress’d; my Petticoat, my Shift, the loosen’d Stays—all were thrown upon the Floor. My red Garter I withdrew from my Thigh and placed tenderly ’neath the Pillows. Then I lay at length upon the Bed, and bade Lancelot sit by me and run his Hand along my Body, tracing ev’ry Hillock, ev’ry Plain.

“I cannot, Lass, truly I cannot.” Nonetheless, I grabb’d his Hand again and drew it from my Knee upward along my Thigh, ling’ring betwixt my Legs, upward o’er my Belly to my Breasts, where now I tarried, asking that he taste what he had lately touch’d.

“Nay, Fanny,” cries Lancelot in a Panick, “that I surely cannot do!”

“What?” says I, challenging those terrified green Eyes, that Mop of curly red Hair the Colour of my own, those Cheakbones like the Great God Pan himself. “What? Not afraid of Death, but afraid of these harmless Breasts? Afraid of this Softness when you are so hard already?”

And ’twas true; his Member-for-Cockshire (as the Saying goes) stood within his Breeches, outlining its own Shape in the silk Brocade. I was almost bold enough to reach within and convert that Merry Fellow to the Love of Females fore’er—when lo! the Door flew open and who should appear but Horatio! Quickly appraising the Situation, he screams, “You bloody Blackguard!” Whereupon he falls upon Lancelot, tearing him from my Body and pulling him down to the Floor with a great Thud.