Fanny (30 page)

I made my Way to Skynner’s Establishment, which was located o’er a Tavern call’d The Rising Sun, and reach’d by as narrow and crooked a Stair as I had e’er trod. I rang and waited with a pounding Heart. In my Pocket, I had a few Shillings I had begg’d from Kate, with the Promise to repay double within the Fortnight, but truly I was at the Mercy of the Fates, for it might be Months before Coxtart deem’d I had repaid my Clothes and Keep, and I had also the Sacred Charge of Friendship to fulfill to Lancelot. Before long I must go to him in Newgate Prison and offer whatsoe’er Aid and Succour my paltry Resources could provide.

I rang again. No Sound was heard within. I began to despair mightily of e’er finding a Cure for this unwanted Babe, and, in a trice, the Thought that I might end my Tribulations by throwing myself headlong in the River Thames came to me like a Flash of Lightning on a Summer’s Night.

Just then there came a Stirring within, a Shuffling as of Carpet Slippers worn by a very old or infirm Party, and the Door was presently open’d.

There stood before me a Stoop’d and Ancient Matron, with Skin of a cadav’rous Hue, and great goggling Eyes like a Frog, and a Breath as foul and fetid as a Jakes. She wore her Nightshift and Cap, and seem’d distinctly displeas’d to see me at her Door.

“Come back at Noon,” she croakt. “I do no Business in the Dead of Night.” And with that, she made ready to slam the Door upon me. In a Panick, I did what I had ne’er done before. I wedged my Foot betwixt the Door and Jamb, and begg’d of her with all my Heart that she receive me.

“Please, Madam, I am new in London, and require your Services. Please take Pity on a Country Wench that is a friendless Orphan….”

She looks at me coldly, weighs my Shillings ’gainst her Sleepiness, and says (with that Death-Rattle in her Throat): “Very well, come in. I’faith I am too soft-hearted to refuse.” But her great goggling Eyes glinted more with Hope of Gain than with Kindness.

Within the dark forbidding Shop were glass Cases fill’d with a Profusion of sundry Goods, all dusty and disorder’d. Perfumes, Wash-Balls, Soaps, Powders, Snuffs, Pomatums, Cold-Creams, Lip-Salves, e’en Sealing Wax and Ladies’ Black Sticking Plaister. But all these Goods seem’d ancient and unus’d, as if indeed they were not her True Trade but only on Display to distract the chance Visitor from her actual Business.

“Sit ye down then,” she rasps, off’ring me a three-legged Stool whilst she sits in a commodious Armchair, “an’ tell me what ye seek.”

Whereupon my Tongue went dry in my Mouth, my Throat swell’d with a Lump the Size of a Hen’s Egg, and I could not say a Word.

“Speak,” says she. “Hath the Cat got yer Tongue?”

But still I could not utter a Syllable. The Prospect of jumping in the Thames seem’d easier and less painful than telling Mrs. Skynner why I’d come.

“Sweetheart,” croaks Skynner, taking Pity on me (for Beads of Sweat now stood upon my Brow like glist’ning Jewels of Pain), “Wenches o’ yer Age ne’er comes to me but fer two Reasons. Either they be clapp’d, or else with Child. Is that yer Story?”

I nodded my Head like a Deaf Mute.

“Come, Sweetheart, what’s yer Name?”

“Fanny,” says I (and at once I wisht I’d thought to lye and call myself Druscilla or Arabella).

“Fanny, Sweetheart, I can sell ye Cundums ’gainst the Clap, an’ Suppositories o’ Black Hellebore an’ Castoreum to bring yer Monthly Visitation an’ loose the Babe from yer Womb. Would ye have one or both?”

Whereupon I began to weep great salty Tears, which ran down my Cheaks and into the Corners of my Mouth.

“Both,” I whimper’d, thinking myself the most wretched Wench that e’er liv’d.

“Come, Fanny,” rasps Skynner, “’tis nothin’ to be asham’d o’. How else shall a Wench endure the Snares o’ Men? We pay fer Love, yet they do not. ’Tis Nature’s Law, yet we must break it to survive, an’ is not Self-Preservation Nature’s Law as well?”

This first Hint of Sympathy brought back my Voice in full and gave me once again Possession of my Wits.

“Please, Mrs. Skynner, tell me what you know of Self-Preservation, for I have heard so many diff’rent Stories, I know not which to believe.”

“First, Sweetheart, ye must ignore the major part o’ what ye hear, fer ’twill do ye as little Good ’gainst bein’ clapp’d or with Child as the Remedies o’ the Savage Women o’ Hungary that hang Hare Dung and Mule Hide o’er their Beds to secure Fruitlessness! Some will tell ye Willow Drink, or Tincture o’ Lead, or else Alum in the Privy Place, or Oil o’ Ether, or e’en Mint or Crocus introduced within, after the Act is done. These will avail ye nought! Nor will a Golden Ball within the Privy Place (tho’ some Italian Libertines avow ’twill serve), nor is it true, as the Spaniards believe, that passionate Coitus prevents Fruitfulness an’ Excess of Voluptuousness so punishes the Womb that ’twill not bear.”

“What of Sea-Sponge and Vinegar?”

“’Tis not the worst, yet Juice o’ Lemon will serve ye better, and some swear by a Beeswax Cap, worn o’er the Mouth o’ the Womb. But none will serve as well as my Machines o’ Safety. How many will ye take?”

“How much do you charge for ’em?”

“How much have ye got, Sweetheart?” says she, rising to her Feet.

“Not much, a few Shillings.”

“An’ fer that ye expect the Black Suppositories an’ the Cundums! Get out, Baggage! Ye waste me Time!” Anger darken’d her hellish Visage again, and grabbing my Shoulders, she made ready to throw me out.

I fell to my Knees and begg’d her to have Mercy. I produced the little Money that I had, whereupon, with supreme Niggardliness and Reluctance, she went to a lockt Cabinet, withdrew two small Packets, and presently press’d ’em into my sweating Palm.

“Ye ’ave two Cundums there an’ three Suppositories o’ Black Hellebore which ye insert into yer Womb each six Hours. Then ye wait a Day or two an’ soon the Blood will come. Begone with ye! I’ve given ye more Time already than I can spare!” Whereupon she open’d up the Door and pusht me out, slamming it behind me.

I secreted my Forbidden Treasures within my Pockets and swiftly descended the Stair, so dizzy and distraught from the Encounter with Mrs. Skynner that I had to cling to the Bannister to keep from falling. I truly felt like the first Wench in the History of the World to seek for such Help from an old Crone, and I felt myself to be more wicked than Satan himself, more deserving of Hell-Fire than a Plotting Poisoner, more evil than a Wanton Robber that sets upon the Poor and Old.

’Twas but half past Nine by the Clock in the Tavern below when I descended into the Street, and thinking I had Time enough to go to Lancelot in Newgate Prison, I determin’d to find my Way thither.

The first Man I askt, a Baker delivering Loaves of Bread from a wretched Cart, lookt at me and laugh’d: “Why should ye be in such a Hurry to get to Newgate, Lass? The Wicked Ways o’ the Town will send ye soon enough!” But then he inform’d me that ’twas a prodigiously long Walk across the Town and I had best hire a Chair or Hackney.

“But, Sir, I have no Money, and I must visit my poor Brother who is unjustly thrown in Prison.”

“If ye have no Money, Lass, ’tis little Good ye can do yer Brother….”

“Still, I must see him,” said I.

The Baker lookt at me and hesitated. He had a friendly Face and the Air of a Man who hath known Hardship in his Time and doth not despise those similarly afflicted.

“Very well,” says he, “I’ll take ye there, but first ye must help me deliver these Loaves in Soho Square.”

This I readily, e’en gratefully, did, and within a half Hour or so, we set off across London for Newgate in the rattling Cart. We travers’d St. Giles, then High Holborn, then Holborn Bridge; then we came at last into Newgate Street whence I could see the gleaming Edifice of St. Paul’s in all its Glory. ’Twas indeed the largest Church I had e’er beheld!

The Noise and the Clatter of the London Streets ne’er fail’d to amaze me. Now that the World was getting up, the Streets grew e’er more crowded and noisy. Carts, Chairs, and Hackneys jostl’d for place with gilt Coaches. I was momentarily gladden’d and amus’d by the Sight of the Barber, hurrying along with his Wig Boxes, the Apple Women with their Baskets of Apples, the sooty Chimney Sweeps with their blacken’d Brushes, the seductive Milliners walking briskly with their Bandboxes swinging.

The Baker carried me to the Prison Gate, where I thankt him with all my Heart, ne’er once wond’ring how I would return to Golden Square. So eager was I to see Lancelot that ’twas all I thought of upon that Occasion.

Yet nothing in my Life had prepar’d me for Newgate Prison. The Eyes, the Nose, the Ears were all assaulted at once, and ’twas verily as if I’d enter’d into Hades itself rather than a Place upon this Earth.

Just within the Gate, I was greeted by the Turnkey, a hideous Man of surpassing Corpulence, with Legs so gouty he could scarce walk, but waddl’d rather, like a Goose. He welcom’d me with Leers and Grimaces, and the usual Attentions to my Bosom, whereupon a Cry was rais’d amongst the Prisoners, who surely thought another Poor Wretch was joining their Throng, and perhaps they had Hope of the Company that Misery proverbially loves.

“Pray, Sir, may I visit Lancelot Robinson?” I askt the Turnkey.

“Oho,” said he, his great red Mouth slobb’ring and his great pink Face looking as wet and fleshly as a cookt Ham, “d’ye mean that pitiful Maniack that declares himself the Ghost of Robin Hood? He’ll hang anyway, to be sure. He escap’d the Gallows once, but this Time he will surely hang.”

“Sir, I am his Sister and I would visit him.”

“An’ d’ye hope to visit without pay in’ the Visitors’ Fee?” said the Turnkey.

“Sir, I’ve not a Ha’penny to my Name,” I said, “but I swear that if you let me see him just this once, I will return with Guineas for you—and I will ne’er forget the Favour.”

“Sassy Wench!” says he, “then pay the Favour now!” Whereupon he pins me to the Wall with his huge Belly and thrusts a filthy Hand into my Bosom. The Prisoners within—those of ’em that can crane their Necks to watch the Show—begin to make lewd Noises and offer their Encouragement to the Wretched Turnkey, whereupon he lifts my Petticoat, opens his own Breech, and makes ready to ravish me just there against the damp and dirty Wall.

What shall I do—kick him in the Privy Place and risque being turn’d into the Street without so much as a Civil Word with Lancelot? This seems unwise; so I try with all my Might to dissuade with Eloquence rather than persuade with Force.

“Gentle Turnkey,” say I, “if you will desist, I shall return with jingling Coins and Hosts of lovely Wenches to do thy Bidding. We shall make a Bow’r for you and each of us attend another Part of thy Beauteous Anatomy. I pray you, then, desist.” But, as many Sages have observ’d, ’tis in the Nature of Lust to be impatient, and rather than dissuading him, my Words seem’d to inflame him further. He fumbl’d in his open Breech for his Organ—lost, perhaps, amidst Folds of Flesh—and, whilst the Jeers and Encouragements of the Mob grew louder, I had near resign’d myself to yet another Ravishment.

Just then, howe’er, a Familiar Face appear’d. The Turnkey was seiz’d by his fat Shoulders and shaken from his Lustful Attentions to my Person by none other than John Littlehat—Lancelot’s Confederate!

“Unhand the Wench, Bully!” shouted Littlehat, his short, fat Body shaking with Rage and his black Beard glist’ning evilly. Whereupon he swiftly trips the Turnkey and sends him reeling down the Stair, to the gen’ral Applause of the Prisoners. (So quickly do they change Allegiances that now they are chearing for my Freedom, where before they chear’d for my Ravishment. Such Perfidy, I warrant, is e’er the Nature of Mobs.)

“Come,” says Littlehat, “I will carry ye to Lancelot. ’Twill do his Heart good to see ye. The Lad’s in a Sorry State.”

Littlehat took my Hand and led me through the teeming Prison whilst the Turnkey curst us with “Damn yer Eyes” and the Prisoners guffaw’d and chear’d. I felt fair to faint from the very Reek of the Place and my Eyes were affrighted and amaz’d at each Turning by the Misery I saw.

In ev’ry Nook and Cranny were wretched Rogues begging me for Pennies I did not possess, starving Women nursing Skinny Babes, Men so weak with Hunger they could scarce raise their Arms to beg, and others who attackt the Nursing Mothers for their Milk, throwing the poor squalling Babes aside.

Some Prisoners seem’d afflicted with Consumption; others had Sores and Pocks upon their Faces; others moan’d with Dysentery and discharged the Infected Offal of their Guts into Publick Privies, which gave the whole Place the Reek of Excrement.

We pass’d the Middle Ward, which Littlehat told me was the cleanest Place in all the Prison, and was reserv’d only for Prisoners with Money—tho’ it scarce seem’d to me much cleaner than the Rest of that Hell-Hole. Thence we descended into a Pit call’d the Lower Ward, the nastiest Place in this nastiest of Places. There a naked Woman, about my Age, was being flogg’d with a Cat o’ Nine Tails and weeping piteously whilst the Rabble lookt on with Merriment and Lust, as if ’twere a Raree Show. There was also a large Chamber call’d the Tangier, where the miserable Debtors were kept (only distinguish’d from the Felons by the Fact that they wore no Irons), another Chamber call’d the High Hall, which was use’d for Recreation, and a stinking dark Cellar where intoxicating Liquors were sold, and Multitudes of Prisoners rioted merrily, inflam’d by what was doubtless tainted Gin (and which, you may be sure, they paid dear for). Fearful Brawls and Fights were in progress there, and Littlehat had to shield me with his great fat Body to protect me from the Boisterousness of the Rabble. We descended finally to the Lower Dungeons, past the Press Room, where Prisoners who refus’d to plead were press’d with iron Weights, and wail’d horribly under their Torture. And adjacent to that Pit of Terrors we saw a still more terrible Room where, of Old, the Hangman us’d to seethe the Quarter’d Limbs of Traitors in Pitch, Tar, and Oil. ’Twas not now in Use, and thank the Goddess for that, since, had the Smell of cooking Flesh and Tar been added to the Smell of Excrement, ’twould have made an e’en more nauseous Brew than that which caus’d my Guts to heave and made me glad I’d eaten no Breakfast!

In the very lowest Dungeon, chain’d piteously in a sort of Oubliette in which he could not stand, his Legs in heaviest Irons, his Body clad in the filthiest of Rags, sat our Lancelot, his beauteous Form doubl’d o’er as in Pain.