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.
REUNITED 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.
“When you came not to sail with us, Fannikins,” Horatio said, “both Lancelot and I were cast down with Despair. I suspected Sabotage, but Lancelot felt totally betray’d. Yet could we not dwell upon your Absence, for our Task was hard and the Rebellion we had plann’d might cost our very Lives. ’Twas only when we were safe aboard the Hazard and under full Sail that we might speak of you.”
I listen’d intently; Horatio went on.
“I’d told Lancelot I’d ne’er sail with him without your gracious Company, for I fear’d his Plans to establish his ‘Deocracy’ in the New World. But, in the Heat of the Rebellion, how could I fail him? So sail I did; whereupon we found ourselves at Sea with all the scurvy Debtors of Newgate—none of whom knew a Fart’s Worth about Sailing—and we discover’d, to boot, that the Hazard was about as Sea-worthy as a Tub of Butter or a Puncheon of Rum.”
“’Tis true,” said Lancelot, “alas, ’tis true.”
“At once we determin’d to take another Ship,” Horatio continu’d, “for ’twas that or perish. We might ne’er sail the Hazard without careening her….”
“What’s careening?” I askt, knowing little then of the Pyrate Round.
“’Tis when ye put yer Ship upon dry Land to scrape her clean o’ Barnacles an’ tar her Bottom ’gainst Shipworms,” Lancelot explain’d. “All Pyrates require Countries where they may careen in Peace—New Providence in the Bahamas was once such a Sanctuary. Also Madagascar an’ Johanna Isle—but now it grows much harder to find Sanctuaries, fer Pyracy is bein’ routed by the Crown—”
“We knew we could not make Madagascar or the Bahamas in a Tub as foul-bottom’d as the Hazard,” Horatio said, “so we put it to a Vote with these scurvy Debtors and determin’d we should take the first sound Ship we saw. She prov’d to be a Brigantine call’d the Happy Delivery—which we spy’d off the Azores—”
“An’ none too soon indeed, fer the Hazard was already leakin’ badly an’ was like to sink afore we e’en compleated our Maiden Voyage,” Lancelot added.
“But Lancelot had not counted upon one Problem when he recruited these Debtors and Felons,” Horatio continu’d; “the Sea was an alien Element to ’em and they were well-nigh useless upon Deck. ‘Divisium sic breve fiet opus,’ says Martial. ‘Divided thus the Work will become brief….’”
Lancelot did not even flinch at Horatio’s Latin now.
“But all the Running of the Ship was left to me and Lancelot,” he said, “(and those Merry Men who knew a bit of Sailing), but as for the Debtors, they did nought put puke and complain, complain and puke, and grumble below Deck. ’Twas clear we’d ne’er build a Deocracy with ’em.”
“Alas, Horatio is right,” Lancelot sigh’d philosophically. “’Tis one Thing to rally Men ’round, an’ another to turn ’em into Brothers in a Common Cause. When the Happy Delivery was sighted thro’ the Spyin’-Glass, Horatio an’ I rejoiced, but all the Debtors found sundry Reasons why they could not fight. ’Twas fight or perish an’ they could not fight! I’d put the Boardin’ to a Vote before, an’ now I was determin’d to capture a sound Ship to sail the Pyrate Round to the Eastern Seas—fer that seem’d the most likely Alternative to the Settlement in the New World, which Horatio oppos’d. We took the Happy Delivery with a Boardin’ Party o’ but a dozen Men, whilst all the bloody Debtors grumbl’d an’ complain’d in the Steerage.”
“But how could you take the Ship with so few Men?” I askt.
“Ah, Fanny—most Pyracy is thus,” Horatio explain’d. “Thus we took the Hopewell in the Fog with e’en fewer Men. Pyracy oft’ succeeds not because of Force of Arms, but due to Speed and e’en Surprize. Yet more than that, we oft’ succeed because most Seamen are so abus’d at Sea that they turn Pyrate in a trice! Sometimes, ’tis true that Boarding Axes and Grappling Hooks and Broadsides of Cannon Fire are us’d, but oft’ the very Cry of Pyrates! is enough to stifle all Resistance. So many Tales are told of Pyrates’ Cruelties that just to hear the Name of Pyrate makes Seamen pale—and also Passengers! Methinks the greatest Pyrate Potentates tell such Stories of themselves to turn their Enemies’ Resolve to Mush. Sure Captain Thack was fierce, that much I know, but oft’ I wonder of the other legendary Pyrates—Blackbeard, Bartholomew Roberts, Howell Davis, Jack Rackham, Long Ben Avery, and the like. Were they as fierce as they were said to be? Or were they only turn’d so legendary by their own Story-telling?”
“But what of your Travels with Calico Thack?” said I, for I remember’d Horatio’s stirring Tales.
“Thack was brave and foolish, too,” said Horatio wearily. “He took daring Risques—and by Jove, so doth Lancelot!”
Lancelot beam’d at this; it seem’d that he and Horatio were far better Friends than they had been a Year before.
“But oft’ such Risques are needless, for the Prey surrenders ere we raise our Flag! The Great Age of Pyracy is past, my Sweet, but the Legends about Pyrates daily increase. ’Tis oft’ the Case that when some mortal Thing is dying, its Fame increases e’en as it dyes. As Virgil says—”
“Damn Virgil!” Lancelot interrupted, “an’ tell the Lass the Tale!”
“And why, pray, is the Great Age of Pyracy past?” I askt.
“Because it no longer serves the English Crown to have their Privateers attack the bloody Spanish under the Cover of Letters of Marque,” Horatio explain’d. “But whilst the Spanish were our greatest Enemies, the Buccaneers were born, and now the Crown cannot rid itself of ’em!”
“Ah Horatio,” I exclaim’d, “you are the very Tacitus of Pyracy! If e’er we find ourselves in London once again, you must write Volumes of your Knowledge!”
“An’ publish ’em under a Nom de Plume,” said Lancelot, “fer otherwise we’ll hang!”
“I’d love to write a Book of Buccaneers,” Horatio said, his Eyes misting o’er with the Dream of Lit’ry Fame (from which e’en clever he was not immune), “for in a Book, a Man is judged not by the Colour of his Skin, but by the Colour of the Page, White as ’tis.”
“Piffle!” said Lancelot. “D’ye think Authors find justice more than Buccaneers or Blacks?”
To stop this incipient Dispute betwixt these accustom’d Adversaries, I quickly put another Query to Horatio:
“Why do they call ’em Buccaneers?” I askt, “for I have heard the Word, and always remarkt upon its Strangeness.”
“’Tis a curious Word for a Latin Scholar,” Horatio said, “and its History is e’en more Curious. For when Columbus came to Hispaniola, he carried Cattle, Pigs, and Sheep upon his Ships and introduced ’em to the Isle. For a Time, these Animals were tended by the Natives of the Caribee, those Savages who call’d themselves Caribs. But when this Race of Savages dy’d out, the Animals ran wild upon the Isle, which turn’d again to Wilderness and Scrub. Thus uncheckt, they multiplied most prodigiously, and before long, Ships came to anchor in Hispaniola to replenish their Provisions with this Meat. Where there is Profit, there are Profiteers; thus the Buccaneers were born! They came as Hunters first—shipwreckt Seamen, Runaway Slaves, Felons, Debtors, ev’ry sort of Castaway—they took up Hunting as their Livelihood. Dead Shots they were, and nimble in the Bush. They hunted in small Parties with their Matelots and banish’d Women from their Ranks to prevent Disputes.”
“O ye best not say that to our Mistress Fanny,” Lancelot interrupted, “fer she is fierce in her Defence o’ Womankind.”
I only smil’d at this—to spite Lancelot. “Pray, continue, Horatio,” said I, for I had not yet turn’d so humourless that I could not hear a Tale without protesting Woman’s Lot. As I was put upon this Globe to learn, so learn I would from Men as well as Women!
“They kill’d their Prey and skinn’d it where it lay, then grill’d its Meat the way the Savages had taught, upon a sort of Rack the Caribs call’d a Bukan, made of green Wood and lasht with greenest Vines. Thus, was the Meat they grill’d call’d Viande Boucanée and the Men who grill’d it Boucaniers!”
“But how did these Hunters take to the Seas?” I askt.
“The Spanish chas’d ’em from their Livelihood upon the Land and liv’d to rue the Day they did! For they became the Brethren of the Coast, raiding the Spanish Galleons from their Rafts. They learnt to approach a Sailing Ship in such a Way that her Cannon were useless to defend her. They took her from the Bow, then crept aboard, and ramm’d her Rudder with a Wedge of Wood ere she e’en knew that they’d arriv’d, whereupon they’d scramble up the Decks and oft’times take the Ship without a Shot being fir’d! The Spanish studded their Hulls with Nails ’gainst these Invaders and e’en smear’d their Decks with Butter! Why, oft’ they’d spill dried Pease across ’em to make ’em more Slippery! But it avail’d ’em nought. The Brethren of the Coast were still their Match and more. Thus, they plunder’d the Treasure Fleets of Gold, Damask, Indigo, and Luxuries of ev’ry kind, whilst the Spaniards were helpless to prevent their Raids. Tho’ the English call’d these bloody Brethren Buccaneers—and with more than a Hint of Admiration, too, the Spanish call’d ’em simply Ladrones, which is their Word for Thieves! In Dutch, they’re call’d Zee-Rovers, and in French, Flibustiers, which we oft’ translate as Free Booter. But the Spanish hate ’em most, and e’en Today when you hear the Word Demonio or Corsario Luterano from a Spaniard’s Lips, he says it and then spits upon the Ground—for so they also term these Buccaneers. They were a fearsome Lot, ’tis true, and perhaps the Histories of their Cruelties are true. They hated the Spanish for their Slaughter of the Indians and for their Plunder of the Gold of the New World. ’Twas Montbars who was fam’d for slitting Spaniards’ Gullets and hauling out Intestines; whilst Lolonois roasted his Prey alive—or so I’ve heard. I ne’er beheld it with my Eyes, thank God. But ev’ry Pyrate requires Confederates on Land to sell his Plunder to, since he can scarce drink the Indigo nor eat the Gold Dust that he takes. Thus Pyrates flourish only when they are allow’d to flourish, when Governments on Land wink at their Doings, pretending not to see. When Britannia thus made Peace with Spain, the Buccaneers began to see their Doom and now the greatest Age of Pyracy is past.”
“How can ye say that Pyracy is dead when Robin roams the Seas?” Lancelot cried.
Horatio lookt cynically at his Friend and shook his Head. “Ah, Fannikins, our Robin Hood reborn will rewrite History itself!
“Lancelot,” Horatio said, “I only meant to say that since the Peace with Spain, the Place of Buccaneering ’gainst the Treasure Fleets is lookt on by the Crown with some Disfavour. Moreo’er, neither Madagascar nor the Bahamas are quite as safe as once they were; for Pyracy e’er flourish’d with Royal Sanction. The Crown abetted Pyrates ’gainst the Spanish and e’en ’gainst the French—whilst the Colonies of North America us’d Pyracy as their Revenge ’gainst the Trading Practices of the Crown which they deem’d Unfair….”
“Pyracy will flourish once again, as Lancelot lives an’ breathes!” shouted my Robin Hood reborn. “Kidd may be dead as Dust an’ Blackbeard, too, an’ e’en Calico Thack, but Robin Hood still lives! If ’tis harder to play Pyrate now—sobeit! When did Robin Hood e’er flinch at Danger?”
Horatio lookt at me and smil’d a Smile which seem’d to say: Daft he is and yet we love him still.
“But what became of the Debtors when you took the Happy Delivery?” I askt, hoping to change the Subject again.
“We storm’d the Ship without ’em,” Horatio said, “and those who would come along were happily invited. But most cower’d in the Steerage, awaiting Rescue. We left them thus adrift.”
“Without their knowing how to sail?” I askt.
“Alas, ’tis true,” said Horatio, “but what other Choyce had we?”
“And the Ship leaking badly, too? These Men follow’d you to Sea and you abandon’d them?”
“You sound like Lancelot, Fanny—crack-pated, begging the Captain’s Pardon. You can lead an oppress’d Man to his Salvation, but how can you force him to reach out for it, if he will not move a Muscle of his own Free Will? Doubtless these Men were rescu’d or perhaps they learnt to sail out of Necessity, that Mother of Invention. We gave them ev’ry Opportunity, and most of ’em quite disappointed us. They prov’d a Shipload of Fools and Knaves, waiting for us to serve ’em their Salvation upon a Silver Platter. It quite dasht Lancelot’s Theories about the Goodness of Debtors and Felons!”
“Not true! Not true!” cried Lancelot. “I still believe most Men are good at Heart, albeit lazy in seekin’ their own Freedom!”
“Be that as it may,” Horatio said, “you and I must teach Lancelot to be less fantastical in his Plans for Liberty and Libertalia. Men must be tested ere they join our great Deocracy—not ev’ry Idiot will do. There is a Pyrate Captain I have heard about who chooses his Men thus: twelve Men are maroon’d upon a Desert Isle with one Bottle of Rum betwixt ’em. The Captain sails away and leaves ’em there, to return a Week later. Those remaining Men become his Crew; the others perish.”
“Are you proposing this for Libertalia?” I askt in extream Shock and Amazement.
“No—a thousand Times no,” Horatio protested. “I only mean that Lancelot must awaken to the Truth of Human Nature. ’Tis one Thing to lead a Great Rebellion and quite another to make it stick!”
“He talks like me own Mother!” said Lancelot. “O what Joy ’tis to have a resident Critick! What did I do with me Life ere I met him?” And he laugh’d derisively.
“After you took the Happy Delivery, then what happen’d?” I askt.
“The Crew o’ that Ship turn’d Pyrate,” Lancelot explain’d, picking up Horatio’s Tale, “an’ we all headed fer the Red Sea Round—where we had heard o’ untold Riches. An’ what’s more, we found ’em! Whilst ye bore yer Babe, we plunder’d the Moguls’ Treasures. O we sail’d from the Azores to the Cape Verde Islands, thence to St. Helena an’ ’round the Cape. We cruis’d the Pyrate Round in the Red Sea, an’ took more Booty than e’en Long Ben Avery! Why, on one Prize alone we took five hundred thousand Pieces o’ Gold! An’ have not spent ’em yet—why, Lass, we’re rich! The Hold o’ the Happy Delivery creaks with Gold Mohurs, Gold Dust, Rubies, Emeralds, Diamonds. ’Tis a Sight to make the Robin Hood o’ Old come back to Life!”
“Then why do you continue in this Pyrate Round?” I wisht to know, for I had Visions of retiring upon Lancelot’s Gold and devoting myself to Poetry and Belinda—when Lancelot should help me find her!
“To keep a Promise to meself which I had made when I was Surgeon on a Slaver, an’ free me darker Brothers. Fer this, as well, Horatio goes on, tho’ we could all retire an’ live in Peace.”
“’Tis true,” Horatio said, putting his Arm ’round Lancelot’s Shoulder. “We sail for Principle, not Prizes now.”
“And where would you retire and live in Peace with all these Crimes upon your Head?”
“Aye,” sigh’d Lancelot, “’Tis a Problem, Lass, an’ thus I still would found a Libertalia—but where, I cannot tell. Gold an’ Jewels aplenty, that we have, an’ yet are we hunted ev’rywhere, on Land an’ Sea. Thus sail we must, fer there is scarce a Port where we may dock securely. I have e’en dreamt o’ some Isle in the Caribees, a Tropick Key where we might make a Home, an Isle set in a beauteous Azure Sea, with Birds whose Feathers are the Colour o’ rare Jewels, an’ plentiful Springs o’ fresh Water. O I dream o’ such an Isle with Strands as white as Ivory an’ Sunsets rosy as the Inside o’ Shells! If God please, we’ll find yer Babe an’ settle on some sunny Isle set in the iridescent Tropick Sea. An’ she shall play with Rubies and sprinkle Emeralds about her baby Toes and prattle to Diamonds big as Pigeons’ Eggs, whilst we three live an’ love an’ prove to God that Men can live as Brothers—e’en when they both are doom’d to love the self-same Wench!”
We three lookt at each other warily and then laugh’d, wond’ring how this beauteous blissful Dream would come to Grief.