Frenchman's Creek

"And you are dreadfully shocked, William?"

"No, my lady."

"Why not, William?"

"Because nothing you or my master ever did could possibly shock me, my lady."

And at this she burst out laughing, and clasped her hands together.

"Oh, William, my solemn William, then you guessed all the time! How did you know, how could you tell?"

"There was something about your walk, as you entered just now, my lady, that gave you away. And your eyes were - if I may say so without giving offence - very much alive. And coming as you did from the direction of the river I put two and two together, as it were, and said to myself: 'It has happened. They have met at last.' "

"Why 'at last,' William?"

"Because, my lady, I am a fatalist by nature, and I have always known that, sooner or later, the meeting was bound to come about."

"Although I am a lady of the manor, married and respectable, with two children, and your master a lawless Frenchman, and a pirate?"

"In spite of all those things, my lady."

"It is very wrong, William. I am acting against the interests of my country. I could be imprisoned for it."

"Yes, my lady."

But this time he hid his smile no longer, his small button mouth relaxed, and she knew he would no longer be inscrutable and silent, but was her friend, her ally, and she could trust him to the last.

"Do you approve of your master's profession, William?" she said.

"Approve and disapprove are two words that are not in my vocabulary, my lady. Piracy suits my master, and that is all there is to it. His ship is his kingdom, he comes and goes as he pleases, and no man can command him. He is a law unto himself."

"Would it not be possible to be free, to do as he pleases, and yet not be a pirate?"

"My master thinks not, my lady. He has it that those who live a normal life, in this world of ours, are forced into habits, into customs, into a rule of life that eventually kills all initiative, all spontaneity. A man becomes a cog in the wheel, part of a system. But because a pirate is a rebel, and an outcast, he escapes from the world. He is without ties, without man-made principles."

"He has the time, in fact, to be himself."

"Yes, my lady."

"And the idea that piracy is wrong, that does not worry him?"

"He robs those who can afford to be robbed, my lady. He gives away much of what he takes. The poorer people in Brittany benefit very often. No, the moral issue does not concern him."

"He is not married, I suppose?"

"No, my lady. Marriage and piracy do not go together."

"What if his wife should love the sea?"

"Women are apt to obey the laws of nature, my lady, and produce babies."

"Ah! very true, William."

"And women who produce babies have a liking for their own fireside, they no longer want to roam. So a man is faced at once with a choice. He must either stay at home and be bored, or go away and be miserable. He is lost in either case. No, to be really free, a man must sail alone."

"That is your master's philosophy?"

"Yes, my lady."

"I wish I were a man, William."

"Why so, my lady?"

"Because I too would find my ship, and go forth, a law unto myself."

As she spoke there came a loud cry from upstairs, followed by a wail, and the sound of Prue's scolding voice. Dona smiled, and shook her head.

"Your master is right, William," she said, "we are all cogs in a wheel, and mothers most especially. It is only the pirates who are free." And she went upstairs to her children, to soothe them, and wipe away their tears.

That night, as she lay in bed, she reached for the volume of Ronsard on the table by her side, and thought how strange it was that the Frenchman had lain there, his head upon her pillow, this same volume in his hands, his pipe of tobacco in his mouth. She pictured him laying aside the book when he had read enough, even as she did now, and blowing out the candle, and then turning on his side to sleep. She wondered if he slept now, in that cool, quiet cabin of his ship, with the water lapping against the side, the creek itself mysterious and hushed. Or whether he lay on his back as she did, eyes open in the darkness and sleep far distant, brooding on the future, his hands behind his head.

Next morning, when she leant from her bedroom and felt the sun on her face, and saw the clear bright sky with a sharp gloss about it because of the east wind, her first thought was for the ship in the creek. Then she remembered how snug was the anchorage, tucked away in the valley, shrouded by the trees, and how they could scarce have knowledge there of the turbulent tide ripping up the parent river, the short waves curling, while the steep seas at the mouth of the estuary reared and broke themselves into spray.

She remembered the evening that was to come, and the supper party, and began to smile, with all the guilty excitement of a conspirator. The day itself seemed like a prelude, a foretaste of things to come, and she wandered out into the garden to cut flowers, although those in the house were not yet faded.