Frenchman's Creek

  Then she knew, then she understood-her hands went clammy, her mouth felt dry and parched, and she felt, for the first time in her life, a funny strange spasm of fear.

  This was the Frenchman's hiding-place-that was his ship.

  She must think rapidly, make a plan, make some use of her knowledge; how obvious it was now, this silent creek, this perfect hiding-place, no one would ever know, so remote, so silent, so still-something must be done, she would have to say something, tell someone.

  Or need she? Could she go away now, pretend she had not seen the ship, forget about it, or pretend to forget it-anything so that she need not be involved, for that would mean a breaking up of her peace, a disturbance, soldiers tramping through the woods, people arriving, Harry from London-endless complications, and Navron no more a sanctuary. No, she would say nothing, she would creep away now, back to the woods and the house, clinging to her guilty knowledge, telling no one, letting the robberies continue-what did it matter-Godolphin and his turnip friends must put up with it, the country must suffer, she did not care.

  And then, even as she turned to slip away amongst the trees, a figure stepped out from behind her, from the woods, and throwing his coat over her head blinded her, pinning her hands to her sides, so that she could not move, could not struggle, and she fell down at his feet, suffocated, helpless, knowing she was lost.

  Chapter VI

  HER FIRST FEELING was one of anger, of blind unreasoning anger. How dare anyone treat her thus, she thought, truss her up like a fowl, and carry her to the quay. She was thrown roughly onto the bottom boards of the boat, and the man who had knocked her down took the paddles and pushed out towards the ship. He gave a cry-a sea-gull's cry -and called something in a patois which she could not understand to his companions on the ship. She heard them laugh in reply, and the fellow with the lute struck up a merry little jig, as though in mockery.

  She had freed herself now from the strangling coat, and looked up at the man who had struck her. He spoke to her in French and grinned. He had a merry twinkle in his eye, as though her capture were a game, an amusing jest of a summer's afternoon, and when she frowned at him haughtily, determined to be dignified, he pulled a solemn face, feigning fear, and pretended to tremble.

  She wondered what would happen if she raised her voice and shouted for help-would anyone hear her, would it be useless?

  Somehow she knew she could not do this, women like herself did not scream. They waited, they planned escape. She could swim, it would be possible later perhaps to get away from the ship, lower herself over the side, perhaps when it was dark. What a fool she had been, she thought, to linger there an instant, when she knew that the ship was the Frenchman. How deserving of capture she was, after all, and how infuriating to be placed in such a position-ridiculous, absurd-when a quiet withdrawal to the trees and back to Navron would have been so easy. They were passing now under the stern of the ship, beneath the high poop-deck and the scrolled windows, and there was the name, written with a flourish, in gold letters La Mouette, She wondered what it meant, she could not remember, her French was hazy suddenly, and now he was pointing to the ladder over the side of the ship, and the men on deck were crowding round, grinning, familiar-damn their eyes-to watch her mount. She managed the ladder well, determined to give them no cause for mockery, and shaking her head she swung herself down to the deck, refusing their offers of assistance.

  They began to chatter to her in this patois she could not follow-it must be Breton, had not Godolphin said something about the ship slipping across to the opposite coast-and they kept smiling and laughing at her in a familiar, idiotic way that she found infuriating, for it went ill with the heroic dignified part she wished to play. She folded her arms, and looked away from them, saying nothing. Then the first man appeared again-he had gone to warn their leader she supposed, the captain of this fantastic vessel-and beckoned her to follow him.

  It was all different from what she had expected. These men were like children, enchanted with her appearance, smiling and whistling, and she had believed pirates to be desperate creatures, with rings in their ears and knives between their teeth.

  The ship was clean-she had imagined a craft filthy and stained, and evil-smelling-there was no disorder about it, the paint was fresh and gay, the decks scrubbed like a man-o'-war and from the forward part of the ship, where the men lived she supposed, came the good hunger-making smell of vegetable soup. And now the man was leading her through a swinging door and down some steps, and he knocked on a further door, and a quiet voice bade him enter. Dona stood on the threshold, blinking a little, for the sun was streaming through the windows in the stern, making water patterns on the light wood panelling. Once again she felt foolish, disconcerted, for the cabin was not the dark hole she had imagined, full of empty bottles and cutlasses, but a room-like a room in a house-with chairs, and a polished table, and little paintings of birds upon the bulkheads. There was something restful about it, restful yet austere, the room of someone who was sufficient to himself. The man who had taken her to the cabin withdrew, closing the door quietly, and the figure at the polished table continued with his writing, taking no notice of her entrance. She watched him furtively, aware of sudden shyness and hating herself for it, she, Dona, who was never shy, who cared for nothing and for no one. She wondered how long he would keep her standing there; it was unmannerly, churlish, and yet she knew she could not be the first to speak. She thought of Godolphin suddenly, Godolphin with his bulbous eyes and the growth on the end of his nose, and his fears for his womenfolk; what would he say if he could see her now, alone in the cabin with the terrible Frenchman?

  And the Frenchman continued writing, and Dona went on standing by the door. She realised now what made him different from other men. He wore his own hair, as men used to do, instead of the ridiculous curled wigs that had become the fashion, and she saw at once how suited it was to him, how impossible it would be for him to wear it in any other way.

  How remote he was, how detached, like some student in college studying for an examination; he had not even bothered to raise his head when she came into his presence, and what was he scribbling there anyway that was so important? She ventured to step forward closer to the table, so that she could see, and now she realised he was not writing at all, he was drawing, he was sketching, finely, with great care, a heron standing on the mud-flats, as she had seen a heron stand, ten minutes before.

  Then she was baffled, then she was at a loss for words, for thought even, for pirates were not like this, at least not the pirates of her imagination, and why could he not play the part she had assigned to him, become an evil, leering fellow, full of strange oaths, dirty, greasy-handed, not this grave figure seated at the polished table, holding her in contempt?

  Then he spoke at last, only the very faintest trace of accent marking his voice, and still he did not look at her, but went on with his drawing of the heron.

  "It seems you have been spying upon my ship," he said.

  Immediately she was stung to anger-she spying! Good God, what an accusation! "On the contrary," she said, speaking coldly, clearly, in the boyish voice she used to servants. "On the contrary, it seems your men have been trespassing upon my land."

  He glanced up at once, and rose to his feet-he was tall, much taller than she had imagined-and into his dark eyes came a look surely of recognition, like a sudden flame, and he smiled slowly, as if in secret.

  "My very humble apologies," he said. "I had not realised that the lady of the manor had come to visit me in person."

  He reached forward for a chair, and she sat down, without a word. He went on looking at her, that glance of recognition, of secret amusement in his eyes, and he leant back in his chair, crossing his legs, biting the end of his quill.

  "Was it by your orders that I was seized and brought here?" she said, because surely something must be said, and he would do nothing but look her up and down in this singular fashion.

  "My men are told to bind anyone
who ventures to the creek," he said. "As a rule we have no trouble. You have been more bold than the inhabitants, and, alas, have suffered from that boldness. You are not hurt, are you, or bruised?"

  "No," she said shortly.

  "What are you complaining about then?"

  "I am not used to being treated in such a manner," she said, angry again, for he was making her look a fool.

  "No, of course not," he said quietly, "but it will do you no harm."

  God almighty, what insolence, what damned impertinence. Her anger only amused him though, for he went on tilting his chair and smiling, biting the end of his quill. "What do you propose to do with me?" she said. "Ah! there you have me," he replied, putting down his pen. "I must look up my book of rules." And he opened a drawer in the table and took out a volume, the pages of which he proceeded to turn slowly, with great gravity.

  "Prisoners-method of capture-questioning-detainment-their treatment-etc., etc.," he read aloud, "h'm, yes, it is all here, but unfortunately these notes relate to the capture and treatment of male prisoners. I have made no arrangements apparently to deal with females. It is really most remiss of me."

  She thought of Godolphin again, and his fears, and in spite of her annoyance she found herself smiling, remembering his words: "As the fellow is a Frenchman it is only a matter of time."

  His voice broke in upon her thoughts. "That is better," he said. "Anger does not become you, you know. Now you are beginning to look more like yourself."

  "What do you know of me?" she said.

  He smiled again, tilting forward on his chair. "The Lady St. Columb," he said, "the spoilt darling of the Court. The Lady Dona who drinks in the London taverns with her husband's friends. You are quite a celebrity, you know."

  She found herself flushing scarlet, stung by the irony of his words, his quiet contempt.

  "That's over," she said, "finished and done with."

  "For the time being, you mean."

  "No, for ever."

  He began whistling softly to himself, and reaching for his drawing continued to play with it, sketching in the background.

  "When you have been at Navron a little while you will tire of it," he said, "and the smells and sounds of London will call to you again. You will remember this mood as a passing thing."

  "No," she said.

  But he did not answer, he went on with his drawing.

  She watched him, stung with curiosity, for he drew well, and she began to forget she was his prisoner and that they should be at enmity with one another.

  "That heron was standing on the mud, by the head of the creek," she said, "I saw him, just now, before I came to the ship."

  "Yes," he answered, "he is always there, when the tide ebbs. It is one of his feeding grounds. He nests some distance away though, nearer to Gweek, up the main channel. What else did you see?"

  "An oyster-catcher, and another bird, a curlew. I think it was."

  "Oh, yes," he said, "they would be there too. I expect the hammering drove them away."

  "Yes," she said.

  He continued his little tuneless whistle, drawing the while, and she watched him, thinking how natural it was, how effortless and easy, to be sitting here, in this cabin, on this ship, side by side with the Frenchman, while the sun streamed in through the windows and the ebbtide bubbled round the stern. It was funny, like a dream, like something she had always known would happen, as though this was a scene in a play, in which she must act a part, and the curtain had now lifted, and someone had whispered: "Here-this is where you go on."

  "The night-jars have started now, in the evenings," he said, "they crouch in the hillside, farther down the creek. They are so wary though, it's almost impossible to get really close."

  "Yes," she said.

  "The creek is my refuge, you know," he said, glancing up at her, and then away again. "I come here to do nothing. And then, just before the idleness gets the better of me, I have the strength of mind to tear myself away, to set sail again."

  "And commit acts of piracy against my countrymen?" she said.

  "And commit acts of piracy against your countrymen," he echoed.

  He finished his drawing, and put it away, and then rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head.

  "One day they will catch you," she said.

  "One day... perhaps," he said, and he wandered to the window in the stern, and looked out, his back turned to her.

  "Come and look," he said, and she got up from her chair and went and stood beside him, and they looked down to the water, where there floated a great cluster of gulls, nosing for scraps.

  "They come in dozens, always," he told her; "they seem to know at once when we return, and they come in here from the headlands. My men will feed them, I can't prevent them. And I am as bad myself. I am always throwing crumbs to them, from the windows here." He laughed, and reaching for a crust of bread, he tossed it to them, and the gulls leapt upon it, screaming and fighting.

  "Perhaps they have a fellow feeling for the ship," he said; "it is my fault for naming her La Mouette"

  "La Mouette-the Sea-gull-why, of course," she said, "I had forgotten what it meant," and they went on watching the gulls, leaning against the window.

  "This is absurd," Dona thought, "why am I doing this, it is not what I meant, not what I intended. By now surely I should be bound with ropes and thrust into the dark hold of the ship, gagged and bruised, and here we are throwing bread to the sea-gulls, and I have forgotten to go on being angry."

  "Why are you a pirate?" she said at last, breaking the silence.

  "Why do you ride horses that are too spirited?" he answered.

  "Because of the danger, because of the speed, because I might fall," she said.

  "That is why I am a pirate," he said.

  "Yes, but..."

  "There are no 'buts.' It is all very simple really. There are no dark problems about it. I have no grudge against society, no bitter hatred of my fellow-men. It just happens that the problems of piracy interest me, suit my particular bent of thought. It is not just a matter of brutality and bloodshed, you know. The organisation takes many hours of many days, every detail of a landing has to be thought out, and prepared, I hate disorder, or any slipshod method of attack. The whole thing is very much like a geometrical problem, it is food for the brain. And then-well-then I have my fun, my spice of excitement, my beating of the other fellow. It is very satisfying, very absorbing."

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, I understand."

  "You are puzzled, aren't you," he said, laughing down at her, "because you expected to find me drunk here on the floor, surrounded by blood and knives and bottles and shrieking women."

  She smiled back at him; she did not answer.

  Someone knocked at the door, and when the Frenchman called "Enter" one of his men came in, bearing a great bowl of soup upon a tray. It smelt rich and good. The hot steam rose in the air. The man proceeded to lay the table, spreading a white cloth on the farther end. He went to a locker in the bulkhead and brought out a bottle of wine. Dona watched. The smell of the soup was very tempting, and she was hungry. The wine looked cool, in its slim bottle. The man withdrew, and looking up she saw that the master of the ship was watching her, with laughter in his eyes.

  "Will you have some?" he said.

  She nodded, feeling foolish once again: why did he read her thoughts? And he fetched another plate and spoon, and another glass from the cupboard. Then he pulled up two chairs to the table. She saw that there was new bread too, freshly baked in the French fashion, the crust dark and brown, and little pats of very yellow butter.

  They ate their meal in silence, and then he poured out the wine. It was cold and clear, and not too sweet. And all the while she kept thinking how like a dream it was, a remembered dream that she had had once; a quiet, familiar thing, a dream she recognised.

  "I have done this before," she thought, "this is not the first time." Yet that was absurd, for of course it was the first time, and he was
a stranger to her. She wondered what hour it was. The children would have returned from their picnic, Prue would be putting them to bed. They would run and knock upon her door and she would not answer. "It does not matter," she thought, "I don't care," and she went on drinking her wine, looking at the bird pictures on the bulkhead, and now and again stealing a glance at him when she knew that his head was turned from her.

  Then he reached out an arm towards a tobacco-jar on a shelf, and began to shake the mixture into his hand. It was close cut, very dark and brown. And suddenly, the truth striking at her like a blow, she saw the tobacco-jar in her bedroom, and the volume of French poetry, with the drawing of a sea-gull on the title-page. She saw William running to the belt of trees-William-his master, his master who made voyages from place to place-whose life was one continual escape. She got up from her chair, staring at him.

  "Good God!" she said.

  He looked up. "What is the matter?"

  "It's you," she said, "you who left the tobacco-jar in my bedroom, and the volume of Ronsard. It's you have been sleeping in my bed."

  He smiled at her, amused at her choice of words, smiling too at her astonishment, her confusion and dismay.

  "Did I leave them there?" he said. "I had forgotten. How very remiss and careless of William not to have noticed."

  "It was for you that William stayed at Navron," she said; "it was for your sake that he sent the servants away. All these months, while we were in London, you have been at Navron."

  "No," he said, "not continually. From time to time, when it suited my plans. And in the winter, you know, it can be damp here in the creek. It made a change, a luxurious change, to seek the comfort of your bedroom. Somehow, I always felt you would not mind."

  He went on looking at her, and always that glimmer of secret amusement in his eyes.

  "I consulted your portrait, you know," he said. "I addressed myself to it several times. 'My lady,' I said (for I was most subservient) 'would you grant a very weary Frenchman the courtesy of your bed?' And it seemed to me that you bowed gracefully, and gave me permission. Sometimes you even smiled."