The Eye of Laermor

A short, unpublished tale from Le Conquet

  You’ve probably heard of Captain Laermor, that famous buccaneer from Saint-Malo, whose Breton nickname can be roughly translated as “thief of the seas,” meaning pirate. The fact remains that I knew him well when I was a child. Whenever he returned from the Caribbean to Saint-Malo, he would usually make his first stop in Le Conquet after crossing the Atlantic. He moored his large sailboat at the foot of the Maison des Seigneurs and made his way up the Casse-cou, the steep path that runs alongside the stream at the foot of the Maison des Anglais.
 His first stop was always the Boucaniers Tavern, which my mother ran at the top of Casse-cou. I still remember one evening when he walked into the room, followed by three sailors with menacing looks on their faces. I must have been nine or ten years old, and the arrival of those four brothers from the coast—as they called themselves—made quite a splash at the cabaret. Suddenly, all conversation stopped, and everyone’s eyes turned toward the new arrivals.

 Laermor was richly dressed, wearing a red doublet embroidered with lace under a blue cloak. He was wearing a wide-brimmed black felt hat adorned with multicolored feathers. His swarthy face, marked by a leather band that covered his left eye, was framed by a thick red beard. He limped noisily as he walked forward, his wooden leg making the tavern floor creak. But the most striking thing was the steel hook that served as his right hand, which he brandished before him like a fearsome weapon to ward off anyone who crossed his path.
 Followed by his three companions, he walked straight to a table in the corner of the room. A single glance was all it took for the two people sitting there to give up their seats for him. With a sweeping motion of his fearsome hook, he knocked the table over, and the two glass cups sitting on it shattered on the floor.

- "Hey, rum—and fast!" he bellowed in a loud voice, accustomed to giving orders.

 My mother, who looked terrified, was standing behind the counter. She handed me a large bottle and four cups, which I quickly took over to the new arrivals. I was trembling with fear, and in my haste I tripped over the wooden leg—which the captain obviously couldn’t bend—that was sticking out into the aisle. The four glasses joined the first two on the floor, and the precious bottle took an acrobatic flight through the air, soaring over the buccaneers’ heads. I kept my eyes on it and managed to catch up to it at the last moment thanks to a superb dive I made toward the table. With the bottle in my hand, I knelt down beside Laermor. The rum was saved, and the four buccaneers, while laughing at my clumsiness, appreciated my quick reflexes. While laughter still filled the room, I ran to fetch four more glasses.

 But the pirate seemed to have taken a sudden liking to me. He gave me a nod with his hook.
"- Come here, little one, and don't be afraid—I'm not an ogre," he said as one of the sailors popped the cork out of the bottle. I think you're quick-witted and smart. Sit here, on my lap. Are you still afraid of me?
- Oh no, Captain. It's your hook that scares me. Do you use it as a hand?
- You bet, son. If I didn't have it, my right arm wouldn't be much use to me anymore. "Look," he added as he was being served, "this glass of rum is standing all by itself inside my hook."
- And how did you lose your hand?
 All eyes were on our table. Everyone listened intently to the conversation.
- You're a curious little sailor! But I suppose I can tell you. It happened during a clash with a heavy Spanish ship. I was fighting like a madman aboard the enemy ship when I was struck by a violent blow from a saber that severed my right hand. Despite the pain, I grabbed my sword with my left hand and immediately pierced my opponent’s belly. I was taken to a room on my ship, where our surgeon cauterized the wound with a red-hot iron. Later, on Turtle Island, I had this nice steel hook made for me; it’s screwed onto a wooden sleeve that’s tied around my arm.
- Is it like your leg?
- Oh no, my right leg—I didn't lose it to a sword blow. But it happened during another fight. We were just about to board an English frigate. I was straddling the railing, ready to hook the enemy ship with a grappling hook. When the two ships were alongside each other, ours, lifted by the swell, leaned toward the English ship, and my right leg was crushed between the two vessels. I was taken to a room on my ship, where our surgeon cauterized the wound with a red-hot iron. Later, on Turtle Island, I had this elegant wooden leg made for me—the one you tripped over earlier. It stays in place thanks to a leather harness.
- Is it like your eye?
- Oh no, my left eye hasn't been replaced. I'm just hiding it behind this eye patch.
- Did you lose it in battle, too?
"You're a very curious boy," said the pirate, downing his third glass of rum in one gulp. But I'll tell you anyway how I lost that eye.

Leaning back in his chair, he looked up at the ceiling and his one eye closed slightly. His voice softened. It was as if he were recounting a dream.

- It was far, far away from here, in the warm southern seas. We had anchored in the lagoon of a beautiful atoll lined with coconut palms. The air was mild, the sea was calm, and the night was clear. The moon cast silvery reflections on the water. I was leaning against the railing, and a lovely warm breeze was caressing my face. With my head tilted back, I gazed up at the starry sky, taking in the unfamiliar constellations of the southern hemisphere: Centaurus, the Peacock, the Whale... It was a moment of intense, unforgettable joy... When suddenly, a seagull's dropping landed in my left eye.
"You lost an eye because of a bird dropping?" I asked, taken aback. But that's not possible—you just have to brush it off with the back of your hand...
- "You mean with a backhand from that damn hook," he added, his voice suddenly breaking as he was overcome by an emotion he couldn't control.

 His chest was heaving with sobs he was trying to hold back. The fearsome pirate apparently couldn't bear the weight of all his injuries, all the disabilities that had left him incapacitated—and which my questions had forced him to recount. The loss of his eye, for which he himself was to blame, must have caused him double the pain. I realized it in an instant as he affectionately pressed me against his heaving chest.

I was moved too, because the pressure of his arm revealed to me what had always been kept from me. I plucked up the courage, then used the tip of my index finger to wipe away the big tear that was glistening on his face beneath his leather headband.
Then I whispered softly in his ear:

- Everyone's watching you. Don't cry, Dad...