The Eye of Laermor

An Urban tale from Le Conquet

  You’ve no doubt heard of Captain Laermor, that famous buccaneer from Saint-Malo, whose Breton nickname translates roughly as “thief of the seas", - in other words, a pirate. Well, I knew him well during my childhood. When he returned from the Caribbean to Saint-Malo, he used to make his first stop over at Le Conquet having crossing the Atlantic. He would moor his large sailing ship at the foot of the Maison des Seigneurs and walk up the Casse-cou, that steep path running alongside the stream at the foot of the Maison des Anglais.
 His first stop was always the Taverne des Boucaniers, which my mother ran, at the top of the Casse-cou. I still remember one evening when he strode into the room, followed by three sailors with a sinister look about them. I must have been nine or ten years old, and the appearance of the gang of the four brothers of the coast, as they called themselves, made quite an impression in the tavern. Suddenly, all conversation ceased, and all eyes turned towards the new arrivals.

 Laermor was richly dressed, in a red doublet embroidered with lace and sporting a blue cape. His wide black felt hat was capped with a plume of multicoloured feathers. His swarthy face, displayed a leather patch covering his left eye, and was framed by a thick red beard. He limped noisily as he walked, his wooden leg making the tavern floor creak. But the most striking feature was the steel hook that served as his right hand, which he brandished before him like a fearsome weapon to push aside anyone who dared get in his path.
 He headed straight for a table in the corner of the room, followed by his three henchmen. A single glance was enough for the two occupants to make way for him. With his fearsome hook, he swept across the table, and the two glass mugs sitting there shattered on the floor.

- "Rum, and make it quick!" he boomed out in a loud voice, accustomed to giving orders.

 My mother, who was behind the counter, was terrified. She handed me a large bottle and four glasses, which I hurried to bring to the new arrivals. I was trembling with fear and, in my haste, I tripped on the wooden leg that the captain had haphazardly left sticking out into the aisle. The four glasses joined the first two on the floor, and the precious bottle embarked on an acrobatic flight through the air above the buccaneers’ heads. I followed it with my eyes and managed to catch it at the last moment thanks to a superb dive towards the table. With the bottle safely in my hand, I landed on Laermor's single knee. The rum was saved, and the four buccaneers, whilst laughing at my clumsiness, appreciated the speed of my reflexes. As laughter still echoed throughout the room, I ran to fetch four new glasses.

 It seemed that the pirate had taken a sudden liking to me. He beckoned me with his hook.
"-Come closer, lad, and don't be afraid. I'm no ogre," he said as one of the sailors popped the cork from the bottle. I think you're quick-witted and clever. Sit there, on my knee. Are you still afraid of me?
- Oh no, Captain. It's your hook that frightens me. Does it serve as a hand?
- My boy, if I didn't have it, my right arm wouldn't be much use to me. "Look", he added as he was being served, "this glass of rum stands itself inside my hook."
- And how did you lose your hand?
 All eyes were fixed on our table. Everyone listened intently to the conversation.
- You're a curious lad!! Shiver me timbers! I'll tell you. It was during the boarding of a heavy Spanish galleonl. I was fighting like a devil aboard the enemy ship when I received a violent blow from a sabre 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 carried back aboard my ship, and our surgeon cauterised the wound with a red-hot iron. Later, on Turtle Island, I had this fine steel hook made, which is screwed onto a wooden sleeve strapped around my arm.
- Is it like your leg?
- Oh no, I didn't lose my right leg to a sword blow. But it was still during a fight. We were just about to attack an English frigate. I was straddling the rail, ready to board the enemy vessel with a grappling hook. When the two ships were alongside each other, ours, lifted by the swell, leaned towards the English ship, and my right leg was caught and crushed between the two vessels. I was carried back on board my ship, and our surgeon cauterised the wound with a red-hot iron. Later, on Turtle Island, I had this elegant wooden leg made, the one you tripped over earlier. It's held in place by a leather harness.
- Is it like your eye?
- Oh no, my left eye has never been replaced. I just keep it hidden behind this patch.
- Did you lose that in battle, too?
- "You're a very curious lad, aren't you? " said the pirate, downing his third glass of rum in one go. "But I'll tell you how I lost that eye, all the same".

Leaning back in his chair, he raised his head towards the ceiling and his single eye closed slightly. His voice grew softer. It was as if he were recounting a dream.

- It was far, far from here, in the warm seas of the South. We had anchored in the lagoon of a superb atoll fringed with coconut palms. The air was mild, the sea was calm, the night was clear. The moon cast silver glints on the water. I was leaning on the railing, and a delightful warm breeze caressed my face. With my head tilted back, I gazed up at the starry sky, observing the unfamiliar constellations of the southern hemisphere: Centaurus, the Peacock, the Whale... It was a moment of intense, unforgettable happyness... when suddenly, a seagull's droppings landed in my left eye.
-"You lost an eye because of a dollop of bird poop?" I said, taken aback. "But that's not possible, you just need to wipe it away with the back of your hand…"
-"You mean with the back of this damned hook", he added, his voice suddenly breaking with an outburst of emotion beyond his control.

 His chest was heaving as he sobbed like a child. The fearsome pirate apparently couldn't take the thought of all his injuries, of all the disabilities that he had stolen his youth and which my questions had opened old wounds. The loss of his eye, for which he alone was at fault, must have been the last straw. I realised this in a flash as he pressed me affectionately against his heaving chest.

A wave of emotion overtook me, for it was then with his one arm curled around me the that I realised what had always been hidden from me. I plucked up my courage and, with the tip of my index finger, I brushed away the big tear running down the side of his cheek below his leather headband.
It was then I whispered softly into his ear:

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

Many thanks to Glyn Orpwood for proofreading and improving the English translation of this text.