PIRATE: Privateer by Tim Severin Page A

right direction, and there were many stops at plantation landing stages along the coast before she was finally set ashore at
Petit Goâve. It was midday and the settlement looked deserted. Most of the inhabitants were indoors, sheltering from the heat. So she was lucky that the first person she met was a serving
woman who worked in the tavern where the fight had taken place. She was told that if she was looking for Anne-Marie Kergonan she should follow a cart track that led out of town, through a coconut
grove and past several smallholdings. After half a mile she couldn’t fail to recognize the cabin where the Breton woman was staying. It was the one with a white goat tethered in the front
yard.
    The cabin was in remarkably good repair. The palm thatch roof had been replaced recently, and someone had planted rows of vegetables in the front yard. A double line of large seashells marked
the edges of the path leading to a freshly painted blue door. Maria knocked and waited while the goat regarded her balefully. She had always dismissed the superstition that goats were agents of the
Devil. But the creature’s black rectangular pupils did appear diabolical against the yellow of its eyes. She gave a shiver of apprehension at the thought she was visiting a killer.
    After a short interval Anne-Marie opened the door. She was wearing man’s clothes of baggy breeches and a long, loose shirt of linen. Both were freshly washed and pressed. Maria was
conscious that her own petticoat and skirt were stained and crumpled after the long journey. She felt dowdy and uncomfortable.
    ‘I’ve come from Tortuga to ask about my husband, Hector . . .’ she began.
    The Breton gave her an appraising glance.
    ‘He and his friends should have returned by now,’ continued Maria.
    Anne-Marie stepped to one side. ‘Why don’t you come in,’ she said. ‘It’s easier to talk inside rather than standing out in the sun.’
    Anne-Marie led her guest to a seat beside the scrubbed table in the middle of the room. She set two bowls before them, and took down an earthenware jug from a shelf.
    Maria looked around. The interior of the cabin was as spruce and well-ordered as the exterior. The earth floor had been swept. Everything had been neatly put on shelves or hung from pegs on the
walls. Through the open back door she could see a raised hearth under an open-sided shelter where the cooking was done. A garland of white flowers was draped around the neck of a tall water
container in one corner. The only item which jarred with the peaceful domestic setting was a long-barrelled musket hanging from its leather straps on one wall.
    The Breton noted her glance. ‘The gun was the only item of value from my husband’s estate,’ she said.
    ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea you have been widowed.’
    Anne-Marie gave a dismissive shrug. ‘He was no loss.’
    On her way to the cabin Maria had wondered if she should raise the matter of Yannick’s death. Already it was clear to her that Anne-Marie was someone who preferred to get straight to the
point. ‘In Tortuga I heard the news about your brother. I’d like to offer my sympathies.’
    Anne-Marie poured a steady stream of goat’s milk from the earthenware jug into the two bowls, sat down and took a sip from one, before pushing the other across the table to Maria.
‘My brother Yannick was destined for an early grave,’ she said quietly. She put down the bowl and looked straight at Maria. ‘You were asking about your husband.’
    ‘I haven’t had any word from him, nor his friends. I beg you, please tell me what has happened to him or where he might have gone.’
    Anne-Marie regarded her visitor for several seconds before replying. To her surprise she found herself envying the tired-looking, resolute young woman seated in front of her. Maria was plainly
in love with her husband and determined to find him. The Breton wished that she herself felt so strongly for someone that she had the same courage