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The Swashbuckler - Finding and Keeping Him. A
Ladies' Guide
By Dave Whippman
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Finding your swashbuckler is no problem - he'll find you, though first you might
have to experience the discomfort of being captured by pirates, outlaws, or
enemy soldiers. This man is great at rescue, and his timing is perfect. At the
very moment when your strength gives out, and you can no longer fight off the
advances of the repulsive villain, our hero will crash through the window
on a rope/leap from his horse/clamber into the speedboat. In fact, a cynic might
wonder if he's let you struggle for a while so as to build the drama. After all,
he could probably have warned you about the pirate ship while you were back in
port, and saved everyone the trouble, but it just wouldn't be the same.
Alternately, he might be the pirate, outlaw, etc. and you're the outraged,
respectable woman who falls into his dastardly clutches. In that case, what can
you expect? Well, a lot depends on the setting, but one thing's for certain: if
you're big on political correctness, you're in for a bad time. This fellow never
heard of Germaine Greer, and he thinks Spare Rib is a barbecue. Protesting about
his attitudes will achieve nothing except a smack on your backside (well, try to
see it from his point of view, it makes a change from slapping his own thigh)
and what's even more annoying is that his men will laugh heartily (in fact they
do everything heartily).
Speaking of his men, you'd better resign yourself that for some time to come,
they're his priority. Our swashbuckler is 100% heterosexual, but male bonding is
essential in his line of work. In fact, some of them may protest that a woman is
bad luck on a warship, cavalry patrol, or whatever, and demand that he get rid
of you. Don't worry - he won't, though at this early stage there'll be some
hard-headed reason for keeping you. ("She's a sullen wench to be sure,
lads, and I've a mind to feed her to the sharks like you say, but her father the
Count of Torremelinos will pay a fortune in doubloons to see her scowling face
again.") Given time, you'll actually get to like his cronies,
though on the face of it they're an unappealing lot: all of them ugly and
bristle-jawed (the male bonding bit doesn't go as far as sharing his razor; he's
always immaculately clean shaven except for the optional dashing moustache),
most of them considerably older than you-know-who (not that he's insecure,
he just doesn't need that kind of competition.) In fact, they're important for
the development of the romance, because when the oldest and ugliest of them
is mortally wounded, and you see tears in the hero's eyes as he cradles the old
fellow's head in his lap and listens to his dying words ("I… I never
thought a Spaniard could aim that good, Cap'n") you realize for the
first time that there's a sensitive heart within that bluff exterior.
At first you're shocked. Until now, you thought your captor was nothing more
than a violent, chauvinist, hard-drinking oaf. But there's more to him than
that. After all, he's a swashbuckler, not a premier league footballer. Soon
after that, you admit to yourself that it's him you really want; your previous
life as a respectable housewife or staid governess is no longer for you, and you
couldn't face going back to your dull husband or wealthy father or stuffy old
guardian.
But how to win him? Well, there are a number of options. One line of attack is
via the aforesaid sensitivity: you can offer him a pair of listening ears and a
soft shoulder. ("My men would laugh at me if they knew how I cried when my
pet goldfish passed away, yet you seem to understand, countess."). A
variation of this approach is to cry on his shoulder: "It's strange. My
husband, the foremost chartered accountant in England, wooed me with flowers and
chocolates, while you carried me off on your shoulder as though I were simply
another item of booty from that ship, yet I've never talked to him, as I have to
you, about my years at the orphanage."
A totally different method is to prove you're as good as him at his own game.
You don't have to be the simpering heroine who covers her eyes while the
fighting goes on: you can get in there and mix it, thereby earning his respect.
("By thunder, girl, you wield a cutlass as if Blackbeard himself
taught you!") But this requires a balancing act between action and
femininity - your swashbuckler will be turned off by the butch type. After the
battle's over, and the decks have been sluiced clean of blood, you should think
about turning all feminine: shedding a few strategic tears and bemoaning the
poor fallen lads whom you came to know and love (not in the same way as you love
him, of course: he's the jealous type).
And keeping him? Well, first, are you sure you want to? After all, in the long
term, a fellow who spends his time in buccaneering or horse chases isn't a good
bet as a husband and father. In fact a kind of catch 22 operates here; if
he gives up his rip-roaring ways and holds down a steady job, you might as well
have stayed with your original boring old hubby. In any case, however good his
intentions, a change of career won't be easy. ("Interesting CV you've got
here, Mr. Daring. Sergeant in the Foreign Legion, US Cavalry Lieutenant,
frontier marshal, South Seas pearl diver. I don't suppose somewhere along the
way you took the part 2 Institute of Financial Management exam? Ah, I thought
perhaps not. In that case, I'm afraid we at Acme Investment Corp. don't really
have a niche for you.").
On balance, this may be a case for loving and leaving. The sad truth is that the
swashbuckler doesn't age well - witness later photos of Errol Flynn, Anthony
Steel, etc. In this respect, he's at a disadvantage compared to other romantic
archetypes - the Professor, for instance, who can always invent an elixir of
youth; or the Boy Next Door, who ages invisibly because he's been dressing and
acting like a 70 year old from the age of 5.
Better let your swashbuckler ride alone into the sunset, and keep your
incorruptible memories of a brief, glorious romance. Still, you never know:
maybe you'll meet again one day, when your Saga cruise ship is boarded
by a crew of ageing villains, and your heart leaps as you look at the one who's
got a rapier in one hand and a zimmer frame in the other.
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Dave Whippman says: “I'm in my fifties,
originally a West Countryman, at present living in Lancashire. I've spent most
of my working life as a psychiatric nurse, writing as a hobby, mainly for the
small press. Away from the keyboard, I like to play chess and practice harmonica
(not simultaneously).”
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