At about this time Jean approached behind the screen, bearing a copy of a late edition of an evening paper, which fortunately he seemed not closely to have scanned. I took it quickly and placed it with the front page down.
“Monsieur no doubt has heard of the great sensation?” commented Jean.
“No, what is that, Jean?”
“The papers have been full of nothing else. It seems a band of cutthroat river pirates have stolen a gentleman’s yacht, and so far as can be told, have escaped with it down the river, perhaps entirely to the Gulf.”
“That, Jean,” said I, “is a most extraordinary thing. Are you sure of the facts?”
“Naturally—is it not all in the paper? This gentleman then has his yacht anchored at Natchez, and he goes ashore on important business. Comes then this band of river ruffians in the dark, and as though pirates of a hundred years ago, and led by Jean Lafitte himself, they capture the vessel!”
“Mon Dieu!Jean you do not say so?”
“But assuredly I say so; nor is that all, Monsieur. On board this yacht was a young and beautiful lady of great wealth and beauty, as well—the fiancée, so it is said, of this gentleman who owns the yacht. What is the action of these pirates in regard to this beautiful young lady and her aunt, who also is upon the yacht for the cruise? Do they place these ladies ashore? No, they imprison them upon the boat, and so,pouf!off for the gulf. Nor has any trace of them been found from that time till now. A rumor goes that the gentleman who owns the yacht is at this time in New Orleans, but as for that unfortunate young lady, where is she to-night? I demand that, Monsieur. Ah! And she is beautiful.”
“Now, is not this a most extraordinary tale you bring, Jean? Let us hope it is not true. Why, if it were true, that ruffian might escape and hide for days or weeks in the bayous around Barataria, even as Jean Lafitte did a hundred years ago.”
“Assuredly he might. Ah, I know it well, that country. But Jean Lafitte was no pirate, simply a merchant who did not pay duties. And he sold silks and laces cheap to the people hereabout—I could show you the very causewaythey built across the marsh, to reach the place where he landed his boats at the heads of one of the great bays—it is not far from the plantation of Monsieur Edouard Manning, below New Iberia. Believe me, Monsieur, the country folk hunt yet for the buried treasure of Jean Lafitte; and sometimes they find it.”
“You please me, Jean. Tell me more of that extraordinary person.”
“Extraordinary, you may call him, Monsieur. And he had a way with women, so it is said—even his captives came to admire him in time, so generous and bold was he.”
“A daredevil fellow I doubt not, Jean?”
“You may say that. But of great good and many kindnesses to all the folk in the lower parts of this state in times gone by. Now—say it not aloud, Monsieur—scarce a family in all Acadia but has map and key to some buried treasure of Jean Lafitte. Why, Monsieur, here in this very café, once worked a negro boy. He, being sick, I help him as a gentleman does those negro, to be sure, and he was of heart enough to thank me for that. So one day he came to me and told me a story of a treasure of a descendant of Lafitte. He himself, this negro, had helped his master to bury that same treasure.”
“And does he know the place now? Could he point it out?”
“Assuredly, and the master who buried it now is dead.”
“Then why does not the negro boy go and dig it up again, very naturally?”
“Ah, for the best reasons. That old Frenchman, descendant of Jean Lafitte, was no fool. What does he in this burial of treasure? Ah! He takes him a white parrot, a black cat and a live monkey, and these three, all of them, he buries on top of the treasure-box and covers all with earth and grass above the earth. And then above the grave he says such a malediction upon any who may disturb it as would alone frighten to the death any person coming there and braving such a curse. I suggested to the negro boy that he should show me the spot. Monsieur, he grew pale in terror. Not for a million pounds of solid gold would he go near that place, him.”
“That also is a most extraordinary story, Jean. Taken with this other fairy tale which you have told me to-night, you almost make me feel that we are back in the great old days which this country once saw. But alas!”
“As you say, Monsieur, alas!”
“Now as to that ruffian who stole the gentleman’s yacht,” I resumed. “Has he reflected?Has he indeed made his way to the Gulf? Why, he might even be hiding here in the city somewhere.”
“Ah, hardly that, and if so, he well may look out for the law.”
“I think a sherbet would be excellent for the lady now, Jean,” I ventured, whereat he departed. I turned over the paper and showed Helena her own portrait on the front page, four columns deep and set in such framing of blackfaced scare type as made me blush for my own sins.
“It is an adventure, Helena!” said I. “Had you not been far the most beautiful woman in this restaurant to-night, and had not Jean been all eyes for you, he otherwise would have looked at this paper rather than at you. Then he would have looked at us both and must have seen the truth.”
“It is an adventure,” said she slowly, her color heightening; and later, “You carried it off well, Harry.”
I bowed to her across the table. “Need was to act quickly, for even this vile newspaper cut is a likeness of you. One glance from Jean, which may come at any moment later, Helena, and your parole will be needless further.”
“I confess I wished to test you. It was wrong, foolish of me, Harry.”
“You have been tested no less, Helena, to-night. And I have found you a gentle high-born lady, as I had always known you to be.Noblesse oblige, my dear, and you have proved it so to-night. Any time from now until twelve you need no more than raise a finger—I might not even see you do so—and you might go free. Why do you not?”
“If the woodcock is as good as the canvasback,” was her somewhat irrelevant reply, “I shall call the evening a success, after all.”
But Helena scarcely more than tasted her bird, and pushed back after a time the broiled mushroom which Jean offered her gently.
“Does not your appetite remain?” I inquired. “Come, you must not break Jean’s heart doubly.”
She only pushed back her chair. “I am sorry,” said she, “but I want to go back to the boat.”
“Back to the boat! You astonish me. I thought escape from theBelle Helènewas the one wish of your heart these days.”
“And so it is.”
“Then, Helena, why not escape here and now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not mean for you to break your parole—Iknow you too well for that. But give me additional parole, my dear girl. Give me your word. Say that one word. Then we can rise here and announce to Mr. Davidson and all the world and its newspapers that no crime has been done and only a honeymoon has been begun. Come, Helena, all the world loves a lover. All New Orleans will love us if you will raise your finger and say the word.”
I looked toward her. Her head was bent and tears were dropping from her eyes, tears faithfully concealed by her kerchief. But she said no word to me, and at her silence my own heart sank—sank until my courage was quite gone, until I felt the return of a cold brutality. Still I endeavored to be gentle with one who deserved naught of gentleness.
“Do not hurry, Helena,” I said. “We can return when you like. But the salad—and the coffee! And see, you have not touched your wine.”
“Take me back,” she said, her voice low. “I hate you. Till the end of the world I’ll hate you.”
“If I could believe that, Helena, it would matter nothing to me to go a mile farther on any voyage, a foot farther to shield myself or you.”
“Take me back,” she said to me again. “I want to go to Aunt Lucinda.”
“Jean,” said I, a moment later when he reappeared. “Mademoiselle wishes to see one more ice-box in the kitchen. We are in search of something. May we go again?”
Jean spread out his arms in surprise, but pushed open the green door. We thus passed, shielded by our screen and unobserved. Once within, I grasped Jean firmly by the shoulder and pressed a ten dollar bill into his hand, with other money for the reckoning.
“Take this, Jean, for yourself. We do not care to pass out at the front, for certain reasons—do you comprehend? It is of Mademoiselle.”
“It is of Mademoiselle? Ah, depend upon me. What can I do?”
“This. Leave us here, and we will walk about. Meantime go out the back way to the alley, Jean, and have a taxicab ready at the mouth of the alley. Come quick when it is arranged and let us go, because we must go at once. At another time, Jean, we will return, I trust more happily. Then we shall order such a dinner as will take Luigi himself a day to prepare, my friend!”
“For Mademoiselle?”
“For Madame, Jean, as I hope.” And now Ishowed him the portrait on the front page of the newspaper he had brought me. “Quick,” I said, “and since you have been faithful, some day I will explain all this to you—with Madame, as I hope.”
“BUT, Monsieur,” began Jean, a few moments later, as he entered from the alley door.
“Eh bien?What then, Jean?” I demanded hastily, already leading Helena toward the door.
“This! This!” And he waved in my face a copy of the same paper which had lain on our table. “The streets are full of it. And I see, I behold—I recognize! It is Mademoiselle—that is to be Madame!”
My face flushed hotly. “As I hope, Jean.” That was all I said. “Now, please, out of our way. Is the taxi there?”
He stepped aside. I heard his voice, eager, apologetic, but knew that now no time must be lost. Vague sounds of voices came to us from the main room of the café, ordinarily so quiet. I felt, rather than knew, that soon the news would be about town. The throb of the taxi was music to my ears when I found it in the dark.
“Stop for nothing,” said I to the driver, as Iclosed the door. “Slip K, on the river-front, below the warehouses. Stop at the car tracks where they turn. And go fast—I must catch a boat that is just leaving.”
“What boat—from there—are you sure, sir?” asked he, touching his cap.
“Of course I’m sure. Go on! Don’t stop to talk, man!”
He made no answer to this, but turned to his wheel. We shot out into Royal Street, turned down it, spun into a narrow way past the old Cathedral, crossed Jackson Square in the full moonlight, passed the Old Market, and threaded dark and dirty thoroughfares parallel to the river. None sought to stay us, though many paused in the gently squalid life of that section, to look after our churning car, a thing not usual there so far from depot or usual landing place.
Helena sat silent, looking fixedly ahead through the glass at the driver’s back; nor did I find words myself. In truth, I was as one now carried forward on the wings of adventure itself, with small plans, and no duty beyond taking each situation as it might later come. A dull feeling that I had sinned beyond forgiveness came upon me, a conviction that my brutality to one thus innocent and tender hadpassed all limits of atonement. She could never forgive me now, I felt; and what was almost as intolerable in the reflection, I could not forgive myself, could not find any specious argument longer to justify myself in thus harrying the sensibilities of a woman such as this one who now sat beside me in this mad midnight errand, proud, pale and silent. Slowly I sought to adjust myself to the thought of defeat, to the feeling that my presumption now had o’er-leaped itself. Yes, I must say good-by to her, must release her; and this time, as I well knew, forever.
But, though I turned toward her half a dozen times in these few minutes, she made no response to what she must have known was my demand upon her attention. I gathered her gloves for her, and her flowers, but she only took them, her lips parting in courtesy, not in warmth, and no sound came to my ears, straining always to hear her voice, a pleasant sound in a world of discords ever. I even touched her arm, suddenly, impulsively. “Helena!” But she, not knowing that I meant to give her liberty, though over a dead heart, shrank as though I had added physical insult to my verbal taunts. Anyway I turned, I was fast in the net of circumstance, fanged by the springsof misapprehension.... Well, then, but one thing remained. She had said it was a man’s place to fight, and so now it would be! I must go on, and take my punishment until justice had been done. Justice and my own success I no longer confused in my own mind; but in my soul was the grim resolution that justice should first be done to one human soul, even though that chanced to be my own. After that, I should get her again in the hands of her friends and myself; indeed, disappear beyond all seeking, in parts of the world best known to myself. If I myself were fair, why should not fairness as well be given to me?
And with no more than this established, and nothing definite in plan, either, for the present, I mechanically opened the door of the taxi for her when the driver pulled up and bent a querying face about to ask whether or not we now were opposite Slip K. I noted that he did not at once drive away. Evidently he sat for some moments gazing after us as we disappeared in the gloom of the river-front. His tale, as I afterward learned, enabled the morning papers to print a conclusive story describing the abduction of Miss Emory and her undoubted retention on the stolen yacht, which, after lying at or near New Orleans, some timethat night, once more mysteriously had disappeared.
No doubt remained, according to this new story, that the supplies put aboard at Slip K by Lavallier and Thibodeau had gone to this very craft, the stolen yacht! With this came many wild and confusing accounts and descriptions, including a passionate interview with Mr. Calvin Davidson, of New York, who had announced his intention of overhauling these ruffians, at any cost whatsoever; and much counsel to the city officials, mingled with the bosom-beating of one enterprising journal which declared it had put in commission a yacht of its own, under charge of two of its ablest reporters, who had instructions to take up the chase and to remain out until the mystery had been solved and this beautiful young woman had been rescued from her horrible situation and restored again to her home. There were more portraits of Helena—furnished, most like, from Cal Davidson’s collection; one also of Aunt Lucinda (from a photograph of far earlier days); and lastly, a half-page portrait of myself, the unnamed ruffian who was the undoubted leader in this abduction—the portrait being drawn by a staff artist “from description of eye-witnesses.” As I later saw this portraitI rejoiced that I was long ignorant of its existence: and had I known that night that yonder chauffeur to whom I had given undue largess had such treason as that portrait in his soul, I know not what I might have done with him.
But of this misinformation, of course, I was at the time ignorant, as was all the city ignorant of the truth. What happened was otherwise, nor was the truth learned even by the great metropolitan journals of the North, which now recognized the existence of a “big story”, and added their keener noses to the trail. The great fact overlooked by them all was that they pursued no criminal, but a man of education, I may fairly say of brains.
In my law practise many baffling cases came to me, because I most liked, precisely, that sort of case. Once, for instance, a family of my town well-nigh was disrupted by a series of anonymous letters, done in typewriting, accusing an honorable man of dishonorable conduct. The letters left the man’s wife in an agony of loyalty and suspicion alike. He brought me the letters, and to me the case was simple from the start. I got the repair slips of a certain typewriter house, and compared them until I found a machine with a bent letter M—knowingas I did that each machine has its own individuality as ineradicable and as inescapable as any personal handwriting. So at last I went to a small outlying city, and going into a business house there asked to see the stenographer in private. “My dear Miss ——,” I said to her, “why do you persist in sending these letters to Mr. ——?” I laid them before her, and she wept and confessed, very naturally.
That was merely jealousy of a discharged employee; and it was easy as a case—easier I always thought, than the probate case I won over a contested signature charge filed by certain heirs under a will. In this case I merely went to the dead man’s earlier home and learned his history. Time out of mind he, a thrifty and respected German, had held some petty county office or other; and by going over old county warrants and receipts signed in forty years by my man, I discovered what I already knew—that a man’s signature changes many times during his life, especially if he begins life as an uncultured immigrant and advances to a fair business success later in his life: so that his later signatures on records proved his signature in his will.
Again, liking these simple mysteries, I had long ago learned to laugh at the old and foolishassertion that murder will out, that not the most skilful criminal can long conceal a capital crime. It is not true. No one knows how many murders and other crimes go unsolved or even unknown. The trouble with murderers, as I knew well enough, was that they lacked mentality. And often I said to myself that were it in my heart to kill a man, I assuredly could do so, and all my life escape unsuspected of the crime.
It may be that my fondness for these less obvious things in the law had rendered me a trifle different from my fellow men. I could never approach any question in life without wanting to go all about it and to the bottom and top, like a cooper with his barrel. I was thus actuated, without doubt, in my relations years since with Helena Emory—I knew the shrewdness and accuracy of my own trained mind. I confess I exulted in the infallible, relentless logic of my mind, a mind able and well trained, especially well trained in reason and argument. So, when I put the one great brief of all my life before Helena, my splendid argument why should she love me, I did so, at first, in the conviction that it must be convincing. Had I not myself worked it out in each detail, had not my calm, cool, accuratereason guarded each portal? Was it, indeed, not a perfect brief—that one I held in my first lost case—the lost case which sent me out of my profession, left me a stranded hulk of a man?
But then, when these two pirate youngsters had found me and touched me with the living point of some new flame of life, so that I knew a vast world existed beyond the nature of the intellect, the old ways clung to me, after all. Even as I swore to lay hold on youth and on adventure (and on love, if, in sooth, that might be for me now), I could not fight as yet wholly bare of the old weapons that had so long fitted my hand. So, even on that very morning when we set forth from my farm to be pirates, my mind ran back to its old cunning, and I recalled my earlier boast to myself that if I ever cared to be a criminal I knew I could be able to cover my tracks.
Those writing-folk, therefore, who now wasted thousands of dollars in pursuit of trace and trail of Black Bart, wealthy ex-lawyer, knew nothing of their man, and guessed nothing of his caliber or of his methods. They even failed to look in plain sight for their trail maker. And having done so, they forgot that water leaves no trail. Yet that simple thoughthad come to my mind as I had sat at breakfast in my own house, some weeks before this time! Even then I had planned all this.
Absorbed as I had been in this pursuit of Helena, baffled as I had been by her, unhappy as I now was over her own unhappiness, fierce as was my love for her, still and notwithstanding, some trace of my old self clung to me even now when, her hand on my arm, I guided Helena in silence over the creaking planks of the dock, and saw, at last, dim beyond the edge, the boom of the Mississippi’s tawny flood, rolling on and onward to the sea. Here was a task, a problem, a chase, an endeavor, an adventure! To it, I was impelled by my old training; into it I was thrust by all these fevers of the blood. Even though she did not love me, she was woman ... in the dark air of night, it seemed to me, I could smell the faint maddening fragrance of her hair.... No. It was too late! I would not release her. I would go on, now!
And with this resolution, formed when I caught sight of the passing flood, I found a sudden peace and calm, and so knew that I was fit for my adventure as yon other boy, L’Olonnois, was for his.
I paused at the edge of the wharf, at the sideof our boat. We still were arm in arm, still silent, though she must have felt the beating of my heart.
“Helena,” I whispered, “yonder, one step, and your parole is over. Here it is not. That boat, just astern, is the one in which Cal Davidson chased us all the way from Natchez, in which I chased him all the way from Dubuque. His men do not know we are here, nor does he as yet. Now, what is it that you wish to do?”
She stood silent for some time, tightening her wrap at the throat against the river damp, and made no answer, though her gaze took in the dark hull of the low-lying craft made fast below us. When at last:
“One thing,” she began, “I will not do.”
“What is it?” I asked. We spoke low, but I well knew my men were aware of our coming.
“I shall ask no favor of you.” And as she spoke, she stepped lightly on the rubbered deck of theBelle Helène.
“Halt! Who goes there?” called the hoarse voice of Jean Lafitte, the faithful: and I knew the joy of the commander feeling that loyalty is his.
“’Tis I, Black Bart,” I answered, full and clear. “Cast off, my friends!”
At once theBelle Helènewas full of activity.Peterson I met at the wheel. I heard the bells jangle below. I saw Jean, active as a cat, ready at the mooring-stub, waiting for the line to ease. Then with my own hand I threw on every light of theBelle Helène, so that she blazed, in the power of six thousand candles, search-light and all: so that what had been a passing web of gloom now became a rippling river. The warehouses started into light and shade, the shadows of the wharf fled, the decks of the grimy craft alongside became open of all their secrets.
And now, revealed full in the flood of light as she stood at the side portal, Helena did what I had not planned. Freed of her parole she was—and she had asked no favor of me—so she had right to make attempt to escape; and I gently stepped before her even as Jean cast off and sprang aboard: and as I heard L’Olonnois’ voice imperatively demanding silence of the pounding at the after cabin door. All at once, I heard what Helena heard—the rattle of wheels on the stone flagging of the street beyond. And then I saw her fling back her cloak and stand with cupped hands. Her voice was high, clear and unwavering, such voice as a pirate’s bride should have, fearless and bold.
“Ahoy, there! Help! Help!” she cried.
Some sort of shout came from the street, we knew not from whom. A noise of an opening hatch came from theSea Roverat our stern, and a man’s tousled head came into view.
“What’s goin’ on here,” he demanded, as quaveringly as querulously.
I made no answer, but saw our bows crawl out and away, felt the sob of the screws, the arm of the river also, and knew a vast and pleasing content with life.
“L’Olonnois!” I called through the megaphone.
“Aye, aye, Sir!” I heard his piping rejoinder.
“Cast loose the stern-chaser and fire her at yon varlet if he makes a move.” I knew our deck cannon was loaded with nothing more deadly than newspapers, but I also knew that valor feeds on action. Not that I had given orders to fire on the world in general. So, I confess, I was somewhat surprised, soon after the shout of approval which greeted my command, to hear the air rent by the astonishing reverberation of our Long Tom, which rolled like thunder all along the river-front, breaking into a thousand echoes in the night.
I heard the patter of feet along the deck, and had sight of Jean Lafitte tugging at a halyard. Not content with our defiance of law and order, he must needs break out the Jolly Rover with its skull and cross-bones. And aswe swung swiftly out into midstream, ablaze in light from bow to stern, ghostlike in our swiftness and the silence of our splendid engines, I had reason to understand all the descriptive writing which, as I later learned, greeted the defiant departure of this pirate craft and its ruffian crew. Thus I bade all the world come and take from me what I had taken for my own.
I stepped to the wheel with Peterson, expecting to find him pale in consternation. To my surprise he was calm, save for a new glitter in his eye.
“There’s nothing on the river can touch her,” said he, as he picked up his first channel light and called for more speed. “Let ’em come!”
A sudden recklessness had caught us all, it seemed, the old spirit of lawless man breaking the leash of custom. I shared it—with exultation I knew I shared it with these others. The lust of youth for adventure held us all, and the years were as naught.
I turned now to find Helena, and met L’Olonnois, his face beaming.
“Wasn’t that a peach of a shot?” said he. “It would of blew yon varlet out of the water, if I’d had anything to load with except just them marbles. Are you looking for Auntie Helen? She has just went below.”
IT was as Peterson had said—nothing on the river could touch theBelle Helène. And it also was as I had not said but had thought—the water left no trail. By daylight we were far below the old battle-field, far below the old forts, far below La Hache, and among the channels of the great estuary whose marshes spread for scores of miles on either hand impenetrably. Quarantine lay yonder, the Southwest Passage opened here; and on beyond, a stone’s throw now for a vessel logging our smooth speed, rolled the open sea. And still there rose behind us the smoke of no pursuing craft, nor did any seek to bar our way. So far as I knew, the country had not been warned by any wire down-stream from the city. We saw to it that no calling points were passed in daylight. As for the chance market shooter paddling his log pirogue to his shooting ground in the dawn, or the occasional sportsman of some ducking club likewise engaged, they saluted us gaily enough, but without suspicion. Even had they known, I doubtwhether they would have informed on us, for all the world loves a lover, and these Southerners themselves now traveled waters long known to adventure and romance.
So at last, as the sun rose, we saw the last low marshy points widen, flatten and recede, and beyond the outlying towers of the lights caught sight of lazy liners crawling in, and felt the long throb of the great Gulf’s pulse, and sniffed the salt of the open sea.
I had not slept, nor had Peterson, nor had Williams, my engineer. My men never demurred when hard duty was asked of them, but put manly pride above union hours, I fancy, resolved to show me they could endure as long as I. And I asked none to endure more. Moreover, even my pirate crew was seized of some new zest. I question whether either Jean Lafitte or Henri L’Olonnois slept, save in his day clothing, that night of our run from New Orleans; for now, just as we swept free of the last point, so that we might call that gulf which but now had been river, I heard a sound at my elbow as I bent over a chart, and turned to see both my associates, the collars of their sweaters turned up against the damp chill of the morning.
“Where are we now, Black Bart?” askedJean Lafitte. I could see on his face the mystic emotion of youth, could see his face glorified in the uplifting thrill of this mystery of the sea and the dawn and the unknown which now enveloped us. “Where are we now?” he asked; but it was as though he feared he slept and dreamed, and that this wondrous dream of the dawn might rudely be broken by some command summoning him back to life’s routine.
“Surely your soul should tell you, Jean Lafitte,” said I, “for yonder, as I may say, now rolls the Spanish Main. Its lift is now beneath our feel. You are home again, Jean Lafitte. Yonder are the bays and bayous and channels in the marshes, where your boats used to hide. And there, L’Olonnois, my hearty, with you, I was used to ride the open sea, toward the Isles of Spain, waiting for the galleons to come.”
“I know, I know!” said my blue-eyed pirate softly and reverently; and so true was all his note to that inner struggling soul that lay both in his bosom and my own, that I ceased to lament for my sin in so allowing modern youth to be misled, and turned to him with open hand, myself also young with the undying youth of the world.
“Many a time, Black Bart,” said L’Olonnoissolemnly, “have we crowded on full sail when the lookout gave the word of a prize a-comin’, while we laid to in some hidden channel over yonder.”
“Aye, aye, many a time, many a time, my hearty.”
“—An’ loosed the bow-chaser an’ shot away her foremast.”
“—At almost the first shot, L’Olonnois.”
“—So that her top hamper came down in a run an’ swung her broadside to our batteries.”
“—And we poured in a hail of chain-shot and set her hull afire.”
“—And then launched the boats for the boardin’ parties,” broke in Jean Lafitte, standing on one leg in his excitement; “—an’ so made her a prize. An’ then we made ’em walk the plank amid scenes of wassail—all but the fair captives.”
I fell silent. But L’Olonnois’ blue eyes were glowing. “An’ them we surrounded with every rude luxury,” said he, “finally retiring to the fortresses of the hidden channels of the coast, where we defied all pursuit. This looks like one of them places, though I may be mistook,” he added judiciously. I shuddered to see how Jimmy’s grammar had deteriorated under my care.
“Yes,” said I, “we are now near to several of those places, scenes of our bold deeds. The south coast of Louisiana lies on our right, cut by a thousand bays and channels deep enough for hiding a pinnace or even a stout schooner. Yonder, Jean, is Barataria Bay, your old home. Here, under my finger, is Côte Blanche. Here comes the Chafalay, through its new channel—all this floating hyacinth, all this red water, comes from Texas soil, from the Red River, now discharging in new mouths. Yonder, west of the main boat channels that make toward the railways far inland, lie the salt reefs and the live-oak islands. Here is the long key they now call Marsh Island. It was not an island until you, stout Jean Lafitte, ordered the Yankee Morrison to take a hundred black slaves with spades and cut a channel across the neck, so that you could get through more quickly from the Spanish Main to the hidden bayous where your boats lay concealed—until the wagons from Iberia could come and traffic at the causeway for your wares. Do you not remember it well?”
“Aye, that I do, Black Bart!” said he; and I was sure he did.
“And yonder channel, once just wide enough for a yawl, is to-day washed out wide enoughfor a fleet to pass through—though not deep enough. In that fact now lies our safety.”
“How do you mean, Black Bart?” demanded he.
“Why, that all this water over yonder west of us is so shallow that it takes a wise oyster boat to get through to Morgan City. The shrimpers who reap these waters, even the market shooting schooners who carry canvasbacks out of these feeding beds in the marshes, have to know the tides and the winds as well, and if one be wrong the boat goes aground on these wide shoals. Less than a fathom here and here and here on the chart soundings—less than that if an offshore wind blows.”
“You mean we’ll go aground?”
“No, I mean that any pursuer very likely would. The glass is falling now. Soon the wind will rise. If it comes offshore for five hours—and it will wait for five hours before it does come offshore—we shall be safe, inside, at one of your old haunts, Jean Lafitte; and back of us will lie fifty miles of barrier—yon varlet may well have a care.”
“Yon varlet don’t know where we have went,” commented L’Olonnois in his alarming grammar.
“No, that is true. The water leaves no trail.Most Northerners go to Florida for the winter, and not to these marshes. Methinks they will have a long chase.”
“An’ here,” said Jean Lafitte, with much enthusiasm, “we kin lie concealed an’ dart out on passin’ craft that strike our fancy as prizes.”
“We could,” said I, “but we will not.”
“Why not?” He seemed chilled by my reply.
“Oh, we shall not need to,” I hastened to explain. “We have everything we need for a long stay here. We can live chiefly by hunting and fishing for a month or so, until——”
“Until the fair captive has gave her consent,” broke in L’Olonnois, also with enthusiasm.
“Yes,” said I, endeavoring a like enthusiasm. “Or, at least, until we find it needful to go inland to one of the live-oak islands. There are houses there. I know some of the planters over yonder.”
“Let’s make them places scenes of rapeen!” suggested Jean Lafitte anxiously. “They must have gold and jewels. Besides, I bear it well in mind, many a time have I and my stout crew buried chests of treasure on them islands. We c’d dig ’em up. Maybe them folks has a’ready dug ’em up. Then why not search their strongholds with a stout party of our own hardy bullies, Black Bart?”
“No,” said I mildly; “for several reasons I think it best for my hardy bullies to go and eat some breakfast and then go to sleep. If we go into the live-oak heights above Côte Blanche, I think we’ll only ask for salt. I am almost sure, for instance, that my friend Edouard Manning, of Bon Secours plantation, would give me salt if I asked it. He has done so before. Beshrew me, it should go hard with him if he refused.”
“There’s a barrel an’ eight boxes o’ sacks o’ salt aboard,” said the practical Jean Lafitte. “What’d you want so much salt for?”
“’Twas yon varlet’s idea,” said I, “when he laid in the ship’s stores. But I had a mind that, to my taste, no salt is better than that made by the Manning plantation mines. But now,” I added, “to your breakfast, after you have bathed.”
“Peterson,” said I, after they had left me, and pointing to the chart, “lay her west by south. I want to run inside the Timbalier Shoals.”
“Very shallow there, Mr. Harry—just look at the soundings, sir.”
“That’s why I want to go. Hold on till you get the light at this channel here, southeast of the Côte Blanche. You’ll get a lot offloating hyacinth, but do what you can. I’ll take my trick, as soon as I get a bite to eat. By night we’ll be over our hurry and we can all arrange for better sleep.”
“And then—I—ahem! Mr. Harry, what are your plans?” He was just a trifle troubled over all this.
“My plans, Peterson,” said I, “are to anchor off Timbalier to-night, to anchor in this channel of Côte Blanche to-morrow—and to eat breakfast now.” Saying which I left him gloomily shaking his head, but laying her now west by south as I had made the course.
“The glass is falling mighty fast, Mr. Harry,” he called over his shoulder to me by way of encouragement.
MY boy had ironed my trousers, that is to say, the trousers I had given him the year previous, and which he now had loaned to me, my extremity being greater than his own. He had laundered my collars—a most useful boy, my China boy. I had, moreover, delving in Cal Davidson’s wardrobe, discovered yet another waistcoat, if possible more radiant even than the one with pink stripes, for that it was cross hatched with bars of pale pea green and mauve—I know not from what looms he obtained these wondrous fabrics. Thus bravely attired after breakfast, just before luncheon, indeed, it was, I felt emboldened to call upon the captive ladies once more. With much shame I owned that I had not seen Auntie Lucinda for nearly two days—and with much trepidation, also, for I knew not what new bitterness her soul, meantime, might have distilled into venom against my coming.
I knocked at the door of the ladies’ cabin, the aftermost suite on the boat, and, at first, had no answer. The door, naturally, on a boatof this size, would be low, the roof rising above decks no higher than one’s waist; and as I bent to knock again, the door of the companion stairs was suddenly thrust open against my face, and framed in the opening thus made, there appeared the august visage of Auntie Lucinda herself.
“Well, sir-r-r-r!” said she, after a time, regarding me sternly. I can by no means reproduce the awfulness of her “r’s.”
“Yes, madam?” I replied mildly, holding my nose, which had been smitten by the door.
She made no answer, but stood, a basilisk in mien.
“I just came, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” I began, “to ask you——”
“And time you did, sir-r-r-r! I was just coming to askyou——”
“And time you did, my dear Mrs. Daniver—I have missed you so much, these several days. So I just called to ask for your health.”
“You need not trouble about my health!”
“But I do, I do, madam! I give you my word, I was awake all night, thinking of—of your neuralgia. Neuralgia is something—something fierce, in a manner of speech—if one has it in the morning, my dear Mrs. Daniver.”
“Don’t ‘dear Mrs. Daniver’ me! I’m not your dear Mrs. Daniver at all.”
“Then whose dear Mrs. Daniver are you, my dear Mrs. Daniver?” I rejoined most impudently.
“If the poor dear Admiral were alive,” said she, sniffing, “you should repent those words!”
“I wish the poor dear Admiral were here,” said I. “I should like to ask an abler sailorman than Peterson what to do, with the glass falling as it is, and the holding ground none too good for an anchor. I thought it just as well to come and tell you to prepare for the worst.”
“The worst—what do you mean?” She now advanced three steps upward, so that her shoulders were above the cabin door. Almost mechanically she took my hand.
“The worst just now is nothing worse than an orange with ice, my dear Mrs. Daniver. And I only wanted you to come out on deck with—Miss Emory—and see how blue the sea is.”
She advanced another step, being fond of an iced orange at eleven-thirty. But now she paused. “My niece is resting,” said she, feeling her way.
“No, I am not,” I heard a voice say. Inadvertently I turned and almost perforce glanced down the cabin stair. Helena, in a loose morning wrap of pink, was lying on the couch. Shenow cast aside the covering of eider-down, and shaking herself once, sprang up the stairs, so that her dark hair appeared under Auntie Lucinda’s own. Slowly that obstacle yielded, and both finally stood on the after deck. The soft wind caught the dark tendrils of Helena’s hair. With one hand she pushed at them. The other caught her loose robe about her softly outlined figure.
“Helena!” remarked her aunt, frowning.
“I want an orange,” remarked Miss Emory, addressing the impartial universe, and looking about for John.
“And shall have it. But,” said I, finding a soft rug at the cabin-top, “I think perhaps you may find the air cool. Allow me.” I handed them chairs, and with a hand that trembled a bit put the soft covering over Helena’s shoulders. She drew it close about her with one hand, and her dark hair flowing about her cheeks, found her orange with the other when John came with his tray.
It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow lineof pelicans; and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket, I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in safety. All the world seemed a million miles away. Care did not exist. And—so intimate and swiftly comprehensive is the human soul, especially the more primal soul of woman—already and without words, this young woman seemed to feel the less need of conversation, to recognize the slackening rein of custom. So that a rug and a wrapper—granted always also an aunt—seemed to her not amiss as full equipment for reception of a morning caller.
“A very good orange,” said she at last.
“Yes,” said her aunt promptly; “I’m sure we ought to thank Mr. Davidson for them. He wassucha good provider.”
“Except in waistcoats,” I protested, casually indicating his latest contribution to my wardrobe. “Quantity, yes, I grant that, but as to quality, never! But why speak ill of the absent, especially regarding matters of an earlier and bygone day? Yon varlet no longer exists for us—we no longer exist for him. We have passed, as two ships pass yonder in the channel. I know not what he may be doing now, unless carrying roses to Miss Sally Byington.Certainly he can not know that I, his hated rival, am safe from all pursuit behind the Timbalier Shoals, and carrying oranges to a young lady in my belief almost as beautiful as the beautiful Sally.”
Aunt Lucinda turned upon me a baleful eye. “You grow flippant as well as rude, sir! As though you knew anything of that Byington girl. I doubt if you ever saw her.”
“Oh, yes—last night. Miss Emory and I both saw her, last night, at Luigi’s. As for yon varlet’s providing, while I would not too much criticize a man whose waistcoats I wear even under protest, it is but fair to say that these oranges and all the fresh things taken on at New Orleans, are of my providing, and not his. He was so busy providing other things for Miss Sally Byington.”
“I don’t think she is so beautiful,” said Helena, ceasing with her orange. “Her color is so full. Very likely she’ll be blowsy in a few years.”
“How can you say so!” I rebuked, with much virtuous indignation. But at the time I felt my heart leap at sight of Helena herself, the lines of her slim graceful figure defined even under the rug she had drawn about her neck, the wind-blown little neck curls and thelong fuller lock now plain against her fresh face, blown pale by the cool salt air that sang above us gently. I could no longer even feign an interest in any other woman in the world. So very unconsciously I chuckled to myself, and Helena heard me.
“You don’t think so yourself!” she remarked.
“Think what?”
“That she is so beautiful.”
“No, I do not. Not as beautiful as——”
“Look at the funny bird!” said Helena suddenly. Yet I could see nothing out of the ordinary in the sea-bird she pointed out, skimming and skipping close by.
“Sir,” demanded Aunt Lucinda, also suddenly, “how long is this to last?”
“You mean the orange-dish, Mrs. Daniver?” I queried politely. “As long as you like. I also am a good provider, although to no credit, as it seems.”
“You know I do not mean the oranges, sir. I mean this whole foolish business. You are putting yourself liable to the law.”
“So did Jean Lafitte, over yonder in Barataria,” said I, “but he lived to a ripe old age and became famous. Why not I as well?”
“—You are ruining those two boys. I weep to think of our poor Jimmy—why, he lords itabout as though he owned the boat. And such language!”
“He shall own a part of her if he likes, if all comes out well,” said I. “And as for Jean Lafitte, Junior, rarely have I seen a boy of better judgment, cooler mind, or more talent in machinery. He shall have an education, if he likes; and I know he will like.”
“It is wonderful what a waistcoat will do for the imagination,” remarked Helena, wholly casually. I turned to her.
“I presume it is Mr. Davidson who is to be the fairy prince,” added Aunt Lucinda.
“No, myself,” I spoke quietly. Aunt Lucinda for once was almost too unmistakable in her sniff of scorn.
“I admit it seems unlikely,” said I. “Still, this is a wonderful age. Who can say what may be gained by the successful pirate!”
“You act one!” commented Aunt Lucinda. “It is brutal. It is outrageous. It is abominable. No gentleman would be guilty of such conduct.”
“I grant you,” said I, but flushed under the thrust. “But I am no longer a gentleman where that conflicts with the purpose of my piracy. I come of a family, after all, madam, who often have had their way in piracy.”
“And left a good useful business to go away to idleness! And now speak of doing large things! With whose money, pray?”
“You are very direct, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I mildly, “but the catechism is not yet so far along as that.”
“But why did you do this crazy thing?”
“To marry Helena, and with your free consent as her next friend,” said I, swiftly turning to her. “Since I must be equally frank. Please don’t go!” I said to Helena, for now, very pale, she was starting toward the cabin door. But she paid no heed to me, and passed.
“So now you have it, plainly,” said I to Mrs. Daniver.
She turned on me a face full of surprise and anger mingled. “How dare you, after all that has passed? You left the girl years ago. You have no business, no fortune, not even the girl’s consent. I’ll not have it! I love her.” The good woman’s lips trembled.
“So do I,” said I gently. “That is why we all are here. It is because of this madness called love. Ah, Mrs. Daniver, if you only knew! If I could make you know! But surely you do know, you, too, have loved. Come, may you not love a lover, even one like myself? I’ll be good to Helena. Believe me, she is myone sacred charge in life. I love her. Not worthy of her, no—but I love her.”
“That’s too late.” But I saw her face relent at what she heard. “I have other plans. And you should have told her what you have told me.”
“Ah, have I not?” But then I suddenly remembered that, by some reversal of my logical mind, here I was, making love to Auntie Lucinda, whom I did not love, whereas in the past I had spent much time in mere arguing with Helena, whom I did love.
“I’m not sure that I’ve ever made it plain enough to her, that’s true,” said I slowly. “But if she gives me the chance, I’ll spend all my life telling her that very thing. That, since you ask me, is why we all are here—so that I may tell Helena, and you, and all the world, that very thing. I love her, very much.”
“But suppose she does not love you?” demanded Mrs. Daniver. “I’ll say frankly, I’ve advised her against you all along. She ought to marry a man of some station in the world.”
“With money?”
“You put it baldly, but—yes.”
“Would that be enough—money?” I asked.
“No. That is not fair——”
“—Only honor between us now.”
“It would go for to-day. Because, after all, money means power, and all of us worship power, you know—success.”
“And is that success—to have money, and then more money—and to go on, piling up more money—to have more summer places, and more yachts like this, and more city houses, and more money, money, money—yes, yes, that’s American, but is it all, is it right, is it the real ambition for a man! And does that bring a woman happiness?”
“What would you do if you had your money back?” asked Mrs. Daniver. “You had a fortune from your father.”
“What would I do?” I rejoined hotly. “What I did do—settle every claim against his honor as much as against his estate—judge his honor by my own standards, and not his. Pay my debts—pay all my debts. It’s independence, madam, and not money that I want. It’s freedom, Mrs. Daniver, that I want, and not money. So far as it would be the usual money, buying almost nothing that is worth owning, I give you my solemn oath I don’t care enough for it to work for it! So far as it would help me be a man, help me to build my own character, help me build manhood and character in my country—yes, I’d like it for that. But if moneywere the price of Helena herself, I’d not ask for it. The man who would court a girl with his money and not his manhood—the woman who marries for money, or the man who does—what use has God Almighty got for either of them? It’s men and women and things worth doing who make this world, Mrs. Daniver. I love her, so much, so clearly, so wholly, that I think it must be right. And since you’ve asked me, I’ve taken my man’s chance, just to get you two alone, where I could talk it over with you both.”
“It’s been talked over, Harry,” said she, rather uncomfortably. “Why not let the poor child alone? Has it occurred to you how terribly hard this is for her?”
“Yes. But she can end it easily. Tell me, is she engaged to Davidson?”
“What difference?”
“None.”
“Why ask, then?”
“Tell me!”
“Well then, no, not so far as I know.”
“You are sorry?”
“I had hope for it. It was all coming on so handsomely. At Natchez he was—he was, well, you know——”
“Almost upon the point?”
“Quite so. I thought, I believed that between there and——”
“Say between there and Baton Rouge——”
“Well, yes——”
“He would come to the main point?”
“Yes.”
“And he did not?”
“You can best answer. It was at Natchez that you and those ruffianly boys ran off with Mr. Davidson’s boat!”
“That’s all, your Honor,” I remarked. “Take the witness, Mr. Davidson!”
“But what right you have to cross-question me, I don’t know!” commented Mrs. Daniver, addressing a passing sea-gull, and pulling down the corners of her mouth most forbiddingly.
“My disused and forgotten art comes back to me once in a while, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” I answered exultantly. “Pray, do you notice how beautiful all the world is this morning? The sky is so wonderful, the sea so adorable, don’t you see?”
“I see that we are a long way from home. Tell me, are these sharks here?”
“Oodles,” said I, “and very large. No use trying to swim away. And yonder coast is inhabited only by hostile cannibals. Barataria itself, over yonder, is to-day no more than ashrimp-fishing village, part Chinese, part Greek and part Sicilian. The railway runs far to the north, and the ship channel is far to the east. No one comes here. It is days to Galveston, westward, and between lies a maze of interlocking channels, lakes and bayous, where boats once hid and may hide again. Once we unship our flag mast, and we shall lie so saucy and close that behind a bank of rushes we never would be seen. And we do not burn coal, and so make no smoke. Here is my chosen hiding ground. In short, madam, you are in my power!”
“But really, how far——”
“Since you ask, I will answer. Yonder, to the westward, a bayou comes into Côte Blanche. Follow that bayou, eighty miles from here, and you come to the house of my friend, Edouard Manning, the kindest man in Louisiana, which is to say much. I had planned to have the wedding there.”
“Your effrontery amazes me—I doubt your sanity!” said Aunt Lucinda, horrified. “But what good will all this do you?”
She had a certain bravery all her own, after all. Almost, I was on the point of telling her the truth; which was that I had during the long night resolved once more to offer myhand to Helena, and if she now refused me, to accept my fate. I would torture her no more. No, if now she were still resolute, it was my purpose to sail up yonder bayou, to land at the Manning plantation, and there to part forever from Helena and all my friends. I knew corners of the world far enough that none might find me.
But I did not tell Aunt Lucinda this. Instead, I made no answer; and we both sat looking out over the rippling gulf, silent for some time. I noted now a faint haze on the horizon inshore, like distant cloud-banks, not yet distinct but advancing. Aunt Lucinda, it seemed, was watching something else through the ship’s glasses which she had picked up near by.
“What is that, over yonder?” asked she—“it looks like a wreck of some kind.”
“It is a wreck—that of a lighthouse,” I told her. “It is lying flat on its side, a poor attitude for a lighthouse. The great tidal wave of the gulf storm, four years ago, destroyed it. We are now, to tell the truth, at the edge of that district which causes the Weather Bureau much uncertainty—a breeding ground of the tropical cyclones that break between the Indies and this coast.”
“And you bring us here?”
“Only to pass to the inner channels, madam, where we should be safer in case of storm. To-night, we shall anchor in the lee of a long island, where the lighthouse is still standing, in its proper position, and where we shall be safe as a church.”
“Sharks! Storms! Shipwrecks!” moaned she.
—“And pirates,” added I gently, “and cannibals. Yes, madam, your plight is serious, and I know not what may come of it all—I wish I did.”
“Well, no good will come of it, one thing sure,” said Aunt Lucinda, preparing to weep.
And indeed, an instant later, my mournful skipper seemed to bear her out. I saw Peterson standing expectant, a little forward, now.
“Well, Peterson?” I rose and went to him.
“I beg pardon, sir, Mr. Harry,” said he somewhat anxiously, “but we’ve bent her port shaft on a cursed oyster reef.”
“Very well, Peterson. Suppose we run with the starboard screw.”
“And the intake’s clogged again with this cursed fine sand we’ve picked up.”
“After I warned Williams?”
“Yes, sir. And that’s not the worst, sir.”
“Indeed? You must be happy, Peterson!”
“We can’t log over eight knots now, and it’s sixty miles to our light back of the big key.”
“Excellent, Peterson!”
“And the glass is falling mighty fast.”
“In that case, Peterson,” said I, “the best thing you can do is to hold your course, and the best thing I can do is to get ready for lunch.”
“The best thing either of us can do is to get some sleep,” said he, “for we may not get much to-night. She’ll break somewhere after sunset to-night, very likely.”
“Peterson,” said I, “let us hope for the worst.”
All the same, I did not wholly like the look of things, for I had seen these swift gulf storms before. A sudden sinking of the heart came over me. What if my madness, indeed, should come to mean peril to her? Swiftly I stepped back to the door of the ladies’ cabin, where Mrs. Daniver now disappeared. “Helena!” I cried.
“Yes?” I heard her answer as she stepped toward the little stair.
“Did you say ‘Yes’?” I rejoined suddenly.
“No, I did not! I only meant to ask what you wanted.”
“As though you did not know! I wantedonly to call you to get ready for luncheon. One of the owners of this waistcoat has provided a pompano, not to mention some excellent endive. And the weather is fine, isn’t it?”