IN WHICH WE REACH THE SPANISH MAIN
It was as Peterson had said--nothing on the river could touch the
_Belle Helene_. 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
doubt whether 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?" asked Jean 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'Olonnois solemnly, "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 Cote 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 enough for 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 Cote 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 Cote Blanche. You'll get a lot of
floating 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 Cote 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.