“Sail ho!”
The cry, called out from the heights of the shrouds, reverberated over
the ship like a trumpet-call.
For a moment there was silence, broken only by the lazy swish of the
sea against the ship’s side. Then the deck came to life as if by magic.
The moon, just beginning her climb across the partly clouded heavens,
illuminated the expanse of phosphorescent waters, at intervals, with a
clear and mellow light.
A mile or so to the east could be seen the upper spars and vaguely
indefinite bulk of a ship. If it had not been for the fact that the moon
had been hidden behind a bank of light clouds for the past half hour, the
stranger would have been detected long before. Again the cry rang out:
“Sail ho!”
By this time Lafitte himself was on deck and the bulwarks were already
lined by many of his men, whose number was rapidly increasing.
“Jacques!”
A short, wiry young seaman with bright reddish hair and an astonishing
number of freckles quickly responded to Jean’s call.
“Call Ramon....”
“_Mon capitaine_ will fight?”
“Send Ramon to me at once,” impatiently. “And Pedro.”
The auburn-haired youth was gone in a flash. A minute later Ramon, the
mate, and Pedro, the chief gunner, both of them half-breed Spaniards,
came for orders. Pierre Dominique was not on board the _Lizette_ at this
time, but was encamped with a small hunting party at an island rendezvous
some thirty miles away, where Jean was to join him the next morning and
take aboard his additions to the ship’s larder.
“You passed the word?”
Ramon grunted and waved his hands toward the bow. All was activity on
deck. Its former aspect had changed magically. Boarding pikes, pistols,
cutlasses, and other small arms were being laid out and shot was being
placed on the racks.
Lafitte was anything if not cautious. Although he very well knew the
quality of the _Lizette_; he also knew that it was very possible to
catch a Tartar in the form of a heavily-armed ship, which had been, as
likely as not, sent out for the express purpose of punishing his many
depredations on the French, British, and Spanish commerce.
For a full minute Jean studied the approaching vessel with his glass.
“It is a big ship,” he said, in an aside.
Ramon nodded. “I thought as much.” He hesitated. “Do you think it is wise
to attack, Don Juan?” The Spaniards invariably called Lafitte by this
title.
“It is English ... yes, see, they are running up the British flag. Might
it not be a frigate?”
“We shall take the risk. At the worst the _Lizette_ can use the better
part of discretion and show them a clean pair of heels. What say you,
Pedro?”
The brawny gunner fidgeted, averting his eyes. He had just put down his
own glass.
“To tell the truth, Don Juan, I like not its look. And of course the flag
doesn’t mean anything.”
“Then you think we ... should not fight?”
“I think we should show them our heels, yes. There is a stiff breeze.
Let’s get out of gun-shot before they get in range. We could easily—”
Suddenly Ramon cursed audibly.
“How blind I am! That ship is one of the Brotherhood! It is the ship you
seek.”
His two companions turned on him quickly.
“Do you recognize it?” demanded Lafitte.
The mate nodded his head slowly, putting down his glass.
“I have seen her but once,” he answered, quietly, “but I could recognize
her anywhere.”
“You are sure?” demanded Jean, impatiently.
“It is the Black Fox!” breathed Ramon, heavily.
For a moment it seemed that Jean’s heart stood still. So unexpected
was Ramon’s news that he stood rooted to the spot, motionless,
expressionless. But within, his mind was in a tumult. At last, at last,
by the favor of the gods he had stumbled on his quarry.
“We shall fight!” he exclaimed, the joy of battle with his enemy
lighting his face, his tone thrilling his hearers. Ramon showed his
amazement. Until this moment he had not known Lafitte sought the Black
Fox as an enemy.
“But when the Black Fox knows that we are of the Brotherhood, señor,
there will be no trouble,” he said, not in fear, but adverse to hard
knocks with so redoubtable an adversary.
“I said that we will fight!” answered Jean, curtly.
“But, Don Juan—”
“Enough! It is my will. Pass the word to the gunners, Pedro. We will
first give him some of his own strategy, and then give him a smashing
broadside.”
He turned. Pedro grunted. His not to question his chief. Saluting
awkwardly, he left. Wolves of the sea both, wolf would prey on wolf.
Honor among thieves was respected when convenience demanded it, but it
was not unusual for one member of this wolfpack of the sea to prey upon
another. Pedro grinned hideously; there would be an interesting fight.
“Run up the black flag,” ordered Lafitte, “but do not break it out until
I give the word. Have the men in readiness for boarding. We’ll pay the
Black Fox our respects with a salute, and then make a visit on board. But
don’t forget that our visiting cards must be sure to reach them ... and
find them in.”
The Spaniard’s lips curled as he nodded appreciation of the grim
pleasantry. Another moment and he, too, had gone.
Lafitte returned to his study of the oncoming vessel, a set smile of
anticipation playing about his tight-pressed lips. As he stood there, a
grim, lonely figure, the black flag was run up, ready to be broken out at
his signal. The gunners were standing to their guns, matches in hand.
By now the stranger was only fifty yards away. A tall, heavily-built,
bearded man, stood on the quarter-deck. With an inward thrill, Jean
realized that he was observing his arch-enemy.
In another moment the hail of the Black Fox came across the water, asking
the name of Jean’s vessel. As he did so, her coy ladyship, the moon,
re-emerged from behind a cloud, suddenly throwing the two ships into
full relief. By way of answering to his question, the black flag of the
_Lizette_ was swiftly broken out, where it was caught by the night breeze
and, because of the added moonlight, promptly proclaimed the presence of
the rover. Came another cry from the Black Fox that was both surprise and
disappointment.
By this time, however, the stranger, which had been approaching with a
confidence that was foolhardy, bore up. Even the friendliest of wolves
are distrustful.
But it was too late. No one knew better than Lafitte the terrible,
demoralizing effect of a sudden smashing broadside, and it was just this
confusion that he wished to create in the pack of the Black Fox.
“Fire!”
Simultaneously with the terrific crash of the guns the pirates, with a
yell, rose from behind the bulwarks and poured out of other places of
concealment as the guns raked the stranger from stem to stern, doing
deadly execution and bringing down the foremast, a wreckage of ropes
and sails, upon the deck. The ship was helpless for the moment, and the
master of the _Lizette_ grasped his advantage.
Another moment and the brig was alongside the stranger. Grappling-irons
were speedily hooked, and the buccaneers, led by the pirate captain
himself, poured over the side, in a mad charge upon the decks of their
victim. A wolf had overhauled an apparent sheep, to suddenly find another
wolf in sheep’s clothing. The battle of the wolves was on....
Close behind Lafitte was the youth with the red hair, a pistol in each
hand. Behind him rushed his comrades, with yells of triumph, shooting
and slashing and cutting as if a crew of demons were let loose. At that
moment, little did it matter to the men of the _Lizette_ whether they
faced friend or foe. When the wolf scents blood—
As Jean leaped down upon his enemy’s deck he charged immediately toward
the quarter-deck, anxious to meet Brouillard face to face, grudging the
seconds that would intervene before he could reach him, for fear that
another’s bullet or blade would cheat him of his vengeance.
Before he could cover a quarter of the distance, however, came a
surprise. Suddenly, with a shout that outdid their own, it seemed, from
near-by hatchways and doors gushed a veritable mob of seamen, armed
to the teeth, outnumbering the invaders three to one. These, taking
advantage of their surprise, swept the pirates back to the ship’s side by
sheer weight of numbers.
Pandemonium reigned....
Step by step Jean’s men were forced back, fighting desperately.
Jean Lafitte had indeed caught a Tartar. His fellow wolf had fangs as
well as himself. On every side his men were falling. Their intended
victim had become a scourge. In the midst of his rage and disappointment
he was cool enough to realize that he must regain his own deck or all was
lost. It was impossible to reach Brouillard now. His vengeance had waited
three years. It could wait another day.
At his side Red Jacques was fighting valiantly. Less than ten men were
left with him, and these were attempting, between blows, to regain their
ship. Springing to the side, preparatory to jumping into the waist of the
_Lizette_, his shout pierced the tumult:
“Cut loose, men!”
Then he turned for a final stand, to defend the retreat of his followers.
In another few moments all the ropes that held the _Lizette_ in that
fatal embrace with her enemy were quickly cut. The last surviving pirate,
with the exception of Lafitte and one other, had reached safety.
Flinging his empty, smoking pistol and broken sword into the face of his
enemies, Jean turned and leaped for the _Lizette_.
As he stood a brief moment on the rail, a musket-butt fell on his head
and he dropped backward on to the ship’s deck into oblivion.
The next moment the two vessels had drifted apart, the Black Fox’s guns
trained on the _Lizette_, fast crippling that gallant craft and turning
her deck into a shambles. The loss of her foremast, however, made his
own vessel unmanageable, and just at this convenient time the lady in
the moon veiled her face from the scene of bloodshed. The _Lizette_
disappeared into the night, leaving her master in the hands of his
enemies.
The howling of the wolfpack diminished and soon all was silent.