_In Which the Black Fox Encounters an Old Acquaintance_
“Get up!”
Jean, semi-conscious, seemed to hear the voice from a great distance;
he could not, as yet, associate it with himself. Nor, in the same dim,
unreal way, could he feel the kick that struck his side. Seemingly, he
was oblivious to any pain in his body. The miniature hell in his head was
occupying his whole, absorbed attention.
Suddenly a bucket of water was dashed over him. He regained his senses
slowly, his first definite impression that of an acute, numbing pain in
the back of his head. Attempting to lift it, he experienced such torture
that he was forced to lie back, groaning. He heard retreating steps as of
one ascending a ladder. Then a hatchway slammed and all was black again.
When his mind had cleared a little, he endeavored to understand his
whereabouts. It was not long before he pieced out the details of the
short disastrous fight—its ending—the sudden pain—oblivion. Where was he?
Where was faithful Red Jacques? All about him was pitch blackness. Then
he became conscious of the fact that his feet were wet. He smelled bilge
water. That explained matters. He must be a prisoner, put in the hold for
safe keeping. And then for the first time he realized that his feet were
securely ironed.
Of a sudden, following the shuffling of feet overhead, a hatchway lifted,
letting in a flood of sunlight that well-nigh blinded him. Despite the
glare, however, he was able to note that he was lying on a heap of ropes
and cordage with his feet in the water. A sailor was descending the
ladder.
A moment later another followed. The first one unlocked the chains, and
then they roughly dragged him up the ladder to the deck.
Again the glare of light dazzled him. Before he could accustom himself to
his surroundings he was led stumbling across the deck and backed against
a stanchion, to which the two seamen began to securely tie him. This duty
satisfactorily completed, they fell back.
Jean looked about him with interest, eager to see Brouillard.
All around him, at a respectful distance, was a circle of faces—the
hang-dog, devil-may-care physiognomies of the typical rover of the
Caribbean. Sailor-like, he next glanced aloft. The foremast was still
unrepaired. The great ship was motionless on a placid sea, and the early
morning sun was just beginning its lofty climb across the cloudless sky.
He dropped his eyes back to his captors.
As he did so, the Black Fox stepped through the silent circle and paused
before him, a stately figure in gaudy raiment, his black beard carefully
curled and pomaded.
With an imperious gesture Brouillard motioned his followers away. In a
moment the two, prisoner and captor, were alone, as far as they were
concerned. For a long interval the latter stared at the helpless man, a
curious expression in his eyes. His words were inevitable, bridging the
years.
“So, Monsieur Lafitte,” he drawled, “we meet again!”
Jean defiantly gave him back stare for stare, contemptuously silent.
“Why have you hunted me all these years?” suddenly demanded the other.
“To kill you!” answered Lafitte, simply, his voice redolent of hate.
The Black Fox did not laugh.
“Why?” he persisted.
“To avenge Lizette Fondac,” said Jean.
Brouillard cursed expressively.
“Damn you!” he cried, “you know it was an accident, that!”
“But yes ... I know. But I have followed you across the seas for another
reason, Brouillard. You forget that we did not finish our little affair.
And I had sworn to make you retract or kill you. Lizette is dead,
therefore retraction is unnecessary—so I will kill you.”
“I would not have retracted, however,” said Brouillard, heavily. “You are
a young fool. I told the truth about that wench.”
“You lie!” cried Lafitte.
“_Parbleu!_ But the gutter scum is impertinent!”
The younger man fairly writhed with the frenzy of his rage.
“Loosen me, coward,” he cried, “and I will kill you with my own hands!
Coward! Dog! Scoundrel!”
By way of answer the Black Fox cuffed him viciously across the mouth,
seeing which, a group of his henchmen lounging on the opposite rail
laughed.
“You are afraid to face me man to man, cursed one!” panted Lafitte.
Brouillard laughed heartily.
“Fool that you are!” he cried, “I have no desire to kill you. You have
insulted Gaston Brouillard—you have cursed him—you have given him the
lie. For each of these things you should die a terrible death. Moreover,
you have hunted _Le Renard Noir_.... You have treacherously attacked
him and killed many of his men. For that you should die a death of
torture ... you and all your followers ... a death that only one of the
Brotherhood could contrive. But the Black Fox has a far pleasanter fate
in store for you, _mon brave_! Name of a name! Your lot shall be a living
death, Jean Lafitte!”
Lafitte’s lip curled contemptuously. He had regained his self-possession.
“Indeed!” he said. The insulting inflection of that one word seemed to
madden Brouillard, who poured a storm of obscene invective on his head.
“From now on,” he declared, grimly, when his passion had somewhat
subsided, “you shall be my servant, my slave! I shall find ways of
breaking your spirit as well as your back. You shall be at the beck and
call of the lowliest of my men. The slightest disobedience will get you a
hundred lashes from the ‘cat.’ The—”
Jean yawned.
“You bore me excessively, my friend,” he interjected.
Brouillard stopped short, his face a panorama of conflicting emotions.
Then he suddenly turned and called one of his followers.
“Bring the red-head!” he ordered, brusquely.
Lafitte stiffened, and followed the pirate out of sight with his eyes.
Brouillard, watching him, grinned evilly.
“It may interest you to know, monsieur, that you are not our only guest.”
“What do you mean?” sharply.
“There was a red-head....”
“Red Jacques!” exclaimed Jean.
“... who did not escape,” finished the Black Fox, grinning with enjoyment
at sight of Lafitte’s crestfallen face.
“Well?” the latter demanded.
“Your young cockerel would not jump over the side when he saw you fall,
but stood over your body and defended it with his cutlass. It was
necessary to shoot him to get to you, which I deeply regret, because of
his courage.”
“He is dead?” with horror.
“Not yet!” was the laconic response. “He is only slightly wounded.”
“Thank _le bon Dieu_!”
“I said ‘not yet’!” went on Brouillard, smoothly.
“What do you mean?”
“_Vous verrez_ ... you shall see!”
As he spoke, the pirate reappeared on deck, pushing some one before him.
It was Red Jacques, his auburn hair dishevelled, his face powder-grimed,
and limping painfully. As he caught sight of Lafitte his face lighted up.
“_Mon capitaine!_ I thought you were dead!”
“_Pauvre garçon!_ Jean Lafitte thanks you for your loyalty. He will
remember it.”
Red Jacques flushed with delight.
“I would die for you, _mon capitaine_,” he said, simply, and halted, all
confusion.
“I’ll give you an opportunity,” put in the Black Fox, urbanely. “Sancho,
the rope!”
“If you harm him,” cried Lafitte, “I will kill you! I swear it by Our
Lady!”
Brouillard contemptuously ignored him and made a sign toward his
henchman. That worthy, advancing toward Red Jacques, trailing a long
rope, began to use its end to tie a tight noose around the lad’s wrists.
Evidently Red Jacques was not to be hung....
Then it was that Lafitte noticed that the rope end was in reality part
of one that hung from the cross-trees, high in the mast above. As he
watched, fascinated, two seamen, at a signal from their captain, hauled
away at the other end of the rope. With a sudden jerk Red Jacques was
lifted from his feet and slowly swung aloft, his face pasty with fright.
“Courage!” shouted Lafitte. “If he harms you he shall pay for this!” As
yet he could not fathom Brouillard’s intentions.
Slowly the helpless youth was raised in the air until he swung aloft,
above their heads, suspended only by his wrists from the cross-trees.
For a moment nothing happened. Then as the ship gave a slight roll the
lad’s body described an arc, swinging outward. The slightest movement of
the ship swung him like a pendulum.
Fascinated, Jean saw the body of his comrade swaying far above his head.
In horror he realized the dreadful vengeance Brouillard had planned. He
was to see, helpless to prevent, his comrade pounded to death against
the mast. To every motion of the ship the swinging body responded. The
victim’s struggles were vain. They only added a more fiendish horror to
the scene. As he swung, the lad spun like a top. And then with a thud
that made Jean sick and dizzy his body struck the mast.
“You devil!” shrieked Lafitte, straining at his ropes. “Let him down!”
Brouillard laughed and cursed him. Again Red Jacques swung against the
heavy mast, and screamed in anguish.
“Have you no pity?” cried Jean, perceiving the uselessness of his efforts
to free himself. “Let him down. You’re killing the lad!”
But Brouillard insanely laughed and cursed again. The members of his
crew, hardened and calloused by years of crime, watched the sport with
interest. They were no strangers to torture; they merely applauded their
master for his new ingenious device.
Again and yet again the swaying body of the boy, swinging dizzily, smote
against the mast, but now there were no cries from the helpless victim.
Life had left his battered body.
Lafitte fainted.
A douche of water brought back his senses. He looked up.
Over his head in the bright sunshine swayed the body of his unfortunate
comrade, swinging limply and unresistingly.
Lafitte fixed his burning eyes on those of the Black Fox, who waxed
restless under their relentless gaze, and averted his own. He, too, had
fallen silent, nor did he once look aloft. Finally he called two of his
henchmen to take Lafitte back below. As they unlashed the latter from the
stanchion, he spoke over their shoulders.
“Brouillard, you hell hound,” said Jean steadily, “for to-day’s work I
shall deal you in kind. You will do well to kill me now, for if ever my
turn shall come—”
He broke off abruptly, for he had vowed in his heart to flay Brouillard
alive, strip him shrieking from his skin.
The Black Fox laughed unsteadily, and for the second time cuffed the
unresisting Lafitte across the mouth, drawing a faint trickle of blood.
“From now on, _mon ami_,” he sneered, “you’ll wish you hadn’t been born
rather than to have crossed me. Away with him, Sancho! Bring him up again
this evening for a hundred lashes,” he added, as an afterthought. “We
shall have more sport.”
A minute later Jean was back in the hold. All day he lay there, suffering
acutely from thirst and the heat, and not a little from hunger. But no
one came.
It was almost evening when he heard a loud scuffling of running feet
above his head, and a confusion of raucous voices. Evidently something
of moment was happening. Exactly a quarter of an hour later he heard the
sudden detonating explosion of one of the ship’s guns above him. It was
followed by another. Then there was a roar as though from a broadside.
And answering guns.
The Black Fox was attacked!
For what seemed like ages he lay there helpless, listening to the
battle, torn with anxiety. Had the _Lizette_ returned to rescue him? But
that was doubtful, for he judged that the _Lizette_ was badly crippled.
Then the newcomer could only be a man-o’-war, whether French, British,
or Spanish made no difference whatsoever. For even if he were found a
prisoner of the Black Fox’s, he, too, was a pirate, and as such would be
summarily hanged.
Therefore, with mingled feelings of anxiety, hope, and rage engendered
by the possible deferring of his vengeance, he lay chafing in the hot,
noisome hold.
Finally there was a cessation of gun-fire, a confusion of pistol-shots,
yells, and running feet above told him that the Black Fox was being
boarded. Then the tumult died down, but the thumping, racing feet told
its own story.
Suddenly the hatchway opened, revealing a man’s shoulders silhouetted
against the twilight sky.
“Don Juan!” came a voice. “Are you there, Don Juan?”
Lafitte’s heart bounded joyously.
“Ramon!” he exclaimed. The impossible had happened. The _Lizette_ had
come to his rescue. A pæan of joy sang in his brain.
But there was a greater surprise yet awaiting him on the deck above. As
he emerged from the hatchway, Pierre Dominique Lafitte rushed toward him
and, sweeping him in his arms, gave him a bear-like hug.
Came explanations. The _Lizette_ had returned to the island rendezvous
sometime during the night, bringing news of the catastrophe. The elder
Lafitte had immediately hurried his party on board, spent a few hours
in making necessary repairs, and set sail for the crippled vessel of
the Black Fox. On finding the latter, there had been a short fight, the
superior condition of the _Lizette_, and the fresh additions to her crew,
making victory possible.
“And Brouillard?” demanded Jean.
Brouillard, said Pierre, had been taken prisoner, as had the majority of
his men. Should they immediately hang him? And them?
“Name of a name, no!” cried Jean. He proceeded to tell Pierre Dominique
of the death of Red Jacques, and pointed out his body still swinging
above them. Orders were immediately given to lower the body and prepare
it for a proper burial at sea. Then Jean Lafitte sent for Brouillard and
had his shackles removed.
“Brouillard,” said he, “I swore to kill you, and I will do it. But I will
give you a chance for your life, because I want to have the pleasure of
killing you with my own hand, as I promised you. Ramon, give him a sword.”
Although astonished by the offer, the Black Fox snatched the blade with
alacrity and placed himself in a posture of defense. Taking up another
sword, Jean placed himself on guard. The duel commenced.
The men of the _Lizette_ gathered about them in a wide circle, several
of them holding up lanterns, to give better light. Not a sound was to be
heard but the clashing and scraping of the steel and the quick footsteps
of the furious pair.
Brouillard fought cautiously, ever on the defensive, knowing well that
his life was at stake. Parrying and lunging, thrusting and feinting,
they circled round the little space, contesting every inch of ground.
On and on they fought, their blades flashing in the lantern-light like
living streaks of silver; in carte and tierce, darting and twisting.
As the Black Fox fought, he realized, perhaps for the first time in
his life, what it meant to face a man who was full of the deadly
determination to kill him, the fury of whose attack spoke of concentrated
rage and hate that could only find an outlet through the heart of his
opponent.
Fear, that most demoralizing of emotions, entered his soul, and this it
was, perhaps, that hastened the end.
At last came the moment when Jean’s blade found the brief breach in
Brouillard’s guard, and he lunged forward with all his strength. The
Black Fox dropped his arm abruptly; his sword clattered to the deck as he
clutched at his side.
For a brief moment there was a pregnant pause. Then the Black Fox raised
his eyes to the passion-marked face of Lafitte, who was pointing toward
his sword on the deck.
What he saw written there must have terrified him, for suddenly he turned
and broke through the circle of rovers. Before anyone could stop him, or
even think of stopping him, he literally threw himself over the bulwarks.
There was a splash, and a body that rose for a moment in the gentle
swell of the phosphorescent waters. And then their eyes fastened on a
triangular black fin which was darting straight for the swimming man. He,
too, caught sight of it, for, screaming with terror, he began to swim
furiously toward the ship. The fin suddenly disappeared. A moment later
there was a choking cry and the Black Fox suddenly disappeared beneath
the surface of the Caribbean.
Lizette Fondac and Red Jacques were avenged.