_How Jean Lafitte Tells of His Ambition, and Incidentally Makes a Change
of Residence_
“And so, _mes amis_,” said Lafitte, slowly, “I have decided to go to
Grande Terre.”
For a long moment there was a strange silence. His companions, grouped
about the long, paper-littered table, were evidently very much surprised
and perturbed at his simple statement. At the foot, Pierre Dominique
Lafitte, a gallant figure in fashionable garments, stroked his imperial
thoughtfully, but made no comment. A close observer, however, would have
noticed that he was keenly studying the expressions of the other members
of this strange company.
“W’at you mean?” asked one, a curious inflection in his voice. Like the
majority of his companions, he was a seafaring man, but, unlike the
others, he was not a pure Caucasian. Grambo—no one knew him by any other
name—was a quadroon. One of the most disreputable smugglers in the Gulf,
he was also one of the leading spirits of the Baratarian colony.
“Just what I said,” answered Lafitte, “I have decided to go to Grande
Terre.”
“Why?”
Jean looked at the quadroon with a well-simulated surprise. “Because
I think it necessary that I go there,” he said, coolly. “You see, my
dear Grambo, hitherto I have attended to the business at this end. Now
I have decided that it would be wise for me to run over to our base of
operations and look after things.”
“Eet is nod necessaire dat you go dere,” hastily put in Grambo, frowning.
“We shall send you de blac’ ivree heah. We don’t need you dere.”
“And since when have you taken it upon yourself to tell me my duty,
m’sieu?” demanded the Frenchman, haughtily.
“I dell you no’ting. I onlee say dat eet is not necessaire foah you to go
dere. W’y do you weesh to go?” There was a peculiar look in his shifty
eyes, a note of insolence in his voice.
Pierre Dominique, the peacemaker, knew that Grambo was very influential
among a large number of the smaller fry of smugglers, who feared him for
his well-known, bullying nature, yet admired him for his daring and the
vague mystery that surrounded many of his ventures. It was whispered of
him that he had served his apprenticeship in shady deeds in the West
Indies, the hotbed of piracy.
“What’s up, Jean?” he asked, quietly. “Why this sudden determination?”
“I have decided that it is for our best interests that I go to Grande
Terre—for a while.”
“To—stay?” asked Grambo, quietly, although seething inwardly, as Lafitte
well knew.
“I believe so. Here are my intentions: I shall go to Barataria to
superintend the work—”
“W’at work?” asked Grambo, genuinely surprised. He could not associate
actual work—even the superintendence of manual labor—with the immaculate,
impeccable Frenchman. Lafitte was the brain of the organization, the man
behind the smuggling on the Gulf, who furnished the necessary funds,
planned the infinitely clever coups, and directed the chief operations of
the work in general—but who never soiled his hands with the contact of
actual sweat and blood. Grambo was truly surprised.
“First of all,” said Lafitte, “it will hardly be necessary to send your
goods to New Orleans in the future.”
“What do you mean?”
“All goods—particularly black ivory—shall be brought directly to Grande
Terre, and unloaded there.”
“But what is your object in this strange proceeding?” asked Pierre
Dominique. “Why all the extra trouble?”
“It will not be extra trouble at all. Grande Terre is to be our
headquarters in the future. Our base of supplies.”
“Bud I do nod understand,” remarked another. “Why nod breeng dem direc’
to New Orleans? Heah is de market. Eet is onlee heah dat we gan sell dem.”
“Not at all,” countered Lafitte. “We can sell them just as well—and as
profitably—at Grande Terre.”
“Bud dere is no one to buy, dere! To sell, we muz ’ave customers. Dere
muz be a market!”
“Exactly. We will create a market.”
“_Comment?_”
“Simple enough. The planters need slaves badly enough to come all the way
to Grande Terre for them. Let them do so. Why should we go to all the
trouble of bringing them here?” demanded Lafitte.
For a moment they stared at him, turning the new idea over and over in
their minds. Lafitte went on.
“It is absurdly simple. We shall erect warehouses, slave stockades, and
living quarters at Barataria, and mount some guns, for protection. Then
we can bring our black ivory there, place them in our own stockades, and
sell them when we please, for what we please, instead of selling them
to dealers here for what they want to pay us. There is money in this
business, _mes amis_, if it is managed right.”
“_C’est vrai_—’tis true!” murmured Pocquelin, the ship owner.
“And, moreover, we can set our own prices on them and can auction them
off right there. It will save us both time and trouble, not to say being
much safer, and will fill our pockets in the bargain. What do you say?”
His companions, with the exception of Pierre and the taciturn Grambo,
applauded heartily. Pierre was silent, reserving his opinions and
questions for a later time. The quadroon, however, was silent because he
realized that Lafitte was right, and was piqued because he could not find
fault with his plans.
“Therefore,” continued Jean, “I will leave for Grande Terre at dawn.
Pierre shall remain here, to act in my absence. As for Barataria,
_messieurs_, I prophesy that it will become the largest market in the
Mississippi Valley. Mark my words! In time we shall control the ‘black
ivory’ trade of the entire Gulf!”
The response was enthusiastic. Jean smiled. He invariably had his way
with punctilious Creole aristocrat and uncouth smuggler. His magnetic,
forceful personality always triumphed.
“As for yourself, Monsieur Grambo,” remarked the younger Lafitte, “since
you have such a deep-rooted prejudice against my visiting your island,
suppose you remain in New Orleans for a few weeks? You need the rest,
I’m sure.”
All were silent, instinctively realizing that something was in the air.
“Grambo will go to Gran’ Terre, _aussi_,” growled that gentleman,
half-defiantly; “he has naught to do een New Orleans!”
Jean laughed softly.
“Go by all means, _mon bon ami_! After all, our town air may not be so
good for your health. Yes, go. But remember, Grambo”—his voice hardened,
almost imperceptibly—“you go to Grande Terre ... _oui_. But only because
I permit you to go. Because it is my wish,” he added, with magnificent
condescension in his voice.
Grambo writhed, unable to speak coherently for his very rage. Pierre
Dominique looked appealingly at his dominating brother. He could not know
that Jean was deliberately attempting to make a display of his authority
to Grambo because it was necessary to the furtherance of one of his many
plans.
“Grambo weel do w’at ’e dam’ weesh!” cried the Baratarian, at last.
“_Très bien_,” replied Lafitte, tranquilly, too tranquilly, one thought.
“Pierre, you may return that five thousand dollars I got from our bankers
to-day. Take it to Toulouse Street at once. But wait! Perhaps some of
these gentlemen here might be able to use that sum on a venture somewhat
like that planned by _notre ami_ ... Monsieur Grambo. No? Well, keep it
awhile. There are many of our privateer friends who might—”
“Eet ees again ‘privateer’!” cried Grambo, jeeringly. “Murszhur Lafitte,
I—Grambo—am a pirate! Nod a _damné_ privateer! Bah! W’at do I cayeh who
know? To hell wit’ poleez! To hell wit’ de law! I—Grambo—”
“—Am a damn fool!” finished Pierre, under his breath, as he filled his
pipe. Jean broke in.
“As you wish, monsieur, as you wish! For my part you can be pirate,
robber, cutthroat, murderer, thief, or mere scoundrel! But as for me
and these gentlemen, I would have you understand ... we are privateers,
business men, with letters of marque.”
“Letters of marque?”
“Yes. I have procured regularly authorized letters of marque from the
Republic of Carthagena, to wage warfare on Spanish commerce. Of course,
we can use our own discretion as to others. Anyone can make a mistake,
you know.”
They were suddenly silent on receipt of this bit of intelligence. Letters
of marque would be of great service to them. At that date, and for many
years previous, the practice of privateering was merely a system of open
piracy with legal sanction. Indeed, all privateering might have been
given that definition.
“Privateers” and “pirates” were, in fact, almost convertible terms.
Grambo’s scorn of Lafitte’s polite euphemism may easily be understood.
The system of privateering, indeed, invariably proved a monstrous
aggravation of the evils of war, although not one spark of patriotism
animated either owners or crew. Their sole object was to make money
by plunder. The owners of privateers were not honorable or reputable
citizens as a rule, yet at this period, and especially in this locality
where smuggling was the vogue, many of Louisiana’s best-known citizens
were indirectly connected with it.
And the practice was not strictly confined to American waters. It was
authorized by great European nations, and in this very same year, while
the Lafittes were organizing the “black ivory” trade, much outright
piracy in the guise of honorable warfare was going on in the English
Channel.
Therefore, the little group of Louisianians gathered in the room above
the Lafitte smithy were more than a little satisfied to learn that
Lafitte had secured letters of marque from Carthagena.
After a little more discussion the visitors left without Grambo having
said anything more. The two brothers were alone.
Pierre Dominique broke the silence.
“Jean,” he said, staring into the fireplace, “I mistrust Grambo. Do you
think it wise to antagonize him?”
“Perhaps not.”
“You had better keep on your guard, _mon frère_.”
“Don’t worry, Pierre. I am prepared.”
“_Comment?_”
“I have not been idle all these months, my brother. I saw this day
approaching. For almost six months I have been recruiting forces,
selecting men. Ah, you look surprised! I will explain. As you know, New
Orleans is filled with men ready for any sort of business. You know what
I mean?”
Pierre nodded soberly. He well knew that the streets, wharves, and low
dives were swarming with soldiers of fortune; swaggering adventurers from
all over America; fiery revolutionists from South America; fugitives
from Santo Domingo and Mexico; men ripe for any sort of dare-deviltry,
any adventure, no matter how dangerous; men ready to sell their lives for
gold.
“I have visited the saloons, the levees, the river—boats—everywhere!”
went on Lafitte, “picking a man here, a man there. And now, I flatter
myself, I have the finest band of rascals in the Gulf. And I have tested
them. I can rely on them.”
Pierre looked puzzled. “But, Jean, I do not see—I do not understand. What
will you do with them? Will you fit out more ships? If so, there are good
crews in abundance, and assuredly there are far better sailors than these
roaming adventurers you speak of.”
“_C’est vrai._ But I know all that, my brother,” laughed Jean. “You are
dull to-night, indeed! I will explain, however. I do not want sailors; I
want fighters!”
“Fighters?”
“_Naturellement!_ Do you think I am fool enough to trust myself alone
at Grande Terre, to be at the mercy of such fools as Grambo? Most
assuredly not! When I go to Grande Terre to-morrow I go with a suitable
escort, my brother. Men who will obey Jean Lafitte and no one but Jean
Lafitte! Without them to overawe the trouble-makers, and to keep the
peace, incidentally, how do you think I will be able to weld together our
associates, with their many differences and jealousies? We must work as
a whole, not individually. I know these people well, Pierre—very well. I
have not studied them for nothing.
“There is naught that so impresses them as display of force—of power.
The more the pomp and the haughtier the bearing, the better they like
it. You should realize that most of our men are not of this democratic,
inquisitive type, such as are these Americans from the north. The
Americans distrust pomp and are suspicious of power, but our Creoles and
Spaniards are Europeans at heart, with the same European traditions and
ideas, to a large extent.
“They may scoff at power—at the high places—but I notice they scramble
for those seats of the mighty if but given the opportunity. My
‘Myrmidons’—I have dubbed them ‘Myrmidons,’ Pierre—shall serve many
purposes.
“They shall keep order for me at Grande Terre, thus assisting in
quickening our business expansion projects. They shall keep for me
the balance of power at Barataria, so that I may carry out my plans,
unhindered by insurgents and dissentients. They shall provide the pomp
and _éclat_ necessary to dazzle, impress, and overawe these smugglers.
And, lastly, they shall serve to uphold the prestige and power of Jean
Lafitte personally—so that at Barataria his word shall be law! Only thus
can be built a strong—”
“Monarchy!” finished Pierre Dominique, soberly, his eyes on Jean’s face.
“_Ma foi!_ But you are ambitious, brother mine! In other words, your
gallant swashbucklers shall raise you on their swords to a throne, if but
a small one!”
Lafitte stared into the dying fire, whose last flickering embers threw
his tall figure into shapely relief against the wall. His face, however,
was in shadow.
“Speaking of monarchies—kingdoms—Pierre, are those impossible? The little
Corsican, unknown to the world but ten short years ago, is now Emperor
of France! The obscure cadet of an Italian province is now our king!”
“Europe is not America, Jean. What can happen there cannot happen here.
The European is so accustomed to the idea of monarchies and empires that
no other form of government seems possible to him. Both our ancestors
and our European contemporaries have been, and still are, unconsciously
governed by tradition. The idea of the divine right of kings is as
indelibly stamped in their hearts as is their belief that there is a
deity in heaven. And, for them, it is as it should be. Another form of
government would be impossible for them ... and is improbable.
“There is the saying, ‘_si Dieu n’ existait pas, il faudrait
l’inventer_.’ And it is true. If God did not exist it _would_ be
necessary to invent him. So with monarchies. If they should suddenly
cease to exist, it would be necessary to invent new monarchical forms of
government—in Europe! But not in America, Jean—not in America! You wish
to establish a monarchy? In Europe, yes! It might be possible. But in
America, no!”
Jean laughed lightly.
“What of Toussaint L’Ouverture? Did he not make himself dictator of Santo
Domingo but a few short years ago?”
“The ‘Black Napoleon’? _Ma foi_, Jean, but you have much to learn! The
conditions favored him. And, in any event, such things happen but once in
an age!”
“What can happen once can happen again! Yet—”
“‘Yet’! That’s exactly the point. _Yet_ it won’t happen again, and
certainly not here—in America! You talk nonsense, Jean. Did not Aaron
Burr, that talented American, dream of a great western empire—and did he
not dream in vain? And _he_ was a really great man, a man of eminence,
of influence. Have you already forgotten how he came here to New Orleans
several short years ago with their General Wilkinson? And how he failed?
Aaron Burr still lives, but his star has set forever.
“Kingdoms? There will be no more kingdoms in America, Jean. When
Washington refused the title of king, he sounded the death-knell of any
future attempt to set up a monarchy in America, or on this continent!
Where is Burr to-day? Where is the Dictator of Santo Domingo? Where—”
Lafitte laughed and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“You are right, Pierre, as usual, but you have misunderstood me. I
have no intention whatsoever of attempting to establish a miniature
sovereignty or independent state.”
Pierre Dominique looked both exasperated and perplexed.
“Then why do you crave this personal power? Why do you wish to reign
supreme at Grande Terre?” he demanded, bluntly.
Jean Lafitte smiled grimly. His black eyes flashed.
“You still do not understand, Pierre? I am not fool enough to dream of a
monarchy, as you suggest. As you say, monarchies are only for Europe, and
I know that well enough. But I _do_ intend, and I will succeed, in making
myself the economic dictator of the Mississippi Valley! The privateer of
Barataria shall set the price of slaves, and, mayhap, other commodities,
in this region. Opportunity is at our door. We shall win our desire,
_not_ by the right of the stronger—but—by the right of the wiser.... You
understand me?” he cried, enthusiastically.
Pierre looked at his brother thoughtfully. “_Mais oui._ But that is an
unusual doctrine.”
“All unused doctrines are unusual.”
“But your idea has—possibilities. It’s not exactly impossible.”
“Possibilities?” Jean laughed exultantly. “Impossible? _Impossible n’est
pas un mot français!_”
Pierre did not answer. Jean kicked idly at the dying embers.
“You wish to be—you are—_un chevalier d’industrie_!” accused Pierre,
suddenly.
“A knight of industry, yes. But not a swindler—a sharper. Pierre, this is
an age of money—a mercenary age.”
“That may be said of every age in history,” said Pierre Lafitte.
“Perhaps. But the time is not far off when trade will influence both
politics and society. And mayhap religion. Cannot money buy almost
anything? Cannot it buy legislators, women, pleasure, power?”
As he spoke, the vesper bells of the convent of the Ursulines were heard
in the distance, their silvery melodies faintly borne to them by the Gulf
breeze. At the sound a new thought entered Lafitte’s head.
“—And perhaps our holy men and women?” he added, ingenuously.
“You speak blasphemy!” cried Pierre, furtively crossing himself. The
elder Lafitte was not greatly religious, but was superstitious to a
marked degree. He well knew that Jean listened to the religious talk of
the priests and pious Catholics with a cynical intolerance, and privately
deplored the fact. Like most French boys, the Lafittes were, in both
their juvenescence and adolescence, ardent supporters of Holy Church. But
since reaching manhood all had changed—in the case of Jean, particularly.
Jean, who had sorrowed so for his lost Lizette, musing and pondering on
the insignificance of the trivialities of life, his eyes on the immovable
stars, all alone in the infinite stillnesses of the night, during
that period of his career in the Caribbean, had gradually and almost
unconsciously come to doubt the existence of a deity, and to lose what
moderate respect he had ever possessed for his personal religion. For, he
argued within himself, if a beneficent, kind, and all-potent power did
exist, why had it allowed his Lizette to die, and himself to live on,
with a memory-fraught future?
For this, and similar reasons, partly due to his temporary companionship
and intercourse with the lawless, creedless free-booters of the
Caribbean, he had lost practically whatever faith he had ever possessed,
and which was never totally regained, even when he had partly
forgotten his boyhood sweetheart and had taken a creditable place in
cultured society. A certain acquaintance had once called him “_un
libre-penseur_”—a free-thinker.
Lafitte was wise, however, and well knew that it would be rather
embarrassing, while in Creole circles, to be religionless, to all outward
appearance, so, externally, at least, he again became a pious, dutiful
son of Mother Church, much to the edification of his ecclesiastical
contemporaries and the approval of his Creole friends. It cost him
nothing, and his convictions were his own.
If the teachings of the priests were true, then by conformity to the
exactions of the Church his future existence was safeguarded. If they
were untrue, as he half suspected, he would enter the Great Vacuum with
curiosity, but not fear, to face what there was to be faced with the
courage of a true Lafitte, a true gentleman, and a true Frenchman. He
would doubtless meet others....
Such was Jean Lafitte, such his ideas about the great scheme of things
... a man with that perfect poise which is the essence of individuality,
with unusual imagination and vision; a creature of intuitive impulse,
and one whose keen sense of honor was primarily a peculiar sportsmanship
whose chief ingredients were a love of fair play, an acute sense of
justice, and the love of excitement that permeates every man of action.
And it was just such a man who was to assist in molding the destinies of
a great nation.
Such men are not types, nor yet like one another. Most emphatically not.
Such men are _individuals_. And rarities.
“Blasphemy?” sighed Jean, guilelessly. “_Non, non, mon frère._ I speak
but the truth.” He laughed cynically.
“You think me ambitious, brother. You are wrong. Ambition is but the
pursuit of mirages; the big things of to-day are but the stepping-stones
to the bigger things of to-morrow. Say, rather, Destiny. Yes, that is
the word. Destiny. I am inclined to believe that I am somewhat of a
fatalist, like these Easterns one reads about.” He paused. “But you may
be right, at that. Ambition is desire—and desire is will ... that is
unconquerable. I believe I have that,” he mused.
Pierre Dominique looked pained.
“More blasphemy!” he muttered, ignoring Jean’s latter remarks, which,
truth to tell, he did not understand.
Jean laughed unpleasantly, catching at the other’s train of thought, with
swift insight.
“Ah, Pierre, fear not for my immortal soul. I am as devout a Catholic as
yourself. I merely spoke my thoughts. You should ignore them. I am but a
pirate, after all, _n’est-ce-pas, mon Pierre_? And it is well known that
a gentleman of piratical tendencies should profess no religion. It would
be inconsistent. Pardon my speech, brother, if it offends you. You well
know I am not one of these canting hypocrites who pretend great piety,
nor yet am I like these superstitious peons whose only possessions are a
wealth of vermin and an unshakable faith in the holy saints!”
He laughed mirthlessly. Pierre Dominique endeavored to look stern, but
without success.
“But you should not speak so of—of the servants of Holy Church, my
brother. Nor yet should you take pride in the fact that you once were—a
pirate. Rather, you should repent.”
“Perhaps. But I cannot but notice, Sir Champion, that L’Abbe Constantin
did not refuse my pair of golden candlesticks last Michaelmas. Nor did
the Mother Superior of the Ursulines refuse my costly altar cloth. On
the contrary, they both gave me their blessing as a true son of Mother
Church ... me, the pirate ... the smuggler!” There was a trace of
bitterness in his voice.
But Pierre Dominique did not answer.
For a long while neither spoke, each buried in his own thoughts, as they
stared into the dying fire.
The last ember sputtered out.