_In which Grambo, the Quadroon, Is Indiscreet, and Suffers Thereby_
Grambo scowled.
“I do nod trus’ him, I tell you! He ees nod betteh dan annybodee else!”
“I knowce it, bud who gan mague an’teen?”
“I’d lag to cud hiz troad! De—”
“Hush! Heah come won af hiz boolies!”
“De _canaille_!”
In silence the two Baratarians, Grambo, the quadroon, and Manuel
Espinosa, a Spanish Creole, watched the approach of a gayly dressed
swashbuckler, who, with lofty contempt apparent in every gesture, passed
them quickly.
Grambo snarled.
“Señor Grambo,” said the other, “Manuel Espinosa, too, would lag to go
some nigh’ and cut-a hiz heart ou’—bud eet is impossible!”
Grambo nodded gloomily.
“_Oui_, señor. Bud wad gan won do? Dad dam’ Lafette haz alread’ bin heah
a mont’, an’ wa’d a zchance’ I tol’ you so, did I nod? When I ask ’im een
New Orleans foah why he come to Gran’ Terre, he anseh, ‘to take charge.’
An’ dad ees w’at he haz done, de _diable_!”
“Can nodin’ be done?”
“I gan keel-a heem!”
“W’at do de oders say?” he asked.
“De oders?” Grambo cursed. “Dey are all wit’ heem! No sooneh do he
arrife dan day all run to heem lak a flo’k of ship. From dad day
when he stip on Gran’ Terre he iz ‘_le bosse_’! Dad oz w’at day all
call heem—‘_bosse_.’ I go to dem—to Millar’, to Pascoval, to Mazara,
’Kenzie—dey are all crezzie! Dey sayce, ‘Of co’se Lafette iz de _bosse_!
Foah why nod?’ Dey sayce he is de sma’tes’ man een de Golf! Bah! Jus’
beco’se he mague so mooch money!”
“Did dey all say dad?”
“_Non!_ Jacques an’ José an’ de othehs—oweh crowd—mague protes’ also lak
me! Bud id do no goo’. Doze dam boolies ov hiz come an’ t’reat’n uz. Try
to mague a fight. W’at gan we do? Dey are t’ree to one and each ov dam iz
lak a debil! Dat Lafette iz sma’t! Too sma’t. He knowce dat he could nod
do what he weesh alone, so breeng hiz boolies wit’ him ... an’ we gan do
nodings! Bud I weel feex dat Lafette yet—_moi_, Grambo!”
“A chance-a weel come. We weel get heem yet,” promised Manuel.
The quadroon nodded gloomily. Together they walked along the beach,
toward the busy crowd at the landing.
As Grambo had remarked, Jean Lafitte was undoubtedly the undisputed
_bosse_ of Grande Terre. The privateer had been joyfully welcomed by the
majority of the Baratarians, and, in an incredibly short time, almost all
authority had been placed in his hands. This was perhaps partly due to
the prestige which had accrued to his name through his large smuggling
operations and, on the other hand, equally due to the personality of the
man himself.
Immediately after his arrival he had summoned into conference all of the
more powerful and influential of the leaders then present in the Bay. In
forceful terms he let them know his plans for the future of Grande Terre.
The majority of them readily saw the many advantages they would possess
if his scheme were carried out, and heartily acquiesced.
Others, who like Grambo were jealous of Lafitte’s popularity and power,
did all they could to hinder him, but this availed them little. A group
of Jean’s “Myrmidons,” armed to the teeth, who were in the habit of
visiting the malcontents and using a form of gentle persuasion known only
to themselves, soon put the fear of Jean Lafitte in their hearts.
But a few of the Baratarians, notably the quadroon, were not altogether
pacified. Far from it.
As for Grambo, he was perhaps the most piratical scoundrel of the entire
colony, notwithstanding his tendency to boast of the fact. He possessed
all of the predatory instincts of the true pirate and was a genuine
disciple of the scuttle-the-ship and walk-the-plank school, having
frequently practiced many of the cruel deeds generally attributed to
his kind. Manuel Espinosa ran him a close second—some said it was _vice
versa_.
And thus matters had rested.
It was a bright June day and an unusual bustle was to be seen on the low,
sandy island.
A large slaver had been captured the day before and had just been brought
into the bay and anchored at Grande Terre. Her cargo of slaves was now
being landed on the large wharf, weak, emaciated, and half-dead from
their long, tortuous trip. As they came over the ship’s side and were
landed on the wharf the poor human chattels were immediately sent to the
slave stockades—large, heavily fenced inclosures containing sheds.
Hordes of half-naked slaves, property of the buccaneers, toiled
ceaselessly, loading and unloading bundles, bales, bags, barrels, and
packages of every description imaginable. Up and down the slope, back and
forth, they hurried, piling their burdens in the flimsy warehouses, or
loading some outbound vessel.
Practically the whole Baratarian world was at this one spot; bronzed
sailors, swaggering adventurers, conservative tradesmen, loud-voiced
pirates, poorly clad fishermen, swarthy Mesquite Indians from the
Honduras coast, and equally dark Choctaws from Louisiana.
Among the largest groups of privateersmen at the wharf, perhaps the
liveliest of them all was one in which the central figure was the swarthy
Grambo, loudly describing some adventure or other in which he had
figured. By his side was Manuel Espinosa.
As he spoke, laughing and cursing at intervals, a group of slaves,
shackled at the neck to one another so as to form a human chain, halted
for a moment to allow another group of slaves to pass.
Among the blacks a negro girl, strangely light complexioned as compared
to her fellows, and rather pretty as to face and figure, caught the eye
of the swarthy Grambo. He stared at her, unmistakable desire shining in
his eyes. The girl, probably the offspring of an African mother and an
Arabian father, looked up, intercepted the burning look, and dropped her
eyes fearfully.
Grambo had by now stepped out of the chattering group and was eying
her—her supple body and comely face, the curve of her girlish bosom.
With a word to the overseer he laid his hand on her shoulder. She shrank
back at his touch. Grinning, the quadroon ordered that she be taken out
of line. His order was immediately obeyed, unnoticed by the surrounding
throng. Taking hold of the dangling chain from her neck, he endeavored to
lead her away from the wharf, but the frightened girl, understanding his
purpose, refused to go, dragging back and finally biting and kicking in
her terror.
The surrounding crowd, attracted by the noise, encircled the swarthy
pirate and his struggling victim, with loud laughter and coarse jests.
This, however, only served to put the quadroon into a rage. Snatching
a whip from a near-by overseer, he proceeded to lash the girl, raising
bloody welts on her soft, unprotected skin, which shortly was leaving the
flesh raw and hanging. Again and again the whip descended on the body of
the groveling, shrieking slave, her persecutor seeming to take fiendish
delight in his occupation. Espinosa, the Spaniard, bared his yellow teeth
in a hideous grin as he looked on approvingly.
It was at this moment that Jean, attracted by the cries of the girl and
the loud, obscene curses of the pirate, came upon the scene. As he saw
them, his brow grew dark with anger and his handsome black eyes glowed in
his pale face like live coals.
Striding through the crowd, he came behind Grambo and with one powerful
wrench took the descending lash from the quadroon’s hand. With a howl
of rage the burly Grambo swung around sharply, to face the smuggler
chieftain.
“Geeve-a me back dat wheep!” he demanded, with a curse. At sight of
Jean all of his hatred for the Frenchman welled up within his soul. To
his former jealousy had come venom. Lafitte had dared to interfere with
him, Grambo, the terror of his compeers, in the presence of the whole
Baratarian world! His fury rose into his throat, choking him—becoming a
physical pain.
A sudden silence fell on the crowd. Every Baratarian there knew
instinctively that a crisis had come—that was to determine the future of
Grande Terre, perhaps.
For a long moment Jean stared the quadroon in the eye.
Grambo repeated his demand gruffly.
“What were you doing with it, if I may ask?” Lafitte asked, quietly.
“W’at iz dat to you?”
“I requested you to tell me what you were doing with this lash,” said
Lafitte, mildly, as if he were speaking to a child. His calm voice made
an impression on the pirate.
“I was pun’sh’n’ dis wench,” sullenly.
“Why?”
“_Sacré!_ W’at iz dat to you?”
“Why?” His casual air disturbed Grambo. He glanced around the circle
of near-by faces. Not one was friendly. His friends, he saw, were all
closely surrounded by Lafitte’s swashbucklers. He cursed silently. Grambo
was not very popular outside his own circle, and he began to imagine
that even his own friends were watching his discomfiture with amusement.
Only Espinosa glared at Lafitte balefully, but even he made no move to
interfere.
“Why?” came the question again.
“Beco’se she waz disob-bead-yun’!”
“Disobedient?” Lafitte wore an air of polite puzzlement.
“_Oui._ She would nod come wit’ me.” The next moment he could have bitten
his tongue off for that damaging statement.
“Is she your personal property?” asked Lafitte, suavely.
“None of you’ dam’ bus’nez!” cried Grambo, defiantly, swiftly deciding to
brazen it out. “W’at do—”
Lafitte turned to the near-by overseer. The crowd grew thicker.
“Is this slave one of that group?” he demanded, imperiously pointing to
the near-by string of slaves.
“Yesseh, _mon capitaine_!” respectfully.
“Has this string been sold yet?”
“No, _monsieur le bosse_. We were joost takin’ dem to de black-ivree pen.
Dey’ve joost come off de sheep.”
“Have they been spoken for?”
“No, monsieur. Dey are to go strai’t to de block.”
Lafitte’s voice became hard.
“Then how is this slave girl in his possession?”
“I hope you’ excellency will pardon me, bud I did nod know,” the overseer
replied, looking appealingly at the glowering Grambo. The latter gave no
sign.
“Speak out!” said Lafitte.
“Grambo—_Capitaine_ Grambo, ordeh’d me to loosen heh and to geeve heh to
heem. I did nod know....”
Jean wheeled around and faced Grambo again.
“And what have you to say to this, sirrah?” demanded Lafitte. “Since
when have you taken upon yourself the authority to take what you want
... to take what you haven’t been given, nor bought at open auction,
nor captured yourself? That which is the property of the colony?” he
thundered.
For a moment the crestfallen Grambo did not answer. Suddenly he realized
that Lafitte was undoubtedly in the right, and cursed himself for a fool.
He had broken one of the unwritten laws of the brotherhood. He must act
quickly.
“Who are you?” he demanded, in turn, “to tell a free Baratarian w’at to
do? Who made you oweh chief—oweh tyran’?” he asked, excitedly. “Who tol’
you to bill’ dose w’arfs an’ huts? An’ dat beeg howse of yo’se up on de
heel?”
Jean Lafitte looked him over contemptuously.
“You ungrateful dog,” he said, scornfully. “May I ask who it was that
gave you a start—a ship—a crew—money—when you didn’t have a picayune,
much less a dollar? May I ask who it was who made you? I might have
expected that from a quadroon dog and son of a dog!”
With a bound Grambo was face to face with him, shaking his fist
menacingly and uttering fierce curses.
“Stand back, dog!” exclaimed Lafitte.
Grambo only cursed the more. His hand was sneaking toward the knife in
his belt.
“Stand back, thief!” said Jean, scornfully, “before I give you a
lesson for your insubordination! Malherébé, place this quadroon in the
_calabosa_!”
With a shriek of rage the pirate sprang at Jean. In his hand was
clenched a gleaming knife. There was an involuntary gasp from the
bystanders and a general rush forward.
But the cool Lafitte was prepared. A pistol flashed from its holster,
spoke reprovingly, and Grambo fell, shot through the heart.
For an instant, with a contemptuous smile on his lips, Lafitte stared
at the body. Then, without a glance toward the crowd, he replaced his
smoking pistol in its holster and nonchalantly walked away.
The crowd closed around the body.
Manuel Espinosa kneeled and, lifting Grambo’s head, stared into his
glazed eyes, morbidly regarding the carmine stream that was dyeing
the Baratarian’s scarlet shirt a deeper hue. His head bent, he bared
his teeth with his characteristic grimace, and his ugly hands bunched
convulsively as if they already felt Lafitte’s throat in their iron
grasp. Terrible curses choked him—but did not pass his thin lips, for the
Spaniard was no fool.
After all, his fury was not so much over the death of his crony as it was
an expression of his virulent hatred for the _bosse_ of Barataria. Sorrow
was utterly foreign to the nature of the freebooter; indeed, he felt
not even regret, for Grambo’s death merely cleared his own path to the
leadership of their bloody clique, which he had long desired. To attain
that end he would have unscrupulously murdered the quadroon himself at
the proper time—indeed, he had recently been considering ways and means
for just such an act.
But his hatred of Lafitte was but intensified, and within his shadowy
soul Manuel Encarnacion Espinosa swore vengeance.
When he finally raised his head, however, and rose to his feet, his
swarthy face was blandly imperturbable.
Grambo, the quadroon, had ceased to exist, but his work was to be carried
on.