_How Virginia Comes to Bordeaux Manor and One Manuel Espinosa Takes What
He Wants_
Barataria Bay!
Swarming with water-craft of every description and every
nationality—brigs, schooners, caravels, sloops, pinnaces, tartanes,
barges, and countless small boats—French, Spanish, English, American, and
the indeterminate nationalities of the visiting rovers of the Caribbean;
these, with the numerous vessels of the Baratarians, the waters of this
smuggler stronghold fairly teemed with life, and presented a scene not to
be duplicated in any other portion of the globe.
A trim little sloop, beating up from the north, had just emerged from the
narrow pass into the bay, and rapidly made its way through the host of
stationary and moving water-craft off the yellow shores of Grande Terre.
A little later the _Virginia_, for such was the name that was faintly
distinguishable on either side of the weather-beaten bow, came to anchor,
and almost immediately two negro sailors disembarked into a trailing dory
and swiftly rowed ashore, where, upon landing, they vanished in the crowd
that thronged the beach.
Virginia Grymes, hidden from view in her father’s sloop’s tiny cabin,
with her maid, a fairish West Indian, watched the animated scene ashore
with absorbed interest, while awaiting the return of Scipio, the mate,
and his master.
Seen from seaward, Grande Terre was a picturesque sight, with its
long, low buildings and tall, graceful palmettos silhouetted against
the southern horizon, the island rising in gentle sandy slopes from
the marge of the busy bay, which, like an immense opal, flecked with
innumerable prismatic tints—ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, and
chrysoprase—was heaving in languorous undulations.
Even as she watched, inwardly thankful that her arrival was apparently an
inconspicuous and unnoticed one, she was unconscious of the fact that at
that very moment the _Virginia_ was undergoing an attentive scrutiny ...
and that the person so scrutinizing was smiling—an unpleasant smile.
Of a sudden, Virginia became aware of several men, who, emerging from the
crowd, entered the _Virginia’s_ dory and began rowing toward her. From
the fact that they wore red shirts, she knew they were Baratarians.
Another minute and the dory was alongside; still another, and its
passengers had clambered aboard. Not daring to come on deck, anxious to
know what had happened, wondering at the non-appearance of her father,
Virginia began to heartily regret the foolish impulse that had brought
her to Grande Terre. But she was not to long remain in doubt as to the
identity, or intentions, of the newcomers.
A scant space after their boarding the _Virginia_, the door of the
little cabin quickly opened and the red-shirted, bearded men entered it
abruptly, hesitating a moment on catching sight of the two women huddled
against the opposite wall.
Smirking, the first Baratarian made an awkward bow.
“You are Ma’amselle Grymes?” he asked.
Virginia nodded, with a sudden wave of relief that they knew her
identity. No doubt John Grymes had sent them for her.
“Where is my father?” she asked, tremulously.
For a moment he hesitated, and she looked from one to another
uncertainly, flushing as she caught their frankly admiring, insolent
looks.
“He could not come.... M’sieu Grymes had an accident. He—he broke his
leg, ma’amselle, and _le bosse_, who is with him, sent us to bring you to
him. He is anxious—”
Virginia snatched up her cloak, her half-born distrust vanishing at this
momentous news.
“I will go to him,” she said.
“_Mais certainement_,” said the pirate, and he and his companions
respectfully drew apart so that she could pass out of the cabin. Drawing
her cloak closely about her, she hurried between them and began to ascend
to the deck.
The next moment a huge hairy hand clamped itself over her mouth, she was
seized, and in an instant was helpless. A stifled shriek told her that
Marie, her maid, was being treated in the same manner. The icy hand of
fear suddenly gave her heart an excruciating wrench.
Then, before she had time to struggle, or even to coherently think, she
felt herself being firmly trussed and gagged, forcibly doubled so that
her knees touched her chin, and unceremoniously and hastily forced into
a sack-like hamper, which was then closed. Helpless, blinded, dumb, and
half stifled by the foul odor of the hamper, the terrified girl felt
herself lifted from the floor, carried on deck, and lowered into the dory.
On the beach she heard whispered voices, other hands took up the hamper,
and again she was being carried away.
Not long after she had been taken from the scene, one Manuel Encarnacion
Espinosa strolled by, ostensibly dawdling, but in reality noticing
much ... and from the corner of his eye he watched a small boat that
was rapidly crossing the little bay, headed for the mouth of one of
the numerous streams that emptied into Barataria from the network of
waterways that interlaced the forests of the mainland. And as he watched
it disappear into the great green wall he smiled, for in it was a veiled
woman.
On all sides were sweating slaves and stevedores, their black skins
shining in the pitiless sun’s glare; creaking winches and tarry
ropes; bearded Baratarians with red-kerchiefed heads and bright red
shirts; lean, fierce-faced pirates from the Caribbean; seamen of all
nationalities; soft-voiced Creoles; quadroons, octoroons, and mulattoes;
Mesquite Indians from Florida; Choctaws; Cubans, Spaniards, and Mexicans
with spurs and silver-braided sombreros; revolutionists and exiles from
Santo Domingo and other South American states; gentlemen adventurers and
fortune-hunters from every unsavory corner of the continent; slavers,
slave dealers, and traders; and last, but not least, the brilliantly
clothed, swaggering dare-devils who belonged to Lafitte’s personal
following.
In the background were the long, low warehouses, the stockades and
sheds of the slave pens, and the auction block in the midst of a busy
little square. And dominating the whole scene, Bordeaux Manor—named,
incidentally, in honor of the birthplace of the Lafittes—which, crowning
the highest point on the island, in a grove of palmettos and cypresses,
was a stately structure of stuccoed brick, of a distinctly Franco-Spanish
type of architecture, with Moorish arches and many grilles and balconies.
As a strange contrast to the ugly, noisy village below were its grounds,
its pounded shell walks, brick terraces, and its gardens replete with
oleander, jasmine, and acacia thickets, orange trees, china trees, and
bananas. A strange contrast to the busily nondescript scene farther down.
The whole was surrounded with a high spiked wall, with a huge gateway
made for practical defense rather than beauty. This jarring note was
emphasized by the presence of heavy ships’ cannon, which were placed so
as to command both the village and harbor.
With brooding eyes Espinosa gazed at the stronghold of Lafitte; a gaze of
envy, hate, and the gloating pleasure of anticipation.
Even as he stood there he became aware of Lafitte and Grymes, trailed by
the latter’s two slaves, approaching the beach, both apparently excited.
Entering the dory, they rowed to and boarded the _Virginia_. In an even
shorter period of time they had regained the shore, Grymes pale with
anxiety, Lafitte furious and Scipio and his fellow chalky with fear.
From then on, things began to happen.
No one, it seemed, had noticed the coming of the sloop, nor had any paid
attention to its occupants. It remained for Señor Espinosa to furnish a
clue, which he did at the proper—in his judgment—time.
“Señor ‘Bosse’,” he volunteered, “I saw a small boat which bore a veiled
woman enter that stream just a few moments ago. But I never gave it a
second thought, thinking her to be some planter’s wife, or a prized
slave. But now I am convinced it was the young señorita.”
Thanking him fervently, Jean ordered a boat manned and, with Grymes, set
out in chase of the supposed abductors.
Manuel Espinosa vanished into the seething crowd, but emerged again
across the plaza, on the Manor road. And with him, when he did so, came
a goodly number of his friends and followers. All were armed, and when,
after an interval, a similar group followed, none gave them heed, for
on Grande Terre every man went armed and every man kept his business to
himself.
At the Manor gates, strangely enough, Jean’s Myrmidons, the customary
Manor guards, were absent, and henchmen of the Spaniard held their place.
The former had been treacherously attacked and overpowered. Bordeaux
Manor was now entirely in the Spaniard’s possession ... its treasures,
its guns, and the power its existence implied.
Immediately following the entrance of the last of the conspirators, the
great gates were barred and the walls manned. Manuel Espinosa was, for
the time, the master of the Manor and Grande Terre.
When Espinosa entered, he immediately hastened to a certain inner room,
whose door he locked behind him. Virginia Grymes, its sole occupant,
looked up in surprised affright.
She was liberated now from the tortures of the hamper, but was by no
means happy. As she saw the Spaniard stand with his back to the door, for
a moment, his insolent eyes avidly drinking in her beauty, memory came
to her aid. He was the man who had loitered without Livingston’s house
in New Orleans—and now she remembered seeing his face in the crowd on
the day of her adventure with the runaways. And as she stared at him,
fascinated, she remembered that she had been uncomfortably aware of him
on other occasions ... of his insolent admiration, his lustful gaze.
As he stared at her, he realized that she recognized him, and he was
pleased, in his animal way.
“So we meet again, señorita,” he essayed, smirking and unsuccessfully
attempting an imitation of a bow by Lafitte.
“Why have you done this?” she demanded, her eyes terror-filled, her
shapely hand clutching at her bodice. “Where is my father—and Mr.
Lafitte?” She was as yet unable to comprehend, in its ominous entirety,
what had happened.
He grinned, displaying his horrible teeth. Yellow, evil teeth.
“They are gone ... in the forests, trying to overtake your maid. When
they heard of your disappearance, they were like headless chickens
running around, until I, the good Manuel, told of how I had seen men take
you away into the forest. And they instantly followed. Am I not a cunning
one?” he smiled fatuously, anxious to exhibit his cunning to her.
“But why—why did you do this?” she cried.
His answer was candor itself, given with the ungarnished simplicity of
the human animal that he was.
“Because I wanted you. And what Manuel Espinosa wants, he takes!”
She did not answer, but stared at him, her bosom heaving. Was this a
terrible dream? Where was the prosaic world of commonplace happenings?
“I have wanted you since I first saw you,” he went on, “and I have
planned to get you ever since. At last my chance has come. Now you are
mine!”
“My father will kill you.” She choked, conscious, even then, of surprise
at her own courage. “When Mr. Lafitte returns he will flay you alive.
Can’t you realize that?”
The Spaniard laughed, pleasurably. Then he cursed Lafitte, with a
fluency, thoroughness, and variety of epithet that caused her to
shudder—as much at the venomous hate in his tone as at the vileness of
his obscenity.
“Lafitte’s day is over!” he cried. “I—Manuel Espinosa—am now _bosse_ of
Barataria—not Lafitte! Do you think me a fool? Me—Espinosa? By the nails
of Christ—no! The French dog with his airs and arrogance has always been
in my way—but I have bided my time—I, the cunning Manuel. I let him go
ahead and build up Grande Terre, with his money and influence ... for
_me_! He thought Grambo was his enemy—but the quadroon was but a tool—my
tool. I waited—waited—and now my time has come. The saints brought you
into my hands—and through you put Lafitte out of the way.
“My men now hold the fort. My guns command both the town and the bay. I
can destroy the whole colony, if I wish. But I shall not, yet. I shall
give them all a chance to join me—or be shot to hell! And I think they
will join me, and even catch Lafitte for me—don’t you?”
That she thought so was only too apparent by her horrified look, and the
Spaniard smirked again.
“Lafitte is a cunning one—very cunning. But I, Espinosa, am smarter
than he. You’ll be proud of your husband, my pretty bird!” He advanced
toward her slowly, his arms half outstretched, in his fatuous vanity
interpreting her look of terror for admiration of himself.
“I’ll die first!” she said, distinctly. His expression became menacing,
when he had assimilated this.
“You should be glad that I’d marry you!” he exclaimed. “If you were not
a great lady I wouldn’t bother to marry you. But a great man should have
a great lady for a wife—and the _bosse_ of Barataria is a great man.”
At any other time Virginia would have laughed at the simplicity of his
overweening egotism.
“You beast!” she cried, passionately. “I warn you, for the last time, to
let me go! Mr. Lafitte and my father won’t let you escape them, and if
you’ve come near me, whether I’ve already killed myself or not, they’ll
tear you to pieces, limb from limb!”
Forgetting her terror in her truly royal rage, she made a beautiful
picture, and the renegade was by no means unappreciative of it. Again he
grinned and attempted to take her in his arms. She beat a furious tattoo
on his breast, like a fluttering, helpless bird.
“Little fool,” he whispered, “if the saints decide to give the victory
to the French dog, don’t think you’ll escape, for when I leave Grande
Terre I’ll take my wife with me, and we’ll go back to the real life
where there’s blood and wine and gold—and women! But my little flower
will outshine all of them, and I shall wear her—until I tire of her or
throw her away to pick another. That is the way of the Brotherhood. But
before I go—if I do—this upstart Frenchman will suffer, and you shall see
the show. Dream of escape, señorita, all you please. _Y suenos suenos
son_—dreams are only dreams—remember that!” He grinned. “And now a kiss,
little flower!” and he grasped her arms.
Regardless of the consequences, she hit him in the face, painfully—and
he laughed. Suddenly the reverberating roar of a cannon was heard;
hesitating, he loosened her and then opened the door.
“I will be back, señorita,” he promised, and laughed again as she
quailed. A moment later she heard the bolt and his departing footsteps.
With a pitiful gasp, she fainted.