_In Which Jean Lafitte Is Sorely Tempted, and, Incidentally, Sees a
Vision_
I
“Dix milles diables!” exclaimed Dominique You, bitterly, as he spat
ferociously on the sand. “Dey weel ruin us yet. Here de planters weel pay
a thousand dollaires a haid, and our pens are empty. If we could only get
one shipload more we could mek a fortune!”
Jean Lafitte, walking by his side toward the beach, made no reply,
seemingly buried in thought, while the old man who had fought with Paul
Jones rambled on in the same strain. “Ten thousand devils,” indeed!
Slaves were scarce in these days of blockades and war, and the planters
were willing to pay any price for them.
By now the two Baratarians had reached the landing on the shore, where
ship’s cargoes were being rapidly borne to and fro. A loaded vessel had
but recently arrived, and the slaves, under the unpleasantly insinuating
lashes of the overseers, were busily unloading the small boats. Evidently
her cargo had consisted in the main of wines, Spanish and French, for it
was being brought ashore in all varieties of containers—barrels, casks,
tierces, pipes, hampers, octaves, and baskets.
Small wonder that the cellars of Bordeaux Manor bore a striking
resemblance to the paradise of a Bacchanalian! Bacchus himself would have
felt very much at home there, as had one John Grymes, on his memorable
visit some two years before.
Jean languidly inspected the labels of several casks. Of late, it seemed,
everything he did was done languidly. Wartime though it was, life seemed
to hold no interest for the _bosse_ of Barataria.
Dominique You disappeared into the near-by throng.
The day was extremely warm; not a breeze stirred, it seemed. It was early
September, and no hint of coolness was offered by the placid sea, which
was glittering with every imaginable tint, from palest aquamarine to the
brightest emerald—from the pure blue light of the turquoise to the dark
deep blue of the sapphire.
Of a sudden, almost unbelievably so, came the detonation of a ship’s
cannon.
There, around the easternmost end of a thickly wooded point, appeared the
bowsprit, and gradually the hulk, of a frigate, which, it could be seen,
was anchoring directly off the entrance of the narrow pass giving ingress
to the inner bay. From her masthead flew the naval banner of—Great
Britain.
And then, as Lafitte watched, a gig was lowered, manned, and passengered
with three scarlet-coated figures in the sternsheets. It then entered the
pass and made for shore.
By this time a number of armed Baratarians had assembled awaiting its
coming, while others hurriedly made for their own ships at anchor in
the bay, to prepare to repel any threatened attack, if necessary. Jean
Lafitte, a commanding figure, with Dominique You, alone, by his side,
awaited their arrival at the marge of the water.
The gig was soon landed, and the three scarleted officers disembarked and
stood for a moment, looking about them. At a word from Lafitte, Dominique
approached them and engaged them in a conversation, at the end of which
he pointed toward Jean. The three Britishers then came forward, one of
them, a ruddy, bewhiskered man wearing the uniform of a captain in the
royal navy.
For a moment, the Baratarian and the Englishman eyed each other.
“Captain Lafitte, I believe?” ventured the latter, politely. Lafitte
bowed, and his bow was even more correct than that of the punctilious
visitor, given in return.
“I am Captain Lockyer, sir, of His Majesty’s frigate _Sophia_. I have
important dispatches for you, from Colonel Nichols, at Pensacola.”
Lafitte showed his surprise, but attempted to cover it.
“Indeed? Won’t you gentlemen accompany me to my quarters, where we can
talk comfortably?” On the captain’s quick acquiescence he turned and
accompanied them through the silent, sullen, red-shirted crowd. Lafitte
well knew that his men resented the presence of the Britishers, but he
was nothing if not hospitable. And he was also very curious. What message
could this Britisher have for him, a pirate?
Within the Manor, Captain Lockyer presented Lafitte with the dispatches
he had mentioned, which were inclosed in a packet addressed to “Jean
Lafitte, Esquire, Commandant at Barataria,” and resplendently sealed.
On opening it, Jean found it to contain a number of printed forms, and a
letter addressed to himself. As he read the first few lines of the letter
he could not suppress a slight start, but remained impassive until he had
finished.
“I suppose you know the contents of this letter, Captain Lockyer?” he
asked, quietly.
The Britisher nodded gravely.
“I do, and I would strongly advise you to accept.”
Jean rose from the table slowly.
“If you gentlemen will pardon me, I would like to retire for a moment.
Colonel Nichols’s offer greatly surprises me, and I would like to think
it over.”
“By all means,” nodded the captain. “It is hardly to be expected that
you....” his voice trailed off vaguely, for Jean had bowed, and was
already leaving.
A moment later he was closeted with Dominique You.
“What do dese _canaille_ want?” demanded the latter.
“Enough—” said Jean, his brow clouding.
Dominique looked at him keenly from under beetling brows.
“I can guess.”
“What?” demanded Jean, startled.
“Dey want your help.”
“You are right, old friend. Here are the papers. Most of them are merely
proclamations made by Nichols, commander of the British forces in the
Gulf, to the Louisianians, promising and threatening all sorts of things—”
“I know,” impatiently. “I ’ave seen dem.”
“And the other is a letter, asking my aid.”
The old Creole cursed softly.
“Wait. They don’t want it for nothing. _Parbleu_—no! They offer me thirty
thousand dollars cash.”
Dominique You looked pained.
“Thirty thousan’ dollaires? To de _bosse_ of Barataria? _C’est pour
rire!_” It was to laugh, indeed. Jean Lafitte, money lord of the
Mississippi ... thirty thousand dollars! A bagatelle!
Lafitte, however, looked serious.
“That is not all, Dominique. They offer me a captain’s commission in
the royal navy—quite an honor, _n’est-ce-pas_? And they offer us all
amnesty—pardon for our past deeds.”
“Dose dam’ _Anglais_ offeh us Baratarians a’nesty?” demanded the other,
unbelievingly. “_Sacré Dieu!_ Dey offah us—” For a moment words failed
him. “But foah what, _bosse_?”
“For our aid. Colonel Nichols wants us, in return, to enlist in the
British navy, and to help them especially in their contemplated attack on
New Orleans.”
“You weel not accept, _bosse_? _Non?_” asked the Creole, anxiously.
“And why not?” returned Jean, coolly. But there was a curious gleam in
his eyes. Dominique stared at him, aghast.
“It is a strong temptation,” went on Lafitte, reflectively, “very strong.
And I will admit that I am sorely tempted.”
His companion regarded him with puzzlement. Something he could not divine
was in his young chief’s voice. Was he posing? For what reason?
“I am not an American,” continued Lafitte, slowly, as if arguing with
himself— “neither by birth nor by inclination....”
“You are a Frenchman,” said Dominique, uncertainly, “but—”
“As it is,” soliloquizing, “we must face the truth. We Baratarians ever
face the prospect of the hangman’s noose, for we are naught but pirates,
_mon ami_....” His lieutenant nodded unwillingly. “And besides, Colonel
Nichols promises to destroy Grande Terre and hang us all as pirates, if I
refuse. So, you see, I have the men to think of.”
“Dat is nod the _bosse_ of Barataria speakin’!” cried Dominique. “Jean
Lafitte is nod a coward ... _pardieu, non!_”
“Thank you ... I hope not. But the men—”
“De men go where you lead,” declared the Creole.
For a moment Jean was buried in thought.
“With my help,” he murmured, “these British dogs could take New Orleans
... which means Louisiana! I—Lafitte, can lead them through the swamps
and bayous to the very gates of the city before anyone could possibly
know of our coming....”
“_C’est vrai_....”
“On my decision hangs the destiny of this territory ... on me, a pirate,
with a price on my head. On me, whom Claiborne hunts like a dog! Have
I reason to love the American government? Why should I not accept?” he
demanded, bitterly.
Dominique did not answer. He was confused, realizing that Lafitte
spoke the truth. After all, what did America mean to them? And what an
exquisite revenge this would be on the vengeful Governor!
In his mind’s eye, already, the man who had fought with Paul Jones saw
the triumphant entry of the red-shirted Baratarians with their red-coated
allies into New Orleans. After all, he thought, it was the best policy
to ally themselves with the stronger side—and undoubtedly the might of
England was the more fearsome. Perhaps the British were destined to take
back their own—for was not America really theirs?
And both he and his master were wealthy—ready to retire. Was not the
prospect of an honorable position—in security—a pleasant one?
“Why should I resist this temptation?” demanded Lafitte again. “I have
everything to gain and nothing to lose....”
Curiously enough, he thought of Virginia Grymes.... If things had been
different ... and, then, he could have—But had he not been thinking of
nothing but her during these lonely two years? He was forced to admit it
to himself—he still loved her; yet, knowing that she was not for him,
that was all the more reason, perhaps, why he should assist her country’s
enemies.
Suddenly, as if a man in a dream, he saw her again as she had been that
eventful night in the moonlight—when she had cried in that prophetic
moment: “Some day our United States will be the greatest country on
earth.... I _know_ it!”... God! how beautiful she had looked, and how
convincing were her fervored words!
And in that mystic moment Lafitte _knew_ ... knew that he had never had
the intention of proving traitor to his adopted country, his friends,
his—he stopped; daring to go no further, even in thought. Come what
may, he would give his life, if necessary, for his country. He knew it
was his now; had been all along—and he would persist in working for its
welfare even if that country itself would demand his life for his past
deeds.
Unconsciously he shuddered at the thought of the narrow escape he had
had. By what a small margin had he saved his honor—his ideals! And it had
taken that momentary vision of Virginia to light his way.
On this moment he had hinged his whole future—and he had now irrevocably
made his decision. His head told him that he would do wrong by refusing
the British offer—that, logically, it was the best thing to do, for he
had all to gain and nothing to lose. His was not the rôle of a Benedict
Arnold, for he was not even an American! But his heart—that capricious,
headstrong, arbiter of human destinies—assured him that he did right.
That although he lost everything, including life, he would retain his
honor.... And the heart triumphed over the head, which was rather unusual
for Jean Lafitte. But, then, the heart is commonly supposed to be the
abode of Love.
And so it came to pass that Jean Lafitte, at this turning-point of his
life, took unto himself the counsels of his heart, and thus threw into
the great cauldron of the future the destinies of a nation—and his
happiness.
For the simple reason that Jean Lafitte _was_ Jean Lafitte.