_How a Friend Arrives at Grande Terre, Who Proves to Be an Enemy_
I
The man who had fought with John Paul Jones spat dexterously through the
open French window.
“We gan depend on Mercier, _bosse_, if only—”
“Of course we can,” Lafitte answered, impatiently, “but we can’t depend
on what that fool of a Governor will do. After all, Mercier can’t control
_his_ actions.”
Dominique You pulled on his villainous-looking pipe with great enjoyment.
“Maybe nod, but dat Claiborne cannot help seeing dat w’at we say is true.
He simply muz b’lieve us!”
“Then why the devil doesn’t he send an answer?” demanded Lafitte. “It’s
almost a fortnight since I sent him those papers and the letter, and yet
I haven’t had a word in reply.”
“He must still be t’inking it over. You mus’ rememb’, _mon captaine_, dat
he is a ver’ cautious man—and a fool!”
“But this is a serious affair, Dominique. It’s a question of the public
safety.”
Again the veteran privateersman communed with his pipe before answering.
“_Très bien!_ W’at do you care if he don’t accept? You did youah duty,
_bosse_ ... dat is enough for you to worree ’boud.”
Lafitte made a gesture of impatience.
“Don’t you remember what Captain Lockyer said?” he demanded. “What he
threatened to do in the event of our refusal?”
Dominique You abruptly removed his pipe from his lips.
“_Morbleu!_ I had forgotten!”
“He promised to return with a fleet ... destroy our settlement and hang
us all, if you’ll remember—”
Apparently the Creole remembered.
“—And I believe him,” eloquently.
“De _bosse_ is nod afraid of dat puff-bag?” with surprise.
“Don’t be foolish, Dominique. You know that the British could blow us out
of the water if they had a mind to. And I am inclined to believe they
will have a mind to.”
“And you weel refuse?” with a curious side-glance.
“Of course! You don’t think I’m a damned turn-coat, do you? I’ve thrown
in my lot with the Americans, and with them I’ll stay, whether I’m
welcome or not. Just because there’s a conceited fool in the seat of
authority, who is our enemy, is no reason why I should not help the
people he represents. I shall stick to my friends!”
“And when Lockyer returns?” suggested Dominique You.
“I shall tell him my decision, and then be damned to him! A man’s
conscience is his own. But Jean Lafitte isn’t ready to be hung out of
hand, yet. If necessary, we’ll fight. At the worst, our men could escape
to the mainland and hide in the swamps, but I don’t think it will come
to that. I think that I can persuade them to keep their unwelcome
attentions to themselves.” He smiled reflectively.
“W’at do you mean?” the Creole asked, all interest.
“We shall merely make Captain Lockyer’s neck responsible for mine,” he
said, and chuckled at the other’s expression. “We’ll just keep Lockyer
and his officers here as hostages for the duration of the war, and inform
Colonel Nichols at Pensacola that they will be well treated, but that
their lives will be forfeit for ours. They’ll believe us, never fear.
We’re only pirates, you see.” He laughed again.
Before Dominique You could answer, however, there came an interruption.
The door of Lafitte’s sanctum flew open, admitting an obviously excited
Baratarian. Hardly waiting to touch his forelock, man-o’-war fashion, he
broke his news.
“Dere is a wahsheep in de pass, _mon capitaine_!”
His two auditors rose hurriedly to their feet.
“It is _un Americain, bosse_!” added the newcomer, breathlessly.
Jean and his followers glanced at each other and smiled. A curious
coincidence, this. And a welcome.
Without another word the trio hurriedly made for the beach where they
found all confusion. A milling throng was massed at the water’s edge,
awaiting the arrival of their new allies; it could be seen that the
Baratarians—to all appearances—were by no means sorry to make peace with
the government.
At Lafitte’s approach, a path through the dense crowd magically appeared,
and he eagerly looked toward the pass connecting sea and bay. There, a
quarter-mile away, a frigate, fullrigged, her snowy canvas bellied out
by the wind, was entering Barataria Bay. From her masthead hung the
American flag, its thirteen red stripes, with its ring of stars on a blue
background, adding a colorful note.
And from every port on the larboard, or port, side, peered the wicked
black mouths of cannon. Dominique turned to Lafitte thoughtfully.
“Do you notice de guns, _bosse_?”
Lafitte nodded.
“Dey mus’ t’ink dat de Britishers are here,” ventured the Creole, “and
wish to impress dem.”
“It’s more likely that they wish to impress _us_,” answered Jean, dryly,
then grasped the other’s arm. “Do you see that, behind the frigate? It’s
another ship—two—three!”
A babel of excited comment arose, its contagion sweeping the throng.
Apparently, a considerable fleet had come to Grande Terre. By now the
frigate was well within the harbor, and her decks could be seen to be
crowded. A second ship was entering the bay and others were bearing up
into the wind and tacking about in the attempt to maneuver their way
into the narrow pass. Had this been a hostile fleet, it would never have
gotten this far, for the narrowness and difficulty of navigation made it
an ideal spot for defense against enemies by sea. But suppose this fleet
were unfriendly?
Perhaps thoughts like these were annoying Lafitte and his lieutenant, for
both of them wore an air of uneasiness. As the second newcomer entered
the bay, Lafitte gave Dominique a whispered order. A few moments later
the latter and a file of men were hurrying back to the Manor.
Jean turned a worried look seaward. If these ships should happen to
be inimical, they could have Grande Terre at their mercy. Yet it was
impossible that Claiborne could prove so base....
But a sudden silence had fallen on the crowd—a silence so accentuated as
to be felt. Premonitions of impending danger were besieging more than
one, but the majority were merely apprehensive. Weapons and scowls began
to appear simultaneously. Angry murmurs began to sweep the beach, leaping
from group to group.
Of a sudden—so suddenly as to be breath-taking—the unbelievable happened.
With a detonating crash and roar, the frigate fired a broadside; the
balls passing slightly over the heads of the Baratarians, to bury
themselves in clouds of dust in the village square.
For a brief moment there was a stunned silence. The shock of the act—the
utter unexpectedness—had turned the crowd to stone. But only for a
moment. That pregnant space of time passed, and pandemonium reigned.
“_Tracasserie!_”
The cry raced from lip to lip ... “treachery” indeed! Black
treachery—heinous treachery!—unforgivable treachery! If the warship had
intended to inspire fear, it had accomplished the reverse. Rage, royal
rage, and righteous anger were there instead.
A second broadside followed the first with more disastrous effect, for a
man on the outskirts of the crowd was killed. The colony of Grande Terre
was now thoroughly alarmed.
“_Aux armes!_”
“To arms,” by all means! Although the Baratarians were caught like rats
in a trap, they were by no means cowed. Not they!
“_Aux armes!_”
By now the guns of Bordeaux Manor were answering, and they were voicing
their defiance well, for their first volleys found their target. Not
for nothing did these dare-devil privateersmen have the name of expert
gunners. The second warship now joined the battle. The harbor seemed to
be one vast cloud of smoke, with intermittent flashes of fire now and
again piercing the haze. Many of the smugglers’ vessels were doing their
share by way of retaliation, while boats of every description scurried
across the bay, making for the safety of the mainland. But many more
remained on Grande Terre, resolved to make a last desperate stand.
In a scant ten minutes, it seemed, the village itself was a smoking,
flaming ruin. Yells of pain and fright came from the slave stockade,
where the black ivory, trapped in the strong inclosure, were being maimed
and killed by the falling balls of iron. But even their terrible shrieks
but added its mite to the general uproar.
Under cover of the fire of their guns, boat-loads of soldiers were being
landed, sent to try to save the burning warehouses, if possible. But to
their surprise, the village was still occupied, and a fierce hand-to-hand
battle ensued.
Smoke—fire—yells—screams—curses—obscenities—explosions;
muskets—pistols—bayonets—swords—dirks—knives ... implements of
destruction, all, and all in use.
Here a group of soldiers beat frantically at the flames; there another
group fought like wolves ... wounded, dying, dead ... dim apparitions
appearing and disappearing in the red haze; there a group of demons
in red shirts, slashing, cutting, and firing, held at bay twice their
number. It was a scene worthy of perpetuation—worthy of the inspired
brush of a master.
But every moment reinforcements were arriving from the fleet ... and as
quickly the islanders were slipping away to the mainland—to safety.
Jean Lafitte, disheveled, powder-blackened, and bleeding from a scalp
wound caused by a wild musket-ball, half ran, half stumbled, toward the
one remaining serviceable gun on the Manor walls. Dominique You, his face
gleaming with the unhallowed lust of battle, detached himself from its
immediately surrounding murky haze, and ran to meet him.
“What news?” cried Lafitte, gasping.
The man who had fought with Paul Jones cursed expressively. His face was
smoke-blackened.
“_Tout est pris!..._ All, all is taken! De guns are disabled ... dey are
landing more men....”
“I know ... I know! Get the men together.... We must make a charge ... we
must get through them!...”
Dominique laughed, but his expression was horrible to see.
“De men are leaving, on all sides. _Ma foi!_ Dat is w’at we mus’ do, too!”
“Never! Let the _canaille_ flee for their lives, if they will. Jean
Lafitte stays here!”
The old privateersman grasped his shoulder.
“Don’t be a fool. We are beat’n ... beat’n! Do you want to go back to
N’Awleens in chains? To be hung? Let’s escape through the secret passage
to the mainland. The treasure is safe enough ... they’ll never find
it. And don’t forget, _bosse_, dat you have a score to settle wid dat
Claiborne!”
The Duke of Little Manchac and Barataria cursed fluently.... He
possessed, it may as well be admitted, a truly ducal profanity
vocabulary—a vocabulary with the saving grace of originality.
But passion soon gave way to reason.
“You are right! We will go.... Pass the word!”
Then, while Dominique You yelled an order, and then sped away to the
banquet hall to open the secret passage, Jean Lafitte sprang to the
carriage of the last gun and, pushing aside a grizzled gunner, himself
applied the match....