_Wherein the Pirate-Patriots Attain Glory, and Two of Their Number Seek
Death_
I
“Where can I find Captain Lafitte?”
The hurrying Creole with the antiquated musket on his shoulder slackened
his pace for a moment.
“De Baratarians? Dey are wit’ de Americans on de Rodriguez Canal,
_m’sieu_, and on de redoubts neah de city.... _Capitaine_ Lafitte is at
de canal, I t’ink....”
“_Merci bien...._”
With which word of thanks the rider was off, to disappear down the dusty
road, and the old man with the older musket resumed his untiring trot
toward New Orleans.
The newcomer on horseback, having reached the fortifications on the
canal, now slowly rode along its length, seeking Lafitte. He seemed
to note with interest the grim-faced, raw-boned wilderness hunters
he passed, who, distributed along the lines, made striking figures
with their buckskin shirts, powder-horns, abnormally long rifles, and
occasional—tomahawks! Interspersed with these were a few red-shirted
Baratarians, personal followers of Lafitte. The main body of the
pirate-patriots were stationed at the line of fortifications before the
city, where even now the big guns were being placed into position.
At last the rider reached the object of his search, who, a gallant
figure in a resplendent uniform, was conversing with an officer of the
frontiersmen.
The rider dismounted. Lafitte turned.
“Jean!”
“Pierre!”
They embraced, and then simultaneously fired a volley of questions. The
frontiersman unobtrusively vanished.
“How goes it in the city?” asked Jean, after a while. “Indeed,
we’re about to retreat there, for we cannot hope to hold this place
long—although we repulsed a night attack with great success. What’s news?”
Pierre Dominique brightened.
“New Orleans is swarming ... excitement everywhere. The women and girls
have organized a hospital. _Le bon Dieu_ knows we’ll need it! We’re
expecting the British to attack in force any day....” He paused. “By the
way, Jean, I saw Virginia Grymes—”
Jean stiffened, his jaw tightening. Pierre went on, unnoticing.
“—down at their hospital. She was dressed in white and looked like an
angel ... an adorable angel!”
The other looked away, suddenly interested in the landscape, but his
heart was all aflutter, nevertheless. It had been over two years, now,
since he had last spoken to her at Grande Terre, and though he had
avoided her since, he had found it impossible to forget her. He knew that
he still loved her as he loved life itself. But pride—and circumstance—or
both—had kept him from going to her in the endeavor to patch up the old
quarrel.... Then two years since his conscience had told him the price
was too great a one to pay for happiness. But now that he at last was
free to go to her, a lawbreaker no longer, but a respected patriot, he
felt a strange reluctance. He sighed.
Pierre Dominique continued, his next words well calculated to cause Jean
more mental unrest.
“Do you know, Jean ... that if I come out of this—out ... of ... you
know what I mean” ... Jean nodded, gravely ... “alive I’m going to marry
Virginia, if she’ll have me. I’ve intended to speak to you about this for
a long time ... but never had the opportunity.”
Lafitte turned his face away again; and still his brother noticed it not,
but went on speaking, ignorant of the mental torture he was causing the
other.
“Of course, Jean, I’m not really worthy of her ... she’s above me in
every way. But I love her—oh, how I love her! If she refuses me ... I ...
I ... I ... don’t know what I’ll do!” he burst out suddenly, and his face
wore a strange look ... a look foreign to it. Then, as if ashamed of his
little outburst, he smiled weakly, and impulsively put his hand on his
brother’s arm.
“I know, Jean, that I have always been pretty much of a philanderer ...
a trifler. I cared for all women ... and none of them. And I have always
thought—expected—that I would live and die a bachelor. But now ... all
is changed. Love, the real thing, has come to me ... and I feel that I
can’t live without her! Oh, _mon frère_, love is a terrible thing ... and
a wonderful thing! Both bitter and sweet!” He sighed heavily at some
half-forgotten recollection, and again turned to his brother.
As for Jean, his whole being was in a tumult ... he felt as if he were on
fire ... as if his bare soul were being laid on hot coals. Pierre drove
the iron in deeper, still unwitting.
“I realize now,” he added, in a low voice, “the sufferings you went
through ... on Mauritius. I was blind, then, ignorant, although I, in
my egotism, thought myself wise in the ways of woman-kind—of love. Poor
fool that I was, _I_ tried to counsel you.” He paused a moment. “Do you
know, Jean, that once—once, I thought _you_ loved Virginia?” He laughed
hollowly. He did not add that he had once thought that Virginia was
interested in Jean; he could not help remembering De Moulin’s words on
that memorable day of his own arrest.
For a moment Jean did not answer ... he could not. Desperately he fought
for control of himself, trying to keep the words from pouring from
between his lips ... the words of jealousy, of rancor. Mightily he strove
to hold in the deadly poison of hopeless despair that filled his soul.
Suddenly he determined to learn the worst ... to face the true facts. If
they were painful, he would accept the pain. In the game of love, all
family ties drop away.
He turned on his brother, in his turn, his face pale as death, his
coal-black eyes dully alight, as he clutched Pierre’s shoulder.
“Tell me ... Pierre.... No doubt you know” ... he asked, tensely,
“does—Virg—does Miss Grymes love you?” The question was out. On Pierre’s
answer, he dimly felt, rested his whole future.... As a drowning man
clutches at a straw, he mentally hugged to himself the memory of that one
exquisite moment ... those kisses on the terrace of Bordeaux Manor. Those
kisses—they seared his very brain!
As for Pierre Dominique, he stared at his younger brother for a full
moment while digesting the content of the question. And suddenly a light
flashed through his brain ... and he _knew_! Following each other in
quick succession came soul-disturbing thoughts—barbed arrows of jealousy.
De Moulin’s jests—Jean’s strange withdrawal from society—the changed
demeanor of Virginia during these last two years—her reserve—the
unfathomable look that came to her eyes at the mention of Jean’s name!
Fool that he was, not to have noticed before!
Forgotten now were all blood ties—boyhood affections—fraternal loyalty.
Pierre, in his turn, was now on the rack of jealousy. He knew, even now,
that if he did marry Virginia he would still be jealous—would always
remember that “something” between them. A wave of jealous rage swept over
him that left him cold ... and resolved. He nodded curtly, and when he
spoke, could hardly recognize his own voice.
“Yes, Jean, I _know_ she loves me.” He paused, hesitated, and turned his
head. “In fact ... you see, I’m _sure_ of it!”
Jean turned pale ... choked a sob ... and fiercely turned his head away.
When he turned it again his eyes were glistening.
“I wish you both the best of luck ... _mon frère_!”
A quick pressure of the hand and he turned abruptly and walked away.
Pierre Dominique stared after him ... looked at his hand ... stared again
at the other’s retreating figure. He took an uncertain step forward—and
stopped.
“—the best of luck ... _mon frère_!”
He sobbed aloud.