Chapter XV: Book TWO: Temptation (2)

“Romance,” he had said, “enters into the life of every mortal—and, like love—and hate—it is primitive.”

Yes, romance was primitive ... as was love and hate. The cave-woman of the Stone Age and this cultured young girl of this modern era, beneath the thin veneer of civilization, were at heart but as one.

Thus Eve. Thus Cleopatra. Thus Laura. Thus Helen. Thus Juliet. And thus the Eves, Cleopatras, Lauras, Helens, and Juliets of all ages, all time.

“Jean—Mr. Lafitte—” The “Jean” was a daring touch.

He turned abruptly, thrilling at their proximity. How he yearned for her!—with a mental ache that tortured his every nerve. He struggled to avert his eyes, to resist the temptation of crushing her in his arms.

“_Sacré Dieu!_” he muttered, his senses in a swirl, “was ever man so tempted before?” _Was_ ever man so seared by this fiendish demon of Love? He gripped the parapet until his knuckles shone white—fighting within himself for control—struggling to regain his much-vaunted poise. Two internal Lafittes were now at grips—the cool-headed, impassive cynic and the emotional, love-torn sentimentalist. Which would gain the mastery?

But the girl could not know of this mental chaotic maelstrom. If she had known, would she carry out her plan—execute her test? Perhaps not, and again, being a woman, perhaps....

“Captain Lafitte,” she breathed, face upturned to his, dark eyes on his in mute appeal, “won’t you do this—can’t you, for my sake?” It was the acme of feminine appeal, this, used, perhaps, since the days of Eve.

For a moment Lafitte was stone-like—his black eyes in vivid contrast to his pale face.

“For _your_ sake?” he murmured, more with a fierce joy than in surprise. “_Nom de Dieu!_ For your sake?” He gripped her by the arms and gazed searchingly into her eyes, an operation not conducive to lucid introspection at any time, let alone when they shone with the very essence of the moon-glamour.

For a brief space she was filled with consternation at the reaction her words had evoked, and longed—fairly longed—for the power to recall them. But something greater than her will, some vague, indefinable power, urged her on. She nodded dumbly, unable to resist the magnetism of his eyes, momentarily fascinated.

Sweeping her into his arms, he passionately kissed her, once—twice—on the lips, and, wonder of wonders!—she returned it! But it was that strange, delirious power within her that did so. The normal Virginia Grymes was in a spell—a spell of sudden, overwhelming happiness, ’tis true, but still in a state of unreality—the sweet wonderland of love’s flaming exaltation.

Attempting to awaken from that delicious momentary surrender, to regain the world of prosaic reality, she attempted to break away, but hopelessly, and capitulated—gloriously.

She knew, at that moment, that she loved and always would love this imperious pirate—this Jean Lafitte!

“For your sake,” he repeated, with a fierce under-note, “I’d cheerfully walk through the Inferno and laugh! I, who have seen your form in every flower, your eyes in every star—whose voice echoed in every breeze—whose angelic presence has blessed my dreams! For your sake—”

“You love me?” she murmured, still under the hypnosis of that magic glamour. “_You_ love me?” unbelievingly, mechanically.

“Do I love you?” he cried, exultantly. “Great God! Why did Leander swim the Hellespont? Because he loved her! Why did I—love you? _Je t’adore!_ I adore you—worship you!” He half sobbed with a fierce joy, the joy bells in his soul deafening him with their wondrous pæan.

“The wonder of it!” he whispered, “the glorious wonder! I love you, and you love—but do you, do you? Tell me, light of my life, _ma cœur_, if you could care for a poor devil of a Frenchman? Tell me ... tell me!” he entreated, hoarsely, holding her a little away, staring with devouring eyes into her pale face—experiencing a rhapsody of eager joy.

Of a sudden voices were heard; across the gardens, ’tis true, but none the less distinct. Startled, the two lovers looked up and half fell apart.

“But where can I find _le bosse_?” they heard, faintly.

“He cannot be disturbed. He is with his guests,” came the reply.

“But I must see him!” exclaimed the first, with an oath. “I come post-haste from N’Awleens with letters from Monsieur Pierre Lafitte. There is trouble in the wind. Martain says that Claiborne has cooked up another scheme. _Dame_, yes!”

“Trouble again?” said the other. “It is to laugh! Why, only to-day—” His voice became indistinguishable as the two evidently moved away.

When Jean next spoke, the fire had died from his voice. Jean the lover was gone ... the old Lafitte was back in his place, jerked back to himself by the interruption at this critical moment.

“Virginia—ma’amselle—” he said, dully, “forgive me, pray forgive me, if you can. I was mad—mad! This thing can never be. God, no! What a fool I was! I thought to bury honor—manhood. ‘The evil that men do lives after them’ ... _c’est vrai_ ... too true! I cannot turn traitor to my friends—my men. _Le bon Dieu_ forgive me for a coward ... a heartless wretch—but I cannot! You will forgive my ungentlemanly conduct, Miss Grymes?” he pleaded.

“Ungentlemanly conduct!” And he had just avowed eternal love! What a mockery—a travesty—is life!

She smothered a sob in the merciful shadows, and Lafitte looked at her eagerly.

“Can’t you—won’t you understand?” he asked, a world of suffering in his voice. But she was oblivious to it, apparently, for she laughed—or was it a sob?

“I understand perfectly, sir,” she said, with hauteur, in a hard, bitter voice, “and despise the advantage you took of a defenseless woman. And I do not forgive you, for there is nothing to forgive!” She laughed scornfully, but it broke and became a sob. “But I suppose all men are alike! Only the—the Spaniard was frank—”

“Ma’amselle!” His hands contracted ... the thrust had gone painfully deep. “Do you mean to say that you do not—that you did not—”

She raised her chin haughtily, though her wet, sensitive eyes denied any imputation of acting on her part.

“Precisely. I was merely playing with you, Mr. Lafitte, flirting, if you will.” Ah, if his eyes could have but pierced the gloom and detected the heartbreaking lie. Poor Jean ... and poor Virginia.

His head fell to his breast and his half-outstretched hands to his side. For a moment her features softened, but only for a moment. For she remembered those kisses—her surrender.

She hardened.

“Moreover, Mr. Lafitte,” she exclaimed in a choked voice, “I—hate you.”

And she was gone.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH:

_How De Moulin Comes to Flirt at the Quadroon Ball but Remains to Fight_

I

The lady in the moon, at ease in her airy chariot, gazed downward with smiling eyes. Far beneath her lay the city of New Orleans, picturesque enough by day, but even more so by night, with the one lone spire of St. Louis praying silently to the stars.

Here could be seen the old gardens of the Faubourg Ste. Marie, with its parterres of jonquils and hyacinths smiling in the silvery glow, and its groups of lagustrums and laurestines vaguely delineated in the black shadows of the acacia thickets. Here could be caught dazzling glimpses of the walks of gleaming pounded shell, winding through groves of magnolias with buds as white as the moon itself, and flowering orange trees. And from each fairy-haunted garden is wafted aloft on the balmy night air the myriad scents and odors of nature’s efflorescent masterpieces, to delight the senses of the immortals on high.

And her celestial ladyship peers down on the sparkling waters of the Gulf, and continually kisses its face, and with magnificent impartiality distributes her favors, as well, on the broad bosom of the restless, sullen, ever-changing Mississippi—that Titan of many moods—and the youngest of the watery trinity, Lake Pontchartrain; and does not even neglect the more modest, lagoon-like bayous, unexpectedly scattered, here and there, on the marge of the virginal forests. And the personage in the Moon smiles tenderly.

On Ste. Philippe Street, in a broad, white-brick theater, honeycombed with gambling dens, ablaze with light, and made conspicuous by the two huge wrought-iron lanterns hanging pendant on either side of the entrance, a theater ball is in progress.

The Philippe Street Theater, like that of Condè Street, is, as all the world knows, one of those celebrated edifices of amusement wherein are held the brilliant quadroon balls which are the talk of half the South.

What, you have not heard of the quadroon, _mon ami? Nom d’un nom!_ What deplorable ignorance! The quadroon caste, _mon pauvre ami_, are descended from the merry chevaliers of the colonial military Frenchmen, grown coarsened by intimate contact with Spanish-American frontier life, and, on the other hand, from the most comely specimens of the less negroidal types of the newly brought-over slaves, bought at the auction-block of New Orleans. And now, after perhaps seventy or eighty years, their half-caste female descendants, one-fourth negro though they are, are among the most beautiful of all the beauties of this lotus land of the South; and, truth to tell, oftentimes are hardly recognizable for the class they are.

The balls? Ah, the balls that were gotten up for them! What beauty! What gayety! What elegance! What a brilliant attendance! The quadroon balls alone were sufficient to give New Orleans a unique place in history.

How often would the aristocrats, the Creole gentry, desert their friends at the fashionable Theatre d’Orleans to spend the rest of the evening at the equally exclusive, quadroon theater balls! Here were to be found the flower of the masculine world of Little Paris—planters, officials, gentlemen of leisure, merchants, bankers—scions of the proudest names in Louisiana, the “_jeunesse dorée_”—the gilded youth. Were the quadroons their equals? Of course not! But what would you? When one seeks amusement....

To have danced, quarreled, and made passionate love at the quadroon theater ball was as necessary a part of a gentleman’s education as to have a course in debauchery in Orleans Street, in gambling for high stakes in Royal Street, or in having fought at least one duel at Slaughterhouse Point. And it was a pleasureable duty participated in by every Creole gentleman from his later adolescence to his second childhood.

The theater balls were a habit. As was the masquerade—the Mardi Gras.

II

Pierre Dominique and François de Moulin, in spirits as lightsome as their costumes were gay, marched arm-in-arm down the moonlight-drenched street, headed for the cluster of lights that told of the presence of the theater ball.

“And he sayce to me,” De Moulin was saying, “‘you do nod realize eet, _mon ami_, bud zis war es going to be brought home to us—an’ dam’ soon, at zat!’ An’ when I laugh he sayce, ‘ze next step de British are going to take will be an attemp’ to invade Louisiana!’”

“I’m not so sure, Grymes isn’t right,” said Lafitte, thoughtfully, for once. “Jean tells me that he’s sure of it. Du Boulanger got through the blockade last week—he was coming from France—and he told Jean that it isn’t a rumor, but a fact; that none of us have the slightest conception of the blow that Great Britain contemplates dealing us. He pointed out that the war between England and France is at an end, that Napoleon is safe in exile, and, therefore, that she is now able to send her whole military and naval power against us—and you know what that means!”

De Moulin nodded.

“You may be right. Accord’n to Grymes, zere ees at zis moment an armada on ze sea, zat consists of at least fifty warsheeps an’ a zousand guns; manned by ze veterans of Trafalgar an ze Nile. But of course it’s all rumor.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be a fire,” said Pierre, dryly. “I’ll admit that I don’t believe the story that the Duke of Wellington, himself, is to be in command, but I do believe that something is afoot. Anyway, Du Boulanger thought it important enough to go to Claiborne and warn him. But the pompous ass laughed at him.”

“If he wanted zat man to believe anyzing, he should ’ave told him exactly ze opposite!” muttered François. “Ze more I zink of some people, ze less I zink of zem!” with sage plagiarism.

For a moment or two they walked on in silence. A block ahead of them a dark figure vanished around the corner of a stone wall on the Rue Polymnia; a _guichinango_, perhaps—a garrotter, or night cutthroat, with which the city abounded. When they reached the corner, however, he had disappeared.

“Speaking of Grymes,” said François, “have you heard zat he ess in financial difficulties?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised, when I remember how he gambled away his fee two years ago,” referring to the Virginian’s visit to Grande Terre. Jean Lafitte had sent him home in a yawl boat loaded to the gunwales with chests containing the forty thousand dollars that was his and Livingston’s fees, for the legal defense of Pierre Lafitte, in gold and silver coins. And all New Orleans knew the story of how Grymes had gambled away his share of the treasure before he had even returned to the city, having stopped to visit several planter friends _en route_. It had been the talk of the town, mulled over and magnified a hundred times in the clubs and on the _banquettes_.

“Two years,” murmured De Moulin. “What a lot ’as happened in zose two years! Heah it’s 1814 an’ ze war isn’t over yet. I wonder what will happen in ze next two years?”

“According to Du Boulanger, quite a lot will happen!” retorted Pierre. “He says that the fleet’s bringing along a complete set of civil officials to govern us, after they’ve annexed us to His Majesty’s dominions. The officers are said to be bringing their wives, so they must no doubt expect to make a rather longish stay. And Du Boulanger says that British speculators expect to bring home fourteen millions of dollars in loot—loot from our homes!”

“Enough about ze war!” cried François, gaily. “We have bud one life to live, Pierre—let’s get what we can out of eet. If ze war comes, we’ll fight. In ze meantime we’ll flirt! _Allons!_”

And arm in arm they approached the bright entrance of the theater ballroom and began to ascend the stairs, exchanging pleasantries with a descending pair of convivial friends.

In the great long room where the ball was in progress, they found an animated and noisy crowd. In the flickering light of the colored lamps a merrymaking mob of both sexes, members of the _demi-monde_ in the main, but with a fair sprinkling of the masculine upper class, were dancing to the music of violins and guitars, whose piercing melody rose even above the lively buzz of the chattering groups.

As the pair entered, the dance came to an end and the floor began to clear, until the center was almost empty. But as the music struck up again, with the preliminary rattle of castanets, instead of beginning to dance, the crowd formed a circle.

And as they eagerly craned their necks there was a slight commotion and a babel of voices at the upper end of the room, and a girl was half pushed into the circle—a quadroon, true, but beautiful as only beauties are that are found among her caste—languorous, provocative eyes, sheenful hair of storm-cloud hue, and a slim, lithesome, perfectly proportioned figure.

“Eet ees ze adorable Dolores,” whispered François. “She ees going to dance—bud wait an’ see!”

Even as he spoke the “adorable Dolores,” with a swish of skirts and a tap of little red heels, had begun to dance. The queen of the _demi-monde_, for as such was she known, although of mixed descent, looked to be Spanish to her dainty finger tips, and danced with the daring abandon inherited from some light-footed Andalusian ancestress. To the rattle of castanets, and the delirious throb of the music, she whirled and pirouetted, the admired cynosure of all eyes.

At the finish of her dance the crowd closed around her with acclamation and applause, and the music struck up again.

Shouldering his way through the throng, using his elbow to good advantage, De Moulin with some difficulty reached her side, to find her beseiged by a dozen gallants, begging her for the next dance.

“Ef ze gentlemen will pardon her”—his voice carried over the shoulders of the group—“ma’amselle, I believe, ’as honored me wiz zis dance!” And he smiled ingenuously into her startled eyes as he pushed his way to her side.

A chorus of voices protested, but he took her arm decisively, looking deep into her eyes, a proceeding rather popular with his friends of the other sex.

“Am I not right?” he asked, and winked almost imperceptibly. For a moment she hesitated, colored, then smiled. Without another word he began to lead her to the floor.

Pierre Lafitte, watching the little scene from the rear, chuckled.

“In the meantime, we’ll flirt!” he quoted, and laughed.

But his laugh died away, for he saw a third figure suddenly confront the Creole and his fair companion and lay his hand on the girl’s arm. With surprise he recognized the gangling figure of the Yankee, Cyrus Nash, friend of Hemingway, the district attorney, who had seconded the latter in his duel with John Grymes.

“This dance is mine, Mister dee Moolan!” cried the Yankee, angrily. “What do you mean by—”

De Moulin looked at him in surprise.

“Why, it’s Meestaire Nash!” he murmured, with feigned cordiality. “And ’ow ees youah nose, sair?” innocently.

Nash reddened, acutely conscious of the fact that the member mentioned was now the object of a hundred curious stares. For a moment he merely spluttered incoherently.

“You—you—I’ll break every bone in your body!”

“M’sieu wishes to fight?” cried François, with alacrity. “He ’ave wait a long time—two years, _n’est-ce-pas_? I ’ave been greatly disappoint!”

“Who said anything about—” began the other, but paused. “So you want to fight, do you? Any time’ll suit me! But it will be with bare hands, Frenchy!” His fists doubled with anger as he stepped forward threateningly. Dolores sprang between them theatrically, secretly overjoyed to have two men of the _haut monde_ publicly quarreling over her; ignorant of the real cause of their enmity.

“Stop—stop—m’sieurs! You muz not fight! I gave dis dance to—”

“—Me!” broke in François, urbanely. “If m’sieu wants to fight, for why he don’t join ze army?”

A shout of laughter went up, in which even Dolores joined, at which Nash paled with anger.

“Will you fight?” he demanded.

“No!” responded François, promptly. Dolores looked at him in dismay. Was she to be cheated out of this?

“You’re scared!” exclaimed Nash, triumphantly.

De Moulin laughed, and stared pointedly at the other’s nose.

“Perhaps I am. But I only fight as gentlemen do, not like lackeys,” contemptuously.

“All right!” snapped Nash, desperately. “I’ll meet you with pistols!” Dolores brightened and looked at François eagerly.

“But I only fight _with_ gentlemen,” added the latter, suavely, at which Nash sprang forward, cursing furiously. “Bud since you ’ave insult’ zese ladies here wit’ your language,” the Creole continued, “I weel fight you right now and will horsewhip you afterward!” The dancer simpered, and the crowd yelled encouragement. The music had long since abruptly stopped.

“You muz nod fight ’count of me,” Dolores put in faintly, hoping that they would pay her no attention. To her delight, and the envy of certain of her dearest friends, her wish was gratified, but beyond even her wildest dreams, for other gallants in the room, anxious to share the limelight, pressed forward with offers to fight the “Yan-kee,” on the flimsy grounds of his insult to the “ladies.” Evidently his profanity of a few minutes before was to cost him dear.

As the tumult heightened, De Moulin, who was now sorry that he had given way to the temptation of baiting the man he disliked, wondered how the matter could be peaceably terminated; not because he was afraid to fight, but because of what he knew the crowd would do to the rash New Englander, in their eagerness to win admiration from their women-folk. For a moment he hesitated, and his eyes, meeting those of Lafitte, flashed a message.

But at this moment some adventurous spirit fired a shot, and a lamp fell to the floor, shattered. Women screamed and men cursed, forgetting their chivalric intentions; there was a flashing of knives. Close upon the heels of the first shot came a second, and a third, all fired harmlessly overhead, but adding materially to the confusion. The Latin is quick to take advantage of an opportunity to fight—especially a heaven-sent moment like this when one could safely and conveniently wipe out old scores with a dexterous blade or an errant bullet, and still add one’s bit to the pleasure of the evening—for a ballroom fracas was no less than a pleasure, here in the _demi-monde_.

Both Lafitte and De Moulin well knew these things, and simultaneously decided to make themselves conspicuous by their absence, as some others were already doing. They did not relish the prospect of having their names connected with any such affair.

Cyrus Nash stood, an impotent figure in his bewilderment, a well-justified apprehension taking its place as he uncertainly regarded the rapidly darkening room, whose confusion was increasing tenfold. François had unaccountably disappeared, he could hear the “adorable” Dolores shrieking, and felt himself hemmed in, powerless to extricate himself from the mêlée.

“Follow me!” Of a sudden he heard François’s voice in his ear and felt a hand on his arm. The next moment he was being hurried along by two men toward the door, the trio’s combined weight forcing a quick exit through the milling throng. It was now completely dark, and the gun-fire, yells, and screams had increased in volume. The suddenness of what had taken place seemed dream-like, nightmarish, unreal.

A moment later the three reached the door, were stopped for a space by an inrush of newcomers anxious not to miss the excitement, and with some difficulty reached the bottom of the stairs and the outer air, which, once gained, they hurried down the street, to pause a block away, panting from their exertions, the gaiety of their raiment somewhat spoiled.

“Meestaire Nash,” said De Moulin, abruptly, “I apologize for what I said; you were right to be angry!” As he spoke they heard the sounds of battle from the theater ballroom increase, the ranks of the disputants evidently having been augmented from the gambling dens.

“Forget it,” said the Yankee, “and thank you for getting me out of there. I take back what I said, sir! You _are_ a gentleman!” And he held out his hand, which François shook warmly. Then, for a moment, they listened, and watched several women emerge hurriedly from the building in the next block.

“That Dolores,” said Cyrus Nash, reflectively, “sure did make a fool out of me. You know, Mister dee Moolan, she really had promised me that dance!”

“I know it!” admitted François, chuckling.

“Then why—” began Nash.

But Pierre Lafitte interrupted. “Simply,” he explained, “because François came to flirt and had not counted on a fight. _Mais, sacré nom!_ What’s a pretty wench more or less between friends?”

And arm in arm the trio marched off down the moonlight-spattered street.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH:

_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.

II

“Well, Mister Lafitte,” demanded Captain Lockyer, affably, “what is your decision?” He had turned halfway round to the door as Lafitte entered, followed by Dominique You.

For a moment Jean did not answer, but his eyes sparkled. His companion’s eyes were suspiciously moist. The British officers did not notice this, however.

“I am very sorry, Captain, but I cannot yet give you my decision.”

Captain Lockyer looked askance.

“You see,” went on Jean, slowly, “first, I must consult with my associates, many of whom are not at Grande Terre at present. Then, again, there are several truculent Baratarians who must be er—convinced—or else....”

The Britisher looked knowing. He winked openly as he chuckled.

“I understand,” he said, insinuatingly. “It is to be expected, of course.”

At the moment both Jean and Dominique You were mentally cursing him in unison. But their features were impassive.

“You see,” went on Lafitte, “there are many of our men who er—er—have an embarrassing aversion toward your countrymen. Indeed, I regret to say that it is rather marked, in some cases!”

Dominique You coughed unobtrusively, but his face retained its unaccustomed blandness.

“I know,” replied the doughty commander of the _Sophia_. “About how much time would you want for your—er—persuasion?” He grinned sneeringly.

“About a fortnight,” responded Jean, casually.

“Very well, then. I’ll be back for your answer in exactly fifteen days. How does that suit you?”

“It is excellent,” answered the Baratarian, coldly.

Captain Lockyer rose to his feet. His subordinates followed suit.

“I’m sure you’ll like your new life much better,” he went on, conversationally, “and it will be a real pleasure to have you with us when we thrash those American yokels.”

“As you so well did in ’seventy-six!” remarked Jean, dryly.

Captain Lockyer flushed. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to spring at the Baratarian, so obviously angry was he.

In the nick of time, however, he caught the gleam in the eyes of the other that spelled “Danger,” and interpreted it rightly. Captain Lockyer was no coward, but he suddenly realized that he was not on his own deck, but in the stronghold of the pirate.

And then he suddenly remembered the importance of his mission. He must needs be diplomatic. Later—

He laughed hollowly.

“You have a ready wit, Mister Lafitte,” he said, attempting cordiality.

Lafitte bowed in response.

“Well,” continued Captain Lockyer, suavely, “I will be back for your answer in exactly fifteen days. Of course,” patronizingly, “it can be but one way....”

Lafitte smiled.

“You are right, _mon capitaine_, it can be but one way,” with meaning.

Dominique You coughed again. His face was losing its blandness. Lafitte could not resist smiling.

But when he was again alone, Jean forgot the Britisher and his mission for a moment. He was thinking of a girl in the moonlight—of a woman’s declaration of ideals that had suddenly sprung from the obscure recesses of the years to influence a decision of momentous import to a whole nation.

In that fleeting clairvoyant instant Jean Lafitte saw what it is given to few men to see—and recognize.

He saw that he had reached a turning-point in his life.

Being only human, he was appalled. And thrilled. And vaguely disquieted.

Jean sighed.

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH:

_Wherein Laurent Mercier Beards the Lion and His Excellency Calls a Council_

I

His Excellency frowned.

“Am I to understand, sir, that you wish to interview me in reference to Mr. Lafitte?”

The Honorable Laurent Mercier nodded briefly. He was a spare, hatchet-faced gentleman whose voluble manner and haughty nose at once bespoke his French extraction. Like the Lafittes, he spoke an almost perfect English, which was a rather uncommon accomplishment for Creoles, but this may partly be accounted for when one learns that the Honorable Mercier was a prominent member of that august law-making body known as the State Legislature. It may be added that Monsieur Mercier was addicted to making addresses. For this reason, plus the knowledge that the great majority of his speeches had ever been in favor of some form of protection or benefit to his open friends and private business associates—the Lafittes—State Senator Mercier was not exactly ardently popular with His Excellency the Governor.

His Excellency frowned again, portentously.

“I might at least have been spared the infliction of further listening to eulogies of Mr. Lafitte, and the many benefits his piratical trade is bestowing upon our community!” the gubernatorial voice continued with frigid sarcasm.

The Honorable Mercier smiled sweetly.

“If your Excellency will allow me to proceed,” he suggested suavely, “you will learn that what I have come to say concerns the welfare of the state....”

“If I am not mistaken, that phrase is ordinarily the ostensible object of your—er—remarks!” remarked the Governor, with thinly veiled hostility.

“Exactly!” agreed the Creole, courteously, “but I have not come here, Your Excellency, for the purpose of indulging in personalities, however—er—enjoyable they may be.”

His Excellency loftily overlooked this.

“Therefore, as I am very busy,” he suggested, “could it be convenient for you to come another—?” No pretense of courtesy here! When Greek meets Greek—they talk Greek! Likewise, when political enemy meets political enemy....

The Creole imperceptibly straightened.

“When a question of vital importance, concerning the welfare of the state, arises, whom, if not His Excellency, should be informed?” he demanded, brusquely. If possible, the haughtiness of his demeanor exceeded that of the chief executive, himself. Without giving the other time to answer, he went on.

“May I ask, Your Excellency, as to whether or not you received a letter from Monsieur Lafitte this morning, by special messenger?” His manner was imperative.

Governor Claiborne frowned for the third time, angrily. His glance unconsciously strayed to some papers before him, for a brief moment.

“The rascally pirate did have the audacity to write me!” he admitted, irefully.

The Honorable Mercier nodded.

“And no doubt Your Excellency has taken steps in the matter?” he asked, inquiringly.

“I—have—not!” declared Claiborne, flatly.

Laurent Mercier looked respectfully astonished.

“You do not doubt Monsieur Lafitte’s—word, m’sieur?”

His Excellency grew almost apoplectic.

“His word!” he cried, scornfully. “The word of a damned pirate? An outlaw with a price on his head?” He choked momentarily.

The Creole looked pained, but said nothing.

“Of course, I don’t believe it, sir! Not a word of it! The damned rascal is merely trying to hoodwink me—pull the wool over my eyes! It is a fairy-tale, sir, that—about the British. Pure nonsense! I could see at once that his scoundrelly offer was only made in the hope that it would avert the just punishment the government is about to bring down on his piratical head—”

“What exactly did he say?” asked the other, as if he were merely an interested auditor. The Governor grimly enlightened him.

“His letter is full of lying patriotic and altruistic phrases. He admits that, though ‘being fully guilty of having evaded the payment of certain customs duties,’” quoted Claiborne, ironically, “‘he had never lost his loyalty and affection for the United States, and that, notwithstanding the fact that there was a price on his head, he would never miss the opportunity of serving his adopted country.’ The impudence of it!” He laughed harshly.

“Is that all?” asked Mercier, quietly.

“He offered the services of himself and men in defense of the state and the city, on condition that they were granted a pardon for past offenses!” said he, explosively. “You can see for yourself that is merely a ruse!”

The state senator grunted.

“And what of his enclosed information?”

“Humbug, pure humbug! As if the British would condescend to make a pirate such a ridiculous offer!” He sniffed scornfully.

“But what of his information?” persisted the Creole, thoughtfully.

“There is a mass of information which he claims he has gotten in various ways, as to the strength, resources, and plans of the preposterous expedition ... but of course it is all false. Merely a blind.”

“I do not think so, Your Excellency.”

Claiborne stared at him.

“What!” he ejaculated.

Mercier’s face was grave.

“I believe that Lafitte is perfectly sincere ... and that his information is correct!” He folded his arms and gave the other stare for stare.

His Excellency looked at him, agape.

“It is preposterous, I tell you!”

“I beg to differ!” haughtily.

Claiborne scowled. He was not used to open defiance, and the fact that he could not very well resent this angered him the more. He fell back upon a frigid reserve.

“I am very sorry that I cannot agree with you.”

“What will you do, sir?”

“Do? Nothing, of course!” His face was adamant.

Mercier stepped forward and gripped the edge of the old mahogany desk.

“Do you mean to say that you, the Governor, will not pay heed to his warning?” he demanded, tensely.

“The Governor of Louisiana will have no dealings with a pirate!”

“It is the duty of the Governor of this state, however, to guard the welfare of the state!” he said, with meaning.

“Exactly,” said Claiborne, with forced suavity, “and, as Governor of Louisiana, I will not defile the dignity of my high office by treating with a pirate.”

“It is not a question of dignity!” cried the Creole, angrily; “it is a question of the public safety! We are threatened with invasion—or worse. And an attack on New Orleans is highly probable! It is the duty of Your Excellency to take immediate measures to protect the lives and property of the people who put you in that office!”

Claiborne rose to his feet, red with anger.

“And who are you, sir,” he thundered, “to tell the Governor his duty?”

For a moment the state senator was silent, staring him in the eye. The very air of the great room was vibrant with a suppressed excitement.

“The People!” he snapped, quietly.

For a fraction of a second the other paled, too astounded at the other’s unexpected retort to reply. He stared at the daring mortal with fascination.

“The People?” he repeated, mechanically. “You are insane! If any one man is the People, as a unit, who is it but I, the chief executive?” His overweening egotism was simplicity itself.

For a moment the Honorable Mercier was disarmed.

“I was slightly mistaken,” he riposted; “my title is Public Opinion. Yes, Public Opinion!” He glared defiantly at the other, rather proud of his statement.

His Excellency sneered.

“The People defies Public Opinion, then,” he said, calmly.

The Creole grew furious, but fought to control himself.

“_Très bien_, m’sieu!” leaning forward. “When Public Opinion, backed up by the ‘Left’—denounces—impeaches the Governor of Louisiana for neglect of duty—for _treason_, perhaps—which will prevail? The Governor, who refused to take steps for the protection of the citizens—or Public Opinion—the _People_?”

For a breathless, charged moment the two glared at each other, both pale with excitement.

Then, as suddenly self-possessed again, but speechless yet, Laurent Mercier bowed politely and before His Excellency could say a word to stop him, had turned on his heel and left the gubernatorial presence.

II

That very evening the Governor called a military council, and by nine o’clock every important military official in New Orleans was present, seated around the long conference table in the Mansion library. It is noteworthy that the assembly was in every respect military in character. Neither legislator nor landowner, banker nor merchant, was there.

Claiborne came to the point immediately. In a few well-worded sentences he apprised his auditors of the letter and information sent him by Lafitte, but made no mention of Mercier’s visit, which, indeed, had forced him to take some action.

“What does he definitely warn us of, Your Excellency?” asked Commodore Patterson, thoughtfully.

“Lafitte claims that an attack in force is to be made on both New Orleans and Mobile. He offers us the services of himself and his men in their defense.”

“How much, exactly, does that mean?” interrupted Colonel Forbes.

“He claims to have a well-armed and trained force of over a thousand men,” answered the Governor, after referring to some papers. There was a general exclamation of surprise.

“The army could use them,” said Forbes, reflectively. “They’re hardened fighters, all of them ... and dare-devils if there ever were any.”

Commodore Patterson interrupted:

“To my thinking, since they’re seamen first, they—”

“Since they are Louisianians, and Creoles at that,” put in Major Borland, bridling, “it is most fitting that they join the militia.”

“Not so fast, gentlemen,” interrupted the Governor. “We haven’t accepted his offer, as yet.” There followed a moment’s silence.

“What does Lafitte want in return for this information, assuming that it is true?” demanded Patterson.

“He asks that all proceedings against Grande Terre be abandoned, that amnesty be given himself and his followers; and that an act of oblivion be passed, by which their past deeds should be forgiven and forgotten.”

“Fair enough,” said Colonel Forbes, brightening; “it’s—” Claiborne looked at him coldly. He subsided.

“Personally,” announced His Excellency, “I believe that it is all merely a trick—a ruse whereby he can secure a pardon.”

“Jove! but I believe Your Excellency is right!” exclaimed Patterson.

“And so say I!” put in a Colonel Ross, who had hitherto listened in silence. “To quote General Jackson, these Baratarians are hellish banditti—and should be destroyed, root and branch!”

“Then you doubt Lafitte’s sincerity?” said Claiborne.

“Dammit, yes!” put in Patterson, testily. “In my opinion those inclosed letters you have, sir, are forgeries!”

“Decidedly so!” said Colonel Forbes, sagely.

“What man in Lafitte’s position,” demanded Major Borland, triumphantly, “would refuse a captaincy in the royal navy? It’s preposterous, and Lafitte’s a fool to try and make us think so! And His Excellency says the offer included thirty thousand dollars, in gold. That’s easily to be detected as a falsehood, aside from its absurdity. Why should the British—tried veterans—want the aid of these smugglers? No doubt they despise them for backwoodsmen. No, suh! _That’s_ not like the British, and you know it, every one of you!”

The company nodded affirmation. They all had had a close acquaintance with the British character, often to their cost.

“Gentlemen,” said Commodore Patterson, gravely, “we know very well that the British would deem it beneath their dignity to deal with pirates—that they despise them. Shall it be said that we, too, condescended to treat with common smugglers—lawbreakers?”

His Excellency nodded approval, but said nothing.

“The only negotiations I want to carry on with Lafitte,” said Colonel Ross, hammering the table-top with his clenched fist, “are bullets!” There was a general chorus of affirmation to this pugnacious sentiment.

“Therefore,” said the Governor, “we must hurry forward preparations to attack Grande Terre in force. If it were not for these French fools in the Legislature, I could have cleaned out that smugglers’ nest long ago. But they refused me money. Most of them are secretly connected with the Lafittes, or I miss my guess!”

The others assented warmly.

“Of course there is no possibility of the British really attacking New Orleans ...” ventured Forbes, half-heartedly. He was speedily convinced of the impossibility of such a contingency by a well-controlled shout of laughter, led by the Governor, himself.

“We shall meet with some opposition,” said Claiborne, after a while, “so we must make haste, and work as secretly as possible. Commodore Patterson will command the expedition, of course. It will be best, I think, to make a surprise attack—”

“There’ll be loot and to spare, take my word for it!” broke in Ross. The whole company involuntarily stiffened, as if reminded of something that had lain dormant in their brains, but which had not been allowed to awaken.

Claiborne laughed unpleasantly.

“Yes, gentlemen, there will no doubt be loot in plenty ... but as for me, I want Jean Lafitte, dead or alive! Remember that, Commodore!”

“Most decidedly so!” put in Colonel Forbes, sagely.

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH:

_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.