Chapter THE SECOND

_How a Gentleman Pirate Catches a Tartar, and the Personage in the Moon Is Proven to Be a Woman_

I

The great brig, its rakish, slanting masts and white spars clearly delineated against the azure of sea and sky, was gradually taking on a somber air as the daylight slowly waned.

Everything about her, from the grim black hull with its carved and gilded figurehead to its tapering stern and its trim lines, bespoke its true occupation. When one thoughtfully noted the unusual spread of canvas, weather-beaten, perhaps, but still snowy when contrasted with the deep blue ultra-marine of the Caribbean, one felt assured that his guess was correct. And if this mythical spectator by any chance should go close enough to catch a glimpse of the vicious black guns peeping through the ports, he would be doubly convinced.

This sinister vessel, clearly built for speed, was undoubtedly a pirate.

And this was but natural, for this was the eventful summer of the year 1806, when the Caribbean Sea was the cruising-ground of the most ruthless buccaneers of any period, masking their piracy under the guise of privateersmen; more to be dreaded than the adventurers who sought golden galleons, treasure-chests, and captive beauties.

And what name is so boldly gilded on the stern? The _Lizette_....

The _Lizette_—Jean Lafitte. One and inseparable, or, so it is said. Jean Lafitte, the handsome youth with tragic eyes; the daring freebooter who is the talk of Havana, of Maracaibo, of Carthagena, and of the Mexican Gulf from the bayous below New Orleans to the shores of Yucatan.

Jean Lafitte, who, it is said, hates all women.

The man who has successfully resisted the wiles of every siren of these southern seas. Impossible? A pirate a woman-hater? A woman-hater a pirate? It would seem so.... Yet the gentlemen rovers of the Caribbean shake their heads sagely. There is something behind it all....

It is whispered that the youth with the eloquent eyes has been crossed in love, that he has met with a disappointment, that he has turned to the profession of piracy as the only occupation fierce enough to obliterate his memories. Thus argue the “ladies”—the courtesans—of the Caribbean ports.

And perhaps they are right. But they do not know that not only for forgetfulness, but for vengeance, has this mystery man joined the turbulent gentry of the sea—a vengeance that, after three years, still eludes him.

The three years that have passed since Lafitte expressed to his brother, on the beach at Mauritius, his determination to hunt out Brouillard, have done much toward the shaping of the life of the young Frenchman. Contrary to his expectations and wishes, Pierre Dominique had persisted in his resolve to accompany him, and, together, they had set sail for the Caribbean. Once there, with ample funds coupled with the knack of making friends, it was not long before they were serving their apprenticeship in piracy. After their first voyage they fitted up and manned a small but speedy ship.

At the end of their second year Jean, who had taken the leadership, was in command of a heavily armed brig whose fame was to fly the length and breadth of every lane of the sea. At the end of their third year the youth was a man, feared and respected by both fellow-rovers and victims.

It was not until the beginning of that third year, however, that Lafitte got definite news as to the whereabouts and doings of Brouillard, the object of his long search.

The former French officer, as he had anticipated, had also joined the bands of the Brotherhood of the Caribbean. And he, too, like Jean, had sprung to notoriety overnight, as it were. But his was an assumed name and it was only a chance recognition of him by Pierre Dominique, in Maracaibo, that informed Lafitte that Brouillard, the former naval officer, and “_Le Renard Noir_” (“the Black Fox”), of whom he had heard much but never met, were one and the same.

On ascertaining this fact, Jean had immediately sailed for Maracaibo, to arrive and find his quarry gone. And so began a chase that lasted a year. Whether or not the Black Fox knew that Lafitte was hunting him, or whether it was chance that was to blame, they never met. In every nook and corner of the Caribbean did the _Lizette_ pry her inquisitive prow, but so far her search was unrewarded.

The _Lizette_ was only a few miles off Guadaloupe, in the hope of falling in with some spoil-laden French privateer, which, using that colony for the base of their operations in preying upon the British West Indian trade, might be making for the not-far-distant harbor of Basse Terre. With the magnificent impartiality that characterized the man, Lafitte took toll from French ships as well as from those of any other nationality. In these days of political change in the mother country, Jean bore her not too much love. The Lafittes were not Bonapartists.

II

“Sail ho!”

The cry, called out from the heights of the shrouds, reverberated over the ship like a trumpet-call.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the lazy swish of the sea against the ship’s side. Then the deck came to life as if by magic. The moon, just beginning her climb across the partly clouded heavens, illuminated the expanse of phosphorescent waters, at intervals, with a clear and mellow light.

A mile or so to the east could be seen the upper spars and vaguely indefinite bulk of a ship. If it had not been for the fact that the moon had been hidden behind a bank of light clouds for the past half hour, the stranger would have been detected long before. Again the cry rang out:

“Sail ho!”

By this time Lafitte himself was on deck and the bulwarks were already lined by many of his men, whose number was rapidly increasing.

“Jacques!”

A short, wiry young seaman with bright reddish hair and an astonishing number of freckles quickly responded to Jean’s call.

“Call Ramon....”

“_Mon capitaine_ will fight?”

“Send Ramon to me at once,” impatiently. “And Pedro.”

The auburn-haired youth was gone in a flash. A minute later Ramon, the mate, and Pedro, the chief gunner, both of them half-breed Spaniards, came for orders. Pierre Dominique was not on board the _Lizette_ at this time, but was encamped with a small hunting party at an island rendezvous some thirty miles away, where Jean was to join him the next morning and take aboard his additions to the ship’s larder.

“You passed the word?”

Ramon grunted and waved his hands toward the bow. All was activity on deck. Its former aspect had changed magically. Boarding pikes, pistols, cutlasses, and other small arms were being laid out and shot was being placed on the racks.

Lafitte was anything if not cautious. Although he very well knew the quality of the _Lizette_; he also knew that it was very possible to catch a Tartar in the form of a heavily-armed ship, which had been, as likely as not, sent out for the express purpose of punishing his many depredations on the French, British, and Spanish commerce.

For a full minute Jean studied the approaching vessel with his glass.

“It is a big ship,” he said, in an aside.

Ramon nodded. “I thought as much.” He hesitated. “Do you think it is wise to attack, Don Juan?” The Spaniards invariably called Lafitte by this title.

“It is English ... yes, see, they are running up the British flag. Might it not be a frigate?”

“We shall take the risk. At the worst the _Lizette_ can use the better part of discretion and show them a clean pair of heels. What say you, Pedro?”

The brawny gunner fidgeted, averting his eyes. He had just put down his own glass.

“To tell the truth, Don Juan, I like not its look. And of course the flag doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then you think we ... should not fight?”

“I think we should show them our heels, yes. There is a stiff breeze. Let’s get out of gun-shot before they get in range. We could easily—”

Suddenly Ramon cursed audibly.

“How blind I am! That ship is one of the Brotherhood! It is the ship you seek.”

His two companions turned on him quickly.

“Do you recognize it?” demanded Lafitte.

The mate nodded his head slowly, putting down his glass.

“I have seen her but once,” he answered, quietly, “but I could recognize her anywhere.”

“You are sure?” demanded Jean, impatiently.

“It is the Black Fox!” breathed Ramon, heavily.

For a moment it seemed that Jean’s heart stood still. So unexpected was Ramon’s news that he stood rooted to the spot, motionless, expressionless. But within, his mind was in a tumult. At last, at last, by the favor of the gods he had stumbled on his quarry.

“We shall fight!” he exclaimed, the joy of battle with his enemy lighting his face, his tone thrilling his hearers. Ramon showed his amazement. Until this moment he had not known Lafitte sought the Black Fox as an enemy.

“But when the Black Fox knows that we are of the Brotherhood, señor, there will be no trouble,” he said, not in fear, but adverse to hard knocks with so redoubtable an adversary.

“I said that we will fight!” answered Jean, curtly.

“But, Don Juan—”

“Enough! It is my will. Pass the word to the gunners, Pedro. We will first give him some of his own strategy, and then give him a smashing broadside.”

He turned. Pedro grunted. His not to question his chief. Saluting awkwardly, he left. Wolves of the sea both, wolf would prey on wolf. Honor among thieves was respected when convenience demanded it, but it was not unusual for one member of this wolfpack of the sea to prey upon another. Pedro grinned hideously; there would be an interesting fight.

“Run up the black flag,” ordered Lafitte, “but do not break it out until I give the word. Have the men in readiness for boarding. We’ll pay the Black Fox our respects with a salute, and then make a visit on board. But don’t forget that our visiting cards must be sure to reach them ... and find them in.”

The Spaniard’s lips curled as he nodded appreciation of the grim pleasantry. Another moment and he, too, had gone.

Lafitte returned to his study of the oncoming vessel, a set smile of anticipation playing about his tight-pressed lips. As he stood there, a grim, lonely figure, the black flag was run up, ready to be broken out at his signal. The gunners were standing to their guns, matches in hand.

By now the stranger was only fifty yards away. A tall, heavily-built, bearded man, stood on the quarter-deck. With an inward thrill, Jean realized that he was observing his arch-enemy.

In another moment the hail of the Black Fox came across the water, asking the name of Jean’s vessel. As he did so, her coy ladyship, the moon, re-emerged from behind a cloud, suddenly throwing the two ships into full relief. By way of answering to his question, the black flag of the _Lizette_ was swiftly broken out, where it was caught by the night breeze and, because of the added moonlight, promptly proclaimed the presence of the rover. Came another cry from the Black Fox that was both surprise and disappointment.

By this time, however, the stranger, which had been approaching with a confidence that was foolhardy, bore up. Even the friendliest of wolves are distrustful.

But it was too late. No one knew better than Lafitte the terrible, demoralizing effect of a sudden smashing broadside, and it was just this confusion that he wished to create in the pack of the Black Fox.

“Fire!”

Simultaneously with the terrific crash of the guns the pirates, with a yell, rose from behind the bulwarks and poured out of other places of concealment as the guns raked the stranger from stem to stern, doing deadly execution and bringing down the foremast, a wreckage of ropes and sails, upon the deck. The ship was helpless for the moment, and the master of the _Lizette_ grasped his advantage.

Another moment and the brig was alongside the stranger. Grappling-irons were speedily hooked, and the buccaneers, led by the pirate captain himself, poured over the side, in a mad charge upon the decks of their victim. A wolf had overhauled an apparent sheep, to suddenly find another wolf in sheep’s clothing. The battle of the wolves was on....

Close behind Lafitte was the youth with the red hair, a pistol in each hand. Behind him rushed his comrades, with yells of triumph, shooting and slashing and cutting as if a crew of demons were let loose. At that moment, little did it matter to the men of the _Lizette_ whether they faced friend or foe. When the wolf scents blood—

As Jean leaped down upon his enemy’s deck he charged immediately toward the quarter-deck, anxious to meet Brouillard face to face, grudging the seconds that would intervene before he could reach him, for fear that another’s bullet or blade would cheat him of his vengeance.

Before he could cover a quarter of the distance, however, came a surprise. Suddenly, with a shout that outdid their own, it seemed, from near-by hatchways and doors gushed a veritable mob of seamen, armed to the teeth, outnumbering the invaders three to one. These, taking advantage of their surprise, swept the pirates back to the ship’s side by sheer weight of numbers.

Pandemonium reigned....

Step by step Jean’s men were forced back, fighting desperately.

Jean Lafitte had indeed caught a Tartar. His fellow wolf had fangs as well as himself. On every side his men were falling. Their intended victim had become a scourge. In the midst of his rage and disappointment he was cool enough to realize that he must regain his own deck or all was lost. It was impossible to reach Brouillard now. His vengeance had waited three years. It could wait another day.

At his side Red Jacques was fighting valiantly. Less than ten men were left with him, and these were attempting, between blows, to regain their ship. Springing to the side, preparatory to jumping into the waist of the _Lizette_, his shout pierced the tumult:

“Cut loose, men!”

Then he turned for a final stand, to defend the retreat of his followers. In another few moments all the ropes that held the _Lizette_ in that fatal embrace with her enemy were quickly cut. The last surviving pirate, with the exception of Lafitte and one other, had reached safety.

Flinging his empty, smoking pistol and broken sword into the face of his enemies, Jean turned and leaped for the _Lizette_.

As he stood a brief moment on the rail, a musket-butt fell on his head and he dropped backward on to the ship’s deck into oblivion.

The next moment the two vessels had drifted apart, the Black Fox’s guns trained on the _Lizette_, fast crippling that gallant craft and turning her deck into a shambles. The loss of her foremast, however, made his own vessel unmanageable, and just at this convenient time the lady in the moon veiled her face from the scene of bloodshed. The _Lizette_ disappeared into the night, leaving her master in the hands of his enemies.

The howling of the wolfpack diminished and soon all was silent.