Chapter THE THIRD: In Which the Black Fox Encounters an Old Acquaintance

“Get up!”

Jean, semi-conscious, seemed to hear the voice from a great distance; he could not, as yet, associate it with himself. Nor, in the same dim, unreal way, could he feel the kick that struck his side. Seemingly, he was oblivious to any pain in his body. The miniature hell in his head was occupying his whole, absorbed attention.

Suddenly a bucket of water was dashed over him. He regained his senses slowly, his first definite impression that of an acute, numbing pain in the back of his head. Attempting to lift it, he experienced such torture that he was forced to lie back, groaning. He heard retreating steps as of one ascending a ladder. Then a hatchway slammed and all was black again.

When his mind had cleared a little, he endeavored to understand his whereabouts. It was not long before he pieced out the details of the short disastrous fight—its ending—the sudden pain—oblivion. Where was he? Where was faithful Red Jacques? All about him was pitch blackness. Then he became conscious of the fact that his feet were wet. He smelled bilge water. That explained matters. He must be a prisoner, put in the hold for safe keeping. And then for the first time he realized that his feet were securely ironed.

Of a sudden, following the shuffling of feet overhead, a hatchway lifted, letting in a flood of sunlight that well-nigh blinded him. Despite the glare, however, he was able to note that he was lying on a heap of ropes and cordage with his feet in the water. A sailor was descending the ladder.

A moment later another followed. The first one unlocked the chains, and then they roughly dragged him up the ladder to the deck.

Again the glare of light dazzled him. Before he could accustom himself to his surroundings he was led stumbling across the deck and backed against a stanchion, to which the two seamen began to securely tie him. This duty satisfactorily completed, they fell back.

Jean looked about him with interest, eager to see Brouillard.

All around him, at a respectful distance, was a circle of faces—the hang-dog, devil-may-care physiognomies of the typical rover of the Caribbean. Sailor-like, he next glanced aloft. The foremast was still unrepaired. The great ship was motionless on a placid sea, and the early morning sun was just beginning its lofty climb across the cloudless sky. He dropped his eyes back to his captors.

As he did so, the Black Fox stepped through the silent circle and paused before him, a stately figure in gaudy raiment, his black beard carefully curled and pomaded.

With an imperious gesture Brouillard motioned his followers away. In a moment the two, prisoner and captor, were alone, as far as they were concerned. For a long interval the latter stared at the helpless man, a curious expression in his eyes. His words were inevitable, bridging the years.

“So, Monsieur Lafitte,” he drawled, “we meet again!”

Jean defiantly gave him back stare for stare, contemptuously silent.

“Why have you hunted me all these years?” suddenly demanded the other.

“To kill you!” answered Lafitte, simply, his voice redolent of hate.

The Black Fox did not laugh.

“Why?” he persisted.

“To avenge Lizette Fondac,” said Jean.

Brouillard cursed expressively.

“Damn you!” he cried, “you know it was an accident, that!”

“But yes ... I know. But I have followed you across the seas for another reason, Brouillard. You forget that we did not finish our little affair. And I had sworn to make you retract or kill you. Lizette is dead, therefore retraction is unnecessary—so I will kill you.”

“I would not have retracted, however,” said Brouillard, heavily. “You are a young fool. I told the truth about that wench.”

“You lie!” cried Lafitte.

“_Parbleu!_ But the gutter scum is impertinent!”

The younger man fairly writhed with the frenzy of his rage.

“Loosen me, coward,” he cried, “and I will kill you with my own hands! Coward! Dog! Scoundrel!”

By way of answer the Black Fox cuffed him viciously across the mouth, seeing which, a group of his henchmen lounging on the opposite rail laughed.

“You are afraid to face me man to man, cursed one!” panted Lafitte.

Brouillard laughed heartily.

“Fool that you are!” he cried, “I have no desire to kill you. You have insulted Gaston Brouillard—you have cursed him—you have given him the lie. For each of these things you should die a terrible death. Moreover, you have hunted _Le Renard Noir_.... You have treacherously attacked him and killed many of his men. For that you should die a death of torture ... you and all your followers ... a death that only one of the Brotherhood could contrive. But the Black Fox has a far pleasanter fate in store for you, _mon brave_! Name of a name! Your lot shall be a living death, Jean Lafitte!”

Lafitte’s lip curled contemptuously. He had regained his self-possession.

“Indeed!” he said. The insulting inflection of that one word seemed to madden Brouillard, who poured a storm of obscene invective on his head.

“From now on,” he declared, grimly, when his passion had somewhat subsided, “you shall be my servant, my slave! I shall find ways of breaking your spirit as well as your back. You shall be at the beck and call of the lowliest of my men. The slightest disobedience will get you a hundred lashes from the ‘cat.’ The—”

Jean yawned.

“You bore me excessively, my friend,” he interjected.

Brouillard stopped short, his face a panorama of conflicting emotions. Then he suddenly turned and called one of his followers.

“Bring the red-head!” he ordered, brusquely.

Lafitte stiffened, and followed the pirate out of sight with his eyes. Brouillard, watching him, grinned evilly.

“It may interest you to know, monsieur, that you are not our only guest.”

“What do you mean?” sharply.

“There was a red-head....”

“Red Jacques!” exclaimed Jean.

“... who did not escape,” finished the Black Fox, grinning with enjoyment at sight of Lafitte’s crestfallen face.

“Well?” the latter demanded.

“Your young cockerel would not jump over the side when he saw you fall, but stood over your body and defended it with his cutlass. It was necessary to shoot him to get to you, which I deeply regret, because of his courage.”

“He is dead?” with horror.

“Not yet!” was the laconic response. “He is only slightly wounded.”

“Thank _le bon Dieu_!”

“I said ‘not yet’!” went on Brouillard, smoothly.

“What do you mean?”

“_Vous verrez_ ... you shall see!”

As he spoke, the pirate reappeared on deck, pushing some one before him. It was Red Jacques, his auburn hair dishevelled, his face powder-grimed, and limping painfully. As he caught sight of Lafitte his face lighted up.

“_Mon capitaine!_ I thought you were dead!”

“_Pauvre garçon!_ Jean Lafitte thanks you for your loyalty. He will remember it.”

Red Jacques flushed with delight.

“I would die for you, _mon capitaine_,” he said, simply, and halted, all confusion.

“I’ll give you an opportunity,” put in the Black Fox, urbanely. “Sancho, the rope!”

“If you harm him,” cried Lafitte, “I will kill you! I swear it by Our Lady!”

Brouillard contemptuously ignored him and made a sign toward his henchman. That worthy, advancing toward Red Jacques, trailing a long rope, began to use its end to tie a tight noose around the lad’s wrists. Evidently Red Jacques was not to be hung....

Then it was that Lafitte noticed that the rope end was in reality part of one that hung from the cross-trees, high in the mast above. As he watched, fascinated, two seamen, at a signal from their captain, hauled away at the other end of the rope. With a sudden jerk Red Jacques was lifted from his feet and slowly swung aloft, his face pasty with fright.

“Courage!” shouted Lafitte. “If he harms you he shall pay for this!” As yet he could not fathom Brouillard’s intentions.

Slowly the helpless youth was raised in the air until he swung aloft, above their heads, suspended only by his wrists from the cross-trees.

For a moment nothing happened. Then as the ship gave a slight roll the lad’s body described an arc, swinging outward. The slightest movement of the ship swung him like a pendulum.

Fascinated, Jean saw the body of his comrade swaying far above his head. In horror he realized the dreadful vengeance Brouillard had planned. He was to see, helpless to prevent, his comrade pounded to death against the mast. To every motion of the ship the swinging body responded. The victim’s struggles were vain. They only added a more fiendish horror to the scene. As he swung, the lad spun like a top. And then with a thud that made Jean sick and dizzy his body struck the mast.

“You devil!” shrieked Lafitte, straining at his ropes. “Let him down!”

Brouillard laughed and cursed him. Again Red Jacques swung against the heavy mast, and screamed in anguish.

“Have you no pity?” cried Jean, perceiving the uselessness of his efforts to free himself. “Let him down. You’re killing the lad!”

But Brouillard insanely laughed and cursed again. The members of his crew, hardened and calloused by years of crime, watched the sport with interest. They were no strangers to torture; they merely applauded their master for his new ingenious device.

Again and yet again the swaying body of the boy, swinging dizzily, smote against the mast, but now there were no cries from the helpless victim. Life had left his battered body.

Lafitte fainted.

A douche of water brought back his senses. He looked up.

Over his head in the bright sunshine swayed the body of his unfortunate comrade, swinging limply and unresistingly.

Lafitte fixed his burning eyes on those of the Black Fox, who waxed restless under their relentless gaze, and averted his own. He, too, had fallen silent, nor did he once look aloft. Finally he called two of his henchmen to take Lafitte back below. As they unlashed the latter from the stanchion, he spoke over their shoulders.

“Brouillard, you hell hound,” said Jean steadily, “for to-day’s work I shall deal you in kind. You will do well to kill me now, for if ever my turn shall come—”

He broke off abruptly, for he had vowed in his heart to flay Brouillard alive, strip him shrieking from his skin.

The Black Fox laughed unsteadily, and for the second time cuffed the unresisting Lafitte across the mouth, drawing a faint trickle of blood.

“From now on, _mon ami_,” he sneered, “you’ll wish you hadn’t been born rather than to have crossed me. Away with him, Sancho! Bring him up again this evening for a hundred lashes,” he added, as an afterthought. “We shall have more sport.”

A minute later Jean was back in the hold. All day he lay there, suffering acutely from thirst and the heat, and not a little from hunger. But no one came.

It was almost evening when he heard a loud scuffling of running feet above his head, and a confusion of raucous voices. Evidently something of moment was happening. Exactly a quarter of an hour later he heard the sudden detonating explosion of one of the ship’s guns above him. It was followed by another. Then there was a roar as though from a broadside. And answering guns.

The Black Fox was attacked!

For what seemed like ages he lay there helpless, listening to the battle, torn with anxiety. Had the _Lizette_ returned to rescue him? But that was doubtful, for he judged that the _Lizette_ was badly crippled. Then the newcomer could only be a man-o’-war, whether French, British, or Spanish made no difference whatsoever. For even if he were found a prisoner of the Black Fox’s, he, too, was a pirate, and as such would be summarily hanged.

Therefore, with mingled feelings of anxiety, hope, and rage engendered by the possible deferring of his vengeance, he lay chafing in the hot, noisome hold.

Finally there was a cessation of gun-fire, a confusion of pistol-shots, yells, and running feet above told him that the Black Fox was being boarded. Then the tumult died down, but the thumping, racing feet told its own story.

Suddenly the hatchway opened, revealing a man’s shoulders silhouetted against the twilight sky.

“Don Juan!” came a voice. “Are you there, Don Juan?”

Lafitte’s heart bounded joyously.

“Ramon!” he exclaimed. The impossible had happened. The _Lizette_ had come to his rescue. A pæan of joy sang in his brain.

But there was a greater surprise yet awaiting him on the deck above. As he emerged from the hatchway, Pierre Dominique Lafitte rushed toward him and, sweeping him in his arms, gave him a bear-like hug.

Came explanations. The _Lizette_ had returned to the island rendezvous sometime during the night, bringing news of the catastrophe. The elder Lafitte had immediately hurried his party on board, spent a few hours in making necessary repairs, and set sail for the crippled vessel of the Black Fox. On finding the latter, there had been a short fight, the superior condition of the _Lizette_, and the fresh additions to her crew, making victory possible.

“And Brouillard?” demanded Jean.

Brouillard, said Pierre, had been taken prisoner, as had the majority of his men. Should they immediately hang him? And them?

“Name of a name, no!” cried Jean. He proceeded to tell Pierre Dominique of the death of Red Jacques, and pointed out his body still swinging above them. Orders were immediately given to lower the body and prepare it for a proper burial at sea. Then Jean Lafitte sent for Brouillard and had his shackles removed.

“Brouillard,” said he, “I swore to kill you, and I will do it. But I will give you a chance for your life, because I want to have the pleasure of killing you with my own hand, as I promised you. Ramon, give him a sword.”

Although astonished by the offer, the Black Fox snatched the blade with alacrity and placed himself in a posture of defense. Taking up another sword, Jean placed himself on guard. The duel commenced.

The men of the _Lizette_ gathered about them in a wide circle, several of them holding up lanterns, to give better light. Not a sound was to be heard but the clashing and scraping of the steel and the quick footsteps of the furious pair.

Brouillard fought cautiously, ever on the defensive, knowing well that his life was at stake. Parrying and lunging, thrusting and feinting, they circled round the little space, contesting every inch of ground. On and on they fought, their blades flashing in the lantern-light like living streaks of silver; in carte and tierce, darting and twisting.

As the Black Fox fought, he realized, perhaps for the first time in his life, what it meant to face a man who was full of the deadly determination to kill him, the fury of whose attack spoke of concentrated rage and hate that could only find an outlet through the heart of his opponent.

Fear, that most demoralizing of emotions, entered his soul, and this it was, perhaps, that hastened the end.

At last came the moment when Jean’s blade found the brief breach in Brouillard’s guard, and he lunged forward with all his strength. The Black Fox dropped his arm abruptly; his sword clattered to the deck as he clutched at his side.

For a brief moment there was a pregnant pause. Then the Black Fox raised his eyes to the passion-marked face of Lafitte, who was pointing toward his sword on the deck.

What he saw written there must have terrified him, for suddenly he turned and broke through the circle of rovers. Before anyone could stop him, or even think of stopping him, he literally threw himself over the bulwarks. There was a splash, and a body that rose for a moment in the gentle swell of the phosphorescent waters. And then their eyes fastened on a triangular black fin which was darting straight for the swimming man. He, too, caught sight of it, for, screaming with terror, he began to swim furiously toward the ship. The fin suddenly disappeared. A moment later there was a choking cry and the Black Fox suddenly disappeared beneath the surface of the Caribbean.

Lizette Fondac and Red Jacques were avenged.