The Lady and the Pirate - Emerson Hough (lightweight ebook reader .txt) 📗

Bart,” said L’Olonnois solemnly, “have we crowded on full sail when the lookout gave the word of a prize a-comin’, while we laid to in some hidden channel over yonder.”

“Aye, aye, many a time, many a time, my hearty.”

“—An’ loosed the bow-chaser an’ shot away her foremast.”

“—At almost the first shot, L’Olonnois.”

“—So that her top hamper came down in a run an’ swung her broadside to our batteries.”

“—And we poured in a hail of chain-shot and set her hull afire.”

“—And then launched the boats for the boardin’ parties,” broke in Jean Lafitte, standing on one leg in his excitement; “—an’ so made her a prize. An’ then we made ’em walk the plank amid scenes of wassail—all but the fair captives.”

I fell silent. But L’Olonnois’ blue eyes were glowing. “An’ them we surrounded with every rude luxury,” said he, “finally retiring to the fortresses of the hidden channels of the coast, where we defied all pursuit. This looks like one of them places, though I may be mistook,” he added judiciously. I shuddered to see how Jimmy’s grammar had deteriorated under my care.

“Yes,” said I, “we are now near to several of those places, scenes of our bold deeds. The south coast of Louisiana lies on our right, cut by a thousand bays and channels deep enough for hiding a pinnace or even a stout schooner. Yonder, Jean, is Barataria Bay, your old home. Here, under my finger, is Côte Blanche. Here comes the Chafalay, through its new channel—all this floating hyacinth, all this red water, comes from Texas soil, from the Red River, now discharging in new mouths. Yonder, west of the main boat channels that make toward the railways far inland, lie the salt reefs and the live-oak islands. Here is the long key they now call Marsh Island. It was not an island until you, stout Jean Lafitte, ordered the Yankee Morrison to take a hundred black slaves with spades and cut a channel across the neck, so that you could get through more quickly from the Spanish Main to the hidden bayous where your boats lay concealed—until the wagons from Iberia could come and traffic at the causeway for your wares. Do you not remember it well?”

“Aye, that I do, Black Bart!” said he; and I was sure he did.

“And yonder channel, once just wide enough for a yawl, is to-day washed out wide enough for a fleet to pass through—though not deep enough. In that fact now lies our safety.”

“How do you mean, Black Bart?” demanded he.

“Why, that all this water over yonder west of us is so shallow that it takes a wise oyster boat to get through to Morgan City. The shrimpers who reap these waters, even the market shooting schooners who carry canvasbacks out of these feeding beds in the marshes, have to know the tides and the winds as well, and if one be wrong the boat goes aground on these wide shoals. Less than a fathom here and here and here on the chart soundings—less than that if an offshore wind blows.”

“You mean we’ll go aground?”

“No, I mean that any pursuer very likely would. The glass is falling now. Soon the wind will rise. If it comes offshore for five hours—and it will wait for five hours before it does come offshore—we shall be safe, inside, at one of your old haunts, Jean Lafitte; and back of us will lie fifty miles of barrier—yon varlet may well have a care.”

“Yon varlet don’t know where we have went,” commented L’Olonnois in his alarming grammar.

“No, that is true. The water leaves no trail. Most Northerners go to Florida for the winter, and not to these marshes. Methinks they will have a long chase.”

“An’ here,” said Jean Lafitte, with much enthusiasm, “we kin lie concealed an’ dart out on passin’ craft that strike our fancy as prizes.”

“We could,” said I, “but we will not.”

“Why not?” He seemed chilled by my reply.

“Oh, we shall not need to,” I hastened to explain. “We have everything we need for a long stay here. We can live chiefly by hunting and fishing for a month or so, until——”

“Until the fair captive has gave her consent,” broke in L’Olonnois, also with enthusiasm.

“Yes,” said I, endeavoring a like enthusiasm. “Or, at least, until we find it needful to go inland to one of the live-oak islands. There are houses there. I know some of the planters over yonder.”

“Let’s make them places scenes of rapeen!” suggested Jean Lafitte anxiously. “They must have gold and jewels. Besides, I bear it well in mind, many a time have I and my stout crew buried chests of treasure on them islands. We c’d dig ’em up. Maybe them folks has a’ready dug ’em up. Then why not search their strongholds with a stout party of our own hardy bullies, Black Bart?”

“No,” said I mildly; “for several reasons I think it best for my hardy bullies to go and eat some breakfast and then go to sleep. If we go into the live-oak heights above Côte Blanche, I think we’ll only ask for salt. I am almost sure, for instance, that my friend Edouard Manning, of Bon Secours plantation, would give me salt if I asked it. He has done so before. Beshrew me, it should go hard with him if he refused.”

“There’s a barrel an’ eight boxes o’ sacks o’ salt aboard,” said the practical Jean Lafitte. “What’d you want so much salt for?”

“’Twas yon varlet’s idea,” said I, “when he laid in the ship’s stores. But I had a mind that, to my taste, no salt is better than that made by the Manning plantation mines. But now,” I added, “to your breakfast, after you have bathed.”

“Peterson,” said I, after they had left me, and pointing to the chart, “lay her west by south. I want to run inside the Timbalier Shoals.”

“Very shallow there, Mr. Harry—just look at the soundings, sir.”

“That’s why I want to go. Hold on till you get the light at this channel here, southeast of the Côte Blanche. You’ll get a lot of floating hyacinth, but do what you can. I’ll take my trick, as soon as I get a bite to eat. By night we’ll be over our hurry and we can all arrange for better sleep.”

“And then—I—ahem! Mr. Harry, what are your plans?” He was just a trifle troubled over all this.

“My plans, Peterson,” said I, “are to anchor off Timbalier to-night, to anchor in this channel of Côte Blanche to-morrow—and to eat breakfast now.” Saying which I left him gloomily shaking his head, but laying her now west by south as I had made the course.

“The glass is falling mighty fast, Mr. Harry,” he called over his shoulder to me by way of encouragement.

CHAPTER XXVIII IN WHICH IS CERTAIN POLITE CONVERSATION

MY boy had ironed my trousers, that is to say, the trousers I had given him the year previous, and which he now had loaned to me, my extremity being greater than his own. He had laundered my collars—a most useful boy, my China boy. I had, moreover, delving in Cal Davidson’s wardrobe, discovered yet another waistcoat, if possible more radiant even than the one with pink stripes, for that it was cross hatched with bars of pale pea green and mauve—I know not from what looms he obtained these wondrous fabrics. Thus bravely attired after breakfast, just before luncheon, indeed, it was, I felt emboldened to call upon the captive ladies once more. With much shame I owned that I had not seen Auntie Lucinda for nearly two days—and with much trepidation, also, for I knew not what new bitterness her soul, meantime, might have distilled into venom against my coming.

I knocked at the door of the ladies’ cabin, the aftermost suite on the boat, and, at first, had no answer. The door, naturally, on a boat of this size, would be low, the roof rising above decks no higher than one’s waist; and as I bent to knock again, the door of the companion stairs was suddenly thrust open against my face, and framed in the opening thus made, there appeared the august visage of Auntie Lucinda herself.

“Well, sir-r-r-r!” said she, after a time, regarding me sternly. I can by no means reproduce the awfulness of her “r’s.”

“Yes, madam?” I replied mildly, holding my nose, which had been smitten by the door.

She made no answer, but stood, a basilisk in mien.

“I just came, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” I began, “to ask you——”

“And time you did, sir-r-r-r! I was just coming to ask you——”

“And time you did, my dear Mrs. Daniver—I have missed you so much, these several days. So I just called to ask for your health.”

“You need not trouble about my health!”

“But I do, I do, madam! I give you my word, I was awake all night, thinking of—of your neuralgia. Neuralgia is something—something fierce, in a manner of speech—if one has it in the morning, my dear Mrs. Daniver.”

“Don’t ‘dear Mrs. Daniver’ me! I’m not your dear Mrs. Daniver at all.”

“Then whose dear Mrs. Daniver are you, my dear Mrs. Daniver?” I rejoined most impudently.

“If the poor dear Admiral were alive,” said she, sniffing, “you should repent those words!”

“I wish the poor dear Admiral were here,” said I. “I should like to ask an abler sailorman than Peterson what to do, with the glass falling as it is, and the holding ground none too good for an anchor. I thought it just as well to come and tell you to prepare for the worst.”

“The worst—what do you mean?” She now advanced three steps upward, so that her shoulders were above the cabin door. Almost mechanically she took my hand.

“The worst just now is nothing worse than an orange with ice, my dear Mrs. Daniver. And I only wanted you to come out on deck with—Miss Emory—and see how blue the sea is.”

She advanced another step, being fond of an iced orange at eleven-thirty. But now she paused. “My niece is resting,” said she, feeling her way.

“No, I am not,” I heard a voice say. Inadvertently I turned and almost perforce glanced down the cabin stair. Helena, in a loose morning wrap of pink, was lying on the couch. She now cast aside the covering of eider-down, and shaking herself once, sprang up the stairs, so that her dark hair appeared under Auntie Lucinda’s own. Slowly that obstacle yielded, and both finally stood on the after deck. The soft wind caught the dark tendrils of Helena’s hair. With one hand she pushed at them. The other caught her loose robe about her softly outlined figure.

“Helena!” remarked her aunt, frowning.

“I want an orange,” remarked Miss Emory, addressing the impartial universe, and looking about for John.

“And shall have it. But,” said I, finding a soft rug at the cabin-top, “I think perhaps you may find the air cool. Allow me.” I handed them chairs, and with a hand that trembled a bit put the soft covering over Helena’s shoulders. She drew it close about her with one hand, and her dark hair flowing about her cheeks, found her orange with the other when John came with his tray.

It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow line of pelicans; and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket, I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in safety. All