BOOK ONE Ambition

“... You think me ambitious, brother. You are wrong. Ambition is but the pursuit of mirages ... the big things of to-day are but the stepping-stones to the bigger things of to-morrow.... Ambition is desire—and desire is will ... that is unconquerable....”

—Jean Lafitte.

Chapter the Fourth:

Wherein a Gentleman Blacksmith Arrives upon the Scene

“Who is Jean Lafitte?” District-Attorney Grymes looked at his guest in surprise. Edward Marshall, a stoop-shouldered, fastidiously dressed man, nodded.

“Exactly. I’ve only been in your blessed city two short days, and yet all I hear is ‘Jean Lafitte’ ... ‘Jean Lafitte’!”

John R. Grymes, district attorney of New Orleans and former member of the Virginia bar, laughed. He was a handsome man of middle age, with a leonine head, a splendid physique, and the unmistakable stamp of aristocrat on every bold feature. There were wrinkles about his eyes, however, and the observant spectator might have detected a few, although a very few, signs of dissipation.

“First of all, Lafitte, or rather, the Lafittes, are blacksmiths.”

“I know that much!”

“Well, they are what might be called ‘gentlemen blacksmiths.’ They are both men of unusual education and refinement, and prominent in business here.”

“So I gathered ... but what is all this talk about them?”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to begin at the beginning. Here, Rappahannock, bring some of that claret from bin four.”

Rappahannock, the butler, obeyed, disappearing inside the house. The district attorney and his guest were sitting on the wide, white-columned veranda, of a brick Colonial country home. The roof, of red-painted cypress, was to be seen from the road, peeping out of a grove of ancient magnolias, its airy belvedere rising jauntily above the trees. Red-brick walks wound in and out the grounds, and a long winding drive swept down to the tall, brick-pillared gates. Jasmine and crimson-hued oleanders bloomed in profusion, together with crisp boughs of pomegranates, orange trees, and massed thickets of acacia. It was a typical Louisianian home with a touch of Colonial Virginia.

This was the stirring year of 1810, the year ending that memorable decade when the recently established United States government was the most unpopular institution in Louisiana; when the aristocratic Creoles, both French and Spanish, were still voicing their emphatic protests against such hateful innovations as American dances, trial by jury, politics, anti-smuggling laws, and the printing of the Governor’s proclamation in English! It was the beginning of the end of French social domination in the Mississippi Valley, the state of Louisiana ... and that “Little Paris” of the Creoles, New Orleans.

And it is here that we meet Jean Lafitte again.

“To begin,” said Grymes, the claret having been brought, “the Lafittes, gentlemen blacksmiths, are men of means, of some social position; capitalists. They are French, of course.... It is said that they come from the south of France, for they speak with that accent peculiar to natives of the Garonne region. I am not sure of this, but it makes no difference. To get to the subject, however, which you asked me about ... listen: I’ll have to quote you a little history, Marshall; I’ll try not to bore you.

“No doubt you’ve heard about the smugglers, or pirates, hereabouts? Yes? As you know, the Gulf of Mexico has always been a breeding-place for pirates, buccaneers of the old type. Well, in recent years, piracy has gradually died out. To be sure, there is still some lawlessness in the Caribbean, but the pirates of years back—Morgan, Kidd, and the rest of their ilk—are extinct.”

“I don’t know about that, Grymes. Up in New York we still get reports of looted vessels, outrages of all kinds.”

“Well, perhaps so, but those are isolated cases. I certainly hope so, anyway. But there is very little prey for an ambitious buccaneer these days. The celebrated treasure cities of South America are no more and the only treasure ships that sail these days are too strong to fear pirates.”

“Yes, but what’s all this talk—”

“Just a moment, I’m coming to that. As I said, there is not much booty lying around nowadays to cause a self-respecting pirate to risk his neck. But these waters, the Gulf in particular, still offer many opportunities of aggrandizement for enterprising nomads of the sea. And personally, Marshall, I think that the gentlemen of fortune of to-day, instead of seeking gold, pieces of eight, and all that sort of thing, deal in human booty! Instead of attacking treasure galleons they raid slave ships! They traffic in black ivory.

“But first, let me refresh your memory a little. Two years ago, in January, 1808, I believe, Congress passed a law prohibiting the further importation of slaves into this country.”

Marshall showed interest.

“I remember that fool law well,” he said, “and for a good reason. It made me lose ten thousand dollars.”

Grymes nodded.

“Well, we were all hard hit,” he remarked, “but especially our section of the country, the South. It’s no use telling you that the Southern States have to rely on slave labor, solely. You know all that. But you cannot know how hard Louisiana is hit, because this is a newly acquired territory and we are deprived of our only source of labor. At any rate, due to the lack of labor, our crops rotted and business came practically to a standstill.”

Marshall grunted.

“It’s the same thing all over the country.”

“But not as bad as here,” added Grymes, quickly, “for that same year the price of slaves rose to a thousand dollars a head! In Cuba, to the south of us, they could be gotten for three hundred dollars apiece. Therefore, the result was—”

“That they went to Cuba to get them—”

“—And smuggled them in—exactly! That’s how the practice of slave-smuggling started. The first smugglers, men of doubtful antecedents, for the most part, bought their slaves in Cuba and, sailing across the Gulf, landed them in out-of-the-way harbors on our coast, from where they were marched overland to the auction markets of Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

“It’s curious, Marshall, but these Creoles seem to be born smugglers. Smuggling, it appears, has long been almost an acknowledged part of Louisiana’s commerce. It flourished mostly, I believe, in the old Spanish and French colonial days, and when Napoleon sold us this territory it had become such a profitable business that the Creoles, for the most part, who bear our government no love, as you know, have continued to defy the law. Indeed, they seem to take pleasure in doing so.

“I suppose you also know that for years New Orleans has been a noted spot for contrabandistas of many kinds, together with refugees from San Domingo and revolutionists from South American republics. And there has been a good trade carried on between our merchants and the smugglers.

“Naturally, at the advent of the law and its resulting condition the practice of smuggling slaves was born and developed. Place a ban upon anything for which there is a public demand and you create lawbreakers. However, a new class of people have entered into the smuggling trade. It is said that many of the best people in New Orleans, men of wealth and social position, merchants, planters, bankers, and politicians, are all connected with this traffic in slaves. Incredible as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that the Lafittes, who are known to be intimately connected with it, move in excellent Creole circles.

“In the last year, however, the smuggling business has changed its aspect, and that in a very drastic manner.

“These smuggling gentlemen soon realized that the legitimate slavers carried small, poorly armed crews, and as swiftly decided that it would be more profitable to take this—er—black ivory from the slavers by force, rather than purchase it in Havana. They acted accordingly.

“Consequently the smugglers have become out-and-out pirates and are at present conducting an exceedingly prosperous business in captured cargoes. Anyway, despite the combined efforts of British, French, and our own warships, the waters of the Gulf of Mexico to-day have become a dangerous thoroughfare for commerce of any sort, for the ‘black ivory’ buccaneers make no discrimination as to booty.”

Marshall yawned delicately and sipped his claret.

“But where does Lafitte come in?” he asked. “For the life of me—”

“This is where Lafitte comes in. As you may know, the smithy of the Lafitte brothers is on the corner of Bourbon and St. Philippe streets—a large, barn-like building occupied by a good many slaves; real blacksmiths, who toil at the forges.

“What supplies the pirates cannot get from captured ships they get in New Orleans. It is a matter of common knowledge that they have purchased chains and caufles used in ‘black ivory’ from the Lafitte smithy. The Lafittes have grown to be popular with the smuggler-buccaneers. Jean and Pierre Dominique Lafitte, who are, by the way, exceptionally shrewd business men, are their chief agents and bankers. This is common knowledge, as I said before.

“And the Lafitte smithy is, therefore, a sort of clearing house for many questionable transactions.

“Jean Lafitte, in particular, is a very remarkable man, in my estimation. He has, as has been proved, a rare executive ability, coupled with a genius for organization and, what is more, a magnificent contempt for the law that transcends even that of his neighbors. That is one of the reasons for his popularity with the Creoles, perhaps.

“His success in managing the affairs of the buccaneers, in which his usefulness to them has become a necessity, so I understand, has obtained for him a complete control over their affairs and, what is more astonishing, themselves. That alone demonstrates the force of his personality. I, myself, will vouch for the latter. He has the most charming manners and magnetic personality of any man I have met, and I have met quite a few.

“This is what you are hearing so much of, about Jean Lafitte. That is the story of his ascendancy over the pirates. Of course, all of this was not done in a day, or a month. He had first to unite their many rival interests, compose their differences, and form them into an organization which pools its varied resources for the good of the whole. At least, that is what is said of him. The future will tell. But if it is true, then, in my opinion, Jean Lafitte is a genius, for no one but a genius could succeed in such an apparently impossible undertaking, and no mind but that of a genius could have given birth to such a colossal conception!”

He paused. Marshall seemed infected with Grymes’s enthusiasm.

“This Lafitte must be a wonderful man, indeed,” he said, “but you have forgotten to tell me one thing ... what, or where, is Barataria?”

Grymes looked up eagerly.

“I had forgotten! Barataria, or rather, Grande Terre, is the headquarters of these pirates. That is how they get their name of ‘Baratarians.’ All operations of this magnitude demanded a base of operations, and these buccaneers established one at Barataria.

“Barataria Bay, itself, is a name that is applied to all of the Gulf coast of Louisiana from the mouth of the Mississippi to the Bayou La Fourche, a distance of about fifty miles. The island of Grande Terre, their headquarters proper, screens this bay from the Gulf, with which it is connected by a deep and narrow channel. The trees of this island, you see, are high enough to easily hide the masts of the ships of these slave-raiders from any hostile warship cruising outside, and, in my estimation, not a better rendezvous for their purpose could be found anywhere in the Gulf!

“Between the Mississippi and the Bayou, there is an intricate network of navigable channels that extends almost to this city. I am not familiar with it myself, and, really, no one is but these buccaneers. This makes their headquarters all the more desirable, as it gives them what might be called a back-stairs connection with New Orleans. It might also be termed a direct line of communication between the wholesale and retail markets of this rapidly developing trade. Indeed, it has come to the pass that this combination of which of course the brain is Lafitte, really controls the rise and fall of slave prices, and a few other commodities, in the Mississippi Valley.

“Do you wonder why the name of Jean Lafitte is on every lip?”

Marshall looked thoughtful.

“I understand, now. And I suppose every one is wondering what he will do next.”

“Exactly. But here, Marshall, I know I have bored you with my long talk.”

“Not at all. It is highly interesting. I would like to meet this Lafitte, but I suppose it is impossible, for I must return to New York to-morrow. By the way, Grymes, on my way back, I believe I will stop over in Philadelphia and visit your charming daughter. She is at school there, is she not?”

The district attorney nodded, his eyes suddenly tender.

“Yes, Virginia is attending Miss Borden’s school for young ladies, and was quite a belle, I am told, at the Assembly Ball. I shall give you a letter to her if you will be so kind as to take it. I can hardly wait until she comes down here. She’s never been here, you know.”

Marshall answered perfunctorily. He was mentally wondering what Jean Lafitte was going to do next.

But for that matter, Marshall was one of many.

Chapter the Fifth:

How Jean Lafitte Tells of His Ambition, and Incidentally Makes a Change of Residence

“And so, mes amis,” said Lafitte, slowly, “I have decided to go to Grande Terre.”

For a long moment there was a strange silence. His companions, grouped about the long, paper-littered table, were evidently very much surprised and perturbed at his simple statement. At the foot, Pierre Dominique Lafitte, a gallant figure in fashionable garments, stroked his imperial thoughtfully, but made no comment. A close observer, however, would have noticed that he was keenly studying the expressions of the other members of this strange company.

“W’at you mean?” asked one, a curious inflection in his voice. Like the majority of his companions, he was a seafaring man, but, unlike the others, he was not a pure Caucasian. Grambo—no one knew him by any other name—was a quadroon. One of the most disreputable smugglers in the Gulf, he was also one of the leading spirits of the Baratarian colony.

“Just what I said,” answered Lafitte, “I have decided to go to Grande Terre.”

“Why?”

Jean looked at the quadroon with a well-simulated surprise. “Because I think it necessary that I go there,” he said, coolly. “You see, my dear Grambo, hitherto I have attended to the business at this end. Now I have decided that it would be wise for me to run over to our base of operations and look after things.”

“Eet is nod necessaire dat you go dere,” hastily put in Grambo, frowning. “We shall send you de blac’ ivree heah. We don’t need you dere.”

“And since when have you taken it upon yourself to tell me my duty, m’sieu?” demanded the Frenchman, haughtily.

“I dell you no’ting. I onlee say dat eet is not necessaire foah you to go dere. W’y do you weesh to go?” There was a peculiar look in his shifty eyes, a note of insolence in his voice.

Pierre Dominique, the peacemaker, knew that Grambo was very influential among a large number of the smaller fry of smugglers, who feared him for his well-known, bullying nature, yet admired him for his daring and the vague mystery that surrounded many of his ventures. It was whispered of him that he had served his apprenticeship in shady deeds in the West Indies, the hotbed of piracy.

“What’s up, Jean?” he asked, quietly. “Why this sudden determination?”

“I have decided that it is for our best interests that I go to Grande Terre—for a while.”

“To—stay?” asked Grambo, quietly, although seething inwardly, as Lafitte well knew.

“I believe so. Here are my intentions: I shall go to Barataria to superintend the work—”

“W’at work?” asked Grambo, genuinely surprised. He could not associate actual work—even the superintendence of manual labor—with the immaculate, impeccable Frenchman. Lafitte was the brain of the organization, the man behind the smuggling on the Gulf, who furnished the necessary funds, planned the infinitely clever coups, and directed the chief operations of the work in general—but who never soiled his hands with the contact of actual sweat and blood. Grambo was truly surprised.

“First of all,” said Lafitte, “it will hardly be necessary to send your goods to New Orleans in the future.”

“What do you mean?”

“All goods—particularly black ivory—shall be brought directly to Grande Terre, and unloaded there.”

“But what is your object in this strange proceeding?” asked Pierre Dominique. “Why all the extra trouble?”

“It will not be extra trouble at all. Grande Terre is to be our headquarters in the future. Our base of supplies.”

“Bud I do nod understand,” remarked another. “Why nod breeng dem direc’ to New Orleans? Heah is de market. Eet is onlee heah dat we gan sell dem.”

“Not at all,” countered Lafitte. “We can sell them just as well—and as profitably—at Grande Terre.”

“Bud dere is no one to buy, dere! To sell, we muz ’ave customers. Dere muz be a market!”

“Exactly. We will create a market.”

“Comment?”

“Simple enough. The planters need slaves badly enough to come all the way to Grande Terre for them. Let them do so. Why should we go to all the trouble of bringing them here?” demanded Lafitte.

For a moment they stared at him, turning the new idea over and over in their minds. Lafitte went on.

“It is absurdly simple. We shall erect warehouses, slave stockades, and living quarters at Barataria, and mount some guns, for protection. Then we can bring our black ivory there, place them in our own stockades, and sell them when we please, for what we please, instead of selling them to dealers here for what they want to pay us. There is money in this business, mes amis, if it is managed right.”

“C’est vrai—’tis true!” murmured Pocquelin, the ship owner.

“And, moreover, we can set our own prices on them and can auction them off right there. It will save us both time and trouble, not to say being much safer, and will fill our pockets in the bargain. What do you say?” His companions, with the exception of Pierre and the taciturn Grambo, applauded heartily. Pierre was silent, reserving his opinions and questions for a later time. The quadroon, however, was silent because he realized that Lafitte was right, and was piqued because he could not find fault with his plans.

“Therefore,” continued Jean, “I will leave for Grande Terre at dawn. Pierre shall remain here, to act in my absence. As for Barataria, messieurs, I prophesy that it will become the largest market in the Mississippi Valley. Mark my words! In time we shall control the ‘black ivory’ trade of the entire Gulf!”

The response was enthusiastic. Jean smiled. He invariably had his way with punctilious Creole aristocrat and uncouth smuggler. His magnetic, forceful personality always triumphed.

“As for yourself, Monsieur Grambo,” remarked the younger Lafitte, “since you have such a deep-rooted prejudice against my visiting your island, suppose you remain in New Orleans for a few weeks? You need the rest, I’m sure.”

All were silent, instinctively realizing that something was in the air.

“Grambo will go to Gran’ Terre, aussi,” growled that gentleman, half-defiantly; “he has naught to do een New Orleans!”

Jean laughed softly.

“Go by all means, mon bon ami! After all, our town air may not be so good for your health. Yes, go. But remember, Grambo”—his voice hardened, almost imperceptibly—“you go to Grande Terre ... oui. But only because I permit you to go. Because it is my wish,” he added, with magnificent condescension in his voice.

Grambo writhed, unable to speak coherently for his very rage. Pierre Dominique looked appealingly at his dominating brother. He could not know that Jean was deliberately attempting to make a display of his authority to Grambo because it was necessary to the furtherance of one of his many plans.

“Grambo weel do w’at ’e dam’ weesh!” cried the Baratarian, at last.

“Très bien,” replied Lafitte, tranquilly, too tranquilly, one thought. “Pierre, you may return that five thousand dollars I got from our bankers to-day. Take it to Toulouse Street at once. But wait! Perhaps some of these gentlemen here might be able to use that sum on a venture somewhat like that planned by notre ami ... Monsieur Grambo. No? Well, keep it awhile. There are many of our privateer friends who might—”

“Eet ees again ‘privateer’!” cried Grambo, jeeringly. “Murszhur Lafitte, I—Grambo—am a pirate! Nod a damné privateer! Bah! W’at do I cayeh who know? To hell wit’ poleez! To hell wit’ de law! I—Grambo—”

“—Am a damn fool!” finished Pierre, under his breath, as he filled his pipe. Jean broke in.

“As you wish, monsieur, as you wish! For my part you can be pirate, robber, cutthroat, murderer, thief, or mere scoundrel! But as for me and these gentlemen, I would have you understand ... we are privateers, business men, with letters of marque.”

“Letters of marque?”

“Yes. I have procured regularly authorized letters of marque from the Republic of Carthagena, to wage warfare on Spanish commerce. Of course, we can use our own discretion as to others. Anyone can make a mistake, you know.”

They were suddenly silent on receipt of this bit of intelligence. Letters of marque would be of great service to them. At that date, and for many years previous, the practice of privateering was merely a system of open piracy with legal sanction. Indeed, all privateering might have been given that definition.

“Privateers” and “pirates” were, in fact, almost convertible terms. Grambo’s scorn of Lafitte’s polite euphemism may easily be understood. The system of privateering, indeed, invariably proved a monstrous aggravation of the evils of war, although not one spark of patriotism animated either owners or crew. Their sole object was to make money by plunder. The owners of privateers were not honorable or reputable citizens as a rule, yet at this period, and especially in this locality where smuggling was the vogue, many of Louisiana’s best-known citizens were indirectly connected with it.

And the practice was not strictly confined to American waters. It was authorized by great European nations, and in this very same year, while the Lafittes were organizing the “black ivory” trade, much outright piracy in the guise of honorable warfare was going on in the English Channel.

Therefore, the little group of Louisianians gathered in the room above the Lafitte smithy were more than a little satisfied to learn that Lafitte had secured letters of marque from Carthagena.

After a little more discussion the visitors left without Grambo having said anything more. The two brothers were alone.

Pierre Dominique broke the silence.

“Jean,” he said, staring into the fireplace, “I mistrust Grambo. Do you think it wise to antagonize him?”

“Perhaps not.”

“You had better keep on your guard, mon frère.”

“Don’t worry, Pierre. I am prepared.”

“Comment?”

“I have not been idle all these months, my brother. I saw this day approaching. For almost six months I have been recruiting forces, selecting men. Ah, you look surprised! I will explain. As you know, New Orleans is filled with men ready for any sort of business. You know what I mean?”

Pierre nodded soberly. He well knew that the streets, wharves, and low dives were swarming with soldiers of fortune; swaggering adventurers from all over America; fiery revolutionists from South America; fugitives from Santo Domingo and Mexico; men ripe for any sort of dare-deviltry, any adventure, no matter how dangerous; men ready to sell their lives for gold.

“I have visited the saloons, the levees, the river—boats—everywhere!” went on Lafitte, “picking a man here, a man there. And now, I flatter myself, I have the finest band of rascals in the Gulf. And I have tested them. I can rely on them.”

Pierre looked puzzled. “But, Jean, I do not see—I do not understand. What will you do with them? Will you fit out more ships? If so, there are good crews in abundance, and assuredly there are far better sailors than these roaming adventurers you speak of.”

“C’est vrai. But I know all that, my brother,” laughed Jean. “You are dull to-night, indeed! I will explain, however. I do not want sailors; I want fighters!”

“Fighters?”

“Naturellement! Do you think I am fool enough to trust myself alone at Grande Terre, to be at the mercy of such fools as Grambo? Most assuredly not! When I go to Grande Terre to-morrow I go with a suitable escort, my brother. Men who will obey Jean Lafitte and no one but Jean Lafitte! Without them to overawe the trouble-makers, and to keep the peace, incidentally, how do you think I will be able to weld together our associates, with their many differences and jealousies? We must work as a whole, not individually. I know these people well, Pierre—very well. I have not studied them for nothing.

“There is naught that so impresses them as display of force—of power. The more the pomp and the haughtier the bearing, the better they like it. You should realize that most of our men are not of this democratic, inquisitive type, such as are these Americans from the north. The Americans distrust pomp and are suspicious of power, but our Creoles and Spaniards are Europeans at heart, with the same European traditions and ideas, to a large extent.

“They may scoff at power—at the high places—but I notice they scramble for those seats of the mighty if but given the opportunity. My ‘Myrmidons’—I have dubbed them ‘Myrmidons,’ Pierre—shall serve many purposes.

“They shall keep order for me at Grande Terre, thus assisting in quickening our business expansion projects. They shall keep for me the balance of power at Barataria, so that I may carry out my plans, unhindered by insurgents and dissentients. They shall provide the pomp and éclat necessary to dazzle, impress, and overawe these smugglers. And, lastly, they shall serve to uphold the prestige and power of Jean Lafitte personally—so that at Barataria his word shall be law! Only thus can be built a strong—”

“Monarchy!” finished Pierre Dominique, soberly, his eyes on Jean’s face. “Ma foi! But you are ambitious, brother mine! In other words, your gallant swashbucklers shall raise you on their swords to a throne, if but a small one!”

Lafitte stared into the dying fire, whose last flickering embers threw his tall figure into shapely relief against the wall. His face, however, was in shadow.

“Speaking of monarchies—kingdoms—Pierre, are those impossible? The little Corsican, unknown to the world but ten short years ago, is now Emperor of France! The obscure cadet of an Italian province is now our king!”

“Europe is not America, Jean. What can happen there cannot happen here. The European is so accustomed to the idea of monarchies and empires that no other form of government seems possible to him. Both our ancestors and our European contemporaries have been, and still are, unconsciously governed by tradition. The idea of the divine right of kings is as indelibly stamped in their hearts as is their belief that there is a deity in heaven. And, for them, it is as it should be. Another form of government would be impossible for them ... and is improbable.

“There is the saying, ‘si Dieu n’ existait pas, il faudrait l’inventer.’ And it is true. If God did not exist it would be necessary to invent him. So with monarchies. If they should suddenly cease to exist, it would be necessary to invent new monarchical forms of government—in Europe! But not in America, Jean—not in America! You wish to establish a monarchy? In Europe, yes! It might be possible. But in America, no!”

Jean laughed lightly.

“What of Toussaint L’Ouverture? Did he not make himself dictator of Santo Domingo but a few short years ago?”

“The ‘Black Napoleon’? Ma foi, Jean, but you have much to learn! The conditions favored him. And, in any event, such things happen but once in an age!”

“What can happen once can happen again! Yet—”

“‘Yet’! That’s exactly the point. Yet it won’t happen again, and certainly not here—in America! You talk nonsense, Jean. Did not Aaron Burr, that talented American, dream of a great western empire—and did he not dream in vain? And he was a really great man, a man of eminence, of influence. Have you already forgotten how he came here to New Orleans several short years ago with their General Wilkinson? And how he failed? Aaron Burr still lives, but his star has set forever.

“Kingdoms? There will be no more kingdoms in America, Jean. When Washington refused the title of king, he sounded the death-knell of any future attempt to set up a monarchy in America, or on this continent! Where is Burr to-day? Where is the Dictator of Santo Domingo? Where—”

Lafitte laughed and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“You are right, Pierre, as usual, but you have misunderstood me. I have no intention whatsoever of attempting to establish a miniature sovereignty or independent state.”

Pierre Dominique looked both exasperated and perplexed.

“Then why do you crave this personal power? Why do you wish to reign supreme at Grande Terre?” he demanded, bluntly.

Jean Lafitte smiled grimly. His black eyes flashed.

“You still do not understand, Pierre? I am not fool enough to dream of a monarchy, as you suggest. As you say, monarchies are only for Europe, and I know that well enough. But I do intend, and I will succeed, in making myself the economic dictator of the Mississippi Valley! The privateer of Barataria shall set the price of slaves, and, mayhap, other commodities, in this region. Opportunity is at our door. We shall win our desire, not by the right of the stronger—but—by the right of the wiser.... You understand me?” he cried, enthusiastically.

Pierre looked at his brother thoughtfully. “Mais oui. But that is an unusual doctrine.”

“All unused doctrines are unusual.”

“But your idea has—possibilities. It’s not exactly impossible.”

“Possibilities?” Jean laughed exultantly. “Impossible? Impossible n’est pas un mot français!”

Pierre did not answer. Jean kicked idly at the dying embers.

“You wish to be—you are—un chevalier d’industrie!” accused Pierre, suddenly.

“A knight of industry, yes. But not a swindler—a sharper. Pierre, this is an age of money—a mercenary age.”

“That may be said of every age in history,” said Pierre Lafitte.

“Perhaps. But the time is not far off when trade will influence both politics and society. And mayhap religion. Cannot money buy almost anything? Cannot it buy legislators, women, pleasure, power?”

As he spoke, the vesper bells of the convent of the Ursulines were heard in the distance, their silvery melodies faintly borne to them by the Gulf breeze. At the sound a new thought entered Lafitte’s head.

“—And perhaps our holy men and women?” he added, ingenuously.

“You speak blasphemy!” cried Pierre, furtively crossing himself. The elder Lafitte was not greatly religious, but was superstitious to a marked degree. He well knew that Jean listened to the religious talk of the priests and pious Catholics with a cynical intolerance, and privately deplored the fact. Like most French boys, the Lafittes were, in both their juvenescence and adolescence, ardent supporters of Holy Church. But since reaching manhood all had changed—in the case of Jean, particularly.

Jean, who had sorrowed so for his lost Lizette, musing and pondering on the insignificance of the trivialities of life, his eyes on the immovable stars, all alone in the infinite stillnesses of the night, during that period of his career in the Caribbean, had gradually and almost unconsciously come to doubt the existence of a deity, and to lose what moderate respect he had ever possessed for his personal religion. For, he argued within himself, if a beneficent, kind, and all-potent power did exist, why had it allowed his Lizette to die, and himself to live on, with a memory-fraught future?

For this, and similar reasons, partly due to his temporary companionship and intercourse with the lawless, creedless free-booters of the Caribbean, he had lost practically whatever faith he had ever possessed, and which was never totally regained, even when he had partly forgotten his boyhood sweetheart and had taken a creditable place in cultured society. A certain acquaintance had once called him “un libre-penseur”—a free-thinker.

Lafitte was wise, however, and well knew that it would be rather embarrassing, while in Creole circles, to be religionless, to all outward appearance, so, externally, at least, he again became a pious, dutiful son of Mother Church, much to the edification of his ecclesiastical contemporaries and the approval of his Creole friends. It cost him nothing, and his convictions were his own.

If the teachings of the priests were true, then by conformity to the exactions of the Church his future existence was safeguarded. If they were untrue, as he half suspected, he would enter the Great Vacuum with curiosity, but not fear, to face what there was to be faced with the courage of a true Lafitte, a true gentleman, and a true Frenchman. He would doubtless meet others....

Such was Jean Lafitte, such his ideas about the great scheme of things ... a man with that perfect poise which is the essence of individuality, with unusual imagination and vision; a creature of intuitive impulse, and one whose keen sense of honor was primarily a peculiar sportsmanship whose chief ingredients were a love of fair play, an acute sense of justice, and the love of excitement that permeates every man of action.

And it was just such a man who was to assist in molding the destinies of a great nation.

Such men are not types, nor yet like one another. Most emphatically not.

Such men are individuals. And rarities.

“Blasphemy?” sighed Jean, guilelessly. “Non, non, mon frère. I speak but the truth.” He laughed cynically.

“You think me ambitious, brother. You are wrong. Ambition is but the pursuit of mirages; the big things of to-day are but the stepping-stones to the bigger things of to-morrow. Say, rather, Destiny. Yes, that is the word. Destiny. I am inclined to believe that I am somewhat of a fatalist, like these Easterns one reads about.” He paused. “But you may be right, at that. Ambition is desire—and desire is will ... that is unconquerable. I believe I have that,” he mused.

Pierre Dominique looked pained.

“More blasphemy!” he muttered, ignoring Jean’s latter remarks, which, truth to tell, he did not understand.

Jean laughed unpleasantly, catching at the other’s train of thought, with swift insight.

“Ah, Pierre, fear not for my immortal soul. I am as devout a Catholic as yourself. I merely spoke my thoughts. You should ignore them. I am but a pirate, after all, n’est-ce-pas, mon Pierre? And it is well known that a gentleman of piratical tendencies should profess no religion. It would be inconsistent. Pardon my speech, brother, if it offends you. You well know I am not one of these canting hypocrites who pretend great piety, nor yet am I like these superstitious peons whose only possessions are a wealth of vermin and an unshakable faith in the holy saints!”

He laughed mirthlessly. Pierre Dominique endeavored to look stern, but without success.

“But you should not speak so of—of the servants of Holy Church, my brother. Nor yet should you take pride in the fact that you once were—a pirate. Rather, you should repent.”

“Perhaps. But I cannot but notice, Sir Champion, that L’Abbe Constantin did not refuse my pair of golden candlesticks last Michaelmas. Nor did the Mother Superior of the Ursulines refuse my costly altar cloth. On the contrary, they both gave me their blessing as a true son of Mother Church ... me, the pirate ... the smuggler!” There was a trace of bitterness in his voice.

But Pierre Dominique did not answer.

For a long while neither spoke, each buried in his own thoughts, as they stared into the dying fire.

The last ember sputtered out.

Chapter the Sixth:

In which Grambo, the Quadroon, Is Indiscreet, and Suffers Thereby

Grambo scowled.

“I do nod trus’ him, I tell you! He ees nod betteh dan annybodee else!”

“I knowce it, bud who gan mague an’teen?”

“I’d lag to cud hiz troad! De—”

“Hush! Heah come won af hiz boolies!”

“De canaille!”

In silence the two Baratarians, Grambo, the quadroon, and Manuel Espinosa, a Spanish Creole, watched the approach of a gayly dressed swashbuckler, who, with lofty contempt apparent in every gesture, passed them quickly.

Grambo snarled.

“Señor Grambo,” said the other, “Manuel Espinosa, too, would lag to go some nigh’ and cut-a hiz heart ou’—bud eet is impossible!”

Grambo nodded gloomily.

“Oui, señor. Bud wad gan won do? Dad dam’ Lafette haz alread’ bin heah a mont’, an’ wa’d a zchance’ I tol’ you so, did I nod? When I ask ’im een New Orleans foah why he come to Gran’ Terre, he anseh, ‘to take charge.’ An’ dad ees w’at he haz done, de diable!”

“Can nodin’ be done?”

“I gan keel-a heem!”

“W’at do de oders say?” he asked.

“De oders?” Grambo cursed. “Dey are all wit’ heem! No sooneh do he arrife dan day all run to heem lak a flo’k of ship. From dad day when he stip on Gran’ Terre he iz ‘le bosse’! Dad oz w’at day all call heem—‘bosse.’ I go to dem—to Millar’, to Pascoval, to Mazara, ’Kenzie—dey are all crezzie! Dey sayce, ‘Of co’se Lafette iz de bosse! Foah why nod?’ Dey sayce he is de sma’tes’ man een de Golf! Bah! Jus’ beco’se he mague so mooch money!”

“Did dey all say dad?”

“Non! Jacques an’ José an’ de othehs—oweh crowd—mague protes’ also lak me! Bud id do no goo’. Doze dam boolies ov hiz come an’ t’reat’n uz. Try to mague a fight. W’at gan we do? Dey are t’ree to one and each ov dam iz lak a debil! Dat Lafette iz sma’t! Too sma’t. He knowce dat he could nod do what he weesh alone, so breeng hiz boolies wit’ him ... an’ we gan do nodings! Bud I weel feex dat Lafette yet—moi, Grambo!”

“A chance-a weel come. We weel get heem yet,” promised Manuel.

The quadroon nodded gloomily. Together they walked along the beach, toward the busy crowd at the landing.

As Grambo had remarked, Jean Lafitte was undoubtedly the undisputed bosse of Grande Terre. The privateer had been joyfully welcomed by the majority of the Baratarians, and, in an incredibly short time, almost all authority had been placed in his hands. This was perhaps partly due to the prestige which had accrued to his name through his large smuggling operations and, on the other hand, equally due to the personality of the man himself.

Immediately after his arrival he had summoned into conference all of the more powerful and influential of the leaders then present in the Bay. In forceful terms he let them know his plans for the future of Grande Terre. The majority of them readily saw the many advantages they would possess if his scheme were carried out, and heartily acquiesced.

Others, who like Grambo were jealous of Lafitte’s popularity and power, did all they could to hinder him, but this availed them little. A group of Jean’s “Myrmidons,” armed to the teeth, who were in the habit of visiting the malcontents and using a form of gentle persuasion known only to themselves, soon put the fear of Jean Lafitte in their hearts.

But a few of the Baratarians, notably the quadroon, were not altogether pacified. Far from it.

As for Grambo, he was perhaps the most piratical scoundrel of the entire colony, notwithstanding his tendency to boast of the fact. He possessed all of the predatory instincts of the true pirate and was a genuine disciple of the scuttle-the-ship and walk-the-plank school, having frequently practiced many of the cruel deeds generally attributed to his kind. Manuel Espinosa ran him a close second—some said it was vice versa.

And thus matters had rested.

It was a bright June day and an unusual bustle was to be seen on the low, sandy island.

A large slaver had been captured the day before and had just been brought into the bay and anchored at Grande Terre. Her cargo of slaves was now being landed on the large wharf, weak, emaciated, and half-dead from their long, tortuous trip. As they came over the ship’s side and were landed on the wharf the poor human chattels were immediately sent to the slave stockades—large, heavily fenced inclosures containing sheds.

Hordes of half-naked slaves, property of the buccaneers, toiled ceaselessly, loading and unloading bundles, bales, bags, barrels, and packages of every description imaginable. Up and down the slope, back and forth, they hurried, piling their burdens in the flimsy warehouses, or loading some outbound vessel.

Practically the whole Baratarian world was at this one spot; bronzed sailors, swaggering adventurers, conservative tradesmen, loud-voiced pirates, poorly clad fishermen, swarthy Mesquite Indians from the Honduras coast, and equally dark Choctaws from Louisiana.

Among the largest groups of privateersmen at the wharf, perhaps the liveliest of them all was one in which the central figure was the swarthy Grambo, loudly describing some adventure or other in which he had figured. By his side was Manuel Espinosa.

As he spoke, laughing and cursing at intervals, a group of slaves, shackled at the neck to one another so as to form a human chain, halted for a moment to allow another group of slaves to pass.

Among the blacks a negro girl, strangely light complexioned as compared to her fellows, and rather pretty as to face and figure, caught the eye of the swarthy Grambo. He stared at her, unmistakable desire shining in his eyes. The girl, probably the offspring of an African mother and an Arabian father, looked up, intercepted the burning look, and dropped her eyes fearfully.

Grambo had by now stepped out of the chattering group and was eying her—her supple body and comely face, the curve of her girlish bosom.

With a word to the overseer he laid his hand on her shoulder. She shrank back at his touch. Grinning, the quadroon ordered that she be taken out of line. His order was immediately obeyed, unnoticed by the surrounding throng. Taking hold of the dangling chain from her neck, he endeavored to lead her away from the wharf, but the frightened girl, understanding his purpose, refused to go, dragging back and finally biting and kicking in her terror.

The surrounding crowd, attracted by the noise, encircled the swarthy pirate and his struggling victim, with loud laughter and coarse jests. This, however, only served to put the quadroon into a rage. Snatching a whip from a near-by overseer, he proceeded to lash the girl, raising bloody welts on her soft, unprotected skin, which shortly was leaving the flesh raw and hanging. Again and again the whip descended on the body of the groveling, shrieking slave, her persecutor seeming to take fiendish delight in his occupation. Espinosa, the Spaniard, bared his yellow teeth in a hideous grin as he looked on approvingly.

It was at this moment that Jean, attracted by the cries of the girl and the loud, obscene curses of the pirate, came upon the scene. As he saw them, his brow grew dark with anger and his handsome black eyes glowed in his pale face like live coals.

Striding through the crowd, he came behind Grambo and with one powerful wrench took the descending lash from the quadroon’s hand. With a howl of rage the burly Grambo swung around sharply, to face the smuggler chieftain.

“Geeve-a me back dat wheep!” he demanded, with a curse. At sight of Jean all of his hatred for the Frenchman welled up within his soul. To his former jealousy had come venom. Lafitte had dared to interfere with him, Grambo, the terror of his compeers, in the presence of the whole Baratarian world! His fury rose into his throat, choking him—becoming a physical pain.

A sudden silence fell on the crowd. Every Baratarian there knew instinctively that a crisis had come—that was to determine the future of Grande Terre, perhaps.

For a long moment Jean stared the quadroon in the eye.

Grambo repeated his demand gruffly.

“What were you doing with it, if I may ask?” Lafitte asked, quietly.

“W’at iz dat to you?”

“I requested you to tell me what you were doing with this lash,” said Lafitte, mildly, as if he were speaking to a child. His calm voice made an impression on the pirate.

“I was pun’sh’n’ dis wench,” sullenly.

“Why?”

“Sacré! W’at iz dat to you?”

“Why?” His casual air disturbed Grambo. He glanced around the circle of near-by faces. Not one was friendly. His friends, he saw, were all closely surrounded by Lafitte’s swashbucklers. He cursed silently. Grambo was not very popular outside his own circle, and he began to imagine that even his own friends were watching his discomfiture with amusement. Only Espinosa glared at Lafitte balefully, but even he made no move to interfere.

“Why?” came the question again.

“Beco’se she waz disob-bead-yun’!”

“Disobedient?” Lafitte wore an air of polite puzzlement.

“Oui. She would nod come wit’ me.” The next moment he could have bitten his tongue off for that damaging statement.

“Is she your personal property?” asked Lafitte, suavely.

“None of you’ dam’ bus’nez!” cried Grambo, defiantly, swiftly deciding to brazen it out. “W’at do—”

Lafitte turned to the near-by overseer. The crowd grew thicker.

“Is this slave one of that group?” he demanded, imperiously pointing to the near-by string of slaves.

“Yesseh, mon capitaine!” respectfully.

“Has this string been sold yet?”

“No, monsieur le bosse. We were joost takin’ dem to de black-ivree pen. Dey’ve joost come off de sheep.”

“Have they been spoken for?”

“No, monsieur. Dey are to go strai’t to de block.”

Lafitte’s voice became hard.

“Then how is this slave girl in his possession?”

“I hope you’ excellency will pardon me, bud I did nod know,” the overseer replied, looking appealingly at the glowering Grambo. The latter gave no sign.

“Speak out!” said Lafitte.

“Grambo—Capitaine Grambo, ordeh’d me to loosen heh and to geeve heh to heem. I did nod know....”

Jean wheeled around and faced Grambo again.

“And what have you to say to this, sirrah?” demanded Lafitte. “Since when have you taken upon yourself the authority to take what you want ... to take what you haven’t been given, nor bought at open auction, nor captured yourself? That which is the property of the colony?” he thundered.

For a moment the crestfallen Grambo did not answer. Suddenly he realized that Lafitte was undoubtedly in the right, and cursed himself for a fool. He had broken one of the unwritten laws of the brotherhood. He must act quickly.

“Who are you?” he demanded, in turn, “to tell a free Baratarian w’at to do? Who made you oweh chief—oweh tyran’?” he asked, excitedly. “Who tol’ you to bill’ dose w’arfs an’ huts? An’ dat beeg howse of yo’se up on de heel?”

Jean Lafitte looked him over contemptuously.

“You ungrateful dog,” he said, scornfully. “May I ask who it was that gave you a start—a ship—a crew—money—when you didn’t have a picayune, much less a dollar? May I ask who it was who made you? I might have expected that from a quadroon dog and son of a dog!”

With a bound Grambo was face to face with him, shaking his fist menacingly and uttering fierce curses.

“Stand back, dog!” exclaimed Lafitte.

Grambo only cursed the more. His hand was sneaking toward the knife in his belt.

“Stand back, thief!” said Jean, scornfully, “before I give you a lesson for your insubordination! Malherébé, place this quadroon in the calabosa!”

With a shriek of rage the pirate sprang at Jean. In his hand was clenched a gleaming knife. There was an involuntary gasp from the bystanders and a general rush forward.

But the cool Lafitte was prepared. A pistol flashed from its holster, spoke reprovingly, and Grambo fell, shot through the heart.

For an instant, with a contemptuous smile on his lips, Lafitte stared at the body. Then, without a glance toward the crowd, he replaced his smoking pistol in its holster and nonchalantly walked away.

The crowd closed around the body.

Manuel Espinosa kneeled and, lifting Grambo’s head, stared into his glazed eyes, morbidly regarding the carmine stream that was dyeing the Baratarian’s scarlet shirt a deeper hue. His head bent, he bared his teeth with his characteristic grimace, and his ugly hands bunched convulsively as if they already felt Lafitte’s throat in their iron grasp. Terrible curses choked him—but did not pass his thin lips, for the Spaniard was no fool.

After all, his fury was not so much over the death of his crony as it was an expression of his virulent hatred for the bosse of Barataria. Sorrow was utterly foreign to the nature of the freebooter; indeed, he felt not even regret, for Grambo’s death merely cleared his own path to the leadership of their bloody clique, which he had long desired. To attain that end he would have unscrupulously murdered the quadroon himself at the proper time—indeed, he had recently been considering ways and means for just such an act.

But his hatred of Lafitte was but intensified, and within his shadowy soul Manuel Encarnacion Espinosa swore vengeance.

When he finally raised his head, however, and rose to his feet, his swarthy face was blandly imperturbable.

Grambo, the quadroon, had ceased to exist, but his work was to be carried on.

Chapter the Seventh:

Wherein Our Pirate Meets a Lady, and One Virginia Grymes Hears a Strange Tale

I

“Speak of Angels,” remarked Pierre, brightly, “and you hear the flutter of their wings!” He straightened up from his bow to the occupants of a passing carriage.

“Meaning—?” asked Jean, inquiringly.

“The two ladies who have just passed.”

“The fair Amélie and her cousin Angélique?”

“Precisely. It is something unusual to see them together. I wonder what’s up?”

“Ze frien’sheep of two women ees nozzing bud a plot against a zird,” contributed De Moulin, sententiously.

The little group of friends, the Lafittes, De Moulin, and two Creole acquaintances, all laughed together at this conceit. It was a bright sunny day and the Rue Royale was alive with promenaders. As the little group strolled down the street headed toward the waterfront, stopping every now and then to salute a passing acquaintance, bow to a lady or ladies in some picturesque balcony or passing carriage, they presented a gallant sight. At this period of history, fashions in men’s clothing were undergoing a marked change. The Lafittes, like most of their Creole friends, still clung to the colorful knee-breeches and silk stockings of the Revolutionary period, or highly polished boots. They carried sword-canes. The Americans of the new order of things, however—men like Livingston, Grymes, Governor Claiborne, and others of their official contemporaries—wore the long breeches which were buttoned at the ankles, that were just at that time becoming the vogue, with long stocks for neck-wear, high beaver hats, and double-breasted, full-skirted coats.

“I have heard,” said Pierre, “that Amélie is contemplating entering the Convent of the Ursulines. Is it true?”

De Moulin laughed wickedly.

“If you notice,” he remarked, “ze ladiz turn to God when ze dev’l won’ hay’ nozzin’ moah to do wiz dem—dat is, speak’n’ gen’rallee ...” he amended, hastily.

Jean laughed.

“Don’t defame the fair sex so, François,” said he, “for if men loved God as much as they love women—as Pascal says—men would be saints!”

“Without love,” said Pierre, sagely, “it would be sad to be a man....”

“From which I am to infer,” responded his brother, “that you are in that tortured state? Who is it this time?”

Pierre sighed heavily.

“You may jest about it, little brother, but wait—just wait—until the germ bites you! I should like to see that day....”

“The holy saints forfend!” exclaimed Jean, with mock piety.

“Of co’se Pierre eez in love!” cried De Moulin. “An’ so am I—an’ oweh fr’en’s heah, too.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jean.

“There gan be bud won,” went on the Creole.

“Who?” with perplexity.

“La belle Américaine!”

“A nymph—a fairy!” cried Pierre. “I had forgotten that you but just came to town, Jean. Forgive me. She is a stranger—an American—and she is ravishing—divine!”

“Heh nem is Virginia Grymes,” contributed one of the others.

“Grymes?” asked Jean. “Could it be—”

“Mais oui, mon frère! It is the only daughter of our good friend Grymes, the district attorney. It is said that she left a trail of broken hearts in Philadelphia and Richmond. Sacré diable! One can well believe it! She was the belle of the Assembly Ball in the Quaker City when she made her début there.”

“Ah, Pierre,” said Jean, “I see you’ve been up to your old tricks. Has she refused you, yet?”

“Only twice,” returned his brother, coolly, “but there is yet time. Women like brave men, but audacious ones still more. I shall keep on trying. However, I advise you to watch yourself well, mon frère, for if she ever directs the battery of her eyes at you your poor heart will capitulate at once. She is not the usual type of girl one meets, Jean. Somehow she is different, fresher, a typical American, a Virginia rose!”

Jean looked amused. No woman had ever interested him like that. And he told himself that no woman ever would. He had much to learn!

“Whatever she is,” he remarked, dryly, “I see that she has no lack of supporters. But you need have no cause for anxiety.... What’s that, gentlemen?”

With one accord the group turned their eyes in the direction of his glance. There, a few hundred yards up the street, was tearing a large open carriage, of the type known as barouche, drawn by two magnificent black horses. Their eyes flamed, their teeth were bared between slavering jaws, and their clattering hoofs struck sparks from the old cobblestones.

As the careening equipage bore down on them the crowd scattered left and right, upsetting one another in their eagerness to escape from the path of the oncoming steeds, to whose fright they added materially by their excited cries and calls.

On second glance one saw that the box was empty. Almost two blocks behind the carriage ran a coachman in livery, his black face almost livid with fear, shouting to the horses and brandishing his useless whip.

The woman, or rather, girl, who was in the carriage, made no outcry, but gripped the arm of her seat, her face white and tense, lips parted, eyes wide.

Less than a block away, at the foot of the street, was the levee, beyond which sparkled the waters of the Mississippi. It was straight for this that the maddened runaways were thundering, straight to destruction.

The street was in an uproar. In the whole crowd of sailors, soldiers, merchants, laborers, loafers, and negroes, not one man had the presence of mind to do something to stop their spectacular flight—except one.

Suddenly, as if he had sprung up from the very earth, there appeared a man standing in the middle of the street ... standing in the path of the oncoming runaways bearing down upon him with the speed of a veritable Juggernaut. The crowd for an instant ceased its cries, awaiting the further action of this rash man.

The runaways were about fifteen yards from him when the man, pistol in hand, aimed at the nearest horse.

That brief moment before he fired seemed an age to the onlookers. Just as the horses were upon him he nimbly jumped aside. With a scream that sounded almost human, the off horse fell dead in its tracks, a bullet in his head. The other came to an abrupt halt.

In the meantime the man had not been idle. As the horses lurched past him, he sprang to the carriage just in time to grasp its occupant in his arms as she fell forward from the jar of the sudden halt. So nicely was this maneuver timed that she hardly felt the shock and was lightly swung into the street.

The crowd, cheering, surged tumultuously about them, leaving them inclosed in a little space by the carriage steps.

Jean Lafitte stared at the girl he had rescued, and, unconsciously dropped his jaw in amazement. For the first time in his life he felt disconcerted, bewildered, unsure of himself. His mind was in a tumult. Never before, he thought, had he seen such a beautiful girl.

Nut-brown hair, dark, curly and now a mass of riotous disorder, hung about her shoulders, framing a piquant, highbred face of a delightful olive complexion, which was heightened by a soft rosy glow. Her eyes, veiled by long silky lashes, topped with exquisitely arched eyebrows, were of an indescribable greenish-gray-brown color, the emerald note predominating, perhaps. At the moment, in his subconscious mind, Jean was trying to solve that all-important question, but their color was so changeable that he felt himself baffled. Before he had time to complete his mental inventory of her charms, however, he was brought back to the prosaic realities of life by the sound of her voice.

Low, mellow, well modulated, it enchanted him as much as had her finely cut face and slim, graceful, perfectly proportioned figure. As she spoke he forced himself to listen.

“I cannot fully express, sir, my gratitude to you for your brave act. It was wonderful!” Her eyes glowed, and her girlish bosom could be seen to rise and fall from the excitement engendered by that wild ride.

“Scipio, the coachman, left the box for a few minutes, and our poor horses took fright at something. In a moment they had bolted on that terrible, thrilling ride! It was glorious!”

Jean mentally reared back on his heels. Here was a bit of femininity altogether different from the languishing, insipid ladies of his acquaintance.

“Glorious!” he gasped.

“Of course! It was wonderful!” she cried, not noticing the look on his face. “Only, I’m sorry my poor horses caused you any inconvenience.”

“Wonderful!” “Inconvenience!” Jean stared.

“Do you realize, mademoiselle,” he said, stiffly, “that you might have been seriously injured—killed—or perhaps drowned?”

“Drowned?” she repeated, with a bewildered look. An old sailor, one of the bystanders, now chimed in.

“Mon Dieu! De black devils were headed straight for dat wharf, down dere. If it hadn’t been for monsieur le capitaine....” His voice trailed off vaguely into nothingness, as if the words he left unsaid were too terrible for contemplation, much less speech.

Her terrified eyes followed his finger. She shuddered. Then, as suddenly as before, she resumed her former attitude. Her voice was abjectly apologetic.

“How ungrateful I have acted! Pray forgive me, sir ... er ... Captain?” she begged, archly contrite.

The bow that monsieur le capitaine made was worthy of a Brummel. It set her to thinking. Indeed, he presented a figure that any maiden would not disdain to admire, and this one was not false to her sex.

For the first time she critically took note of his firm mouth, square chin, domineering arched nose, broad brow, fine eyes and graceful figure, and was at once favorably impressed. She also suddenly noticed the obvious respect accorded him by the bystanders, a fact worthy of investigation in itself. She at once burned to know his identity.

“I realize now, sir,” she went on, “what a debt I owe you, and shall never forget it. If you would do me the honor of calling, sir, my father would take pleasure in adding his thanks to mine. Perhaps you know him. I—I am Virginia Grymes,” she ended.

So this was the new beauty—the rage of Creole society! He might have known it, he thought, vexed.

“And I—I am Jean Lafitte,” he answered, with a studied carelessness. Though he scarcely knew why, he waited for her next words eagerly. There was a momentary pause as the significance of that well-known name sank into her consciousness.

“Not—not—the Jean Lafitte,” she faltered, and then could have bitten off her tongue.

He stiffened, and a curious dignity was apparent in his reply.

“I believe I have that honor,” he said, dryly, as he mentally wondered at the repugnance manifest in her tone, which he could not understand.

She hesitated for the briefest timable space, and in her answer Jean recognized her as the thoroughbred and gentlewoman that she was, notwithstanding the fact that she obviously had cause to dislike his name.

“Both my father and I would be delighted to have you call at your earliest convenience,” she said, graciously, if somewhat stiltedly.

At this moment Pierre Lafitte, accompanied by his friends, reached them, having fought his way with difficulty through the dense crowd.

“My dear Mademoiselle Grymes,” he cried, bowing, “how strange that this should have happened! And that it should have been my brother who had the pleasure of serving you! The lucky dog!”

“Your brother!” she exclaimed, strangely moved.

“But certainly! Que je suis bête! I have forgotten that you do not know him. How awkward of me! Allow me to introduce, mademoiselle,” said Pierre, turning, “my only brother, M’sieu Jean Lafitte.” He stopped suddenly, embarrassed and surprised.

Jean Lafitte had disappeared.

And not ten feet away, in the thick of the throng, Manuel Espinosa studied the little tableau with his insolent eyes. He had seen Lafitte unobtrusively slip away, but his intent glance had not followed him. It was fixed on Virginia Grymes, and it was not pleasant to see. At that moment his eyes were those of a primitive beast....

II

Margaret Claiborne frowned.

“Yes, I’ll admit that he’s brave, Jinny, and all of that, but I wouldn’t cultivate him.”

“But he seemed very nice. And really, honey, I almost insulted him. When he told me his name, I exclaimed, like a perfect little fool—‘not the Jean Lafitte!’—and it sounded terrible, my dear! But I didn’t know that he was really a gentleman ... and such a handsome one ... before to-day. You see, in your letters to me you mentioned him occasionally, and called him a pirate. And then, his name is also known back home, too. They call him the Buccaneer of Barataria—that is, the newspapers do, and lots of other horrid names; so—so I naturally came to think of him as being a picturesque old pirate, with black whiskers—with a red handkerchief on his head, and pistols, and everything, and I was astonished, you may be sure, when that handsomely dressed gentleman coolly said his name was Jean Lafitte. What does it mean, Margie?”

“Simply this. This Lafitte person, although a pirate, is a rather prominent society man in New Orleans.”

“No!” Miss Grymes was shocked or surprised. Perhaps both—perhaps neither.

“Yes, it’s a fact. Strange as it may seem, the very best people here—the Creoles—who are, you know, Virgie, descended from some of the oldest and proudest families in France—welcome him and his brother in society as if he were one of themselves.”

“That reminds me! I just learned that that fascinating Mr. Lafitte I met at the Lavalayé dinner last night is his brother. He saw his brother, the pirate—rescue me—that is, stop the horses, to-day, and wanted to introduce me formally to him, but he had disappeared.”

“Yes, Pierre is rather nice. But his brother is impossible.”

“But why, Margie? They are both in the same trade, aren’t they? And I really think Jean—Mr. Lafitte—is much better-looking than his brother. He has such fine eyes!”

Margaret Claiborne flushed suspiciously, but Virginia forgot it at her next words:

“I thought so once, too, Virgie, but let me tell you why I say he is impossible. If it were only his occupation, I wouldn’t mind it so much, for everyone in New Orleans is his friend—everyone worth knowing. But—he is a murderer!”

Virginia Grymes gasped, her delicately chiseled lips parting in surprise and disclosing a row of pearls, apparently.

“A—a—murderer!”

“Yes. It is said that he killed a man—another pirate—shot him in cold blood!”

“Here in New Orleans?”

“No; at their rendezvous at a little island in Barataria Bay, about fifty miles from here.”

“That handsome—er—nice-looking young man, shot—killed a man?” asked Virginia incredulously.

“Yes,” reiterated her friend.

“But why?”

Margaret Claiborne unconsciously lowered her voice.

Virginia leaned forward.

“Over—a woman! A negro slave girl!”

Virginia gasped, and suddenly felt faint. A feeling of intense disgust—of loathing, pervaded her.

“How do you know?” she questioned, breathlessly. After all, she should not condemn him unheard. He had saved her life. And he did have such fine eyes!

Margaret leaned back in her chair.

“My father told me,” she replied, simply, as if stating an incontrovertible fact. “He ought to know, oughtn’t he?”

Virginia nodded dumbly, her eyes on the floor, her mind awhirl.

Yes, Margaret’s father ought to know. Who should, if not William C. C. Claiborne?

He was the Governor of Louisiana.

Chapter the Eighth:

How His Excellency the Governor, Issues a Proclamation

I

Ten years had passed since that ill-fated visit of the Lafittes to the Isle of Mauritius, but the dramatic scene enacted there had been indelibly stamped on the mind of the younger. As Pierre Dominique, wise philosopher that he was, had said, Jean’s passion for the hapless Lizette Fondac had been a mere infatuation—a passing fancy—which, like most emotions of its kind, would have dissolved into nothingness in the course of time.

If Lizette had not died as she had, and so changed the entire current of Jean’s life, Lafitte, perhaps, youthful and impressionable that he was, would have in time fallen out of love with her as quickly as he had tumbled into that amorous state. For such is the immutable law of youth. On the other hand, however, it is not improbable to assume that Jean, being his own inexplicable self, might also have stayed in love—married her—and this chapter in American history might never have materialized.

But Lizette was ordained by an inscrutable Fate to die, and, dying, to be the instrument that influenced his whole future, not to mention the lives of countless others.

He had enshrined this French fisher-maiden in his heart, in the firm belief that he would never love again. Years had passed since the birth of that resolution and he had not yet broken it ... which was an even stranger thing.

The Lizette incident, however, had served its purpose in the great scheme of things. Because of the memory of her, during his short but exciting career of piracy in the Caribbean, he had never harmed a woman prisoner, nor so much as allowed his men to do so; treating them as courteously as place and policy would permit. Men would grumble and men would jeer, but in the end they came to respect his whim, for they could not help but recognize his prowess.

Of course, in a certain sense, he was not much better than the average run of the scavengers of the high seas. It was not consistent with his nature that he should be a celibate. But although he had the vices of his calling, as well as of any other, for that matter, his taste was a fastidious one, and his few amorous adventures were well worth relating, if only for their romantic value. But these had been born of passion, not love; or at least not the love that he imagined he had possessed for Lizette.

Those ten years were a curious chapter in his life ... a period of moods ... of inhibitions ... the metamorphosis of the youthful mind.

Unconsciously, however, the image of Lizette faded—faded and became a dream of the dead past. At first he had his moments of brooding in the still watches of the night, leaning on the taffrail, perhaps, staring moodily on the moonlit waters of the phosphorescent sea, which, rolling, ever rolling, washed against the sides of his ship, aflame with ruffled incandescence.

But after his reunion with his brother, all this changed.

Once established in New Orleans, with abundant means and plentiful leisure, he found himself plunged into a whirl of gayety—Creole balls and Creole society. Gallant figures and gentlemen of leisure, the Lafittes were invited everywhere, and many were the sparkling eyes that turned in admiration on the two. Pierre Dominique immediately accepted the many challenges and soon became the most flirtatious of all the Creole beaus, but Jean did not yield so easily.

In an incredibly short time Jean Lafitte became a poseur, wearing an unconsciously assumed mask, behind which he withdrew himself as a protection against sentiment and behind which he dreamed great dreams and planned great plans.

And now, at last, his schemes were bearing fruit, his ambition well on the road to fulfillment.

Before that memorable year of 1811 was over, Barataria Bay, the headquarters of the pirates of the Gulf, had established such a reputation for itself in Southern trade that even the national government was forced to officially recognize its importance as a factor to be coped with in handling the commercial situation of that day. The name of Jean Lafitte stood out in red letters upon the economic and political ledgers of not a few traders in Southern cotton states and the Mississippi Valley region.

Lafitte had indeed attained his ambition. After only three years in the United States, he, together with the efficient aid of Pierre Dominique, had brought the smuggling profession to such a point that legitimate commerce in the great seaport of New Orleans had almost vanished and the United States customs in Louisiana, never very popular with the Creoles, was practically a farce.

Since his arrival at Grande Terre, when he had taken charge of the pirate colony, the settlement had become as if reborn.

Many large wharfs, warehouses, slave stockades, and houses had been erected, and were overflowing. The bay swarmed with every type of vessel, from almost every nation on the globe. The wharves teemed with sweating slaves and stevedores who busily unloaded the contraband cargoes, both human and otherwise, the former transferred to the log stockades, where they were kept until sold at the auction block and thence transported to the plantations of the interior, often by way of New Orleans, through which they went duty free.

Of the booty other than “black ivory,” the Baratarians had their share. This, when brought to Grande Terre, was placed in long, low, closely-guarded warehouses, to be disposed of at the whim or will of the “bosse.” And of this there was not a little. Jewels, silks, gold, arms, ammunition, rare wines, fine clothes—valuables of all kinds, including a heterogeneous collection of luxuries and necessities, were all there and it is little wonder that the pirates lived a life of riotous luxury and wild carousal.

What was not used by the buccaneers was disposed of by many devious ways. Part was smuggled to New Orleans and there turned over to dishonest shopkeepers, who sold it at a large profit. As the large variety of articles daily pouring into their possession demanded to be sold by the same number of dealers, the Lafittes reaped a double profit by charging dealers for the privilege of handling their goods. This fee the dealers paid willingly enough, for they could buy goods from the Baratarians at one-third the price they would have had to pay legitimate wholesale houses.

But the unheard-of prosperity of the smugglers, or “privateers,” began to have another effect on the situation. The shipping of New Orleans and neighboring trade centers had become seriously impaired, for sea captains and planters soon got in the habit of going to Grande Terre to buy their slaves and supplies at bargain prices that could not be obtained in New Orleans.

It was not long before Grande Terre changed from a mere pirates’ rendezvous to a feverish trade center. Traders came from all parts of the South to do business at Barataria. At this period, according to an official statement, four hundred slaves were sold at the auction block there, daily.

New Orleans felt this competition, but nothing could be done to remedy it. The business of the banks decreased because of lack of deposits, owing to the absence of trade in the legitimate trade centers.

But at Barataria all was liveliness. So defiant of the law did the Baratarians become that the streets of New Orleans were placarded with handbills announcing the daily auction sales at Grand Terre, and the daring “privateers” even had the effrontery to post them alongside the Governor’s proclamations, which offered rewards for their arrest and conviction.

Jean and his followers still visited New Orleans.

Surrounded by groups of admirers, the Baratarians swaggered through the busy waterfront and business streets and fairly overran the Place d’Armes. Every dive and grog-shop on Canal Street welcomed them with open arms, willingly took their money, and resounded to the loud recital of their exploits.

The Lafittes had the entrée to the most conservative of Creole homes, attended balls, fêtes, dinners, and other social events galore. They were social lions.

And now, in New Orleans, at the close of these ten years of transition from mental adolescence to spiritual manhood, Jean was beginning to realize that he had never loved Lizette Fondac, that, after all, his brother had been right.

But it had not been his brother who had brought home to him this realization. It had taken a beautiful girl to bring him to his senses ... a girl whom he hardly knew and had met but once. A vision in silk and crinoline who thought it was “wonderful” to flirt with death....

A new star had appeared on his horizon.

II

“Oh, father, I’ve had the most curious adventure!”

John R. Grymes, district attorney of New Orleans and parent of its present reigning toast, looked up from his work and enthusiastically returned Virginia’s caress.

“Really, Jinny?” he asked, carefully sanding a letter. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

Virginia pouted adorably.

“Oh, not that kind, father. You’d never guess it in a coon’s age. It was like this: I was just returning from Margaret’s, and stopped in to see old Madame Leroux about that heavenly gown she’s making for me. You should see it, father, with its lace—”

“Yes—yes—I’m sure it’s very pretty, honey, and no doubt I’ll soon get a pretty bill for it. But you said something about an adventure?”

“Well, father, just as I was leaving and had entered the carriage, one of those horrid old sailors passed by—he looked like a pirate—and he was singing and shouting, and poor Molly and Billy got frightened and ran away.”

Her father straightened abruptly.

“And where was Scipio?” he demanded.

“Scipio had not yet mounted the box, father, so—”

“I’ll whip that black scoundrel within an inch—”

“No, you won’t father. It wasn’t really his fault. Anyway, they ran away and went through the whole city, I suppose, before we stopped. We had come all the way from the Rue Des Ursulines down to one of those dirty waterfront streets, and I was almost scared to death, when a man stepped out of the crowd, right in front of Billy and Molly, and—shot Billy!”

Grymes looked worried.

“Was that necessary, do you think, Jinny?”

Her eyes clouded.

“He saved my life, father. The horses were heading straight for the wharf, and an old sailor said that if Captain Lafitte hadn’t stopped them we’d have all—” At this point she could not help sobbing. John Grymes felt a lump rise in his throat at the thought of the danger in which his only child had been.

“Who did you say the man was, honey? Captain—who?”

“Lafitte!”

“Good God! Not Jean Lafitte?”

Her adorable little mouth tightened.

“Yes, and I wish that it were anyone else in the world but he!”

“Why, child?” astonished at her vehemence.

“Because he’s a pirate—a low sailor—a smuggler.”

“Why, Jinny, who in the world told you all that?”

“Then he isn’t?”

The district attorney looked rather uncomfortable.

“Well, some people might call it that. Perhaps the Lafittes do engage in questionable practices. But then there are few of our citizens who aren’t connected with it in the same way. You have a wrong impression of Mr. Lafitte, honey. He is one of the most popular men in New Orleans—moves in the best circles, and is well liked by everybody. Really, Jinny—”

“But, father, he’s a—murderer.”

“Who told you that?” was the emphatic query.

“Margaret Claiborne. She says that he killed a man—shot him, just because he wouldn’t do what he told him.”

She did not mention the negro slave girl. Young ladies of her day would have died before mentioning such an affair to a man—even to a father....

“That’s all nonsense!”

“No, it’s not! Her father, His Excellency, says the same thing, so she says. And, father, during the last eight years I’ve been going to Miss Borden’s school in Philadelphia, with Margaret, I’ve never known her to—exaggerate.”

“Of course not! But she herself may be mistaken. Don’t you know, Jinny, that Governor Claiborne is the worst enemy the Lafittes have. It’s very natural that he should tell Margaret so. Don’t you worry, honey, Jean Lafitte is a perfect gentleman, no matter what his occupation, and so is his brother.”

“Yes, his brother is very nice. I met him at the Lavalayé dinner last evening, and he was very attentive to me. But I couldn’t very well be rude to him, could I, father?”

He smiled.

“No, not very well. Nor to his brother, either. Especially after he has done you the service of saving your life.”

She colored.

“Well, he acted nicely, and I appreciated it. But still, I can’t help thinking that he is a pirate.”

“Well, forget it, honey. And take everything Margaret tells you about the Lafittes with a grain of salt, because it’s her father’s ideas that she expresses. Now run along, like a good little girl, and let father finish his letter.”

Pouting prettily, she kissed him again, and left him to his own devices.

III

It was a week later.

Virginia Grymes had just returned home from a dance to find her father, as usual, in the library. On the table in front of his armchair were many empty wine glasses and a few broken card counters. He was playing a game of solitaire, but it was very evident that he had been playing at cards with a gathering of friends.

Virginia looked at the card-littered, wet table disapprovingly.

“You’ve been gambling again, father,” she said, accusingly, “and after you promised me!”

The district attorney flushed.

“There, there, Jinny! Just a little game between friends. But I have some news for you. Lafitte has been here.”

“To see me?” eagerly.

“No, honey, on business. But there is more news, if you care to hear it.”

“What is it, father?” She sat on the arm of his chair, playfully rumpling his hair.

“It’s more of a joke, I think. Your friend, the Governor, sent a revenue cutter yesterday—that is, he got Washington to send one—to Barataria Bay, with the purpose of destroying the colony of Grande Terre. But it turned out to be a farce. The pompous fool ought to have known that the smugglers have spies everywhere. Why, they knew the government vessel was coming before it had left the harbor.”

Virginia was immediately all interest.

“So what happened?”

“Well, when Captain Lloyd and his crew arrived at Grande Terre, the smugglers, or pirates—whichever you prefer—simply laughed at them. Not only that, but they politely asked them to come ashore and offered them cognac and champagne. Think of it—cognac and champagne, when they came with the intention of capturing the whole place! Anyway, they were forced to return, empty-handed, having been warned by the Baratarians not to return.” He paused to chuckle. “I think it’s the best joke I’ve heard in a long time. All New Orleans is talking about it, and laughing at Claiborne up their sleeves. He should have known that it would take more than one ship and one crew of customs officers to attack hundreds of desperate, well-armed men who take pleasure in defying the law. But not only that, it is said that even the government agents are in partnership with the smugglers. It is really hard to tell who isn’t, nowadays.”

Virginia looked thoughtful.

“Still, father, I hardly think the Governor was unprepared for this. He must be shrewd enough to think of some other plan, if that failed; or he wouldn’t be the Governor of Louisiana.”

Grymes only laughed in answer.

Virginia’s suspicions were proved well founded the next day, however, for the citizens of New Orleans found a new proclamation posted about the city.

This was to the effect that His Excellency denounced the Baratarians as pirates and cautioned the residents of the state to have intercourse with them in no way whatsoever. He moreover threatened dire penalties for those who would disobey this decree, together with any Baratarian who might fall into his hands.

However, to the secret joy of the majority of the inhabitants, notably the Creoles, with whom the United States government was at the time extremely unpopular, the Baratarians heeded the gubernatorial threats no more than if they had never been published. Frightened? Not they, mes amis!

On the contrary, the Lafittes, exquisitely dressed, chatted with the prominent merchants and bankers on street corners and in the cafés; they patronized charities and public entertainments more than ever, were still prominent figures at the social functions of New Orleans society—and continued to post their notices of slave auctions, right beside the Governor’s proclamation!

By this time the worthy Claiborne became desperate. It was not long before a second manifesto appeared, offering five hundred dollars reward for the arrest of either of the Lafittes.

It was then that matters came to a head.

Chapter the Ninth:

In Which His Excellency Proposes; the Legislature Disposes; and Pierre Dominique Becomes the Guest of the State

I

It was now early December, and the social season of the Creoles’ Petit Paris was at its height. Indeed, everything conspired to make that year the most eventful, socially speaking, of any that had gone before it, unless one excepts the equally notable season when that most fascinating person, Mr. Aaron Burr, had been the guest of honor at a hundred fêtes.

But this season had indeed opened auspiciously and many were the matchmaking Creole mammas who planned for their daughters intricate campaigns of offense and defense, with all the skill and finesse of seasoned generals, against all and sundry eligible bachelors. And equally numerous were the aforesaid eligible gallants, out for conquests and wary for possible matrimonial traps.

When the new political régime had first been entered upon there had been a rather abrupt cessation of social happenings of any brilliance, but when the Creoles—which appellation, by the way, is correctly used only when speaking of American-born persons of full and unmixed European ancestry, without any admixture of Indian or of negro blood—when the Creoles gradually began to admit the disliked Américains to their exclusive social circles, the social activities of New Orleans began to take on a new impetus. It was not long before locality distinctions began to fade. Governor Claiborne, himself, had done much to destroy these distinctions by marrying two separate times into Creole families.

To add to the brilliance of this present season, the Legislature of the state of Louisiana was holding its yearly session in New Orleans, and the presence of its members, who were representative of the most prominent and cultured families in the state, helped to add to the general social gayety. In most cases their families had accompanied them from their respective districts, primarily to take part in the annual social whirl.

This was the New Orleans of old—the real New Orleans. A city essentially French in customs and breeding, European in culture and social atmosphere. Louisiana, like its sister states of the South, with its representative population descended directly from the European upper classes, was really European in its outlook upon everything—on world affairs, in its literature, in its fashions. As Virginians were in the main of Cavalier stock, so Louisianians were remnants of the ancien régime of France. Individually and collectively did these Southern States represent the cream of American aristocracy and culture.

And these gentlemen of the State Legislature, in turn, were representative of the best families in the state, living examples of the real definition of “Creole”; wealthy, cultured, haughty; true “blue-bloods” ... persons truly to the manner born.

These were the friends and compeers of the Lafittes.

And on this eventful December day these were the men who sat in the legislative chamber when Governor Claiborne delivered his notable address.

William Claiborne, clean-shaven, hawk-nosed, and with an air that seemed to challenge the world at large, was on the speaker’s rostrum, addressing the silent assemblage. It was very seldom indeed that the Governor of Louisiana addressed in person either house of the Legislature, and not a few of the members thereof felt surprise to see him there.

After the rather unnecessary formal introduction by the Speaker, His Excellency plunged directly into his subject. That it was of importance was attested by the close attention paid his discourse by every member of that dignified body.

The great room, stately in its proportions and blazing with the light of many lamps, provided a picturesque setting. Not a sound was to be heard except the voice of the speaker, rising, falling, clear, lucid, and coldly concise, and with an undercurrent of righteous indignation:

“And, gentlemen,” His Excellency was saying as he harangued them, “it behooves us, as the official guardians of the welfare of this great state and territory, to see that the citizens who placed us in office—in this position of honor and trust that we occupy—should be served, and served to the best of our ability.

“Obviously, gentlemen, it is our duty to unselfishly sacrifice both ourselves and our personal interests for the best interests of the people as a whole—our constituency. And in this particular case I say that, as Governor of Louisiana, in my official capacity and as a conscientious citizen, I honestly believe that the wisest, the most logical thing to do is to wipe out this atrocious practice of smuggling, this unparalleled menace to the commonwealth!” He glanced pugnaciously over to that part of the room known as the “Left,” where sat the acknowledged supporters of the privateers.

“This practice has enriched the worst element of our population. In innumerable instances it has debauched magistrates and police officers!” There was a well-defined stir in the assemblage.

“It is a stigma upon the state and an infringement upon the rights of our legitimate merchants! Obnoxious to the prosperity of every honest citizen....

“As you all know, business in shipping circles of this city of New Orleans is practically at a standstill. Legitimate commerce has been crippled. The very prosperity of the entire Mississippi Valley is at stake. Not only that, but the United States customs in New Orleans is practically a farce!

“I prophesy, gentlemen, that if stringent steps are not immediately taken to put a stop to this rank piracy, this flagrant public lawbreaking, the honor and safety of our fair state will be so far jeopardized as to cause the national authorities to step in, perhaps use martial law! Think of the disgrace of such a proceeding!”

His Excellency paused a moment to mop his perspiring forehead, his auditors still attentive, but impassive as stone images. He went on:

“But you gentlemen of this honorable assembly know the details of these various crimes as well as I, so I will no longer take up your time. It is necessary to act at once. That is why I have come here. And I shall speak plainly.

“I hereby request that an appropriation be made by the Legislature of Louisiana, by the use of which a force of armed men may be collected and properly provided for. With these I propose to break up this unspeakable buccaneering business. Gentlemen, I ask you for funds to destroy that pirates’ nest infesting the bay of Barataria, that we may vindicate the honor of Louisiana. Gentlemen, the welfare of the state is in your hands!”

Two hours later, at the gubernatorial mansion, Claiborne received his reply from the Legislature. It was as brief and to the point as his address.

The members of the Legislature begged to inform His Excellency that there were no funds available, at present, for the purpose he required.

The cautious legislators had declined to take action, partly for the reason that they were unwilling to interfere with an enterprise that, illegitimate or not, was unquestionably developing the resources of lower Louisiana and incidentally was enriching their constituents; and, partly, because many of them, themselves, were connected with the Baratarians in various ways.

But the Governor could not know this, nor appreciate it if he did. In any event, the refusal in no whit served to abate His Excellency’s choler. Claiborne stared at the reply for a long while and then turned to his secretary, a pimply-faced youth with a nascent mustache, who sat at a small desk, paring his finger nails, his face apparently a vacuous blank.

“Milford!” he called, imperiously.

Milford suddenly came to life.

“Yes, Your Excellency!”

“Those damned idiots down in the Legislature have refused me the appropriation!”

“Really, Your Excellency!”

“Those driveling dolts! ... those demented fools! ... those smuggling dogs! They’re smugglers, every one of them, I can swear, Milford!”

“Quite so, Your Excellency.” Milford surreptitiously studied his thumb nail. It was a bit ragged, he thought.

“Damn you!” cried Claiborne. “Shut up!”

Milford cleared his throat uneasily, but his master had already forgotten him.

“No doubt they’re every one of them in the pay of that damned Lafitte!” fussed the Governor.

Milford nodded assent, owlishly.

“Was ever man so ill served before—was ever an Executive so ignored?”

Milford, however, was imperturbable. He did not say so, but he could not see where it was a Legislature’s duty to serve its governor, although he wisely refrained from expressing his opinion. It is the better part of discretion to keep such opinions to oneself, when one has to earn one’s bread and butter, and especially when one hopelessly loves one’s master’s daughter. At thought of the blond, ascetic-looking Margaret Claiborne he gulped.

Finally the Governor quieted down and stared again at the fatal letter from the Legislature, thinking deeply in the interval.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet.

Milford also jumped, although he was already on his feet.

“Milford,” he commanded, “send for Judge Cabell at once—at once, do you hear? But wait, I have a note to send to the courthouse. Wait a moment until I write it.”

Milford gulped and then glanced at his thumbnail.

It was still a bit ragged.

II

Pierre Dominique, his eyes moodily fixed on the glistening shoulders of his dusky blacksmith’s as they busily moved around in the firelight, swung his sword-cane idly. Apparently all was not well with Pierre. The truth was that Virginia Grymes, the evening before, had refused his proffered heart and hand.

François de Moulin, true friend that he was, sympathetically commiserated with him.

“Don’ worree, mon ami, zere are many ozzer demoiselles who weel nod repulse Pierre. Try you’ luck wiz Gabrielle, or Céleste Angélique.” He gracefully twisted the ends of his mustache, eying Pierre mischievously. Lafitte, catching the look, reddened.

“What do you know about—Angélique?” he demanded.

De Moulin laughed and clapped him on the back.

“Comme c’est drole! I know all, mon galant, all! Abou’ ze flow’rs, an’ billets, an’ zat histo’ical serenade und’—”

“Shut up!”

“—ze balc’ny. An’ how all change’ when la belle Virginia come—”

Pierre shrugged his shoulders in exasperation.

“If Angélique had not grown so stout—so fleshy; but what can a man do? One can’t be expected to bind one’s affections fast to one woman all the time. That were to make love as irksome as marriage! And, as the poet says, ‘Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis’!”

The Creole made a grimace.

“A plague on you’ Latin! Why drag in a poet? Ventre-saint-gris! How een-consist’nt eez man! Heah you say zat love eez as irksome as marriage. And a moment ago you were on ze verge of despair becoz la belle Virginia refuse’ you! An’ eet ees betteh so. You do nod love heh, Pierre. Fah from eet. You are een love wiz ze game of love! You, oldeh zan Jean, are nod as wise as he. You know w’at I b’lieve, Pierre? I b’lieve zat la belle Virginia loves M’sieu Jean! Voilà!”

Pierre stared at him with open disbelief.

“Jean? You are mad, François, stark, staring mad! Why, she dislikes him—nay, hates him. I cannot help but see it.”

De Moulin laughed.

“Ah, Pierre, you ’ave much to learn. When a woman show hate foah a man—show scorn—she eez interest’ in him. When she ees indifferent—dame! Zat is an altogezzer different mattaire. She never can love him—unless her indifference melts. Bud woman ees as changeable as ze weazzer. No, I shall enlighten you no furzzer. I geev you ze petit pois to plant—ze little idea. Eet may grow—but, le bon Dieu! ... what have we here?”

As he spoke, a constable, accompanied by a file of soldiers, entered the smithy. Without parley, he advanced toward Pierre.

“Mister Peer Lafitte?” he asked.

Pierre nodded dumbly.

“I’m sory, sor, but yez’ll have to come with me.”

“I presume you are arresting me?” asked Pierre, in surprise.

“That I am, sor,” replied the constable.

“But why have you arrested M’sieu Lafitte?” demanded the Creole authoritatively of the constable. “What eez ze charge?”

The constable touched his cap and displayed a warrant. De Moulin read it attentively.

“What is it for?” asked Pierre.

De Moulin looked at him in exasperation.

“Eet ees—you are accused of being an accessaree to piracy!”

Pierre Dominique considered for a moment. They looked at each other.

“Let us go, then, and get the particulars.”

“And I will go your bail!” cried François, gayly slipping his arm through Pierre’s. “Allons, mes gendarmes, à la calabosa!”

And so, arm in arm, to the city prison, known by the euphonious title of the “calaboose,” they marched, accompanied by the constable and his deputies.

At the station-house, however, they met with an unexpected difficulty.

The charges against Pierre, it seemed, were only as an accessory to piracy, but when the Creole asked to be told the amount of bail necessary to temporarily release Pierre from custody the police captain gave them a disconcerting reply.

“By order of His Excellency the Governor himself,” he said, “the prisoner must remain in custody until the day of trial and is allowed no bail whatsoever.”

At this they were both taken back. De Moulin was furious.

“W’at you mean by zat?” he cried, “zat eez not law! I will give any amount you say!”

Smiling, the police captain informed him somewhat lengthily as to the intricacies of the law, but the Creole refused to listen. Imbued with hatred as he and his class were against the new government, this example of their tyranny, as he deemed it, only incensed him the more.