PROLOGUE

Chapter the First:

Wherein Lizette Fondac Makes a Great Sacrifice and One Jean Lafitte Makes a Momentous Decision

I

“But, Jean, mon frère, this is not your quarrel! ’Tis folly to fight this man—madness! Mon Dieu! I’m sure this Brouillard meant no offense. No doubt he was well in his cups.”

His companion turned on him with sudden fury.

“Enough, Pierre, enough! I am no longer a child to be told what to do! I love Lizette, and this is my affair—mine alone. You should be the last to interfere—you!”

Pierre Dominique Lafitte smiled deprecatingly at his younger brother; this fair-skinned, handsome youth with the coal-black eyes of their long-dead mother, and the uncertain personality of an uncountable line of temperamental ancestors, that was as surely his heritage.

“Jean,” said Pierre, patiently, “you are but a hot-headed youth, with all the foibles and fancies of youth. I tell you that Brouillard but jested....”

“Jested? Sacré nom de Dieu! When he named her ‘fille de joie’?... When he dared—dared—call my Lizette a courtesan? A sorry jest ’twill be for him—a bitter jest! By all the devils of Satan he shall—”

Pierre Lafitte shook his head sadly, angrily. He had all along mistrusted this affair. On the very first day of their visit to this sunny island of Mauritius, when Jean had encountered Lizette Fondac, the fisherman’s daughter, and as promptly fell in love with her, he had had disquieting fears. Hitherto, he knew, his impetuous yet well-poised brother had rather shied away from the fateful sex. Being experienced, he would have intervened in this affair, but had refrained, fearful of precipitating matters.

Of course Lizette was beautiful. Too beautiful, he thought, musing on her delicate patrician features and shapely hands and feet. Without doubt she possessed good blood—Brouillard had hinted at that—and it was reasonable to believe that morose old Fondac was not even her father. Even he, Pierre, the bon vivant, to whom beautiful women were no novelty, had been momentarily intrigued by her unusual beauty and unsophisticated charm, but he was too sensible—so he told himself—to lose his head over a mere chit of a girl, a fisherman’s wench. That Jean had done so was to be deplored; yet he was young, inexperienced—and obstinate.

Pierre sighed a blasé, sophisticated sigh.

“This Brouillard, Jean—do you know that he is an excellent shot? And, since you are the challenger, it is most likely that he will choose pistols rather than steel—more’s the pity! I tell you frankly, garçon, I have no great liking for this business. There are too many pretty women in the world, as it is, to risk losing your temper, and mayhap your life. Think, first. You are neither the legal guardian, nor yet the betrothed, of this girl. It is not your quarrel.”

Jean shrugged his shoulders impatiently ... nervously.

“It matters not, Pierre. I will fight him—and kill him.”

“Don’t be over-confident,” dryly. “It is more probable that he will kill—you! Don’t be a fool!”

“The outcome is on the knees of the gods. If he kills me, I shall die content, knowing I died for her!”

“Heroics are quite unnecessary,” observed Pierre, resignedly. “If you’re determined to be a target for Brouillard, it’s no use—”

“My mind is quite made up,” returned Jean, flushing. “But since our ideas do not coincide, please do not interfere. I’m sure that Bonville, or De Queux, will be glad to second me.”

“I surrender,” said Pierre. “If you are determined on being slaughtered, of course I’ll second you. It is my right. And if you must be a fool, I had just as well enjoy your folly as the next one. I’ll hunt up our fine captain’s friend. Au revoi’!”

With an expressive shrug, the elder Lafitte stalked out of the tavern and disappeared into the diamond-studded night. Jean, staring after him curiously, stood stockstill, a picture of indecision, and then, turning, sat down near the table, and began to shoot, with careful precision, at the three candles on the trestle near the window.

When Pierre returned, later, having made arrangements for the coming meeting, he found the air smoke-laden and his brother haggard.

There were still three candles burning on the trestle.

II

Dawn broke in a symphony of gorgeous rosy tints, heralding the awakening of the ardent monarch of the world of light. The waves, their deep green color variegated with shifting opaline lusters and gleams of phosphorescent hues, lazily chased one another over the restless sea, to dash into clouds of joyous spray upon the shining beach.

Signs of life were already apparent in the line of fishing boats on and near the shore, and shreds of wraith-like smoke were appearing in the picturesque fishermen’s colony on the inlet. A new day—and a memorable one—had begun for Mauritius.

In the grove behind the quaint little stone chapel, the principals of the little drama had already assembled. The Lafittes—Jean, eager, yet not without a touch of nervousness, and Pierre Dominique, looking rather too perturbed for a man of the world. Across the little clearing was Brouillard, tall, heavily built, with pugnaciously twisted mustachios. A French naval officer—his second—and the resident doctor completed the little party.

At a word from the knight of the lancets, who was evidently also the referee, the duelists took their places, back to back, and marched away ten paces. Pistol in hand, still back to back, they awaited the physician’s signal. The Mauritian raised his arm for dramatic effect, and began to count, very solemnly.

“One—

“Two—”

A young girl, hair as yet uncombed, lids still sleep-laden, and panting heavily, appeared at the head of the path, and ran toward them with horror-filled eyes. They were too absorbed to see her.

“Three—!”

She was almost upon them, now. So excited were the five men in the tense scene they were enacting that they failed to notice her footsteps, which audibly reached them. Simultaneously with the doctor’s next word she burst among them, exhausted with running, but not before he had cried—

“Fire!”

At the word both turned and fired. Brouillard’s shot was a second later than Jean’s. Lafitte’s had gone wild, so nervous was he, and he immediately realized that his doom was imminent. He was at the mercy of his enemy. But that interim of less than a single second, almost the briefest timable space, was enough to complete the tragedy. In that moment Lizette Fondac sprang between them, her body acting as a shield for Jean, just in time to intercept the bullet meant for him. A moment later she sank on the turf at Jean’s feet, clutching convulsively at her bleeding bosom.

With a cry of utter horror, Jean dropped to his knees, holding her close to him, calling to her, with such an unspeakable anguish in his voice that Pierre himself, momentarily stunned by the shock, could not hold the tears back.

Confusion reigned. Villagers, attracted by the sound of the shots, were now appearing at the head of the path, led by the old curé of the chapel. Brouillard, with one backward, horrified glance, disappeared into the forest.

As for Jean, he was as if crazed, pressing Lizette’s still form close to himself, and babbling mad, incoherent terms of endearment. She had been almost instantaneously killed. With difficulty he was separated from her motionless body and led away by his brother.

III

“Why do you follow me about, Pierre? Can I not have a moment’s peace?” There was a nervous petulance in his voice.

Pierre Dominique smiled, albeit with commiseration, as he looked at his brother. Jean Lafitte had indeed changed in the past week, changed for the worse. There were hollow circles under his lustrous coal-black eyes, which afforded a startling contrast to his unusual fairness of skin. But it was the aspect of the eyes themselves which gave Pierre cause for concern, now dull, now sparkling, but ever brooding—two silent pools of apathy.

Pierre Dominique answered shortly, his own lips drawn together.

“Because I cannot trust you alone.”

Jean did not answer, but stared at the sea, its waters gleaming in the sunlight. He well knew why Pierre did not trust him to himself, for he had attempted suicide in the first ecstasy of his grief. But a week had passed since then, and, if his brother had known, he no longer contemplated self-extermination. The law of youth and nature forbade it—and the young Frenchman was but human. But he disliked Pierre Dominique’s watchfulness. He wished to be alone, to sit and brood; to commune with the invisible; to give vent to his aching grief, his loneliness; to let his emotional nature run the gamut of his varied sensations.

Jean Lafitte’s was a most unusual character, which was understood by no one, himself least of all. Temperamental, imaginative, impulsive, together with other strange mixtures of characteristics, he might perhaps be called a genius in the embryo. But time alone could tell what form that genius would take. At the present he was but a crucible, containing an assortment of ingredients that would sooner or later take tangible form. And now this crucible of emotions had been prematurely stirred.

But Pierre Dominique could not know this, nor understand it if he did. In Jean he saw a masculine counterpart of their long-dead mother, and lavished all the affection that his nature was capable of on his younger brother.

“Jean,” said he, breaking the silence, “I wish to leave this accursed island. Come, rouse yourself out of this lethargy. Pining and brooding will not bring back the dead.”

“Perhaps not, my brother.”

“Come then, Jean, let’s sail for Bordeaux. You will soon forget this. We will go into trade, as our father wishes us to do, and meanwhile you can read and study to your heart’s content.”

Jean stared across the sea, his gaze wandering across the spacious blue purity of the Indian Ocean.

“I cannot go back—Pierre. It is impossible.”

“But you cannot mean to stay, boy. It will not profit you and you surely cannot forget, here.”

“I do not wish to forget!”

“I know, I know, mon pauvre garçon, but you must leave; this is no place for you.”

“Well, mon frère, if it will add to your happiness, I will tell you; I do intend to leave Mauritius.”

“Bon! That’s the way to talk, Jean. We will—”

“Mais non, you are wrong. I am not going back to Bordeaux.”

“Why not?” puzzled.

“I go elsewhere.”

“Very well; we will go elsewhere if that is your desire. There are—”

“But you do not understand, Pierre. Our ways must part, from now on.”

“Ventre-saint-gris! The boy is mad!”

“Perhaps. But I have a duty to perform ... and you have not!”

“What do you mean?” The older Lafitte looked vaguely uneasy.

“Why, pretend, mon frère? You know that I must find—and punish—the murderer of Lizette!”

“Oh, that?” But his seeming indifference did not fool Jean. He could see that Pierre was troubled in reality, now.

“Just that! If I have to spend the rest of my life hunting him, I shall find Brouillard; the coward, the base scoundrel!”

Here Jean paused and cursed the absent Brouillard, thoroughly, bitterly. For a few moments Pierre listened quietly, making no comment, but he was thinking hard. At last the younger man subsided, his store of invective exhausted, but still seething with rage. For the moment his grief was forgotten, and it was not long before he regained control of himself.

Jean glanced shamefacedly at his brother, expecting some remark of surprise ... displeasure. But none came. He wondered. It was one of the very rare moments of his life that he had given way to his passion, and he was ashamed, for, unconsciously, perhaps, he was very proud of his self-control. He glanced at his brother and looked away again.

Pierre Dominique spoke, quietly, authoritatively:

“Very well, then, Jean. We shall first find Brouillard and then give him up to justice.”

“No, no, Pierre; you are too noble. I will not draw you into my quarrel; you must not come!”

“We will go together, garçon.”

“We will not! Don’t forget you owe some one else a duty, Pierre. Do you forget your Margot?”

Pierre Dominique turned away his face.

“No, I do not forget Margot, brother mine. But we will forget her.”

“We will not!”

“Margot will not miss one gallant; she has enough and to spare!”

“Is that the Lafitte spirit?” demanded Jean, rather irrelevantly, but glad to be able to take the offensive.

Pierre looked chagrined.

“Perhaps not, but there are many fair women in this world, and but one brother. And besides, Jean, I am not the marrying kind. But enough of this foolish talk. We—”

“You are right, mon frère. Enough of this foolish talk! As for you, Pierre Dominique, you will return home—to Bordeaux. Go into trade, and marry your Margot.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“What will I do? I shall be my own master, with my own ship. I have thought it over, Pierre. No doubt Brouillard will go far away—to the West Indies, or the Caribbean. Therefore I shall go there. Sooner or later I shall meet him!”

“And then you must turn him over to the authorities, for trial. You should want no more revenge than that, Jean. In reality, Lizette’s death was an accident.” Apparently Pierre had assented to Jean’s determination to hunt out Brouillard.

“Perhaps,” said Jean, enigmatically.

“I see you are determined, Jean. But I tell you, I do not approve of your intention. Brouillard will be caught, sooner or later, never fear. Leave it to justice.”

Jean stared down at the sand, watching the swift flight of a sand-fiddler. In a single moment it seemed he had become a man—with mature thoughts and mature determination. The youth had disappeared forever.

“You do not understand, Pierre! I loved—” In his glistening eyes was an immeasurable anguish—the fires of an ecstatic mental torture.

“No, Jean, you did not. You are but a boy. You do not know what real love is.”

“Nonsense! Nom de Dieu! It is Brouillard himself that I want—to meet again! To punish him—to make him pay.”

“But he was really not to blame,” Pierre pleaded, half frightened at the vindictiveness of his young brother.

“Not to blame—not to blame?” cried Jean Lafitte, furious, unreasoning. “Dieu! Not to blame, you say? Can’t you understand, mon frère? Can’t you realize?” There was a strained note in his voice. “No, he will not be punished for killing Lizette—for that alone he might be pardoned! But do you forget that he dared to insult her? That he called her a ‘wanton’? ‘Wanton’! Hear me, Pierre, I shall send him to hell with my own hand, if I hang for it! By Our Lady I swear it!”

Pierre Lafitte crossed himself, almost unconsciously.

The younger Lafitte, his face pale, his eyes flashing in the way that later became characteristic, made a striking picture.

And his brother realized that this was not mere boyish heroics, that this was a little more than a dramatic pose. Jean was fiercely in earnest, even if his earnestness was theatrical. He was dedicating his life to a purpose which, whether laudable or open to criticism, was yet a definite purpose. He was a man, now, to think and act for himself.

Pierre Dominique stared at his brother for a long time, his own face impassive and impersonal. But in his eyes was a searching, probing gaze. What he saw apparently satisfied him.

“I think I understand, Jean,” he said, quietly, and dropped his gaze.

Together they stared at the sea, silently, broodingly.

Chapter the Second:

How a Gentleman Pirate Catches a Tartar, and the Personage in the Moon Is Proven to Be a Woman

I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

“Sail ho!”

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

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

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

“Sail ho!”

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

“Jacques!”

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

“Call Ramon....”

“Mon capitaine will fight?”

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

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

“You passed the word?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly Ramon cursed audibly.

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

His two companions turned on him quickly.

“Do you recognize it?” demanded Lafitte.

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

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

“You are sure?” demanded Jean, impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

“But, Don Juan—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fire!”

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

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

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

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

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

Pandemonium reigned....

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

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

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

“Cut loose, men!”

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter the Third:

In Which the Black Fox Encounters an Old Acquaintance

“Get up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Black Fox did not laugh.

“Why?” he persisted.

“To avenge Lizette Fondac,” said Jean.

Brouillard cursed expressively.

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

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

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

“You lie!” cried Lafitte.

“Parbleu! But the gutter scum is impertinent!”

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

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

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

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

Brouillard laughed heartily.

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

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

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

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

Jean yawned.

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” sharply.

“There was a red-head....”

“Red Jacques!” exclaimed Jean.

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

“Well?” the latter demanded.

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

“He is dead?” with horror.

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

“Thank le bon Dieu!”

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

“What do you mean?”

“Vous verrez ... you shall see!”

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

“Mon capitaine! I thought you were dead!”

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

Red Jacques flushed with delight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lafitte fainted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Black Fox was attacked!

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

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

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

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

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

Lafitte’s heart bounded joyously.

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

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

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

“And Brouillard?” demanded Jean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lizette Fondac and Red Jacques were avenged.