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The Lady and the Pirate, a novel by Emerson Hough |
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Chapter 35. In Which I Find Two Estimable Friends, But Lose One Beloved |
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_ CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH I FIND TWO ESTIMABLE FRIENDS, BUT LOSE ONE BELOVED The weather now, moderating, after the fashion of weather on this coast, as rapidly as it had become inclement, we passed a more comfortable night on our desert island. No doubt the lighthouse tender knew of our presence, for he easily could see our tent by day and our fire by night, and he surely must have seen our good ship riding at anchor under his nose at the edge of the channel; but no visit came from that official--for the very good reason, as we later learned, that the storm had stove in his boat at her mooring; so that all he himself could do was to cross his Cajun bosom and pray that his supply skiff might come from across the bay. So, as much alone as the Swiss family by name of Robinson--an odd name for a Swiss family, it always seemed to me--we remained on our desert island undisturbed, the ladies now in the comfortable tent, my hardy pirates under the tarpaulin, and the rest of us as we liked or might, all in beds of the sweet scented grasses which grew along the lagoon where the great ranks of wild fowl kept up their chatter day and night. It was a land of plenty, and any but a man in my situation might well have been content there for many days. Content was not in my own soul. I was up by dawn and busy about the boats, before any sign of life was visible around the tent or the canvas shelter. But since the sun rose warm, it yet was early when we met at John's breakfast fire. I felt myself a shabby figure, for in my haste I had forgotten my razors; and by now my clothing was sadly soiled and stained, even the most famous of the Davidson waistcoats being the worse for the salt-water immersions it had known; and my ancient flannels were corkscrewing about my limbs. But as for Helena, young and vital, she discarded her sweater for breakfast, and appeared as she had before the shipwreck, in lace bridge coat and wearing many gems! L'Olonnois, with the intimacy of kin and the admiration of youth--and with youth's lack of tact--saluted her now gaily. "Gee! Auntie," said he, at table on the sand, "togged out that way, all them glitterin' gems, you shore look fit for a pirate's bride!" Poor Helena! She blushed red to the hair; and I fear I did no better myself. "Jimmy!" reproved Aunt Lucinda. "Don't call me 'Jimmy'!" rejoined that hopeful. "My name is L'Olonnois, the Scourge of The Sea. Me an' Jean Lafitte, we follow Black Bart the Avenger, to the Spanish Main. Auntie, pass me the bacon, please. I'm just about starved." Mrs. Daniver, as was her custom, ate a very substantial breakfast; Helena, almost none at all; nor had I much taste for food. In some way, our constraint insensibly extended to all the party, much to L'Olonnois' disgust. "It's her fault!" I overheard him say to his mate. "Women can't play no games. An' we was havin' such a bully chance! Now, like's not, we won't stay here longer'n it'll take to get things back to the boat again. I don't want to go back home--I'd rather be a pirate; an' so'd any fellow." "Sure he would," assented Jean. They did not see me, behind the tent. "Somethin's wrong," began L'Olonnois, portentously. "What'd you guess?" queried Lafitte. "Looks to me like it was somethin' between him an' the fair captive." "That's just it--that's just what I said! Now, if Black Bart lets his whiskers grow, an' Auntie Helena wears them rings, ain't it just like in the book? Course it is! But here they go, don't eat nothin', don't talk none to nobody." "I'll tell you what!" began Lafitte. "Uh-huh, what?" demanded L'Olonnois. "A great wrong has been did our brave leader by yon heartless jade; that's what!" "You betcher life they has. He's on the square, an' look what he done for us--look how he managed things all the way down to here. Anybody else couldn't have got away with this. Anybody else'd never a' went out there last night after John, just a Chink, thataway. An' her!" Jimmy's disapproval of his auntie, as thus expressed, was extreme. I was now about to step away, but feared detection, so unwillingly heard on. "But he can't see no one else but yon fickle jade!" commented Jean Lafitte, "unworthy as she is of a bold chief's regard!" "Nope. That's what's goin' to make all the trouble. I'll tell you what!" "What?" "We'll have to fix it up, somehow." "How'd you mean?" "Why, reason it out with 'em both." Jean apparently shook his head, or had some look of dubiousness, for L'Olonnois went on. "We gotta do it, somehow. If we don't, we'll about have to go back home; an' who wants to go back home from a good old desert island like this here. So now----" "Uh, huh?" "Why, I'll tell you, now. You see, I got some pull with her--the fair captive. She used to lick me, but she don't dast to try it on here on a desert island: so I got some pull. An' like enough you c'd talk it over with Black Bart." "Nuh--uh! I don't like to." "Why?" "Well, I don't. He's all right." "Yes, but we got to get 'em together!" "Shore. But, my idea, he's hard to get together if he gets a notion he ain't had a square deal nohow, someways." "Well, he ain't. So that makes my part the hardest. But you just go to him, and tell him not to hurry, because you are informed the fair captive is goin' to relent, pretty soon, if we just don't get in too big a hurry and run away from a place like this--where the duck shootin' is immense!" "But kin you work her, Jimmy?" "Well, I dunno. She's pretty set, if she thinks she ain't had a square deal, too." "Well now," argued Lafitte, "if that's the way they both feel, either they're both wrong an' ought to shake hands, or else one of 'em's wrong, and they either ought to get together an' find out which it was, or else they ought to leave it to some one else to say which one was wrong. Ain't that so?" "O' course it's so. So now, thing fer us fellows to do, is just to put it before 'em plain, an' get 'em both to leave it to us two fellers what's right fer 'em both to do. Now, I think they'd ought to get married, both of 'em--I mean to each other, you know. Folks does get married." "Black Bart would," said Jean Lafitte. "I'll bet anything. The fair captive, she's a heartless jade, but I seen Black Bart lookin' at her, an'----" "An' I seen her lookin' at him--leastways a picture--an' says she, 'Jimmy----'" "Jimmy!" It was I, myself, red and angry, who now broke from my unwilling eavesdropping. The two boys turned to me innocently. I found it difficult to say anything at all, and wisest to say nothing. "I was just going to ask if you two wouldn't like to take the guns and go out after some more ducks--especially the kind with red heads and flat noses, such as we had yesterday. And I'll lend you Partial, so you can try for some more of those funny little turtles. I'll have to go out to the ship, and also over to the lighthouse, before long. The tide will turn, perhaps, and at least the wind is offshore from the island now." "Sure, we'll go." Jean spoke for both at once. "Very well, then. And be careful. And you'd--you'd better leave your auntie and her auntie alone, Jimmy--they'll want to sleep." "You didn't hear us sayin' nothin', did you, Black Bart?" asked L'Olonnois, suspiciously. "By Jove! I believe that's a boat beating down the bay," said I. "Sail ho!" And so eager were they that they forgot my omission of direct reply. "It's very likely only the lighthouse supply boat coming in," said I. "I'll find out over there. Better run along, or the morning flight of the birds will be over." So they ran along. As for myself, I called Peterson and Williams for another visit to our disabled ship, which now lay on a level keel, white and glistening, rocking gently in the bright wind. I left word for the ladies that we might not be back for luncheon. We found that the piling waters of Cote Blanche, erstwhile blown out to sea, were now slowly settling back again after the offshore storm. The Belle Helene had risen from her bed in the mud now and rode free. Our soundings showed us that it would be easy now to break out the anchor and reach the channel, just ahead. So, finding no leak of consequence, and the beloved engines not the worse for wear, Williams went below to get up some power, while Peterson took the wheel and I went forward to the capstan. The donkey winch soon began its work, and I felt the great anchor at length break away and come apeak. The current of the air swung us before we had all made fast; and as I sounded with a long bow pike, I presently called out to Peterson, "No bottom!" He nodded; and now, slowly, we took the channel and moved on in opposite the light. We could see the white-capped gulf rolling beyond. "Water there!" said Peterson. "We can go on through, come around in the Morrison cut-off, and so make the end of the Manning channel to the mainland. But I wish we had a local pilot." I nodded. "Drop her in alongside this fellow's wharf," I added. "The ladies have sent some letters--to go out by the tender's boat, yonder--I suppose he'll be going back to-day." "Like enough," said Peterson; and so gently we moved on up the dredged channel, and at last made fast at the tumble-down wharf of the lighthouse; courteously waiting for the little craft of the tender to make its landing. We found the mooring none too good, what with the storm's work at the wharf, and as we shifted our lines a time or two, the gaping, jeans-clad Cajun who had come in with mail and supplies passed in to the lighthouse ahead of us; and I wonder his head did not twist quite off its neck, for though he walked forward, he ever looked behind him. When at length we two, Peterson and myself, passed up the rickety walk to the equally rickety gallery at the foot of the light, we found two very badly frightened men instead of a single curious one. The keeper in sooth had in hand a muzzle-loading shotgun of such extreme age, connected with such extreme length of barrel, as might have led one to suspect it had grown an inch or so annually for all of many decades. He was too much frightened to make active resistance, however, and only warned us away, himself, now, a pale saffron in color. "Keep hout!" he commanded. "No, you'll didn't!" "We'll didn't what, my friend?" began I mildly. "Don't you like my looks? Not that I blame you if you do not. But has the boat brought down any milk or eggs that you can spare?" "No milluk--no haig!" muttered the light tender; and they would have closed the door. "Come, come now, my friends!" I rejoined testily. "Suppose you haven't, you can at least be civil. I want to talk with you a minute. This is the power yacht Belle Helene, of Mackinaw, cruising on the Gulf. We went aground in the storm; and all we want now is to send out a little mail by you to Morgan City, or wherever you go; and to pass the time of day with you, as friends should. What's wrong--do you think us a government revenue boat, and are you smuggling stuff from Cuba through the light here?" "We no make hany smug'," replied the keeper. "But we know you, who you been!" He smote now upon an open newspaper, whose wrapper still lay on the floor. I glanced, and this time I saw a half-page cut of the Belle Helene herself, together with portraits of myself, Mrs. Daniver, Miss Emory and two wholly imaginary and fearsome boys who very likely were made up from newspaper portraits of the James Brothers! Moreover, my hasty glance caught sight of a line in large letters, reading: TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD! "Peterson," said I calmly, handing him the paper, "they seem to be after us, and to value us rather high." He glanced, his eyes eager; but Peterson, while a professional doubter, was personally a man of whose loyalty and whose courage I, myself, had not the slightest doubt. "Let 'em come!" said he. "We're on our own way and about our own business; and outside the three mile zone, let 'em follow us on the high seas if they like. She's sound as a bell, Mr. Harry, and once we get her docked and her port shaft straight, there's nothing can touch her on the Gulf. Let 'em come." "But we can't dock here, my good Peterson." "Well, we can beat 'em with one engine and one screw. Besides, what have we done?" "Haint you was 'hrobber, han ron hoff with those sheep?" demanded the keeper excitedly. "No, we are not ship thieves but gentlemen, my friend," I answered, suddenly catching at his long gun and setting it behind me. "You might let that go off," I explained. At which he went yellower than ever, a thing I had thought impossible. "Now, look here," said I. "Suppose we are robbers, pirates, what you like, and suppose a price is put on our heads--a price which means a jolly nice libel suit for each paper printing it, by the way, or a jolly nice apology--none the less, we are a strong band and without fear either of the law or of you. Here you are alone, and not a sail is in sight. If any boat did come here, we could--well, we could blow her out of the water, couldn't we, Peterson? We could blow you out of the water, too, couldn't we, we and these ruffians of our crew?"--and I pointed at the two low-browed pictures of Lafitte and L'Olonnois. A shudder was my only answer. I think the two portraits of my young bullies did the business. "Very well, then," I resumed, "it is plain, Messieurs, that there is many a slip between the reward and the pocket, voyez vous? Bien! But here--" and I thrust a hand into my pocket--"is a reward much closer home, and far easier to attain." Their eyes bulged as they saw two or three thousand dollars in big bills smoothed out. "Ecoutez, Messieurs!" said I. "Behold here not enemies, but men of like mind. I speak of men who live by the sea, men of the old home of Jean Lafitte, that great merchant, that bold soldier, who did so much to save his country at the Battle. Even now he has thousands of friends and hundreds of relatives in this land. You yourself, I doubt not, Messieurs, are distant cousins of Jean Lafitte? N'est-ce pas? " They crossed themselves, but murmured "Ba-oui!" "Est ees the trut'! How did Monsieur know?" asked the tender. "I know many things. I know that any cousin descended from those brave days loves the sea and its ways more than he loves the law. And if money has come easy--as this did--what harm if a cousin should take the price of a rat-skin or two and carry out a letter or so to the railway, and keep a close mouth about it as well? To the good old days, and Messieurs, my friends!" I had seen the neck of a flask in Peterson's pocket, and now I took it forth, unscrewed the top, and passed it, with two bills of one hundred dollars each. They poured, grinned. I stood, waiting for their slow brains to act, but there was only a foregone answer. The keeper drank first, as ranking his tender; the other followed; and they handed the flask--not the bills--back to Peterson and me. "Merci, mes amis!" said I. "And I drink to Jean Lafitte and the old days! Perhaps, you may buy a mass for your cousin's soul?" "Ah non!" answered the keeper. "Hees soul she's hout of Purgatoire long hago eef she'll goin' get hout. Me, I buy me some net for s'rimp." "An' me, two harpent more lan' for my farm," quoth the tender. "Alas! poor Jean!" said I. "But he was so virtuous a man that he needs no masses after a hundred years, perhaps. As you like. You will take the letters; and this for the telegraph?" "Certain'! I'll took it those," answered the tender. "You'll stayed for dish coffee, yass?" inquired the keeper, with Cajun hospitality. "No, I fear it is not possible, thank you," I replied. "We must be going soon." "An' where you'll goin', Monsieur?" "Around the island, up the channel, up the old oyster-boat channel of Monsieur Edouard. The letters are some of them for Monsieur Edouard himself. And you know well, mes amis, that once we lie at the wharf of Monsieur Edouard, not the government even of the state will touch us yonder?" "My faith, non! I should say it--certain' not! No man he'll mawnkey wit' Monsieur Edouard, heem! You'll was know him, Monsieur?" "We went to school together. We smoked the same pipe." "My faith! You'll know Monsieur Edouard!" The keeper shook my hand. "H'I'll was work for Monsieur Edouard manny tam hon hees boat, hon hees plantation, hon hees 'ouse. When I'll want some leetle money, s'pose those hrat he'll wasn't been prime yet, hall H'I'll need was to go non Monsieur Edouard, hask for those leetle monny. He'll han' it on me, yass, heem, ten dollar, jus' like as heasy Monsieur has gave it me hondred dollar now, yas, heem!" "Yes? Well, I know that a cousin of Jean Lafitte--who no doubt has dug for treasure all over the dooryard of Monsieur Edouard----" "But not behin' the smoke-house--nevair on dose place yet, I'll swear it!" "--Very well, suppose you have not yet included the smoke-house of Monsieur Edouard, at least you are his friend. And what Acadian lives who is not a friend of the ladies?" "Certain', Monsieur." "Very well again. What you see in the paper is all false. The two ladies whose pictures you see here, and here, are yonder at our camp. You shall come and see that they are well and happy, both of them. Moreover, if you like another fifty for the mass for Jean Lafitte's soul, you, yourself, my friend, shall pilot us into the channel of Monsieur Edouard. We'll tow your boat behind us across the bay. Is it not?" "Certain'! oui!" answered the tender. "But you'll had leetle dish coffee quite plain?" once more demanded the lonesome keeper; and for sake of his hospitable soul we now said yes; and very good coffee it was, too: and the better since I knew it meant we now were friends. Ah! pirate blood is far thicker than any water you may find. "But if we take you on as pilot, my friend," said I to the pilot as at length we arose, "how shall we get out our letters after all?" "Thass hall right," replied he, "my cousin, Richard Barriere--she's cousin of Jean Lafitte too, heem--she'll was my partner on the s'rimp, an' she'll was come hon the light, here, heem, to-mor', yas, heem." "And would you give the letters to Mr. Richard Barriere to-morrow?" I inquired of the lighthouse keeper. "Oui, oui, certain', assurement, wit' plaisir, Monsieur," he replied. So I handed him the little packet. It chanced that my eye caught sight of one of the two letters Mrs. Daniver had handed me. The address was not in Mrs. Daniver's handwriting, but one that I knew very well. And the letter, in this handwriting that I knew very well, was addressed to Calvin Horace Davidson, Esquire, The Boston Club, New Orleans, Louisiana: all written out in full in Helena's own scrupulous fashion. I gave the letter over to the messenger, but for a time I stood silent, thinking. I knew now very well what that letter contained. But yesterday, Helena Emory had finally decided, there on the beach, alone with me, the salt air on her cheek, the salt tears in her eyes. She had gone far as woman might to tell me that she was grieved over a hasty word--she had given me a chance, my first chance, my only chance, my last chance. And, I, pig-headed fool, had slighted her at the very moment of moments of all my life--I who had prided myself on my "psychology"--I who had thought myself wise--I had allowed that woman to go away with her head drooping when at last she--oh, I saw it all plainly enough now! And now indeed small psychology and small wit were requisite to know the whole process of a woman's soul, thus chilled. She had been hesitant, had been a little resentful of this runaway situation, had not liked my domineering ways; but at last she had relented and had asked my pardon. Then I had spurned her. And then her mind swung to the other man. She had not yet given that man his answer, but when I chilled her, rejected her timid little desire to "make up" with me--why, then, her mind was made up for that other man at once. She had written his answer. And now--oh! fiendlike cruelty of woman's heart--she had chosen me as her messenger to carry out that word which would cost me herself forever! She had done that exquisitely well, as she did everything, not even advising me that I was to be her errand boy on such an errand, trusting me to find out by accident, as I had, that I was to be my own executioner, was to spring my own guillotine. She knew that, none the less, though I understood what the letter meant thus addressed, I sacredly must execute her silent trust. Oh! Helena, yours was indeed an exquisite revenge for that one hour of a dour man's hurt pride. _ |
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