"Surely your soul should tell you, Jean Lafitte," said I, "for yonder,
as I may say, now rolls the Spanish Main. Its lift is now beneath our
feel. You are home again, Jean Lafitte. Yonder are the bays and bayous
and channels in the marshes, where your boats used to hide. And there,
L'Olonnois, my hearty, with you, I was used to ride the open sea,
toward the Isles of Spain, waiting for the galleons to come."
"I know, I know!" said my blue-eyed pirate softly and reverently; and
so true was all his note to that inner struggling soul that lay both
in his bosom and my own, that I ceased to lament for my sin in so
allowing modern youth to be misled, and turned to him with open hand,
myself also young with the undying youth of the world.
"Many a time, Black Bart," said L'Olonnois solemnly, "have we crowded
on full sail when the lookout gave the word of a prize a-comin', while
we laid to in some hidden channel over yonder."
"Aye, aye, many a time, many a time, my hearty."
"--An' loosed the bow-chaser an' shot away her foremast."
"--At almost the first shot, L'Olonnois."
"--So that her top hamper came down in a run an' swung her broadside
to our batteries."
"--And we poured in a hail of chain-shot and set her hull afire."
"--And then launched the boats for the boardin' parties," broke in
Jean Lafitte, standing on one leg in his excitement; "--an' so made
her a prize. An' then we made 'em walk the plank amid scenes of
wassail--all but the fair captives."
I fell silent. But L'Olonnois' blue eyes were glowing. "An' them we
surrounded with every rude luxury," said he, "finally retiring to the
fortresses of the hidden channels of the coast, where we defied all
pursuit. This looks like one of them places, though I may be mistook,"
he added judiciously. I shuddered to see how Jimmy's grammar had
deteriorated under my care.
"Yes," said I, "we are now near to several of those places, scenes of
our bold deeds. The south coast of Louisiana lies on our right, cut by
a thousand bays and channels deep enough for hiding a pinnace or even
a stout schooner. Yonder, Jean, is Barataria Bay, your old home. Here,
under my finger, is Côte Blanche. Here comes the Chafalay, through its
new channel--all this floating hyacinth, all this red water, comes
from Texas soil, from the Red River, now discharging in new mouths.
Yonder, west of the main boat channels that make toward the railways
far inland, lie the salt reefs and the live-oak islands. Here is the
long key they now call Marsh Island. It was not an island until you,
stout Jean Lafitte, ordered the Yankee Morrison to take a hundred
black slaves with spades and cut a channel across the neck, so that
you could get through more quickly from the Spanish Main to the hidden
bayous where your boats lay concealed--until the wagons from Iberia
could come and traffic at the causeway for your wares. Do you not
remember it well?"