"That also is a most extraordinary story, Jean. Taken with this other fairy tale which you have told me to-night, you almost make me feel that we are back in the great old days which this country once saw. But alas!"

"As you say, Monsieur, alas!"

"Now as to that ruffian who stole the gentleman's yacht," I resumed. "Has he reflected? Has he indeed made his way to the Gulf? Why, he might even be hiding here in the city somewhere."

"Ah, hardly that, and if so, he well may look out for the law."

"I think a sherbet would be excellent for the lady now, Jean," I ventured, whereat he departed. I turned over the paper and showed Helena her own portrait on the front page, four columns deep and set in such framing of blackfaced scare type as made me blush for my own sins.

"It is an adventure, Helena!" said I. "Had you not been far the most beautiful woman in this restaurant to-night, and had not Jean been all eyes for you, he otherwise would have looked at this paper rather than at you. Then he would have looked at us both and must have seen the truth."

"It is an adventure," said she slowly, her color heightening; and later, "You carried it off well, Harry."

I bowed to her across the table. "Need was to act quickly, for even this vile newspaper cut is a likeness of you. One glance from Jean, which may come at any moment later, Helena, and your parole will be needless further."

"I confess I wished to test you. It was wrong, foolish of me, Harry."

"You have been tested no less, Helena, to-night. And I have found you a gentle high-born lady, as I had always known you to be. Noblesse oblige, my dear, and you have proved it so to-night. Any time from now until twelve you need no more than raise a finger—I might not even see you do so—and you might go free. Why do you not?"

"If the woodcock is as good as the canvasback," was her somewhat irrelevant reply, "I shall call the evening a success, after all."

But Helena scarcely more than tasted her bird, and pushed back after a time the broiled mushroom which Jean offered her gently.

"Does not your appetite remain?" I inquired. "Come, you must not break Jean's heart doubly."

She only pushed back her chair. "I am sorry," said she, "but I want to go back to the boat."

"Back to the boat! You astonish me. I thought escape from the Belle Helene was the one wish of your heart these days."

"And so it is."

"Then, Helena, why not escape here and now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I do not mean for you to break your parole—I know you too well for that. But give me additional parole, my dear girl. Give me your word. Say that one word. Then we can rise here and announce to Mr. Davidson and all the world and its newspapers that no crime has been done and only a honeymoon has been begun. Come, Helena, all the world loves a lover. All New Orleans will love us if you will raise your finger and say the word."

I looked toward her. Her head was bent and tears were dropping from her eyes, tears faithfully concealed by her kerchief. But she said no word to me, and at her silence my own heart sank—sank until my courage was quite gone, until I felt the return of a cold brutality. Still I endeavored to be gentle with one who deserved naught of gentleness.

"Do not hurry, Helena," I said. "We can return when you like. But the salad—and the coffee! And see, you have not touched your wine."

"Take me back," she said, her voice low. "I hate you. Till the end of the world I'll hate you."

"If I could believe that, Helena, it would matter nothing to me to go a mile farther on any voyage, a foot farther to shield myself or you."

"Take me back," she said to me again. "I want to go to Aunt Lucinda."

"Jean," said I, a moment later when he reappeared. "Mademoiselle wishes to see one more ice-box in the kitchen. We are in search of something. May we go again?"

Jean spread out his arms in surprise, but pushed open the green door. We thus passed, shielded by our screen and unobserved. Once within, I grasped Jean firmly by the shoulder and pressed a ten dollar bill into his hand, with other money for the reckoning.

"Take this, Jean, for yourself. We do not care to pass out at the front, for certain reasons—do you comprehend? It is of Mademoiselle."

"It is of Mademoiselle? Ah, depend upon me. What can I do?"

"This. Leave us here, and we will walk about. Meantime go out the back way to the alley, Jean, and have a taxicab ready at the mouth of the alley. Come quick when it is arranged and let us go, because we must go at once. At another time, Jean, we will return, I trust more happily. Then we shall order such a dinner as will take Luigi himself a day to prepare, my friend!"

"For Mademoiselle?"

"For Madame, Jean, as I hope." And now I showed him the portrait on the front page of the newspaper he had brought me. "Quick," I said, "and since you have been faithful, some day I will explain all this to you—with Madame, as I hope."



CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH WE BURN ALL BRIDGES

"But, Monsieur," began Jean, a few moments later, as he entered from the alley door.

"Eh bien? What then, Jean?" I demanded hastily, already leading Helena toward the door.

"This! This!" And he waved in my face a copy of the same paper which had lain on our table. "The streets are full of it. And I see, I behold—I recognize! It is Mademoiselle—that is to be Madame!"

My face flushed hotly. "As I hope, Jean." That was all I said. "Now, please, out of our way. Is the taxi there?"

He stepped aside. I heard his voice, eager, apologetic, but knew that now no time must be lost. Vague sounds of voices came to us from the main room of the cafe, ordinarily so quiet. I felt, rather than knew, that soon the news would be about town. The throb of the taxi was music to my ears when I found it in the dark.

"Stop for nothing," said I to the driver, as I closed the door. "Slip K, on the river-front, below the warehouses. Stop at the car tracks where they turn. And go fast—I must catch a boat that is just leaving."

"What boat—from there—are you sure, sir?" asked he, touching his cap.

"Of course I'm sure. Go on! Don't stop to talk, man!"

He made no answer to this, but turned to his wheel. We shot out into Royal Street, turned down it, spun into a narrow way past the old Cathedral, crossed Jackson Square in the full moonlight, passed the Old Market, and threaded dark and dirty thoroughfares parallel to the river. None sought to stay us, though many paused in the gently squalid life of that section, to look after our churning car, a thing not usual there so far from depot or usual landing place.

Helena sat silent, looking fixedly ahead through the glass at the driver's back; nor did I find words myself. In truth, I was as one now carried forward on the wings of adventure itself, with small plans, and no duty beyond taking each situation as it might later come. A dull feeling that I had sinned beyond forgiveness came upon me, a conviction that my brutality to one thus innocent and tender had passed all limits of atonement. She could never forgive me now, I felt; and what was almost as intolerable in the reflection, I could not forgive myself, could not find any specious argument longer to justify myself in thus harrying the sensibilities of a woman such as this one who now sat beside me in this mad midnight errand, proud, pale and silent. Slowly I sought to adjust myself to the thought of defeat, to the feeling that my presumption now had o'er-leaped itself. Yes, I must say good-by to her, must release her; and this time, as I well knew, forever.

But, though I turned toward her half a dozen times in these few minutes, she made no response to what she must have known was my demand upon her attention. I gathered her gloves for her, and her flowers, but she only took them, her lips parting in courtesy, not in warmth, and no sound came to my ears, straining always to hear her voice, a pleasant sound in a world of discords ever. I even touched her arm, suddenly, impulsively. "Helena!" But she, not knowing that I meant to give her liberty, though over a dead heart, shrank as though I had added physical insult to my verbal taunts. Anyway I turned, I was fast in the net of circumstance, fanged by the springs of misapprehension.... Well, then, but one thing remained. She had said it was a man's place to fight, and so now it would be! I must go on, and take my punishment until justice had been done. Justice and my own success I no longer confused in my own mind; but in my soul was the grim resolution that justice should first be done to one human soul, even though that chanced to be my own. After that, I should get her again in the hands of her friends and myself; indeed, disappear beyond all seeking, in parts of the world best known to myself. If I myself were fair, why should not fairness as well be given to me?

And with no more than this established, and nothing definite in plan, either, for the present, I mechanically opened the door of the taxi for her when the driver pulled up and bent a querying face about to ask whether or not we now were opposite Slip K. I noted that he did not at once drive away. Evidently he sat for some moments gazing after us as we disappeared in the gloom of the river-front. His tale, as I afterward learned, enabled the morning papers to print a conclusive story describing the abduction of Miss Emory and her undoubted retention on the stolen yacht, which, after lying at or near New Orleans, some time that night, once more mysteriously had disappeared.

No doubt remained, according to this new story, that the supplies put aboard at Slip K by Lavallier and Thibodeau had gone to this very craft, the stolen yacht! With this came many wild and confusing accounts and descriptions, including a passionate interview with Mr. Calvin Davidson, of New York, who had announced his intention of overhauling these ruffians, at any cost whatsoever; and much counsel to the city officials, mingled with the bosom-beating of one enterprising journal which declared it had put in commission a yacht of its own, under charge of two of its ablest reporters, who had instructions to take up the chase and to remain out until the mystery had been solved and this beautiful young woman had been rescued from her horrible situation and restored again to her home. There were more portraits of Helena—furnished, most like, from Cal Davidson's collection; one also of Aunt Lucinda (from a photograph of far earlier days); and lastly, a half-page portrait of myself, the unnamed ruffian who was the undoubted leader in this abduction—the portrait being drawn by a staff artist "from description of eye-witnesses." As I later saw this portrait I rejoiced that I was long ignorant of its existence: and had I known that night that yonder chauffeur to whom I had given undue largess had such treason as that portrait in his soul, I know not what I might have done with him.

But of this misinformation, of course, I was at the time ignorant, as was all the city ignorant of the truth. What happened was otherwise, nor was the truth learned even by the great metropolitan journals of the North, which now recognized the existence of a "big story", and added their keener noses to the trail. The great fact overlooked by them all was that they pursued no criminal, but a man of education, I may fairly say of brains.

In my law practise many baffling cases came to me, because I most liked, precisely, that sort of case. Once, for instance, a family of my town well-nigh was disrupted by a series of anonymous letters, done in typewriting, accusing an honorable man of dishonorable conduct. The letters left the man's wife in an agony of loyalty and suspicion alike. He brought me the letters, and to me the case was simple from the start. I got the repair slips of a certain typewriter house, and compared them until I found a machine with a bent letter M—knowing as I did that each machine has its own individuality as ineradicable and as inescapable as any personal handwriting. So at last I went to a small outlying city, and going into a business house there asked to see the stenographer in private. "My dear Miss ——," I said to her, "why do you persist in sending these letters to Mr. ——?" I laid them before her, and she wept and confessed, very naturally.

That was merely jealousy of a discharged employee; and it was easy as a case—easier I always thought, than the probate case I won over a contested signature charge filed by certain heirs under a will. In this case I merely went to the dead man's earlier home and learned his history. Time out of mind he, a thrifty and respected German, had held some petty county office or other; and by going over old county warrants and receipts signed in forty years by my man, I discovered what I already knew—that a man's signature changes many times during his life, especially if he begins life as an uncultured immigrant and advances to a fair business success later in his life: so that his later signatures on records proved his signature in his will.

Again, liking these simple mysteries, I had long ago learned to laugh at the old and foolish assertion that murder will out, that not the most skilful criminal can long conceal a capital crime. It is not true. No one knows how many murders and other crimes go unsolved or even unknown. The trouble with murderers, as I knew well enough, was that they lacked mentality. And often I said to myself that were it in my heart to kill a man, I assuredly could do so, and all my life escape unsuspected of the crime.

It may be that my fondness for these less obvious things in the law had rendered me a trifle different from my fellow men. I could never approach any question in life without wanting to go all about it and to the bottom and top, like a cooper with his barrel. I was thus actuated, without doubt, in my relations years since with Helena Emory—I knew the shrewdness and accuracy of my own trained mind. I confess I exulted in the infallible, relentless logic of my mind, a mind able and well trained, especially well trained in reason and argument. So, when I put the one great brief of all my life before Helena, my splendid argument why should she love me, I did so, at first, in the conviction that it must be convincing. Had I not myself worked it out in each detail, had not my calm, cool, accurate reason guarded each portal? Was it, indeed, not a perfect brief—that one I held in my first lost case—the lost case which sent me out of my profession, left me a stranded hulk of a man?

But then, when these two pirate youngsters had found me and touched me with the living point of some new flame of life, so that I knew a vast world existed beyond the nature of the intellect, the old ways clung to me, after all. Even as I swore to lay hold on youth and on adventure (and on love, if, in sooth, that might be for me now), I could not fight as yet wholly bare of the old weapons that had so long fitted my hand. So, even on that very morning when we set forth from my farm to be pirates, my mind ran back to its old cunning, and I recalled my earlier boast to myself that if I ever cared to be a criminal I knew I could be able to cover my tracks.

Those writing-folk, therefore, who now wasted thousands of dollars in pursuit of trace and trail of Black Bart, wealthy ex-lawyer, knew nothing of their man, and guessed nothing of his caliber or of his methods. They even failed to look in plain sight for their trail maker. And having done so, they forgot that water leaves no trail. Yet that simple thought had come to my mind as I had sat at breakfast in my own house, some weeks before this time! Even then I had planned all this.

Absorbed as I had been in this pursuit of Helena, baffled as I had been by her, unhappy as I now was over her own unhappiness, fierce as was my love for her, still and notwithstanding, some trace of my old self clung to me even now when, her hand on my arm, I guided Helena in silence over the creaking planks of the dock, and saw, at last, dim beyond the edge, the boom of the Mississippi's tawny flood, rolling on and onward to the sea. Here was a task, a problem, a chase, an endeavor, an adventure! To it, I was impelled by my old training; into it I was thrust by all these fevers of the blood. Even though she did not love me, she was woman ... in the dark air of night, it seemed to me, I could smell the faint maddening fragrance of her hair.... No. It was too late! I would not release her. I would go on, now!

And with this resolution, formed when I caught sight of the passing flood, I found a sudden peace and calm, and so knew that I was fit for my adventure as yon other boy, L'Olonnois, was for his.

I paused at the edge of the wharf, at the side of our boat. We still were arm in arm, still silent, though she must have felt the beating of my heart.

"Helena," I whispered, "yonder, one step, and your parole is over. Here it is not. That boat, just astern, is the one in which Cal Davidson chased us all the way from Natchez, in which I chased him all the way from Dubuque. His men do not know we are here, nor does he as yet. Now, what is it that you wish to do?"

She stood silent for some time, tightening her wrap at the throat against the river damp, and made no answer, though her gaze took in the dark hull of the low-lying craft made fast below us. When at last:

"One thing," she began, "I will not do."

"What is it?" I asked. We spoke low, but I well knew my men were aware of our coming.

"I shall ask no favor of you." And as she spoke, she stepped lightly on the rubbered deck of the Belle Helene.

"Halt! Who goes there?" called the hoarse voice of Jean Lafitte, the faithful: and I knew the joy of the commander feeling that loyalty is his.

"'Tis I, Black Bart," I answered, full and clear. "Cast off, my friends!"

At once the Belle Helene was full of activity. Peterson I met at the wheel. I heard the bells jangle below. I saw Jean, active as a cat, ready at the mooring-stub, waiting for the line to ease. Then with my own hand I threw on every light of the Belle Helene, so that she blazed, in the power of six thousand candles, search-light and all: so that what had been a passing web of gloom now became a rippling river. The warehouses started into light and shade, the shadows of the wharf fled, the decks of the grimy craft alongside became open of all their secrets.

And now, revealed full in the flood of light as she stood at the side portal, Helena did what I had not planned. Freed of her parole she was—and she had asked no favor of me—so she had right to make attempt to escape; and I gently stepped before her even as Jean cast off and sprang aboard: and as I heard L'Olonnois' voice imperatively demanding silence of the pounding at the after cabin door. All at once, I heard what Helena heard—the rattle of wheels on the stone flagging of the street beyond. And then I saw her fling back her cloak and stand with cupped hands. Her voice was high, clear and unwavering, such voice as a pirate's bride should have, fearless and bold.

"Ahoy, there! Help! Help!" she cried.

Some sort of shout came from the street, we knew not from whom. A noise of an opening hatch came from the Sea Rover at our stern, and a man's tousled head came into view.

"What's goin' on here," he demanded, as quaveringly as querulously.

I made no answer, but saw our bows crawl out and away, felt the sob of the screws, the arm of the river also, and knew a vast and pleasing content with life.

"L'Olonnois!" I called through the megaphone.

"Aye, aye, Sir!" I heard his piping rejoinder.

"Cast loose the stern-chaser and fire her at yon varlet if he makes a move." I knew our deck cannon was loaded with nothing more deadly than newspapers, but I also knew that valor feeds on action. Not that I had given orders to fire on the world in general. So, I confess, I was somewhat surprised, soon after the shout of approval which greeted my command, to hear the air rent by the astonishing reverberation of our Long Tom, which rolled like thunder all along the river-front, breaking into a thousand echoes in the night.

I heard the patter of feet along the deck, and had sight of Jean Lafitte tugging at a halyard. Not content with our defiance of law and order, he must needs break out the Jolly Rover with its skull and cross-bones. And as we swung swiftly out into midstream, ablaze in light from bow to stern, ghostlike in our swiftness and the silence of our splendid engines, I had reason to understand all the descriptive writing which, as I later learned, greeted the defiant departure of this pirate craft and its ruffian crew. Thus I bade all the world come and take from me what I had taken for my own.

I stepped to the wheel with Peterson, expecting to find him pale in consternation. To my surprise he was calm, save for a new glitter in his eye.

"There's nothing on the river can touch her," said he, as he picked up his first channel light and called for more speed. "Let 'em come!"

A sudden recklessness had caught us all, it seemed, the old spirit of lawless man breaking the leash of custom. I shared it—with exultation I knew I shared it with these others. The lust of youth for adventure held us all, and the years were as naught.

I turned now to find Helena, and met L'Olonnois, his face beaming.

"Wasn't that a peach of a shot?" said he. "It would of blew yon varlet out of the water, if I'd had anything to load with except just them marbles. Are you looking for Auntie Helen? She has just went below."



CHAPTER XXVII

IN WHICH WE REACH THE SPANISH MAIN

It was as Peterson had said—nothing on the river could touch the Belle Helene. And it also was as I had not said but had thought—the water left no trail. By daylight we were far below the old battle-field, far below the old forts, far below La Hache, and among the channels of the great estuary whose marshes spread for scores of miles on either hand impenetrably. Quarantine lay yonder, the Southwest Passage opened here; and on beyond, a stone's throw now for a vessel logging our smooth speed, rolled the open sea. And still there rose behind us the smoke of no pursuing craft, nor did any seek to bar our way. So far as I knew, the country had not been warned by any wire down-stream from the city. We saw to it that no calling points were passed in daylight. As for the chance market shooter paddling his log pirogue to his shooting ground in the dawn, or the occasional sportsman of some ducking club likewise engaged, they saluted us gaily enough, but without suspicion. Even had they known, I doubt whether they would have informed on us, for all the world loves a lover, and these Southerners themselves now traveled waters long known to adventure and romance.

So at last, as the sun rose, we saw the last low marshy points widen, flatten and recede, and beyond the outlying towers of the lights caught sight of lazy liners crawling in, and felt the long throb of the great Gulf's pulse, and sniffed the salt of the open sea.

I had not slept, nor had Peterson, nor had Williams, my engineer. My men never demurred when hard duty was asked of them, but put manly pride above union hours, I fancy, resolved to show me they could endure as long as I. And I asked none to endure more. Moreover, even my pirate crew was seized of some new zest. I question whether either Jean Lafitte or Henri L'Olonnois slept, save in his day clothing, that night of our run from New Orleans; for now, just as we swept free of the last point, so that we might call that gulf which but now had been river, I heard a sound at my elbow as I bent over a chart, and turned to see both my associates, the collars of their sweaters turned up against the damp chill of the morning.

"Where are we now, Black Bart?" asked Jean Lafitte. I could see on his face the mystic emotion of youth, could see his face glorified in the uplifting thrill of this mystery of the sea and the dawn and the unknown which now enveloped us. "Where are we now?" he asked; but it was as though he feared he slept and dreamed, and that this wondrous dream of the dawn might rudely be broken by some command summoning him back to life's routine.

"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 Cote Blanche. Here comes the Chafalay, through its new channel—all this floating hyacinth, all this red water, comes from Texas soil, from the Red River, now discharging in new mouths. Yonder, west of the main boat channels that make toward the railways far inland, lie the salt reefs and the live-oak islands. Here is the long key they now call Marsh Island. It was not an island until you, stout Jean Lafitte, ordered the Yankee Morrison to take a hundred black slaves with spades and cut a channel across the neck, so that you could get through more quickly from the Spanish Main to the hidden bayous where your boats lay concealed—until the wagons from Iberia could come and traffic at the causeway for your wares. Do you not remember it well?"

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

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

"How do you mean, Black Bart?" demanded he.

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

"You mean we'll go aground?"

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

"Yon varlet don't know where we have went," commented L'Olonnois in his alarming grammar.

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

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

"We could," said I, "but we will not."

"Why not?" He seemed chilled by my reply.

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

"Until the fair captive has gave her consent," broke in L'Olonnois, also with enthusiasm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXVIII

IN WHICH IS CERTAIN POLITE CONVERSATION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You need not trouble about my health!"

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

"Don't 'dear Mrs. Daniver' me! I'm not your dear Mrs. Daniver at all."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Helena!" remarked her aunt, frowning.

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

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

It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow line of pelicans; and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket, I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in safety. All the world seemed a million miles away. Care did not exist. And—so intimate and swiftly comprehensive is the human soul, especially the more primal soul of woman—already and without words, this young woman seemed to feel the less need of conversation, to recognize the slackening rein of custom. So that a rug and a wrapper—granted always also an aunt—seemed to her not amiss as full equipment for reception of a morning caller.

"A very good orange," said she at last.

"Yes," said her aunt promptly; "I'm sure we ought to thank Mr. Davidson for them. He was such a good provider."

"Except in waistcoats," I protested, casually indicating his latest contribution to my wardrobe. "Quantity, yes, I grant that, but as to quality, never! But why speak ill of the absent, especially regarding matters of an earlier and bygone day? Yon varlet no longer exists for us—we no longer exist for him. We have passed, as two ships pass yonder in the channel. I know not what he may be doing now, unless carrying roses to Miss Sally Byington. Certainly he can not know that I, his hated rival, am safe from all pursuit behind the Timbalier Shoals, and carrying oranges to a young lady in my belief almost as beautiful as the beautiful Sally."

Aunt Lucinda turned upon me a baleful eye. "You grow flippant as well as rude, sir! As though you knew anything of that Byington girl. I doubt if you ever saw her."

"Oh, yes—last night. Miss Emory and I both saw her, last night, at Luigi's. As for yon varlet's providing, while I would not too much criticize a man whose waistcoats I wear even under protest, it is but fair to say that these oranges and all the fresh things taken on at New Orleans, are of my providing, and not his. He was so busy providing other things for Miss Sally Byington."

"I don't think she is so beautiful," said Helena, ceasing with her orange. "Her color is so full. Very likely she'll be blowsy in a few years."

"How can you say so!" I rebuked, with much virtuous indignation. But at the time I felt my heart leap at sight of Helena herself, the lines of her slim graceful figure defined even under the rug she had drawn about her neck, the wind-blown little neck curls and the long fuller lock now plain against her fresh face, blown pale by the cool salt air that sang above us gently. I could no longer even feign an interest in any other woman in the world. So very unconsciously I chuckled to myself, and Helena heard me.

"You don't think so yourself!" she remarked.

"Think what?"

"That she is so beautiful."

"No, I do not. Not as beautiful as——"

"Look at the funny bird!" said Helena suddenly. Yet I could see nothing out of the ordinary in the sea-bird she pointed out, skimming and skipping close by.

"Sir," demanded Aunt Lucinda, also suddenly, "how long is this to last?"

"You mean the orange-dish, Mrs. Daniver?" I queried politely. "As long as you like. I also am a good provider, although to no credit, as it seems."

"You know I do not mean the oranges, sir. I mean this whole foolish business. You are putting yourself liable to the law."

"So did Jean Lafitte, over yonder in Barataria," said I, "but he lived to a ripe old age and became famous. Why not I as well?"

"—You are ruining those two boys. I weep to think of our poor Jimmy—why, he lords it about as though he owned the boat. And such language!"

"He shall own a part of her if he likes, if all comes out well," said I. "And as for Jean Lafitte, Junior, rarely have I seen a boy of better judgment, cooler mind, or more talent in machinery. He shall have an education, if he likes; and I know he will like."

"It is wonderful what a waistcoat will do for the imagination," remarked Helena, wholly casually. I turned to her.

"I presume it is Mr. Davidson who is to be the fairy prince," added Aunt Lucinda.

"No, myself," I spoke quietly. Aunt Lucinda for once was almost too unmistakable in her sniff of scorn.

"I admit it seems unlikely," said I. "Still, this is a wonderful age. Who can say what may be gained by the successful pirate!"

"You act one!" commented Aunt Lucinda. "It is brutal. It is outrageous. It is abominable. No gentleman would be guilty of such conduct."

"I grant you," said I, but flushed under the thrust. "But I am no longer a gentleman where that conflicts with the purpose of my piracy. I come of a family, after all, madam, who often have had their way in piracy."

"And left a good useful business to go away to idleness! And now speak of doing large things! With whose money, pray?"

"You are very direct, my dear Mrs. Daniver," said I mildly, "but the catechism is not yet so far along as that."

"But why did you do this crazy thing?"

"To marry Helena, and with your free consent as her next friend," said I, swiftly turning to her. "Since I must be equally frank. Please don't go!" I said to Helena, for now, very pale, she was starting toward the cabin door. But she paid no heed to me, and passed.

"So now you have it, plainly," said I to Mrs. Daniver.

She turned on me a face full of surprise and anger mingled. "How dare you, after all that has passed? You left the girl years ago. You have no business, no fortune, not even the girl's consent. I'll not have it! I love her." The good woman's lips trembled.

"So do I," said I gently. "That is why we all are here. It is because of this madness called love. Ah, Mrs. Daniver, if you only knew! If I could make you know! But surely you do know, you, too, have loved. Come, may you not love a lover, even one like myself? I'll be good to Helena. Believe me, she is my one sacred charge in life. I love her. Not worthy of her, no—but I love her."

"That's too late." But I saw her face relent at what she heard. "I have other plans. And you should have told her what you have told me."

"Ah, have I not?" But then I suddenly remembered that, by some reversal of my logical mind, here I was, making love to Auntie Lucinda, whom I did not love, whereas in the past I had spent much time in mere arguing with Helena, whom I did love.

"I'm not sure that I've ever made it plain enough to her, that's true," said I slowly. "But if she gives me the chance, I'll spend all my life telling her that very thing. That, since you ask me, is why we all are here—so that I may tell Helena, and you, and all the world, that very thing. I love her, very much."

"But suppose she does not love you?" demanded Mrs. Daniver. "I'll say frankly, I've advised her against you all along. She ought to marry a man of some station in the world."

"With money?"

"You put it baldly, but—yes."

"Would that be enough—money?" I asked.

"No. That is not fair——"

"—Only honor between us now."

"It would go for to-day. Because, after all, money means power, and all of us worship power, you know—success."

"And is that success—to have money, and then more money—and to go on, piling up more money—to have more summer places, and more yachts like this, and more city houses, and more money, money, money—yes, yes, that's American, but is it all, is it right, is it the real ambition for a man! And does that bring a woman happiness?"

"What would you do if you had your money back?" asked Mrs. Daniver. "You had a fortune from your father."

"What would I do?" I rejoined hotly. "What I did do—settle every claim against his honor as much as against his estate—judge his honor by my own standards, and not his. Pay my debts—pay all my debts. It's independence, madam, and not money that I want. It's freedom, Mrs. Daniver, that I want, and not money. So far as it would be the usual money, buying almost nothing that is worth owning, I give you my solemn oath I don't care enough for it to work for it! So far as it would help me be a man, help me to build my own character, help me build manhood and character in my country—yes, I'd like it for that. But if money were the price of Helena herself, I'd not ask for it. The man who would court a girl with his money and not his manhood—the woman who marries for money, or the man who does—what use has God Almighty got for either of them? It's men and women and things worth doing who make this world, Mrs. Daniver. I love her, so much, so clearly, so wholly, that I think it must be right. And since you've asked me, I've taken my man's chance, just to get you two alone, where I could talk it over with you both."

"It's been talked over, Harry," said she, rather uncomfortably. "Why not let the poor child alone? Has it occurred to you how terribly hard this is for her?"

"Yes. But she can end it easily. Tell me, is she engaged to Davidson?"

"What difference?"

"None."

"Why ask, then?"

"Tell me!"

"Well then, no, not so far as I know."

"You are sorry?"

"I had hope for it. It was all coming on so handsomely. At Natchez he was—he was, well, you know——"

"Almost upon the point?"

"Quite so. I thought, I believed that between there and——"

"Say between there and Baton Rouge——"

"Well, yes——"

"He would come to the main point?"

"Yes."

"And he did not?"

"You can best answer. It was at Natchez that you and those ruffianly boys ran off with Mr. Davidson's boat!"

"That's all, your Honor," I remarked. "Take the witness, Mr. Davidson!"

"But what right you have to cross-question me, I don't know!" commented Mrs. Daniver, addressing a passing sea-gull, and pulling down the corners of her mouth most forbiddingly.

"My disused and forgotten art comes back to me once in a while, my dear Mrs. Daniver," I answered exultantly. "Pray, do you notice how beautiful all the world is this morning? The sky is so wonderful, the sea so adorable, don't you see?"

"I see that we are a long way from home. Tell me, are these sharks here?"

"Oodles," said I, "and very large. No use trying to swim away. And yonder coast is inhabited only by hostile cannibals. Barataria itself, over yonder, is to-day no more than a shrimp-fishing village, part Chinese, part Greek and part Sicilian. The railway runs far to the north, and the ship channel is far to the east. No one comes here. It is days to Galveston, westward, and between lies a maze of interlocking channels, lakes and bayous, where boats once hid and may hide again. Once we unship our flag mast, and we shall lie so saucy and close that behind a bank of rushes we never would be seen. And we do not burn coal, and so make no smoke. Here is my chosen hiding ground. In short, madam, you are in my power!"

"But really, how far——"

"Since you ask, I will answer. Yonder, to the westward, a bayou comes into Cote Blanche. Follow that bayou, eighty miles from here, and you come to the house of my friend, Edouard Manning, the kindest man in Louisiana, which is to say much. I had planned to have the wedding there."

"Your effrontery amazes me—I doubt your sanity!" said Aunt Lucinda, horrified. "But what good will all this do you?"

She had a certain bravery all her own, after all. Almost, I was on the point of telling her the truth; which was that I had during the long night resolved once more to offer my hand to Helena, and if she now refused me, to accept my fate. I would torture her no more. No, if now she were still resolute, it was my purpose to sail up yonder bayou, to land at the Manning plantation, and there to part forever from Helena and all my friends. I knew corners of the world far enough that none might find me.

But I did not tell Aunt Lucinda this. Instead, I made no answer; and we both sat looking out over the rippling gulf, silent for some time. I noted now a faint haze on the horizon inshore, like distant cloud-banks, not yet distinct but advancing. Aunt Lucinda, it seemed, was watching something else through the ship's glasses which she had picked up near by.

"What is that, over yonder?" asked she—"it looks like a wreck of some kind."

"It is a wreck—that of a lighthouse," I told her. "It is lying flat on its side, a poor attitude for a lighthouse. The great tidal wave of the gulf storm, four years ago, destroyed it. We are now, to tell the truth, at the edge of that district which causes the Weather Bureau much uncertainty—a breeding ground of the tropical cyclones that break between the Indies and this coast."

"And you bring us here?"

"Only to pass to the inner channels, madam, where we should be safer in case of storm. To-night, we shall anchor in the lee of a long island, where the lighthouse is still standing, in its proper position, and where we shall be safe as a church."

"Sharks! Storms! Shipwrecks!" moaned she.

—"And pirates," added I gently, "and cannibals. Yes, madam, your plight is serious, and I know not what may come of it all—I wish I did."

"Well, no good will come of it, one thing sure," said Aunt Lucinda, preparing to weep.

And indeed, an instant later, my mournful skipper seemed to bear her out. I saw Peterson standing expectant, a little forward, now.

"Well, Peterson?" I rose and went to him.

"I beg pardon, sir, Mr. Harry," said he somewhat anxiously, "but we've bent her port shaft on a cursed oyster reef."

"Very well, Peterson. Suppose we run with the starboard screw."

"And the intake's clogged again with this cursed fine sand we've picked up."

"After I warned Williams?"

"Yes, sir. And that's not the worst, sir."

"Indeed? You must be happy, Peterson!"

"We can't log over eight knots now, and it's sixty miles to our light back of the big key."

"Excellent, Peterson!"

"And the glass is falling mighty fast."

"In that case, Peterson," said I, "the best thing you can do is to hold your course, and the best thing I can do is to get ready for lunch."

"The best thing either of us can do is to get some sleep," said he, "for we may not get much to-night. She'll break somewhere after sunset to-night, very likely."

"Peterson," said I, "let us hope for the worst."

All the same, I did not wholly like the look of things, for I had seen these swift gulf storms before. A sudden sinking of the heart came over me. What if my madness, indeed, should come to mean peril to her? Swiftly I stepped back to the door of the ladies' cabin, where Mrs. Daniver now disappeared. "Helena!" I cried.

"Yes?" I heard her answer as she stepped toward the little stair.

"Did you say 'Yes'?" I rejoined suddenly.

"No, I did not! I only meant to ask what you wanted."

"As though you did not know! I wanted only to call you to get ready for luncheon. One of the owners of this waistcoat has provided a pompano, not to mention some excellent endive. And the weather is fine, isn't it?"



CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH IS SHIPWRECK

It must be understood that our party on the Belle Helene was divided into two, or rather, indeed, three camps, each somewhat sharply defined and each somewhat ignorant of the other's doings in detail. The combination of either two against the other, in organized mutiny, might very well prove successful, wherefore it was my task to keep all apart by virtue of the authority which I had myself usurped. The midship's cabin suite, of three rooms, was occupied by myself and my two bold young mates—when the latter were not elsewhere engaged. We made what might be called the ruling classes. Forward of our cabin, and accessible only from the deck, was the engine-room where Williams worked, and off this were two bunks, well ventilated and very comfortable, occupied by Williams and Peterson. Forward of this, and also accessible only from the deck, lay the dining saloon, with its fixed table, its cupboards, dish racks and wine-room. In her bows and below the saloon was the cook's gallery, a dumb-waiter running between; and the sleeping quarters of John, the cook, and Willy, the deck-hand, were in the forecastle below. This left the two captives all the after part of the ship pretty much to themselves, and as the after-suite of cabins was roomy and fitted with every modern nautical luxury, they lacked neither freedom nor comfort, so far as these may obtain on shipboard. Obviously, I said little to the ship's crew, except to Peterson, and my two mates had orders to keep to their own part of the ship, under my eye.

Thus, like ancient Gaul, divided into three parts, we sailed on our wholly indefinite voyage; and all I could do was to live from day to day, or hour to hour. I was content, for Helena was there. Indeed, I question if, these last three years, her image had not been always present in my consciousness; such are the fevers of our unreasoning blood, such the power of that madness known as love.

But, thus divided as was our company, I had none such excellent opportunity for often seeing Helena, as might at first be supposed. She and her aunt refused to join us at any meal in the dining saloon; although, now and then, they came for breakfast to what Auntie Lucinda with scorn called the "second table". It was not feasible for me, often, to do more than call of a morning to inquire if all was well with them; and conversation through a lead-glass transom is not what one would call intimate. Helena could bar her door if she liked in more ways than one; and against the fences that she raised against me one way or another, what with headaches, whims or Aunt Lucinda, I had now no chance to meet her alone save as she herself might dictate. So that, after all, though now I stood as commander of the Belle Helene in place of yon varlet, Cal Davidson, although I ate his ship's stores, wore, indeed, his waistcoats and his neckties when that was humanly possible, I was his successor only and not his equal. He could—nay, had done so—meet Helena as he liked, at meals, on deck, on a thousand errands, whereas I was helpless to do so. He could talk with her all over the ship, take her alone on deck of a moonlit night, listen to her sing, gaze—oh, curse him!—on the little curls on Helena's neck—but no! I could not endure that thought. The round white neck, the white shoulders, the soft curves beneath the peignoir's careless irreverences—why, it was an intolerable thought that any man should raise eye or heart or thought to Helena, save myself. So, this morning, after that rare and unconventional meeting on the after deck, one easily may see how much I wished all Gaul were divided into but two parts, and that the occupants of the reserved after cabin would come to lunch in the saloon with their captors, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L'Olonnois.

Now, 'tis an odd thing, but one of my superstitions, that when we wish much and fervently and cleanly for any certain thing, one day that thing is ours. Some day, some time, some hour or instant, our dear desire, our coveted thing, our wish, comes and flutters and alights at our side; if really we have deserved it and have wished long and deeply and honestly and purposefully. You ask proof? Well, then, hardly had we three, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L'Olonnois, seated ourselves at table for luncheon that day before I became sensible of a faint shadow at the saloon stair. I saw a trim boot and a substantial ankle which I knew belonged to Aunt Lucinda; and then I looked up and saw on the deck Helena also, stooped, her clean-cut head, with its blown dark hair, visible against the blue sky.

"May I come in?" she asked gaily enough. And I reached up next to her to hand her down, and smooth down her skirt for her at the rather awkward narrow stair.

"You are always invited," said I, and perhaps I flushed in my pleasure. "John," I called down the tube, "two more—the ladies." And I heard his calm "All lite."

My young gentlemen had risen, politely, but Helena gently pushed them down into their places. "Be seated here, ladies," said I. "These places are, as you see, always spread for you. Your covers wait. And all the ship's silver shall see duty now. L'Olonnois, my hearty, you and I shall serve, eh? I am, indeed, delighted—greatly delighted—I shall not inquire, I shall only hope."

"Well," boomed the deep voice of Auntie Lucinda, "we came because we did not like the look of things."

"To be sure, things are not looking bully," I assented vaguely.

"I mean the weather. It's getting black, and it's colder. And after what you told me about the storms, and that lighthouse being blown down——"

"My dear Mrs. Daniver," said I, helping her to her chair while L'Olonnois served his Auntie Helena in like fashion, "you really must not take one too seriously. That lighthouse fell over of its own weight—the contractor's work was done shamefully."

"But you said it blew," ventured Helena.

"It blows, a little, now and then, to be sure, but never very much, only enough to enable the oyster boats and shrimpers to get in. How could we have oysters without a sailing breeze?"

"It's more than a breeze," said Aunt Lucinda. "My neuralgia tells me——"

"It is fortunate that you honored us, my dear Mrs. Daniver," said I, "for I have here in the cooler a bottle of ninety-three. I had an inspiration. I knew you would come, for nothing in the world could have pleased me so much."

I was looking at Helena, whose eyes were cast down. I observed now that she was in somewhat elegant morning costume, her bridge coat of Vienna lace, caught with a wide bar of plain gold, covering some soft and shimmering under-bodice which fitted closely enough to be formal. And I saw she had on many rings, and that her throat sparkled under a circlet of gems.

She must have caught my glance of surprise, for she said nervously, "You think we are overplaying our return call? Well, the truth is, we're afraid."

"So then?"—and I bowed.

"So then I fished out all my jewelry."

"We are honored."

"Well, I didn't know what might happen. If one should be shipwrecked——" I caught her frightened gaze out an open port, perfectly aware myself of the swift weather change.

"There is nothing like dressing the part of the shipwrecked," said I. "For myself, these same flannels will do."

"Pshaw!" said young L'Olonnois, "suppose she does pitch a little—it ain't any worse'n on the Mauretania when we went across. I ain't scared, are you, John?"

"No," replied Jean Lafitte shyly. He was almost overawed with the ladies. But I liked the look of his eye now.

"She's not as big as the Mauretania," said Helena, fixing L'Olonnois' collar for him.

"I'm sure she's going to roll horribly," added Aunt Lucinda. "And if I should be seasick, with my neuralgia, I'm sure I don't know what I should do."

"I know!" remarked L'Olonnois; and Helena promptly dropped her hand over his mouth.

"Let us not think of storm and shipwreck," said I, "at least until they come. I want to ask your attention to John's imitation of Luigi's oysters a la mariniere. The oysters are of our own catching this morning. For, you must know, the water hereabout is very shallow, and is full of oysters."

"You said full of sharks," corrected Aunt Lucinda.

"Did I? I meant oysters." And I helped her to some from the dumb-waiter and uncorked the very last bottle of the ninety-three left in the case. "And as for this storm of which you speak, ladies," I added as I poured, "I would there might come every day as ill a wind if it would blow me as great a good as yourselves for luncheon."

"Yes," said L'Olonnois brightly, "you might blow in once in a while an' see us fellers. I told Black Bart that captives——" but here I kicked Jimmy under the table. Poor chap, what with his Auntie Helena's hand at one extremity and my boot at the other, he was strained in his conversation, and in disgust, joined Jean Lafitte in complete silence and oysters.

"Really," and Helena raised her eyes, "isn't it growing colder?"

"Jean, close the port behind Miss Emory," said I. It was plain enough to my mind that a blue norther was breaking, with its swift drop in temperature and its possibly high wind.

"The table's actin' funny," commented Jean Lafitte presently. He had never been at sea before.

"Yes," said Aunt Lucinda, with very much—too much—dignity. "If you all will please excuse me, I think I shall go back to the cabin. Helena!"

"Go with Mrs. Daniver at once, Jimmy," said I to L'Olonnois.

"Aye, aye, Sir!" saluted he joyously; and added aside as he passed me, "Hope the old girl's going to be good an' sick!"

I could see Peterson standing near the saloon's door, and bethought me to send Jean Lafitte up to aid him in making all shipshape. We were beginning to roll; and I missed the smooth thrust of both our propellors, although now the engines were purring smoothly enough. Thus by mere chance, I found myself alone with Helena. I put out a hand to steady her as she rose.

"Is it really going to be bad?" she inquired anxiously. "Auntie gets so sick."

"It will be rough, for three hours yet," I admitted. "She's not so big as the Mauretania, but as well built for her tonnage. You couldn't pound her apart, no matter what came—she's oak and cedar, through and through, and every point——"

"You've studied her well, since you—since you came aboard?"

—"Yes, yes, to be sure I have. And she's worth her name. Don't you think it was mighty fine of—of Mr. Davidson to name her after you—the Belle Helene?"

"He never did. If he had, why?"

"Don't ask such questions, with the glass falling as it is," I said, pulling up the racks to restrain the dancing tumblers.

"Oh, don't joke!" she said. "Harry!"

"Yes, Helena," said I.

"I'm afraid!"

"Why?"

"I don't know. But we seem so little and the sea so big. And it's getting black, and the fog is coming. Look—you can't see the shore-line any more now."

It was as she said. The swift bank of vapor had blotted out the low-lying shores entirely. We sailed now in a narrowing circle of mist. I saw thin points of moisture on the port lights. And now I began to close the ports.

"There is danger!" she reiterated.

"All horses can run away, all auto cars can blow up, all boats can sink. But we have as good charts and compasses as the Mauretania, and in three hours——"

"But much can happen in three hours."

"Much has happened in less time. It did not take me so long as that to love you, Helena, and that I have not forgotten in more than five years. Five years, Helena. And as to shipwreck, what does one more matter? It is you who have made shipwreck of a man's life. Take shame for that."

"Take shame yourself, to talk in this way to me, when I am helpless, when I can't get away, when I'm troubled and frightened half to death? Ah, fine of you to persecute a girl!" She sobbed, choking a little, but her head high. "Let me out, I'm going to Auntie Lucinda. I hate you more and more. If I were to drown, I'd not take aid from you."

"Do you mean that, Helena?" I asked, more than the chill of the norther in my blood.

"Yes, I mean it. You are a coward!"

I stood for quite a time between her and the companion stair, my hand still offering aid as she swayed in the boat's roll now. I was thinking, and I was very sad.

"Helena," said I, "perhaps you have won. That's a hard word to take from man or woman. If it is in any way true, you have won and I have lost, and deserved to lose. But now, since little else remains, let me arrange matters as simply as I can. I'll admit there's an element of risk in our situation—one screw is out of commission, and one engine might be better. If we missed the channel west of the shoals, we might go aground—I hope not. Whether we do or not, I want to tell you—over yonder, forty or fifty miles, is the channel running inland, which was my objective point all along. I know this coast in the dark, like a book. Now, I promise you, I'll take you in there to friends of mine, people of your own class, and no one shall suspect one jot of all this, other than that we were driven out of our course. And once there, you are free. You never will see my face again. I will do this, as a ship's man, for you, and if need comes, will give my life to keep you safe. It's about all a coward can do for you. Now go, and if any time of need comes for me to call you, you will be called. And you will be cared for by the ship's men. And because I am head of the ship's men, you will do as I say. But I hope no need for this will come. Yonder is our course, where she heads now, and soon you will be free from me. You have wrecked me. Now I am derelict, from this time on. Good-by."

I heard footfalls above. "Mrs. Daniver's compliments to Captain Black Bart," saluted L'Olonnois, "an' would he send my Auntie Helena back, because she's offle sick."

"Take good care of your Auntie Helena, Jimmy," said I, "and help her aft along the rail."

I followed up the companionway, and saw her going slowly, head down, her coat of lace blown wide; her hand at her throat, and sobbing in what Jimmy and I both knew was fear of the storm.

"Have they got everything they need there, Jimmy?" I asked, as he returned.

"Sure. And the old girl's going to have a peach of a one this time—she can't hardly rock in a rockin' chair 'thout gettin' seasick. I think it's great, don't you? Look at her buck into 'em!"

Jimmy and his friend shared this immunity from mal de mer. I could see Jean now helping haul down our burgee, and the deck boy, Willy, in his hurried work about the boat. Williams, I could not see. But Peterson was now calm and much in his element, for a better skipper than he never sailed a craft on the Great Lakes.

"I think she's going to blow great guns," said he, "and like enough the other engine'll pop any minute."

"Yes?" I answered, stepping to the wheel. "In which case we go to Davy Jones about when, Peterson?"

"We don't go!" he rejoined. "She's the grandest little ship afloat, and not a thing's the matter with her."

"Can we make the channel and run inside the long key below the Cote Blanche Bayou?"

"Sure we can. You'd better get the covers off the boats, and see the bottom plugs in and some water and supplies shipped aboard—but there's not the slightest danger in the world for this boat, let me tell you that, sir. I've seen her perform before now, and there's not a storm can blow on this coast she won't ride through."



CHAPTER XXX

IN WHICH IS SHIPWRECK OF OTHER SORT

After the fashion of these gulf storms, this one tarried not in its coming, nor offered any clemency when it had arrived. Where but a half-hour since the heavens had been fair, the sea rippling, suave and kind, now the sky was not visible at all and the tumbling waves about us rolled savagely as in a nature wholly changed. The wind sang ominously overhead, as with lift and plunge we drove on into a bank of mist. A chill as of doom swiftly had replaced the balm of the southern sky; and forsooth, all the mercy of the world seemed lost and gone.

And as our craft, laboring, thrust forward blindly into this reek, with naught of comfort on any hand, nor even the dimmest ray of hope visible from any fixed thing on ahead, in like travail of going, in like groaning to the very soul, the bark of my life now lay in the welter, helpless, reft of storm and strife, blind, counseled by no fixed ray ahead. I know not what purpose remained in me, that, like the ship which bore us, I still, dumbly and without conscious purpose, forged onward to some point fixed by reason or desire before reason and desire had been engulfed by this final unkindness of the world. For myself, I cared little or none at all. The plunge of the boat, the shriek of the wind, the wild magic and mystery of it, would have comported not ill with a strong man's tastes even in hours more happy, and now, especially, they jumped with the wild protest of a soul eager for some outlet of action or excitement. But for these others, these women—this woman—these boys, all brought into this danger by my own mad folly, ah! when the thought of these arose, a swift remorse caught me; and though for myself I feared not at all, for these I feared.

Needs must, therefore, use every cool skilled resource that lay at hand. No time now for broken hearts to ask attention, the ship must be sailed. Crippled or not, what she had of help for us must be got out of her, used, fostered, nourished. All the art of the navigator must be charged with this duty. We must win through. And, as many a man who has seen danger will testify, the great need brought to us all a great calm and a steady precision in that which needed doing.

I saw Peterson at the wheel, wet to the skin, as now and again a seventh wave, slow, portentous, deadly-deliberate, showed ahead of us, advanced, reared and pounded down on us with its tons of might. But he only shook the brine from his eyes and held her up, waiting for the slow pulse of our crippled engine to come on.

"Can't keep my pipe lit!" he called to me, as I stood beside him; and at last, Peterson, in a real time of danger, seemed altogether happy and altogether free of apprehension beyond that regarding his pipe.

At the first breaking of the storm I had, of course, ordered all ports closed, and had sent both my young companions to the ladies' cabin aft, as the driest part of the boat. Even there, the water that sometimes fell upon our decks as the great waves broke, poured aft and even broke about the cabin, drenching everything above deck. It was man's work that was to be done now, yet none could bear a hand in it save the engineer and the steersman. I was, therefore, ready sternly to reprove Jean Lafitte when, presently, I saw him making the perilous passage forward, clinging to the rail and wet to the skin before he could reach the forward deck. But he protested so earnestly and seemed withal so fit and keen, that I relented and allowed him to take his place by us at the wheel, showing him as well as I could, on the chart, the course we were trying to hold—the mouth of a long channel, six miles or more, dredged by the government across a foot of the bay and making through to deeper and more sheltered waters beyond.

"S'posin' we don't hit her, in this fog!" asked Jean Lafitte.

"It is our business to do that," was my reply. "In an hour or so more we shall know. How did you leave the ladies, Jean?"

"Jimmy, he's sicker'n anything," was his reply, "except the old lady, and she's sicker'n Jimmy! The young lady, Miss Emory, she's all right, an' she's holdin' their heads. She says she don't get sick. Neither do I—ain't that funny? But gee, this is rougher'n any waves ever was on our lake. What're you goin' to do?"

"Hold straight ahead, Jean," I answered. "Now, wouldn't you better go back to the others?"

"Naw, I ain't scared—much. I told Jimmy, I did, any pirate ought to be ashamed to get sick. But they're all scared. So'm I, some," he added frankly.

I might have made some confession of my own, had I liked, for I did not, in the least, fancy the look of things; but after a time, I compromised with sturdy Jean by sending him below into the dining saloon, whence he could look out through the glass front and see the tumbling sea ahead. Through the glazed housing I could see him standing, hands in pockets, legs wide, gazing out in the simple confidence that all was well, and enjoying the tumult and excitement of it all in his boyish ignorance.

"He don't know!" grinned Peterson to me, and I only nodded in silence.

"Where are we, Peterson?" I asked, putting a finger on the wet chart before us.

"I don't know," replied the old man. "It depends on the drift, which we can't calculate. Soundings mean nothing, for she's shallow for miles. If the fog would break, so we could see the light—there ain't any fog-buoy on that channel mouth, and it's murder that there ain't. It's this d——d fog that makes it bad."

I looked at my watch. It was now going on five o'clock, and in this light, it soon would be night for us. Peterson caught the time, and frowned. "Wish't we was in," said he. "No use trying to anchor unless we must, anyhow—she'll ride mighty wet out here. Better buck on into it."

So we bucked on in, till five, till five-thirty, till six, and all the boat's lights revealed was a yellow circle of fog that traveled with us. Wet and chilled, we two stood at the wheel together, in such hard conditions that no navigator and no pilot could have done much more than grope.

"We must have missed her!" admitted the old skipper at last. "I don't fancy the open gulf, and I don't fancy piling her up on some shore in here. What do you think we should do, Mr. Harry?"

"Listen!" said I, raising a hand.

"There's no bell-buoy," said he.

"No, but hark. Don't you hear the birds—there's a million geese and swans and ducks calling over yonder."

"Right, by George!" said he. "But where?"

"They'd not be at sea, Peterson. They must be in some fresh-water lake inside some key or island. On the Long Key there's such an inland lake."

"It's beyond the channel, maybe?" said he. But he signaled Williams to go slow, and that faithful unseen Cyclops, on whose precious engines so much depended, obeyed and presently put out a head at his hatch, quickly withdrawing it as a white sea came inboard.

"We'll crawl on in," said Peterson. "The light can't be a thousand miles from here. If only there was a nigger man and a dinner bell beside the light—that's the trouble. And now—good God! There she goes!"

With a jar which shook the good boat to the core, we felt the bottom come up from the depths and smite us. Our headway ceased, save for a sickening crunching crawl. The waves piled clear across our port bow as we swung. And so we hung, the gulf piling in on us in our yellow rimmed world. And at the lift and hollow of the sea we rose and pounded sullenly down, in such fashion as would have broken the back of any boat less stanch than ours.

Here, in an eye's flash, was danger tangible and real. I heard a shriek from the cabin aft, and called out for them all to keep below and keep the ports closed. Peterson had the power off in an instant, and swung her head as best he could with the dying headway; but it only put her farther on the shoal.

"It's the Timbalier Shoals!" he screamed. "Oh, d—— it all! We'll lose her, now." I recalled that his concern seemed rather for his boat than the lives she carried.

Jean Lafitte came bounding up the companionway, his face pale, but ready for ship's discipline. "Come," said I quickly, "help me with the anchor." A moment later, we sprung the capstan clutch, and I heard the brief growl of the anchor chain as the big hook ran free. Glad enough I was to think of the extra size it had. We eased her down and made fast under Peterson's orders now, and so swung into the head of the sea, which mercilessly lifted us and flung us down like a monkey seeking to crack a cocoanut shell. Williams joined us now, and Willie and John, pale as Jean Lafitte, came up from the forecastle, all shouting and jabbering. I ran aft as soon as might be, and only pulled up at the cabin door to summon such air of calm as I might. I rapped, but followed in, not waiting. Helena met me, pale, her eyes wide, her hair disheveled, but none the less mistress of herself.

"What is it?" she demanded. "What makes it jolt?"

"We've gone aground," said I. "She does pound a little, doesn't she?"

She looked out into the wild night, across which the voices of the confused wild fowl came like souls in torment.

"This is terrible!" said she simply. "Are we lost?"

"No," said I. "Let us hear no such talk. Go below, now, and keep quiet. We may pass the night here, or we may conclude after a little to go on ahead a little farther. We've just dropped the anchor. The island's just over there a way." I did not care to be too specific.

"What is it, oh, what is it?" I heard the faint voice of Mrs. Daniver. "Oh, this is awful. I—am—going—to—die, going to die!" The agony of mal de mer was hers now of full license, for the choppy sea was sustained on the bosom of a long ground swell, coming we knew not whence.

"Jimmy!" I called down. "Are you there?"

"Yes, Sir," answered L'Olonnois bravely, from his place on the floor. "I'm feeling pretty funny, but I'll be all right—maybe."

"Stay right where you are—and you also, Miss Emory. I must go forward now, and just came to tell you it's all right. If there should be any need, we'll let you know. Now keep down, and keep the door shut."

"I'm—going—to—die!" moaned Mrs. Daniver as I left. Helena made no outcry, but that horror possessed her I knew very well, for every reason told us that our case was desperate. The boat might start her seams or break her back, any instant, now.

I found the men trying to make soundings all about us as best they could with boat hooks and a spare spar. But it came to little.

"Peterson," said I, "you're ship's master. What are your orders?"

"Unlash the boat covers," said he. "Get even the dingey ready. Williams, close your hatch and bear a hand to swing the big boat out in her davits. Set the bottom plugs in well. And Mr. Harry, you and John, the Chink, had better get some stores and a case or so of bottled water aboard the long boat. Have you got the slickers and rugs ready, and plenty of clothes? We'll just be ready if it happens. I don't know where that damned light or the damned channel is, but the damned ducks maybe know where some damned thing is. We'll run for them, if we can't ride her out."

We all hurried now, Jean Lafitte at my heels, silent and faithful as a dog, aiding me as I piled blankets and coats and rugs from our cabin into the ship's boat, which swayed and swung perilously at the davits. What with the aid of John, the China boy, and Willy, the deck-hand, we also got supplies aboard her, I scarce knew what, except that there seemed abundance. And then we stood waiting for what might happen, helpless in the hands of the offended elements, and silent all. I held Jean's hand in my own. He was loyal to his mate, even now. "Jimmy'd be here," he said. "'Course he would, only he's so awful sick. I ain't sick—yet, but I feel funny, someway."

Peterson stood looking ahead, but was anxious. "She's coming up stronger," said he, "and two points on the port quarter. We're going on harder all the time. Anchor's dragging. Afraid we're going to lose her, Mr. Harry."

"Hush!" said I, nodding to the boy. "And turn on the search-light. It seems to me I hear breakers in there."

"That's so," said the old man. "Hook on the light's battery, Williams, and let's see what we can see."

The strong beam, wavering from side to side, plowed a furry path into the fog. It disclosed at first only the succession of angry incoming waves, each, as it passed, thudding us down on the bar of shell and mud and slime. But at last, off to starboard and well astern in our new position, riding at anchor, we raised a faint white line of broken water which seemed a constant feature; and now and then caught the low boom of the surf.

"She ain't a half mile, over yonder," I heard Willy, the deck-hand, say. "An' we could almost walk it if it wasn't for the sea."

"Yes, sir," said Williams, "we'd do fine in there now, with them boats. When we hit that white water——"

"Shut up!" ordered Peterson. "Safe as a church, here or there, you lubbers. Stand by your tackle, and keep your chin. Mr. Harry, tell the ladies just to wrap up a bit, because—well, maybe, because——"

"Call me when it is time, Peterson," said I; and moved aft, holding Jean Lafitte by the arm.

"Gee!" said he, as he dropped, wet and out of breath, into the cabin; and "Gee!" remarked a very pale L'Olonnois in return, gamely as he could. And Mrs. Daniver's moans went rhythmic with the pound of the keel on the shoal.

"What shall we do?" asked Helena at last calmly. "Auntie is very sick. I am beginning to fear for her, it is such a bad attack. This is as rough as I ever saw it on the Channel."

"There is no danger," said I, "but Peterson and I just thought that if she kept on pounding in this way, it might be better to go ashore."

I spoke lightly, but well enough I knew the risk of trying to launch a boat in such a sea; and what the surf might be, none could say. Ah, how I wished that my empty assurance might be the truth. For I knew that, anyway we looked, only danger stared back at us now, on every hand.



CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH WE TAKE TO THE BOATS

I looked at the woman I loved, and self-reproach was in my soul, as I saw a shudder go across her form. She was pale, but beyond a swift look at me made no sign connecting me, either with the wreck or the rescue. I think she had even then abandoned all hope of safety; and in my own heart, such, also, was the rising conviction which I concealed. Under the inborn habit of self-preservation, under the cultivated habit of the well born, to show no fear and to use the resources of a calm mind to the last in time of danger, we stood now, at least, in some human equality. And again I lied and said, "There is no danger," though I could see the white rollers and could hear their roar on the shore.

The night grew wilder. The great gulf storm had not yet reached its climax, and none could tell what pitch of fury that might mean. The dull jar of the boat as she time and again was flung down by the waves, the shiver and creak and groan of the sturdy craft, told us that the end might come at any instant, though now the anchor held firm and our crawl on to the shoal had ceased. All around us was water only four or five feet deep, but water whose waves were twice as high. Once the final crash came, and it would be too late to launch a boat, and all of us, overboard in that welter, were gone.

Silently, I stepped on deck once more, and motioned to Willy, the deck-hand, to bring me the life preservers. "Put them on," I said to Helena.

"Oh, I can't. I can't!" moaned the older woman. "I'm dying—let me alone."

"Stop this nonsense, madam," said I sternly—knowing that was the only way—"put it on at once. You too, Miss Emory, and you, my boys. Quick. Then throw on loose wraps—all you can. It will be cold."

In spite of all my efforts to seem calm, the air of panic ran swiftly. Mrs. Daniver awoke to swift action as she tremblingly fastened the belt about her. Pushing past me, she reached the deck, and so mad was she that in all likelihood she would have sprung overboard. I caught at her, and though my clutch brought away little more than a handful of false hair, it seemed to restore her reason though it destroyed her coiffure. "Enough of this!" I cried to her. "Take your place by the boat, and do as you are told." And I saw Helena pass forward, also, as we all reached the deck, herself pale as a wraith, but with no outcry and no spoken word. So, at last, I ranged them all near the boat that swung ready at the davits.

"We can't all get in that," said Jean Lafitte.

"No," said I: and I did not like to look at the tiny dingey which lay on the cabin-top, squat and tub-like, or the small ducking skiff that here on deck was half full of water from the breaking seas.

"Peterson," said I, "take charge of the big boat here. Take Williams to run her motor for you. And the ladies will go with you."

I turned to the two boys, and my heart leaped in pride for them both; for when I motioned to Jimmy to make ready for the large boat, with the ladies, he stepped back, pale as he was. "Not unless John goes, too," said he. And they stood side by side, simply and with no outcry, their young faces grave.

"He must go with us—Jimmy," broke out Helena yearningly: "and so must you."

"Shut up, Auntie," exclaimed Jimmy most irreverently. "Who's a-runnin' this boat, like to know?" Which abashed his auntie very much.

"We'll take this one," said Jean Lafitte, and already was tipping the duck boat. "It'll carry us three if it has to." And I allowed him and his mate to stand by, not daring to look at its inadequate shell and again at the breaking seas.

That left the dingey for Willy and the cook. I glanced at Willy. "Which would you rather chance?" I asked him, "the dingey or the duck boat?"

"The dingey," said he quickly,—and we both knew the cork-like quality of this stubby craft.

"Very well," said I. "Call John, when the word comes to go."

"Aren't you going with us?" asked Helena now, suddenly, approaching me. I took one long look into her eyes, then, "Obey orders," was all I said, and pointed to the larger boat. I said good-by to her then. And, in the swift intuitive justice that comes to us in moments of extremity, I passed sentence upon these young boys and myself. Though they had sinned in innocence, though I had sinned in love, it had been our folly that had brought these others into this peril, and our chance must be the least. Peterson and Williams would be a better team in the big boat than any other we could afford. I saw Peterson step toward us, and divined what was in his mind. "I'm owner of this boat, my man," said I. "Go to your duty. You're needed in the big boat."

"I'm last to leave her," whispered the old man. "She's my boat, and I've run her."

"Peterson," said I, taking him aside, "I'll buy us another boat. But there is no woman on earth, nor ever will be, like that one yonder. Save her. It is your first duty. I wanted that for myself, but she thinks I'm a coward, and I would be, if I arranged our crews any other way than just as we are. Take your boat through. We others will do the best we can. And give the word for the boats when you're sure we can't ride it out."

Silently, the old man touched his cap, and giving me one look, he went to the bows of his boat. The Belle Helene, lashed by the storm, rolled and pulled at her cable, rose, fell thuddingly. And at last, came a giant swell that almost submerged us. I caught Helena to the cabin-top to keep her drier from it, and the two boys also sprang to a point of safety. Mrs. Daniver, less agile, was caught by Peterson and Williams and held to the rail, wetted thoroughly. And by some freak of the wind, at that instant came fully the roar of the surf. We of the Belle Helene seemed very small.

I looked now at Peterson. He raised his little megaphone, which hung at his belt, and shouted loud and clear, as though we could not have heard him at this distance of ten feet. "Get ready to lower away!" Williams and the deck-hand sprang to the falls. "Get the women in the boat, you, Williams," called the skipper, "and go in with them to steady her when she floats. Take his place there, Mr. Harry. Lively now!" And how we got the two women into the swinging boat I hardly knew.

The old skipper cast one eye ahead as a big wave rolled astern. "Now!" he shouted. "Lower away, there!"

The boat dropped into the cup of a sea, rose level with the rail the next instant, and tossed perilously. I saw the two women huddled in the bottom of her, their eyes covered, saw Williams climbing over them and easing her at the bowline. Then, as we seized the next instant of the rhythm, and hauled her alongside, Peterson made a leap and went aboard her, and Williams scrambled back, once more, across the two huddled forms. I saw him wrench at the engine crank, and heard the spitting chug of the little motor. They fell off in the seaway, Peterson holding her with an oar as he could till the screws caught. Then I saw her answer the helm and they staggered off, passing out of the beam of our search-light, so that it seemed to me I had said good-by to Helena forever.

We who remained had no davits to aid us, and must launch by hand. For a moment I stood and made my plans. First, I called to Willy, our deck-hand, who had the dingey now astern, some fashion. "Are you ready?" I demanded: but the next moment I heard his call astern and knew that, monkey-like, he had got her over and was aboard her somehow.

"Now, boys," said I, "come here and shake hands with Black Bart." They came, their serious eyes turned up to me. And never has deeper emotion seized me than as I felt their young hands in mine. We said nothing.

"Now, bear a hand there, you, Jean!" I pulled open the gate of the rail, and ran out the landing stage, on which the flat-bottomed skiff sat. With an oar I pushed it across at right angles as nearly as possible when she cleared. "Quick! Get in, both of you," I called. I was holding the inboard end of the plank under a wedged oar shaft, thrust below the sill of the forward cabin door. They scrambled out and in, Jean grasping the bight of the painter that I handed him, and passing it over the rail.

"Now, look out," I called, and dropped the landing stage to meet the swell of the next wave. They slid, tilted, righted, rose high—and held. The next moment I sprang, fell into the sea, was caught by the collar as my hand grasped the cockpit coaming, and so I slid in, somehow, over the end deck, and caught the end of the painter from John's hand and cast her free.

The drift carried us off at once, and the next wave almost hid the hull of the Belle Helene. I knew at once we were powerless, and that our one hope lay in drifting ashore. There is no worse sea boat than a low, flat ducking boat, decked though she be, and of good coaming, for she butts into and does not rise to a sea. But now, I thanked my star, one thing only was in our favor. We rolled like a log, already half full of water, but we floated, because in each end of our skiff was a big empty tin air tank, put there in spite of the laughing protest of the builder, who said no room was left for decoys under the decks. Just now, those tin cans were worth more than many duck decoys.

"Keep down!" I ordered. "And hold on!" The boys obeyed me. I could see their gaze bent on me, as the source of their hope, their reliance. Jimmy was now free from the first violence of the seasickness, but I saw Jean's hand on his arm.

"Gee!" I heard the latter mutter as the first sea crossed under us. "Dat was a peach." I took heart myself, for we lived that one through. "Bail!" I ordered, and they took their cups to it, while I did all I could with the long punt paddle to make some sort of course. Now and then the blazing trail of the Belle Helene's search-light swung across as we rolled, to leave us, the next instant, in blackness. As the seas permitted, we could see her, riding and rocking, sometimes, alight from stern to stern and making a gallant fight for her life, as were we all.

So long as the rollers came in oily and black, we did well, but where the top of one broke under us, we sank deep into the white foam that had no carrying power, and our cockpit filled so that we all sat in water. Only the tanks held us, log-like, and we bailed and paddled: and after they saw we did not sink, my hardy bullies, perhaps in the ignorance of youth and boy's confidence that a boy and water are friends, began to shout aloud. We wallowed on.

No sound came to us from either of the other boats; and now, very quickly it seemed, we came at the edge of the surf.

"I'm touching bottom, boys," I called, and cast the long punt pole adrift as I took up the short paddle I had held under my leg.

Now we had under us two feet of water or ten, as the waves might say, and any moment we might roll over; but we wallowed in, rolling, till I knew the supreme moment had come. I waited, holding her head in well as I could so unruly a hulk, and as a big roller came after us, paddled as hard as I could. The wave chased us, caught us, pushed us, carried us in. There was a lift of our loggish bows, a blinding crash of white water about us. Our boat was overturned, but in some way, since the beach was all sand and very gentle, the wave flattened so that the back-tow did not pull us down. In some way, I do not know how, I found myself standing, and dragging Jimmy by the hand. Jean already was ahead, and I heard his shout and saw his hand as he stood, knee-deep but safe. So we all made it ashore, and our boat also, which now we hauled out of the spume. And the long white row of breakers, less dangerous than I had feared, came in, white maned and bellowing.

I could still see the rocking lights of the yacht, and the shifting stroke of the search-light on the sea, but I did not hear and see aught else, at the time, and my heart sank.

It was Jimmy whose ear first got the sound which came in—the feverish phut-phut of the motor skiff. Then the ray of the great light swung and I saw the boat still outside the breakers—nor could I tell then why we had beaten her in. It seemed Peterson was hunting for us others.

"Stay back, boys!" I called to my companions. "You might get thrown down by the waves—keep back." But now I was ready to rush in to meet the long boat, whose keel I knew would leave her to overturn if she caught bottom.

But Peterson knew about the keel as well as any, and he caught what he thought was water enough before he yelled to Williams to drive her in. She sped in like an arrow; and again the white wave reared high and broke upon its prey. By then, I was in water to my waist. I caught Helena out with one reach of my arms, just as I saw Williams and Peterson stagger in with Mrs. Daniver between them. In some miraculous way we got beyond danger, and met my pirates, dancing and shouting a welcome to our desert isle. Their advent, thereon, gave the two womenfolk a fervent wish to embrace, sob and weep extraordinarily. I had said nothing to Helena and said nothing now.

"Where's the dingey, Peterson?" I called, as he came up, grinning.

"Coming in," said he; and forsooth that water-rat, Willy, made a better landing of it than any of us, and calmly helped us now to haul the heavy motor skiff up the beach, a few feet at a time as the waves thrust it forward.

"Thank God!" I heard Helena exclaim. "Oh, thank God! We're safe, we're all safe, after all."

I looked at my little group for a time, all soaked to the skin, all huddled now close together. Peterson, Williams, Willy—all the crew, yes. Auntie Lucinda and the woman who had called me a coward—the two captives, yes, Jean Lafitte and Henri L'Olonnois and myself, Black Bart—all the ship's owners. What lacked? For a moment I could not tell why I had the vague feeling that something or some one was missing.

"Willy," said I at last, "where's John, the cook?"

"Why, I don't know," said Willy. "Didn't he come with you?"



CHAPTER XXXII

IN WHICH I RESCUE THE COOK

"What's that?" said Peterson sharply—"you didn't obey orders?"

"Well, I thought he was in the other boat," explained Willy, hanging his head.

"You'll get your time," said the old man quietly, "soon as we get to the railroad—and you'll go home by rail."

"What are you trying to do, Mr. Harry?" he demanded of me, a moment later. I was looking at the long boat.

"Well, he's part of the boat's company," said I, "and we've got to save him, Peterson."

"What's that?" asked Helena now coming up—and then, "Why, John, our cook, isn't here, is he?" She, too, looked at the long boat and at the sea. "How horrible!" she said. "Horrible!"

"What does he mean to do?" she demanded now of Peterson in turn. The old man only looked at her.

"Surely, you don't mean to go out there again," she said.

I turned to them both, half cold with anger. "Do you think I'd leave him out there to die, perhaps? It was my own fault, not to see him in the boat."

"It wasn't," reiterated Peterson. "It was Willy's fault—or mine."

"In either case it's likely to be equally serious for him. We can't leave the poor devil helpless, that way."

"Mr. Harry," began Peterson again, "he's only a Chinaman."

"Take shame to yourself for that, Peterson," said I. "He's a part of the boat's company—a good cook—yes, but more than a good cook——"

"Well, why didn't he come up with the rest of us?"

"Because he was at his place of duty, below, until ordered up," said I.

Peterson pondered for a moment. "That's right," said he at length; "I'll go out with you."

I felt Helena's hand on my arm. "It's awful out there," said she. But I only turned to look at her in the half-darkness and shook off her hand.

"You can't launch the big boat," said Peterson. "You'd only swamp her, if you tried."

"That may be," said I, "but the real thing is to try."

"We might wait till the wind lulls," he argued.

"Yes, and if the wind should change she might drag her anchor and go out to sea. Which boat is best to take, Peterson?"

A strange feeling of calm came over me, an odd feeling not easy to explain, that I was not a young man of leisure, but some one else, one of my ancestors of earlier days, used to encounters with adversity or risk. Calmly and much to my own surprise, I stood and estimated the chances as though I had been used to such things all my life.