It was as Peterson had said--nothing on the river could touch the

Belle Helène. 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.




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