"Surely your soul should tell you, Jean Lafitte," said I, "for yonder,

as I may say, now rolls the Spanish Main. Its lift is now beneath our

feel. You are home again, Jean Lafitte. Yonder are the bays and bayous

and channels in the marshes, where your boats used to hide. And there,

L'Olonnois, my hearty, with you, I was used to ride the open sea,

toward the Isles of Spain, waiting for the galleons to come."

"I know, I know!" said my blue-eyed pirate softly and reverently; and

so true was all his note to that inner struggling soul that lay both

in his bosom and my own, that I ceased to lament for my sin in so

allowing modern youth to be misled, and turned to him with open hand,

myself also young with the undying youth of the world.

"Many a time, Black Bart," said L'Olonnois solemnly, "have we crowded

on full sail when the lookout gave the word of a prize a-comin', while

we laid to in some hidden channel over yonder."

"Aye, aye, many a time, many a time, my hearty."

"--An' loosed the bow-chaser an' shot away her foremast."

"--At almost the first shot, L'Olonnois."

"--So that her top hamper came down in a run an' swung her broadside

to our batteries."

"--And we poured in a hail of chain-shot and set her hull afire."

"--And then launched the boats for the boardin' parties," broke in

Jean Lafitte, standing on one leg in his excitement; "--an' so made

her a prize. An' then we made 'em walk the plank amid scenes of

wassail--all but the fair captives."

I fell silent. But L'Olonnois' blue eyes were glowing. "An' them we

surrounded with every rude luxury," said he, "finally retiring to the

fortresses of the hidden channels of the coast, where we defied all

pursuit. This looks like one of them places, though I may be mistook,"

he added judiciously. I shuddered to see how Jimmy's grammar had

deteriorated under my care.

"Yes," said I, "we are now near to several of those places, scenes of

our bold deeds. The south coast of Louisiana lies on our right, cut by

a thousand bays and channels deep enough for hiding a pinnace or even

a stout schooner. Yonder, Jean, is Barataria Bay, your old home. Here,

under my finger, is Côte Blanche. Here comes the Chafalay, through its

new channel--all this floating hyacinth, all this red water, comes

from Texas soil, from the Red River, now discharging in new mouths.

Yonder, west of the main boat channels that make toward the railways

far inland, lie the salt reefs and the live-oak islands. Here is the

long key they now call Marsh Island. It was not an island until you,

stout Jean Lafitte, ordered the Yankee Morrison to take a hundred

black slaves with spades and cut a channel across the neck, so that

you could get through more quickly from the Spanish Main to the hidden

bayous where your boats lay concealed--until the wagons from Iberia

could come and traffic at the causeway for your wares. Do you not

remember it well?"




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