The two Frenchmen vaulted across the deck, Jean following Dominique to the helm. Belouche stood with his eyeglass already primed on the horizon.
"Coming out the river towards us," said the young rogue.
"What colors she flying?" said Captain You.
"Stars and stripes." Belouche passed the spy glass around. "Shaw?"
Jean already knew the answer. A gunboat coming out of the Mississippi meant Commodore Shaw's squadron.
"You'd think they'd be too occupied with the war effort in the East," said Belouche. "Think they saw us?"
Jean took the spyglass from Dominique, taking a closer look. He watched as the helms turned towards them, their flying colors changing direction as the gunboats tacked around towards the prize.
"Gambi, put out the colors," said Dominique.
Gambi gave him a shrug. An awkward pause held. Dominique turned to his helmsman.
"You didn't bring the colors?"
"That wasn't my job! Si supponeva che Belouche!"
Gambi, and Belouche began arguing with each other in a hearty mix of Spanish, French, and Italian, a multilingual cursing fest indecipherable from the baying of goats. Jean looked over the railing and noticed that the commotion brought on the attention of the crew. No one moved to any orders to counter the approaching gunboats.
Jean looked towards Nez Pence. The looming man shrugged back to Jean, choosing to remain out of the fray. He turned to Dominique.
"And what would Captain Lafitte do in this situation?" he asked to his mentor.
"Make a speech. Then run like hell."
"Crew!" shouted Jean. Jean stepped forward, placing one hand on the bannister, the other held high in the air. He postured for full effect.
"Flying colors or not, this ship be European-made, skipping the passes and cutting closely to the western shore of the Miss. Not hard to guess our destination. Gambi, what's our speed?"
"Not fast enough," came the curt reply.
Jean held his head in his hand. He'd have to address the subversive little man with Dominique later.
"Elaborer?"
"We're into the wind and too heavy, Jean," said Belouche. "Should we jettison some cargo?"
A second of silence passed. Jean smiled wide.
"And allow them to steal what we're already taken?" he cried out.
A laugh arose across the deck. Jean raised his arm.
"We'll put them in irons to keep us out of chains. To the boats!"
Heavy rope stretched across the deck, winded around the mainmast and the gunwales for leverage. The ends of the rope tied to pirogues floating on each side, the crew dispersed between them, ready at the oars. Jean stood in front of the bow, where the men on each side could see him.
"Feast or famine boys! To Barataria! Avanti!"
No one moved. The oars stayed in the air. Jean drooped his head and sighed. He looked towards Dominique.
"Would you do the honors…Captain?"
Domnique smiled.
"Ramé!"
A war cry went up as oars dipped into the water. The ropes stretched forward, then went tense. Wood ached, the ship groaning to higher powers on the seas.
Heaving forward, muscles strained against the tide. As they worked, Jean watched with anticipation the position of the gunboats. At first they held on the horizon, but he noted the luffing of the sails, attempting to beggar the wind. The ships turned away and began to fade. Jean knew it would only be a matter of time before they reappeared, continuing the pursuit.
His hopes grew in tandem with the increasingly heartening sight in front of them.
Barataria Pass.
The boundary at the natural center of Grande Terre and Grande Island, it hid the entrance to the swamps and bayous of Louisiana. Impassible to ships, and impregnable to civilized man,the goods of Europe and South America could disappear into the tangled, shadowed mass of mangroves and out of the eyes of the law.
On Grande Terre, a lookout spotted the incoming ship. A cry went up across the beach. Jean watched as men raised up from their squatters hovels, scurrying to small boats hidden under vegetation strewn across a beach, the general neglect intentionally to give the appearance of uncaring from the wind-blasted hurricane months, the boats ready to fly at the approach of a belligerent.
Others moved to a half-sunken, rotten ship beached on the sand. A haphazard shore battery with cannon pointed outward at the gulf, its existence owed more for intimidation then true arms, as its lack of upkeep and moldy atmosphere made it just as dangerous for the defenders then any invader, if not more so.
The entire scene appeared a kingdom of fleas ready to defend their feral cat.
Jean grasped the rigging, hanging over the water, waving his feathered hat in a circular motion to gain their attention.
"Tis little Lafitte!" someone cried. With that, a cheer went up from the beach, the cries of Little Lafitte hurrahed over and over.
Hearing the call, Jean dropped his hat to his side. He looked down at Dominique dejected.
"At least they're happy to see you?" said Dominique.
Boats launched from the beach to meet them. When they were within earshot, Jean called to them.
"Hurry boys! Shaw's on the hunt!"
The ship heaved to, pulling up short of the pass, unable to be pulled any further without grounding and joining its rotting sister.
Despite their fatigue, the prize crew scrambled back over the sides. In a rush of controlled chaos, goods began to go over the sides. Valuable items were lowered orderly into the attached pirogues. The more buoyant materials went unceremoniously overboard into the water, the arriving smugglers making mad dashes to be to the first to grab.
In the span of a half-hour, the sailors picked the ship clean. The last of the boats scurried into the pass as the gunboats came into view, baring down on the ship.
Lieutenant Daniel Patterson stood on the side of his flagship, hailing down the anchored ship. His men stood in battle quarters, all cannon at the ready. As they came on top of their prey, they were surprised to find the remaining men standing leisurely around the deck, as if on a leisure cruise. Above them in the rigging stood the man waving his feathered cap pleasantly as the gunboat came abeam.
"Capitan Patterson , mon ami!" shouted Jean. "It's good to see you! We were just looking for you."
"The little Lafitte…" muttered the Lieutenant.
Boarding pikes pulled the two ships together, a gangplank laid across amidships connecting the two ships. Red-clad Marines crossed, arms at the ready, establishing a tight receiving line on one side of the deck. Lafitte and the crew stood across from them, casually awaiting their boarding visitors. The Lieutenant went across first, a customs official directly behind him. Belouche whistled Patterson's arrival, eliciting a glare in return.
As the Lieutenant arrived on deck, Jean strode forward and presented his hand. The officer stared at the hand, choosing not to reciprocate the gesture. Clad in his blue uniform, standing next to Jean in his green overcoat, the two struck a sartorial difference from the rags and cloths of the rest of the crew.
"Caught you in the act, eh Jean." Patterson's voice carried the accent of his native Long Island. "Though I am surprised to see you getting your hands dirty. Thought you and your brother were too dandy for this work."
Jean reached behind his back. The Marines tensed, guns at the ready. The mood relaxed when Jean produced a folded Union Jack, presenting it to his visitor.
"On the contrary. Under the laws of privateering of this great country, I present you with this prize. No need to thank me. Simply doing my patriotic duty."
The remark clearly took Patterson back, as he choked at the comment.
"Patriotism!? French, Spanish, Creole, drifters, ruffians, loyal only to your wallets. I should arrest you for piracy!"
Jean stood, unfazed.
"More of us in Louisiana than Americans. Or on this ship for that matter."
Patterson noticed previously unseen men emerging from below decks. The Marines viewed the new arrivals nervously, the amiable mood dissolving.
"Your crew's a bit light," continued Jean. "Not the priority in Washington's eyes for the war effort?"
Biting his tongue, Patterson held his composure.
"If you are a privateer, whose flag do you fly?"
A smile flashed across Jean's face.
"Why, the good old Stars and Stripes! With approval, signed by your president himself."
A hearty cheer rose up from the privateer crew. Jean turned to his crew, encouraging their enthusiasm.
"Show me," said Patterson.
Jean turned back towards the Lieutenant. He blinked twice.
"Hmm?"
Patterson moved his face menacingly close to Jean, so close in fact their large hats battling for space.
"Show me your Letter of Marque. By privateering law, of course."
Reaching into his lapel, Jean rooted through his jacket for a few moments, making a show of searching every pocket.
"Today, if you please?" said Patterson.
Finally Jean produced a piece of paper, handing it towards Patterson. As the Lieutenant reached for it, Jean pulled it away from him.
"I believe only an official member of the customs bureau can read it."
The gathered throng turned their attention to the customs official, a craggy older gentleman squirming behind thick glasses. The man reached out, his shaky hands taking the paper. With aching slowness, he opened the letter and began to read.
The Marines and sailors stood each other down in silence. Jean flashed a smile every time the Lieutenant looked his way. Patterson could barely hide his disdain. After several more interminable minutes of silence, Jean finally spoke.
"I must apologize, sir."
Patterson hesitated, not knowing the Frenchman's purpose.
"For what?"
" I addressed you as Captain. I had forgotten you hadn't been graced with that commendation yet."
Patterson held his tongue, refusing to take the bait.
"I had expected Commodore Shaw," continued Jean. "Is the good Irishman too much of his nature to join us this morning?"
"How dare you suggest the Commodore-"
"I believe Mr. Lafitte's letter is in order," the customs official cut off the Lieutenant.
Patterson's mouth dropped.
"You can't be serious!" He snatched the letter out of the man's hand. He held the parchment high in the air. "The ink is still wet!"
"Probably moisture from the sea," said the old man.
The two sides stood at a precipice, the soldiers and sailors sizing each other up. Sensing the mood, Patterson turned one last time to Lafitte.
"Mark me Lafitte. Someday you and your brother will slip up. You will never be free as long as you continue in this trade. I was sent here because I am good at hanging pirates and capturing French privateers. What do you think I'd do to a French pirate?"
Much to Patterson's disdain, a smile never left Jean's face.
"Privateer," he said.
"The devil mend you!" the Commodore spit out, his New York heritage fully taking over his military demeanor. He hastened over the gangplank, soldiers falling in behind him. Last to cross, the customs official lingered onboard. He handed back Lafitte's letter.
"Legitimate, correct?"
"Why yes," said the old man, "this is a very legitimate recipe for etouffee."
"My spécialité," said Jean. "I'll send some over with double claret in your order this month."
The official nodded. Taking his leave, he depart over the gangplank with the American party. The gunboat cast off, moving hastily to the east to depart from the embarrassing scene.
Jean watched the gunboats moving to the East, back to the head of the Mississippi. Dominique You joined him.
"Narrowly got out of that one. Freedom for another day, eh Jean?" said Dominique.
"Yes. Back to the tedium of the accountant's life." Jean shook his head. "No, freedom is the horizon. And the means to get there."
"The horizon can be treacherous. Believe me Jean," You said. Beyond them, they could see squalls threatening on the horizon. "Nez Pence says the Devil's Wind blows. A bad omen this late in the season."
Jean looked to the noseless man standing on the bow, brow furrowed, hand to the wind.
"He said that, did he?"
The two shared a laugh.
"Fancy a legitimate trip to New Orleans? I need to speak to my brother about a ship."