"On deck there!" I lower the glass and call down, "Look sharp! Uncover the guns and arm yourselves! It might be a trick. Jim, steer in closer to the land in case we have to run all the way in."
"Aye, Missy," sings out Jim Tanner, and the Nancy B's head falls off the wind and we head in toward the shore, which lies several miles off. The mystery brig won't be able to follow us very far in, should she mean to trouble us. Smasher and John Thomas trim the sails to accommodate the new course, and I see they've already got their pistols and swords strapped on. Higgins whips the canvas off our cannons and arms the matchlocks.
I lift the glass again and train it on those curious figures. There are arms upraised and waving, as if begging for help. And they seem to be ... women?"
"What do you make of them, Danny?" I ask, scanning the ship's decks for sign of men but finding none. There is not even anyone at the wheel...'course a ship can be steered in other ways ... hmmmm...
"I dunno. Looks like a bunch o' crazy ladies to me, Missy," says Daniel, equally mystified.
As the seeming derelict drifts closer, I'm able to make out the costumes the women wear. They seem to be dressed in the North African manner—big, loose, billowy dresses, and shawls and ... veils?
"Maybe it's the cargo of a slaver that got lucky and overpowered its crew. Maybe it's a plague ship with a disease on board that's taken the men," I muse. I pick out a rather large woman and keep my glass trained on her. I can see her eyes now as the wind flutters the veil she wears below them and then the stiff breeze flips it up. I see then, that, in addition to the shawl and veil, the woman wears a mustache and beard. Yikes!
"It's a pirate!" I shriek. "Higgins, fire the bow chaser! Aim to sweep the deck!" I launch myself down the rigging, and before my feet hit the top of the hatch, there is a crraaack! as Higgins fires the forward swivel gun, and it launches its load of grapeshot toward the impostors on board the pirate. We can hear cries and shouts from the enemy ship.
"Ready about, Jim, let us fly!" Although we are armed with swivel guns fore and aft and two nine-pound cannons on either side, we are no match for a full-rigged brigantine.
As we swing around, I go to the after port cannon and sight along it. Smasher McGee is at the forward one.
"Fire when she bears, Smasher," I order, sighting along my own gun.
There is a crraack! as McGee fires, and through the smoke I can see that he has hit the pirate on her port bow, sending splinters up in a fine cloud of destruction.
"Good shooting, McGee! That'll get his attention, by God!" I shout and then pull my own lanyard. Crrraaack! goes my gun.
The powder smoke drifts away, and I can see that my shot goes high, but at least it clears the decks of those supposed women in distress. I see shawls and dresses being torn off and the helm being remanned. Whoever he is, he now knows he won't take us without him getting a bloody nose as well.
"Reload, lads!" I shout, and again raise my long glass to train it on this ship that has come to bother us. The sails of our pursuer tighten and a man has leaped to the wheel and the pirate's course becomes straight—straight for us, that is, and cutting off our run to the shore. Well, we can still outrun him.
Who could it be? That rascal Captain Jack Wrenn? I thought we had parted on reasonably good terms, considering he did not get into my pantaloons as he so ardently ... well, never mind that now ... Flaco Jimenez and his band of Hispanic scoundrels? I thought we, too, had parted as friends, after we had all banded together to take the Island of— Nay, it's not either of those, I realize, as I focus my glass on a well-dressed gent who has just gained the quarterdeck. Of course ... Damn! It ain't none of those other members of the piratical brotherhood with whom I could possibly reason; nay, it is none other than Monsieur Jean Lafitte, slaver and pirate, a man who owes me big in the way of revenge.
As the Nancy B swings her tail around to flee from this threat, I sense Higgins's presence beside me.
"It's that damned Lafitte, Higgins," I say, snapping my telescope shut. Our after swivel gun now comes in position to fire, and I go to it.
"Ah," says the imperturbable Higgins without comment.
I sight, dog down the gun, and pull the matchlock lanyard. Crrraack!
But we are too far away now, and the grapeshot merely kicks up spray in front of Lafitte's bow. The gunports open up on the sides of the pirate ship and the cannon, all twenty-four of them, are run out, and we are not too far away to feel the hot breath of those guns, should they come to bear on us. It is lucky that he cannot aim them without turning to the side and hence letting us escape, should his broadside miss us on the first pass. He must content himself with his bow chaser, which he does exercise, but not to much effect. There is a puff of smoke from his bow, and his first shot goes through the foresail, leaving a neat round hole, but does nothing else in the way of damage. 'Course, an unlucky, or lucky ball, depending on how you look at it, could bring his next shot tearing over here and take my head off, but that hasn't happened yet. Still my knees start into their usual trembling that always occurs when they realize that someone is actively trying to kill me.
Dig it out, Nancy, dig it out. We've got to get away, or all is lost.
John Thomas and Smasher McGee, both excellent seamen and seeing the way of things, leave the guns and tend to the sails, aiming to get the most possible pull out of them. The sails strain and the ropes holding them groan as the sailors bend their muscles to tighten up the winches, and the winds and good seamanship be thanked, the space between Lafitte and us grows ever more broad.
I breathe out a cautious sigh of relief—we are going to get away, and we didn't even have to dump the cargo.
"How did he know where to find us, Higgins?" I ask.
"Well," begins Higgins, musing on the question, "you did buy this boat from his boatyard, so he would know about that. And then we have made several trips, so it would not be difficult for him to pick up news of you from the various ports we have visited. He is not stupid and he does have his spies and informants, else he would not have prospered as he has. With your ... uh ... flamboyant ways, you leave quite a visible trail behind you. Our last visit comes to mind, in that tavern in St. Croix, when—"
"Higgins, I was just having a bit of fun with some of my mates from the old freebooting days. But I take your point."
"And, you must admit, Miss, you have tweaked his nose several times, and he owes you a few in return."
"Well, he had it comin'," says I, putting the glass back to my eye. "There's nothing I hate worse than a slaver." I see that Lafitte has been joined on his quarterdeck by his brother Pierre. He has a long glass of his own, and it is trained on me, I know. They seem to be in a jovial mood. Well, Messieurs, don't count your Jackys till they are caught.
"Daniel, let's load the after gun with a shot, if you please."
"Aye, Skipper," says the boy. He undogs it and points the barrel of the swivel gun skyward. He swabs it out and drops in the powder charge, then rams in the wad, followed by the ball, as he has been relentlessly trained. It's only a nine-pound ball, but it might cause a bit of trouble to our pursuer. Another wad rammed in and the lad says, "Ready, Captain."
Lafitte does, indeed, owe me a few. Not only did I steal four hundred and fifty of his prime slaves and set them free on the coast of South America—no, not just that—he also got his cheeks, both upper and lower, peppered with several whiffs of rock salt from the guns of my Belle of the Golden West that day on the New Orleans levee. Then, to rub even more salt into his wounds, I fleeced him the next night at cards, taking enough money from him and his brother to buy the ship on which I now stand. It was at the gaming tables at the House of the Rising Sun, the brothel and gambling den where I was so recently employed, and my success at cards was not entirely due to luck.
I crank the gun up to its highest elevation, judge the distance and angle, and then pull the lanyard.
Crraaack!
We watch the flight of the ball and are pleased to see it arc high in the air and then descend.
Jean and Pierre skip to the side as the ball crashes into the deck not far from their very well-shod feet. I hear Jean Lafitte bark a command and the ship begins to turn away from us.
"Ha! He's running! We scared him off!" I exult. "Look at him fly! Go to the Devil, Jean Lafitte, you miserable bastard!" I yell, all proud and smug with fists on h*ps and looking aft at the fleeing pirate.
I take another look through my glass and am surprised to see the Brothers Lafitte smiling and shaking hands. Hmmm. Why're they doing that? I've slipped away from them yet again; they should be unhappy...
Perhaps sensing that I'm watching him, Jean sweeps off his hat and bows low to me.
"Oh, yes? Well, I'll give you a bow, you poor excuse for a buccaneer what can't even take a poor little schooner. Try this!" And I whip around and put my hands on the hem of my skirt, fully intending to bend over and pull it up and present my backside to him.
But I don't do that at all, for there, directly in front of us, is a forty-four-gun frigate, and even before I can make out the colors she flies, I recognize her instantly as a British warship.
Damn! He's what chased off the Lafittes, not us and our puny guns! And he's edging between us and the shore! Damn!
"Jim! Hard left," I screech. "Don't let him get between us and the shore!"
But it is no use—the Sailing Master of the frigate must be very skilled, it seems to me, as he manages to keep the larger ship leeward of us, and so I know we must make a run for the open sea.
"Prepare to jibe!" I shout, "Jibe, ho!" and the Nancy B swings her tail across the direction of wind and the sail booms swing over and come to on the opposite tack with a snap! that leans her way over on her port side.
What the hell to do? I don't know ... Maybe she wants nothing to do with us? Maybe..."Dip the colors, Daniel," I order without much hope.
Daniel flies up the mast and lowers the waving Stars and Stripes six feet in salute. We watch anxiously for the return recognition.
The warship does not return our dip. Instead there is a deep Boooommm and smoke puffs from her bow chaser as she puts one across our bow. Damn, damn, damn, and double damn! She means to stop and board us!
We gain some distance, but she comes doggedly after us. She's bigger and heavier than us, but she has a greater press of sail. Still, I think we could outrun her if we weren't hauling all that damned granite. If we were headed north with our sugar, we could fairly quickly throw the kegs of molasses overboard and so lighten our load, but we can't move the stones that easily. Damn!
"What do you suppose she wants, Higgins? We certainly look innocent enough, don't we?"
"My thought is that she is probably looking to impress sailors," says Higgins, with his usual reserve. "Or could it be possible that ... Hmmm ... I have a bad feeling about this. Miss, please go down and change into Jacques. With your permission, I will act as Captain during this encounter, and it is to be hoped that all will end well."
Cursing myself for being inattentive to whatever else was happening on the sea while we were engaged with Lafitte, I throw myself down the hatchway and into my cabin. I'm already out of my buckskin skirt before I go through the door. Hanging on a hook on the wall is a cotton bag that I call my Jacques Sack. I open it and hurl its contents onto my bed. First, I jam my legs into the trousers, pull them up, tuck in my shirt, and tie the waistband. Then the curly black wig goes on, covering my still-short hair, and with my tanned skin and the battered straw hair I cram on my head, we have Jacques Antoine Fabierre, poor little Creole boy, not worthy of anyone's notice.