Patrick Henry and the Frigate’s Keel: And Other Stories of a Young Nation by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online Page A

at each other. When Rachel saw me, she jumped up with a little cry of relief.
    I slid off the horse and began to whimper.
    Pa said, “Davey, stop that bawling!”
    â€œLet him if he wants to,” Rachel said.
    I looked at Pa, and he said, “Davey, do like your ma says.”

3
    The Pirate and the General

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    THE PIRATE AND THE GENERAL
    W HEN you come down to it, we Americans had only one pirate, and yet he was enough, all that a pirate should be, and so peculiarly American that they say, down on the Delta, even today: “You understand, the good Jean, he is not criminal, but gambler, as you might say. He is always making deals. Like a faro gentleman.” And then they will tell you, word for word, explicitly, just what happened on that September 3, in 1814, on the lush green Louisiana coast.
    They will tell you how His Majesty’s brig Sophie stood into the island and flew a yellow signal from the masthead. Also how the Sophie was painted, again explicitly, black and red, white bands on the black masts, and one white stripe around her; you see, they remember those details so well down there, in spite of the fact that the rest of us have forgotten.
    The sound of the Sophie’s signal gun was like a clap of thunder, and the pink flamingoes darted up out of the marsh. A line of red-coated marines formed at attention upon the deck, the bo’sun’s pipes twittered brightly, and a gig was lowered. Into the gig stepped two British officers in their beautiful full-dress uniform. A sight to see! They made for the shore, in the direction of a little brick fort that showed among the liveoaks, and out from the shore came a boat to meet them. Four men at the oars of this sleek boat from the shore, and perched in the bow, Dominique You.
    A man, that Dominique! The boats came together, and he spat into the water. Held together with hooks, the boats rocked and swayed, and one of the officers, Captain Lockyer, demanded:
    â€œYou are Jean Laffite?”
    A moment’s hesitation, for the question was addressed in English, a tongue Dominique did not care for, although he spoke it well enough. Then he spat in the ocean again and answered, “No.”
    â€œAnd where is he?”
    Dominique shrugged. As a matter of fact, as any old hand on the Delta will tell you, Jean was with a woman. Come heaven, hell or the mid-year flood, you could depend on it, Jean would be with a woman. Tick them off, if you want to, Lizette, Claire, Lucille, Marchette, Marguerite, Josephine, Louise—you could go on, believe me.
    The other officer, Captain McWilliams of the Royal Marines, said, “I don’t like the looks of this.”
    Dominique shrugged.
    â€œDeal with pirates—”
    â€œHe don’t like to be called a pirate,” Dominique said.
    â€œWill he see us?”
    â€œMaybe,” Dominique said.
    So the boats went in to shore, to the beach in front of the fort, a beach lined with a motley crew of brigands. Barefooted, rings in their ears, red handkerchiefs on their heads, yellow sashes, pantaloons. The two officers came ashore, uneasily; they stood there waiting, and presently, down from the fort, came Jean Laffite.
    At that time, Laffite was thirty-four years old, good looking, tall and sunburned, brown hair and brown eyes and a comfortable smile. If you had asked him, he would have told you he was in business, more successful than some, less so than others.
    His business interests were many: there was, of course, first and foremost, that name with an ugly sound—piracy; he waylaid ships up and down the Caribbean and through the Gulf, English ships for the most part, some Spanish ships too. This practice he tended to legalize with the explanation that America and England were at war, and that Spain was a nominal ally of England. Some said that the only reason he didn’t waylay American ships was that the British blockade kept them in port, but there are always rumors about