THE flame of the fire leaped high, rocketing sparks into the air, fighting against the cold white moonlight. It checkered the brushwood in black and scarlet and painted the lower trunks of the palms that soared up from the heavy-scented bush. The moonlight frosted their plumy crowns and, beyond the fluctuating ring of firelight, changed the highlands of Tortuga del Mar into a mystery of ebony and silver. 'The narrow strait between Tortuga and Hispaniola and the broader scope of the Windward Channel showed like spilled mercury. On a rocky headland gleamed the orange lights of the fort where the governor, M. le Vasseur, held the island against the Spanish.
Over a second fire of charcoal, kept fierce by palm-leaf fans, the figures of the cooks attending to the broiling of two pigs that lay on wooden frames over the vermilion coals, were splashed by the same vivid hue as they passed to and fro. The gutted bellies of the pigs were kept open by sticks, the cavities stuffed with partridges, packed about with crushed pimientos and citrons, seasoned with salt and pepper. The savor of it broke down the fragrance of the bush, making the nostrils of the men who lounged away from the direct heat twitch with anticipation and their mouths water.
Half a hundred dogs, pendulous-eared and long-headed, part mastiff, part bloodhound, descendants of those imported by Columbus to hunt Indians, lay with their red tongues sliding eagerly back and forth over their white teeth, too well-trained to offer at a morsel uninvited, even though they had made the kill themselves.
The men were in three groups. The hunters, the actual boucaniers, kept apart from the engagés—their duly indentured apprentices—by right of caste and authority. The Indian guides stayed in the deep shadow between the boucans, the smoke-houses where the sun-dried meat was curing on wicker frames over fires of charcoal augmented by the fat, bones and skins of the cattle. Sphinx-faced, imperturbable, puffing at their pipes, they preferred to be alone.
The central fire was burning for light rather than heat. The tropic night was warm, and the buccaneers were almost as thinly clad as the Indians. They were all to leeward of the smudge that discouraged the attacks of mosquitoes. Some smoked, some drank as the bottles passed.
“The moon’s overhead and no sign of him. If he’s stayed to eat at the tavern, hang me if I don’t carve it out of him. My belly’s wedded to my ribs.” The voice was half-surly, half-jocular.
“The pork’ll give you an easy divorce. I’d be careful how I tackled ‘Lucky’ Bart. He’s a rare hand with knife and cutlas. As for pistols, he can split the lead on a knife-blade at ten paces. He’ll be here, and in good time, never fear. He sent the same word to all of us. He was boucanier before he became filibustier.
“What of it?”
“So he knows by instinct when the pigs will be done and he still likes porc boucanée better than any other meat. He’ll be coming up-wind, mind you, and he’ll march in on us just as the crackling is ripe. He’s a knack of arriving at the right minute, has Lucky Bart.”
“Aye, he’s been lucky enough, so far.”
“He’s not the only one. Did you hear what King Louis did to Pierre le Grand when he reached France with the galleon he took off Cape Beata? The word came last week by the captain of the Celestine.”
“Took the gold away from him, like enough. It would serve him right for not spending it on Tortuga. We were not good enough for him to drink with, it seems.”
“Peste! You are jealous as well as surly, Pierre. The king made a knight of him. Aye, and they rang the bells for him at Notre Dame de Bon Secours in Dieppe and held a high mass in honor of his victory over the Spaniards. Pierre is no outlaw. When he won from Spain he fought for France and the winnings were his. Bars of gold to the tune of a hundred thousand pistoles, to say naught of the value of the ship. But twenty-nine to divide it.
“There was a bold stroke for you, to sink his own boat and climb aboard the vice-admiral’s ship! Better than sweating in the bush and sweltering in the boucans for a few pieces of eight. So Lucky Bart comes in from sea with his pockets so full of gold it rolls out on the floor when he sits down. The women will not look at a boucanier while Bart and his men are in port. They say he chases men while we hunt cattle.”
“There are getting mighty few cattle left to hunt of late. And it takes three years for a calf to grow to meat.”
A sudden clamor rose as every hound gave tongue, baying in bell notes, racing forward toward an opening in the bush and standing reluctant as their masters shouted at them.
A band of men came swaggering into the clearing. They were gaudily dressed with silken sashes beneath their broad leather belts, with silken kerchiefs binding their heads beneath the wide-brimmed, feather-decked hats. Each wore high boots of Spanish leather with the bucket-tops turned down to show hairy legs or silk hose beneath the wide, short breeches of striped patterns.
All carried pistols in belts and slings, all had cutlases, naked or in sheaths, according to the fancy of the owner. Earrings gleamed golden. Rings twinkled and a gem or two flashed in the firelight. They ignored the dogs which slunk back again, recognizing folk who understood them, if not actual friends.
“Am I late, bullies all? I trust, at least, the pigs are not overdone. I like to see my stomach well-filled, as well as my purse.”
A shout of laughing greeting went up from the buccaneers who crowded round the newcomers.
“There are two hampers of wine close behind us,” said Lucky Bart. “As an aid to digestion. Tell me, are the pigs cooked? They smell like a breath of heaven.”
“Done to a turn.”
The cook came up.
“A dozen partridges to each porker. The gravy has oozed through the skin and the crackling is crisp and sweet as a palm-cabbage.”
“Good! Here comes the wine. Let’s fall to before we talk.”
He was easily the dominant figure among his followers and the beef-smokers. Not over-tall but big without being clumsy. His gay raiment somehow became the man, though the others of his party looked like masquerading swashbucklers. Every gesture, every word, the flash of his black eyes and the gleam of his white teeth in his black beard, showed confidence, vitality, leadership. From nail-joints upward to where the stoutly supple wrists disappeared under lace ruffles, black hair curled crisply. His beard ran heavy down the strong throat to join the mat that showed on his chest where the wide-collared shirt lay open.
His skin was Indian red with exposure and the whites of his roving eyes gave emphasis to his glances as he called the buccaneers by name while they seated themselves ready for the feast. He had the nose of a hawk and his chin showed prominently for all its bushing. On one finger a great diamond shot iridescent rays. A golden neck-chain caught the light. Instead of cutlas he wore a rapier at the end of an elaborate belt hanger. There were pistols with carven butts ornamented with silver in his belt between silken scarf and leather, pistols in the silken sling across one shoulder.
THERE was little said for a time as the pig was carved at will by the ready knives while good wine went gurgling down brawny throats from bottle necks. Every little while Lucky Bart would roar a pledge across the fire to some one of the buccaneers, his jewel spraying fire as he raised his hand. Between the huts the Indians devoured their portion of the feast.
At last the dogs were fed, the last of the wine was drained and long crude cheroots of Trinidad tobacco lighted. In complaisant humor the men sat about the fire.
“A song!” cried Bart jovially. “Who’ll tip us a stave? What, no volunteers? Then here’s one for you. ’Tis good, for I made it myself.”
He roared if out in a lusty bass and the men who had come with him joined in the. refrain with a will, timing the lilt, beating out the rhythm with closed fists on their thighs or imitating the inhaul of ropes as they sat, like performers in a South Sea hula.
“The galleon’s hold was filled with gold:
Oh-ho, let the wind blow!
As she put out to sea,
The breeze did stream athwart her beam,
Jamaica on her lee.
Yo-ho!
Jamaica on her lee.
“Yo-ho, let the wind blow!
Let it blow high, let it blow low,
But blow right steadily.
North or south, or east or west,
Any breeze that blows is best
For our good Company!
Yo-ho!
For our good Company!
“Her captain’s gay in silk array;
Oh-ho, let the wind blow!
A sparkling jewel he wears.
But, oh, his face is turning gray
As up the wind he stares.
Yo-ho!
As up the wind he stares.
“Yo-ho, aloft and below!
Haul on the sheets, let the ship go.
And man the battery.
Prime your pistols, whet your steel;
Fast we glide on tilted keel.
Yo-ho the Company!
Yo-ho!
For our good Company!
“The scuppers’ wash is red with blood;
Oh-ho, let the wind blow!
The air is filled with groans.
We fling the corpses in the flood
And hoist the skull and bones.
Yo-ho!
And hoist the skull and bones!
“Yo-ho, let the wind blow!
The galleon’s captain’s gone below
To sup with Davy Jones.
Gold galore to spend ashore,
Then to sea to gain some more
Beneath the skull and bones;
Yo-ho!
Beneath the skull and bones!”
Roars of approval greeted the song. Bart’s followers chanted over the last stanza and Bart, unfolding a bundle he had carried under his arm, displayed a sable flag on which was stitched the death emblems.
Some one brought a bamboo pole. In a trice the banner was fastened to the staff and the filibuster stood waving it. The moon silvered the device, the glow of the fire tinged it with sinister crimson. The final note found the whole company grouped about him, shouting in enthusiasm born of the feast, the wine, the song and the infection of Lucky Bart’s enthusiasm.
“That’s the flag to fight under,” he cried. “Death to our enemies! Death to all Spaniards unless they hand over the loot they have robbed from the Indians. We’ll let ’em off then, if they’re humble enough, but we’d rather cross blades. Eh, lads?
“There are three things to warm the blood—wine, women and a good fight! There are three things that smell sweet to a real man, the scent of a woman’s hair, the perfume of wine and the reek of burned powder! Three things that are good to hear, the laugh of a girl, the clink of gold and the clash of steel!
“Join in with Lucky Bart, my hearties, and we’ll give you all of them. Why, look you, a year since and I was toiling through the brush on Hispaniola with a collar of raw beef around my neck, lucky if I earned enough to stay overnight in a tavern once a month. Now—” he made the big diamond flash—“a don, a hidalgo of Spain made me a present of this ring. He had no further use for it.”
He grinned and the crowd guffawed.
“Another gave me this Toledo blade.”
He whipped out the supple blade of bright steel from its sheath, making a hissing circle before he took the point and curved the rapier until end touched end within the jeweled guard. As it swung back to true, quivering, sending off rays of dazzle reflected from moon and fire, it seemed like a sentient thing, live as an adder’s tongue.
“Booty, my lads! Spoils of war! Taxes on Spain! Yours for the collecting. Who’ll join? I’ve a stout ship though it’s small. I’ve four cannon. We’ve done well with them, but we must do better. We must fly at bigger game. We need men. We’ll be crowded for a few days until we find a ship big enough to hold us with comfort. We’ll take that as we’ve taken all the rest.
“Follow Barthelemy’s Luck, my men. Every cast wins. Luck’s a handsome jade, but she’ll pout and she’ll flout you if you do not read aright the look in her eyes. Run after her and she’ll leave you bogged, like a will-o’-the-wisp. But when she walks within your grasp, look you, seize her, woo her, flatter her and she’ll give you all she has, being a woman, to be wooed and won.”
“Aye, and the jade will fling you aside as she’d toss away a frayed ribbon, when she’s put you through all your tricks.”
There was a laugh at this and Bart twisted to see the owner of the voice, pushed forward by his comrades in jest.
“So, old growler, Luck jilted you, did she? In faith ’tis no wonder, with those swivel eyes.”
Lucky Bart swiftly traced the sign of the cross in the air, shrinking a little, for all his boldness and the knowledge that every one was observing him.
“Swivel-eyes or no,” retorted the other, a gray-bearded, bald-headed veteran in whose shrunken flesh the muscles still stood out efficiently; “they can sight carronade