A crash, a rattle, a rush, and the Englishman ran afoul of the foe—while—with a wild cheer, her sailors clambered across the starboard rails; cutlasses in the right hand, pistols in the left, dirks between their teeth.
“Never give in, men!” cried the King of Barrataria. “You are now with Lafitte, who, as you have learned, does not know how to surrender.”
But the Britishers were in far superior numbers. Backwards—ever backwards—they drove the desperate crew of the pirate ship. Two pistol balls struck Lafitte in the side which knocked him to the planking; a grape-shot broke the bone of his right leg; he was desperate, dying, and fighting like a tiger. He groaned in the agony of despair.
The deck was slippery with blood as the Captain of the boarders rushed upon the prostrate corsair to put him forever out of his way. While he aimed a blow a musket struck him in the temple, stretching him beside the bleeding Lafitte, who, raising himself upon one elbow, thrust a dagger at the throat of his assailant.
But the tide of his existence was ebbing like a torrent; his brain was giddy; his aim faltered; the point of the weapon descended upon the right thigh of the bleeding Englishman. Again the reeking steel was upheld; again the weakened French sea-dog plunged a stroke at this half-fainting assailant.
The dizziness of death spread over the sight of the Monarch of the Gulf of Mexico. Down came the dagger into the left thigh of the Captain; listlessly; helplessly; aimlessly; and Lafitte—the robber of St. Malo—fell lifeless upon the rocking deck. His spirit went out amidst the hoarse and hollow cheers of the victorious Jack-tars of the clinging sloop-of-war.
“The palmetto leaves are whispering, while the gentle trade-winds blow,
And the soothing, Southern zephyrs, are sighing soft and low,
As a silvery moonlight glistens, and the droning fire-flies glow,
Comes a voice from out the Cypress,
‘Lights out! Lafitte! Heave ho!’”