I scarce know how the time passed, until at last I saw them, in the illumination of the deck lights, at length come on deck again. They stood looking out over the river, or toward the lights of Natchez-under-the-Hill, and at length idly walked aft once more. The two ladies seated themselves on deck chairs under the awning of the rear deck. I could not see them now, but heard the tinkle and throb of a guitar come across the water, touched lightly with long pauses, as under some suspended melody not yet offered in fulness. Now and again I could hear a word or so, the rather deep voice of Aunt Lucinda, the bass tones of Davidson, but strain my ears as I might, I could not hear the sound of that other voice, low and sweet, an excellent thing in woman.
At length the little party seemed to be breaking up. I saw Davidson, half in shadow, outlined by the deck lights as he rose, and passed forward. Then I heard the falls run, and a soft splash as the dingey was launched overside. Cal Davidson was going ashore. He could no longer resist his anxiety over the baseball score! A moment later I heard the dip of the oars. Some one turned on the search-light, so that a wide shaft of light swung along the foot of Natchez Hill, toward which the dingey was headed. The shadows on the deck of the Belle Helène seemed darker now, by contrast, but I believed that Williams, the engineer, now had left the rail on which he was leaning over his folded arms.
I turned now to my wondering companions, who, seeing me so much interested, had remained for a long time practically silent. Fall now, curtain of romance, for we be but three pirates here! Up anchor, then, and back across the stream toward our quarry quickly, my bold mates, for now there lies at hand a dangerous work of the boarding party!
Thus I might have spoken aloud; for, at least, I hardly needed to do more than motion to Jean Lafitte, and as we resumed our softly chugging progress, having broken out our shallow anchorage, he steered the boat to the motion of my hand. We passed close alongside the Belle Helène and I examined her keenly as we did so. Then, apparently unnoticed, we dropped down-stream a bit, and found another anchorage.
“Clear away the long boat for the boarding party,” I now whispered hoarsely. I spoke to companions now in full character. Belted and armed, Lafitte and L’Olonnois rose ready for any bold emprise, each with red kerchief pulled about his brow. And now, to my interest, I observed that each had resumed the black mask which they had worn earlier in our long voyage, sign of the desperate character of each wearer.
“Whither away, Black Bart?” demanded L’Olonnois fiercely. “Lead, and we follow.”
“You had better put on a mask, Black Bart,” added Jean Lafitte, and handed me a spare one of his own manufacture. I hesitated, but then, seeing that part of my success lay in our all remaining somewhat piratical of character, I hastily slipped it above my eyes, and pulled down my hat brim. “She will not know me now,” said I to myself. And truly enough we seemed desperate folk, fierce as any who ever lay in keel boat off the foot of Natchez bluff, even in the bloodiest times of Mike Fink the Keel-boatman or of Murrell the southern bandit king.
Partial, without invitation, climbed into the skiff with us. “Cast off,” I ordered. “Oars!” And my young men—whom by this time I had trained in many ways nautical—obeyed in good seaman fashion. A moment later we lay almost under the rail of the Belle Helène. No one hailed us. We seemed taken only for some passing skiff.
“Listen!” I whispered, “there is risk in what we are going to do.”
I looked at my blue-eyed pirate, L’Olonnois, who sat closer to me. On his face was simple and complete happiness. At last, his adventure had come to him and he was meeting it like a man.