Loud cries to Christ for quarter—shouts of joy—
Spurts of hot blood—surrender—sharp commands—
And then the scuttling of the captured vessels:
The wild red laughter of the rioting flames
Above a littered sea …
Old Jean Lafitte once wandered down these sands,
And watched the day’s red death, the swirling gulls,
The golden doubloon of the rising moon,
Remembering days of splendour: mornings when
He buried gold ashore on Los Muertos,