In Which We Reach the Spanish Main

I had not slept, nor had Peterson, nor had Williams, my engineer. My
men never demurred when hard duty was asked of them, but put manly
pride above union hours, I fancy, resolved to show me they could
endure as long as I. And I asked none to endure more. Moreover, even
my pirate crew was seized of some new zest. I question whether either
Jean Lafitte or Henri L'Olonnois slept, save in his day clothing, that
night of our run from New Orleans; for now, just as we swept free of
the last point, so that we might call that gulf which but now had been
river, I heard a sound at my elbow as I bent over a chart, and turned
to see both my associates, the collars of their sweaters turned up
against the damp chill of the morning.

"Where are we now, Black Bart?" asked Jean Lafitte. I could see on
his face the mystic emotion of youth, could see his face glorified in
the uplifting thrill of this mystery of the sea and the dawn and the
unknown which now enveloped us. "Where are we now?" he asked; but it
was as though he feared he slept and dreamed, and that this wondrous
dream of the dawn might rudely be broken by some command summoning him
back to life's routine.

"Surely your soul should tell you, Jean Lafitte," said I, "for yonder,
as I may say, now rolls the Spanish Main. Its lift is now beneath our
feel. You are home again, Jean Lafitte. Yonder are the bays and bayous
and channels in the marshes, where your boats used to hide. And there,
L'Olonnois, my hearty, with you, I was used to ride the open sea,
toward the Isles of Spain, waiting for the galleons to come."