“In view of what Captain Blood has submitted....”

“Oh, to the devil with that!” snapped Rivarol.  “It seems that I am followed by poltroons.  Look you, M. le Capitaine, since you are afraid to undertake this thing, I will myself undertake it.  The weather is calm, and I count upon making good my landing.  If I do so, I shall have proved you wrong, and I shall have a word to say to you to-morrow which you may not like.  I am being very generous with you, sir.”  He waved his hand regally.  “You have leave to go.”

It was sheer obstinacy and empty pride that drove him, and he received the lesson he deserved.  The fleet stood in during the afternoon to within a mile of the coast, and under cover of darkness three hundred men, of whom two hundred were negroes — the whole of the negro contingent having been pressed into the undertaking — were pulled away for the shore in the canoes, piraguas, and ships’ boats.  Rivarol’s pride compelled him, however much he may have disliked the venture, to lead them in person.

The first six boats were caught in the surf, and pounded into fragments before their occupants could extricate themselves.  The thunder of the breakers and the cries of the shipwrecked warned those who followed, and thereby saved them from sharing the same fate.  By the Baron’s urgent orders they pulled away again out of danger, and stood about to pick up such survivors as contrived to battle towards them.  Close upon fifty lives were lost in the adventure, together with half-a-dozen boats stored with ammunition and light guns.

The Baron went back to his flagship an infuriated, but by no means a wiser man.  Wisdom — not even the pungent wisdom experience thrusts upon us — is not for such as M. de Rivarol.  His anger embraced all things, but focussed chiefly upon Captain Blood.  In some warped process of reasoning he held the buccaneer chiefly responsible for this misadventure.  He went to bed considering furiously what he should say to Captain Blood upon the morrow.

He was awakened at dawn by the rolling thunder of guns.  Emerging upon the poop in nightcap and slippers, he beheld a sight that increased his unreasonable and unreasoning fury.  The four buccaneer ships under canvas were going through extraordinary manoeuvre half a mile off the Boca Chica and little more than half a mile away from the remainder of the fleet, and from their flanks flame and smoke were belching each time they swung broadside to the great round fort that guarded that narrow entrance.  The fort was returning the fire vigorously and viciously.  But the buccaneers timed their broadsides with extraordinary judgment to catch the defending ordnance reloading; then as they drew the Spaniards’ fire, they swung away again not only taking care to be ever moving targets, but, further, to present no more than bow or stern to the fort, their masts in line, when the heaviest cannonades were to be expected.