The Nautilus Sanction

8

Benedetto came to their cabin after transition was completed and announced they were surfacing. “The captain requests the pleasure of your company on deck,” he said, with a mock bow.

“Have we got a choice?” said Finn.

Benedetto grinned and stood aside, holding the door open for them. They climbed up through the hatchway and stepped onto the outer deck of the Nautilus, into the open air for the first time since they came aboard. The warm wind was the first thing they noticed. The second thing was a sight which brought them up short. Several hundred yards away, sailing toward them, was a long, clipper-bowed schooner with tall masts and a sleek, low hull. It was a lovely ship with graceful lines, its wooden hull painted white. As it came about, its sails luffing, its crew prepared to bring her alongside.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said Drakov. “My prize possession, the Valkyrie. Everything I learned in my youth as a ship’s captain in the Pribilofs, I used in building her. We shall be going aboard while the Nautilus submerges and awaits our return.”

“Who’s sailing her?” said Lucas.

“And where did she come from?” said Drakov, smiling. “Isn’t that what you really want to know? For now, I will tell you only that she is a time ship, like the Nautilus. Mr. Mar tingale has arranged for her arrival at these temporal coordinates. We are now in the Gulf of Mexico, in the year 1812. As to where she came from, as you have surmised, I have a base of operations where she is berthed when I am not using her. You will forgive me if I do not tell you where or when it is located. You will see it for yourself before very long. Then you will be able to fully appreciate the extent of my resources. The Valkyrie’s crew are people I have carefully selected, from various nations and time periods. I have created my organization in the mold of the Timekeepers, only I have made it a great deal more clandestine and efficient. We are all united in one cause. Temporal corsairs or, as you would put it, time pirates.” He grinned. “Thus far, Mr. Priest, you have seen only the tip of the iceberg. I want you to see it all.”

“We’re to be your messengers, is that it?” Finn said. “That’s why you’ve been flexing your muscles for us. We’re supposed to be suitably impressed, so we can tell Forrester how formidable you are when you send us back to him with your demands, right?”

“Rather crudely phrased,” said Drakov, “but you’re quite correct. I want my father to have a clear understanding of my strength, of what I have accomplished. A father should be proud of his son.”

“You expect him to buckle under?” Finn said.

Drakov chuckled. “If the choice were his, I am certain he would not, regardless of the cost. But the choice is not his. Is it?”

The Valkyrie came alongside and lines were tossed to the men aboard the Nautilus. The crew of the submarine secured the lines to cleats built into the deck. The exchange of crews began. Several of the men sailing the Valkyrie remained on board. Drakov explained they would stand watch upon the ship while the crew of the submarine enjoyed their liberty among the smugglers and corsairs of Barataria. The rest of the Valkyrie’s crew boarded the submarine. They were a colorful group, dressed according to period in loose-fitting cotton shirts, leather vests, sea boots and striped breeches. They were Blacks and Asians, Europeans, Scandinavians, Hispanics, a melting pot of nationalities and races, all rough-looking, all in excellent physical condition. They moved quickly, with military precision.

“This is looking worse and worse,” Finn said to Lucas.

Lucas nodded. If, as Drakov boasted, they had only seen the tip of the iceberg, then it was already more than they could handle. They needed help badly, only there was no way to summon help. Even if they could, by the time it arrived, Drakov would be long gone, to another century. Drakov knew there was nothing they could do and his confidence was galling.

“You will, of course, accompany us,” said Drakov. “I would hate to be deprived of your company. Besides, I think you’ll find Lafitte a fascinating man.”

“He was a pretty fascinating child,” Finn said.

Drakov looked at him with surprise. “You encountered Jean Lafitte as a child? How?”

“It was during an adjustment mission in Paris,” Lucas said. “He was only about twelve years old at the time.”

“How extraordinary!” said Drakov. “This could prove to be a problem if he remembers you.”

“He shouldn’t,” Finn said. “He became involved in our adjustment mission and it was necessary to condition him to forget his part in it.”

“Then there should be no problem,” Drakov said. “I will be very interested in discussing this with you later. Jean must indeed have been a fascinating young man.”

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Finn said. “He was scary enough as a kid. I can imagine what he must be like as an adult.”

They went aboard the Valkyrie, where a change in clothing was awaiting them below decks. The crew of the Nautilus had already changed into period costume prior to boarding, so they had the privacy of one of the cabins to themselves. Drakov took Verne to his own stateroom to share a glass of port. He seemed especially anxious to please the author, no doubt to ingratiate himself with his future biographer.

In the cabin below, they sorted through clothing to find garments which would fit them. Andre put on a blousy white cotton shirt that laced up at the neck, a black leather vest with gold trim which hung down to her hips and high black sea boots over tight-fitting white breeches. Finn found a similar shirt sized to his proportions, striped breeches and a red brocade vest. Lucas wore a white shirt, a lightweight coat in navy blue with brass buttons and black breeches. They had worn more unusual garb before, but Finn could not resist the comment that Andre would probably need her knife and cutlass to keep the men of Barataria at bay.

Lucas examined his own sword. “Arrogant of him to allow us these,” he said. “Of course, the others all had pistols, did you notice?”

Ned Land looked completely in his element in the pirate clothing. His short-sleeved shirt revealed his new tattoo, with which he was quite pleased. Shiro had adorned him with a shark upon his upper arm, to commemorate his having saved Drakov’s life.

“I’ve had a chance to speak with Drakov,” Ned said. “He’s being careful, but I think I’ve convinced him of how bad I want to join his crew.”

“Did you tell him we were planning to search his cabin?” Lucas said.

Land nodded. “He just laughed. He told me not to concern myself, but to keep him informed.”

“Well, if the disc isn’t in his cabin, it could be in any of a hundred places aboard that sub,” said Finn. “Maybe we should try searching the reactor room, only how are we going to manage that with crewmen constantly stationed there?”

“We’d better try searching Drakov’s cabin anyway,” said Lucas, “just to give Ned’s story credibility.”

Martingale entered the cabin, surprising them. For a big man he moved so silently. “If you’re going to try searching Drakov’s cabin,” he said, “make sure Shiro doesn’t catch you at it. Grigori’s dangerous enough, but when it comes to protecting Drakov, Shiro can be difficult to control.”

They stared at him. “I guess you got an earful,” Finn said in disgust.

“I guess I did,” Martingale drawled, giving them a half smile. “Drakov wants you people up on top soon as you’re changed, so he can brief you on Lafitte. Verne’s already up there with him, looking like some damn silly New Orleans dandy in a long green coat and pantaloons. Drakov wanted to make sure he looked all right, which is just as well. I’m not sure where he stands. I wasn’t too sure about the Canuck, either, until what I just heard. Here, take this.”

He handed Lucas a small plastic box.

Lucas frowned. “Martingale, what’s this-”

“Open it.”

He opened the box and removed a tiny plastic envelope. “A plastiskin graft? I don’t get it. What did you mean just now when you said-”

“I’m in the Underground, soldier,” said Martingale. “Have been for about ten years now. I deserted during an arbitration conflict in 20th-century Southeast Asia. Drakov has the Underground worried, too. I’ll explain more later, when I get the chance. Right now I want you to slap that graft on. Under the arm’s a good place.”

“Just hold on a second, Martingale,” said Finn. “You-”

“I haven’t got time to get into this right now,” said Martingale. “ I need to get topside before Drakov starts wondering what’s taking me so long. There’s a particle level device molded into that graft. It’s a little like a warp disc, only different. Don’t ask me to explain, it’s too damn complicated. If you want to stop Drakov, you’ll have to trust me. Our best chance lies with the Doctor.”

“Who?”

“Later. Slap the graft on and get up on deck.”

“Wait a minute,” Finn said, but Martingale left without another word.

“What was he talking about?” said Land. “Who’s the Doctor?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Finn. He glanced at Lucas. “You think he’s on the level about being Temporal Underground?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucas. “How would a 20th-century mercenary know about the Underground?”

“Maybe he wouldn’t,” said Andre. “That doesn’t mean Drakov couldn’t have told him.”

“Let me see that,” Finn said.

Lucas handed him the envelope.

“What’s this Underground?” said Land.

“It would take too long to explain now, Ned,” said Lucas. “It’ll have to wait.”

“It looks like a perfectly ordinary graft patch from a field medical kit,” said Andre.

“With something like a warp disc in it, only on the particle level,” Finn said.

“Really? There’s no such thing as a warp disc that small. I don’t buy it.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Lucas said, reaching for the envelope.

Finn gave it to him. “You’re going to chance it? It’s not smart.”

Lucas shrugged. “What do we have to lose? If Martingale’s not lying, I can’t afford not to chance it. Things can’t get much worse.”

“The last time you said that, things got a whole lot worse,” said Finn. “What if it’s a bug?”

“I’ll risk it,” Lucas said. “We can always cut it off. What’s a little pain?”

He ripped open the envelope and carefully removed the graft patch. Using two fingers, he spread the exceedingly thin square of plastiskin on the palm of his right hand. On contact with the skin, it began to grow warm. He put his hand inside his shirt and pressed the graft patch against the skin of his underarm. As it started to adhere, he smoothed it out with his fingers, spreading the softened patch evenly as it became part of his skin.

“It’s hot,” he said. “They aren’t supposed to get that hot.” He bit his lower lip. “Jesus, it’s really starting to burn!”

Finn came over to him quickly, pulled off his coat and raised his shirt. “Lift your arm,” he said. He examined the skin there closely.”It’s taken. I can’t see it anymore. The skin’s red in that area, but that’s normal.”

“Are you all right?” said Andre.

“I think so,” Lucas said. “It’s fading now. But it feels strange. A tingling sensation, like tiny needlepricks. It’s not supposed to do that, either.”

Land stood by, his brow furrowed with concern, wishing he could understand what was going on.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s part of me now,” said Lucas.

“I don’t like it,” Finn said. “I’m going to get that bastard Martingale and make him tell us-”

“It’s too late now,” said Lucas. “One way or another, we’ll find out what it’s all about eventually. What the hell, we’re not paid to play it safe. Let’s get topside before Drakov starts getting nervous.”

“Ah, there you are,” said Drakov, when they joined him on deck. “I was about to send Martingale back down to see what was keeping you.”

“Finn had some trouble finding clothes to fit,” said Lucas.

“You look splendid,” Drakov said. “The very image of corsairs. That is what you are, by the way. Corsairs, or privateers. I should caution you not to use the term ‘pirate’ in the presence of Lafitte. He has a nasty temper. He makes a great point of the fact his ships sail under letters of marque, with the official standing of privateers. It may be a small distinction, which he interprets rather loosely, but it is important to him.”

“What are we supposed to do in Barataria?” said Andre.

“Anything you like,” said Drakov. “You may even attempt to escape if you should choose to. No one will stop you. But you won’t do that. That would be dereliction of duty, wouldn’t it?” He gave them a mocking look. “Besides, without your warp discs, your chances of making it to the mainland would be very poor. Barataria Bay is located at the mouth of the Mississippi Delta, in marsh country. The coast of Louisiana is a vast, wet plain composed of hundreds of bayous, swampland veined with winding streams and overgrown with vegetation. You could easily become lost in it forever.”

“But Lafitte and his men know their way around?” said Land.

“Lafitte could find his way through the bayous blindfolded,” Drakov said. “He makes his headquarters on Grand Terre Island. He leads a commune of contrebandiers, smugglers who enjoy the sanction of the New Orleans citizenry by providing them with cheap, duty-free goods, especially Negroes. They are called Negroes in this time period, where racial distinctions are so fine. New Orleans is predominantly French, though quite cosmopolitan. The people of the bayou country are largely Creole, of Spanish-French ancestry. There is also a racial category known as quadroon, descendents of white fathers and black mothers. Such distinctions are important here.

“Lafitte is extremely wealthy. He has made much of his fortune smuggling slaves. Due to the ban on slave importation, there is a shortage. Lafitte takes advantage of it by raiding Spanish ships and bringing their slave cargoes to America, to sell. He has vast connections in this market, reaching as far as Memphis, where his principal buyers are the Bowie brothers. In Barataria, he is the law. It is a kingdom unto itself. Smugglers and corsairs are always made welcome.”

“How do you tie in with him?” said Lucas.

“He knows me as Captain Drako, an Italian navigator who led a mutiny aboard a Balkan trader, stole the ship and embarked for the Caribbean or the Indies, as they call the area, to pursue a career as a corsair. Since that time, I have moved up in the world, obtaining this wonderful ship by means of my profits. This story explains the accents of my crew and why some of them speak neither English nor French. We last visited Barataria a year or so ago, by the reckoning of this time. I will explain to him that you signed on with me in Martinique, Mr. Priest. Mr. Delaney, you will be an Irish seaman I encountered in my travels and Miss Cross, we shall make you a Frenchwoman from the seaport of Marseilles. It is important to establish the proper nationalities for you. Lafitte passionately hates the Spaniards. He hates the British only slightly less and they are at war with the United States at this time.”

“Then there is danger of our encountering a hostile ship?” said Land.

“Some slight danger, perhaps,” said Drakov, “but we are well armed and the Valkyrie can easily outsail any ship in the British navy. By the way, Mr. Land, we will devise no elaborate identity for you. A French-Canadian harpooner will be quite acceptable to Jean Lafitte.”

“What about Jules?” said Land.

“I am the scion of a wealthy French family, recently rescued from a pirate who was holding me for ransom,” Verne said. He seemed quite taken with the idea.

“How long will we be in Barataria?” said Finn.

“A few days, perhaps more,” said Drakov. “Why so anxious, Mr. Delaney? We have not even arrived yet. Enjoy yourself. There will be plenty of reason for anxiety later on.”

The archipelago which separated the waters of Barataria Bay from the Gulf of Mexico came into view late in the afternoon. The low-lying islands were pointed out by Drakov and he identified Grand Terre and Grand Island, the two large islands lying close together. To the west was the island Cheniere Caminada.

A warm, orange-scented breeze reached them and they could see the palm trees on the islands swaying gently. The heat was oppressive, even with the sea breeze. Lucas took off his coat. They dropped anchor in the security of the bay and took the boats in, pulling past skiffs belonging to shrimp fishermen, and houses, little more than cottages, erected upon piles. The air had a piscatory taint to it which at times overpowered the smell of oranges and oleander. A number of other ships were anchored nearby, ships belonging to the fleet of Jean Lafitte. Drakov pointed out Lafitte’s own ship, the Jupiter, a clipper-built schooner with a sleek, black-painted hull.

“It was built for speed,” said Drakov, “but my Valkyrie can outsail her. Lafitte has several times offered me vast sums of money for her.” He laughed. “He asked me to name my price. Gold, silver, women, anything. But I will not sell. A ship such as the Valkyrie in the hands of a man such as Jean Lafitte would wreak havoc in the waters of the Caribbean.”

“What about a ship such as the Nautilus in the hands of a man such as yourself?” said Verne.

Drakov raised his eyebrows. “Am I to take that as a rebuke, Mr. Verne?”

“It was only a question,” the author replied.

“To which you will soon receive an answer,” Drakov said. “First, however, we have business here.”

“Business?” Lucas said. “I thought it was recreation.”

“ I meant that our business here was recreation, nothing more,” Drakov said, innocently.

There was a carriage waiting for them. The man driving the carriage was small, with broad shoulders and light-brown hair bleached lighter still by the sun. He was deeply tanned and dressed in elegant, cream-colored trousers and a white shirt open at the neck. He wore a lightweight green frock coat and a vest of yellow brocade. He greeted Drakov warmly in French.

“Ah, Captain Drako! Jean spied your ship while coming in from his veranda and immediately dispatched me to meet you. I trust your voyages have been prosperous?”

“You shall soon see for yourself,” said Drakov. He turned to the others. “This is Captain Dominique Youx, Captain Lafitte’s chief lieutenant. Under letters of marque from Carthagena, he has become known as the most formidable privateer in the Indies.”

Youx flashed a wide, disarming smile. “One does one’s best, eh? Come, Jean awaits.”

They climbed into the carriage as Youx ascended to the driver’s seat and urged the horses to a gentle trot. Drakov leaned close to the others, speaking so Youx would not hear.

“It is not generally known, nor will it be known until many years after Youx’s death, that he is Lafitte’s brother, Alexander. An older brother whose adventures necessitated an alias.”

“I thought his brother was named Pierre,” said Finn.

“That is another brother,” Drakov said. “We may or may not see him. He spends much of his time in New Orleans. One side of his face has been affected by a stroke. Should we encounter him, try not to stare.”

“That lying little bastard,” Finn said. “In Paris, he told us Pierre was his only brother!”

Drakov shrugged. “Lafitte has always been secretive about his past. Future biographers will disagree on many facts concerning him. Even in his own journal, when he writes it long after his retirement, Jean will be somewhat elusive. I have a copy of it aboard the Nautilus. He is a pivotal figure in history. His island will eventually be overrun by an American naval force, yet he will nevertheless go to the aid of General Andrew Jackson and help repel the British invasion of New Orleans. For this, he will receive a pardon from President Madison, but no recompense for his losses. Undaunted, he will establish another corsairs’ base on Galveston, displacing a pirate named d’Avry, and go on as before. When he leaves Galveston, he will burn his colony and for years it will be believed that he has sailed off into the sunset, never to be seen or heard from again. In fact, he will take the name John Lafflin and settle in Charleston, South Carolina, where he will marry, father a son and pursue a career as a merchant and ship owner. In time, he will move to St. Louis, then to Europe, where he will meet two gentlemen named Marx and Engels, whose ideas will so appeal to him that he will finance the printing of the Communist Manifesto. He will bring copies of it back to America with him and even have one delivered to a congressman named Lincoln. He will die in Alton, Illinois, in the year 1854, having lived to the ripe old age of seventy-two.”

“What are you talking about back there?” said Youx.

“I was telling my friends about your chief,” said Drakov. “They are quite anxious to meet him.”

“We are almost there,” said Youx.

“Imagine,” said Verne, “to know a man while he lives, and yet to know the date of his death and all that will happen in his future!”

“I have, of course, had the courtesy not to reveal any of this to him,” said Drakov, in an amused tone. “I have no idea how he would take it.”

“You seem to think pretty highly of him,” Lucas said.

“He has become, in many ways, my role model, Mr. Priest,” said Drakov. “A hero in a world in which, even in this time, heroes are becoming a dying breed. Lafitte is the last of the swashbucklers, the final gasp of the golden age of piracy.”

“You will excuse my saying this, I hope,” said Verne, “but I have some difficulty in comprehending what it is about a pirate that is in any way heroic.”

“I will concede your point to a degree,” said Drakov. “Most of them were barbarians, indeed. Men such as Francois Lolonois, Roche Brasiliano, Henry Morgan, Blackbeard, even women, such as Anne Bonny and Mary Read, were capable of unspeakable acts of cruelty. Yet, consider the cruelty of the times in which they lived. Few of their actions were more cruel than those practiced aboard Spanish and British ships. They were criminals, outcasts of society, but they were also free. They recognized no code of ethics other than their own, to which they rigidly adhered. They were dissatisfied with their world, so they made their own, upon the seas. I find heroism in that.”

“I find self-justification,” said Andre.

“You would, Miss Cross,” said Drakov. “Condemnation is only to be expected when one flaunts the laws and conventions of society. The alien is not to be tolerated. Yet what if society is wrong? What is the individual of principle to do, go along with the wrongs and conform, thereby being accepted by society? Or choose the more difficult path of idealism and resist the society he feels is wrong?”

“Who’s to say he’s right?” said Andre.

“A question such as that could lead to endless philosophical debate,” said Drakov. “Frankly, I am not in the mood. A free man is concerned with no one’s judgment other than his own. He makes his own decisions and lives by the consequences.”

“Interesting,” said Verne. “There was a novel published this year-or rather, in the year 1866, since I am there no longer-by a Russian named Dostoyevski, in which a very similar argument is raised, that the superior man is above the law. Have you read Crime and Punishment, Captain Drakov?”

“Try to remember to address me as Captain Drako while we are here. And in reply to your question, yes, of course I have read it. A fascinating novel; the story of a self-deluded young man. However, I dispute your statement concerning the similarity. It is one thing to believe, as did Dostoyevski’s protagonist, that a man of genius is above moral law. It is quite another to recognize the existence of non-subjective morality, base one’s principles upon it and perceive society as having violated that morality. In that sense, I am not an outcast of society due to my beliefs. I have never been a part of society. I was born in the 19th century and my education was completed in the 27th century. In neither century did I belong. I was an outsider from birth, by virtue of my birth. No one can view society quite so clearly as an outsider, Mr. Verne. No one is or has ever been more of an outsider than myself.”

The carriage drove down a narrow path, past small cottages with no more than one or two rooms and windows with heavy blinds made of strips of wood which were favored over glass for protection from the storms that lashed the gulf. Orange groves and large oleander bushes were everywhere. Palm trees and vivid flowers gave the palmetto-thatched settlement a tropical flavor. It was a peaceful, lazy scene, one in which their conversation seemed incongruous.

Lafitte’s house was a mansion, located near the warehouses where the slaves were kept. His home was on a rise, overlooking the sea, its brick walls covered with plaster mixed together with crushed oyster shells. There were two floors, with iron bars on the windows and a veranda circling the house on the second floor, creating a shaded area beneath. As they drove up, Lafitte stood on the veranda, hands on hips, looking down at them with a wide smile upon his face.

He was a tall, slim man in his late twenties, with black hair and long sideburns. His teeth were very white and his eyes were very dark, very striking. He was an elegant, handsome man. He called out to them in French, in a clear, strong, mellifluous voice.

“Drako! You scoundrel! Where have you been keeping yourself? Come in, come in, bring your friends and have a drink or two or ten.”

The door was opened for them by a quadroon girl, one of the loveliest young women they had ever seen. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Her skin was light, almost golden-colored and her eyes were a deep, dark brown and very large. Her hair was a thick, luxuriant mass of dark curls. She curtsied as they entered.

Lafitte came down to greet them, dressed in a lightweight black suit and a black brocade vest with a white silk shirt. He moved gracefully and his carriage was that of a nobleman.

“Marie, some wine for our friends,” he said. He came up to Drakov and embraced him.

“You look well, Jean.”

“A year has not aged you at all,” Lafitte said. “It is a mystery to me how you stay at sea so long, yet never grow very tanned or appear weathered. But then, you are a man of many mysteries, no? Tell me, have you reconsidered my offer?”

“Ever respectfully, I must still decline,” said Drakov.

Lafitte shook his head. “Foolish man. You would prosper here in Barataria. Your ship would be the crown of our fleet.”

“You mean of your fleet, Jean,” said Drakov.

“I respect your independence. We will speak no more of it. For now, at any rate. You must introduce me to your friends.”

Drakov performed the introductions. When he got to Andre, Lafitte looked at her admiringly, then bent down to kiss her hand. “A woman corsair! My respects, Ma’mselle. Anyone who can hold her own with Drako’s crew of cutthroats is deserving of admiration. Wherever did your find her, Drako?”

“In Marseilles,” said Drakov.” Andre was in some slight legal difficulties at the time.”

“You must tell me all about it later,” Lafitte said. “Come, we will take our wine on the veranda, where we can enjoy the breeze.”

Marie brought their wine to them and silently departed. Land couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“It appears you have been captivated, Mr. Land,” said Lafitte.

“Your pardon, sir,” Land said, awkwardly, having been caught staring. “I meant no offense to your wife, sir.”

Lafitte laughed. “Wife? She is my slave. You want her? I will sell her to you. But you will pay dearly.”

Land was too flustered to reply.

“Your men will be welcome ashore, as always,” Lafitte told Drakov, “however, I should caution you that Gambi is back. He and his crew have been a problem. I hope there will be no incidents.”

“There won’t be, so long as my men are not interfered with,” Drakov said.

“I am growing weary of Gambi,” Lafitte said. “He takes too much upon himself. We have enough problems already without him.”

“What sort of problems?” Drakov said, sipping his wine.

“Oh, that idiot Claiborne,” said Lafitte. “That fool of a governor who sits in his mansion on Toulouse Street and denounces me as a pirate to all and any who will listen. We must stop the smuggling, he says, over and over again. Stop the smuggling, indeed! He was only too happy to have this smuggler stop at his house and deliver goods to him on more than one occasion in the past. Now, he is a force for moral righteousness. The man is an insufferable ass. Do you know what he had the temerity to do? He posted a reward of five hundred dollars for my arrest! Can you imagine? I had the exact wording of the proclamation copied, substituting his name for mine, and I posted a reward for his arrest, only I offered fifteen hundred dollars. I sent him a challenge, offering my sword. Of course, I received no answer. Still, it caused some amusement in the city and the publicity is good for business.”

“Have you had more trouble with the British?” Drakov said.

Lafitte sneered. “Those imperialist pigs! Only the Spaniards are worse. I hear they have secured Detroit. Rumors have them heading toward us. They will find a warm welcome.”

The carriage returned with Dominique Youx and two men, who unloaded a chest and brought it into the house. Moments later, they had carried it up the stairs, grunting from the weight of it, and then out onto the veranda.

“Captain Drako comes bearing gifts, Jean,” said Youx. He opened the chest, revealing part of the treasure they had recovered from the sunken La Floridana. It was filled with pieces of eight, which Drakov’s crew had meticulously cleaned so they would not look as if they had been under water.

“Drako,” said Lafitte, reprovingly, “there is no need of this.”

“I know, Jean, but please accept the gift. Think of it as a token payment from my men for their entertainment.”

“In that case, I must present you with a gift, as well,” Lafitte said. “What will you have? Another ship, perhaps? We have recently brought in a prize, a Spaniard. She is only a merchantman, nothing like your Valkyrie, of course, but-”

“One ship is enough for me, my friend,” said Drakov. “From you, I will accept only hospitality and nothing more.”

“Well, then I must do something for your men, at least. Land, you like Marie? She’s yours. I give her to you. Marie!”

Land was thunderstruck.

“Now, Jean-” Drakov began.

“No, no, it is all settled! I have spoken. Ah, Marie, meet your new master, Mr. Ned Land. I have made him a present of you.”

Marie looked aghast. Her eyes filled with tears.

Drakov came to the rescue. “Jean, please, you will cause me problems if you do this. This girl is not made for a life at sea. If you give her to Land, it will only make the rest of my crew jealous.”

“Then I will give each of them a woman,” said Lafitte. “I have hundreds. Well, perhaps not hundreds, but certainly enough for each to take his pick.”

“Just what I need,” said Drakov. “A woman for every man aboard my ship.”

Lafitte grimaced. “Yes, I suppose that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

“She seems quite close to you, Captain Lafitte,” said Land. “I wouldn’t wish to cause her to be unhappy.”

“Bah! Women attach themselves to men like barnacles. If a man gives them any regard, he’ll have a devil of a time scraping them off. Very well, then. I shall think of something else. Never mind, Marie. It appears Mr. Land prefers for you to stay with me.”

“Oh, thank you, Monsieur!” Marie said, standing on tiptoe to kiss Land upon the cheek.

“Go and thank him properly, at least,” Lafitte said. She took his hand and led the bewildered Land away.

“Are you as cavalier with everyone, Captain Lafitte?” said Verne, in a reproving tone. “Or only with your slaves?”

“Do I offend you, sir?” Lafitte said.

Drakov quickly intervened. “Mr. Verne, though something of an aristocrat in France, is nevertheless rather liberal in his ideas, Jean.”

“Is it liberal to believe that people should not be considered property?” said Verne.

“Ah, yes, the Negro question,” said Lafitte. “I perceive you subscribe to this anti-slavery idea, sir. I will tell you something, quite sincerely. In principle, I am not against it. However, allow me to point out that this idea, whatever its merits, is not a very popular one, certainly not at present, in this region. In the future, things may well change. I suspect they will. For now, it is the Negroes’ misfortune to be slaves. This does not mean I mistreat them. As you have seen, Marie was quite reluctant to leave me. What is more, the slaves I bring to Barataria and sell in places such as Donaldsonville and Memphis are not Negroes I have captured and taken from their homeland. Those I take from Spanish ships bound for Havana and South America have already been thoroughly subdued and domesticated. There would be little point, assuming a great idealism on my part, in returning them to Africa. Such a voyage would be prohibitive and they would not survive, in any case. Africa is not a civilized country and their own tribes would doubtless kill them. If I were to set them free, where would I take them? Where could they enjoy such freedom? How would they survive? Or would you rather I leave them with the Spaniards, who are, I assure you, far less benevolent masters than they will find here? What would you have me do?”

“Your points are well taken, Captain,” Verne said. “Nevertheless, and meaning no offense, I cannot help but feel pity toward young Marie.”

Lafitte shook his head. “You know very little of our ways, Mr. Verne. I do not say this in rebuke, you understand. Allow me to explain. Marie is what we call a griffe, the daughter of a white man and a quadroon woman. Here in New Orleans, we frequently have quadroon balls, lavish affairs attended by all eligible quadroon women and most of the young New Orleans gentlemen. A quadroon is not considered a Negro, Mr. Verne. However, neither is a quadroon considered white. Their position in society is strictly defined. For years, the young men of this city have gone to the Quadroon Ballroom, as is the custom, in search of mistresses. Do not make the mistake of thinking we have made them prostitutes or whores. They are not that. Their best chance for a good life is to find a white man who will act as their protector and their mothers prepare them for this from childhood. A quadroon girl usually becomes the mistress of a young gentleman of means, who keeps her in a comfortable home or an apartment, cares for her, frequently has children by her. She lives a good life, devoted to one man, who provides for her in a manner that allows her to live quite comfortably. Sometimes this association is terminated when the young man marries, sometimes it continues. Quadroon men-free men of color, as we call them here-are not as fortunate. Sometimes their fathers provide an education for them, but more frequently they become laborers or musicians. They often marry former mistresses of white men and lead normal, happy lives. If they are light enough in color, they might leave New Orleans and travel far away, passing as white.

“Marie would have been a free woman of color in New Orleans and she would easily have found a wealthy man to provide for her. However, until I intervened, her destiny was to be a Spanish slave. She was in chains when I found her, though she was kept chained in the captain’s cabin, rather than in the hold with the others, for reasons which seem quite obvious. She was born in Havana and she grew up a slave. The Spaniards did make a whore of her. She knew nothing else since the age of twelve. In New Orleans, she could have been free, only what would have been her opportunities? She had received no training in manners and social graces. She has no mother to take her to a quadroon ball. She had no home, no means of support. She would have fallen back on the only thing she knew and would have become a prostitute for certain. Nevertheless, I gave her that choice. It may not have been much of a choice, but it was all I could offer her. Freedom or being sold as a slave. She pleaded with me to keep her. She said she would serve me faithfully and keep me happy. Well, sir, I understood only too well what she meant. And I did not wish to put myself in the position of taking advantage of such a situation. That would have made me no different from the Spaniards.”

“Yet you keep her as a slave,” said Verne.

“I do,” Lafitte said, “so other men will respect her as my property. Yet, I have trained her, taught her, treated her well and never bedded her.”

“And offered her to Land,” said Verne.

“As was my right,” Lafitte said. “I offered her the choice of freedom or slavery.” He shrugged. “She chose slavery.”

Verne sighed and stared out at the setting sun. “You are a complicated man, Captain.”

Dominique Youx joined them once again to tell Lafitte the men were arriving for the council.

“You will excuse me for a short while,” Lafitte said, getting up. “Prior to your arrival, I called for a meeting of my captains. It is a matter of some importance. Please, the night is warm. Remain here for a while and I shall have supper brought to you. This should not take very long.”

They waited on the veranda, watching the captains of Barataria arrive, many coming with members of their crews who remained outside, and they gorged themselves on the delicious Creole cuisine. Ned did not reappear, prompting Andre to observe that Marie must be giving him a truly proper thanks. Verne looked shocked.

Downstairs, shouts were heard, then the sounds of furniture overturning. They heard a door slam and looking out over the railing of the veranda, they saw a heavyset, swarthy-looking man leaving in a huff to join some of the men gathered on the beach.

“That’s Gambi,” Drakov said. “It appears he has walked out of the meeting. This may mean trouble.”

The meeting broke up soon after that and Lafitte rejoined them, looking no different than before. Whatever had happened at the meeting seemed to have affected him little, if at all.

“We saw Gambi leaving in a rage,” said Drakov, trying to draw him out. “If he is being difficult, perhaps I should send word to my men to steer clear of him and his crew during our stay.”

Lafitte shrugged. “Gambi is his own worst enemy. His own greed and lack of self-control will do him in. He has never understood that we owe our existence here to the most precarious balance. As corsairs, we prey on Spanish and British shipping, indulge in a little smuggling, in short, provide goods and services in return for which we are left well enough alone. But Gambi is a stupid pig. Of late, too many ships have been disappearing in the gulf. American ships. I know for a fact Gambi has attacked at least one. Some of the others have started to follow his example. I have laid down the law. The American flag is to be respected. Anyone attacking a ship fly ing that flag will be expelled from Barataria at once. Gambi did not take that well.”

“What about the others?” Drakov said.

“The others will fall in line, but they shall wait and see how I deal with Gambi first.”

“And how will you deal with him?” said Verne.

“I will give him enough rope to hang himself with,” Lafitte said. “Unless I am very much mistaken, he is about to start gathering that rope right now.”

There was quite a bit of shouting coming from the direction of the beach. The sun had gone down and the men on the beach had lit fires. A large group of them were now advancing on Lafitte’s mansion, carrying torches, shouting, being led by Gambi. Lafitte produced a clay pipe and casually began to fill it with tobacco.

“LAFITTE!”

The man shouting from below was not Gambi. He was a large, muscular seaman, dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt and loose white trousers. He was bald and bearded and he looked quite formidable as he stood in the glare of the torchlight, shaking his fist at those sitting up on the veranda.

Lafitte calmly lit his pipe.

“Jean Lafitte! You hear me?”

Lafitte did not respond.

“Listen to me, Jean Lafitte,” the seaman shouted, taking out a pistol and brandishing it in the air. A chorus of shouts backed him up. Gambi stood to the side, his arms folded on his chest, watching the performance with approval. “We do not take orders from the likes of you, eh? Captain Gambi’s crew only takes orders from Captain Gambi! Here is what I think of your orders… “

The seaman spat up at the veranda. Lafitte seemed to move lazily, but that was deceptive. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a pistol, leveled it almost casually and fired. The shot startled them all. With an expression of surprise upon his face, the seaman pitched forward onto the sand, shot through the heart.

Lafitte stood slowly, the smoking gun still held in his hand, and leaned on the railing of the veranda, looking down at the assembled men. He said nothing. His eyes met Gambi’s. With a scowl, Gambi turned away and walked off into the darkness. The remainder of the mob broke up.

“Now then,” said Lafitte, turning around and putting the pistol back into the holster hanging inside his jacket. “What do you say to a game of poker?”