Simon Hawke - The Nautilus Sanction

“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?”

Fires burned on the beach. Men drank and sang, caroused with women, danced, fired guns off into the air and pummeled each other drunkenly. Many of Drakov’s crewmen went into New Orleans with seamen from the other ships of Lafitte’s fleet. Drakov went downstairs with Lafitte and Verne, to play cards with some of the other captains. Lucas, Finn and Andre had declined. Drakov didn’t seem to care. Apparently, it made no difference to him whatsoever what they did. Land rejoined them shortly after the others had gone down to play cards. With some awkwardness, he pointedly explained that all he and Marie had done was talk. To do any more, he said, would have been taking advantage.

“I learned a bit that may be of interest,” he said, as he filled his wine glass. “Drakov does not come here just so his crew can enjoy themselves. He buys slaves from Lafitte.”

Lucas frowned. “Slaves? You’re sure?”

“Marie told me,” Land said. “She said that Negroes are being put aboard the Valkyrie even as we speak.”

“How many?” Finn said.

“This time, he bought a hundred,” Land said. “Last time, twice as many. She saw his men taking them from the warehouse. Grigori and Martingale, from what she said. She hasn’t any idea where he takes them.”

“Martingale,” Andre said. “What’s he doing, playing both ends against the middle?”

“I don’t like him,” Land said. “You said you would tell me of this Underground he claims to belong to.”

“It’s not easy to explain, Ned, but I’ll try,” said Lucas. “You remember when I tried telling you before about how people in the future travel back through time so they can fight their wars in the past?”