by Simon Hawke
“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 o
ppressive, 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 everywher
e. 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.
