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?”
9
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?”
Land nodded, grimly. “I didn’t want to hear. I thought you were making fun of me. After what I’ve seen, mon aini, I would no longer doubt a thing you tell me.”
“Well, that’ll make things easier,” said Lucas, wryly. “The Underground is made up mostly of soldiers from the armies of the future. These soldiers have become deserters. Sometimes soldiers from the future become… well, lost, for lack of a better way of putting it. They become separated from their units. Sometimes they’re found again. Sometimes not. Some of them become trapped in the past through no fault of their own, others become deserters. Many of them make contact with the Underground. Either they find the Underground or the Underground finds them. If they wish to return to their own time, the Underground helps them. But if they wish to desert, the Underground takes them in. It’s a complex, loosely knit organization. They have methods of keeping in touch with one another, but they’re spread out through all of time. Some of them, by choice, remain in one specific time period. Others travel a great deal, to any time they choose. We met one of them once. His name was Hunter. He was responsible for taking Andre from the time where she was born, 12th century England, to 17th century Paris, where our paths crossed again. Andre became one of us. Hunter, unfortunately, was killed by a member of the same group Drakov once belonged to.”
“The Timekeepers,” Land said.
Lucas nodded. “Hunter lived in 12th century England most of the time, but he could visit any other time, any other place, anytime he wanted to. The Underground is an illegal organization. Technically, they’re criminals, but no one tries very hard to catch them.”
Land frowned, concentrating. “Why?”
“Because, for one thing, it’s very hard to do,” said Lucas. “For another, they may be deserters, but they also serve a purpose. It’s just as important to them that history not be interfered with as it is to us. They represent a certain danger, since they are people living in times where they do not belong, but they are very aware of the dangers and they take great care not to interfere. If any of them are ever caught, they are tried as criminals, but there are more important things to do than spend time actively looking for them.”
Land shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m understanding you.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why should they care about preserving history? If they’re criminals, deserters-”
“There are many reasons why people join the Underground,” said Finn. “Some of them just couldn’t take being soldiers anymore. Others became soldiers because they thought they’d find adventure, but what they found wasn’t exactly what they had expected, so they deserted to find what they were looking for. Still others prefer living in the past, or in a past, to living in their own time. Just because they’re in the Underground, that doesn’t mean they’re evil or criminals in the sense you mean. I liked Hunter a great deal. And he helped us that one time. He saved our lives.”
“There’s still more to it,” Lucas said. “Suppose, Ned, you got on board a ship heading out of Boston on a whaling expedition. You don’t really expect Boston to change very much in the time you’ll be away. You come back and it’s still the same old Boston, same old streets and houses, same people, nothing’s really changed. But imagine you’re in Boston right now and you decide to take a trip to Boston the way it will be three hundred years in the future. If you’re in the Underground, that wouldn’t be very different from going on your whaling expedition and then coming back. Boston three hundred years from now would still be familiar to you because you know its history. You’ve probably been there before. Only what would happen if someone like Drakov succeeded in altering the course of history somehow? Then the Boston you arrive in might not be the same place you expected you would
