“What’s happening?” he asked one of the deckhands.
“I think we’re being taken over,” said the deckhand.
“Taken over?” The pit in Grover’s stomach began to expand, hearing the echo of his parents’ voices.
“I believe those are pirates,” said the young man. He looked at the ship again and then back at Grover. “Sir? You should hide.”
“Hide? Why on earth would I do that? I will not hide! I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Sir.” The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the firing of one of the cannons. It passed over the bow, and the passengers screamed.
“What are they doing?” yelled Grover.
“They’re going to board and take the ship, sir. One way or another, they will take this ship. They want what we have.”
“Why? What is so important about tobacco, cotton, and rum? They could get that anywhere.”
“Those are not the things they’re after, sir. The cargo they want is much more valuable. Something they can easily trade in the new world.”
“What could that possibly be?” asked Grover.
“You.”
CHAPTER THREE
Irene stood listening to the blowhard on the truck, talking about change and making their city better.
“Pfft,” mumbled Irene. “Better? How do you make something that’s already just fine, better?”
A man next to her smiled down at her and nodded.
“I agree, chére. Ain’t no reason to change somethin’ that’s been workin’ for three hundred years.”
“Fool politicians,” she muttered.
“We will make New Orleans the gem that she should be. We’ll start right here in Jackson Square. Look at it. It’s dingy and dirty, so-called artists and psychics around her fence. Thieves, drug dealers, murderers wandering these grounds after dark. We need to clean house and level the whole thing. It’s a joke!”
“It’s New Orleans!” yelled Irene. The man stared at the old woman, inclined to ignore her, but he just smiled.
“We will create a better New Orleans. It’s time to get rid of all of this. We will level the Square, build up the levees, and create beautiful living spaces, rising high above the Mississippi. People will come from all over the world to live in our city and enjoy our food and people.”
“People already do that in case you haven’t noticed. Millions every year. How many more millions do you think we want? Nobody’s gonna enjoy what you’re creatin’,” said Irene.
The man stared at her once again, frowning. He looked as though he could spit fire, and Irene was fairly sure he would at any moment. Leaning to a man next to him, he whispered something, and the man nodded.
“Those old live oaks are a disgrace. We tear those out and create a new image.”
“Those live oaks, unlike you, have history in this city. They’ve been at the center of every historical event in this area. Yes, some of it is dark history, and some of it good. But if you try to erase it, we’re only doomed to repeat it. If you really knew our city, you’d know – ouch!” yelled Irene.
She turned to see a man with a small black bar in his hand and frowned. Turning back to the man, she tried to continue, but the man poked her again.
“Madam,” said her ghostly companion, “I believe he’s using something called a cattle prod on you. I seem to remember hearing men talk of its use at one time.”
Furious with the man, she turned toward him, grabbing his wrist with more strength than he believed she could have. His eyes went wide, and she glared at him, staring into his face. He swallowed, staring at the old woman.
“You do not want to touch me again, little boy. This will not end well for you.”
“Leave Mr. Snow alone, or you will not like the outcome. He’s campaigning, and he will win this election and level this disgusting Square,” said the man.
