Malla
July 16
THEY SHOOK HANDS.
Xavier was on board Preble’s flagship, the forty-four gun USSConstitution.The Danish merchantman he had escaped Tripoli upon had rendezvoused with a French brig at Alexandria, and Xavier had arranged transport to Malta, where Preble was currently at anchor. The two men’s gazes held. And then Preble smiled and reached forward, embracing Xavier warmly.
Xavier pounded his back. They had served together in the recent French war, before Xavier had resigned his commission. “My God, I wasn’t sure I would ever see this day,” Xavier said with a sigh. He was acutely aware of being free—and as acutely aware that Alexandra remained in captivity.
“Nor I. I have been distraught, first upon learning of the capture of thePearl,then upon learning of your disappearance. The entire world has thought you dead this past year, Xavier.” Preble’s dark, intelligent eyes were piercing and curious.
“It is a very long story.”
“Tonight then, over a good meal and a bottle of port,” Preble said decisively. He paced the confines of his small cabin and paused by his desk. “I am indebted to you. I received your letter. How timely it was. Unfortunately I cannot say more.”
“Not even knowing I came to Barbary secretly commissioned by President Jefferson?” Xavier asked.
“Accept a commission from me,” Preble said abruptly. “I need more men like you. You can resign whenever you please.”
Xavier had not a doubt that war was in the air. Upon arriving at Malta he had remarked the fact that half of the United States squadron was present. But he had also counted six gunboats, each capable of carrying thirty-five men and armed with twenty-four-pounders, and two bomb vessels sporting thirteen-inch brass mortars. Gunboats and bomb vessels were vital to the kind of operation that any intelligent commander would launch against Tripoli, and were not usually in tow. Their presence at Malta was highly significant.
“Perhaps I can help you,” Xavier said, pacing himself now. He turned and stared out of the porthole at the night-darkened sea. He was facing south. He was facing Tripoli. There was an aching in the vicinity of his chest—he could not shake himself free of a deep sense of loss, a vast regret. And he was so worried about her. “Perhaps we can help one another,” Xavier said slowly.
“Go on.” Preble was as cautious.
Xavier faced his old friend. “I might consider a temporary commission—just for the duration of the action at hand. But I also wish to launch an operation of my own.”
Preble’s brows drew together. “I do not understand.”
“There is a woman being held against her will in Tripoli. An American. I wish to rescue her.”
Preble stared.
She had lost track of the time. Many days had passed since Xavier’s escape. She thought about him constantly. She still believed that he would return to rescue her, yet she was so worried—so terrified. Rescue seemed to be an impossibility.
She’d had no word from Murad, either, whom she missed terribly. She prayed for his welfare, assumed he had fled Tripoli, where he had no future now—because of her.
Alex had no contact with the outside world. Her guards were under strict orders not to converse with her. She was not allowed any visitors, and even Paulina did not dare violate Jebal’s command. Not after what had happened to Zoe.
Alex tried very hard not to think about the other woman’s horrible death. During the day she managed to block it out. At night she had nightmares—and eventually the woman in the sack became herself.
How lonely she was, how frightened. If Xavier failed to rescue her, her own fate was quite clear.
Then, overnight, Alex sensed a change in the ambience of the palace. A silence, a tension, so heavy it was ripe, pervaded the corridors beyond her tiny, enclosed, self-contained world. Something was happening, but Alex could not fathom what.
The slave who brought her her daily rations was mute, which was no coincidence, but that morning Alex used the opportunity to question her guards. “Why do I have the distinct feeling that something is wrong?” she asked them.
They ignored her.
Her door was wide open, the mute slave was setting her table. Staring out into the hallway, Alex strained to hear. All day long, the gardens outside of her shuttered windows had been silent, when usually they were filled with happily conversing women. Only the howling wind could be heard, a wind that had kicked up overnight. “Has something happened? Has someone died? Why are the gardens so quiet?” Alex begged. “Where is everyone?!”
She did not really expect an answer.
One of the Turks faced her, startling her. “Seven American ships have anchored outside of the harbor—with gunboats and bomb vessels. Clearly they intend to attack. The bashaw has been readying Tripoli’s defenses since they were spotted last night.”
Alex turned white. In all of her wildest imaginings, she had never dreamed that she might be inside the palace when Preble attacked. “When? When will he attack?” Was it possible? Was it already early August? How had the days turned into weeks?
“No one knows. When the wind changes. A northeaster has been blowing since the ships arrived.”
