“She is a woman of twenty-five. An invalid, perhaps, but a woman—not a child. I believe that she can and will get better—with time.”
Xavier wanted to believe that too. But he didn’t, not for a moment. He had known Sarah since she was born, but he remembered her better as a toddler and a young girl. Then she had been filled with laughter, but she had always been as fragile as the finest handblown glass. Her laughter could vanish in an instant, chased away by black clouds no one else could see.
“I am worried about you now, not her,” William said.
Xavier’s jaw tensed. “I shall be careful. Very careful. And no one knows the sea better than I. The corsairs have no training, no discipline, and few good captains. I can outsail them, outfight them, and I shall.” His eyes blazed. “That is another promise I make to you, Father.”
“To me, or to Robert?” William asked.
Xavier turned away, his heart leaping. He set his drink down. Aware of a savage determination rising up in him, consuming him, now that the crisis with Sarah had passed. Now that the decision had been made. “To you both,” he said.
William bowed his head. Xavier knew that he prayed. But Xavier did not want prayers. He wanted blood. Moslem blood—the blood of the Barbary pirates.
And by God, he would have it—or die trying.
7
Tripoli
May 22, 1803
WHERE WASMURAD?
Alex stood by an embrasure in one of the palace walls, staring out to sea. Earlier that day three American naval ships had been spotted cruising the coast off of Tripoli. She had sent Murad to find out what the sudden appearance of the American navy signified.
In the past year there had been numerous skirmishes between both countries, but nothing decisive or significant. The bashaw remained adamant—he would not sign a peace treaty with the United States, not without receiving vast sums of money and numerous valuable gifts. He felt slighted and insulted because the other Barbary states either had received such tribute and bribes or had been promised them. He was savagely determined to plunder American shipping until he got his “fair” share.
This was no longer such an easy task. When Alex had first arrived in Tripoli, a little more than a year ago, the city had been under an American blockade. The bashaw was uneasy, although not terribly frightened. The main effect was that the corsairs could no longer pick off their prey so easily—they first had to slip through the blockade.
Then Commodore Dale had been recalled, being replaced by Richard Valentine Morris. Morris had spent this past year with the entire naval fleet dispersed throughout the Mediterranean. It had been, Alex thought bitterly, a leisurely cruise for him, his wife, and his young child, Not once had a single American warship been spotted in Tripoli’s waters. Nowadays, the bashaw and Jebal and all his high officers made rude, crude jokes about the Americans. If you were an American, you were considered a coward, all talk, nothing more.
Meanwhile, there had been no word or sign of thePearlor her captain, Xavier Blackwell, But Alex was acutely aware of the passing of each and every day. Within two months, thePearlwould be seized at sea, and Blackwell would arrive a captive in Tripoli.
Had the past year not been such a cataclysmic culture shock, had it not been a test of her courage, determination, and skills for survival, Alex would be pulling out her hair by now, braid by braid, anticipating his arrival.
For surely he would come, as the history books had said he would. Otherwise Alex had spent an entire year fending off Jebal and accepting the intolerable lifestyle forced upon Moslem women for nothing.
Alex was both excited and worried. Stress made it difficult for her to sleep. She wanted to be with him so badly. Sometimes she imagined finally being in his embrace and she was moved to tears. Her emotions were so intense that she could hardly bear them.
However, she never lost sight of the fact that a year from now Blackwell’s execution would be pending—unless they were clever enough to escape Tripoli together before being discovered.
Alex forced her thoughts away from Blackwell and the future with difficulty, as she had done each and every day for the past fourteen months.Where was Murad?
Alex paced by the embrasure impatiently. Three American ships had appeared off of the coast, and she was hot-wired. Something was going to happen. She was sure of it. Something momentuous. And what if one of those ships was thePearl?
Just because thePearlwas seized in July did not mean she could not appear in the area sooner.
Alex heard footsteps racing up the stone steps and she whirled. In the past year she had not grown accustomed to the numerous garments and jewelry that she was required to wear.
She shoved impatiently at the multicolored layers of clothing she wore, vests and gowns and robes that hindered her movement and were incredibly heavy because of the beading and embroidery and real gems used as decoration. Bracelets tinkled on her wrists as she moved, and around both of her ankles she wore a thick band of silver at least an inch and a half wide—only the ladies with royal blood were allowed to wear ankle bracelets of gold. Alex’s eyes were kohled. She wore hanging earrings, too, of gold and turquoise. Wrapped around her body and draped over one shoulder was a barcan of the finest transparent gold fabric. A solid gold belt completed the ensemble.
But she was unveiled. Alex despised the clothing she had to wear, but she despised the veil most of all. She was not allowed out of the harem without it.
Alex moved away from the embrasure. Jebal would be furious if he spotted her outside of the harem with her head uncovered, with her face bared for the world to view, even though she remained inside of the palace. Alex did not care. There were limits to her tolerance. Besides, Murad knew the palace like the back of his hand. It was filled with secret passageways. No one had seen her pass through Jebal’s apartments and into the public domain. Jebal would never know that she had wandered outside of the harem without her veil.
“Alex, they have been cruising the coast since dawn,” Murad said, coming to stand beside her. “The bashaw is angry. As is your husband.”
Alex turned away from the sight of the three ships. The closest one appeared to be a frigate with at least thirty guns. She trembled with excitement. Wishing she could remember details about the warbeforePreble’s advent, which was not for another year. “What are they planning. Murad?”
