“Never,” Alex returned lightly as they walked up the stone path to the front door. She knocked briskly on the green-painted wood.
Neilsen opened it almost immediately. His eyes widened the moment he saw Alex—and then he grabbed her arm and dragged her into his house.
There was no time, it turned out, to warn the navy of Tripoli’s plans. From Neilsen’s terrace, the three of them watched as three corsair cruisers, each boasting between twenty-four and thirty-two guns, sailed out of the harbor. The corsairs fired first.
Immediately the largest frigate sent a few harmless broadsides toward the corsairs. Alex decided that she was the USSBoston.The bashaw’s shore batteries opened up fire in return. But the cannons on the mole were out of range and could not possibly hope to hit any of the American ships. A few more rounds were exchanged, causing no damage to any of the parties involved, except for a single ripped mainsail on one of the corsair ships.
As the corsairs sailed back into the harbor beneath the setting sun, the American vessels slowly turned, changing direction. Alex felt curiously deflated. Neilsen sighed. “That,” he said dramatically, “changes nothing.”
Alex was about to turn when she realized that one of the corsairs was not returning to Tripoli. It was tracking the three American ships, but at a safe distance, keeping well out of cannonball range. Both Murad and Neilsen saw her at the exact same time.
“What the devil is going on?” Neilsen asked.
Alex squinted. “It’s theMirabouka,”she said.
“How do you know that, Mrs. Thornton?”
“She has thirty-six guns and she was made in Boston. Remember? Jovar captured her in 1801.”
“I know all about theMirabouka.”Neilsen said impatiently, “I just don’t understand how you can identify her so well, in this light, at this distance.”
Alex said, “My eyes are very good.”
Neilsen regarded her strangely. As did Murad.
But Murad already knew she had extensive knowledge about sailing and boats. Alex imagined informing both men that she was a twentieth-century naval historian and it was her business to be able to identify vessels like theMiraboukaand the USSBoston.Neither man would believe her, of course.
“We should trust Alex’s judgment,” Murad said. “So far, she has never mistaken a vessel for being anything other than what she has said it to be.”
Neilsen stared at her, puzzled.
“My father was in the navy,” Alex finally lied. TheMiraboukawas almost out of sight. The first stars of the night were emerging overhead. As was a perfect half-moon. “I wonder what Jovar is doing.”
“Whatever he is doing,” Neilsen said, “he is up to no good.”
And Alex was suddenly swept with chills. And an accompanying premonition of disaster.
“Alex, wake up!” Murad shouted, throwing the silk bedcovers off of her.
Alex’s eyes flew open. It was very early in the morning. She saw Murad’s strained expression, his blazing eyes, and she sat bolt upright in bed. “What is it? What has happened?”
“TheMiraboukahas returned,” Murad cried, sitting beside her. Then his gaze drifted. Suddenly he stood and tossed a tunic at her.
Alex knew her sleeping gown was transparent, but did not care. Murad had seen her naked a thousand times. She slid from the bed, gripping the tunic tighdy. “And?”
His jaw flexed. “Her rigging was blasted to pieces, her hull severely damaged. Five of the crew were killed, six seamen wounded,includingRais Jovar.”
Alex’s mouth dropped open.
“Rais Jovar is lucky to have escaped,” Murad continued quickly. “I heard one of his janissaries say that the privateer let theMiraboukago. The bashaw is furious. Rais Jovar has been put in chains on a donkey and is being paraded through the streets even as we speak. He received fifty lashes of the bastinado.”
“Ohmygod,” Alex whispered.
“Rais Jovar has sworn revenge, Alex, on this privateer.”
She was breathless, aching. “His name? The privateer? Murad?”
“Jovar says it is the same privateer he has encountered once before, and he calls him Dali Capitan.”
