Alex blinked. But she had acquired a smattering of the lingua franca since arriving in Tripoli, and she finally understood. “Dali Capitan,” she said slowly. “Devil Captain.”
“Yes,” Murad said, staring at her face. “It was Dali Capitan, the same privateer who destroyed Jovar’s ship two weeks ago, and Jovar begged the bashaw for mercy, pleading that no Moslem can fight the devil, but the bashaw did not listen. TheMiraboukais finished, Alex.”
Alex knew. It had to be. She gripped Murad’s hand tightly, ignoring his cry of protest. She dragged him against her body. “Who is this Devil Captain? Who? What is his name?”
Murad jerked free. “What is happening now, Alex? Why are you so hysterical? Isn’t this what you want? To see Tripoli destroyed?”
“Who is Dali Capitan?” she cried frantically, again clinging.
“I do not know.”
Alex could not believe her ears. Her grip tightened on Murad’s robes, actually tearing the fabric. “You must know something!”
“He is American.”
Alex released Murad. Her heart thundered in her ears. She sank down on the bed, in that instant unable to breathe, to speak.It had to be him. Blackwell.
“His ship is American,” Murad offered, watching her closely. “He flies many different flags, Tunis, Algiers. England, France, but when he strikes, the American flag is raised.”
Alex looked up. Into Murad’s penetrating silver eyes. “The ship? Does it have a name?”
“Yes,” Murad said slowly. “Her name is thePearl.”
8
Cape Bon
July 3. 1803
XAVIER WAS BONE-TIRED.He stood at the bow of his ship, his face lifted to the darkening sky, thePearlhaving weighed anchor now in a small hidden inlet his Spanish pilot had guided them to. They would stay the night, so that the following morning they would take on fresh water, which his crew desperately needed. And then thePearlwould continue her secret mission. A mission that, Xavier thought, was becoming obvious to the bashaw of Tripoli.
The bashaw had lodged a complaint with the Danish consul in Tripoli. When war had broken out between the United States and Tripoli, the American consul had fled to Leghorn, Italy, where he now remained. In his absence the Dane was acting as the American chargé d’affaires.
Xavier knew that the formal response of the United States, coming from the American consul in Algiers, was that they knew nothing about thePearlor its captain, so sorry.
Robert would have been pleased.
Xavier sobered. An image of the Tripolitan cruiser, which they had engaged and destroyed, filled his mind. One of thePearl’sbroadsides had been a direct hit. TheSophia’sbow had come a dozen feet out of the water, jackknifing. And then she had burst into flames.
For a moment, Xavier had watched the crew diving frantically into the sea. He had, of course, witnessed this kind of scene a dozen times before, during the war with France. But today the ship blazing before his eyes had been theSarah.For an instant he had been paralyzed. Consumed with grief, thinking of Robert.
Xavier tore himself free of his sorrow. Robert was dead, his body lost at the bottom of the sea. Sailors had died today, perhaps boys even younger than Robert, while others had been picked up and taken prisoner. The facts of war never changed.
And Xavier was at war, even though operating secretly. His emotions must be kept at bay. He had a mission to perform.
But before Xavier continued his depredations, he would rendezvous at Leghorn with Commodore Morris. His orders were to make contact with the commander of the American naval squadron every eight weeks, to exchange intelligence information.
Xavier sniffed the night air. How calm and serene the sea was now. The sky was pink and purple, and the water had taken on a lavender hue streaked with silver. It was absolutely silent, except for the soft sounds of his men conversing. It was as if the bloody battle of that afternoon had never existed. How dear this moment of peace was. How dear—how fleeting.
A porpoise suddenly broke through the surface of the water, a flashing silver streak, and was gone.
The ancient mariners considered it a sign of good fortune, but Xavier was less superstitious than most seafaring men. He settled his hip on the railing, thinking about the letters he must write home.
Xavier fought the feeling of resignation and sadness rising up in him. He had made his decision a long time ago, a decision based upon a promise that he could never break, must never break. For if he did not take care of Sarah, then who would?
But sometimes he imagined having a real wife, a woman of beauty and courage and intelligence. An adult woman, a woman he could admire and even turn to at times, a true helpmeet, But that, he knew, was a fantasy.
He shook off his brief lapse into self-pity. His men were relaxing now, drinking their alloted ration of whiskey, their reward for work well done. Timmy, Xavier’s cabin boy, was playing the harmonica, as he did most nights, the melodic sound floating over the sea, and several voices were raised in song and harmony. They were singing “God Bless America.”
