Jebal hoped, very much, that was the case.
And he reassured himself that Christians in general were weak and foolish in regards to their fellow man.
Jebal turned his regard on Blackwell. He grew more uneasy. The man was, physically, an arresting sight. Clearly he was a formidable enemy. Had he turned renegade, he would have made a powerful ally. He was also the kind of man women would admire and covet and desire.
Jebal’s jaw tightened.
“Jebal! Do you or do you not have an opinion on this subject?”
Jebal started and faced his glowering father. “I beg your pardon,” he said, flushing. His father made him feel like a ten-year-old boy more often than not.
The bashaw glared. “The American captain is a fool to refuse me. He destroyed four of my ships. How lenient I have been with him! And now he refuses to swear himself to me? I give him a chance at wealth beyond his imagination—and he dares to refuse. He deserves punishment. And he will pay the ultimate price—he will forfeit his head.” The bashaw folded his arms over his slightly protruding stomach.
Jovar smiled. The blond Scot was clearly pleased.
Jebal turned and met Blackwell’s steady, unflinching gaze. Personally, he abhorred violence and believed executions should only be meted out when there was no other resort. But Jebal had a strong sense now that he would be better off with Blackwell dead. However, Jebal was also as politically cautious as his father was not. “Father, we are already at war with the Americans,” Jebal began. “We should not anger them with Blackwell’s death.”
Jovar laughed. “War? Hah! They are cowards, the lot of them. They send their big ships here to do what? To dance and drink with the British in Gibraltar, to cruise Italy! They are soldiers? They are cowards!”
Jebal sighed. Jovar spoke the truth, actually, for the whole world knew that Commodore Morris’s wife preferred Gibraltar to the rest of the Mediterranean. She enjoyed attending the many teas and balls given by the wives of the British officers stationed there. Morris had not cruised the coast of Tripoli even once. So far, no one in Tripoli was afraid of the American navy. They had vaguely blockaded the city, which was growing low on grain, but so far, it had not affected the palace or the rich merchants, merely a few of the lowliest craftsmen and bedouin. The soldiers and sailors, the many sea captains, the tavern-keepers, the slaves who were not American, and most of the villagers were all laughing at this so-called war. And last week Morris had lifted the blockade, making everyone laugh harder.
But Jebal had seen two of their ships. They were huge, well manned, and heavily gunned. Too, hadn’t everyone seen what a daring and brave American could do? ThePearlwas far smaller and had less firepower of the U.S. flagship, the USSConstitution,and Blackwell had easily destroyed four of Tripoli’s best cruisers.
“Father.” Jebal said carefully, “if you behead Blackwell, it is the end. We can still use him. We should persuade him to renounce his faith, Father, and become one of us. Let us give him more time.”
“He has said no. He refuses. He deserves death.” Jovar said heatedly.
“We should not anger the Americans any further,” Jebal added.
“Their anger is like the yapping of a small dog,” Jovar snapped.
“I don’t care if the Americans are angry, for I am furious,” the bashaw spat. “They deny us tribute, which they give to the bey of Algiers and the dey of Tunis,” the bashaw almost shouted. His face was purple now. “Where is the money, the guns, the ships, the other gifts which they promised me so long ago? Blackwell should be an example to them all!”
Farouk, the prime minister, shoved his bulk into their midst. “Forgive me, my lord, but may I speak?”
“I want him dead,” the bashaw said in a very childish manner. “He mocks my generosity after destroying my very favorite ship!”
Farouk smiled obsequiously. “We do not have to kill him to punish him, my lord. Perhaps we can punish him, severely—and still gain what we want in the end? Either his knowledge or a huge ransom?”
“The Americans are cheap,” Jovar scoffed. “Cheap and poor. We will never get a worthwhile ransom for Blackwell and his men.” His laughter was scathing.
“I do not wish to ransom Blackwell,” the bashaw said, more calmly now. “He cost me four of my best ships! He destroyed my beautifulMirabouka.He deserves punishment! Let us anger the Americans! Let us enrage them!”
Jebal glanced toward the wall, knowing Zohara was behind that wall and concerned for her countryman. He wished he knew exactly what she felt for Blackwell, but on the other hand, tonight he would finally have her, and he was an accomplished lover. She would not be thinking of Blackwell in an inappropriate way after this night.
Jebal forced such thoughts aside. “It is very foolish for us to purposefully anger the Americans,” he said. “Farouk is right, as always. We can punish him, and maybe even persuade him to come to us, but we need not kill him. We should not kill him. Not yet.”
“Blackwell Shipping is very rich,” Farouk said. “His father might pay very handsomely to gain his release. Not all Americans are cheap.”
“What do you wish to do with him?” the bashaw demanded. “Give him women and slaves and allow him to live like a prince until we receive his father’s gold?”
“Let us show him the lot of a slave,” Farouk suggested. “A palace slave—the lowest one, a sweeper, of course.”
Jovar’s fists were clenched. “A palace slave hardly suffers. I cannot believe you will not behead him this very moment!”
The bashaw scowled.
“Send him to the quarries,” Jebal said calmly, aware that deep within himself he would not mind if Blackwell died there. Indeed, his “accidental” death could even be arranged. “Show him the lot of a beylik slave.” His gaze shifted.
