“They give us but a bit of water and just three small loaves of bread every day with some putrid vinegar,” said another lad through split lips.
“An’ mebbe, if we’re lucky, a few olives,” his quartermaster, Benedict, added, and he spat.
“When they come ‘n’ feed us they laugh at us, call us American dogs, ‘n’ kick us,” another man cried. His torso was black and blue.
“Sandy got his arm broken. We set it best we could, but he’s in terrible pain,” Tubbs added, his gaze anxious and riveted on Xavier.
Xavier looked around at the thirty-five faces peering up at him, awaiting his direction, his command. He was filled with frustration. He must give his men hope. Hope would feed them the way no amount of rations ever could.
Tubbs stepped closer to Xavier before he could speak. “An’ we’ve had to protect Timmy,” he said quietly, “from them sodomizing Moorish buggers.”
Xavier’s gaze pierced his cabin boy. Tim, always thin, looked positively emaciated. Xavier put his arm around him and drew him close. “Have you been hurt?”
Tears filled Tim’s eyes as the thirteen-year-old pressed against Xavier’s side. “I’m okay, Cap’n, sir. Really, I am.” But he was close to crying, although trying manfully not to.
“We protected him real good, Cap’n, sir,” a sailor named Sorenson said eagerly.
“Good,” Xavier said, nodding. He turned to Tim. “Don’t worry, laddie, I’ll take care of you now.”
Timmy nodded, biting his swollen lower lip, which was trembling.
Xavier released him, giving him a firm man-to-man slap on the shoulder. He faced his men, gathered in a tight circle about him. “Is anyone else hurt? Does anyone else need to see a surgeon other than Sandy?”
The men murmured negations. “We’re all right, Cap’n,” said one. “We’re right glad to see you, sir, if you don’t mind our sayin’ so.”
Nodds and eager cries followed this single statement.
“And I am very glad to see each and every one of you.” Xavier paused, his expression grim. “Lads, do not give up. We will attain our freedom, although it may not be easy, and it may take some time and some very clever planning.” He looked around; his men understood and they began to smile and nod. “And in the interim,” Xavier continued, his tone low but firm, “we will survive, behaving as patriots, making our country and our loved ones proud of us—and we will do what has to be done.” His eyes were hard. He met every man’s gaze. “The war has only just begun,” he finished quietly.
His men began to cheer.
Xavier raised his hands for silence, which was immediate. “We must be discreet,” he said in a low tone. “Let us do as we are told for now, let us not arouse the wrath of the guards, or their suspicions. Ignore any and all provocations. It is not cowardice. We must think of the long term, of our ultimate goals.”
His men murmured in agreement. Xavier hoped each and every one of them understood that he was planning their escape. It was not necessary, of course, for his entire crew to know of the impending destruction of thePearl.That operation must be performed in secret, with as few knowing the details as possible. Too well Xavier recalled the treachery off of Cape Bon that had placed him and his crew as captives in Tripoli in the first place.
He glanced behind him, but he did not see any sign of their guards. Still, he was certain that spies were everywhere—and certainly inside of the bagnio. “Now take me to Sandy.”
Tubbs indicated that Sandy was on the terrace. Xavier began to cross the courtyard, Timmy accompanying them, on Xavier’s heels anxiously. Xavier could not blame the boy.
As he passed the row of workrooms, he saw the scribe watching them through steady, unwavering eyes. The man stood up. He was of medium height and build but very thin, his black hair salted with gray. Unlike Xavier’s crew, he wore undamaged clothing—pale, loose trousers, a clean, collarless shirt, and a short, red sleeveless jacket on top of that. He was also wearing leather sandals. Xavier’s strides slowed when he realized that the scribe was approaching him.
“Monsieur,s’il vous plaît,might we make our acquaintance?” The scribe did not smile. His black eyes held Xavier’s. “Pierre Quixande, at your service.”
Xavier nodded, wondering whether this man was one of Jovar’s, or Kadar’s, spies, because of his manner of dress. However, that would be far too obvious, wouldn’t it? “Xavier Blackwell, captain of the United States merchantman thePearl.”
“But this I already know.” Pierre smiled very slightly. His teeth were white and even. “Dali Capitan—the Devil Captain who has so effectively terrorized the bashaw’s corsairs.” Pierre continued to study Xavier. “Dali Capitan—who has so infuriated Rais Jovar. Yes, I know, everyone knows.” His gaze held Xavier’s. “You have made two profound enemies already, Captain Blackwell.”
Xavier wondered what Quixande wanted. “I am aware of that.”
“Perhaps you should have, as it is commonly called, turned Turk?” Pierre flashed a smile now. “There is still time to change your mind, before they do their best to kill you very, very slowly.”
“I am not easy to kill,” Xavier returned.
“Perhaps not. We shall certainly see. I am scribe here. Perhaps you wish to dictate a letter?”
“I can write my own letters,” Xavier said, feeling a pang of homesickness as he thought of his father and Sarah. He had to communicate to them, reassure them, for they would be worried sick when they learned of his captivity. And he had to communicate with the Danish consul, Neilsen, although a meeting did not seem likely now.
He stared at Pierre. This man was a slave, regardless of his clothing, but was he a spy or a potential ally? He was French, and France and England were at war, but the United States was neutral. Yet relations between the United States and France were not particularly good.
