Captive (12 page)

“Jovar says it is the same privateer he has encountered once before, and he calls him Dali Capitan.”

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. The
Mirabouka
is 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 the
Pearl.”

Cape Bon
July 3. 1803

X
AVIER WAS BONE-TIRED.
He stood at the bow of his ship, his face lifted to the darkening sky, the
Pearl
having 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 the
Pearl
would 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 the
Pearl
or 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 the
Pearl’s
broadsides had been a direct hit. The
Sophia’s
bow 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 the
Sarah.
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.”

Xavier finally smiled. He had a good crew. He closed his eyes, lifting his face to the twilight and the salt air. Everything was going well. He would survive this sojourn to Tripoli, complete his secret mission, and fulfill his own personal ambitions. Then why was he, deep within himself, disturbed?

Xavier opened his eyes and met the ripe gleaming of a full moon. A deep, rippling sense of uneasiness settled over him.

He stood. A moment later he was speaking to Tubbs, his first mate. “I want a full watch this night.”

“What’s wrong, Cap’n?”

“Nothing that I know of. But it cannot hurt to be safe.” He smiled, gripping the bowlegged Englishman’s shoulder, then turned and strode back to the prow of his ship.

Something was going to happen. Something significant. Momentous. He could feel it. With every sinew and muscle, every pore and fiber, of his entire being.

Xavier sent four longboats to shore with two dozen men to take on water. He himself captained one of the first ships, Tubbs remaining on board the
Pearl
with the pilot, Fernandez. The hulls of the longboats began to scrape the bottom of the sandy shore. Xavier eyed the coast again for the dozenth time, but all he saw was shimmering sand and piles of rocks. In the distance, to the south, a line of mountains made a jagged black shape.

His men sloshed through the surf to the shore, dragging the boats up with them. Xavier was still knee-deep in water when the screams began.

Eeerie, deathly—bloodcurdling.

And suddenly two dozen Arabs leapt out from behind the rocks, waving scimitars, their faces crazed with bloodlust. A dozen horsemen came galloping down the beach, firing muskets, screaming their Moslem war cry.

“Back to the longboats!” Xavier shouted, raising his pistol. “To the ship!”

Xavier braced his legs and fired, dropping a soldier intent on mowing down one of his men. Three of his men at the very forefront had already been chopped down savagely by
the horde. Taking careful aim, he shot an approaching horseman on a white Arab steed. Around him, his men were either engaged in hand-to-hand combat with knives and daggers or were leaping into the longboats. The Arabs kept coming.

Xavier tucked his pistol into his belt and drew his dagger. He ducked the blow of a man wielding a scimitar, well aware that two of the longboats had just put out for the
Pearl.
As he straightened, he feinted, then managed to plunge his blade into the Arab’s chest. The man’s eyes widened in surprise, and then, slowly, he fell to the ground.

Xavier immediately leapt on a native who was about to strangle one of his men. He slit his throat and threw him aside. “Into the longboat” he shouted, already heaving the boat off of the sandy shore.

“Yessir,” Allen cried, scrambling inside. “Cap’n! Look out!”

But Xavier had already turned, instinctively bracing himself to meet the Arab who was cantering his steed into the surf, his scimitar poised high in the air. The Arab horse pounded closer, wild-eyed. Xavier lunged forward, grabbing the horse’s bridle. A moment later he had cut its jugular. The animal screamed, going down into the surf, blood spewing. Xavier jumped on the Arab before he could disentangle himself from the horse and saddle, quickly finishing him off by holding him under the water.

“Cap’n! Hurry!” someone screamed.

Xavier released the dead man. He saw that the other two longboats had put out now, too, and were trailing their sisters to the
Pearl.
The last boat, containing Allen and his quartermaster, was already ten feet distant. He quickly glanced back at the beach and saw at least a half dozen of his men lying prone in the white sand in crimson pools of blood. But three times that number of Arabs also lay dying or dead.

The rest of the foot soldiers had fled. The horsemen sat their mounts by the water’s edge, shouting at Xavier, cursing him in Arabic, waving pistols and scimitars, but they did not urge their horses into the surf.

“Cap’n!”

Xavier turned and began to plunge through the thigh-high waves as one of the longboats paused, its oarsmen waiting for him. His men cheered as he reached the side of the boat, four
pairs of hands seizing him and hauling him aboard like a sack of potatoes.

Xavier sat on the wet bottom, panting.

“You all right, Cap’n?” His quartermaster asked. Benedict was one of the oarsmen.

Xavier did not answer. He sat up and looked at the beach. Comprehension filled him then, and he was grim.

“Cap’n—look!” Allen cried.

Xavier turned and saw the bright gleam of a sail on the horizon—racing toward the
Pearl.
He stood and was leaping out of the longboat before it had even nosed the
Pearl,
scrambling up the rope ladder. “Anchor aweigh!”

Xavier was met by Tubbs on the forecastle as the
Pearl
was readied for departure. Their gazes locked, Tubbs handing Xavier the spyglass. Xavier lifted it immediately. He trained it on the ship rapidly closing in on them.

It was a corsair cruiser.

“We been had, Cap’n, sir,” Tubbs said. The
Pearl
had begun to creep forward slowly. “Don’t know if we can get out of the inlet in time.”

“Haul the port sail,” Xavier said. He did not lower the glass.

Tubbs shouted the command.

The
Pearl
veered, picking up speed.

While the corsair cruiser raced toward them.

Xavier estimated that she carried thirty-six guns. His jaw was tight. She outgunned the
Pearl.

“Haul out all sails,” he said.

Tubbs shouted the order.

The mainsail snapped up and billowed out. The
Pearl
began to run. The small entrance to the inlet was only two hundred yards distant. But the corsair cruiser was equally close, and under full sail.

“We’re gonna make it, Cap’n,” Tubbs said, his voice quivering with excitement, with hope.

Xavier did not reply. He saw the corsair captain standing at the bow with his own spyglass, which was trained steadily upon them.

This particular rais by now formed a familiar figure. The sunlight glinted off of his pale blond hair. Xavier’s heart jumped erratically.

Rais Jovar. Commander of the bashaw’s fleet. A Scotsman turned Turk. Rabidly anti-American, although no one had yet to learn why. His real name was Peter Cameron.

“Welcome back, Peter,” Xavier murmured.

“Cap’n?” Tubbs asked. The
Pearl
was under full sail now, as well. The two ships appeared to be racing toward one another, destined for a head-on collision.

“Hold her steady,” Xavier said. And then he shouted, “Attack!”

For one moment, Tubb’s visage was comical in its complete shock. And then he shouted, “Attack!”

The
Pearl
spewed her first broadside even though she was still trapped in the inlet with no room to maneuver. The first cannon shot just missed the corsair cruiser. The Tripolitans did not return fire.

Xavier smiled. “Port cannons, fire!”

Four cannonballs arced out across the water. Xavier and his entire crew watched with bated breath. Three shots missed the ship, landing just shy of the bow, but the fourth scored a direct hit.

His crew cheered.

And the corsair began returning fire. Cannon shot narrowly missed the bow and mainsail of Xavier’s ship.

Xavier smiled tightly. “You’ve acquired better gunners since our last encounter, Peter.”

“Cap’n? Five degrees starboard?” Tubbs asked.

Only one hundred yards separated the bows of both ships. Clearly the corsair and the frigate would collide head-on if one of them did not change course. “Hold her steady,” Xavier said. “Hold all fire.”

“Cap’n, beg your pardon, but we’re gonna ram her,” Tubbs said, his voice very high. “An’ she’s gonna ram us.”

It was either that or be trapped inside the inlet. “Yes,” Xavier said. “And I imagine the cruiser shall suffer more than we ourselves shall.”

Tubbs was white, but his hands remained steady on the helm. An unnatural silence had descended upon the ship. The entire crew of the
Pearl
was white faced and frozen in their positions. The prow of the
Pearl
slipped through the two black sentinel boulders marking the entrance to the inlet. The prow
of the corsair ship was spewing white water as she raced toward them.

Xavier
no
longer used his spyglass. From where he stood, he could see Jovar perfectly. Like Xavier, the Scot captain stood braced and intent and unmoving.

Shit,
Xavier thought.

Eighty yards separated the two ships now as they raced directly toward one another.

Seventy-five.

“Oh God,” Tubbs said. It was a moan.

And then Jovar shouted.

The huge mainsail swung wildly across the deck of the ship. A Turk sailor was struck and swept overboard. And the corsair cruiser suddenly slowed, beginning to veer a full 180 degrees, changing course.