Captive (22 page)

But now, at least, he had time to continue his plans.

Jovar sauntered forward, and suddenly spat out a series of commands in Arabic that Xavier did not, could not, understand. But his enemy was smiling. His pale eyes gleamed.

“So your life remains, dog,” Jovar said, taunting him. “But for how long?”

Xavier said nothing.

Jovar stared at him. “Your bravery will not get you far in the quarries, Blackwell. To the contrary. It can—and shall—be the death of you.”

“Is that a threat?”

Jovar laughed. “No, a warning.” He motioned abruptly to the soldiers guarding Xavier.

Rough hands jerked on Xavier’s chains. Xavier was pulled forward so roughly that he almost fell. The soldiers walked swiftly, and Xavier shuffled along with them, the leg iron chafing his ankle. He ignored it.

He felt that her eyes were following him.

Alexandra. Was it his imagination? Or was she really there, behind that wall? He had not imagined a woman’s anguished cry when the bashaw had shouted for his blood.

They left the palace, entering the outer courtyard, which was filled with soldiers, bodyguards, slaves, merchants, and supplicants. Xavier stumbled again. This time he fell, his hands hitting the cobbled stones of the ground, but he was yanked up hard by his chains by one of the soldiers. Blood dripped from his wrists.

“Oh God,” she cried. “Oh, God!”

Xavier was being propelled forward when he heard her. He recognized her voice immediately. Shocked, he halted in mid-stride, so abruptly that he dragged the two soldiers holding him backward. Whirling, he saw her.

And he did not understand.

It was Alexandra, he would know her anywhere, and even though a dozen feet separated them, and as many soldiers, he was looking into her eyes. But she was not wearing a slave giri’s simple vest and trousers. She was dressed like a wealthy Moslem lady, in many flowing robes, the material bejeweled and embroidered, and she wore a huge veil that revealed only her mouth and nose and eyes. Her identity was, however, unmistakable.

Alexandra was on the verge of tears. Her face was starkly white. Her hands were outstretched.

Their gazes remained locked. Xavier could not look away. His heart hammered uncontrollably, but he was dazed, confused, disbelieving.
What the hell was this?

And Murad grabbed her from behind, his face twisted with anger. He began pulling her backward. She struggled against her own slave, her gaze holding Xavier’s.

Who the hell was she?

“American dog!” A scimitar landed, flat bladed, hard on Xavier’s shoulder. The blow was brutal and unexpected, and Xavier went down to his knees. Pain stunned him, diverting his thoughts.

She screamed.

The next blow took Xavier squarely on his back. His head hit the cobblestones, and for a moment his world turned black. Then white-hot stars began shooting in front of his eyes. He strained to hear her cries, but heard only Turkish and Arabic murmured above him, around him, and shouted commands.

He was hauled to his feet as his vision cleared. Xavier got one more glimpse of her from the corner of his eyes. Murad was dragging her away. Alexandra—dressed as a wealthy Moslem woman.

But surely it was a disguise.

Xavier suddenly realized who stood beside him. He stiffened, and faced Jovar.

Peter Cameron also stared after Alexandra’s heavily veiled form.

X
AVIER DID NOT
like the look of the bagnio.

It was a large, heavily guarded rectangular compound set directly behind the palace. The walls were thick gray stone. Xavier was halted by his escort as a massive wooden door was opened. Then he was shoved forward, inside.

He had entered a large, vaulted guardroom. Although it was dark inside, Xavier immediately spotted the three Turkish soldiers stationed there. Handcuffs, fetters, and shackles of all shapes and sizes hung on the walls, as did numerous implements that were clearly designed for cruelty and torture. A chill raced up Xavier’s spine.

How many of his men had survived? How badly had they suffered from the cruelty that the Turks and Barbary pirates were infamous for?

“Your new home,” Jovar said, his blue eyes gleaming.

Xavier did not reply.

A big, mustached Turk stepped forward. A broken nose dominated his long, oval face. “Another slave?”

“Yes,” Jovar replied. He looked at Xavier. “Kadar is the guardian pasha of the bagnio. Your welfare—and life—rest in his hands.”

Xavier met Kadar’s unblinking black eyes. He could discern no emotion there. That disturbed him far more than had he seen open cruelty or malice.

Jovar’s mouth stretched into a cool smile. “Perhaps you might wish to welcome Captain Blackwell to the bagnio, Kadar.”

Kadar grunted.

Jovar took his arm and the two men stepped out of earshot. Xavier watched them. He had no doubt that Jovar was giving Kadar instructions about himself, instructions that would endanger his welfare and his life.

Kadar gestured. He was the only Tripolitan Xavier had so far encountered who was larger and taller than himself. As Xavier obeyed Kadar, stepping forward, one of the Turks shoved him, making him stumble into a vaulted tunnel. Xavier ignored the provocation. Wall sconces illuminated the wide passageway. He kept his eyes open, but saw no locked doors that might lead into another section of the bagnio, or outside and to freedom.

A few moments later Xavier found himself in a spacious gravel courtyard flanked by balconies and a maze of smaller chambers. At the far end of the courtyard was a pair of stone arches, atop which was a long, flat terrace. Below the terrace Xavier saw numerous open chambers where craftsmen were at work. He saw cobblers, carpenters, jewelers. In one of the cubbies a scribe was using a quill and inkwell, working on parchment. The scribe paused, regarding Xavier and the soldiers out of unblinking eyes.

Another chamber was a tavern. Several men, including slaves, were standing at a small counter, quaffing their drinks and served by a fat Moor. Xavier stared, well aware that alcohol was forbidden the strict Moslem. Yet one of the men at the counter was clearly a Moslem, as was the tavern-keeper.

Xavier glanced around again. The bagnio was a prison, but it was also an isolated, self-sustaining community.

And it was not empty, either. The moment Xavier had stepped into the courtyard, he had seen several of his men in the tavern, a few others sleeping on cane mats on the terrace.

Then from behind him came a wonderfully familiar voice. “Cap’n, sir,” Timmy cried.

Xavier turned. His cabin boy’s blue eyes were wet with tears. Xavier didn’t hesitate. He scooped the thin boy up into his arms, embracing him the way a father would his son.

“Captain, sir!” Tubbs said from behind them, pounding Xavier on the back.

But before Xavier could turn to Tubbs, he had released Timmy and was staring at his puffy, cut lip, while noticing the fact that the boy was clad solely in trousers that were little more than tattered rags.

Xavier jerked to Tubbs, saw that he was as scantily dressed, and that his face was also bruised. An instant later he saw the marks on Tubbs’s bare back. He was surrounded now by all of his men, and his glance quickly roamed their happy but anxious faces. He saw relief in their eyes. “What happened?” he asked sharply, for it was quite clear that many of his men had been mistreated and beaten. He was careful to control his anger.

But now he had even more reason for revenge.

“Sir, we been treated like dogs, an’ we’re starvin',” the young seaman Allen said.

“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 the
Pearl.
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 the
Pearl.”

“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.

But Xavier sensed possibilities. Instinct told him that Quixande was not a spy, but a survivor.

Pierre might have sensed them, too. “Our rations are meager, but a few coins buys an added portion—perhaps a bowl of broth with a few pieces of onion and mutton. Would you join me tonight, Captain? I will share what is mine with you.”

Xavier nodded slowly. “How long have you been in Barbary, Quixande?”

“A dozen years,” the scribe replied. “Anything that you wish to know, I can undoubtedly tell you.”

Their gazes met. And Xavier thought about the American captive, Alexandra.

“I have to go to him,” Alex cried. “Please, Murad.”

Murad did not answer her. He stood beside her bed, where Alex lay, covering her face with her hands.