Captive (8 page)

Alex was desperate. She spoke only to Jebal, her gaze holding his. “Please, Jebal. Please set me free.”

Jebal’s jaw flexed. It seemed to Alex that he was kind, and that her appeal was not falling upon deaf ears. But the Frenchman was furious. He jerked roughly on her arm.

And the bashaw laughed again. Heartily, causing everyone to turn and regard him. “Zohara, know this. Even if my son were to set you free, my word here is the law, and I would disallow it.”

Alex was filled with dread. She believed the bashaw’s declaration, she sensed his will—and his hatred. This was a man without compunction. This was a man who could starve his slaves and work them to death. She had read about it—it was common amongst all the Barbary states—but she had seen it for herself firsthand that morning.

Alex did not hesitate. Again she implored Jebal. “I wish to see the American consul. Please.” If anyone could help her, it was he.

“There is no American consul here anymore. The American dog fled Tripoli when we tore your flag down,” the bashaw said, his eyes gleaming. “Like the rest of your people, he was a coward, all words, nothing more.”

Alex’s hopes sank like a rock. “Are there any Americans here?” She was thinking about Blackwell.

“Perhaps a few captives, slaves who have been here for many years,” Jebal responded, his gold-flecked eyes soft with sympathy.

Alex hesitated, wanting to ask about Blackwell. Instinct told her that now was not the lime, and she remained silent.

“Nothing will happen to you that is unpleasant,” Jebal said
kindly. “I am going to purchase you, wild Alexandra, and I will make you very happy. And you shall be named Zohara, for it suits you perfectly.”

Alex stared. And did he hope that she would breed him sons?

“But I understand that you are frightened and overwrought. After all, you are but a woman, in a strange land. My father spoke the truth. The American consul fled when we declared war against your country. But in his absence, the Danish consul has been the acting American chargé d’affaires. I will allow Neilsen to visit you.”

Alex gripped Jebal’s sleeve impulsively. “Thank you.”

He was pleased and he smiled broadly.

The bashaw grunted. “You will ruin her as you have ruined your wife, Jebal. Soon she will be ordering you about instead of the other way around.”

Jebal’s easy expression vanished. He stiffened, his face tensely set. “Zoe does as I wish.”

The bashaw spat.

Jebal folded his arms. He stared at the ground sullenly, like a young boy.

“You will never be a successful ruler if you do not know when to punish those defying your wishes,” the bashaw said harshly. “Zoe should be bastinadoed a few times. That would teach her her place.”

“I know when to punish those deserving of punishment,” Jebal said, not looking up.

The bashaw guffawed.

The Frenchman took his cue and smiled.

And Alex could not help regarding Jebal with some sympathy.

She remained in Jusef Coramalli’s palace. Alex quickly learned that the entire royal family lived inside the palace’s walls. In effect, the palace was a small city. Jebal, however, was his only son.

Except for two big Indian slaves dressed in purple trousers and gold caftans, she had been left alone in a spacious room hung with beautiful tapestries. Silk cushions were on the floor, which was covered with Turkish rugs, and Alex sat because she was exhausted. The room’s one door, of latticework wood,
opened onto a lush courtyard filled with shady trees, flowering plants, and shimmering pools. Alex stared out of the door and finally saw a man approaching on one gravel path.

She assumed it was Neilsen; then, as clouds blocked the blinding sun and the man came closer, she saw a lean figure clad in a vest, trousers, and sandals, which she knew now to be slave dress. He was carrying a tray laden with dishes and bowls. And her Coach backpack was slung over his arm.

Alex’s pulse quickened. But not because her possessions were being returned to her. She stood up, staring, as the olive-skinned man came forward, pausing in the doorway. He was a few years younger than she, his hair dark, his clieekbones high. He bowed, looking down, murmuring a greeting in Arabic. Then his lashes lifted and he came forward, carrying the tray, staring. Out of silver eyes.

“Joseph?” Alex whispered.

His silver eyes flared for a single instant, and then his lashes lowered again. His striking face was expressionless as he set the tray down on a long, low table.

“I am Murad,” he said. He did not look up at her as he handed her the backpack. “I am a eunuch and a slave. I was born in the palace, in captivity. Jebal ordered me to return your belongings to you.” He set down the tray and poured a pale yellow liquid from a pitcher into a glass. “Jebal has instructed me to serve you. If it pleases you, of course.” Finally he straightened, gazing directly into her eyes.

Alex stared back and could not reply.

Neilsen arrived a few moments after the slave. He was wearing a tan frock coat, a blue waistcoat, breeches, and stockings. He was blond, sunburned, and sweating. Fanning himself with a tricorn hat, he paused on the other side of the latticework door, studying her out of sharp blue eyes.

Alex wet her lips. She had asked Murad to leave them alone, but he had told her that he was not allowed to do that. The silver-eyed slave stood silently in one corner of the room. Although his gaze was lowered, Alex thought that he was aware of everything.

“Mr. Neilsen,” Alex said. “Thank God you’re here. My name is Alexandra Thornton.”

Neilsen smiled and entered the room. “I guess you have
been told who I am, Sven Neilsen, the Danish consul, and in lieu of an official from your government, I am the acting American chargé d’affaires. You are American, as they said,” he said. “Are you all right, Mrs. Thornton?”

Alex blinked. His words struck a spark of hope in her—and a brilliant accompanying idea. “I am frightened.”

“I know. But you have had some fortune after all, for Jebal is taken with you, and he is kind.”

But Alex wasn’t comforted. “I don’t care. This is intolerable. I wish to be set free. I am an American citizen!” She already knew that it would be much easier for her to find Blackwell if she were a resident of Tripoli—instead of Jebal’s slave and mistress, which would be unbearable in any case. “Can’t you help me, Mr. Neilsen? Can’t you convince Jebal to release me—if he is indeed as kind as you say?”

Neilsen sighed. “That is not the way of the East, Mrs. Thornton. That is not the custom. The Barbary powers survive on plunder, the ransom of captives, and the slave trade; it is their lifeblood.” He moved to the cushions and plopped down. “Not that it makes a lot of difference, because these barbarians violate their treaties at will, but America has no treaty with Tripoli for the return of our nationals as the British and French do. We are not in America, nor are we in Europe. Tripoli is a barbaric land, built upon blood and death and their heathen faith. Too, America is at war with Tripoli, although so far little has come of it.” Neilsen popped a date into his mouth. “The bashaw hates your country and your countrymen with a passion.”

Alex was despondent. She watched Murad kneel and pour them both glasses of a lemon-flavored beverage. “Are you telling me that you cannot help me?”

“You belong to Jebal now, Mrs. Thornton. He has purchased you for a considerable sum. I can lodge an offical protest, that is all.”

Alex vaguely recalled that the first few years of the war had been so eventless that the Tripolitans had laughed about being at war with America. Soon, though, when Preble arrived, that would change. “But I am already married,” Alex lied.

Neilsen shrugged. “They assumed as much. They do not care.”

Murad looked up. Their glances caught. For one single
instant his was sympathetic and concerned. But then he looked away, rising and moving back to the corner of the room.

“I will lodge a protest. I will try to convince Jebal to leave you alone. I have little faith, though, in my powers of persuasion. There is only one real hope.”

“What is that?”

“Ransom. These people are greedy. If your husband is very rich, the bashaw would not care that Jebal is taken with you. He would want the gold.”

Alex stared at Neilsen almost blindly. She thought of her bank account … in the twentieth century. “No. He is not rich.” Alex hugged herself.

Neilsen sighed. “I am so sorry.”

Alex nodded. She stared dismally at the table laden with nuts, fruits, and cheeses. She was exhausted. She needed to rest. Perhaps this was her destiny, to be a captive too. At least she was in nineteenth-century Tripoli, where Blackwell was. Somehow, in that moment, the notion was not very consoling.

Murad came and handed her the glass of lemon-flavored liquid. Alex found herself grateful to him. She sensed that his compassion was genuine.

“I will forward any correspondence you wish,” Neilsen said, standing.

Alex did not bother to respond.

“Mrs. Thornton, might I ask you how you came to be captured here in Tripoli?”

For a moment, Alex did not answer. “It is a strange story. You would not believe me if I told you.” Alex realized that she had better invent a good tale to tell, but she was too despondent, worried, and exhausted to do so now.

“When you are ready to talk to me, please send for me. Jebal will allow you to see me again, I am sure. Even after your conversion.”

Alex stiffened. “I cannot convert to Islam. I will not.”

Neilsen blinked. “But now that I have told you that there is no hope of your being freed, surely you would not refuse Jebal’s offer?”

Alex stood up, swaying and unbalanced. Murad gripped her arm. “How can you encourage me to become that man’s mistress? That is what he intends, you know.”

Neilsen gaped. “I am not encouraging you to become his mistress, my God!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Clearly you do not. Jebal did not tell you?”

Alex said tersely, “He did not tell me what?”

“He wants you to become his wife,” Neilsen said.

Alex froze.

“His second wife,” Neilsen said. “You did not realize? Actually, it is a great honor. He has fallen in love with you, Mrs. Thornton.”

Alex did not hear a single word the Dane was saying as he continued to speak. Her stunned mind began to function.
Jebal wished to marry her. And Xavier Blackwell had been executed in July 1804 for his affair with the Moslem wife of the bashaw’s son.

“Mrs. Thornton? Are you unwell?”

Alex knew that all the color had drained from her face. She knew that Murad held her upright. That both men, the consul and the slave, stared at her with concern. But her blood began to pump again, the shock and amazement began to abate.

Ohmygod!

Destiny … this was her destiny, it was all predestined … She was to be Xavier Blackwell’s lover.

But then what?

She shook free of Murad and gripped Neilsen’s hands. “There is an American here, an American sea captain, Xavier Blackwell. Tell me where he is?”

The consul appeared thoughtful. “I know of no such man.”

“That’s impossible! He was captured with his entire crew, and they are here, in captivity. His ship was the
Pearl,
a merchantman from Boston. She was blown up before she could be taken as a prize back to the bashaw. His name is Xavier Blackwell. He is here, somewhere, in Tripoli. I know it!”

The Dane slowly shook his head. “This captain and his entire crew, taken captive? The bashaw denied such a rich prize? Mrs. Thornton, if such a man had been taken captive, not only would I know of it, the entire city would know of it—as would the entire world.”

Alex could not believe her ears. Neilsen was lying—he had to be. Blackwell was in Tripoli. Alex knew it. There was no
other possibility—unless she had arrived too late—unless he was already dead.

“Mrs. Thornton?”

Alex faced Neilsen. Trembling. “What is today’s date?”

He gazed at her with mild surprise. “Why, it is March first, of course. Monday, if you must know.”

“What year?” Alex cried.

“It’s 1802,” Neilsen said gravely.

It
was
1802!
Alex stared blindly, her pulse pounding in her ears, her heart banging against her ribs: 1802! Xavier Blackwell had been taken prisoner in June of 1803! She had time-traveled, all right, but she had arrived in Tripoli an entire year too early.

Boston

March 17, 1802

T
HE DRAPERIES WERE
drawn in the library of Blackwell House.

Xavier Blackwell stood by the green marble mantel, his expression impossible to read. The room was dark, left in shadow. Yet outside, he knew, it was a glorious spring day. Yet Xavier hardly felt the effects of the sunshine and birdsong. He was preoccupied.

What did Markham Blackwell want? A quiet, terse argument was taking place in the room. Xavier did not participate, although he heard every word being exchanged by his father and his uncle. He sensed the possibilities. Sensed that the time for revenge had come.

“We lost three ships in as many years,” Markham Blackwell thundered, using the persuasive charisma he was famous for. “Losing both the
Fern
and the
Abby
were not so bad; thank the Lord our crews escaped. But last year we lost the
Sarah.”

Xavier’s heart constricted. He looked at his father, who had turned gray.

“You do not have to remind me of the loss of the
Sarah,”
William said heavily. Xavier looked away. The
Sarah
had been a six-ton merchantman
bound from Marseilles for the West Indies. The ship had been seized in a bloody four-hour battle, which had cost the crew five lives. The rest of the crew had recently been ransomed from the bashaw of Tripoli, along, with the nearly irreparably damaged ship, for the exorbitant sum of fifty-five thousand dollars. To make matters even worse, the greedy regent had also demanded that Blackwell Shipping build him a ten-gun schooner—and deliver it when it was ready.