Captive (9 page)

Xavier had objected, but William still ran the company and he had agreed to build and deliver the schooner.

“Vittault has lost two ships this year alone,” Markham continued, referring to one of their competitors. “He has forty-five sailors in captivity in Algiers, for godsakes! Braddock has also lost a vessel this season. Where does this all end, William?”

William Blackwell, the older of the two brothers, was grave. “I am well aware of the rape of American shipping by the Barbary pirates, Markham, just as I am fully aware of our own personal losses. But we have only just sent a naval squadron there. Let the damn navy do what they’ve been sent to the Mediterranean for!”

Markham, the United States senator from Massachusetts, sighed. “But don’t you understand? They want to make Jefferson look like a fool! They are convinced that Hamilton will win the next election. Three quarters of the navy is Federalist! They will not succeed, they do not dare, while Thomas is president. God forbid they should make Thomas look good.”

“I refuse to believe that every single naval officer is a Federalist and politically motivated,” William said stubbornly. “Surely there exists some patriotism in our navy?”

Markham sighed. “You are not thinking clearly. You are allowing your personal feelings to stand in the way of the only decision left for you to make. It is not just the future of Blackwell Shipping that is at stake. It is not just the future of your son, and one day, your son’s sons. It is the future of American shipping!” Markham cried in a deep, resonant voice. It was the same powerful voice that had won him the last election. “It is the future of America, and at issue is freedom of the seas.”

William turned away, grim. His glance met Xavier’s.

Xavier sipped the brandy he was holding, regarding his father
carefully. He would not allow his own feelings to show. God knew, he hid them often enough from even himself.

Markham continued. “Shall we forever be at the mercy of a thief? The bashaw is nothing more than that. Why do we owe him tribute? So we shall not be plundered when we sail the free seas? We have to bribe him with gold and guns in order to carry on our commerce? And look how happy this makes the French and British! They can afford to pay those pirates exorbitant sums, they can afford to lavish incredible gifts upon them, year after year, and they are thrilled that we bear the brunt of their rapacious plundering because we do not hold to blackmail and bribery! William, surely you understand that France and England wish for us to fight the corsairs? Because they fear our new and growing wealth, our new prosperity—the potential of this mighty country.”

“You are not lobbying for reelection. Markham,” William said softly.

Xavier wanted to add,
Hear, hear,
but he remained silent. Markham was lobbying, however.

“This situation is untenable!” Markham cried. He faced Xavier. “Do you not agree?” he demanded.

Xavier regarded his uncle for a moment before replying. “Yes, I do agree.” he finally said.

Markham waited, his hands on his hips. He wore a bold red frock coat, and white lace cuffs cascaded over his fists. “Is that all you have to say?”

“You have fine words. But actions are far more efficacious,” Xavier said.

Markham smiled. “Yes, actions do speak louder than words, and we all know that you are a man of action, not a man of letters.” He glanced across the room at the closed teakwood library door. “Which is why I am here.”

“There are no spies in my own home,” William said forcefully. “If that is what you are thinking.”

Markham ignored the comment, opening the door and stepping into the hallway. Satisfied that no one was eavesdropping, he returned to the center of the room. “My dear nephew.” He smiled. It was a warm, encouraging smile that reached his dark, bold eyes. “The president asked me to deliver this to you personally by my very own hand.”

Xavier stared at the envelope extended toward him. He was
not surprised. He had been expecting this, and Markham was both the friend and confidant of Thomas Jefferson.

Xavier accepted the envelope, his hand shaking slightly. As much as he avoided thinking of the past, it had come to confront him now. Briefly he allowed himself to feel the grief and sorrow he had become so adept at burying deep inside himself. And with it, he felt the guilt.

“I have an idea why Markham is here and I am against this,” William said tersely. He turned a pleading gaze on his son. “You fought bravely for your country in the war against France, Xavier. You do not need to do more.”

Xavier regarded his father, who had aged considerably this past year. Once he had been a leonine man, tall and broad shouldered. His body had shrunken so suddenly, almost overnight. And as if feeling constant defeat, William’s posture had become hunched, his face lined and jowled. He was only ten years older than Markham. Yet he appeared seventy to Markham’s fifty.

“It will be all right,” Xavier said quietly.

“I don’t want you to do this,” William returned. Markham, sensing victory, smiled and laid his hand on Xavier’s shoulder. “Do you know what we are asking of you?” he asked. “Do you know what the president is asking of you?”

Xavier nodded. His heartbeat quickened. He thought of going to sea again, but not to ply trade. To seek revenge. “I can imagine.” Xavier broke the seal. The missive began, “My dear sir.”

Xavier read.

Xavier’s hand trembled more visibly now. He glanced at the boldly scripted signature. “Thomas Jefferson, President of the United States of America.”

“Can you refuse such a request?” Markham asked softly in Xavier’s ear.

Xavier did not answer. He moved to the mantel and struck a match. He held the letter and watched it burn. Jefferson’s words were engraved upon his mind, and would remain that way, forever.

Most Bostonians were furious with the government, and that included the president, for their ineffective stand against the Barbary powers. Massachusetts was suffering from the depredations of the pirates. The seas no longer seemed to be free, and with that being the case, the very lifeblood of Massachusetts and her sister states was being drained away.

But Xavier considered himself a patriotic man. He could not easily dismiss the president’s plea. However, unlike other Americans and his fellow New Englanders, he had his own deep, abiding, personal reasons for accepting such a secret commission. And he knew this commission was top secret. “You don’t have to do this,” William interrupted with desperate intensity.
“Xavier, a second naval squadron has already left for the Mediterranean. In a few weeks it will arrive off Gibraltar. At least wait six months and see what our navy can accomplish.
Please!”

“Commodore Morris is a buffoon,” Markham said with irritation. “An inept buffoon.”

Xavier laid his palm on his father’s shoulder. “Markham is correct. The commodore is not up to the task he has been given. Father, where is your patriotism?”

“My patriotism died last year,” William said heavily.

Xavier’s heart broke. “Unfortunately,” he said softly, “mine did not.”

William’s face crumpled. “You are my only son. Oh, God. Xavier!” He reached out, crushing the taller young man in his embrace.

Xavier pulled back and saw that his father was crying. Tears trickled down William’s seamed cheeks. Xavier felt an urge to cry as well, but refused to. “I must go,” he said roughly.

“I know,” William said. His eyes were filled with resignation and fear.

“So you will do it!” Markham cried joyously. His hand slapped Xavier’s back. “Will you accept this secret commission? Become the secret, lethal weapon of the United States?”

“Yes,” Xavier said, and his eyes turned black with determination. An iron will was stamped on his chiseled face. “I will do it. I will go.” His heart beat hard, fiercely—he was exultant now. “I will ready the
Pearl
today.”

William inhaled sharply.

This time Xavier could not meet his eyes. He wanted to reassure his father that he would succeed, but suddenly he could not make such a promise. Suddenly, mingled with his newfound impatience, with his excitement and anticipation, there was a strange sense of dread.

The hairs on Xavier’s nape rose.

The oddest feeling, a premonition perhaps, seized him.

He felt that his life was about to change irrevocably, forever. The sea had always been his greatest ally and his greatest mistress. Xavier was stricken by the notion that now she was about to betray him.

He paused before the upstairs bedroom door, gripping the knob, terribly reluctant to go inside. He had no choice.

Xavier rapped softly on the door once and then twice, and when there was no answer, he soundlessly opened it. He did not have to glance at his pocket watch to know it was midafternoon. He paused in the doorway, his hand shoved in the pockets of his breeches. The interior of the pink and white bedroom was dark, the floral draperies drawn.

A pang pierced him. Would it always be this way?

Xavier crossed the red, white, and gold Aubusson carpet and drew open the curtains; the pink and white bedroom was flooded with bright spring sunlight. He shoved open a window. A soft, warm breeze wafted inside, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass and freesia. The chirping of a robin and the cheerful answering cry of a blue jay filled the room. Xavier turned and regarded the still form lying underneath the dark pink velvet coverlet on the canopied bed.

A pale wrist lifted, a hand covering eyes. “Bettina?” she asked.

“No,” Xavier said, at once grim and sad, and worse, resigned. “It’s me.” He did not move any closer.

Slowly she sat up. A slender platinum-haired angel with big blue eyes. She was clad in a pastel blue dressing gown and her chemise and drawers, he saw. She blinked at him several times. Her face was heart shaped and pretty enough to take any man’s breath away, his included, even though he had known her since the day she was born.

“Are you ill?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“My migraine,” she said, and they both knew it was a lie.

He felt like weeping. But he had no tears left to shed. All his tears had been shed at the funeral a year ago. “Sarah, why don’t you get up and get dressed and come downstairs for tea? Cook has made your favorite, lemon pound cake. And Uncle Markham is here. He would love to see you before he returns to Washington.”

She focused her huge eyes upon him for the very first time. There was something vacant and eternally innocent about them. “I am so tired,” she whispered.

Xavier finally approached her and sat carefully upon the bed by her feet. No portion of his anatomy made contact with her. “You must get up. I know you have already been up, because
you are half-dressed, and that is a good thing. But surely you don’t want to waste the rest of this fine day?” He forced a smile.

“I don’t care,” she said.

“I will take you for a walk. We will go to the beach.” He had much to do if he was to prepare the
Pearl
for action and leave within a few weeks, but he made the offer sincerely. It was always this way. Trying to entice her out of bed and out of doors, and when that failed, resorting to other means.

“I don’t feel like walking, but thank you, you are so kind.” Briefly she looked into his eyes.

This time he gave up. Perhaps too quickly. But he was tired, too, and he had grave matters on his mind. Matters of state, matters of life and death. “We must talk, Sarah.”

She seemed not to have heard him. “I don’t like Uncle Markham anyway. He frightens me,” she said softly.

He jerked. “Nonsense,” he said too sharply. “He is family; there is nothing to be frightened of.”

“He doesn’t like me,” she said. “He doesn’t like you, either, I think.”

“You are being imaginative.” He patted her knee through the dark pink coverlet somewhat awkwardly. “We must speak, Sarah.”

She regarded him without expectation. “Is something amiss?”

He hesitated. “I am shipping out.”

Her demeanor changed radically. She sat upright, blanching. Her gaze was fully cognizant now. “You are leaving me?” she cried.

“Yes.”

“No! You can’t! How can you do this?”

He was not a demonstrative man. Especially not with women. But she was like a child; he could not see her as a woman, although God knew he had tried. Xavier reached out and laid his hand on her fine, moon-colored hair. “I must go. I have no choice.”

She began to cry silently, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’re leaving me. What will I do? Who will take care of me? I am so afraid. Please don’t go!” She lifted her lashes, turning her glistening eyes upon him. They were beseeching.

“You will be fine,” he said roughly. “Father will be here,
of course, to take care of you, and then there is Bettina. You know that Bettina would never let anything bad happen to you, Sarah. And Dr. Carraday will call on you every day, I promise you that.” He forced another smile.