Chapter 26
The next night
“WHERE, HAVE YOU been?” Alex demanded.
Murad closed the door to her chamber. “It’s late. Why are you still awake, Alex?”
Alex was sitting up in bed in the dark. The room was only illuminated by the moon and the stars shining outside. “I can’t sleep.”
Murad stared at her.
“Not just because of what happened last night.” Even if she and Blackwell were never together again, Alex was not ever going to forget the glory of being made love to by him.
Their union had been inevitable. And it had been far more than a physical joining—it had been a union of their hearts and souls.
But Alex was disturbed, uneasy. The hairs on her nape prickled. “Something has happened,” she said slowly, absolutely certain of it. “Or is about to happen.”
Murad hesitated.
Alex slipped from the bed. “What is it? It’s about Blackwell, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Murad took a breath. “Blackwell intends to destroy the Pearl tonight.”
“What!” Alex cried.
“You heard me. Apparently he originally intended to destroy the ship during the escape—two weeks from now. When he found out that Morris was relieved of his command, he decided to go forward with the Pearl’s destruction immediately. Tonight—at exactly two in the morning.”
Alex was in a state of shock. She managed to shake the cobwebs from her brain. “Ohmygod.” Then excitement began to rush through her veins.
“Of course! How stupid I was not to have guessed! The guards have been bribed and the Pearl has to be destroyed … Murad, this is wonderful!”
“Is it?”
Alex’s smile faded. “The Pearl has to be destroyed, Murad. According to the history books, it was destroyed by Blackwell long before the ship ever reached Tripoli. I still don’t understand why it wasn’t destroyed at sea the way I read about it, but in any case, when Preble attacks next summer, it could be a completely different battle if the bashaw has a ship like the Pearl to use against us. ”
Murad stared, his eyes silver in the dark. “I don’t like it when you talk about the history books, Alex. I don’t like it when you talk about the future.”
She touched his bare arm. “Maybe that’s because you are starting to believe me.”
“Maybe,” he finally said.
“What time is it now?” Alex asked abruptly.
“It’s only nine o’clock.”
Alex nodded, the idea of aiding Blackwell already forming in her head. She knew she should leave him to achieve this objective alone. But how could she? This was history in the making. More important, what if Blackwell needed her?
“You are staying in the palace tonight,” Murad said flatly.
“Of course,” Alex mumured, trying to mean it.
“I am serious.”
“I can see that. You are also worried. Why?”
“Because I seem to be the only one thinking of the consequences should Blackwell succeed tonight,” Murad said quietly.
Chills raced up and down Alex’s spine. “I don’t understand.” But she did.
“I don’t think that you do,” Murad said grimly. “The bashaw will be furious. He will not allow this kind of act to go unpunished and unavenged.”
Alex froze. “Oh God. What will he do? What will he do to Blackwell?”
Murad did not answer her.
Alex’s heart seemed to stop. Her thoughts raced, unwelcome and unbidden.
So far, the history books had been all wrong.
Blackwell was supposed to die in the summer of 1804 for his affair with the bashaw’s daughter-in-law.
But what if the script continued to change?
What if Blackwell was executed in the summer of 1803 for the destruction of the Pearl?
What if his fate hung in the balance now?
“Alex,” Murad said tersely. “His fate belongs to him. You cannot change it.”
Alex did not reply.
They were a total of six men. Barefoot and silent, they waited while the guard unlocked a side door that opened onto a narrow city alley. The guard stepped aside without a word while the men, lead by Xavier, filed out. A moment later the door was closed, but it was not relocked.
As usual, the night was full of stars, the moon half-full and glowing.
The men did not carry torches or any form of light.
Everyone wore daggers, Xavier and Tubbs each carried pistols, and two of the men carried fire bombs made from gunpowder stolen from the quarries, and flint that had been provided by Quixande.
They passed the palace walls, ghostlike, and hurried through the sleeping city.
The harbor came into view, numerous naked masts forming long, needlelike shadows that pierced the night sky.
At the end of the harbor, Tripoli’s tricolored flag with its crescent symbol flew from the fortress on the mole, and just past the bottleneck entrance there, a warship cruised. One of the men cried out.
“Shh,” Xavier said, but his pulse had quickened too. The men had stopped in their tracks. Everyone stared out at sea.
“My God, it’s an American ship,” Tubbs whispered in excitement.
“It’s the Vixen. She’s come back,” Xavier said tersely.
“Captain, there must be a way to rendezvous with her,” Allen cried in excitement “There’s no need now for us to go back to that hellhole!” He was shaking visibly.
Xavier turned, his face stem. “We have one mission to perform this night, Allen, and that is destroying the Pearl. Escape is not a part of our plans.”
“But, Captain—”
Tubbs clamped his hand down on the young man’s thin shoulder. “Follow orders, Allen, or I’ll take care of you myself.”
Allen’s jaw tightened. His eyes turned sullen. The men behind him muttered and shifted, each and every one still staring at the small brig cruising just off the shore.
“Let’s go,” Xavier commanded.
They had reached the docks. They squatted down behind stacked barrels, which smelled strongly of wine vinegar.
The Pearl bobbed at anchor just a few wharves away.
A half dozen janissaries guarded her. They were fully armed with scimitars, knives, pistols, and muskets, but they were playing with dice.
Laughter and muted conversation in Turkish drifted to Xavier and his men.
But Xavier already knew that the Pearl was kept under guard. The two parcels containing the firebombs and the flint were passed forward. Each was wrapped in oilskin and made as watertight as possible.
Xavier and Tubbs handed two of the men their pistols and stepped out of their single item of clothing—their pants.
“Good luck, Cap’n, Tubbs,” someone whispered. It was the big, burly quartermaster, Benedict.
Xavier nodded. He and Tubbs melted away from the men, who remained watching the Turks, ready to assault them should they discover what was happening.
They paused at the edge of the dock. Xavier slid soundlessly into the water.
Tubbs handed him the two oilskins. Xavier held the bundles above the water as Tubbs slipped into the water beside him.
Then he handed Tubbs one of the parcels.
Both men began to swim a rough sidestroke, determined to hold the gunpowder above water—just in case.
They began to approach the wharf where the Turks sat.
The garden was dark and silent inside the palace walls. One man waited, unmoving. Eventually he saw a big, burly figure moving toward him swiftly through the dark. The second man paused.
“They’ve left the bagnio,” Kadar said.
Jovar smiled, his teeth flashing white in the night.
Alex could not stand it. She was pacing her bedchamber nervously.
By now Blackwell and his men should have left the bagnio and were perhaps even at the docks.
But had they successfully left the prison?
Without alerting the guards? Alex was well aware of the Moslem penchant of betrayal and treachery.
And if they had not yet been discovered, had they made it through the sleeping city?
Were they at the harbor? She had promised Murad she would not interfere.
But she had not really meant it.
Blackwell’s life could be at stake. How could she remain in her bedroom, in the palace? How could she not help? What if something went wrong? What if he needed her?
Alex did not know all the details of the operation, which put her at a disadvantage, and meant that if she tried to aid Blackwell, she might actually interfere. On the other hand, she was an intelligent woman, a twentieth-century woman, a naval historian. She could guess their plans easily enough.
Surely they intended to send a few men aboard the Pearl, plant explosives, and blow her up.
Alex was afraid that the Turks would discover Xavier as he swam to the boat, or while he boarded her.
And she knew he would be one of the men to actually go aboard and set the fuses.
And what if the gunpowder got wet and proved useless?
Alex had little faith in nineteenth-century oilskins.
The entire operation would fail if the gunpowder did not light.
Abruptly Alex donned her bedouin clothing and kaffiyeh. Her heart beat hard. She felt the unfamiliar taste of fear in her mouth, felt it heavy upon her heart. There was no excitement or elation now. She had to help Blackwell. She carefully tied a parcel around her waist, beneath her robes.
She slipped from her room, wanting to call Murad and order him to come with her. But she had no doubt that this time he would not obey her, that he would even physically restrain her in order to prevent her from leaving the palace. Alex hurried barefoot and alone down the galleria.
She paused and glanced around, but saw no one.
The biggest problem of being disguised as a bedouin was that at night the white robes beckoned observers like a beacon light.
But Alex had no choice. She rushed into the garden.
When she reached the shrubs that guarded the tunnel leading under the palace walls, she glanced around again.
The night was starlit, moonlit and bright. She did not see a single soul.
Alex crept into the shrubs, reaching for the iron ring on the tunnel door. She flipped it open. It crossed her mind that she would have to leave the lid open in order to be able to climb out alone later. She was disturbed, but would deal with that problem when the time came.
She slid down into the tunnel, dropping about five feet to the ground, and then began to run.
When Alex finally stood just outside the thick palace walls, she sucked in air. She was sweating. Leaving the palace with Murad as her friend and ally was one thing, leaving it alone an entirely different proposition. Alex was afraid.
She began to run. She ran through the silent, still city, ignoring the sharp rocks that bit into her feet. When she reached the harbor she paused, panting. Immediately she saw the Pearl.
How beautiful the three-masted brig was. How stately, how elegant, how refined. It made Alex sick to think of destroying her, but it had to be done. The bashaw must not possess such a weapon. And she imagined how heartsick Xavier must feel—destroying his own ship.
Then she saw the smaller United States cruiser just past the fortress on the mole. Alex blinked.
And she prayed it was an omen, a sign of good luck.
Alex again looked at the Pearl. It appeared deserted.
She looked down at the wharf where the Turks were gambling—a pastime forbidden by strict Moslem law. She did not smile. Instead, she patted her hip, where a mixture of sulfur, nitrate, and charcoal was tied to her waist.
Then Alex haunched over and rushed across the open street to the safety of a dry-docked, single-masted fishing vessel. Once there, she knelt panting. And then, at that precise moment, she saw them.
Two dark, shadowy forms climbing up the side of the ship.
Xavier paused one heartbeat, the oilskin between his teeth, hanging on to the railing of his ship. He heard no warning shouts. He hoisted himself up and over the railing and onto the Pearl’s deck, where he lay but a moment, panting.
He looked to his right and saw Tubbs dropping onto the deck with his oilskin parcel. Xavier got to his hands and knees, swiftly unwrapping the oilskin.
Tubbs did the same.
Alex hesitated. The men were not in sight. But she knew what they would now do, being as there were just the two of them. One would go to the bow, the other to the stem, and both men would light their explosives, and flee the ship. At that point, detection no longer mattered.
Oh, shit, Alex thought, her mouth dry, her heart beating so wildly she felt faint.
Then, determination swelling inside of her, she got to her feet and dashed the short open distance from the fishing boat to a moored sailing vessel.
Alex knew no one saw her. But her foot hit a stone and sent it flying onto the wooden dock.
It made a loud, surprising noise in the absolute quiet of the night.
One of the Turks said something, his tone sharp, and everyone stopped talking, heads jerking up, listening.
Alex crouched by the sailboat, in spitting distance of the Pearl, too frightened to even pray.
“Who the hell is that?” one of Xavier’s men whispered, staring toward Alex.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Allen muttered. “Dammit, boys, forget the captain and the goddamned Pearl. The Vixen is here. We can swim out to her, I know we can!” Allen started to rise.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Benedict said, clamping his hamlike hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
Alex’s heart was hammering. It roared in her ears.
How was she going to get on the Pearl to help Blackwell?
She could not risk slipping into the water and swimming to the anchor lines at the bow and climbing aboard there.
She did not dare get wet. Which meant that she had to sneak past the soldiers without alerting them to her presence.
It seemed, in that moment, to be an impossible task.
Alex knew that she needed a diversion now.
The four seamen crouched behind the vinegar barrels, nearly holding their breaths.
They could not detect any movement on board the Pearl, but by now Tubbs should be at the bow, their captain at the stem.
The Turks had resumed their gambling. But someone, an Arab, was hiding near the sailboat moored next to the Pearl.
“It must be that slave Murad,” Benedict finally said in a very low voice to no one in particular.
The words were barely out of his mouth when Allen suddenly leapt to his feet and began running toward the dock.
Benedict also stood, realizing what was happening. The other two seamen began to rise. Then he ducked back down, crying, “Get down,” to the other two men. He cocked his pistol.
The Turks cried out, their game forgotten, having spotted Allen.
Scimitars flashed as they rushed after him, shouting.
Allen dove into the water and began swimming.
Alex rushed from the sailboat, down the wharf, and leapt aboard the Pearl.
“Jesus Christ!” Benedict shouted now. “What the hell is going on?”