Captive (25 page)

The whip hissed and seared the skin off of his back again.

Xavier jerked, willing himself not to fall. It felt as if the whip had cut deeply into his flesh like a finely honed knife. He heard Timmy scream, the sound soblike.

Xavier inhaled, trembling, but stepped forward. The whip cracked, louder now, and this time the force of the lash and the brutal, burning pain sent Xavier to his knees. For a moment he could not move, blinded by both his tears and the pain.

“Cap’n, Cap’n,” Timmy wept.

When his eyes had stopped tearing, when his vision had cleared, Xavier turned his head to look over his shoulder. Kadar regarded him as dispassionately as before. If Kadar’s intent was to be cruel, Xavier could not discern it. Slowly Xavier pushed himself upright. Tensing his entire body for another agonizing blow from the whip.

No whiplash sounded, or came.

His heart pounding wildly from the unpalatable combination of fear, dread, and determination, Xavier bent down for the Spaniard. “Let me help you,” he said softly.

The slave stared at him now, and where before his eyes had been blank and lifeless, now they were wide, astonished.

Xavier put his hand under the man’s armpit and lifted him upright. The slave was so weak that he collapsed against Xavier, and he almost fell over. His entire back was on fire, burning hellishly. Every movement exacerbated his agony.

He turned, half carrying the Spaniard. Kadar watched him, but did not wield the whip. As Xavier and the slave hobbled toward the tightly grouped captives, Tubbs came forward, quickly reaching for the Spaniard from the other side. Still no whips cracked as they joined the group of watching, waiting slaves.

“You shouldn’t,” the Spaniard whispered as the entire mass of humanity was pushed and propelled forward. Someone moaned. Whips sounded, flicked at their legs, driving the captives on.

“I am dying. I want to die,” the Spaniard said.

Xavier looked at the Spaniard, the injustice of life in Barbary overwhelming him, infuriating him. “You will not die,” he said.

The Spaniard closed his eyes in utter, abject weariness. “I am too tired to live.”

“Nonsense,” Xavier snapped.

Then, whisper-soft, the Spaniard said, “Thank you.”

He sagged a little in Xavier’s grip. Xavier realized that he had fallen asleep while walking. His gaze met Tubbs’s. His first mate’s expression was grim.

Xavier concentrated on the task facing him. Every step was torture. His feet were raw and growing rawer with each moment, blood trickled down his face, and his back was on fire, ablaze. The Spaniard remained a deadweight between him and Tubbs. Ahead Xavier saw the huge pit that was the quarries, rimmed with soaring limestone. Over the yellow rock rim, Xavier realized that the sun was finally emerging, pale and golden, turning the sky a gentle shade of blue.

It was then that utter comprehension hit him. His feet were bloody and blistered, his back whipped raw, and a dying man half lay in his arms—and the day had only just begun.

“Nielsen is not expecting us. I hope he is alone,” Murad murmured as they turned a corner. Ahead of them stood a small white house with a tiled roof and two palms in front of the arched doorway. A white stone wall separated the house
from its clustered neighbors. The Danish flag flew from the house’s terraced rooftop.

Alex didn’t hear him. It was early morning and they were both disguised as bedouins. Alex had slept deeply and soundly last night. Apparently she had passed out in Jebal’s arms. According to Murad, who had been immediately summoned. Jebal had been filled with worry—and then, realizing that some foul play was at work, he had been furious.

Very tersely he had told Murad that he would speak with Alex the next day—and that she should await his summons.

Alex did not want to think about the upcoming interview. It made her too nervous. And it
would
be an interview. Nor would she think about this evening—or any other one.

In any case, Jebal would not summon her this early in the morning. Alex had some time. And she had promised Blackwell yesterday that she would deliver a message to Neilsen. Now that Backwell was consigned to the quarries and imprisoned in the bagnio. Alex felt that it was imperative she visit Neilsen herself and discuss these new circumstances and his fate.

She was so frightened for him.

Alex stepped ahead of Murad, but before she could even knock, the door was swung open and the Danish consul appeared. In spite of the heat, Neilsen was clad in a dark blue frock coat, a beige waistcoat, a shirt and cravat, tan breeches, and pale stockings. His perplexed gaze skewered Alex and then Murad. Alex began to unwrap her kaffiyeh. Neilsen started and an instant later he waved them both inside, slamming and bolting the door closed behind them.

Nielsen was staring at her, clearly stunned by her disguise. “You are endangering yourself vastly, Mrs. Thornton.”

“I do what I have to do.”

Nielsen still stared, although his brow furrowed. “I am concemed for your welfare. I do not think you understand. We are not in America. We are in Tripoli. Your husband would be enraged if he found out that you have left the palace without his permission, much less alone and in disguise as a man.”

“Mr. Neilsen, I don’t have any choice.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are matters we have to discuss. Life-and-death matter.”
Alex did not mind being dramatic. “Blackwell sent me here with a message for you.”

He started, eyes wide, and gestured her and Murad into a European-style salon. Alex sank down abruptly onto the striped damask sofa. She rubbed her temples. “You know they’ve thrown him into the bagnio.”

“Considering that he refused the bashaw, I was not surprised.”

“And I suppose you will lodge an official protest?” Alex said bitterly.

“There is little else that I can do.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He looked away, then back again. “What would you have me do? I have already notified Morris, as well.”

“And what will Morris do?”

Neilsen sighed. “Very little, I am afraid. The Commodore’s wife is about to deliver and he is preoccupied. The bashaw is not disposed kindly toward Captain Blackwell, and he ignores my protests in cases like these. I am afraid that very little can be done.”

“That is a defeatist attitude,” Alex said hotly. “Is there any hope at all of a ransom for Blackwell and his crew?”

“The bashaw might be persuaded to ransom the crew, in time. After his temper cools over Blackwell’s rejection of his offer. He is greedy, that has been proven, and he is aware that Blackwell Shipping is privately owned, the Blackwells rather rich.”

“Once negotiations begin,” Alex mused, “I would imagine Blackwell’s fate would become a part of the trade.”

Neilsen gaped. “You are very astute for a woman, Mrs. Thornton.”

Alex ignored the sexist statement. “Can you pressure the bashaw now about the crew? And can you also insist that Blackwell be removed from the bagnio to more amenable quarters? It is insufferable that he labor in the quarries and live in the bagnio.”

“I have already insisted—and been refused.”

“Blackwell is very concerned about his men. He wants to meet with you.”

Neilsen’s eyebrows rose. “I shall attempt to gain permission to visit him, but I doubt it will be given.”

“Then Murad and I shall serve as your liaison.”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Thornton?”

“We shall carry messages between you and Blackwell,” Alex said.

“This is too dangerous for a woman,” Neilsen began, ashen.

Alex stood. “Like hell!”

He gasped.

“Blackwell’s life is at stake. We must plan an escape.”

Neilsen gaped at her.

Alex clenched her fists. “Will you help us?”

“I do not know what to say,” Neilsen finally said. “Of course, I cannot refuse you, but, Mrs. Thornton, I strongly object to your involvement in any of this.”

“So you are with us?”

Neilsen was silent. The heavy pendulum clock in the corner of the room could be heard ticking. He was ashen. “Of course, I will do my duty. I am as outraged as you are, Mrs. Thornton, by all the atrocities committed here in Barbary. I
will
help. But I do not understand. I do not understand your role in all of this. This is not a woman’s concern. I must repeat that planning the escape of such a valuable political prisoner is far too dangerous for any woman—even a woman like yourself.”

Alex smiled. “But we are not planning his escape alone. We shall plan Blackwell’s escape—and mine.” She glanced at Murad, who stared at her. “Blackwell and I shall escape together.”

Neilsen sat down abruptly.

Murad remained silent, unmoving.

A few moments later Alex and Murad left, much to Neilsen’s relief. Murad did not speak as they wandered up the street.

“Are you angry with me?” Alex asked.

“No.”

“Then what is wrong?” Alex’s tone was soft.

He did not look at her. “You are courting disaster and I am trying to serve you. After all, I am your slave.”

“You are my best friend. In the entire world.” Still he would not look at her. “Past, present, and future.”

His jaw flexed. “I am trying to protect you.”

“Are you jealous?” Alex asked carefully.

He flinched. “Of course not. Why would I be jealous? I am a eunuch, Alex. Half a man.”

Alex balled her fists. His words stabbed right through her to her very soul. “You are not half a man,” she finally said.

His face was flushed. He made no reply.

They were on dangerous ground. Alex did not know how they had arrived there. She was acutely aware of loving him as a friend. She took a lungful of air, and faced him squarely. “Will you help me? Please? There is no one I can trust the way I trust you. If you do not help me, I will fail, Murad, and we both know it. I cannot possibly escape Tripoli on my own.”

“Alex, are you aware of the fact that there are very few successful escapes from Tripoli?”

Alex was silent. She was aware of that fact.

“If you are caught while attempting to escape, even if your feelings for Blackwell are not discovered, Jebal will kill you. Trust me, Alex. There will be no forgiveness.”

Alex shivered.

“And if he ever learns you are running away with another man, it will be a slow, cruel, violent death. Do you understand me, Alex?”

Alex nodded, She hadn’t eaten anything that morning, and now her stomach was distinctly upset. “Will you help me? So I succeed? So I do not fail?” She laid her hand on his bare, sinewed forearm.

He sighed. “You don’t have to manipulate me, Alex. You know I’d do anything for you—anything you asked—in the end.”

Alex hesitated, because his gaze was so knowing and so direct. “That’s good. Because we should turn right here.”

“No, we should continue straight ahead to return to the palace.”

“We’re not returning to the palace, not yet.” Her heart beat hard.

“And just where is it you wish to go?” Murad asked very cautiously.

“I want to go to the quarries,” Alex said.

A
TWENTY-TON BLOCK
of stone had been blasted out of the quarry earlier with gunpowder. A hundred men were in the act of maneuvering the rock slab onto a huge man-drawn sledge. When the quarry foreman gave the command, every slave threw his entire weight against the block of stone, attempting to lift it up. The men groaned. Some wept. Xavier strained against the rough stone, tears streaming down his face, blinding him. Whips cracked.

“Up,” the foreman shouted. “Up, heave it up.”

Xavier grunted, throwing the entire weight of his body into the task of lifting up the huge slab of rock. The whips hissed again. Someone cried out in pain. Men grunted and groaned. The block moved fractionally upward. Immediately Turks were rushing forward and rolling smaller wooden blocks underneath it so that the stone rested a few feet off of the ground.

“Halt!” the foreman shouted.
“Delwatee!”

The slaves collapsed onto the ground. Xavier sat with his back against one of the smaller blocks, gasping for breath, every muscle in his body quivering with fatigue and tension. Beside him, Timmy panted harshly. Xavier glanced past Timmy at Tubbs, who sat with his eyes closed and his head back, gasping for air like a fish out of water. The sun was broiling hot, beating down on their hatless heads and too bare bodies. Xavier felt as if every inch of skin on his body were
badly burned, and his back, crisscrossed with welts and abrasions, continued to torment him.

Xavier turned to look at the Spaniard whom he had carried all the way from Tripoli. The man was useless. He’d had no strength to exert to aid his fellow captives in moving the twenty-ton stone; his presence had been just that, a presence, nothing more. Yet Kadar and the quarry foreman, Valdez, had shown no human mercy or compassion, and they had insisted he labor alongside the others. Now the Spaniard sat almost bonelessly in a heap upon the ground, eyes wide, staring vacantly toward the line of black hills on the horizon just south of the quarry.

Xavier closed his eyes briefly, his pulse beginning to subside. God, he was tired, and his body hurt so badly—and it was only midmorning. How could anyone survive such grueling labor?

Xavier turned to the Spaniard. The man remained motionless, and Xavier felt a frisson of fear. “Are you all right,
amigo mio?”
Xavier asked. He had yet to learn the name of the man whose life he had saved.

The Spaniard did not move, nor did he reply—as if he hadn’t even heard Xavier.

Xavier became concerned. He hesitated, then reached out to touch the man’s thin shoulder. “My friend?”

The Spaniard slumped forward, face-first, into the gravel and dirt.

Xavier leapt to his feet, surprised that he even had the strength to do so. He knelt beside the Spaniard, automatically touching him. His skin was warm and wet. But his body was oddly still.

Xavier turned him over onto his back.

Tubbs came forward and knelt beside him. “Captain, sir?”

Xavier stared down at the Spaniard, who lay still, his eyes open and sightless. “He’s dead,” he said, feeling bile rising up in him.