Captive (50 page)

She swallowed. They had already changed history by making good Xavier’s escape. Jovar had been executed in his place. Alex thought now about how Xavier had supplied incredibly intimate details of Tripoli’s defenses to Commodore Preble. There was going to be a war. As soon as the wind changed. Before her advent in Tripoli, Preble’s attack had been devastating. Now what would happen?

She was afraid.

Afraid for herself—and afraid they had changed world history too much.

August 3, 1804

The attack began at precisely 2:45 in the afternoon.

Alex heard the explosions first. Cringing, she froze. Boom! Boom! It sounded as if bombs were exploding just beneath the walls of the palace, perhaps even striking those walls. More explosions sounded—
Boom!
—even closer and louder than before.

Her bedroom rumbled beneath her very feet.

When there was a brief lull in what Alex realized must be broadsides fired directly at the palace, the afternoon was still filled with the hissing screams of mortars and the lighter sound of exploding firebombs and ceaseless pistol fire. She ran to the window. At first she could see nothing but the shimmering sea.

“Dammit!” She strained for a wider view.

And Alex glimpsed a huge brig flying the stars and stripes of America. It was cruising within six or seven hundred feet of the palace, dear God. As she stared at what might very well be the squadron’s flagship, she saw the bright red lights of numerous cannons firing simultaneously.
Boom!
The cannons, perhaps twenty of them, roared. And they
were
firing directly at the palace—directly, it seemed, toward her.

Alex dove to the floor.

The cannonballs hit hard. On the rooftops above her, on the
walls outside, and inside the gardens. Explosions sounded furiously at once everywhere. Around her, overhead. Even beneath her. The walls of her bedroom shook visibly, but this time the frescoed ceiling cracked. A huge piece of marble crashed to the floor and splintered, sending up veils of dust.

Alex lay unmoving, panting, covered with sweat. Her arms shielded her head.

That same huge, deafening roar was repeated as the brig fired another round of broadsides at the palace. Alex remained unmoving, her heart lurching with dread.
Boom!
The floor shivered beneath her and she heard wood and stone and marble cracking violently again. She waited for her bedroom to collapse on top of her head.

But it did not. An eerie, deathly silence suddenly reigned, punctuated only by the more distant sounds of grapeshot, shelling, and firebombs.

Trembling, she waited for another broadside from the United States brig, but it did not come.

And through the other incessant sounds of war, Alex heard the men. Men shouting, men screaming—men in the throes of injury or death.

Cautiously Alex got up on all fours. She froze, waiting for another destructive round of cannon fire. When she did not hear the familiar roar of the god-awfully close broadsides, she scrambled to her door.

It had crossed her mind that her guards would have fled during the very first exchange of fire. Alex stood, pressing her ear to the wood, shaking violently, uncontrollably. She heard nothing. They were gone.

This was her chance to escape.
Alex reached for the doorknob and pulled on it. It did not give.

Horrified, she realized she remained locked in.

And then she heard the roar she had so quickly come to dread.
Boom!
Alex dove to the floor, and an instant later a dozen cannonballs hit the palace, exploding loudly, simultaneously, this time causing Alex’s entire room to shake wildly, the way high-rises did during earthquakes in the motion pictures.

Alex prayed for her life.

*  *  *

Tripoli was ablaze. Preble’s attack was in its second hour. Bomb vessels continued to lob shells into the center of the city. Smoke was billowing from the western side of the city, and from the northernmost corner. Flames could be seen licking the minarets of the city’s highest mosques.

Meanwhile Preble’s flagship was cruising back and forth in front of the shore batteries and the bashaw’s castle, firing constant broadsides. Already the palace walls were crumbling jaggedly in places.

Xavier was commanding Gunboat No. 5. He had a job to do, but he could not shake from the back of his mind the fact that Alexandra was inside the palace Preble now so ruthlessly attacked. That she was inside the city Preble was determined to bring to its knees or destroy.

As Xavier gave the order to fire, his men’s pistols roared. The small cannon boomed. He was chasing his second Tripolitan cruiser, the first having capsized on the rocks just beneath the palace after a direct hit.

“Full sail!” he shouted. “To the oars!”

Under oar and sail, Gunboat No. 5 set chase after the corsair cruiser, which recognized the danger it was in and tried to flee.

Fifteen yards separated the two boats. Ten yards … five.

Xavier could discern the features of the enemy captain. A short, broad Moor, he also stared back at Xavier, clearly wishing to have the chance to kill him. He spit and cursed at Xavier in Arabic, shaking his fist at him, while his own men frantically rowed in an attempt to avoid combat.

Xavier looked at O’Brien and nodded. The grappling hook was thrown, instantly connecting the two gunboats. With a wild shout, Xavier leapt aboard the enemy vessel, ahead of all of his men.

He wanted to seize her, quickly.

The Moor came at him, welding a huge Turkish dagger, his face set in ferocious lines. Snarling, Xavier dodged the first blow, viciously striking out at the Turkish captain with his cutlass. His blade opened up the man’s forearm, but the Moor did not scream—nor did he release his dagger. Xavier cried out when he felt the Moor’s blade ripping open his right side.

He kicked upward at the other man’s groin. The Moor buckled but did not go down. Xavier had dropped his cutlass, so
now he gripped the man’s right wrist, which held the dagger. The two men strained against one another, grappling for control of the dagger. And finally Xavier ripped it free from the other man’s grasp.

The Moor’s eyes widened with utter comprehension.

Xavier lifted the dagger and impaled the Moor in the chest.

Panting, he stood. Most of the corsair’s crew had jumped ship the moment the grappling hook had caught their vessel. Others were hiding in the hold. Now the Moors who were wielding daggers and pikes against Xavier’s men began to turn and flee, jumping overboard. An instant later Xavier and his men were in command of the enemy gunboat.

Xavier wiped the sweat from his eyes. Exultation seared him. Now he could do what he had returned to Tripoli to do. Slip into the harbor in the guise of corsairs, enter the palace, and rescue Alexandra—or die trying.

She was a naval historian, but no amount of studying had prepared her for the actuality of being immersed in nineteenth-century warfare.

Alex cringed on the floor as another explosion sounded, this one almost on top of her head. Her ceiling continued to fall in on her, splinters and shards and rocks raining down upon her.

Alex had decided that she was going to die.

She had time-traveled to Tripoli to save Xavier’s life, it seemed, but her own fate was death.

She could not harbor regrets. She only wished she could tell Xavier how much she loved him, only wished he would believe the truth.

And then, in spite of the ever-present sound of explosions and gunfire, she thought she heard the bolt on her door. Alex shifted her body, craning her neck—and froze. Her door was shoved open.

Murad rushed into the room. “Alex! Where are you!”

“Murad!” Alex launched herself at him while registering the fact that he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. She clung to him, telling herself that she would not cry. She had never been happier to see anyone.

He held her away so he could see into her eyes. “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

Alex realized she had cuts on her arms and legs, and even on her face. “I’m all right. You’re hurt.”

“It’s just a graze.” He gripped her arm. “You were right, Preble attacked. Viciously. It is clear to me that the Americans are going to destroy the city.” They hurried out of her room.

Another round of fire was launched from the brig cruising just outside the palace, and Alex and Murad hunched together against the wall of the corridor, while the world around them heaved and shook. Stone and marble cascaded down around them. Their gazes met. “Where are we going to go?” Alex asked with real desperation.

“Right now? Out of the palace,” Murad said grimly.

They began to run.

All around him the city was on fire. Flames danced from the small houses lining the streets, the ground was already scorched, piles of refuse and abandoned carriages and carts burned, and ahead of them, Xavier could see that the mosque closest to the palace was completely on fire. Bombs and mortar continued to land everywhere, sending chunks of stone and pieces of tile rooftops flying through the air. Behind them, in the harbor, several of the larger Tripolitan vessels were burning. They raced past the burning mosque. Arabs were screaming, rushing about, trying to put out the fire.

Xavier and his men crouched beside the thick palace walls, panting but alert. Above the palace, smoke mushroomed in the sky. Parts of the palace had to be on fire, too.

The plan was to enter the palace through the secret tunnel—if it was not yet destroyed. As Xavier located the tunnel’s door, set in one of the palace walls, his men looked worriedly toward the sea, at the battle still being waged below them. Time was running out. The battle would not continue indefinitely. Preble himself would decide when to disengage. But the battle provided vital cover for this operation. When it ceased, the rescue attempt would have to cease, as well—or fail.

Xavier knelt, running his hand over the stone of the wall, abrading his palms and fingers. Something groaned. A crack
appeared in the wall. Xavier grimaced, pushing against the wall, and the stone door opened.

“Inside,” he shouted.

His men rushed into the tunnel. The ground beneath their racing feet trembled from the bombardment of the palace; chunks of dirt and stone rained incessantly upon their heads. Someone remarked breathlessly that they were all going to die, buried alive when the tunnel caved in.

Xavier did not reply. They had reached the other end. He put his foot on one man’s clasped hands and climbed upward, pressing the tunnel’s trapdoor up and open. He heaved himself out. Not waiting for his men, who he knew were following, Xavier raced through the deserted, burning gardens.

Fires had started everywhere.

He saw the galleria outside of Alex’s room. A small fire had just begun at one end. Flames licked the wood beams holding up the galleria’s roof. His strides increasing, he broke into a run.

“Alexandra!”

He pounded up the steps to the porch, and without stopping, heaved himself at the locked door there. It burst open.

And her chamber was empty.

She was not there.

They ran through the palace, which was deserted. Alex gripped Murad’s hand. “Why can’t we use the tunnel?” she panted as they turned one corner.

“It’s about to cave in. It’s not safe,” Murad flung, spinning her down another hall.

“Where is everybody?” she cried as they rushed into the bashaw’s huge, oddly empty, receiving hall.

“The royal family always hides in times of war,” Murad said. “The bashaw has special rooms for just such a siege.”

Of course, he would be a coward. Alex could not say that she blamed him. As they left the hall, a bomb landed, causing one of the arches supporting the ceiling to crack apart. Huge chunks of blue and white tile crashed to the floor.

They fled outside into the first courtyard, as eerily vacant as the palace had appeared to be. Gravel spewed from beneath their soles. The sky above their heads, above Tripoli, was brilliant with explosions and fire and dark with smoke. They careened
into the last courtyard. Ahead were the palace front gates. They were closed.

Murad and Alex came to an abrupt halt, hand in hand and out of breath. In disbelief. For two soldiers, white faced with fear, stood just inside those gates, guarding them.

“Ohmygod,” Alex whispered. They were trapped.

And the soldiers turned, lifting their pistols—pointing them at them with trembling hands.

“Don’t shoot!” Murad cried.

They hesitated.

“Do you want to die?” Murad shouted. “Open those gates. Tripoli has surrendered. We must all flee. Flee, or be murdered by the Americans!”

As they raced back through the tunnel, it began to collapse.

Xavier’s men coughed, choking on the huge amount of dust billowing up as the sides of the dirt walls fell, as the roof caved in, timbers and all.

“Captain!” someone screamed.

Xavier turned as his men barreled past him, another section of the ceiling raining huge clumps of dirt and stone down upon them. O’Brien was buried up to his shoulder in black dirt and gravel.

Xavier rushed back to him. His face a mask of determination, Xavier gripped him beneath the armpits. “Don’t leave me,” O’Brien begged.

Xavier did not answer, bracing himself. The tunnel throbbed with the muted noises of the bombs exploding outside, too close for comfort. The walls and ceiling continued to shake. Xavier gritted his teeth … and pulled.

O’Brien remained chest deep in the earth.

And then another one of his men was beside him and together they heaved and tore O’Brien out of the ground. O’Brien sagged against him.

Another explosion sounded, this one louder, closer, than the others. Perhaps directly overhead. Dirt poured down on them, burying their feet, their ankles, coming up to their knees.

“Run!” Xavier shouted.

They burst from the tunnel as it caved in behind them. Coughing and choking, his men paused beneath the palace
walls. Xavier also paused, gulping the acrid air, sweat pouring down his soot-and dirt-blackened body. He looked up at the palace’s turrets and towers. Realizing that he could not leave.