Free Captive by Brenda Joyce Page B

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 noother 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.

6
    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 merchantmanbound 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.
    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