Xavier was on board Preble’s flagship, the forty-four gun USS Constitution. The Danish merchantman he had escaped Tripoli upon had rendezvoused with a French brig at Alexandria, and Xavier had arranged transport to Malta, where Preble was currently at anchor. The two men’s gazes held. And then Preble smiled and reached forward, embracing Xavier warmly. Xavier pounded his back. They had served together in the recent French war, before Xavier had resigned his commission. “My God, I wasn’t sure I would ever see this day,” Xavier said with a sigh. He was acutely aware of being free—and as acutely aware that Alexandra remained in captivity. “Nor I. I have been distraught, first upon learning of the capture of the Pearl, then upon learning of your disappearance. The entire world has thought you dead this past year, Xavier.” Preble’s dark, intelligent eyes were piercing and curious. “It is a very long story.” “Tonight then, over a good meal and a bottle of port,” Preble said decisively.
