The Second War of Rebellion

by Katie Hanrahan

  TEN

  The irony was not lost on him. Jack stood on his quarterdeck, looking through his glass at a flock of French-rigged sails in retreat, and calculated the distance to Charleston. Had he given in to Mr. Mahon, Maddie would be much closer than she was in London, close enough for an occasional visit. She might very well have been safer as well, considering the real threat of Bonaparte’s army invading England. Once across the Channel, it would be an easy matter for the French to sweep over the undefended countryside, to march up to the door of Farthingmill Abbey and claim it for France. Such nightmares kept Jack awake most nights.

  Even as he was sailing away from England, he had thought to speak to Stephen about procuring his sister’s safety, in the event of catastrophe, but when he intercepted Tony Powell’s squadron near Gibraltar, there was no good news. “Not a single sighting of the Ischia,” Tony had said. As a vice-admiral posted to the Mediterranean, the one-eyed sailor had numerous sources of intelligence, but they had all failed him on this mission. The Americans had been of critical help to Powell when he had two good eyes and a thirst for destruction. If not for their observations and information, the British fleet would not have known that the French Navy was bottled up in Abukir Bay. One eye was a small loss, in Tony’s opinion, as compared to the annihilation of Bonaparte’s naval threat. With one danger eliminated, he turned his attention to strengthening the blockade that cut off supplies and made it difficult for the little Corsican to pursue his dreams of empire. That blockade, however, was costing him valuable allies among the Yankee masters who would not be friendly to someone responsible for confiscating their ships and goods.

  “Now, I have it on good authority that Mr. Beauchamp was elevated to first lieutenant,” Tony said, as if Jack’s disappointment were written on his face. “And at such a young age. Impressive.”

  “Considering the size of the navy and the size of the vessels on which he serves, I would describe his promotion as less impressive than it appears from our viewpoint,” Jack said.

  “I suspect that his promotion has a great deal to do with the fact that his Commodore Morris would be sitting in a Tunisian prison at this moment if not for Stephen,” Tony said.

  “The difference between a thick-headed New Englander and a charming Carolinian gentleman?” Jack asked. “Good breeding, good manners, and an ability to negotiate without revealing one’s emotions.”

  It seemed an age since he had stood there with his oldest friend, chatting about their families, and the despatch boat that was waiting for the Admiral’s reports was kept waiting. An enjoyable tongue-wag was curtailed, however, when Jack spotted an American ship to larboard. The frigate was too large to be Stephen’s ship, and he returned to the conversation with a touch of sorrow, that he would not have the opportunity to meet with his stepson. Quickly, the other ship closed the distance and Jack scanned the clutch of officers on deck, in the event that Stephen might have been given a new post. He gave the order to salute the American frigate, and as his ship dipped her colors, he got a good look at the captain who was taking a good look at him.

  “Good evening, Captain Preble,” Jack mumbled through a false smile. “Don’t we despise one another with uncommon venom?”

  The USS Constitution returned the salute and sailed on, heading for the northern coast of Africa and another feeble attempt to rein in the pirates of the Barbary Coast. Little chance that such a puny naval force could frighten a despot like the Bey of Tunis. A few triple deckers and an array of twenty-four pounders was needed, but England no longer owned the North American colonies and so England no longer protected a people who wanted to go their own way.

  “They shall be a thorn in our sides,” Jack said to Tony. “This continuous changing of governments, with no continuity beyond four years. Entirely too unstable. We reached an accord with President Adams, and along comes Mr. Jefferson, wearing his love of France on his sleeve. This conflict would end quickly without American supplies to feed Bonaparte’s beast.”

  “The sons of liberty,” Tony said. He made his way to the ladder, to return to his ship and leave Jack to sail on to his station. “They have forests of trees with which to build the mightiest navy. Uncounted acres of arable land, bountiful crops to feed enormous armies. Within their borders, all that is needed to raise up a fighting force the likes of which the world has never seen.”

  “If we could count on them, we would not have to worry about our supply of spars now that Sweden and Austria are in Bonaparte’s camp, providing spars for his navy,” Jack said.

  Tony nodded in agreement, “How well I recall your father, making his speeches in Lords, determined to cut the cord that bound us to the ungrateful, troublesome and worthless colonies.”

  “Worthless enough for Boney to sell off a piece of that same land,” Jack said. “With one stroke of the pen, Tony, one stroke, America doubled in size.”

  “An ally worth making,” Tony said. He took a few steps down the accommodation ladder but paused to conclude his thought. “If friends we cannot be, then a country worth reclaiming.”

  * * *

  Being a father had changed everything, every thought and decision and plan. Always, Maddie hovered in the back of his mind, Maddie and her well-being. He had argued over the government’s tactic of stalemating the French in the Lesser Antilles while attempting to lure Bonaparte into an ill-timed invasion of England. What if the soldiers were to fail, Jack had said to his captains, what if local militiamen turned tail at the coast when faced with combat-hardened veterans of Austerlitz? What if the weather was unfavorable to the ships patrolling the Channel, as the weather had once turned against the Spaniards? He abandoned his argument when he realized that he was sounding like a defeatist, with little faith in the abilities of his colleagues. He was only being a father for the first time in his long career and his excess of caution was worrisome.

  A cooling breeze lifted the oppressive humidity of the tropics, and it was no surprise to find that every man who was not on watch was loitering on deck. The British fleet in the West Indies had been blessed with few losses and frequent victories, and the next step in their mission was expected to run just as smoothly. Whitehall had, perhaps, only wanted a light butcher’s bill when action against the Dutch colonies near South America was approved. A war-weary public needed good news that came at a minimal cost, and winning back territory that had been returned to the French after their revolution was proving a popular political tactic. For the men who sailed under Admiral Lord Bransmore, however, they were missing out on the real battles taking place to the north, in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Jack hated his post.

  “A word, Mr. Powell,” Jack called across the quarterdeck to the midshipman. “Impatiently awaiting a frock coat?”

  “The outer trappings are less significant than the actual possession of a commission, my lord,” Edmund said. He had passed the lieutenant’s exam with ease, but getting fitted by a Jamaican tailor was something that had to wait until the Intrepid made port.

  “What puzzles me is why you write in such technical terms to my daughter. I do not fault you for boasting of your part in the capture of St. Lucia. Indeed, your actions were most commendable,” Jack said. “But will she not find such analysis dull reading?”

  “Do you think that she will be bored?” Edmund asked. “She has a thorough understanding of fighting sail, your lordship.”

  “Does she?” Odd, to realize that Maddie was not as transparent as a pane of glass, that there was no window to her inner thoughts. She did not share everything with her stepfather, as if she were holding something in reserve. Or perhaps it was just the nature of girls, who grew up to be women that puzzled men to no end.

  “Beyond what she might have learned from her brother, she made it a point to learn what I was learning during her voyage,” Edmund said. “Perhaps I made more of my experiences than was warranted. In truth, what resistance we encountered was little more than a gesture for the sake of pride. And considering what St
ephen must tell her. If only I could take that letter back. She will think me a fool.”

  “Not at all.” Jack paused in his perambulations along the weathered planks. Edmund had nothing to compare to the bravado of the fledgling United States Navy.

  Had one of Jack’s captains ever considered burning their own ship for the sake of thumbing one’s nose at the enemy? Beyond the rude gesture was the strategy, a plan of action that was much like Jack’s madcap ventures in his younger days, when he thought he was invincible. Or did not care if he lived or died. To revisit such an old wound was too unpleasant in the tropical heat.

  “Surely it was Stephen who thought to disguise an Arab ketch as a merchant vessel,” Edmund said. “He always was very clever.”

  Jack felt a sting of loss. If only, he thought, if only, and Stephen would be sailing under England’s colors and putting his mind to work for England’s benefit. If only. It took courage to don an Arab costume and sail into Tripoli, to risk all for a mission that had a very real chance of failure.

  Reports from intelligence sources in the Mediterranean station reported that the ketch was approached by the Tripolitans and an American sailor, fluent in Greek, had rattled off a story of a lost anchor and the need for a mooring. Once tied up alongside their captive ship, the Americans hidden below deck sprang into action, quick, precise, and caught the enemy completely off guard. With equal speed they set their captured frigate Philadelphia alight, clambered on board the ketch, and sailed clean away, fire buckets at the ready to douse flying firebrands. The execution was brilliant. Poor Edmund had nothing half so incredible to share with Maddie.

  “Thank you for allowing Miss Ashford to spend Christmas with my family,” Edmund said. The young gentleman’s tone hinted at wistful longing, the sadness of those who went to sea. It was a longing that Jack had felt for the first time, making the past holiday season the most miserable he had ever endured.

  “So many new sensations swamping her,” Jack said. “I am grateful to them for providing some continuity to her life. Pray that we might all be together next year, Mr. Powell.”

  Reuniting before a year was gone was Jack’s dream, a wish that grew stronger when Maddie turned fourteen in February. Wandering the streets of Kingston, he found himself at a loss, with no idea what he should send to her or what her heart might desire. He discovered a book of botanical illustrations from the Sandwich Islands which he deemed exotic enough to appeal to her curiosity, but then he came to regret the gift as too tilted towards further education rather than recreation. Before he could write to the London milliner to order a new bonnet, he had to change plans and write to Madame LaSalle, to belay a previous order that Maddie be taken to Brighton for her health. Fear of invasion had ballooned into a near hysteria, and while Jack had confidence in his colleagues, he decided to take no chances.

  Once Trinidad and Tobago fell into British hands, he felt as if he had little of interest to do, and he took to fretting. Riding out the hurricane season in the heat of the tropics added to his sense of futility, a certainty that he was wasting his time and talent when he could be actively shortening the war. A tighter blockade of French ports to starve the country, a more aggressive approach to hunting down and destroying the enemy, all of that and more he would do if he could be transferred closer to Maddie. At the very least, he would stand a better chance of encountering Stephen. Who could say what friends he might make among the American captains, what joint operations they might try that would be mutually beneficial to both parties?