TWENTY-ONE
Of all the letters waiting for him at St. Kitts, the most important came from Maddie. Jack savored her detailed descriptions of the suppers, card games and country dances that wove her into the fabric of Hampshire. Anything that kept her away from Sunderland but held her to England was a blessing. He fretted over her expressions of concern that Charleston had forgotten her, that her past was retreating beyond her grasp. Soon, if his luck held, she would stop looking over her shoulder and fix her gaze forward.
While the Intrepid took on supplies, Jack paced the quarterdeck and mentally composed a reply to Ethan’s missives. The young man was under the impression that his sister was too occupied with girlish concerns to consider the Beauchamps, which was most likely true. Even so, she should have been writing more often to her brother, but Jack could not bring himself to issue a rebuke. He wanted her to forget, to think of England as her only home and her years in America as a pleasant dream. Little good it would do, to insist she write often when pirates and belligerent British captains were known to confiscate contraband and pitch private correspondence over the side. Mail delivery was haphazard before, and had become worse as the war dragged on.
It crossed his mind that his instructions to Lady Jane might have been misunderstood, but then again, a letter from Ethan Beauchamp would not represent a danger to their shared desire that Maddie settle on an Englishman. How much easier it would have been to let Maddie swim in a vast ocean of suitors, all intent on winning her heart and filling her every waking minute with their presence. No time to think of Charleston in such a state, but his fear of Sunderland’s persuasive powers had checked him and he was losing the game.
He had Lady Gravier as an ally to an extent. The matriarch of the Thompson clan saw Maddie’s glittering potential, but there was always the risk that she would instigate a match for one of her grandsons. In the end, Jack saw no one who could be entrusted with Maddie’s schedule, no one who would watch out for her best interests like he would. Yet keeping his daughter out of the routs left her with time to think of things that Jack did not want her to ponder. There had to be some way to play Lady Gravier off of Lady Jane, to balance their intrigues and keep Maddie busy but unattached.
A carefully phrased letter to Maddie was sent off with the despatch boat, while the message to Ethan was held back until the squadron came upon a merchant vessel making for Charleston Bay. After due consideration, Jack decided that Ethan had more concerns than his sister’s welfare when he must know she was thriving. It was a matter of stating that they all had settled into new routines, and there was no need to alter course. In time, Ethan would have more children and his sister would have a husband and such was the way of the world, each into his own family. Should he then send his boys to England for their education, Maddie would be there to welcome them.
Before Jack could devise a closing paragraph that would assure Ethan, a merchant convoy sailing out of Barbados hailed the Admiral’s flagship. A delegation of three masters came aboard to report a siting of some French ships of the line, remnants of the fleet that had remained in Brest while their colleagues where wiped out near Cadiz. To a man, they believed that the enemy was sailing northeast, up into the Atlantic, perhaps to the English Channel. In spite of the risk of hurricane in the Atlantic in June, Jack saw an opportunity that was worth the danger.
Squadrons were strung out along the southern coast of the United States, with the Intrepid taking her station off the Hampton Roads. Let a French vessel seek sanctuary in an American port. The British would be waiting just outside the door, ready to attack. Eager for battle, it was a disappointment when the first ship spotted was a sloop flying the American flag, an armed warship that greeted her British rival in a friendly manner.
Jack hurried down to his quarters to don a clean shirt, the better to impress while bullying some upstart commander.
“With the compliments of Lieutenant Commander Beauchamp, you are invited to join him for dinner if you are not otherwise engaged.” The American midshipman was a child, but his diction suggested a child of privilege with some education.
“I will be honored to join him within the hour,” Jack said. He studied the young gentleman’s features, which still bore the pudginess of infancy. Such an innocent could not have been with Stephen during his ordeal in North Africa. Combat had the power to transform a boy into a man within minutes.
Stephen looked well and his ship was quite smart for its compact size. Jack paid a sincere compliment, but his stepson stared at him as if he had never seen him before. The effect was disconcerting. At a loss for words, Jack smiled like a fool until he thought to ask about Stephen’s duties. He wanted to hear it all, from the boring details of a commander’s existence to the sensation Stephen felt upon taking command and taking responsibility for the lives of his crew.
The food was simple and not unlike the bill of fare to be had in a British wardroom. According to the lieutenant who joined them, the ship was at the end of her cruise and stores were low. Under any other circumstance, the cook would have prepared a feast suitable for a guest of noble esteem. Preparing a meal fit for an admiral might not be possible, the gentleman noted, given that there was no such rank in the American navy. The company was light-hearted and pleasant, as Jack expected from a group of men within days of home.
Neither was he surprised that they wished to discuss their shared business of war, curious about the state of the French military on land and sea. “Barbados and San Domingo are now yours,” Stephen said. “Yet would it be so, if Bonaparte commanded an admiral who was his equal in skill and ability? In which case, might I now be toasting you, or your memory?”
“There is always an element of luck in naval warfare,” Jack said. “My adversaries did not lack skill or knowledge. They were unlucky.”
The chatter turned to family as the meal concluded and the cabin boy served an excellent French brandy. Stephen had been invalided out, to recuperate from the mission at Derna, and had returned to sea with a changed outlook. He had learned a great deal about himself, he claimed, while resting at Riverside Plantation. Quickly, he changed the topic and asked about his sister, the most agreeable topic Jack could imagine. She was, he boasted, the brightest star in London. The stud she was expanding was drawing interest and was likely to operate at a profit in five years time. She was pampered, indulged, petted and sheltered, to an extent that Jack admitted had sometimes been excessive. Catching himself on the verge of an alcohol-fueled confession, he stopped jabbering.
“Another glass, sir,” Stephen said. “You will not find anything so fine in England.”
“Until Bonaparte falls, at any rate,” Jack said. He caught Stephen examining him yet again, in a way that made Jack’s skin crawl.
“Now, gentlemen, a toast to the woman who has foolishly consented to marry me,” Stephen said. They all rose, unsteady, and lifted their glasses.
“A commander at twenty-four,” Jack said. “No need to ask for your father’s permission to wed, eh, my boy?”
“No need to ask at all,” Stephen said.
A change in atmosphere swept through the cabin, a shift that was detected by the lieutenant who cut in abruptly and asked the Admiral to describe Nelson’s tactics in his final battle. Cutting the enemy’s line of battle, exposing one’s men to raking fire; the gentleman was intrigued by the boldness but wondered if the true degree of risk was somehow outweighed by another calculation. Even as Jack arranged food scraps to illustrate his lecture, he noticed that Stephen was retreating deeper into his own thoughts.
“Ethan’s wife has altered much at Riverside,” Stephen said, a remark out of context with the ongoing table talk. “I had the opportunity to select what mementoes I might like while Mama’s life was crated up and hauled off to the garret.”
“The time does come,” Jack said. He could still feel the pain of dismantling Sarah’s quarters, the tears and deep sorrow he shared with Maddie as they acknowledged an end. They had only gone so far
as to give some old, outdated clothing to the poor. Every stick of furniture remained, and would remain until Jack died and Lady Jane swept through Farthingmill Abbey like a storm.
“You were my age when you met my mother,” Stephen said.
“And your mother was sixteen,” Jack said. “Maddie’s age.”
Wood creaked as Stephen moved his chair so that he could lean forward over the table. With a sly grin on his face, he wiggled a finger at Jack to bid him closer, to share a confidence. “Did you seduce her, you son of a bitch, or did you rape her?”
Stars exploded behind Jack’s eyes like a shower of Congreve rockets. Slowly, the pain of the punch registered in his clouded brain. He was aware of glass crashing, plates shattering, chairs falling. Voices shouted, droplets of spittle hammered his cheek where Stephen had landed a furious right hand. The fringes of Jack’s vision grew hazy and than dark. By instinct, he fought back against the strength of a younger man whose hands were wrapped tightly around his neck.
“She forgave me,” Jack choked out the words. Using his legs to push off the deck, he tried to turn Stephen, to gain the upper hand, but he lacked leverage.
“In your own words,” Stephen spluttered. “Your confession. I read it. The truth.”
“You know nothing,” Jack said. His anger at Sarah’s failure to obey an order to destroy his letters powered his arms and he managed to push Stephen away, giving the others an opening to grab their commander and pull him to his feet.
Held back by the ship’s surgeon, Stephen continued to rage like a madman, spewing venom and rancor while airing Jack’s deepest, most shameful secrets. There was no denying that Stephen had discovered what Sarah was never to reveal. If she had but lived long enough to put all her affairs in order, if he had given her another month before he demanded that she set sail for England, the note would never have fallen into the wrong hands.
“You are dead to me,” Stephen shouted. Spent, he pulled away from the surgeon’s grip and made an attempt to straighten his appearance. As if nothing had happened, he made for the hatchway. “I will thank you to remove yourself from my ship. We are strangers from this day forward.”
The door clattered against the bulwarks and Stephen stomped out, leaving Jack to pick up the flotsam that drifted through the cabin. The Admiral tugged at his waistcoat and noticed drops of blood spattered on the cream-colored wool. Before he could think of what else to do to restore his dignity, the surgeon applied a napkin to the cut below Jack’s eye.
“He has not been himself, sir. Far from it. I pray that you find it in your heart to forgive him,” the surgeon said.
The lieutenant picked up pieces of broken china and dropped them on the table before setting a chair upright. “Back too soon after Derna, in my estimation. His convalescence at home made him worse, rather than better. Much worse.”
“I should have insisted that he stay with his sister,” Jack said.
London was filled with skilled courtesans who would have kept Stephen amused and out of trouble. They would have distracted the young man until he forgot that he meant to lodge a formal complaint with the Admiralty, that he intended to speak to the American minister. Too eager to put Stephen back on a ship, to escape the debacle of the court-martial. With Maddie to entertain him, he never would have gotten into Sarah’s collected correspondence and never would have read the letters in which Jack sought to explain why he left Sarah in the most cruel fashion any man could devise.
“There has long been a hint of madness about him,” the surgeon said. “One who craves risk and adventure. None to be had here.”
“Some men benefit from light duty,” the lieutenant said. “Mr. Beauchamp is not such a man, in my opinion. One of our finest sailors, commanding a despatch boat. Hauling diplomatic pouches across the Atlantic.”
“One would think that his impending marriage would have cheered him,” the surgeon said. He examined the cut and warned Jack of the bruising that was to be expected. “Clearly his trek across the African desert last year was far more debilitating than Mr. Beauchamp admitted.”
Patched up, Jack made his way to the accommodation ladder, only to turn back to the quarterdeck where Stephen continued to smolder. The look in the young man’s dark eyes was murderous as he matched Jack’s glance. “I am entitled to an answer,” he roared. “Papa.”
Petulance never failed to infuriate Jack, more so when he recognized his younger self in his offspring. He took a few swaggering steps, drawing closer to keep what he had to say from being heard by the ship’s entire crew. “So long ago, my dear boy, so difficult to say.” They came to stand toe to toe, where Jack faced what he believed was justifiable rage. “Rape or seduction. Which was it? Your mother was far too clever to be swayed by sweet words.”
“So you admit it.”
“The man who tried to rape her that night was butchered by French sailors. That was our wedding night.” Stephen cocked his arm, ready to strike, but Jack deflected the blow. “Yes, our wedding night, when two rebels defied their fathers’ refusals. Except there was a slight flaw in my plan. A ruined woman proved to be not entirely ruined in other men’s eyes. I did not copper-fasten my claim as I thought.”
“Do not dare to seek my sympathy,” Stephen said.
“We gambled. We lost. We lost everything.”
“You are despicable.”
“No. Stupid, yes. Self-righteous. I ask you now, do not despise me.” From the corner of his eye, Jack spotted a line of ominous clouds approaching from the southeast. He had no time to lose if he were to secure his ships from what was likely to be a hurricane. Outracing the storm, he headed to the rail, pausing only to add, “I despise myself. Is that not enough?”
Many times before, Jack had tasted defeat, but this loss was the most bitter. He ignored the puzzled looks from his officers as he crossed the quarterdeck, leaving their questions to turn into idle speculation behind his back. “First hurricane of the season, do you think, Mr. Thomas?” he asked. Through determination and stubborn will, he turned his mind to strategy and tactics. If the French moved, where would they go, which American port would they seek?
“I expect we shall be scattered before the week is out,” Mr. Thomas replied.
“And the French as well,” Jack said. No lines of battle, but single ship combat, giving him the decided advantage.
“Chesapeake Bay warrants a close watch,” Mr. Thomas said. “The shipyards could be of importance if they do not weather the storm intact.”
After he sailed out of Charleston Bay, leaving Sarah waiting for her groom, he had gone north to protect British supply lines, while Cornwallis hunkered down outside of a sleepy little village called Yorktown. The memories that Stephen resurrected came back in a rush, to crowd out anything but thoughts of regret. The French had feinted all those years ago, and the British took the bait. The war was lost, Lieutenant Ashford did not return to Charleston. “As long as they do not reach France, Mr. Thomas, they may lie at anchor in any American harbor until their keels rot. We shall bottle them up and destroy them when they try to move.”
The orders of the sailing master were echoed along the deck by his mates, all hands at the ropes, heaving in unison. So like a dance, the coordinated steps of strong men hauling away while the topmen swayed to the motion of the sea. Who could say but Maddie might be in London at that very moment, weaving through the steps of a gavotte, unaware of what evil her stepfather was once capable of. Jack’s head throbbed where his cheek had puffed out, the evidence of a fistfight on display for all to see. He had lost a battle, a minor squabble, and it was not unreasonable to imagine he could make things right. The rift could be repaired, given time and distance and consideration on Stephen’s part. With growing maturity would come a greater understanding, if not outright acceptance. For now, Jack had lost his son. He would not lose Maddie. No matter what it took, he would not lose her.
The Second War of Rebellion Page 30