News of the official declaration of war did not reach Jack until some time after he learned of the opening attack. To his surprise, the HMS Boxer did not perform up to his standards, an accumulation of errors that he blamed on inactivity as much as incompetence. The ship’s surgeon, with nothing else to do, had elected to go shooting on American soil. An experienced captain would never have agreed to lay to, would have been on his guard, on a war footing, but too many officers were over-confident in their abilities after Trafalgar. What Jack did not excuse was the loss of the ship to the enemy, a humiliation that left him apoplectic.
The order was given to the fleet under the command of Admiral Lord Bransmore and Beaulieu. No longer would any British captain be admired for the smartness of his ship. If gunners were not drilled to the point of mindless precision, their commanding officers should not expect commendation or promotion. For those who thought they had faced the ultimate challenge and won by defeating Bonaparte’s navy, they had to realize they were very much mistaken. The United States Navy was small in size, but the size of the adversary was no indication of the fight contained within.
To mark his fifty-eighth birthday, Jack put the Intrepid at the mouth of Charleston Bay and stood in close, within view of the harbor. The captains of his squadron joined him for dinner, but their attempts at levity fell on ears deaf to nothing but the sound of a boat that never came. Maddie could not sense his presence and fly to his side, but if he had sent word she might have come to see him. He did not send word out of fear that she would deny him. His stomach churned and his food sat untouched.
“A toast to our generous host,” Mr. Thomas said. He nodded to the cabin steward, who then placed a crude packing crate on the table. Jack pried off the lid and caught sight of the contents, his dark scowl lifting until he was sure he was grinning like a fool. “John Ashford Taft,” he said, reading the script on the back of the framed miniature.
Resembling his mother, the child had a full head of brown curls, brown eyes, plump cheeks and an air of mischief in the tilt of his pink lips.
“They say that girls marry a man resembling their father,” Mr. Thomas said.
“This child is the embodiment of obstinacy,” Jack mumbled. In reply to his flag-captain, Jack asked if there might indeed by a similarity.
The next portrait elicited a laugh from Mr. Thomas. “His father’s son, without question,” the flag-captain said. Willoughby Etienne Beauchamp was black-haired and dark-eyed, unquestionably the offspring of Stephen.
“Sarah Louise. David Robert.” Jack studied Ethan’s children, finding them surprisingly pretty. The little girl’s chin and the shape of her eyes were delicately formed, an inheritance from Sarah, and both portraits presented images of glowing good health. “I shall have the carpenter affix them to the bulkhead behind my desk. Surrounding Lady Madeleine’s portrait.”
“A very pleasing arrangement,” Mr. Thomas said.
“I am not forgotten,” Jack said in a whisper, more to himself than to his guests. Not forgotten, not removed from Maddie’s heart. He touched his waistcoat, to press the cloisonné pin until he felt its shape against his chest. What did the gift represent but her offering to restore their bond?
Days later, with his grandchildren over his shoulder, Jack sat at his desk and signed orders. Ships under his command were to do battle with the United States Navy wherever the enemy was encountered, fight to win, fight to control sea trade as a means of destroying Bonaparte. Many in the recalcitrant colonies had come to recognize the error of the rebellion, and wanted nothing more than a restoration of trade and the resumption of normal business. Maddie’s gift showed him that many would be happy to return to the protective embrace of the British Empire.