Page 10 of The Salamander

“We are in the very midst of a revolution the most complete, unexpected and remarkable of any in the history of nations.”

– John Adams 1776

CHAPTER 3

Off the Massachusetts coast, 12 July 1776

FOUR DAYS OUT from Salem, the Tyrannicide sliced through gray swells under a heavy sky, her pine tree flag snapping in the wind. Spray leapt from her bow, scattering cold salt water over the quarterdeck where Jon stood, spyglass trained on the sea ahead.

A pale fleck danced at the horizon. “Sir,” he said to Captain Fisk standing beside him, “a sail.”

A heartbeat later came the lookout’s shout from the fighting top. “Sail ho! Dead ahead!”

Shading his eyes, Fisk asked, “What is it?”

The fleck swelled into the sharp lines of a schooner. Jon steadied the glass. “Eight carriage guns…twelve swivels. A schooner flying a British ensign. Could be a packet bound for New York. We’ve the guns to take her.”

Fisk took the glass, studied her, and handed it back. “Aye. Let’s close in and test her mettle. Packets carry messages, sometimes important ones.” Lifting the speaking trumpet from its hook, he shouted, “Beat to quarters!”

The fife sounded and the drum rolled. The ship came alive. Barefoot powder boys dashed to the magazine deep within the ship’s hull, as gunners ran out the six-pounders. The smell of salt and tar was overtaken by the sharper tang of slow matches burning.

Jon spotted Johnny Deadman, his face serious beneath his blond locks as he cradled a powder sack for a sweating gunner. His fellow cabin boy, Bobby Grover, passed round shot to the crewman at the next gun.

“Load and prime the cannon!” Jon bellowed.

“Aye!” echoed Stockman from amidships. “Move sharp, lads!”

Bosun Benjamin Moses called up to a tar clinging to the ratlines, “Shorten that sail and make her snug!”

The schooner’s bow swung, her swivels flashing. The hiss and whine of shot were followed by splinters exploding from the Tyrannicide’s starboard rail. A ball smashed into the galley stores. Staves burst in a spray of oak and coffee beans.

For an instant, through the smoke and chaos, the familiar scent took Jon’s mind home, the deep, earthy fragrance of fresh beans as he’d known them in the Cabots’ cooperage, stacked in the cool dim light of the storehouse. His hands remembered the ring of the hammer setting hoops.

Then the memory was gone, swept away by the next broadside. “Fire!” roared Fisk.

Seven of the Tyrannicide’s six-pounders thundered in unison, the deck trembling beneath Jon’s boots. Smoke billowed, choking, as iron smashed into the British schooner’s hull.

She fired back. The roar of the broadside split the air, and for Jon the world slowed. The schooner rolled and dipped with deliberate grace, the arcs of smoke curling like lazy ribbons. A cannonball spun end over end through the haze, its black iron gleaming in the sunlight. He noted its path without flinching, his hands steady on the rail. While others shouted and ducked, he found himself unfazed as he measured angles, gauging their next move. In that instant, Jon understood. This was where he was meant to be.

“Hard to starboard!” Fisk ordered. Sailing Master Benjamin Lovett spun the wheel, and the Tyrannicide swung to rake the schooner’s stern.

“Target her rigging, lads!” Jon called. “Slow her down!”

Round shot tore through the British sails, rigging cascading down in tangles. Jon could now read her name in the swirl of smoke…Dispatch. Fitting, he thought grimly, for a packet ship running for New York.

For an hour and a half, the ships traded hammering fire. The Tyrannicide shuddered from hits. One man lay dead, ten others wounded. Surgeon Malcom, black brows drawn tight beneath his cocked hat, shouted for men to carry the injured to the orlop deck, where his mates would be working in the cramped, reeking heat.

At last, the Dispatch’s guns fell silent and she struck her colors. Cheers erupted from the Tyrannicide’s crew. Johnny and Bobby clapped each other on the back, grinning through powder-smudged faces. The captain’s cabin boy, Joshua Trask, came to join them in celebration.

“Well done, Haraden,” Fisk said, clapping Jon’s shoulder. His grin was quick but his brown eyes were hard. “Let’s board her.”

They crossed over in a small boat with a few armed crewmen to the boarding ladder the captured ship tossed down, the tarred hemp black against the splintered planking.

Jon climbed first, Fisk behind him. The Dispatch’s deck was a wreckage of torn lines and shattered spars, the acrid reek of powder thick in the air. Blood smeared the scuppers where bodies had been dragged aside.

The first lieutenant, face blackened with smoke, stepped forward and surrendered his sword, the steel dull with salt spray.

“Your commander?” Fisk asked.