Page 12 of The Salamander

The governess stopped just short of him, smiling openly. “We saw your ship from the upper windows. Martha says the whole town’s speaking of your victory, only days after you sailed!”

Jon bent to hug his daughter.

“We prayed for you, Papa!”

He smiled at Hannah, then at Eunice. Behind them stood Silas with a pleased expression. “Well, your prayers were answered. We took a British packet bound for New York. She’ll serve the cause better here than in British hands.”

Silas glanced toward the Dispatch riding at anchor giving her the quick survey of a sailor measuring a ship’s worth. Then he looked back to Jon. “Aye, sir, and she’ll fly better colors for us than she ever did for King George.”

“Just think,” said Mrs. Mason, “you brought her in on the very day we learned our country is free. Two victories, Lieutenant.”

“One for Salem, perhaps,” Jon said quietly. “The other belongs to us all.”

“That’s the ship you captured?” asked Hannah, pointing to the damaged schooner.

“Aye,” said Jon. “Like the Tyrannicide, she’s a bit worse for the battle.”

“Is that why you’re here?” asked Mrs. Mason.

“Yes, we must make repairs before our next cruise.” The words had barely left his mouth when, further up the wharf, Captain Fisk’s voice rang out, “Haraden! Report!”

Jon folded the newspaper with care and tucked it into his coat. “Until later, Mrs. Mason, Hannah, Silas.”

The governess nodded, her smile lingering.

Hannah waved. “Till later, Papa!”

Past the cheering townsfolk, beyond the smell of tar, salt, and the fish market’s drying nets, Town House Square lay up the hill. Jon tried to imagine that morning when a voice rang out over the cobbles, reading the Declaration of Independence to the gathered citizens of Salem. And now, with the prize ship safely anchored and the war still ahead, Jon felt, for the first time, the truth of it. They were no longer British subjects, but a free people with their own country.

THE SCENT OF roasting chicken met Eunice as she came down the stairs and went into the parlor. Hannah was perched on a stool beside Silas, who sat on the hearth rug, showing her a new knot she had yet to try.

“A reef knot this time, Miss Hannah,” he said, the rope moving deftly through his callused hands. “Strong as they come. Holds when the wind howls and comes free when you ask it.”

Martha appeared in the doorway, her cheeks dusted with flour. “Strong knots don’t put food on the table, Silas Turner.”

Silas grinned without looking up. “Aye, but they might keep the table from driftin’ off in a gale.” Eunice failed to stifle a chuckle as she caught an appreciative tilt of Silas’ head toward the kitchen. “That chicken you’re cookin’ smells mighty good, Martha.”

Eunice shook her head, smiling despite herself. This back-and-forth had become part of the household’s music. She glanced toward the stairs. She had heard Mr. Haraden come in and go up to change out of his sea-stained coat. Eunice hoped he returned before Martha’s chicken cooled.

Minutes later, he descended the stairs as if summoned. Hannah was on him at once. “Papa! Silas showed me a new knot.”

“Then you’ll have to show me after supper,” Jon said, giving her a brief hug before offering a nod to Eunice. “I’m starving.” Then to Eunice, “Shall we?”

In the dining room, Martha brought in the roast chicken on a large platter, the golden skin gleaming in the candlelight. “She’s a fat hen cooked to perfection if I do say so myself.” Turning to reach for two bowls, she placed them on the table, adding with quiet pride, “The peas and carrots are from my garden, and there’s potatoes, too.”

“All looks wonderful, Martha,” said Eunice as she took her place across from Hannah. Mr. Haraden sat at the head of the table and proceeded to carve the bird with an ease that spoke of long practice. His demeanor had changed since his last meal at this table, a change she’d first noticed on the wharf when the Tyrannicide arrived. There was a steadiness about him now, as though he was at ease with himself and his chosen path.

Partway through the meal, the wet nurse slipped in with Polly, drowsy and smelling of warm milk. She laid the baby gently in Jon’s arms. He looked down at his youngest daughter, his expression softening, and Eunice felt something ease in her own chest. He brushed his hand over the tufts of blonde hair on Polly’s head before kissing her cheek and handing her back with a quiet word of thanks.

The wet nurse placed the sated baby in her cradle and bid the family a good evening.

Martha came in to see how the meal was going. Hands on hips, she said, “Well, what’s the verdict?”

“Everything is delicious, Martha,” said Eunice.

“I fed Silas some from a second chicken,” said Martha, “and he seemed to like it.”

“Silas would like anything you cooked,” said Mr. Haraden, “but in truth, the meal is superb. You’ve outdone yourself.”