Page 14 of The Salamander

“That’s the sprung plank he spoke of,” Silas added. “Takes a man who knows his ship to spot it before she lets you know herself, usually in the middle of a blow.”

Mr. Haraden caught sight of them then and came down the gangplank, the smell of pine tar clinging to him as he approached. “Up early?” he asked, a smile touching his mouth.

“We thought we’d see the work beginning,” Eunice said. “And perhaps walk to market after.”

“You’ll find it busy,” Jon said, glancing toward the cluster of ships unloading cargo farther down.

From behind her, Silas asked, “Has the prize court convened yet?”

“Soon,” said Mr. Haraden. “Langdon will want every detail of the Dispatch’s capture.”

Eunice inclined her head. “Will you be testifying?”

“Perhaps. The captain has already written a report of the capture. Our first priority is to get the Tyrannicide ready to sail.”

Silas said, “Martha told me should you come home with tar on your trousers, sir, you’ll answer to her.”

“I imagine I will,” he said, looking at his trousers blackened in places with soot. Eunice saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes before he turned back toward the Tyrannicide.

“Will you be home for supper, Papa?” Hannah inquired.

“I will. You can tell Martha I look forward to another great meal. Meantime, the ship’s carpenter is waiting, and I must not delay him if we’re to go to sea soon. The war will not pause for us.” He gave them a brief nod as he turned back toward the gangplank.

Eunice and Hannah left Derby Wharf and followed Silas toward the market square. It was no formal hall, but a patchwork of stalls and carts set out along the open street near the Custom House, with the smell of the docks mingling with wood smoke from cookfires and the tang of freshly cut herbs.

Women in homespun gowns bargained with fishermen in tarred jackets, their hands still smelling of the sea. A boy darted past with a basket of crabs, the shells clacking together like castanets. Beside the fishmongers, a farmer she recognized from Danvers had laid out baskets of green peas, carrots with their feathery tops, and heads of cabbage pale as candlewax. “Morning,” Eunice said to him.

“Mrs. Mason,” he replied, dipping his hat.

Hannah’s eyes grew wide at the sight of a fisherman lifting a huge silver cod from his tub, the scales flashing like coins in the sun. “For the kitchen?” Hannah asked, looking up at Eunice.

Eunice smiled. “For Martha.” She handed the man a shilling, dear enough, but worth it for so large and fresh a catch. He wrapped the fish in clean linen and set it in her basket atop a loaf of rye bread from a nearby baker’s stall.

Silas lingered near a merchant selling small kegs of molasses, running his hand over the smooth staves as if judging the workmanship. “You keep your barrels tight and your door hinges tighter,” he told the merchant with a wink, “or you’ll be patchin’ kegs and cleaning molasses off the street before winter’s through.”

Hannah watched the two men, then turned to Eunice. “Papa knows barrels. Silas, too.”

Silas glanced at Eunice. “Martha would put some of this to good use.”

Eunice nodded. “For the gingerbread she’s been wanting to make.” She passed over a few coins to the merchant for a small keg of molasses. The merchant’s helper hoisted it into the basket beside the cod. The mingled scents of sea-brine, fresh bread, and the dark sweetness of molasses rose to meet her.

“Martha will be happy,” said Hannah.

“Here,” said Silas. “That basket’s heavy by now. I’ll carry it.”

“You’re a true gentleman,” said Eunice, handing him the now full basket.

As they turned for home, the church bell began its slow toll for the hour. The sound carried above the gulls’ cries, a reminder that the day of prayer and fasting called for by the House of Representatives was approaching. Would Mr. Haraden be at sea then? She tightened her hand on Hannah’s, thinking of the Tyrannicide riding the ocean’s swells toward danger. Somewhere beyond that horizon, war was waiting. She wondered if the sea felt as wide to him as it did to those left ashore.