Page 16 of The Salamander

“The molasses you brought from market is baked right in,” she told Eunice and Hannah with pride.

Mr. Haraden’s smile deepened as he took a bite. “If this is how you see me off, I’ll be counting the days until I’m back.”

The summer evening brought a soft light through the windows as they adjourned to the parlor where Mr. Haraden poured them a glass of sherry. Outside, the waterfront waited for the next tide.

Hannah resumed her lesson in knots with Silas, who sat opposite, a length of rope coiled in his hands.

“Now,” he said, “where were we? Ah. Half hitch, snug it tight. A loose knot’s no better than a hole in your shoe.”

Hannah’s tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she worked. “Like this?”

“Near enough to hold a cow, or your papa’s ship, if you keep at it,” Silas chuckled.

From the doorway, Martha called, “Mind you tie that knot tight, Hannah. Your papa’s bound to need every line holdin’ fast.”

Silas gave a grunt of approval. “A knot worth trustin’ is a knot worth takin’ your time on.”

Hannah’s fingers moved more carefully over the rope. “Then I’ll make one Papa can trust.”

Mr. Haraden leaned forward, setting down his glass. “Mind your tuck there, Hannah,” he said, pointing. “If the line slips, you’ll lose the whole knot.” His tone was mild, but his eyes sharp, as Eunice imagined they would be on deck.

Silas gave a grunt of approval. “Aye, that’s a captain speakin’.”

Martha’s mouth curved in a small, satisfied smile as she vanished back toward the kitchen, leaving the scent of gingerbread in her wake.

From the corner of the parlor, Eunice shared a glance with Mr. Haraden. They had just witnessed an old sailor passing down his craft to a girl who, in her way, was as much part of the Tyrannicide’s crew as any man aboard.

On the Tyrannicide at sea, 5 August 1776

MORNING SUNLIGHT GLINTED off the Tyrannicide’s damp rigging, still wet from the sea spray. Jon watched the waters around the ship, calm as glass. From the fo’c’sle came the muted rasp of holystones, the brittle sandstone used to scrub the deck, mingled with the creak of blocks hoisting and adjusting canvas.

Johnny Deadman, barefoot and quick as a cat, picked his way toward the quarterdeck with a steaming tin mug. “Your coffee, sir,” he said, holding it out with a grin. “Captain says he’ll be up in a minute.”

Jon took the mug, warm in his hands, and inhaled the bitter steam. “You’ll make a sailor yet, Johnny, if you don’t spill it.”

“Not a drop, sir,” Johnny declared, swiping his sleeve across his nose.

As the Tyrannicide cruised between Cape Sable and Nantucket off the Massachusetts coast, the early morning passed uneventfully with routine sail trimming, the occasional course correction, and a distant school of porpoises breaking the surface like skipping stones.

From the foretop, the lookout’s voice rang sharp across the water.

“Sail ho!”

Jon’s head snapped up. “Where away?”

“Two points off the larboard bow, sir. Brig-rigged!”

The Tyrannicide came alive, Jon shouting orders. Men swarmed aloft to loosen canvas, the helmsman brought her around, and the deck tilted underfoot as the wind filled the sails.

Within the hour, the brig lay dead ahead. Through his glass, Jon spotted her crew scattering as the Tyrannicide ran out her guns. Two warning shots and a burst of boarding pikes later, the British brig St. John was theirs, her cargo of flour, rum and naval stores a welcome prize.

Captain Fisk had come to the quarterdeck and, upon his order, Jon sent Lieutenant Stockman aboard the St. John with a prize crew.

As the boarding party reached the St. John, the lookout’s cry came again. Another sail, this time a trim schooner, the Three Brothers. From what Jon could see through his spyglass, the schooner was straining under every stitch of canvas to escape. “This one will not yield easily,” he said to Fisk.

“I’ll let you take her,” said Fisk. “Good practice.”

Jon watched as the schooner ran hard before the wind, every sail straining. “Fire the first bow chaser!” he ordered.