Page 22 of The Salamander

“Aye, sir,” Stockman replied, already turning to the warrant officers with clipped orders.

Jon followed Fisk down the companionway, his shoulders leaden, the salt crust in his hair and on his coat itching his skin. The air below reeked of wet wood and tar, but as he walked toward the forecastle a warmer scent struck him from the direction of the galley. “I’ll just check on the cook’s progress, sir,” said Jon. At Fisk’s nod, Jon ducked into the galley.

“Burgoo, sir,” Reed said without looking up, his ladle stirring steadily. The pot hissed, thick with salt beef, biscuit crumbs, and what barley Reed had salvaged. “Give me a half-hour and the officers and men’ll have it hot in their bellies.”

Jon nodded. “The crew will need it. The sea near broke them last night.”

In the captain’s cabin, sunlight poured through the stern windows, falling bright across the table. Fisk removed his coat, urging Jon to do so as well, then eased himself into a chair with a grunt, poured two measures of watered rum, and pushed one toward Jon.

“To the goodness of Providence, and to a sound ship,” Fisk said.

Jon lifted his glass, his hand trembling from exhaustion. “To Providence,” he echoed. The rum burned, then spread its warmth through him. For the first time since the gale struck, his breath came easy.

Fisk leaned back. “You handled her well, Haraden. A man shows his mettle in a blow.”

Jon met his captain’s eyes. “She’s a good ship. And her men trust her. That’s what carried us through.”

“Our crew trusts you, Haraden. ’Tis obvious.” Fisk’s tone was quiet, almost offhand, but the words landed heavier than praise of his seamanship.

“Thank you, sir.”

A knock at the door broke the moment. The captain’s cabin boy, Joshua Trask, entered and began laying out pewter bowls, setting a small wheel of cheese and a dried apple pie beside them, the captain’s stores, kept aside for such moments.

Stockman arrived soon after, salt still crusting his coat, hair plastered to his brow. “Deck secured, sir. Pumps are working, lashings tight, and the men know they’ll have hot food within the hour.”

“Well enough,” Fisk said. “Lose your coat and sit, Joe. You’ve earned it as much as we have.”

Stockman hesitated only a moment before taking off his coat and dropping into a chair, fatigue etched deep in his face.

Joshua delivered the burgoo shortly thereafter and poured each man a measure of rum with a boy’s earnest care, glancing nervously to Fisk for approval.

Fisk nodded at Joshua as Jon reached for the ladle, filling their bowls, the steam rising rich with beef and biscuit. It was hot and well-seasoned. After the long night, it tasted near to a feast. For a time, the only sound was the scrape of spoons and the creak of the timbers. Weariness pulled at all of them, but with warm food in their bellies the storm seemed less a terror survived than a trial endured.

Fisk finally set down his spoon, eyeing Jon over the rim of his rum. “Storm’s behind us. Next test will be the enemy. But I think the Tyrannicide’s ready.”

Jon answered with a smile, his shoulders loosening. “So do I, sir. And so are her men.”

As the meal ended, Fisk pushed back his chair. “Get a few hours of sleep, gentlemen, and then see to the men. After supper, join me in my cabin. We’ll lay out our course into the Indies.”

Jon and Stockman nodded, exhaustion weighing heavier now that the worst was past. Above deck, the sun climbed higher, gold on the blue sea, and the Tyrannicide’s crew worked in weary shifts—pumping, patching, resetting canvas—while their officers finally allowed themselves rest.

By nightfall the ship was steadier, her decks cleared, the crew fed and in good spirits. The storm seemed already like a dark memory left astern.

In the captain’s cabin, the lantern swayed with each roll, throwing gold light across the worn chart of the Leeward Islands spread over the table where Fisk had gathered Jon and Stockman again, compass, dividers, and a pewter mug sliding a fraction with each lift of the sea.

Fisk tapped the chart with a blunt finger. “There lies St. Eustatius, the ‘Golden Rock’. The Dutch call her neutral, but every mast in the Caribbean knows better. They’re supplying Washington’s men as steady as the tide. Powder, shot, muskets, saltpeter. And they’ll pay good coin for flour and naval stores we capture from the British.”

Stockman frowned, his dark brows drawn together, his arms folded. “It’s a risk. The Crown calls it smuggling and piracy. We bring a prize into a Dutch port, and the British may claim we’ve broken faith.”

Fisk gave a dry smile. “The Crown calls all we do piracy, Joe. Let them howl. If the Dutch keep their doors open, we gain. If they shut them, better to know now than to learn it when our holds are full and our throats bare of water.”

Jon traced the lines of latitude with his thumb, considering. “It’s close enough to our course. And if the harbor’s thick with flags, as you suggest, sir, it will be difficult to single out one American brigantine among that press. A short stay, then off again with fresh water, rum, and whatever coin they’ll give us for our prize’s cargo.”

Fisk leaned back in his chair, the timbers creaking. “Aye. We’ll not linger. Just long enough to test the Golden Rock’s welcome, and to remind the men what we fight for. Every cask rolled ashore there is another musket bound north to General Washington. That’s worth the risk.”

Jon caught Stockman’s skeptical look, then met Fisk’s eyes, nodding once.

“Very well,” said Fisk. “We’ll try her harbor with our first prize. If the war falters in New York, then it must be carried on the sea. And the sea runs through St. Eustatius.”