Page 23 of The Salamander

The lantern swung again, throwing shadows across the chart. For a moment, Jon thought of Salem, of his daughters’ golden heads bent together, of Eunice’s quiet voice guiding Hannah’s quill. Then he set the thought aside. Ahead lay prizes to be had, the island they called the Golden Rock, and the test of Dutch neutrality.

Off the Leeward Islands, December 1776

THE LOOKOUT’S CRY cracked the quiet. “Sail ho!” A snow, brig-rigged, and wallowing heavy with cargo, lay off the starboard, running north under British colors. The crew clustered at the guns, their excitement thinly veiled under the shouts of command.

Jon’s voice rang clear across the deck. “Steady her. Keep the windward advantage!” He stood with his hand tight on the rail, eyes fixed on the fleeing vessel. He could taste the moment: the first test since their refit at Salem.

The Ann tried to claw away, but with her new brigantine rig the Tyrannicide overhauled her swiftly. A warning shot from the bow-chaser sent splinters flying off the snow’s quarterdeck. The British captain wavered, his colors still up, until Fisk cupped his hands and shouted across the narrowing water. “Strike your colors, or we’ll rake you fore and aft!”

The tension snapped as the red ensign sagged down the mast. A cheer burst from Tyrannicide’s men, relief and triumph in one. Jon felt the thrill in his blood.

The Ann’s captain, red-faced and bitter, surrendered his papers and his sword. Cheers rolled across the Tyrannicide’s deck. Jon sent Lieutenant Stockman and a prize crew aboard, their grins broad. “We’ll sail with you to St. Eustatius,” he said.

St. Eustatius in the Dutch Antilles, December 1776

THE LITTLE VOLCANIC island rose out of the sea like a fortress, at its crown the Quill. Its skirts were dotted with red-roofed houses and Dutch warehouses stacked high with goods. Jon stood next to Fisk at the rail eyeing the sight before him.

“The harbor is a forest of masts,” said the captain. “French, Spanish, Dutch, American, even the occasional British merchant likely lying low under false papers. When I was merely a merchantman, I often saw this harbor. Two hundred ships can fit in her roadstead.”

As the Tyrannicide eased into the anchorage beyond the harbor under truce of Dutch neutrality, Jon felt every eye aboard drinking in the sight. Longboats darted across the glittering water and merchants shouted before anchors were even down. Rum, sugar, muskets, powder, everything the colonies lacked, the island seemed to pour forth in abundance. Here, the war was commerce.

Dutch customs men, stiff in their blue coats, received Fisk and Jon at the quay as they climbed from their longboat. Dutch clerks fussed over seals and signatures, but Jon caught their eyes following more closely the coin than the ink. Silver spoke louder here than Britain’s protests.

Stockman joined Jon on the quay and handed him a leather packet marked with the seal of the Crown. “Found these on our prize.”

Jon passed the packet to Captain Fisk. “Sir, the second lieutenant has made a find, papers from London. These documents may serve General Washington better than coin.”

Fisk nodded. “Indeed.”

By afternoon, the captured Ann’s cargo of flour and naval stores was stacked in a counting house, and Fisk signed receipts with the flourish of a man doing God’s work. In return, casks of rum and sugar rolled down to the water’s edge, and quiet parcels of powder were whispered into their hands.

Jon walked the crowded quay, where sailors from half a dozen nations jostled, tavern doors swung wide, and tongues in Dutch, French, and English mingled. He saw the eagerness in his men’s faces, felt it in his own chest: proof that their fight stretched far beyond Massachusetts. Every barrel shifted here was another musket for Washington’s line, another shipload denied the Crown.

As dusk fell, he and Fisk stood together watching the bustle. Fisk’s voice was low. “Remember this, Mr. Haraden. The war isn’t only fought with powder and shot. It’s fought in warehouses, on ledgers, in every hand that takes a coin for liberty’s cause. The Golden Rock feeds Washington as surely as we do.”

Jon nodded, the bustle of the quay echoing in his mind, barrels rolling, taverns alive in a dozen tongues.

In Fisk’s cabin later that evening, over the chart of the Leewards, one of the Dutch factors, plump and red-faced from the heat, let slip an important tale. Dabbing at his brow with a kerchief, his pride evident, he said, “Ach, it was but last month, ya. An American brig-of-war, the Andrew Doria, anchored here under your new flag. Fort Oranje gave her eleven guns, and the salute was answered shot for shot. The first time your colors were honored by any power in Europe or the Indies. The English—” he spread his hands with relish—“they are still gnashing their teeth over it.”

Jon felt the words strike like a hammer blow. “A salute,” he murmured, picturing the Continental Union flag flying against the Caribbean sky. “Then the world has seen us for what we are. Not rebels, but a new nation.”

Fisk’s gaze lingered on the Dutchman, then shifted to Jon, quiet approval in his eyes. “Every musket and barrel of powder slipped ashore here since has carried that salute with it. Remember that when you look at these Dutch warehouses, Mr. Haraden. They’re the arsenal of liberty.”

The factor shrugged, as though it were nothing but good business.

In that moment, Jon realized more fully the importance of trade to the war. He pictured American ships carrying goods into European ports as well as cannon into battle. Surely American captains could do both. The Revolution did live in ledgers as much as in broadsides. The sea was his battlefield, but here in this crowded harbor he saw the breadth of the struggle. He saw the future.

Watching the lamps flicker on the quay, he thought of the endless barrels of sugar, rum, and powder piled high on St. Eustatius. Yet far to the north, British blockades were already choking New England’s harbors, cutting off the delivery of goods. How long before shortages reached Salem’s markets?

His thoughts turned homeward, to Hannah bent over her copybook, to Polly pounding her spoon in her high chair, to Eunice’s quiet strength keeping the household on an even keel, and to Martha with her garden and Silas at her side.