Page 25 of The Salamander

Silas chuckled, shaking his head. “Won this bout, maybe. But if I’m to keep her out of the gaol, I’ll need eyes in the back of my head.”

A smile tugged at Martha’s lips. “Nonsense. Salem’s better for a sharp tongue now and then.”

From the corner of the room, little Polly crawled to a chair and lifted herself up. Hannah, watching with bright eyes, smiled at the progress her little sister was making. Martha caught it. “Soon the child will be walkin’.”

On the Tyrannicide off the Leeward Islands in the Caribbean, January 1777

THE TRADE WINDS filled the Tyrannicide’s canvas, driving her north along the edge of the Leeward Islands, the sea rolling blue and steady beneath her. Jon stood at the rail, the memory of St. Eustatius still vivid, the bustle of the quay, the Dutch factor’s tale of the salute to American independence, the casks of sugar and powder shifting from hand to hand.

The lookout’s cry broke the morning calm. “Sail ho! Off the larboard bow, a brig, deep laden!”

Jon’s heart leapt. He snapped his glass open and steadied himself against the roll. A broad-shouldered vessel lay ahead, brig-rigged, her wake sluggish under her heavy cargo. British colors streamed at her gaff. “The Henry and Ann,” Jon muttered, his spyglass snapping shut. “Bound north for New York, I’ll wager, fat with provisions.”

Fisk gave a curt nod, and his orders rang across the deck. “Hands to stations! Run out the guns, and trim her sharp. We’ll close the gap.”

The men moved with eagerness sharpened by their recent victory. Sailors vaulted into the rigging, the braces creaked as canvas was trimmed, and the brigantine leaned into the wind. Jon felt the thrill course through him. The Tyrannicide was no longer a sloop running for her life but a hunter in full stride.

The British brig tried to bear away, but she was slow, heavy with stowed goods. Within the hour, the Tyrannicide gained the advantage, standing upwind. Swinging downwind, she crossed astern of the British ship, lining up to rake her vulnerable quarter. The bow-chaser barked flame and smoke. Shot smashed through the Henry and Ann’s bulwark, sending splinters spinning.

Still she ran, stubborn, her crew answering with a single stern-chaser that splashed wide. Jon’s jaw set. “With your permission, sir, I would take action to see she is ours.”

“All yours,” said Fisk.

Jon called from the quarterdeck, “Mr. Moses, give her a broadside she won’t mistake.”

The port guns thundered, the deck shuddering beneath their feet. A round tore through the brig’s mizzen, sending rigging slithering down in a tangle. Her flight was broken. Jon imagined the British captain’s shoulders sag. A moment later, the red ensign dipped, fluttered, and dropped.

“Colors struck!” came the cry.

A cheer erupted from Tyrannicide’s men, raw and triumphant. Jon allowed himself a tight smile. “Boarding party away,” he ordered. Senior warrant officer Benjamin Moses led the prize crew, their boat splashing down and pulling hard toward the wounded brig.

When the British master was brought across, he grimaced with fury and defeat. Handing Fisk his sword with stiff formality, he said bitterly, “Brig Henry and Ann, laden with flour, pork, and oats for His Majesty’s troops in New York.”

Fisk passed the sword to Jon. “Mr. Haraden, see to it, if you will, and send her into St. Eustatius.” Jon felt the sword’s weight in his hand, the war now measured not in glory but in bushels and barrels. Washington’s men were starved for want of such cargo. Here, in the tropics, the Revolution’s lifeblood had been found.

Jon set the blade aside. “Your ship will serve a better cause now,” he said evenly.

By afternoon, the Henry and Ann was under prize crew command and on her way to the Golden Rock, her holds deep with foodstuffs that could keep an army on its feet. Jon watched the British ship heading downwind under the hand of the prize crew. The British captain stood rigid at her stern, forced to look back at the ship that had mastered him. After a moment, Jon turned to Fisk.

“What becomes of them in the Dutch port, sir? The prisoners?”

Fisk’s eyes followed the departing brig. “In a neutral port like St. Eustatius, they’ll be paroled ashore under Dutch oversight, their word given not to take up arms until exchanged. They won’t like it, watching their cargo sold and carted off to feed Washington’s men, but they’ll have no choice.”

Jon frowned. “Paroled? You mean they are free to walk, so long as they swear an oath?”

“Aye,” Fisk said, his voice flat. “It’s honor that binds them. They’ll be shipped off soon enough on some Dutch or Spanish vessel and sent back to their own ports. But until then, they’re no threat to us.”

Jon’s gaze narrowed on the emptying horizon. “Strange, isn’t it? We parole their men, treat them fair. Yet ours rot in the hulks off New York, starving in the dark. Some never see daylight again. Others waste away in English prisons.”

“Aye,” Fisk said quietly. “That’s the difference between us and them. We fight hard, but we fight as men, not butchers.” He let out a long breath and clapped Jon’s shoulder. “Best remember it, Haraden. Our honor is as much a weapon as our guns.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tight. The words settled heavy, not as an officer’s lesson but as a truth he felt to the bone. If war must be fought, then let it be fought with honor, not cruelty. He thought of his daughters and of Eunice Mason’s calm hand guiding their learning. What kind of world would they inherit if men waged war like beasts? Better a nation that tempered its steel with mercy. That was a cause worth keeping faith with.

The lookout’s cry came at midmorning: “Sail ho, off the lee bow!”

Jon’s glass snapped open. A snow, brig-rigged with two masts, wallowed heavy in the water, her sails full but her pace sluggish. “She’s burdened,” Jon muttered. “Heavy with stores, by the look of her.”

“She’s 140 tons,” said Fisk, “but a merchantman, unprepared for a fight.” He gave the order, and the Tyrannicide bore down under a press of canvas. Within the hour, she overhauled the stranger. A warning shot from the bow-chaser cracked the air. The British master, with no chance against the brigantine’s speed and guns, lowered his colors without firing a shot.