Page 26 of The Salamander

Jon’s satisfaction was tempered by the ordinariness of it, not a fight, but a surrender. Still, when the papers revealed her to be the John, laden with naval stores, dried fish, and salt, he felt a pulse of grim pleasure. “Washington’s men would march a month on what’s in the John’s hold,” he said. Stockman was sent over with a prize crew, and the Tyrannicide swung back to her course, still hungry for more.

The next prize presented more of a test. She was sighted late in the afternoon, a trim brig under full sail, the Three Friends. Running before the wind, she tried to escape.

“Hands to stations!” Fisk commanded, but his eyes found Jon. “She’s yours to bring down, Lieutenant.”

Jon’s pulse quickened. He leaned toward the helmsman. “Hold her close-hauled! We’ll take her to windward.” Canvas boomed as the Tyrannicide turned, straining to cut the fleeing brig off from her run.

The chase stretched long. Twice the Three Friends fired her stern-chasers, round shot plunging into the sea astern. The Tyrannicide’s bow-gun barked in answer, splintering the brig’s quarterdeck rail. Still she fled.

“Bring us across her bow,” Jon called. The brigantine’s guns thundered as they raked her from stem to stern. Rigging tumbled, the British crew scrambled, and the master’s nerve broke. The red ensign dipped, fluttered, and came down.

A roar went up from the Tyrannicide’s deck, not just in victory, but vindication. The brigantine had shown her teeth. Her refit was justified. Jon stood straight at the quarterdeck rail, salt-stiffened hair whipping free of his queue, feeling the men’s eyes on him.

Beside him, Fisk said, “They will follow you anywhere now.”

When the Three Friends’ master was brought over and surrendered his sword to Fisk, the Tyrannicide’s captain handed it to Jon. The papers showed her hold deep with flour and salt pork, bound north for New York’s garrison. Jon thought of Washington’s starving men and tightened his grip on the hilt. “These provisions will serve a better army,” he said evenly.

St. Eustatius, Dutch Antilles

BY WEEK’S END, the Tyrannicide shepherded her newest prizes, the John and the Three Friends, into St. Eustatius to join the Henry and Ann. Their masts added to the crowded forest already filling the anchorage, while the Ann, taken earlier, had long since been sold, her cargo of flour and naval stores turned into coin and powder.

On deck, Jon watched the bustle ashore: Dutch clerks tallying, longshoremen rolling barrels, and prisoners led away under guard. “Why sell the Ann outright, Captain, and not the others?” he asked quietly.

Fisk’s gaze followed the lighters moving cargo between the quay and the prize ship John, riding at anchor. “The Ann was nearest hand, and her cargo easiest to shift into Dutch warehouses for coin. But the John, the Three Friends and the Henry and Ann carry more than we can sell, much flour, pork, salt. Those must go north, to Salem and to Congress. Powder and muskets we can fetch here, aye, but bread for Washington’s men will be worth more than silver.”

Jon nodded slowly, seeing it now, the strategy behind what looked like mere barter. “So these three sail for home with us, our prize crews aboard. They’ll bring Salem more than profit. They’ll feed her soldiers.”

“Aye,” Fisk said, his tone flat with certainty. “The Revolution doesn’t stand on coin alone. It stands on stomachs filled and muskets loaded. Let the Dutch count their silver. We’ll count bushels and barrels.”

By evening, the John’s holds were rebalanced with casks of sugar and kegs of powder slipped aboard under the guise of trade. The Three Friends and the Henry and Ann were provisioned the same. Her captured flour and pork were kept intact, joined by crates of muskets, lead, and flints.

Onshore, British prisoners from the prizes were paroled under Dutch watch, their faces bitter as they watched their cargoes turned to American use. Jon thought of New York’s prison hulks where Americans wasted and died, and the contrast gnawed at him. We treat theirs as men. They starve ours like dogs.

That night, Fisk gathered his officers in a rented room above a tavern overlooking the crowded quay. The air was thick with pipe smoke, the sound of a dozen tongues rising from below. A table was set with roasted fish, plantains, sugared cakes, and Dutch gin. Even the cabin boys were allowed in. Wide-eyed, Joshua Trask nearly spilled half the bottle as he tried to pour the gin with both hands.

“To the Tyrannicide,” Fisk said, raising his glass. “She’s proved herself in every test—whether storm or battle.”

“To Salem,” said Stockman, his face gaunt but alight. “May she find her tables the fuller for what we’ve seized.”

Jon lifted his cup high. “To the crew, who have stood every trial with courage, and to the prizes we send north. Let them feed Washington’s men as surely as we’ve fought for them.”

A cheer went up, the men’s voices shaking the rafters.

At last, the laughter ebbed and the plates lay bare, only crumbs of sugared cake and the dregs of gin remaining. Stockman was already dozing in his chair, and the cabin boys leaned heavy-eyed against the wall, their bravado spent.

Fisk pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the floorboards, and looked around the table. “We’ve tested her canvas, her men, and her officers,” he said, his tone gentler than Jon had ever heard it. “Now comes the greater test, bringing these prizes home. It’s no small thing, gentlemen. These holds carry more than cargo. They carry hope.”

Jon felt the words settle on him. He glanced out the window once more, past the oil lamps flickering on the quay to the black sweep of the bay. The prize ships rode at anchor, black silhouettes against the starlight, heavy with food and powder that might mean survival for Washington’s ragged army.

Rising, he bid Fisk good night and stepped into the warm Caribbean air, the scent of spice and tar lingering on the breeze. Somewhere down the quay a fiddler struck up a tune. For a moment Jon stood still, breathing in the tropical air, so unlike the sharp salt wind of Salem. The sea had tested them with storm and battle, and tomorrow it would test them again on the long voyage north. But tonight there had been laughter, and loyalty, and the sense that their small brigantine was part of something vast.

He turned back toward the inn, the sound of his crew’s voices still carrying faintly through the shutters, and thought of Salem and his daughters. He would bring them home more than stories. He would bring them bread.

Haraden house, Salem, late January 1777

THE FIRE BURNED low in the hearth, shadows stretching long across the parlor as Eunice entered, carrying a sleepy Polly. She laid Polly on a blanket in front of the fire, lit fresh candles against the gathering dark, and drew her shawl close before taking her place by the fire, her knitting in her lap.

Hannah came in and took up her doll, though her fidgeting soon betrayed her boredom.