Page 28 of The Salamander

“Freedom is not a gift bestowed upon us by other men, but a right that belongs to us by the laws of God.”

– Benjamin Franklin 1774

CHAPTER 7

Salem Harbor, February 1777

JON STOOD ON the quarterdeck with Fisk as the Tyrannicide came beating up through the ice-stippled waters of Salem Harbor, taking long angled runs and then tacking back, clawing her way upwind. Jon gazed upward to see her canvas stiff with frost, her lines creaking as though weary from the long haul north. Behind her, the John, the Three Friends, and the Henry and Ann followed, their prize crews guiding them toward the familiar wharves. Smoke rose from the town’s chimneys, carried thin and gray in the winter air. Along the wharf, a crowd had gathered despite the cold.

On the quarterdeck beside him, Fisk let out a low breath, the ghost of a smile crossing his weathered face. “No one can argue with our success. Look at them, staring at the three prizes we’ve brought in. And they’ve yet to hear of the Ann we sold at the Golden Rock. We’ll save that story for later, when they’ve caught their breath.”

Jon’s gaze swept the wharf. Merchants craned for the manifests, townsfolk hungry for news, wives and children waving mittened hands. His own eyes found Hannah first, her golden hair flying free of her hood, bright even in the gray morning. He’d been gone mere months, but already she had grown taller. Her hand lifted high catching his eye. Beside her stood Eunice Mason, smiling broadly beneath her hooded cloak. Behind them was Silas, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

“Bring her to, Mr. Stockman,” Fisk ordered. “Let’s show Salem what she’s worth.”

The anchors splashed down, sails furled stiffly against their yards, and a cheer rose from the crowd, muffled but strong in the frozen air. Lines were cast ashore, and the brigantine settled against Derby Wharf with a groan of timbers.

Jon stepped down at last onto the wharf’s planks. Hannah ran to him, her hair streaming behind her. He swept her up, the chill forgotten in the warmth of her arms.

“Papa, you came back!” she whispered fiercely, as though daring the sea to prove her wrong.

“Of course I did, sweetheart.”

Their governess met his eyes, her expression bright with something unspoken. She inclined her head, almost formally, though her gaze lingered. In the morning light with her cheeks red from the cold, her brown eyes sparkled.

“Welcome home, sir!” she exclaimed.

Jon inclined his head in thanks, feeling the warmth of her words despite the chill.

Silas stepped forward, dipping his head. “Well done, sir. Brought back half the Indies, by the look of it. Salem’ll eat well now. Martha’s home by the hearth with Polly. She’ll have a feast waitin’ once you’ve done with these wharf folk. And I’ll wager the Board of War’ll be smilin’ wider still, for I reckon you’ve more than pork and flour in them holds.”

Jon gave Silas a nod. “Aye, we’ve a few things for General Washington.”

Behind them, dockhands and merchants surged to meet the prize crews, tallying barrels and crates. The Board of War’s clerk stood ready with his ledger, quill scratching furiously, his grin broadening as he heard the tally of pork, flour, powder, muskets and rum. To the clerk, it was numbers on a page, for he must account for the cargo before any could be sold. To Salem, it meant bread on the table and hope for the cause.

Jon let his eyes roam over the town he had left in autumn. It seemed smaller now, quieter, after the bustling quays of the Caribbean. Yet it was here his heart returned, here his daughters waited, here faith and duty balanced the call of the sea.

Fisk came down the gangway, his boots sounding on the planks. He clasped Jon’s shoulder. “Mr. Haraden, see to the prize masters’ reports and make certain the Board’s clerk has the manifests. Mind the cargo tallies and the men’s welfare. When that’s done, you’ve leave to take supper with your family. Report back in the morning, and we’ll confer on orders.”

Jon inclined his head. “Aye, Captain.” Turning to Silas, he said, “I’ll be home as soon as I’ve finished here.”

Haraden house, Salem

THE SCENT OF roast cod, winter carrots, and Martha’s brown bread met Jon the instant he crossed the threshold. Under his arm he carried a small parcel wrapped in sailcloth that contained molasses, sugar, and coffee brought from St. Eustatius, a gift for the household. Behind him the night air gusted in, sharp with the bite of snow. The warmth of the hearth, the familiar creak of the old floorboards under his boots, struck him like a wave. The day had been both exhausting and exhilarating, and he relished the safe harbor of home.

Martha met him at the door with Hannah at her side, beaming up at him. “Supper’s ready, sir, whenever you are.”

“I’m eager to taste your cooking, Martha, but need to change out of these salt-soaked clothes. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Do hurry, Papa,” said Hannah, tugging his hand.

Mrs. Mason, with Polly in her arms, peeked her head into the parlor. “Good evening, sir.”

Jon returned her greeting with a nod and took the stairs two at a time.

When he returned, face and hands scrubbed and a clean shirt beneath his waistcoat, he took his place at the head of the oak table. Frost feathered the windowpanes, blurring the snowdrifts outside into pale shapes, as if the world beyond were held at bay. Inside, the candles burned steady against the drafts, their glow warming the pewter dishes and the steam rising from serving bowls. In the hearth, a fire burned steadily.

Hannah sat on his right, bright with expectation. Mrs. Mason had strapped Polly into her high chair on his left and took her place next to his youngest. The little one was already reaching for a chunk of bread, smearing more of it across her cheeks than into her mouth. Mrs. Mason gently wiped her face with a kerchief, only for Polly to swat her hand and giggle.