Page 30 of The Salamander

Jon returned the smile. “That I am, sir. Tell me what the Board of War has decreed for us.”

Fisk held up the sheet, its edges fluttering. “No new orders yet. But there’s news you’ll like better than any commission.” He tapped the paper. “You wanted a bigger cabin. Well, you’re going to get one.”

Jon raised a brow. “A bigger cabin, sir?”

“As of the twentieth,” Fisk said, his voice carrying pride as well as certainty, “you are made Captain of the Tyrannicide. I’m to be given command of the Massachusetts, another brigantine, and a fine one. You’ll have Israel Thorndike of Beverly, late of the schooner Warren, as your First Lieutenant. A good man. Benjamin Moses of Salem will be your Second. Aye, I know you respect him. Benjamin Lovett of Beverly is Master, and Thomas Hunt Master’s Mate.”

For a moment, Jon simply stared at him, the hammering and gull cries dimming into silence. Captain. The word struck him like a broadside. More than he had dared expect, more than he had sought. He drew a breath.

“This…this is your doing,” Jon said at last, his voice low but firm. “Without your support, John, such a commission would never have come my way.”

Fisk’s eyes twinkled. “Nonsense. You’ve earned it with your skill and your courage. The men respect you, and so do I. The Board merely had the sense to make it official.”

Jon clasped Fisk’s hand. “Even so, you have my thanks. I’ll not forget it.”

Fisk gripped Jon’s shoulder, then gestured toward the brigantine, her masts stark against the winter sky. “Then go, Captain Haraden. See to your ship. She’s yours now, and I suspect we’ll be sailing together for a time.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Jon said, turning to the Tyrannicide. His gaze lingered on the stern where the name stretched proud across blue scrollwork, the four stern windows beneath gleaming like watchful eyes. He had seen her before many times, of course, but now it was different. Painted stars framed a small shield in red, white, and blue, a bold emblem of defiance aimed squarely at the British Crown. Against the gray chop of the harbor and the snow-piled wharves, her ochre hull and bright trim shone like a banner of resistance. She was no ordinary brigantine, but a fighting ship christened for rebellion itself. In her lines he felt the pull of the sea and the cause, as if both had been waiting for him all along.

And now she was his.

THE DOOR CREAKED against the winter draft as Mr. Haraden stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders. Eunice looked up to see a raw flush on his cheeks, and something else besides, a brightness in his eyes that was not merely from the cold. Something that was not there when he’d left for the harbor that morning.

She rose from her chair by the hearth where Polly had been playing with a new doll. Hannah sat at the oak table with her primer, lips moving soundlessly as she worked her way through a psalm verse. Both girls looked up, their father’s presence filling the room before he had spoken a word.

He hung his cocked hat and cloak on its peg and let his gaze travel over them, steady and intent, as if he had carried them all with him down Derby Wharf. “News,” he said simply, his voice low but charged.

Martha stilled at the settle and turned, her hands planted firm on her hips. “Out with it, then, afore the stew goes cold,” she said, a glint of humor in her eyes.

Silas leaned in from the passage, his gray brows lifted in expectation.

Eunice held her hands together, willing her heart to slow. Whatever he had to say, she knew it would shape the household as surely as the tide shaped the stones of the harbor.

“The Tyrannicide is now mine to command,” Jonathan said. For a long minute, silence hung in the air before they understood. “Henceforth, it’s Captain Haraden!”

Hannah gasped and half-rose from her seat, her blue eyes alight. “Captain, Papa? Truly?”

“Truly, my brave girl.” His smile was proud, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.

Eunice’s hand rose to her heart. “Congratulations, sir,” she said, smiling. “You deserve to take command.”

Martha gave a short, approving nod, though her voice was brisk. “About time, if you ask me. The Board of War could scarce do better.”

Silas chuckled from the doorway. “Aye, the old girl’s got a captain worthy of her timber.”

In Eunice’s mind the word captain kept repeating, unsettling her. She saw at once what it meant: longer absences at sea, greater exposure in a battle and the children clinging to her and to Martha when storms of fear came ashore. And yet, she could not deny the way his bearing filled the room, as if he had stepped into the place Providence had marked for him from the beginning. And she realized this was always his destiny. Hers was to keep faith at home and help shape his daughters as they grew. Eunice glanced toward Hannah and at Polly nestled in her father’s arms. In that moment, she felt both the weight and the honor of it, as if Providence had bound their paths together in different but equal callings.

Polly, though not aware of the gravity of the situation nor the honor bestowed upon her father, still realized something was afoot. She smiled at her papa, hugging his neck. He pressed his face to her curls as though to seal the moment. “Aye, sweet one,” he murmured, “your papa’s a captain now.”

Eunice watched him, her heart stirring strangely. The house had lost so much with his wife’s passing, yet after nearly a year, tonight it seemed to gain something new, a sense of purpose as bright as the winter stars outside. She prayed silently that God would keep him safe upon the ocean as he sailed forth to face the enemy.

Derby Wharf, Salem, March 1777

THE HARBOR TEEMED with life as the townsfolk gathered along Derby Wharf. Eunice stood a little apart with Hannah and Polly, Martha and Silas flanking her like steadfast sentries, her gaze fixed on the ship that would soon carry Captain Haraden across the sea.

Children darted between the legs of sailors and merchants, craning for a glimpse of the two brigantines at anchor. Hawkers cried out, “Hot chestnuts and ginger cakes!” Their voices carried over the slap of rigging against masts. The crowd pressed close, for all Salem knew this morning marked more than a departure, it was a declaration. Two state ships, the Tyrannicide and the Massachusetts, would sail together to strike the enemy across the ocean.

The Tyrannicide drew many eyes: her ochre hull gleamed against the gray chop of the water, her blue stern scrollwork and painted stars catching the weak spring sunlight. The townsfolk pointed at her proudly, whispering her new captain’s name.