Page 34 of The Salamander

THE TYRANNICIDE WAS two days off the coast of Ireland under a gray sky when Jon heard the lookout’s hail shouted down the mast, “Sail ho! Off the larboard bow!”

Jon lifted his glass, sighting the two-masted snow Sally driving hard before the wind. “She’s no fishing craft,” he said to his first lieutenant. “Deep laden, bound westward.” The Massachusetts held close company off their quarter, Fisk already lifting his spyglass to his eye.

As the brigantines bore down, the snow broke out her colors, the red ensign snapping bright against the gloom. Jon’s mouth, set in a hard line. “British, and trying for Quebec if I judge her course.”

“Orders, Captain?” Thorndike asked.

“Run out the guns.”

The two American ships fanned to either side, hemming the stranger in. Faced with a double broadside, the snow fired one defiant shot, the ball skipping wide. The reply from the Tyrannicide and Massachusetts was thunder and iron. Splinters flew from the snow’s bulwarks. Within minutes her red ensign fluttered down.

Jon lowered his glass, satisfaction burning in his chest. “Mr. Moses, stand ready to board her.”

When the prize crew returned with her manifest, the truth of their catch stirred a cheer from stem to stern. Three to four thousand blankets, bales of cloth, and other goods bound for the British army in Quebec would now provide comfort for Patriot soldiers. Benjamin Moses himself brought the papers to Jon, his grin boyish despite the powder stains on his coat.

“Blankets, Captain. Enough to warm half of Washington’s camp.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed on the bundled cargo. “Then we’ve struck a true blow. No man fights well when he freezes. See that she’s secured, Mr. Thorndike, and let Master Benjamin Lovett lead the prize crew taking her into Boston.”

Three days later, on the last day of April, fortune smiled again. East of Cape Clear, Jon’s lookout sighted another sail wallowing heavy with cargo. This one hoisted no flag until the Americans pressed close. Then the red ensign flew stubbornly from her peak.

Jon gave a sharp nod. “Another Briton. Let’s take her.”

The Massachusetts led the chase, her bow churning white foam. The Tyrannicide pressed hard to starboard. The ship was the brig Trespassy, and she could not outpace them. A shot across her bows brought her up sharp.

She yielded with scarcely a fight, and when boarded, proved to be 160 tons, her hold packed deep with salt, flour and goods for Newfoundland. A poor prize compared to the Sally, but a prize nonetheless.

Fisk’s booming voice carried across the sea as the vessels hove to. “Another safe for Boston, Haraden! The Board of War will be pleased!”

Jon permitted himself a rare smile. Two stout prizes in a week, and the Atlantic still wide before them. The men cheered, dreaming already of shares and silver.

But Jon’s gaze turned eastward, where the horizon loomed uncertain. He knew well enough the British would not long leave such depredations unanswered.

Haraden house, late April 1777

WHILE CAPTAIN HARADEN was far away at sea, Eunice anticipated visitors, for the Gloucester Haradens had sent word they were on their way. One morning, as she was busy in the parlor with Hannah’s lessons, the clatter of wheels on the cobbled street and the high chatter of girls’ voices broke the still air.

Hannah raced to the windows. “Cousins!”

Eunice went to the door and opened it to see the Haraden cousins from Gloucester stepping down from the chaise. Andrew Haraden, tall and broad-shouldered, with brown hair queued at his neck, offered his hand to his wife, Lydia, a handsome woman with dark hair, while around them clustered their daughters, six in all, a flock of dark-haired sparrows eager to scatter into the dooryard.

“Mercy on us,” Martha exclaimed, drying her hands on her apron as she came to the door. “The Haraden girls have grown like weeds! And don’t tell me they eat like weeds, too, or I’ll be in my grave by Michaelmas.”

“Line up, girls,” said Lydia Haraden briskly, “so that I may properly present you.” At once the six Haraden children formed a line, beginning with the tallest.

Eunice stepped forward. “Good day and welcome! I am Mrs. Mason, the girls’ governess.”

From behind his wife, Andrew lifted a toddler from the chaise. “Jonathan explained all in his letter, Mrs. Mason. We were glad of his invitation, and gladder still to hear how you’re tending Hannah and Polly. We’ve two by those names ourselves, though our Hannah is called Joanna most days.” He nodded toward Martha. “’Lo, Martha, how are you?”

“Fine now,” said Martha with a sniff. “We’ll see how fine when I’ve eight young ones underfoot and a table to stretch to fit them all.”

Andrew chuckled and began the introductions. “This is Joanna. She’s nineteen. Then,” he said gesturing, “come Lydia and Betsey, who are fourteen and twelve. Peggy is ten, Jane four, and this squirming creature is our Polly.”

Little Polly wriggled, reaching for the ground. Martha stepped forward to take her. “Here, I’ll see to her. She can keep our Polly company. Silas is mindin her in the parlor.” With that, Martha disappeared inside with the child.

The house filled at once with the stir of kin: cloaks hung on pegs, chatter at the hearth, Martha bustling to set extra places for the meal with the help of the older Haraden girls.

In the parlor, Silas chuckled at the din as Eunice invited Andrew and Lydia to sit. She gathered the younger girls close to help shed their wrappings, feeling the air brighten with family warmth despite the spring chill.