Page 37 of The Salamander

“The greatest man is he…who is calmest in storms, and whose reliance on truth, on virtue, on God, is the most unfaltering.”

– Seneca

CHAPTER 9

Bay of Biscay, May 1777

THE TYRANNICIDE WAS lighter of crew than Jon liked. Success had cost him dearly. Every prize taken had meant sending off officers and hands to sail her into port, and now his brigantine sailed lean, her decks crowded with goods but her watches thin. Even the cabin boys had stepped into duties beyond their years. Johnny Deadman, Bobby Grover and Joshua Trask were fetching coffee to the quarterdeck, powdering cartridges in the magazine, and scrubbing decks, all with the wiry energy of the young.

The Massachusetts held close off their larboard quarter as dawn light spilled across a restless Atlantic. Jon had his glass trained on a sail to windward, a single ship running eastward, ripe for the chase. Then the lookout’s cry split the air. “Three sail bearing down!”

Jon swung his glass and his stomach clenched. Warships, unmistakable, hulls dark and bristling with guns, their sails straining in the morning breeze. A squadron. Not three, but nine, looming larger with every heartbeat.

“The Royal Navy,” Thorndike breathed beside him.

Jon’s jaw hardened. “Aye. And with us square in their sights.”

With the Massachusetts close enough to hear, Fisk hailed across the water, “What’s our play, Haraden?”

Jon’s answer was crisp, grim. “We run!”

The two brigantines surged ahead together, bows driving into the swells, their masts straining under every inch of canvas. Side by side they fled, chased by the gray wall of the squadron. For hours the Massachusetts clung to the Tyrannicide’s wake, Fisk’s voice sometimes faintly heard over the wind as he bellowed orders to his own crew.

The Tyrannicide’s timbers creaked as she strained eastward, but the great British men-of-war pressed closer, their guns glinting like hungry teeth.

Hours passed in a blur of canvas adjustments, shouted orders, and the heave of the Atlantic. By evening the chase had scattered. A single British frigate pressed hardest on their heels, her long guns already booming across the water. Jon caught sight of Fisk’s brig luffing away to the north, hauling to the wind in a desperate bid to shake pursuit.

“The Massachusetts is breaking off,” Thorndike cried.

Jon’s heart clenched, but he thrust down the fear. “He must do what he can. We’ll do the same.”

“We’re too heavy, Captain,” Thorndike said, voice taut. “She’ll not outpace them carrying all this.”

Jon’s decision was instant. “Lighten the ship. Guns first.”

A gasp rippled across the deck, but the order flew. Crews ran to the batteries, heaving cannon from carriages, tumbling them overboard one by one. “Better we lose our guns than our lives,” he muttered under his breath.

The brigantine shuddered as iron splashed into the sea, her broadside gone. Jon ordered the stores overboard next, casks, spare timber, anything not nailed fast.

Johnny Deadman clung to a rail, wide-eyed, then darted to help heave a water cask toward the gunport. Jon caught his eye, gave a sharp nod. Even the boys were doing their part.

Freed of her burden, the Tyrannicide lifted on the swell, riding lighter, faster. The sea foamed white at her bow. The gap widened, inch by inch, the roar of British guns fading astern. By nightfall, the Massachusetts was lost to sight, swallowed by the heaving dark. Astern, the enemy’s lanterns dwindled, their chase abandoned.

Jon leaned on the taffrail, chest heaving, hands raw from the day’s work. The ship was stripped, her teeth gone, her belly empty, but she was free. Ahead, faint and welcome, the lights of Bilbao, Spain shimmered through the night haze.

Safety at last.

Bilbao, Spain, early June 1777

BILBAO’S HARBOR CRADLED the weary Tyrannicide, her masts stark against the green hills that rose steep from the water. The quays bustled with Basque fishermen mending nets, women carrying baskets of oranges and onions, and stevedores shouting in Spanish as they rolled wine casks down to waiting ships. The air was thick with tar, salt, and the smell of smoked sardines.

Here, among friendly strangers, the American brigantine found refuge. Local shipwrights helped her crew patch sails and caulk seams, while fresh cannon were hauled aboard from the foundries upriver. Chaplain Marsh led the men in a prayer service on the deck, giving thanks for deliverance and Providence’s continued favor.

Once repairs were made and the ship provisioned, Jon wasted no time venturing out to sea. On the 6th of June. the Tyrannicide fell in with the British merchantman Chalkley, her hold stuffed with goods. The merchant captain quickly struck his colors, and Jon sent her back to port under a prize crew.

Not a week later they snapped up the Eagle, another British prize, this one heavy with cargo. Johnny Deadman nearly burst with pride, crowing to anyone who would listen, “Captain Haraden doesn’t miss his mark, not once!”

Jon allowed the boy his boasting. In truth, each capture stoked his own fierce satisfaction. He had slipped the jaws of the British squadron, and he was not done yet.