Page 42 of The Salamander

“Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered.”

– Thomas Paine 1776

CHAPTER 10

Salem, autumn 1777

THE LEAVES TURNED and dropped in Salem, and for the first time in many months Jonathan Haraden watched them fall from his own threshold. His days ashore passed in a rhythm he had nearly forgotten: mornings spent walking Charter Street with Hannah clutching his hand, evenings at the hearth where Polly’s laughter tumbled like bells. The salt of the sea still clung to him, but the aroma of Martha’s fresh bread and the sound of Silas splitting kindling in the yard became their own kind of ballast.

He rode often to Boston, summoned by the Board of War. There, in rooms crowded with ledgers and quills, he gave account of the Tyrannicide’s escape and her captures. Clerks pressed him with questions, and he left each session weary, longing for open air. But duty held: the brigantine was ordered into Charlestown yard for another refit, and Jon oversaw her repairs with a captain’s eye for detail.

Once, leaving the Board, Jon asked after Captain Fisk. A fellow officer only shrugged. “He’s gone into trade, I hear. Salem ships make their profit in many ways, not only at the gun’s mouth.”

Jon felt a pang of surprise, then respect. Fisk had served his turn, and if peace was his harbor, who could gainsay him? Still, Jon knew his own course was not so easily altered.

In Salem, the house on Charter Street was a hive of activity. Hannah pestered him with questions about Spain and Bilbao, tracing her finger across a worn chart he had brought home. Polly tottered across the floor, waving her rag doll and crowing at her own small triumphs. Mrs. Mason, ever calm, kept the household in trim: lessons at the table, games of hopscotch on the sidewalk, and Bible stories in the afternoon. Jon often found his gaze drawn to the governess, the quiet anchor amid the storm of voices.

As always, Martha reigned in the kitchen, while Silas tended to the heavier chores, their teasing conversations a constant source of entertainment.

One evening in late October, a courier from Boston brought Jon’s new orders. Jon read them by candlelight while Mrs. Mason took Hannah and Polly up to bed. The Tyrannicide, newly fitted, was to sail in company with Captain Simeon Sampson’s brigantine, the Hazard. Their course: the coasts of Spain and Portugal, thence southward toward Madeira, and home again by the Indies.

He folded the dispatch slowly, the flame glinting in his eyes. Another cruise, another gauntlet. Mrs. Mason came down the stairs to join him in front of the fire blazing in the hearth. “I’ll not be alone this time,” he said quietly. “Captain Simeon Sampson will sail with me to Spain, Portugal and the Indies.”

“Do you know him?”

“By name and reputation. A Plymouth man, he had the brigantine Independence before she was lost near Halifax. He held his ground so fiercely even his captors in the Royal Navy honored him. Now he has the Hazard, and I’ll be glad to see her alongside me rather than another squadron at my stern.”

Mrs. Mason inclined her head, her gaze softening. “Then we will pray for two ships, not one.”

Jon smiled. “I rely on those prayers of yours.”

Outside, the autumn wind stirred through the branches. In the morning, a carpet of gold and red leaves would grace the ground. Soon enough it would be the sea’s voice in his ears again, but for this season he was home, and ’twas a harbor he cherished more than any in Spain or Portugal, kept safe by the prayers and care of those who tended it.

Boston Harbor, November 1777

THE TYRANNICIDE LAY taut and trim at Charlestown yard, her new cordage humming faintly in the cold wind. Along her deck, familiar figures went briskly about their tasks. Israel Thorndike, first lieutenant, paced the quarterdeck, sharp-eyed as ever. Benjamin Moses checked a tally of powder with John Bray, who had traded his purser’s pen for a lieutenant’s sword. At the main hatch, Sailing Master Benjamin Lovett barked to the riggers while John Reed, the redheaded cook, squabbled with a stevedore about the quality of the beef casks.

Two boys scuttled between them: Bobby Grover with a coil of line nearly bigger than himself, and Billy Andrews, fresh-joined in October, all elbows and eagerness, carrying a basket of hardtack to the galley. “Mind the steps, Lad!” Reed growled, though there was pride in his voice.

Johnny Deadman had left the ship at the end of August. Jon had been sad to see him go but the lad had a vision for his future and determination enough to see it through.

From the quarterdeck, Jon took in the scene, pleased with what he saw. Lean though they were, these were his men, steady hands that had seen him through Biscay and back. Now, refitted and provisioned, they were ready for another adventure for liberty’s sake.

Alongside, the Hazard made ready as well, Captain Simeon Sampson towering by her gangway. Sampson’s keen gaze swept the Tyrannicide before settling on Jon. He came striding across the planks. The two captains clasped hands firmly.

“Trim ship,” Sampson said with a nod toward Jon’s deck. “Let’s see if she keeps it so after a month at sea.”

Jon gave a wry smile. “We’ll keep her as neat as the Hazard, or better.” Both men had come through trials and Jon knew he wasn’t the only one eager to rejoin the fight.

A spark of competition flashed in Sampson’s eyes, tempered with respect. “Then may we both come home heavy with prizes.”

On the wharf, Silas lifted Polly to his shoulder so she could see over the bustle. Beside them stood nine-year-old Hannah and Mrs. Mason pointing out the ships to her charge. When Jon came down the gangway for a last word, Hannah reached for him at once.

“Papa, will you be back by Christmas?”

He bent to her height, his weathered hands smoothing her cap. “I cannot say for certain, sweetheart. More likely, it will be spring.”

Mrs. Mason’s brown eyes shone with sincerity, her voice calm. “God go with you, Captain. All will be kept in good order here.”