Page 43 of The Salamander

Jon’s eyes softened, lingering a beat too long on hers. “I never doubt it, Mrs. Mason.”

Martha appeared from behind with a basket, thrusting it into his hands. “Bread, cheese, and a pie. Don’t let those boys eat it all the first day.”

Jon laughed. “Then I’d best share it before Reed hides it in the galley.”

Just before Jon mounted the gangway, Chaplain John Marsh stepped forward from the quarterdeck rail, his Bible tucked under one arm. He lifted his voice above the harbor noise. “May the Lord watch between us while we are absent one from another. May His hand steady our helm, His mercy preserve us in storm and battle, and His Providence return us safe to these shores again.”

The crew stilled, some bowing their heads, others lifting eyes to the gray November sky. Even the Hazard’s men paused, hats in hand.

Jon inclined his head, voice low but firm. “Amen.”

The bos’n’s whistle shrilled from above. Time. Jon clasped Silas’ hand, kissed Hannah’s brow, and touched Polly’s nose before giving Mrs. Mason a final nod. Then he turned and mounted the gangway.

From the deck he raised his hat. A cheer went up from both brigantines, sails swelling as the lines were cast free. Slowly, the Tyrannicide and the Hazard stood out together, white canvas leaning into the November wind.

On the wharf, Hannah’s voice carried faintly, “God keep you, Papa!”

Jon turned his face eastward, the sea’s wide road opening before him, and alongside, for the first time, a new partner to share the dangers.

Falmouth, Massachusetts, December 1777

THE WIND HAD blown cruel for days, cold spray turning to ice along the Tyrannicide’s rigging. Jon stood braced at the quarterdeck rail, every line of his face drawn tight with frustration. The brigantine would not answer her helm. No matter how Thorndike fought her wheel, she fell off or clawed into the wind, a stubborn beast with her rigging untrimmed.

“She’s lost her grip, Captain,” Thorndike called from the quarterdeck rail, his voice raised above the wind. He had one hand braced on the binnacle, eyes fixed forward.

At the wheel, the helmsman wrestled the spokes. “She’s gripin’ again, sir!” he shouted.

“Ease her! Keep her steady!” Lieutenant Moses bellowed, snapping orders, his body leaned against the gale as he tried to coax obedience from the stubborn brigantine.

John Bray, his hair plastered by spray, bent over the logbook, scribbling furiously. “Marking the drift, Captain. She’s throwing her head up five points with every gust.”

Jon strode to the quarterdeck rail, jaw tight as he felt the brigantine shudder beneath his boots. “Enough. Bring her in.” To Thorndike, he said, “Signal the Hazard we’re putting into Falmouth to refit before we lose the whole voyage to her temper.”

A shout went forward, and the crew sprang to braces, the deck alive with running feet and creaking lines. Slowly, the ship turned her head toward the shelter of Falmouth Harbor, the Hazard holding off to windward and watching.

The decision weighed like a stone. To limp into port was galling, but better a humbled ship than a crippled one adrift in the turbulent Bay of Biscay. Jon kept his eyes on the town’s gray wharves drawing near. He knew the risk of delay, but better to seize a harbor now than founder on the sea with a ship that would not mind her helm.

By evening they slipped into Falmouth Harbor, the little town huddled against winter winds, lanterns pricking the dark. The brig came alongside the wharf with a weary groan of timbers. Jon gave the order to make her fast, then remained a moment, his hand flat on the rail.

Falmouth still bore its scars. Two years past, Captain Henry Mowat had stood offshore with a squadron under orders from Vice Admiral Samuel Graves to “lay waste, burn, and destroy such seaport towns as are accessible to His Majesty’s ships.” Falmouth had been the first lesson. The town had burned from end to end, its people scattered, its wharves charred stumps against the tide. It would take many years for the town to recover, but Jon could see a few new houses climbed the slope, clapboard still raw and pale. The smell of fresh-sawn timber mingled with the salt air. A town dealt a death blow by the British, yet it would rise from its ashes beneath the very eyes of the Crown.

He gazed at the town once more, as though to share the kinship of survivors, and then turned to the work of seeing his ship made sound. A few townsfolk gathered, curious at the battered brig and her crew. Shipwrights were sent for, their hammers ringing before the night was out. Jon made his report to the Board of War in a brief letter, the quill biting deep.

I have lost the brig’s grip, and am obliged to put into Falmouth to refit.

The crew were granted shore leave in watches, but the lure of taverns proved too strong. Four men deserted within a night, their sea chests gone with them. Jon received the news grim-faced the next morning, standing on the frosty wharf.

“Four fewer hands when we sail,” Lieutenant Thorndike said quietly.

Jon’s eyes narrowed on the gray line of sea beyond the harbor mouth. “Then we’ll sail with fewer. Better short-handed than broken.”

As the men bent to their lines, Jon’s voice carried clear across the deck. “We sail leaner, but we sail truer. The hands who stood fast in Falmouth will find this captain does not forget it. Tonight you’ll have an extra ration of rum, for loyalty deserves its measure.”

A cheer went up, rough voices ringing in the winter air, and the canvas cracked aloft like a promise renewed.

Repairs pressed on quickly, new cordage spliced, rigging reset, sails patched against the winter gales. By week’s end, the Tyrannicide stood ready again, leaner but sound. Sampson’s Hazard hovered just offshore, her signal flags urging them on.

As the anchor was weighed, Jon cast one last look at Falmouth’s clustered houses. “You’ve patched our bones, but the sea waits,” he murmured. Then, louder, to his men: “Set canvas! We’ll show them the Tyrannicide’s just begun.”