Page 46 of The Salamander

When the music ended, Reverend Diman mounted the pulpit, his black robe with white preaching bands reminding all of his ordination. “We gather to praise God for His goodness and to rejoice at the Savior’s birth.” He then prayed and all heads bowed. When the prayer ended, he said, “My friends, while we rejoice at Christ’s birth, yet we must not forget those who suffer even now for our liberty.” He pulled a paper from his black robe, his face grave. “A messenger has brought word from Pennsylvania that General Washington’s army at Valley Forge is in want of food, clothing, and blankets. Near half the camp is sick or dying, and snow lies deep upon them.”

Gasps and murmurs ran through the congregation. Eunice had heard nothing and suspected others knew little of what conditions the Continental Army was enduring in snow-covered Valley Forge.

Eunice’s father read slowly, his voice carrying through the hushed church. “Our soldiers are without shoes, without stockings, without blankets. Many are sick, many more half-naked, yet they hold the line for liberty. For three days, a heavy snow has fallen. Unless some great and capital change suddenly takes place, this army must inevitably starve, dissolve, or disperse. Thousands of our horses are perishing for want of forage. I cannot describe the distress it brings me to see brave men so poorly provided for and noble beasts failing for want of food, when they deserve everything a grateful country can give.”

Diman lowered the page, his gaze sweeping the pews. “Friends, these are the conditions at Valley Forge. Let us not only thank God for our Savior’s birth, but pray for our commander and his suffering army, that Providence will sustain them through this trial. And, let us send what aid we can.”

Hannah’s small hand tightened on Eunice’s sleeve. “What if Papa is cold like them?”

Eunice bent close, her voice steady though her heart ached. “Didn’t your father’s letter speak of his well-being? He is safe, and God has blessed his work. Now, we must also pray for our soldiers.”

Reverend Diman lifted his hands. “Let us pray for our commander-in-chief, for our soldiers at Valley Forge, and for this cause of liberty in which we are all joined.”

The families bowed their heads. In that hush, warmed by faith though chilled by winter, the people of Salem felt themselves bound to those ragged men in Pennsylvania, and to the perilous promise of independence.

As they were leaving the church, Eunice said to her mother. “We will contribute clothing and blankets for our soldiers and bring those to the church.”

“Bless you, my dear,” her mother said as she gave her a last hug.

Boston Harbor, early May 1778

EASTER HAD COME and gone as the Tyrannicide limped into Boston, her rigging frayed, her sails patched, her decks heavy with silence. Word spread quickly along the wharves that Captain Haraden had returned. But when she warped into her berth, onlookers saw hammocks strung on deck and pale faces peering from the forecastle. She looked more like a hospital ship than a brig of war.

Jon stood at the quarterdeck rail, his own body aching with fever. Of a crew once proud and able, near fifty were on the surgeon’s list, some with agues, others spotted with the marks of smallpox. He had buried three at sea, committed to the deep with prayers hastily spoken by Chaplain Marsh. Others he had left behind in Martinique hospitals, too weak to rise when the brigantine sailed.

He forced himself below to the great cabin, to scratch out the letter he dreaded writing. The quill shook in his hand as he bent over the log-stained desk.

Gentlemen, I have been very unfortunate ever since I left home. My people have been sick more or less every day of the whole cruise. I was obliged to leave several in Martinique, some with fevers, others with the smallpox. And to crown all my misfortunes, the day we sailed from Martinique, I had a man taken down with smallpox, which obliged me to inoculate thirty others who had not had the disorder.

The words blurred for a moment as his head swam. He dipped the quill again, pressing on.

I have buried three. Near fifty are sick still. In a gale, I was parted from Captain Sampson. In our weak condition we could not stand against any armed vessel. By God’s grace, we captured a snow from Bristol laden with flour, though her master threw his papers overboard before we boarded.

He signed his name with effort, then added the plea that weighed most heavily:

I beg you to write me what I shall do with the sick that I have on board, whether I shall land them that have the smallpox on Rainsford Island, or leave them at Marblehead, as most belong there. I also beg you to send me money, for I must buy fresh provisions for the sick, and I myself am unwell.

Jon set aside the quill, his hand cramped, the ink spattered. Outside the stern windows, Boston Harbor glittered in spring light. But inside the cabin, the air smelled of fever and fear. He prayed the Board would send word quickly, before more names joined the list of the dead.

Boston Harbor, June 1778

THE BOARD OF War chamber was close with heat, the tall windows open to the summer air. Jon sat stiff-backed before the member of the board. At the secretary’s desk the clerk read aloud the letter just received.

The agents at St. Pierre protest the great sums advanced in refitting the Tyrannicide and the Hazard. They find fault especially in regard to rations. Henceforth, such requisitions will not be complied with.

Rations. Jon’s hands clenched behind his back. He thought of the sick men he had left in Martinique’s hospitals, of the three already consigned to the sea’s grave, of those he had inoculated against smallpox on the open deck, fever hollowing their faces. He remembered writing for funds while barely able to hold the quill upright. And the Board’s concern was the cost of bread and beef?

The clerk droned on, finishing with a thin smile: “The Board expresses surprise the commander applied for rations at all. In the future, no such requisitions will be granted.”

Jon pushed back from the desk, the secretary’s quill splattering ink across the margin. His voice cut the silence. “They’ve no notion what it takes to keep a crew alive. I ate what the men ate. The so-called ‘extra’ was the strength that kept me standing on my feet when I could scarce draw breath. If you want commanders half-starved at their guns, say so plain.” He rose, jaw tight, and fixed the Board with a hard gaze. “But if this be your answer, you will have to find yourselves another commander. I resign my commission.”

A stir rippled through the chamber. The secretary’s quill scratched furiously, noting every word, but Jon did not linger to explain. He had said what needed saying.

Outside in the yard, his officers Thorndike, Moses, and Lovett waited. Back aboard ship, he told them plain what had transpired.

Benjamin Moses shifted uneasily. “They think you extravagant, Captain. Triple rations for yourself, double for us. They’ll never see it for what it was.”

Jon looked around the table at their faces, drawn but loyal. Lieutenant Thorndike spoke for them all. “We’ve served honorably. We’ve risked everything. Yet now we’re treated like schoolboys.”