Page 47 of The Salamander

Jon tapped the Board’s letter against the table, then laid it aside. “Gentlemen, I have resigned my commission. With reluctance, aye, but I will not command under such misarrangements. The Tyrannicide will sail again, but not under my command. We are mariners, not beggars. If Massachusetts wants her brigantine, she must find another man to sail her.”

For a long moment, there was only the scrape of chairs, the creak of timbers in the quiet cabin. Then Thorndike said what all of them felt. “Where you go, Captain, we go.” Every head nodded in turn.

Jon felt resolve harden in him like iron. He had served the Commonwealth faithfully. Now he would serve in his own way, freer, bolder, and with better reward for his men. Privateering was the course ahead.

Salem, early summer 1778

THE LETTER CAME in Jon’s own elegant hand, though the script wavered at points as if written through fatigue. Eunice broke the seal at the parlor window while Hannah read her lesson nearby, and Polly played with her new doll on the hearth rug.

My dear Mrs. Mason,

I have been very unfortunate since last I sailed. That is not to say we didn’t have many captures. But my crew has been sick more or less every day of the whole cruise. Some I was obliged to leave in Martinique’s hospitals, some I had to inoculate against the smallpox, and some I buried at sea.

Near fifty were on the doctor’s list when we limped into Boston. In such a state I could not hope to stand against any armed vessel. Providence spared us, and I give thanks, but I confess I am worn to the quick. The Board of War has taken issue with our expenses, which has displeased both me and my officers.

I have much to tell you, and God willing I shall be home soon, though not in the Tyrannicide.

Yours in esteem,

Jon Haraden

Eunice read the letter twice over, her eyes lingering on the places where the ink had blotted, as if his hand shook from fever. She could almost see his dark blue eyes, clouded with sickness and grief for the men he had lost. She had grown accustomed to his calm assurance, the strong presence that anchored his household even when he was away at sea. Without him, the house felt less secure.

“Is it from Papa?” Hannah asked, pressing close. She was nearly ten now, old enough to read her father’s hand for herself.

“Yes, dear.” Eunice folded the paper quickly. “He writes that he is safe and will be home soon.”

Little Polly walked across the floor to lay her doll in Eunice’s lap, the child’s blonde curls now falling to her shoulders, her steps sure at three. Eunice caught her up, pressing her cheek against the child’s curls.

She prayed silently for the captain’s return, and wondered at his words. Not in the Tyrannicide. If not in his ship, then what had happened? What had driven him to come home by horse, or perhaps by carriage, and what tales of misfortune weighed upon him?

Setting Polly down, the child skipped off to see her sister. Leaving the girls, Eunice went to the kitchen where Martha was baking bread.

“Who was the letter from, then?” she asked, one eyebrow arched.

“Captain Haraden,” Eunice answered quietly. “He writes that he is coming home…but not sailing the Tyrannicide.”

Martha gave a snort. “Trust the Massachusetts Navy to wear out a brig and a man both. Best he comes home on wheels. At least they won’t sink under him.”

Eunice could not resist the small smile, though the words in the letter still pressed heavily on her heart.

Haraden house, Salem, summer 1778

LATE IN THE afternoon a carriage rolled up Charter Street, wheels jolting on the cobblestones. Eunice heard the clatter and hurried to the doorway, Hannah at her side, Polly toddling close behind.

The carriage door swung open and Jon stepped down first. He was thinner than when she’d last seen him, his face worn from fever and grief, yet his bearing was unshaken. He bent to kiss Hannah on the forehead and swept Polly into his arms, then turned to give Eunice a weary smile.

Behind him came a broad-shouldered young man, nearly as tall as the captain, an officer by his dress. Two seamen followed, hefting sea chests. Gesturing to the officer, the captain said, “Mrs. Mason, this is Lieutenant Israel Thorndike of Beverly. He served with distinction aboard the Tyrannicide and will be my lieutenant when next I sail.”

Thorndike bowed politely, his dark eyes bright with youthful confidence. “An honor, Ma’am. The captain has spoken of his household often.”

From the kitchen, Martha appeared with flour still on her hands. She gave a sniff. “Another officer, is it? Best you’ve a stouter constitution than the poor souls the captain’s had to deal with. I’ve no patience for men who sicken at sea.”

Jon chuckled faintly. “Aye, many were sick on my last cruise, including me, Martha.” Eunice watched him, thinking the house was already a happier place for his return. “Thorndike will do fine,” he added. “He’s stout as any man I’ve known.”

The London Coffeehouse, Salem, summer 1778

THE COFFEEHOUSE WAS thick with pipe smoke and the hum of talk, as merchants and seamen gathered around small tables where news of the war mingled with shipping lists and wagers on the next convoy from the Indies. Light streamed in through the tall windows flooding the large room.