Page 50 of The Salamander

“It is a fine ship,” she said softly. “And now Hannah and I can imagine you here.”

Jon straightened to his full height, pride settling on his shoulders. “Aye. And with her, we shall show the king’s men what Salem can do. And more, we’ll carry cargo to Europe and goods back to Salem to the profit of all concerned.”

Thorndike grinned, running a hand along the nearest carronade. “She’ll be the making of us, Captain. Mark me.”

Jon’s eyes went again to Mrs. Mason, her hair bright where the sun caught it, her hand resting lightly on Hannah’s shoulder. The child beamed, her awe plain. But Jon found his own gaze drawn not to the guns, nor to the rigging, but to the governess who stood so easily among them, laughing a moment ago, now watching him with that calm assurance, and suddenly he was the one unsteady on his own deck.

“Where do you sleep, Papa?”

“This way,” said Jon as he led them below to the great cabin aft. Light from the stern windows poured over the broad table where charts would be spread, a hanging lamp swaying above. The air smelled of oak and beeswax polish, new timbers not yet worn by the sea.

“This will be my quarters,” Jon said, resting a hand on the table. “Here I’ll keep the ship’s log, confer with my officers, plan our course.”

Hannah ran to the windows, pressing her small hands to the glass. “You can see the whole harbor, Papa!”

Mrs. Mason stepped in more slowly, her eyes tracing the paneled bulkheads, the neat lockers, the captain’s berth curtained in dark blue cloth. “It feels…ordered,” she said at last. “As though even the sea might be tamed, if only within these bulkheads.”

Jon looked at her, struck. Few landsmen noticed what a cabin meant to a captain, not comfort, but command. That she understood, even dimly, unsettled him more than Thorndike’s laughter ever could.

His pride in the Pickering swelled, yet his gaze lingered on her longer than it should have, and he noticed a stray curl of her brown hair that had been touched by the sun and her eyes warm and sure. For an instant, it was not the guns nor the timbers that claimed his attention, only the governess.

Haraden house, Salem, late September 1778

THE PARLOR FIRE glowed warmly, the evening air still holding autumn’s edge. A table had been laid with wine and cold meats, bread and cheese, and Martha’s spiced cakes. Around it gathered Jon’s officers, invited for a gathering before their sailing in a few days’ time: Israel Thorndike, John Carnes, Robert Cowan, William Prosser, and the bos’n, Robert Bowan. Their new chaplain, David McClure, a solid Patriot and sober presence, sat among them as well. Voices were low as they spoke of crew lists and supplies.

Jon had excused himself to go upstairs for a brief change of attire. The talk quieted when he returned. He had set aside the plain green coat of the Massachusetts Navy. Now he wore a long dark blue coat trimmed in gold braid, a gold waistcoat bright beneath it, his white stock tied crisp at the throat. The hilt of his sword caught the lamplight as he rested a hand on it.

Thorndike rose, giving a low whistle. “You’ve traded the Board of War’s coat for something grand, Captain. Salem will scarce know you.”

Jon’s mouth quirked as he came to stand before the men. “Aye, I’ve done with their mismanagement. I sail now as a privateer captain of Salem, beholden to my owners, my officers and crew, and to God. When I go after an enemy ship, I’ll not do it in rags. Let them see me in my finest. Let them know exactly who they face.”

Martha came in at that moment with another tray of spice cakes, eyeing Jon’s coat. “Well then, Captain, you finally look as fine as the stories make you out. Let’s hope the braid holds up as stout as you do.”

His officers chuckled at her words.

Thorndike lifted his glass. “I believe your appearance will put the fear in them, sir.”

Moses laughed, reaching for a glass of wine. “Or make them think you’ve robbed a general’s wardrobe.”

“Better that than to be thought ragged,” Jon said dryly, drawing his coat back to rest his hand more firmly on his sword. “Intimidation wins battles before the first broadside. I mean to give them no doubt whose guns are bearing down. Mark my words, they will know the Pickering is to be feared on the high seas.”

Carnes leaned forward, nodding with approval. “The French dress their captains in lace and braid, and it serves them well. I’d wager the sight of you on the quarterdeck will give more pause than any broadside.”

“Then let’s be sure the ship sails as fine as her captain,” Thorndike said with a grin, raising his glass high.

The other officers followed, glasses lifted. “To the Pickering and her captain!”

McClure’s voice was firm as he added, “And may Providence grant her victory.”

From the doorway, Mrs. Mason stood with Hannah beside her, the child’s eyes shining. Polly clung to her skirts, yawning, but even she gazed round-eyed at her father in his new finery. “You cut a fine figure, Captain,” the governess said as she stepped forward to offer more wine to their guests.

Her compliment meant more than his officers’ good-natured chiding. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Mason.”

Derby Wharf, Salem, late September 1778

THE MORNING SUN struck the waters of Salem Harbor, turning the ripples to gold. Along Derby Wharf, men bustled with casks and crates, voices raised above the cries of gulls wheeling overhead. The Pickering lay at her berth, fresh timbers gleaming, rigging taut, her guns run out and black against the bright sky.

Jon stood on the wharf with Thorndike and Carnes beside him, overseeing the last of the provisions. Bosun Bowan shouted orders as barrels of salt beef and fresh water were rolled aboard. Sailcloth, powder, and ball followed, checked against the purser’s list. Around them the crew gathered, some seasoned seamen with weathered faces, others young and eager, gripping their sea bags with nervous pride. Jon had selected each man for his skill, experience and worth.