Page 51 of The Salamander

Merchants stood off to one side, George Williams, John Fisk, and Derby himself, their hands clasped behind their backs, eyes fixed on their investment. Derby’s nod was curt but satisfied. “She’ll do, Captain. And may she bring Salem profit as well as honor.”

Jon inclined his head. “She will. You have my word.”

A little way off, Mrs. Mason stood with Hannah and Polly. Martha and Silas had come, too. Hannah’s face shone with pride, as she clutched her governess’ hand tightly. Polly, restless, leaned against Martha, watching the fevered activity with wide eyes.

Thorndike noticed them first and nudged Jon lightly. Jon crossed to where they stood, the gold braid on his dark blue coat catching the morning light. Hannah rushed into his arms, and he bent to kiss Polly’s fair curls before straightening to meet the governess’ steady gaze.

“You’ll keep them well,” he said quietly.

“As always, Captain,” she replied, her voice composed though her eyes softened. “God go with you. Write when you can. The girls look forward to your letters.”

“And you, Mrs. Mason? Do you also look forward to my letters?”

A blush came to her cheeks. “Of course.”

Martha said with a sniff just loud enough for him to hear, “Mind you bring yourself back with the ship, Captain. We’ve no use for a fine brig without her master.”

“I shall,” said Jon with a smile for his housekeeper.

Silas touched his hat. “We’ll keep the house and hearth in order till you return, sir.”

Jon gave a brief nod, then turned back toward the ship. Already the crew were mustering, lining the deck as Thorndike called them to order. Jon mounted the gangplank, his step firm.

On the wharf, Hannah waved furiously, and Polly tried to copy her. Mrs. Mason stood still, watching as the lines were cast off and the Pickering drifted from her berth, sails loosed to the wind. She raised a single hand and he thought he heard her say, “Godspeed.”

The brig gathered way, her bow turning toward the open sea. From the quarterdeck, Jon raised his hat in salute, to his daughters, to the governess who cared for them, to Martha and Silas, to Salem itself. The wind filled the canvas, the gulls cried overhead, and the Pickering slipped past the headland into the waiting ocean.

THE PICKERING WAS no sooner at sea than she proved herself swift and willing. Her crew, a mix of Salem and Beverly men and eager lads drawn by the promise of prizes, were working well together. Jon drove her hard across the Atlantic, her holds heavy with American goods—fish, flour, lumber—bound for French ports.

Outward, he sailed as near to a blockade runner as a man could be, slipping through the teeth of British patrols with the boldness of a smuggler. On the homeward leg, she would show another face, her guns speaking when opportunity offered. A brig or schooner here, a merchantman there, not enough to fill a newspaper, but enough to line purses and prove her mettle.

One raw December morning off the Banks, Thorndike leaned beside him on the quarterdeck, coat collar turned up against the wind. “She’ll do, Captain. Quick in the chase, steady in the blow. The Pickering’s a lucky ship.”

Jon’s eyes swept the horizon. “Not luck, Mr. Thorndike. Discipline and Providence. And France. Their fleets keep the Royal Navy looking over its shoulder. Britain must fight in every sea now, not just one.”

There was little time in Salem, but they managed brief returns between voyages. A night or two under his own roof was welcome. From his letters, Hannah had questions, which he answered, delighted at her interest. Polly would fall asleep in his arms before the candle guttered.

One such night, with the girls abed, Mrs. Mason sat across from him by the hearth, mending Hannah’s gown. The firelight caught the gold strands in her brown hair as she looked down at her work.

“Tell me true, Captain,” she said softly, looking up, “is the ship and your new freedom as a privateer all you wished them to be?”

Jon watched the flames a moment before answering. “Aye. She gives me command without interference, profit for my men, and profit for Salem. But ’tis not freedom entirely. The sea never grants that. Nor does the war. France fights with us now, God be thanked, yet the British strike still. You tell me Savannah has fallen. Aye and they will not stop there. We do our part at sea, but it will be a long fight.”

Her needle paused, her brown eyes meeting his. “Then may Providence grant you more than the next chase, Captain. May God grant you victory on the sea and safe home again.”

For Jon, it was a year of consistent profit, though without the great triumphs he hoped would eventually come. But in Salem, his reputation grew. Townsfolk whispered of Captain Haraden, no longer a man bound to Boston’s Board of War but the master of his own ship, one who could slip through blockades and return with prize money in his purse. It was satisfying to be free of the Board’s petty dealings but not enough for Jon. He looked for the greater triumphs that still lay ahead.

The London Coffeehouse, Salem, February 1779

THE WINTER HAD been hard, the harbor bound in ice for weeks, but by February the merchants were gathered again at the London Coffeehouse, where the talk ran to ships, convoys, and France’s fleets abroad. Jon entered with Thorndike at his side, stamping the frost from his boots. Williams, Fisk, and Derby beckoned him to their table. Coffee was soon delivered.

“You’ve kept the Pickering busy,” Derby said, his sharp eyes taking measure, “for which we are grateful. But now I understand you want to re-rig her as a ship. Another mast, more canvas, and more men, all of which require more money. Why should we?”

Jon set down his cup as his gaze swept the three men. He was prepared for the question. “The Pickering must be more than a brig if we are to do what we have set out to do. She sails fast, aye, but with two masts her reach is limited. Step a third mast, rig her as a ship, and she will run before the wind like no other privateer out of Massachusetts. We’ll not only hunt prizes but carry goods to Europe and back. A ship’s rig will give us speed, endurance, and the look of a predator. At a distance we may be mistaken for a naval frigate. The enemy will think twice before standing to fight.”

Thorndike leaned forward. “The captain speaks true. I’ve seen what she can do as a brig. With a third mast, she’ll run down anything afloat.”

Fisk’s brows drew together. “We trust your judgment, Jon, and yours, Israel. If you say a third mast is necessary for the long runs to Europe and for success against British vessels, well, I won’t oppose it.”