Page 54 of The Salamander

“She’s ready, sir,” Thorndike said with quiet pride. “A ship now in truth, and a crew fit to follow wherever you lead.”

Jon let his gaze rest on the proud sweep of her lines, the Stars and Stripes fluttering at her stern. “Aye. She’s all I asked of her. Now the sea will judge if she’s worthy, if we are.”

From a little way back, Mrs. Mason had come down with Hannah and Polly to see the final preparations. Hannah pointed eagerly, naming off guns and sails as though she were part of the crew herself, while Polly clutched her doll, more interested in the bustle of sailors and the shouts of mates.

Jon’s eyes lingered on the governess for a moment as her gaze followed the ship. She had walked beside him through grief and now through renewal, and he felt both the weight of command and the lightness of a man on the threshold of something larger than the sea alone.

Within the week, the Pickering would put out to sea, bound for the capes of Delaware, where rumor said British convoys gathered thick. The year ahead promised danger, but also the triumphs Jon had long sought.

Haraden house, Salem, that evening

THE HOUSE ON Charter Street felt unusually still, as though it, too, sensed Captain Haraden’s departure was near. Supper had been simple, Martha saying little as she cleared the dishes. Now, in the parlor, Eunice sat with a book in her lap, though her eyes seldom focused on the pages.

Hannah nestled at her father’s side, chattering over her book, a story about a cabin boy, and asking endless questions about ships and faraway ports. Polly clambered into his lap with her doll, eyelids drooping as she pressed her cheek against his coat. Watching them together stirred a familiar ache in Eunice, pride mingled with quiet dread. They adored him so, and she knew too well how soon his chair by the hearth would stand empty again.

When at last the girls were coaxed upstairs, their laughter fading along the stairwell, the room seemed to hush. Captain Haraden remained by the fire, his face shadowed by thought. Eunice sat opposite, listening to the pop and crackle of the logs. For a time neither spoke.

It was she who broke the silence, her voice low. “They will miss you, Captain. Hannah understands more now, and Polly…she knows only that she wakes and you are not there. You gave them the summer and that was a fine gift.”

His eyes turned toward the staircase. “Aye. It weighs on me each time I sail. But the sea is where I must do my part. The war won’t wait for a father’s comfort.”

The firelight caught in his dark blue eyes, and Eunice understood the emotion behind his words. She set aside her book. “No. But it waits for men of courage. And they will remember, when they are grown, what kind of man their father was. All of Salem will remember.”

For a heartbeat his gaze held hers, and something in her chest tightened. He said quietly, “And they will remember the woman who cared for them when he was gone.”

Her breath caught. She could find no reply before Martha bustled in with a tray. “Best not to sit broodin’, Captain. There’s fresh bread for the mornin’, and your sea chest still wants packin’ unless you mean to sail with it half-empty.”

Jon smiled faintly at the interruption, yet his eyes lingered on Eunice as he rose. She lowered her gaze to her hands, but in her heart she carried the look he had given her. Tomorrow the sea would take him, but tonight she would remember the warmth of the hearth, the softness in his voice, and the thought—perhaps dangerous, certainly unspoken—that she had become more to him than the governess of his daughters.

Salem Harbor, late September 1779

FROM THE DECK of the Pickering, Jon gazed at the wharf where many townsfolk had gathered to wish them Godspeed. Hannah and Polly waved furiously, Mrs. Mason between them, holding Polly’s hand. Nearby, Martha smiled and Silas lifted his hat. Jon raised his own hat in return, before striding to the quarterdeck.

Thorndike came to his shoulder, eyes on the sails filling above them. “She answers the wind smartly, Captain.”

At his elbow, Bobby Grover piped up, eager as ever. “Shall I bring you coffee, sir? Cook says it’s hot.”

Jon allowed himself the faintest smile. “Aye, Bobby. Coffee, and then the work begins.”

Lines were cast off, sails unfurled, and the Pickering gathered way, gliding past the headland into the wide Atlantic.

By sunrise the next day, Salem was far astern. Ahead lay the Delaware Capes, the cruising grounds of British privateers, Jon’s hunting ground.

Cape Henlopen, 1 October, 1779

THE PICKERING STOOD off the Delaware Capes under a light wind, her sails just drawing. Thorndike, glass to his eye, looked to windward just as the lookout shouted, “Sail ho!”

“Two sail, Captain,” said Thorndike. “They’ve marked us. Shall we beat to quarters and chase them down?”

Jon shook his head, calm as ever. He had something else in mind. Raising his own glass, he made out a cutter and a smaller sloop. “Not yet. They’ll not stand if they know what we are. Patience wins more than speed, Mr. Thorndike. We must appear heavy, dull, a merchantman ripe for the plucking.”

Thorndike frowned but held his peace.

Jon’s voice carried across the deck. “Bos’n! Stream the drogues astern. Ease her way.”

“Aye, sir!” Bowan bellowed. The crew hove the heavy canvas bags overboard, and the Pickering sagged against her canvas, wallowing as though deep-laden with cargo. The deck tilted sluggishly with the false drag, the rigging creaking overhead. Men shifted uneasily, whispering.

“Hold your nerve, lads,” Jon said evenly. “We’ll not chase them; they’ll chase us.”