Page 57 of The Salamander

“To do good and be good is the whole duty of a man in a few words.”

– Abigail Adams 1796

CHAPTER 14

Salem Harbor, December 1779

JON STOOD ON the quarterdeck, his greatcoat buttoned to the throat, the high collar turned up against the bite of winter, and his hat snug on his head as the Pickering sailed into Salem’s harbor, her canvas stiff in the cold air, her hull streaked with the scars of battle. The afternoon sky hung low and gray over the harbor rimmed with snow from a recent storm. Their five captured prizes crowded Salem’s wharves, patched sails hanging limp, rigging creaking in the icy breeze.

As they eased toward Derby Wharf under shortened sail, the roar of the crowd reached Jon’s ears. Townsfolk rushed forward, hats waving and voices raised in shouts that carried across the water. Jon drew in the salt and wood smoke air, sharp as a blade, and felt the harbor’s energy surge into his bones.

The prizes already alongside were being stripped of their cargo. Barrels of sugar and casks of rum rolled across the wharf, bolts of cloth and chests of goods heaved onto sledges waiting in the snow. Men shouted, tallying, merchants craned for a closer look, children darted between barrels to peer at the bounty. The sight of Salem feasting on his victories filled Jon with a quiet pride.

Thorndike was at his side, calling crisp orders. “Hands to clew up the sails! Stand by with the lines!” Bos’n Robert Bowan bellowed them along, his voice carrying over the deck, while Bobby Grover darted across the deck, relaying word from quarterdeck to forecastle, grinning with the pride of a boy who had lived through fire and brought home victory.

The ship came alongside with a creak of timbers and slap of water nearly drowned out by the cheers ashore. Jon saw merchants pressing forward: George Williams with his hands raised in triumph, John Fisk already speaking to Elias Derby, who stood tall, his cane planted firmly, eyes gleaming.

As the gangplank thumped into place, Elias Derby stepped forward, raising his voice above the din. “We saved a spot for the Pickering, Captain, though we had to move vessels around to make room for all your prizes!”

Jon tipped his hat, his smile genuine. “Next time, I’ll try to bring fewer, if only to spare your wharfingers the trouble.”

The jest drew another burst of laughter and applause from the crowd, the sound carrying over the frozen harbor.

“The Royal Mail hides bullion in her hold,” he said to Derby. “Might want your clerks to take special care overseeing the unloading of that one.”

Jon’s gaze searched the crowd until he saw them at the front of the press: Martha with her cloak tight around her, Silas lifting his hat high, and beside them Mrs. Mason with Hannah and little Polly clutched close.

Hannah waved furiously, her face shining. Polly bounced with glee. Though he could not hear their words, he knew his daughters shouted “Papa!” The governess’ eyes met his and for a moment the crowd dimmed. He lifted his hat in salute, not just to the town, not just to his patrons, but to his family, the hearth waiting at Charter Street, the life that anchored him for a time before the sea called him back.

With that warming his heart, he strode down the gangplank, the roar of Salem around him, the sting of snow in the air, and victory in his step.

EUNICE WATCHED AS Captain Haraden stepped down from the Pickering with the sea still clinging to him, his greatcoat buttoned high, a short cape draped over his shoulders, brass buttons winking in the pale afternoon light. The crowd roared its welcome, but Eunice scarcely heard. Her breath caught as she watched him descend, a warrior returned, not only with his ship but with five more taken from the enemy.

How different he seemed from the man who had left them in September, his shoulders broader somehow, his bearing steadier, as though victory itself had entered his bones. She told herself it was pride, nothing more, but her heart did not listen.

Silas eased his way forward through the throng, his cart rattling over the frozen planks. “Room there, mates! Let’s clear a bit of way for the captain’s chest!” he called in his seaman’s burr, waving his arms like a deck officer. Two sailors followed, Jon’s sea chest slung between them. With a grunt and a heave, they set it into the cart.

The captain bent to kiss Hannah’s hair and ruffled Polly’s curls before lifting the younger one into his arms, his eyes warm on them both before meeting hers. For an instant, Eunice forgot the cold entirely.

“I’ll not keep you waiting long,” he told them. “The harbor master will have me sign in the Pickering and the prizes, and then I’ll come straight home.”

Martha gave a knowing sniff, her cloak wrapped tight. “Then don’t dawdle, Captain. There’s a fire on the hearth, a fat roast chicken in the oven, and the girls will not sleep until you’ve had your supper.”

The captain laughed, the sound low and full, and lifted his hat in salute to them all. Setting Polly down, he said, “Then I’ll make haste. Keep the fire burning for me.”

Eunice took Polly’s mittened hand, her pulse unsteady. Around them the crowd still cheered, but in her heart she carried the quiet promise of his words, and the knowledge that tonight he would be home again, at least for a time.

The walk back up Charter Street was slow in the winter dusk, snow crunching underfoot, the cart wheels creaking where the frost had stiffened the axles. Hannah skipped at her side, chattering about Papa’s victories, while Polly sang nonsense songs to her doll. By the time they reached the house, smoke curled from the chimney and the windows glowed with firelight.

Inside, the warmth embraced them, scented with roasting fowl, fresh bread, and Martha’s winter herbs. Silas hauled the sea chest to its corner with a grunt, and Martha shooed the girls to wash their hands before supper.

Eunice moved quietly among them, every beat of her heart was marked by the thought of the man who would soon walk through that door. The captain, yes, and Salem’s hero, but also the father of the children she had come to love as her own, and the man whose presence anchored her days. She caught herself smoothing her gown, brushing a curl back into place. The gesture startled her, but she did not stop. Tonight, she thought, would be the first true night of homecoming.

A half-hour later, the latch lifted, and the door swung wide, a gust of frosty air curling in before the fire’s warmth claimed it. Captain Haraden stepped inside, frost still clinging to his coat. The girls rushed to him at once, Hannah with a book to show him, Polly with her doll, both clamoring for his lap. He laughed as he shed his cape and greatcoat and hung them on a peg, then kneeled to gather them close.

Minutes passed and then Martha called them to the dining room where a fire burned in the small hearth, banishing the chill from the air. Carrying in the chicken, golden-skinned and steaming, she set it on the table with a flourish. “There now. Enough of the sea. The bird will want carvin’, Captain.”

Jon sat at the head of the table, his daughters at either side, his smile softening as he glanced toward Eunice sitting next to Polly. Taking the carving knife in hand, he said quietly, “I’ll carve, aye. It’s good to sit at my own table again, among those I care for most.”