Page 60 of The Salamander

“Amen to that,” muttered Fisk.

Thorndike lifted his cup. “Then let us pray Providence grants him success, as it has granted us a captain who keeps America’s flag flying.”

Jon set down his tankard, his voice low but firm. “We’ll give all we can, gentlemen. Salem will not be found wanting.”

Derby’s smile was keen. “Salem grows fat on such voyages, and you do well, too, Captain and Lieutenant.”

“While the Pickering is being refit,” Williams said, “take some time with your families. Spring will be here soon enough.”

“Thank you,” said Jon. “My family will welcome the time.”

Derby leaned forward, a pensive look on his face. “In the spring, I’ve a mind to have you transport a shipment of sugar for Bilboa. The sugar is from Martinique and piled high in my stores. Bilbao hungers for it, and I want the Pickering to take it there under your command.”

Jon inclined his head. “Then it shall be done. A full hold of sugar, and on the way home we’ll see what prizes the seas offer. Salem and the cause will profit twice over, feeding America’s coffers and bleeding the king’s purse.”

Derby returned him a satisfied smile.

Outside, the winter wind howled down Central Street, but inside the coffeehouse, camaraderie and Patriot resolve reigned, the name Salamander on every tongue.

Haraden house, Salem, Christmas Eve 1779

SNOW LAY BANKED along Charter Street, the ruts of cartwheels frozen hard, yet lantern light winked from windows as the Haraden kin from Gloucester arrived to celebrate the Savior’s birth. Their laughter carried ahead of them, boots crunching, cloaks flung back as they stamped off the cold. Eunice welcomed them in, the house filling at once, as Martha pressed steaming mugs of spiced cider into chilled hands.

Captain Haraden introduced Lieutenant Thorndike with quiet pride, “My first officer,” and Eunice caught the approving nods from Andrew Haraden and his wife, Lydia. It pleased her to see the captain and his officer recognized in his kin’s eyes.

Eunice helped the girls slip off their woolen cloaks while the captain relieved Andrew Haraden of his hat and hung the heavier garments on pegs near the door. The brass buttons on the captain’s own blue coat gleamed in the firelight as he clasped Andrew’s hand. His voice carried warmly. “Where is your eldest daughter?”

“Joanna is with her new husband in Gloucester,” Lydia said, a broad smile softening her face. “John Langford. They married in November.”

“Good heavens,” said Captain Haraden, “how old is she now?”

“Twenty-one,” replied Lydia.

“Time moves on,” said the captain, dipping his head gravely. “I trust it is a good match?”

“A very good one,” said Lydia. “John is a fine young man.”

“So, it’s only the five youngest with us,” Andrew added, flicking his dark locks from his forehead.

The two little Pollys, both four, danced in circles, their piping voices calling “Merry Christmas!” while the older girls crowded round to greet Hannah, all laughing together.

Silas joined them. “Should you not have heard, we celebrate more than Christmas.” Lifting his mug high, his weathered voice carried above the din. “To Captain Haraden and his victories, may the Salamander keep the fire burnin’ in Salem’s hearths and endure the fire on the Pickering’s decks!”

The Gloucester Haradens looked puzzled at the strange title until Silas, full of relish, explained how the Pickering’s crew had christened their captain after his battles in smoke and flame. The congratulations that followed appeared to Eunice to leave Captain Haraden faintly abashed, though his smile lingered when his gaze found her, causing her cheeks to warm.

That night the two families walked together to East Church, the cold stinging their faces, their breath rising in clouds. Reverend Diman in his black robe with white bands welcomed them at the door. Inside, the press of bodies soon warmed the pews. Candles flickered in the drafts, and shadows leapt on the whitewashed walls as the congregation lifted its voice to sing the carol “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night”.

Eunice’s heart stirred at the fervent sound, the children’s treble voices weaving with the deeper tones of sailors and townsfolk. Beside her, the captain bowed his head, his daughters nestled close, the hush of reverence binding them all.

Reverend Diman’s words rang out, his message a call to endure in time of war and a reminder of joy in Christ’s birth. Finally, he prayed for Washington’s army at Morristown, “hungry, cold, yet faithful”. He gave thanks, too, for Salem’s mariners who had brought victories home. Eunice felt the weight of the words, yet also the hope, and knew she would carry the sound of that prayer in her heart.

Back at Charter Street, supper was laid with plenty of noise. Martha brought out steaming bowls of clam chowder with hot bread and butter, followed by a raisin pudding. The warmth of the food was welcome after the bitter cold of the night air.

Thorndike sat near, cheerful as ever, though Eunice more than once caught his glance straying toward her. She kept her composure, yet she sensed Captain Haraden noticed it too, the brief tightening of his jaw before he forced his attention back to the laughter of his cousins.

Later, when the girls had gone upstairs with their Gloucester cousins and the house grew quiet, the adults sat before the fire in the parlor. After some discussion of the past year and the places the two Haradens had been, Thorndike turned to the captain. “With your leave, sir, while the ship is refit, I’ll be spending some weeks in Beverly. There’s a young woman there, Mercy Trask. I met her last time in port, and I mean to court her.”

The captain’s brows lifted. “Mercy Trask? Sister to young Joshua, one of our cabin boys?”

“Aye. She’s a good sort, and I’ll not deny, I’ve hopes she’ll have me.” His smile was boyish, shy even.

“She’ll have you,” Eunice said gently. “A rising officer in Salem’s service? Of course she will.”

The captain clasped Thorndike’s shoulder with approval. “Then you’d best see to it, Israel. A man should not put off such things forever.”

Thorndike grinned, raising his glass. “Not forever, no.”

The fire burned lower, the house settling to quiet. Eunice lingered only a little longer with the three men and Lydia before she rose, smoothing her skirts. “Well, gentlemen and Lydia, I leave you to your wine. Until tomorrow.”

As she climbed the stairs, the soft rumble of their voices drifted after her, but her thoughts lingered on the captain, the way he had looked at her in the candlelight at Thorndike’s words, and the way her own heart had answered.