Page 61 of The Salamander

“Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the Ladies we are determined to foment a Rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation.”

– Abigail Adams 1776

CHAPTER 15

Haraden house, Salem, Christmas Day 1779

MORNING DAWNED CLEAR and sharp, the snow along Charter Street glittering under a pale winter sun. Frost feathered the windows when Jon came down the stairs, the smell of salt pork and johnnycakes rising from the kitchen. In the parlor, his cousins from Gloucester sipped coffee near the fire, while children darted about in their stockings.

A small fire burned in the dining room hearth as Martha called them to breakfast. With Silas assisting, she set steaming platters on the long table, an extender added to accommodate twelve. The cook’s cheeks glowed from the stove. “Sit yourselves, all of you. ’Tis Christmas mornin’, and you’ll not leave my table hungry.”

Eggs, fried pork, johnnycakes with maple syrup, and crocks of cider warmed with nutmeg filled the board. Jon took his place at one head, Andrew at the other. Eunice sat along the side, passing syrup and bread to the little ones.

As chatter rose, Andrew leaned toward Jon and passed an envelope to him. “For the extra expenses.”

Jon passed it back. “The Almighty has blessed me. You have my thanks, but it is not necessary.”

Andrew nodded. “I am glad you prosper, Cousin. When next will you sail?”

Jon wiped his hands. “Come spring, if the shipyard does its part. Derby has in mind a sugar run to Bilboa. And if the seas give us prizes, so much the better.”

Andrew lifted his brows. “Spain? That’s a far reach. And dangerous seas between.”

Jon’s mouth curved faintly. “Danger is the sea’s native tongue. Better we speak it than shy from it.”

Andrew chuckled, shaking his head. “You speak more like a legend than a sailor.”

Jon waved the comment off, though his eyes gleamed. “Fame’s a fickle wind, Cousin. Best we trim our sails to Providence and not pride.”

Andrew raised his mug. “Aye, and may that wind hold.”

After breakfast, the younger Haradens clamored for the yard. “Snowballs! A snowman!” cried the two Pollys together, and soon cloaks and mittens were flying on. Jon followed them out, his greatcoat collar turned high against the cold.

The yard rang with shrieks as snowballs flew. Hannah’s strong arm sent several square at her father, while little Polly darted about like a sprite. Andrew’s older daughters pelted their cousins, their voices ringing with mirth.

Thorndike joined in, laughing, scooping a double handful and hurling it at Jon. The ball burst across his shoulder in a scatter of white shards. Jon grinned, stooped, and returned fire with an aim that sent Thorndike staggering back.

“Papa’s the best shot!” Hannah crowed, clapping mittened hands.

From the porch, Eunice laughed, her hood fallen back, hair dusted with snow. When Jon lobbed a ball toward her skirts, she gasped, then scooped her own handful and flung it true. It struck him square, and the children shrieked in delight. Soon her mittens and cloak were powdered white, her laughter mingling with theirs, and Jon’s breath caught at the sight, though he turned quickly back to the melee.

By afternoon, the house glowed with candles and the scent of roast goose. Martha had tended the birds since Michaelmas, and now their skins gleamed gold on the platters, juices hissing as Jon carved. Lydia and Eunice set out apple, mince, and pumpkin pies with loaves of bread. Platters of steaming goose went round, glasses raised in toasts to family, to Salem, to victories past and to come. For a time, the war seemed far away.

Jon lifted his glass toward Martha as she swept in with another dish. “A toast to our cook. Martha, you’ve outdone yourself. Goose fit for an admiral, and better company to share it with.”

When the feast was done, they gathered in the parlor. Silas heaved a log onto the fire so it leapt high. The girls sang carols, then begged riddles of their uncle and aunt, who obliged with roaring laughter. Thorndike played draughts with Andrew, while Lydia and Martha set the younger children to forfeits.

Soon the girls crowded near Silas, clamoring for a story. With a wink, he drew a coil of line from his pocket and perched on a stool. “First, a lesson,” he said, fingers moving nimbly. “A proper knot can save a ship, or a sailor’s life.”

Hannah copied his motions carefully. “Like this?” she asked, holding up a neat bowline.

“Aye, well enough for a young mate,” Silas said, grinning.

Polly tried next, but her line snarled in her curls. Laughter erupted as Silas freed her. “That’s the mermaid’s knot, rare and dangerous, but harmless ashore.”

“Now a tale!” the girls begged.

Silas leaned closer to the firelight. “Once, off Cape Ann, I saw a monster rise from the deep. Scales like iron, eyes like lanterns, teeth the size of anchors. It followed us three leagues before it dove, leavin’ foam enough to swamp a yawl.”