Page 66 of The Salamander

“The harder the conflict, the greater the honor.”

– George Washington 1776

CHAPTER 16

Bay of Biscay, 29 May 1780

WEEKS OF STEADY sailing carried the Pickering across the Atlantic, her holds heavy with Derby’s sugar and her crew falling into the hard rhythm of sea life. By late May, the long swells of the Bay of Biscay were beginning to heave beneath her. The weather had been fickle with sudden squalls, then blinding bursts of sun.

That morning, Bobby had just brought Jon coffee when a cry from the main-top lookout split the air. “Sail to windward!”

Handing Bobby his coffee, Jon raised his glass, salt crusting at its rim. A cutter, broad in the beam, running fast, her sides bristling with twenty guns was bearing down like a hawk swooping upon its prey.

Thorndike’s boots sounded on the deck beside him. “She’s armed heavier than we are, sir. Shall we run?”

Jon lowered the glass. “No. She’s chosen her fight. Ready the guns. We’ll show her the Pickering was built for more than sugar.”

Bobby scrambled down from the quarterdeck, Jon’s mug in hand. He would want to be part of the action to follow.

Orders cracked across the deck. Gun crews threw open the ports; black muzzles thrust out, priming horns at the ready. Powder boys dashed with cartridges, Bobby among them, his face alight with eagerness.

The sea narrowed between hunter and hunted. The cutter fired first, a crashing broadside, iron screaming across the water. A ball punched through the Pickering’s bulwark, splinters flying. Men ducked instinctively, then steadied as Jon’s voice cut clear. “Stand fast! Fire as she bears!”

The Pickering’s guns answered, smoke roiling out, the deck shuddering with the recoil. Through the drifting haze Jon saw the cutter stagger under the blows, her jib fluttering ragged, her rigging cut. And then he made a discovery: the Pickering’s sugar-laden weight kept her low in the water, every shot biting into the enemy’s hull near the waterline. The cutter, riding higher, hurled much of her fire too far aloft, splintering spars and sails but leaving the ship’s heart whole. The very burden that made them slow had given them teeth.

For nearly two hours they traded thunder. Shot tore sails, splintered rails, and sent iron clanging across the decks. Twice the Pickering shuddered under solid hits, but her timbers held. Jon moved on the quarterdeck with calm authority, spyglass in hand, shouting orders through the smoke. “Shift your aim lower! Break her waterline! Steady, lads, give her Salem’s fire!”

Thorndike’s voice rose with his. “Run out the guns! Give her another!”

The cutter pressed hard, circling to rake, but the Pickering answered at every turn, her smaller frame nimble where the cutter lumbered. At last a shot struck true and the cutter’s main topmast splintered, crashing in a tangle of sail and cordage. A cheer broke from the Pickering’s deck as the cutter fell off, bearing away to leeward.

Jon held his glass a moment longer, watching her dwindling hull. Part of him longed to chase and finish it, but the sugar below, Derby’s fortune and Salem’s stake, bound him to his course. To linger was to risk losing all.

“Secure the guns and the wounded,” Jon ordered. Only then did he allow himself a slow nod.

Bobby appeared at his elbow, powder-stained and grinning through smoke. “We showed her, Captain! Sent her running!”

Jon allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Aye, Bobby. The first trial of this cruise, and she’s stood it well.”

The cheer still echoed across the deck, but Jon’s thoughts were already ahead, into the wide Bay of Biscay and the greater tests yet to come.

“If I might, sir,” Bobby asked, his eyes bright, “why didn’t we try and take her?”

Jon looked down at the boy, then back at the sugar-laden ship under his feet. “Because we sail for Bilbao with Salem’s fortune in our hold,” he said evenly. “Our guns must guard it. To chase her would risk all, and I’ll not gamble the town’s stake for pride.” Jon’s gaze lingered on the cutter limping away, her topmast down. The prize-hunter in him longed to give chase, but he clenched his jaw. Not here, not now. “Bilbao lies ahead. If I find a prize near that safe harbor, we’ll take her then.”

Bobby’s grin softened into something more thoughtful. “So we fight when we must, but not always.”

Jon rested a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder. “Aye, Lad. And that’s the harder duty of command.”

Offshore of Bilboa in the Bay of Biscay, 1 June 1780

THE BAY OF Biscay lay restless under a rising moon, long swells shouldering the Pickering as she pressed south, her holds groaning with Derby’s sugar. She looked every inch a trader, but her gunports told another tale: sixteen black mouths ready if pressed.

Near dusk, the lookout’s hail broke the monotony. “Sail ahead! To leeward!”

Jon raised his night glass. In the fading light he made her out: a wide beam, sails well set, bristling with twenty-two guns. A privateer, no mistaking.

Thorndike’s jaw tightened. “She’s got more guns that the Pickering, sir. Could be she’s hunting.”