Page 7 of The Salamander

“I have, thank you. How did you find your new ship?”

For the first time since she’d met him, Eunice saw a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “She’s a beauty, a fine sloop with polished decks and new guns just waiting to be fired. With a name like the Tyrannicide, we’ll make sure the British tyrants think twice before they sail our waters.”

Eunice laughed. “Indeed.”

Martha came into the parlor. “Evenin’, sir. Supper’s ready as soon as you are.”

“I’ll be down in a bit,” he said, turning to ascend the stairs.

Martha nudged Eunice. “He’s got that look again, off to fight the British, this time on the sea.”

Eunice smiled, as she lifted Polly and carried her into the kitchen. Walking beside Eunice, Hannah said proudly, “My papa’s going to sea.”

“Yes, he is,” Eunice replied, meeting her gaze. “Our country needs him and others like him. The fight for liberty will not be easily won.”

JONATHAN SPENT THE next week on the Tyrannicide, getting to know the crew, directing the stowing of supplies, drilling the men on the fourteen cannon and poring over coastal charts with Captain Fisk. The weather held fair, as July’s sun made the work almost pleasant.

Midweek, Johnny Deadman came aboard and quickly found his place among the other cabin boys. Jon often caught sight of the boy’s mop of blond curls darting from belowdecks to quarterdeck on some errand for the captain or cook.

Jon watched Bosun Moses aloft in the rigging, the man’s hands sure as he checked the lines. “How’s it looking, Moses?” Jon called.

“Sound as a church bell’s cord, sir,” Moses replied, securing a knot. “Taut for gales off Cape Ann!”

A blur of blond shot past. Johnny Deadman again, a powder sack clutched under one arm. “Not so fast, Johnny!” Jon barked. The boy slowed, throwing him a sheepish glance. Running on a wet deck was asking for trouble, and a lad with dreams of becoming an officer needed the habit of discipline. There were a dozen such boys aboard, most barely into their teens. The captain had said many would leave after the first cruise. However long young Deadman stayed, Jon meant to keep an eye on him.

Jon wore the new uniform colors prescribed by the Massachusetts Council, a dark green coat to which he added a buff waistcoat, breeches, and a white cravat. Fisk approached, his own coat a crisp green, clearly fresh from the tailor.

“Lieutenant Stockman, secure those casks!” Fisk called.

Stockman, shorter than Jon but carrying himself smartly, echoed, “Aye, aye, Captain.” “Move sharp, lads!” he urged, as men rolled barrels of salt pork across the deck, then directed the stowing of fresh cod, beef, grog, and hardtack. Amid the bustle, a sailor hefted a small cask clearly marked Coffee. Jon’s eye lingered on it. The barrel was a well-made piece, its staves tight and true. Years ago, as an apprentice in the Cabots’ cooperage, he’d learned to judge a cask’s worth at a glance. The sight of it, and the promise of coffee at sea, brought a smile to his face.

“When you’ve finished,” Fisk told Stockman, “see to the rum, then join Haraden and me in my cabin.”

At the helm, Warrant Officer John Bray looked up from his tally. “Salt pork, salted cod, fresh cod, and beef, a month’s worth, Captain, if we eat the fresh stuff first.” He sealed a pork barrel and added, “I’ll get this to the cook.”

“Good work, Bray,” Fisk said.

Turning to Jon, he added, “Haraden, you should meet our chaplain, John Marsh, and our cook, John Reed. They came aboard this morning and have gone belowdecks. Benjamin Lovett, our sailing master, will be along later, as well as Henry Malcom, the surgeon.”

Belowdecks, Jon found Chaplain Marsh in a cabin even smaller than his own. A dignified clergyman with dark hair, he wore the black suit typical of clergy at sea. A small sea chest served as table and storage; a well-used Bible rested on top beside the man’s spectacles. The chaplain’s pale skin hinted at more time spent indoors than out.

“Salem-born,” Marsh said when Jon asked what brought him to sea. “Ships have been my neighbors all my life. I wanted to serve the cause. This was the natural choice.”

“I was in the militia,” Jon said. “But the sea’s in my blood, so when the position was offered, I took it. I recently lost my wife to a fever…the sea is my refuge now.”

“Children?”

“Two daughters. A governess and staff keep them safe. My wife and I also lost three sons, all very young.”

Marsh rested a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Then I will pray for you, Lieutenant, that God eases your burden and comforts you in your loss.”

Jon nodded, the simple promise comforting him.

From there, he headed to the galley where the sound of pots and pans clanging together drew him. Cook John Reed bent over an open sack, taking stock. Sunlight from a porthole caught the man’s dark red hair. Around him, small barrels lined one wall, and a cast-iron stove dominated the space. He had yet to don an apron and wore only loose-fitting breeches, a light tan shirt and a blue waistcoat left unbuttoned.

“Does the galley suit?” Jon asked after introducing himself.

“Aye,” Reed said. “It’s smaller than I’ve had, but new and clean. I’ve served the Cabots and Captain Fisk on their merchantmen for years, mostly sailing to the West Indies. This is my first time in the Massachusetts Navy.”