Page 70 of The Salamander

At anchor, the Spaniards’ fervor only deepened. When Jon stepped ashore with Thorndike, Carnes, Cowan, and the others, a roar went up, echoing off the stone houses of Bilbao. Bobby Grover, now off the Eagle, ran to Jon. “You did it, sir! I told them on the Eagle you would.”

Jon rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You did well.”

A dozen men pressed forward, seized Jon by the arms, and before he could protest, they bore him aloft on their shoulders. Hats flew into the air, women cried blessings, and a chant rose. “¡Viva el Capitán! ¡Viva!” He was carried through the narrow streets in triumph, the crowd swelling around him until he was set down at last before a broad-arched tavern whose windows blazed with lamplight.

Inside, the Spaniards had laid a feast, bread crusty from the oven, bowls of olives slick with oil, roasted fish, platters of lamb and pork, pitchers of Rioja wine. Jon’s men, still blackened from smoke and salt, were pressed into seats and given brimming cups. Laughter and music swelled, a fiddler striking up while townsfolk clapped the rhythm.

At a heavy oak table near the hearth, Jon sat with Thorndike, Carnes, Cowan and several other officers. Bobby darted in and out like a spark, sometimes perched on a Spaniard’s knee to tell the man he was Captain Haraden’s cabin boy. Sometimes he dashed back to Joshua to whisper some mischief. Chaplain McClure, who had followed them in, rose to say a prayer of thanks in English and halting Spanish. The townsfolk bowed their heads before the clamor resumed.

The Spaniards would not let the cups of the Pickering officers stand empty, and soon Lieutenant Cowan, glass in hand, leaned forward as the Spaniards listened eagerly. Cowan’s voice was rough from smoke but carried the weight of awe. “The Pickering,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “looked like a longboat beside that great lugger. And yet…” He paused, searching the faces before him. “And yet Captain Haraden fought with a determination that seemed superhuman. Shot flew round him like hail, but the captain”—Cowan gestured at Jon, “—he was as calm as though it were but a shower of snowflakes.”

A hush fell for a moment, broken only by the murmurs of the Spaniards at Cowan’s words. Then the tavern erupted in cheers as they pounded the tables, raising their cups. “¡Viva el Capitán!”

Jon inclined his head, his smile betraying nothing of the storm still quieting inside him. “It was the Pickering’s crew who stood fast today. No captain wins a battle alone.”

A dark-haired Spanish beauty slipped through the crowd, her eyes flashing, her bodice bright with embroidery. She leaned over Jon’s chair, pressing a kiss to his cheek, murmuring in broken English, “Brave Capitán…hero.” Her long dark hair brushed his sleeve, her perfume sharp and sweet, and her hand lingered warm upon his shoulder. “I can reward you as others cannot.”

For an instant the room seemed to hush, the offer shimmering before him like wine in the cup he held in his hand. But his gaze did not follow her dark eyes. In his mind rose another face, a gentler one, that of Eunice Mason, standing on Salem’s wharf with Hannah and Polly, her smile like a harbor light. Jon reached up, gently lifting the Spaniard’s hand from his shoulder.

“You honor me, dear señorita,” he said, his tone courteous but unyielding. “But my heart is already spoken for.”

The woman laughed, unoffended, and whirled away into the press of dancers. Jon watched her go, then set his untouched cup back on the table. His thoughts were already turning homeward, to the woman whose face appeared in his mind.

From across the table Thorndike gave a low chuckle, lifting his glass. “Ah, but I’ve seen the woman who holds his heart, and she is beyond compare. No señorita in Spain could rival her.”

A murmur of agreement passed among the Salem men. Bobby, perched nearby, nudged Joshua with a grin. “Told you the captain’s heart was already taken. I could tell.”

Jon smiled faintly, saying nothing, but the warmth that stirred in his chest was not owed to wine or cheers.