Page 72 of The Salamander

The London Coffeehouse, Salem

LATER THAT SAME day, anxious to share the news, Silas made his way to the London Coffeehouse where the captain often met with his merchant sponsors.

The smell of roasted beans and pipe smoke hung heavy in the air as he stepped in. Merchants crowded the tables, voices buzzed with the talk of convoys, prices, and the war. The scrape of quills tallying accounts mingled with the low hum.

Silas shouldered through, the folded paper clutched in his hand. Not seeing the merchants he was looking for in the crowd, he slapped the paper on a table. “Gentlemen! News out of Spain, hot as pitch and worth your ears. It’s our own Captain Haraden, the Salamander!”

Heads turned; cups stilled halfway to lips.

Silas cleared his throat and read aloud, his voice rising with each line: the duel with the British cruiser, the capture of the Golden Eagle, and then the great contest with the Achilles.

By the time he reached the line, “The lugger, large and stout as she was, was glad to leave them,” the room erupted in cheers. Men leapt to their feet, pounding the table, some crying, “Three cheers for Haraden!”

One older shipowner shook his head in wonder. “Forty-three guns against sixteen? I’d not have believed it if it weren’t in print.”

Another raised his cup high. “Salem breeds no common captains!”

From the corner, a merchant called, “Aye, the Salamander indeed!” and the name was taken up in a chorus.

Silas grinned, savoring the moment. He thought of Mrs. Mason at the window, tears in her eyes though she tried to hide it. And he thought of Hannah and Polly, anxious to see their beloved papa. Slapping the table with the paper, he said, “Mark me, lads, this ain’t just a victory at sea. It’s proof enough Britain misjudges us yet, but America’s sons won’t be cowed.”

The cheer that answered him shook the rafters, a roar of pride for Salem’s own.

Bilbao, Spain, September 1780

THE MORNING SUN spilled over the tiled roofs of Bilbao and onto the crowded quays. There, it caught the banners and kerchiefs waved by the crowd. Bells clanged from church towers, their peals rolling down to the water where the Pickering rode at anchor, refitted and provisioned for the long passage west.

Jon stood on the quarterdeck, hat tucked under his arm, watching as carts rattled down the quay bearing the last gifts from the Spanish merchants: fresh fruit, casks of wine, bolts of sailcloth. Their generosity had been near boundless since the battle, their gratitude reflected not only in feasts and parades but in supplies laid aboard at no cost.

Along the quay, another vessel lay with Spanish colors newly hoisted, the Golden Eagle, no longer theirs, her timbers and cargo already sold into other hands. Jon’s gaze lingered on her only a moment. She had been hard-won, but prizes passed quickly into commerce.

Earlier in the week, he had seen Captain Scott and the few British who had fought beside his men safely paroled, bound home under their word of honor. The rest of the Achilles’ crew he had left in Spanish custody. Mr. Franklin in Paris would be glad enough of them, for every British prisoner in Europe could be weighed against an American languishing in irons. The thought of giving more of his countrymen a chance at freedom pleased Jon. His charge now was the ship that bore his men and his flag home, well provisioned, with prize money secured, and carrying with her the honor of triumph against the odds.

Thorndike came to his side, eyes scanning the throng. “They’ll cheer us till their throats are raw, sir. I’ve never seen the like. We’re heroes here.”

Jon returned Thorndike a slight smile. “Heroes fade quickly, Mr. Thorndike. But ships and men, they must endure.” He looked again to the quay, where women tossed flowers into the tide. “Let them remember the flag we carried, if nothing else.”

From the dock rose a cheer as the lines were cast off. Oars dipped, the ship’s boats tugging their charges clear of the shore until the sails could take them. Bobby and Joshua scrambled aloft with the other boys, nimble as cats, their shrill voices mingling with the creak of rigging and the flap of canvas.

Overhead, three white swans took flight as the wind filled the sails. Jon lifted his gaze, taking it as a good omen, and his spirits rose with them. As the Pickering leaned into her course, the cheers of Bilbao swelled. “¡Viva el Capitán! ¡Viva América!” Hats flew skyward, church bells tolled again, and for a moment the very harbor seemed to shake with it.

Jon lifted his hat in return, bowing once toward the town that had feted him like a king. Yet even as he did, his thoughts turned westward, past the wide Atlantic, past the dangers yet to come, to a quiet house in Salem. That vision steadied him more than all the cheers of Spain.

“Set our course, Mr. Thorndike,” he said at last, setting his hat back on. “West for Salem. And whatever prizes God sends us along the way.”

Thorndike’s grin was wolfish. “Aye, Captain. Salem will not see us return empty.”

The sails bellied, the water foamed under the bow, and Bilbao’s voices faded into the morning haze.

In the Atlantic, September 1780

THE BAY OF Biscay fell astern, its green headlands fading into haze. Ahead stretched the vast Atlantic, steel blue and glittering in the sun, the endless road back to Salem. The Pickering, tight in her rigging and sound from her refit, moved like a hound eager for the chase.

Jon took his place on the quarterdeck with Thorndike at his side, scanning the horizon. On the main deck, the crew’s spirits ran high. They had the coin promised them, honor earned, and the scent of more prizes in their noses. Yet when Jon’s thoughts turned inward, it was not to silver nor to spoils, but to Eunice Mason’s soft brown eyes waiting across the sea, the words he would speak to her.

It was Thorndike who spied the merchantman first. “Captain,” he said pointing, “a square-rigged ship, fat in the water and sluggish with cargo.”

The lookout confirmed the sighting with a shout. “Sail ho, starboard!” Jon raised his glass and saw the truth at once. English colors, no escort, and no match for a ship as nimble as the Pickering.