Page 74 of The Salamander

Eunice shaded her eyes, her breath catching at the sight. The Pickering came on proudly, sails patched, her flanks scarred from battle yet defiant. Behind her the prizes flew the American flag, bright against the gray of sea and sky. A murmur rippled through the crowd, swelling into a roar as the ships closed the distance.

“There he is!” Polly cried, pointing at the quarterdeck. The girl had just turned five and was a bundle of energy. Eunice had her hands full most days.

She saw him then, tall and handsome with an air of serene composure. With his hat tucked beneath his arm, he dominated the quarterdeck. Though he appeared composed, she knew how his heart must be pounding. The sight brought a sting to her eyes, though she blinked it away quickly.

When Jon lifted his head toward the throng, his eyes found her across the distance, amid the crush of townsfolk and the thunder of drums, as though no one else existed. Their gazes met and, for a breathless moment, neither looked away.

Martha sniffed sharply beside her, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “Well, God be praised, he’s home again. And richer than ever, I’ll warrant.”

But Eunice scarcely heard. All the noise and movement of the wharf faded, leaving only the unshaken look of the man on the quarterdeck. Her heart answered it, fierce and sure.

The gangways were laid, sailors straining to keep the press of townsfolk from surging forward too soon. Children scrambled onto barrels for a better view, and merchants jostled to the fore, calling out greetings as if their voices alone might hasten the captain ashore.

Eunice watched as Silas pushed through, his broad shoulders parting the crowd. He planted himself near the landing place, arms crossed, a grin spreading through his salt-stubbled beard.

As Jon descended the gangway, Silas lifted his voice above the din. “Captain, you’ve near emptied the Atlantic of British trade and filled Salem with cheer besides! A finer homecomin’ I’ve never seen.”

Jon clasped the old sailor’s hand warmly before the crowd surged around them. “Thank you, Silas. The sea gave us a hard trial, but Providence brought us through. Salem will eat well this winter.”

The roar of welcome rose again, but for Eunice it blurred to nothing as Jon’s dark blue eyes found hers once more, closer now, steady as ever.

The Haraden house, Salem, October 1780

ISRAEL THORNDIKE HAD seen many a welcome on wharves, but never one like he witnessed this day. The merchants Elias Derby and George Williams near danced in their boots when they heard the cargoes named—tobacco, rice, lumber, sugar, rum, blankets and stores besides. Their eyes had shone brighter than a prize lantern at midnight.

Three prizes in as many weeks, Thorndike thought as he followed his captain homeward. And every bale and barrel would be worth its weight in gold to this town and to the Pickering’s crew.

Now, seated at the dining table in Haraden’s house, Thorndike carved into the roast fowl on his plate with the appetite of a man who’d lived too long on salt pork and ship’s biscuit. The hearth glowed steadily, warming the room and carrying the scent of wood smoke beneath the fragrance of the roasted meat and fresh bread.

At the other end of the table, the captain sat with his daughters at either elbow, Hannah chattering questions, Polly wriggling for her father’s attention. He answered each with the same patience he showed under fire.

“Papa, did the Spanish really carry you through the streets?” Hannah pressed, eyes wide.

“Aye,” Haraden said, his mouth quirking. “They shouted loud enough to rattle the tiles from the roofs.”

“Did you fire the big guns at the Achilles?” Polly asked, bouncing.

Jon smiled, smoothing her hair. “We did, little one. And the Achilles fired back, yet by the Lord’s mercy, I am still here.”

The questions tumbled on, as Israel noticed how well the girls waited their turns, folded their hands as they spoke, even remembered to say “please” and “thank you”. The captain looked at them with a touch of pride, then raised his eyes to Eunice Mason.

“You’ve polished their manners as neatly as their shoes,” Haraden said warmly. “I see it in every word.”

Color touched the governess’ cheeks. “They’ve been diligent pupils, Captain. Every day we take time from our lessons and sewing to practice deportment.”

Not for the first time, Israel thought the captain a fortunate man to have found such a jewel for his daughters’ governess. He noticed, too, the way the captain’s gaze lingered on her. When she poured their wine, her sleeve brushed his hand. She looked away quickly, but Israel had not missed it, nor the flicker of warmth in the captain’s eyes.

Martha entered just then and set down a steaming pudding still damp from its boiling cloth. “That’s God’s truth,” she said with a sniff. “Mrs. Mason’s had them readin’ and recitin’ as smart as any minister’s children. Now then, here’s plum puddin’, with currants enough to sweeten the captain’s homecomin’.”

The girls clapped, leaning forward eagerly as Martha sliced the pudding into generous portions.

Thorndike chuckled, lifting his glass. “I’ll drink to that. And to the captain, who’s given Salem such a feast, both in news and in prizes.” He ate a spoonful of the pudding, finding it rich, heavy and sweet, then caught himself grinning, belly full and heart lightened by the day. “The town near went mad this afternoon,” he said. “I swear, Captain, you could’ve walked from Derby Wharf to the coffeehouse without your boots touching ground, just hats and shoulders to carry you.”

The girls giggled at his words. Jon nodded, a smile coming to his lips. “Salem needed cheer,” he said. “If we’ve given them some, then I’m content.”

Martha returned to glance at everyone’s plate. Her voice was softer than her words. “You’ve near filled the town coffers, Captain. That’s more than cheer. And I never saw smiles like those on the faces of your crew.”

“They were pleased with the results of our cruise,” said the captain. Then turning to Mrs. Mason, he asked, “What have you heard of the war? Has Silas brought home any rumors he’s been hearing from his friends in the harbor?”

“Actually, yes,” the governess replied, looking down at her hands before facing him. “There is one report, though it grieves me to say it. The papers tell us that General Benedict Arnold has betrayed us.”

The room stilled.

“What?” Israel exclaimed. “When?”

“Last month,” Mrs. Mason answered. “Since August, he was in command at West Point, and conspired to hand the fort to the British.”

Haraden shook his head, his disbelief plain. “Why? The man was Washington’s trusted general—he won victories for us.”

“They say money was a part of it,” the governess explained. “He was in debt, and bitter at the army for what he felt was poor treatment. And there is his new wife, Peggy Shippen. Her family are known Loyalists in Philadelphia.”

The captain’s face was grave. “It will strike Washington like a cannonball. He trusted Arnold, and with reason.”

“And throw the general’s officers into disarray,” added Israel. He sipped his wine, weighing the treachery. But his gaze stayed fixed on his captain. Haraden’s expression showed deep thought, yet his eyes strayed often toward Eunice Mason. And though she turned her head to hide it, Israel saw the faint color rise in her cheeks.

Aye, he thought, leaning back in his chair, letting the fire warm his boots and the plum pudding settle in his belly. The captain’s heart fights its own battle now, and I’d wager Salem’s richest prize for him may not be a ship taken at sea.