Page 81 of The Salamander

As the hours wore on, the weighing house stank of too many bodies crammed into stone walls that trapped the day’s heat. Jon sat with his back against a beam, Thorndike beside him, his officers, Captain Curtis and Bobby near at hand. The only light came from a smoking lantern, shadows stretching across the iron scales and thick timbers overhead.

“It’s stifling,” muttered one sailor, tugging his collar open. “Feels like hell itself.”

“And it is only spring,” another answered darkly. “Wait till summer. Hot, wet, and crawling with fever. We’ll rot in here.”

Jon’s voice, quiet but firm, cut through the murmurs. “No, we won’t. Not if I draw breath. I’ve seen worse prisons than this in battle, and I tell you men, Providence has not brought us this far to abandon us now.”

The grumbling eased, though sweat still ran down every face.

The heat did not relent after sundown. The stone walls sweated damp, and the stink of unwashed men clung heavy as tar. Jon lay on the planks with his coat folded beneath his head, staring at the beams lost in shadow. Sleep would not come.

Thorndike leaned close. “Captain?”

“Aye,” Jon whispered.

“We can’t sit like penned hens waiting for Rodney’s pleasure. If we can slip past their guards, take a boat—”

“—and run straight into a fleet of ships of the line?” Curtis’ voice came low from the darkness. “It’s folly, Mr. Thorndike. They’ve blocked every boat, every slip.”

“Folly or not,” Thorndike growled, “better to die trying than to rot in this oven.”

Jon exhaled slowly, his mind turning. “You’re both right. The fleet pins us in, and the guards watch us close. But Rodney’s men will grow careless. The Dutch are no friends to Britain; they may aid us in small ways. We must be ready when the opportunity comes.”

Curtis lifted himself on one elbow. “And if it never comes?”

Jon turned his head, eyes hard in the gloom. “Then we make our own.”

Bobby’s small voice broke the silence from the corner. “You’ll find the way, Captain. You always do.”

Jon closed his eyes, heart tightening. “Aye, Lad, we’ll find it. And when we do, we’ll not leave a soul behind.”

The murmurs of the prisoners faded into snores and mutters. Still Jon lay awake, watching the darkness, his mind working like a compass, searching for the course that would lead them home. “Lord, go before us,” he silently prayed.

Fort Oranje, Governor’s House, March 1781

JON WAS MARCHED up the hill under heavy guard, the noon sun hammering the redcoats and polished bayonets around him. His wrists itched where the soldiers had tugged too roughly on the shackles, but he kept his head high, his step firm on the stone steps leading to the Governor’s House.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ink, sweat, and plunder, tables stacked with seized ledgers, crates half-filled with jewels and sugar loaves awaiting inventory.

Behind a broad desk stood Admiral Sir George Rodney, powdered wig immaculate, his dark blue coat heavy with gold trim and at his neck a cravat of white lace. His sharp blue eyes beneath dark brows fixed on Jon as though weighing him like so much captured cargo.

“Can this be the same Jonathan Haraden who held the mighty Achilles at bay off Bilbao?” Rodney’s voice was smooth as silk but edged with steel, as he let the words hang. Then he smiled thinly. “And yet you walked straight into my harbor like a lamb to slaughter. Quite a comedown, Captain.”

Jon inclined his head, refusing to be baited. “The Dutch flag flew when last I called here, the island’s merchants engaged in legitimate trade under the principle of neutrality. It was not foolhardy to trust that neutrality. ’Twas not cowardice but trust betrayed that has seen my ship confiscated.”

Rodney sat in his chair and leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Trust, aye. A fine virtue for a preacher, but a poor compass for a privateer. You should have known every port in these waters bends to the strongest fleet. At present, that fleet is mine.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “For a season, perhaps. But power shifts with the tide, Admiral. And do not forget the French are now with us, and they have a great navy. You may hold Eustatius today, but you cannot hold the hearts of free men forever.”

Rodney’s laugh was rich, contemptuous. “Fine words. Yet words do not mend your torn sails or return your prizes. Your gallant Pickering will soon ride at anchor in His Majesty’s fleet, a toy for stronger hands. As for you…” He gestured carelessly with his quill. “Rot here, or rot in St. Kitts. It makes little difference to me.”

Jon met his gaze. “I’ll not be rotting, Admiral. A man who chased off your Achilles won’t lie idle while Britain strangles the Indies. You’ll see me again, free and armed.”

Rodney’s smirk faltered just a fraction. He rapped the desk. “Take him back. I’ve no patience for the boasts of beaten men.”

The guards seized Jon by the arms and marched him out. He did not resist. But as he stepped into the blinding sun, his thoughts burned hotter still. Rodney plunders, Rodney gloats, but Rodney has given me one gift. He thinks me finished. And that is his mistake.

At the weighing house, the guards released Jon’s hands from the shackles and shoved him inside. The heat of the day pressed down like a weight of its own. Jon found a seat against the stone wall, his wrists red where the irons had chafed. The stench of unwashed bodies and stagnant water filled the low chamber. Through the single barred window, he caught a glimpse of the harbor.