Page 83 of The Salamander

The market stilled. A murmur swept through the people. One man cried, “Do they name the ships?”

The rider unrolled a damp sheet of gazette print. “They do. Merchantmen, brigs, and privateers, among them the Pickering of Salem!”

Eunice’s hand went to her throat. “No…”

Hannah tugged her sleeve. “What did they say about Papa’s ship?”

Eunice swallowed hard. The child was old enough to know. “They say it’s been captured.”

The thought caused Eunice’s knees to nearly give way. A fishwife caught her arm, steadying her. “God’s mercy, Miss, it may be rumor yet. The gazettes are full of errors.”

But the words rang clearly in her mind. The Pickering of Salem.

She managed to whisper, “We must go home.” With their basket in hand, Eunice pressed through the crowd, her heart hammering. Beside her, Hannah’s face had gone pale. Faces blurred past, the market noise receding into a dull roar, until at last the gate of the Haraden house came into view.

The garden gate banged behind them as she and Hannah hurried up the path. Silas was in the yard splitting kindling. He straightened at once when he saw their faces. “Mrs. Mason? What’s amiss?”

She could barely find her breath. Hannah, stricken with worry, clung to Eunice, wide-eyed and silent. “The market,” said Eunice. “News from the Indies. Admiral Rodney has taken St. Eustatius.” Her voice broke. “They’ve captured the Pickering.”

The basket slipped from her grasp. Strawberries rolled across the flagstones, bright as spilled blood. Silas caught the basket before it fell, his face paling as though the strength had gone out of him. “Lord help us,” he said at last. “Are you certain?”

Eunice shook her head, tears blurring everything. “They named her, Silas. They named his ship.”

The front door opened. Martha appeared on the step, shading her eyes against the glare. “Mrs. Mason? Hannah? What has happened?”

Silas turned toward her. “Word from the Indies. The Pickering’s taken by the British.”

For a moment, Martha seemed carved from stone. Then she came swiftly down the steps, her skirts brushing the stone, and took Eunice by the shoulders. “Hush now,” she said softly, drawing both her and Hannah close. “We’ll not believe every harbor cry till the minister reads the dispatch himself. Come inside, my dears.”

Her voice was steady, but Eunice could feel the tremor in her hands. As the door opened, the scent of supper drifted from the kitchen, onions and bread and something stewing. The small, ordinary comforts of life continuing in the face of ruin.

As Martha guided her and Hannah toward the parlor, Eunice glanced back. Silas still stood in the doorway, the basket hugged to his chest, staring toward the harbor where the gulls wheeled above the masts. “God bring him home,” he said.

The long summer light still lingered over Salem when the Gloucester Haradens arrived, the carriage rattling to a stop before the house. Though her eyes were still red from crying, Eunice went to the door to meet them.

Lydia Haraden stepped down slowly, her full figure showing the burden of pregnancy, one hand braced on the arm of her daughter, Lydia, now seventeen. Her husband, Andrew, helped their other four daughters down one by one, dark-haired girls all, their lively eyes betraying both curiosity and fatigue.

“Welcome! We are glad you’ve come.”

“And we to be here,” Lydia said. “Though I think this child means to be born before the week is out,” she added, pressing a hand to her belly. “The ride from Gloucester was longer than I remembered.”

“We put lots of pillows in the carriage to make Mama’s ride more comfortable,” said sixteen-year-old Betsey.

Silas came to help with the baggage, and Eunice noticed he whispered something to Andrew that made his face take on a concerned look.

Inside, the air was warm with the smell of roast fowl and potatoes cooked with onions and spice, and strawberries stewed with sugar. Yet even with all the bustle, the house felt hushed. Eunice had dressed carefully and set the table, but her eyes were swollen from tears. Lydia was the first to notice. “Something has happened.”

It was a minute before Eunice could summon an answer. She felt as if the words themselves would make the loss real. At last she said quietly, “Once you are settled in your chambers, we can gather in the parlor and tell you all we know.” They had agreed not to speak of St. Eustatius until their guests were seated and calm.

A quarter-hour later, the Gloucester Haradens were gathered in the parlor. The mantel clock ticked with unhurried gravity. Hannah and Polly sat together on the hearth rug, hands clasped, their faces pale in the shifting light. Martha and Silas stood just inside the door.

Her hands folded in her lap, Eunice began. “You know from the captain’s letter before he sailed that he and I are to be wed upon his return to Salem.”

“Yes,” Lydia interrupted, “and we were delighted to hear it.”

“His last letter,” Eunice continued, “written months ago, spoke of prizes and a happy crew. And then nothing until today. News arrived by packet from Antigua. Admiral Rodney has taken St. Eustatius, and the Pickering is named among the captured ships.”

Lydia Haraden gasped and covered her mouth.