Page 86 of The Salamander

“Good,” Jon said softly. “Better to let them think us tame than desperate.”

A soft cough came from the corner. Curtis, thinner than ever, had risen from his place among the sleepers. “Tame men don’t survive this long. We’ve lost three already, God rest them. Another week will kill the sickliest if the British keep cutting our rations.”

“They’ll not die here,” Jon said. “We’ll move them first when the tunnel opens. They’ll have the night air before any of us.”

Bobby looked up from his work, his voice small. “Do you think the Dutch sloop will still be waiting, sir?”

“She will,” Jon replied, though even he could not be sure. “Her captain’s a man of conscience. He’ll not leave before the rainy season ends.”

A sudden clatter of boots echoed down the corridor outside. The men froze. A guard’s drunken voice slurred, “Up with the lantern, you lazy curs—inspection!”

Thorndike darted to the corner, sweeping the loose earth with his sleeve. Bobby kicked the empty shovel beneath a pallet just as the bolt scraped open. Two redcoats stumbled in, muskets at the ready, the sour smell of rum on their breath.

The taller one squinted at the gloom. “What’s that hole in the floor?”

Jon stood calmly, straight-backed and barefoot. “A drain, Sergeant. The rains have swelled the wall cracks. We’ve been keeping the floor dry.”

The guard grunted, swinging the lantern closer. Thorndike held his breath as the light hovered inches from the patch of disturbed stone. Then the other soldier burped, muttered, “Smells like hell in here,” and turned away.

The first one sneered. “Enjoy your paradise, Yankees.” He slammed the door behind them, the bolt grinding home.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Bobby exhaled shakily. “That was close.”

“Too close,” Thorndike muttered.

Jon crouched beside the false drain and brushed the dust from the edge. “We’ll cover it better. From now on, we dig only after midnight. No talk, no lamplight. One sound could hang us all.”

Curtis nodded grimly. “We’ll manage.”

Jon leaned against the wall, feeling the faint vibration beneath his palm—the pulse of the sea, or the faint echo of shovels still working. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he pictured Salem: the harbor bells, the smell of the market, Eunice’s voice reading by firelight.

“We’ll see it again,” he murmured. “If God grants us three more weeks of darkness, we’ll see the dawn at sea.”

Thorndike’s tired face broke into the ghost of a grin. “Then let’s keep digging, Captain. I’d rather drown free than sweat in this tomb another night.”

Jon met his eyes, nodded once, and reached for the shovel. “So be it. We finish what we started.”

Haraden house, Salem, October 1781

THE EVENING WIND carried the faint smell of wood smoke from the town chimneys and the harbor where masts stood like bare trees against a copper sky, gulls crying over the ebb tide. Eunice sat by the open window with her sewing basket untouched, her eyes turned to the horizon as if she could will a sail into view. From upstairs came the sound of the girls playing. Martha sat beside her, taking a rare break from her kitchen duties. Behind them a fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth welcome on the chilled night.

Footsteps sounded on the path. A moment later Silas came in, hat in hand, his coat still carrying the smoke of the coffeehouse hearth.

“You’ve been long,” Martha said, rising. “Did you hear anythin’ worth the tellin’, or was it all wharfside gossip again?”

Hanging up his coat, Silas glanced toward Eunice before answering. “Some of it might be gossip, some might be Providence movin’.” He set his hat on the table. “News from London papers brought in by packet. Admiral Rodney’s left St. Eustatius. Sailed for England with a convoy heavy as Pharaoh’s treasure, thirty-odd ships, they say, filled with gold, sugar, and goods stolen from every merchant and privateer doin’ business on the island.”

Martha snorted. “Aye, and may it sink him to the bottom.”

But Eunice had risen from her chair, one hand pressed to her breast. “He’s gone? Truly Rodney’s gone from the Indies?”

Silas nodded. “Aye. Left what remains of the garrison under some colonel’s charge. They say Rodney was so intent on guardin’ his plunder that he near forgot there’s a war on. French ships caught his treasure convoy off the Channel and took the whole of it, three million pounds, so the paper claims.”

Martha let out a low whistle. “So greed’s bitten the hand that fed it.”

Eunice could scarcely breathe. “Then, if he’s gone, perhaps the prisoners have been left behind. Perhaps…the captain will find some mercy without him there.”