Page 89 of The Salamander

“It appears to me, the eternal Son of God is operating powerfully against the British nation.”

– Spoken by a “reputable, religious man” in a tavern in 1777 and overheard by John Adams, who sent it to his wife, Abigail

CHAPTER 21

Haraden house, the next morning, late January 1781

MORNING SUNLIGHT FILTERED pale through the frost-laced panes, glinting off pewter cups and the steam rising from the coffee. The house smelled of woodsmoke, hotcakes, and maple syrup warming by the hearth. For the first time in more than a year, the Haraden table was full again.

Eunice poured coffee into Jon’s cup, her hands steady though her heart was not. “Did you sleep well?” she asked. From his expression, she could see he had not. “It may take some time…”

“Aye.” He sat close to the fire, the light showing the gray at his temples and the new lines around his eyes. But the handsome man she had fallen in love with was still there. He smiled, yet she saw how his gaze moved over the room as if testing the reality of it, the girls’ laughter, the clink of plates, the sound of Martha moving around.

Martha set down a platter of fried apples. “You’ll take another plate, Captain. There’s plenty.”

Jon lifted his head, one hand wrapped around his cup. “Aye, Martha. I’ll eat what’s here and be grateful. There were months when I thought I’d never smell breakfast again, and, should you be curious, the French sailors eat worse than the Americans.”

The words drew silence. Even the children looked up. Eunice reached across the table and placed her hand on his, her voice gentle. “You needn’t speak of it, Jon. Not today.”

But he shook his head. “It’s time you knew what befell us. The story belongs to all who waited.”

His voice was low and even as he told it, how the ship had suffered damage taking prizes so the Pickering had sailed into Oranje Bay, seeking repairs under what they thought was the neutral Dutch flag; how the British guns never fired because there was no need. The island had already fallen.

He spoke of the march through the heat, the weighing house thick with hunger and despair; of the men they lost, too weak to live; of the Dutch who risked their own lives to slip them food through the bars. Of how they planned and executed an escape just as the French fleet sailed into the bay, their tricolor hoisted above the fort with the dawn. “They freed St. Eustatius,” he said simply. “And by God’s grace, I am here.”

“The officers?” she asked. “Lieutenant Thorndike?”

“All endured and were saved. Thorndike was particularly brave in our escape.”

“The cabin boys?” asked Hannah.

“All saved,” said Jon, his eyes tearing up.

Eunice felt her throat tighten. She didn’t doubt he, too, had been brave, leading the other men and caring for the boys. She wanted to take his hand but didn’t trust herself not to weep.

“What about your ship, Papa?” asked Hannah.

“The Pickering is lost to me, sweetheart. I cannot say what has become of her.”

“There will be another ship,” Eunice encouraged, “if you want one.”

Martha cleared her throat roughly. “You’ll forgive me, Captain, but I think what you’re made for this mornin’ is eatin’.” She set another plate before him. “Tell the rest after your second helpin’.”

Jon smiled faintly, the kind of smile that reached his eyes at last. “Eat first, yes. As for the rest…” he glanced at Eunice, and for a moment she saw excitement flicker in his eyes. “I’ve merchants to meet with and a wedding to prepare for. And after that…perhaps the sea again. But this morning, Martha, I’ll take your hotcakes over any prize ship afloat.”

A ripple of laughter warmed the room, light as the crackle of the fire. Outside, sounds from the harbor drifted faintly through the still air. Eunice caught his look across the table, alive and unbroken, and felt a prayer rise unspoken in her heart: Lord, help me to help him heal.

The London Coffeehouse, Salem, late January 1782

THE SMELL OF roasted beans and tobacco hung thick beneath the beams of the coffeehouse. Candles guttered in their sconces, their light falling across the cups and the wet shine of greatcoats hung to dry. Outside in the harbor, masts rose like gray spears against the snow. Inside, talk of the sea filled every corner.

Jon had been home scarcely a fortnight, yet word of his return had spread along Essex Street finding its way to the coffeehouse on Central Street. Merchants, sailors and shipwrights greeted him with handshakes and claps to the shoulder.

“Thought the British had you locked in irons, Captain!” one man laughed.

“They did for a time,” Jon replied evenly, “but Providence proved the stronger.”

At the back of the room, Elias Derby, the merchant prince of Salem, sat by the fire with a folded gazette on his knee. “Captain Haraden,” he called, motioning him over. “You’ve the look of a man who’s cheated Neptune himself. Come sit. Tell me the truth of St. Eustatius.”