Page 18 of The Salamander

When the congregation rose to sing, the voices were strong and sure, yet in Eunice’s mind they were undercut by the echo of distant thunder, or was it the boom of a ship’s broadside imagined across the miles?

As they left the church, a gull’s cry pierced the stillness, faint but clear. Eunice saw the bird wheel inland, fighting the wind as if fleeing some unseen storm.

In the shallows off the coast, 6 August 1776

JON’S COAT WAS streaked with soot, his hands blackened where the gun crews’ smoke had found him. His eyes smarted, and the faint burn of powder hung on his clothes, a reminder that they’d been too close to the British guns.

The Tyrannicide had clung to the safety of the shallows until the frigate was long gone, her deeper draft keeping her from the chase. Only then did Captain Fisk order the sails eased and the wounded tended.

They were bruised and splinter-cut, but no lives had been lost. Her mast still stood, though a shot had torn through the quarter and left the deck scarred. Jon felt the ache in his jaw ease a little. They had escaped, but only just.

By the time they made their slow turn homeward, the two captured prizes, the St. John and Three Brothers, were long gone ahead, bound for Salem. Their arrival would spread the news of the Tyrannicide’s victories through the streets, sending spirits soaring and purses ringing in anticipation of the prize court’s ruling.

What Salem would not know, not until the Tyrannicide limped in days later under patched canvas, was the rest of the story: how a third prize had been in their grasp, and how the pursuit of a British frigate had forced them to cut her loose and run for their lives.

Salem Harbor, mid-August 1776

EUNICE STOOD AMONG the knot of townsfolk gathered on Derby Wharf, the summer air thick with the mingled scents of tar, seaweed, and the salt of low tide. The water glittered under a high sun as she shaded her eyes searching the harbor until a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd.

“There she is!” someone cried, pointing.

Out beyond the anchorage, a single-masted sloop crept in under patched canvas, her lines still proud but her rigging streaked with soot. Even from shore, Eunice could see the scars, a jagged splintering at her quarter, smoke-dark smudges along her rail.

The Tyrannicide.

As she drew nearer, the crew came into view, lean, salt-stained men moving with the weary precision of those who had faced the enemy at sea. And there, at the rail, was Jonathan Haraden. Whole, thank God, but his coat was streaked with soot and salt, the cuffs frayed where powder burns had scorched the cloth.

The wind lifted strands of his sun-streaked brown hair from its queue, and for a moment, as they drifted free, he looked straight toward shore, toward her, though she knew he could not possibly pick her out among the press of onlookers.

A flood of relief washed through her, chasing the tight knot that had lived in her chest since the bells rang on the day of prayer. Yet the sight of him, so near, marked by the smoke and fire of battle, yet unscathed, left her throat dry. This was the cost of the victories Salem had already been cheering for days. This was what her seamen risked for liberty.

The London Coffeehouse, 15 Central Street, Salem, mid-September 1776

JON STEPPED FROM the mild afternoon into the London Coffeehouse, thick with pipe smoke and the mingled scents of coffee, rum, and brine. A favorite haunt of merchants and seamen, the coffeehouse was also the meeting place of the Salem chapter of the Sons of Liberty.

Doors stood propped open to the street. Light slanted across tables crowded with charts, broadsides and mugs. His gaze caught on a Boston broadside tacked to the wall lamenting British victories in New York. The lines told of General Howe’s rout on Long Island and Washington’s evacuation of the city. A sober defeat.

Turning from the broadside, he scanned the crowd, spotting Fisk, Stockman and Benjamin Moses sitting at a corner table with mugs and pewter cups scattered before them. Fisk waved Jon over. “You’re just in time, Haraden, to hear my argument for converting our sloop to a brigantine.”

Jon took the empty chair. A cup of coffee slid to his hand. “This should be interesting,” he said, as he took a drink of the dark, bitter brew.

“With a brigantine rig, square on the foremast, fore and aft on the main,” said Fisk, rapping his knuckles on the wood, “she’ll carry more canvas and give us more combinations of sail. For a West Indies run, that square sail is worth gold. She’ll handle better off the wind, ride steadier in a seaway, and the pull will be shared between both masts instead of all the strain on one.”

Stockman frowned into his cup. “More sail aloft means more work aloft. And square sails require different skills. We’ll need extra topmen to make and shorten canvas. Seventy-five hands are stretched thin as it is once prize crews are off.”

Moses leaned in, eyes bright. “Just a few sharp lads who can climb fast are all that is required. She’ll be swifter and more easily maneuvered as a brigantine. She’ll hold her course, even in rough seas, so the gunners can stay at their pieces. And with square canvas to drive her, we choose the range, not the king’s cruisers.”

Jon ran a thumb along the rim of his cup. “Two masts make her quicker to heave to and better to claw off a lee shore. Close-hauled she won’t outpoint a fine schooner, but with the wind behind her, she’ll all but run away from the slower ships. In the trade winds, that speed is what counts. The West Indies won’t feel half so far once she’s re-rigged.” He glanced up. “And the next frigate that sights us may think twice about the chase.”

A chair scraped nearby. Elias Hasket Derby, broad-shouldered, auburn-haired, in a brown coat, turned toward them. “You speak sense, Captain Fisk, and you, Lieutenant Haraden. A brigantine brings her prizes home safer. More sail to run when the king’s cruisers prowl, and space enough in her hold for what she seizes, which is important to us merchants.”

Across from him, William Gray, younger and keen-eyed, lifted his chin. “Each lawful capture fattens Salem’s purse and starves the enemy. Make the change quickly so both commerce and Congress can profit.”

“Not commerce enough if New York’s lost,” someone muttered at a neighboring table, and a hush fell.

Samuel Ropes, nineteen, a bundle of papers under his arm, hovered at the edge of their circle. “Beg pardon, sirs. Dispatch out of Boston says Howe’s troops landed at Kips Bay. General Washington quit the city and fell back to Harlem Heights. They say our men gave a smart account of themselves there, but the line won’t hold forever.”

Derby gave the youth a patient look. “Your father sends you to listen, does he, Lad?”