Page 21 of The Salamander

Eunice met Mr. Haraden’s gaze, and in it she saw the quiet strength that answered the fear in the room. Soon enough he would be gone again, the sea calling him to duty, and they would miss him sorely.

Hannah’s voice broke the silence. “How long will you be gone, Papa?”

“Longer than before, sweetheart. With fair winds, it’s four or five weeks to the West Indies. And we shall be there for a while hunting British merchantmen. But I will think of you and Polly every day.”

“And we will pray for you,” said Eunice.

THE DAYS THAT followed passed in a quiet rhythm of preparation. Repairs were checked, stores loaded, and the Tyrannicide readied for sea. Jon kept the hours at home close, letting himself be drawn into small moments: Polly’s laughter at Martha’s jingling keys, Hannah reciting her catechism at Eunice’s side, the glow of candles softening the cream-painted walls each evening. Those he tried to hold against the tide already tugging at him, treasures to be recalled in his long days at sea.

By the twenty-eighth, the house carried a hush of unspoken knowledge. His sea chest stood at the door, ready. When Jon rose at dawn on the twenty-ninth, the harbor air was sharp with salt and wood smoke, the gulls crying overhead. The Tyrannicide tugged at her moorings like a horse eager for the course.

He kissed his daughters, lingered at the door, sharing a smile with Eunice a heartbeat longer than he meant, and then was gone, the sea calling him to duty.

On the Tyrannicide, off the Carolinas, early November 1776

THE RASP OF holystones carried across the deck at dawn, the men scrubbing in steady rhythm as seawater sloshed from buckets. It was the ordinary sound of a ship at sea, until the sky drew Jon’s eyes.

The eastern horizon was bruising, a low bank of clouds thickening with an odd, greenish cast. The wind had a weight to it now, heavy and damp.

“Belay that scrubbing!” Jon’s voice cut sharp. “Hands aloft! Reef topsail! Lash everything that moves. Gale coming on!”

The stones were quickly set aside as men scrambled to their stations. Bare feet slapped the wet deck, canvas cracked overhead, and the ordered calm of the morning turned to the taut urgency of preparation. Guns were double-lashed, hatches battened down, and in the rigging the topmen clung like gulls, hauling in sail before the squall could tear it loose.

Even the cabin boys threw themselves into the work. Johnny Deadman darted between the gun crews, snatching at loose gear before it could roll, his thin frame moving quicker than men twice his size. His fellow cabin boy, Bobby Grover, hauled at a line alongside the seamen, his face tight with effort. Jon’s eyes caught them both, and for a moment pride steadied his chest. With the oncoming storm, every soul aboard was proving his worth.

Captain Fisk came up to the quarterdeck, the wind tugging at his coat. He gave one measuring glance at the sky, then nodded once, brisk and certain. “Good eye, Lieutenant. Keep her snugged down tight. We’ll ride it out. Send a hand to see the lashings doubled on the longboat. We’ll not lose her.”

“Aye, sir,” Jon answered, already signaling the order. He felt the crew respond, steady hands working faster, confidence flowing from the quarterdeck down through every station.

The first hard gust hit moments later, shrieking through the rigging. The Tyrannicide heeled, but she was ready, secured, braced, her crew at their posts.

By late afternoon, the gale was in full fury. Seas mounted higher than a house, gray-green walls that threatened to swallow the brigantine whole. Spray slashed across the deck in icy sheets, and the men’s shouts were snatched away by the wind.

Jon clung to the weather rail, his voice raw from giving orders. “Ease her off! Keep her bow quarter to it. Steady!” The helmsman wrestled the wheel, knuckles white.

Fisk moved beside Jon, calm as ever, his voice pitched low, steadying. “You’ve the feel of her, Haraden. Don’t fight the sea, ride her through.”

Jon’s hand tightened on the weather rail, knuckles white, though his voice rang firm above the storm. “She’s sound, and so are her hands. The sea may try us, but it won’t have us.” The words were as much for the crew as for himself, and he saw heads lift along the deck, shoulders squaring against the gale.

As the storm raged, spars groaned, ropes strained, but the brigantine held. They had stripped her canvas to bare poles. Still she flew, driven by the screaming wind.

Midnight found Jon on his feet still, every muscle aching, salt caked in his hair and on his coat. A sea broke across the ship’s waist, sweeping two men off their feet, but hands caught them, hauled them gasping back. One man’s arm was broken, another cut by a flying block, the injured sent to the orlop deck.

Fisk’s lantern swung in the blackness, casting a thin light. “Hold fast, lads. Dawn’ll break before long, and this devil will blow itself out.” His words, quiet but certain, carried more weight than the gale itself.

When the first light came, it revealed a sea transformed. The storm was spent, the horizon clean, and above stretched a sky as brilliant and blue as hammered glass. The Tyrannicide rose and fell on long, even swells, her timbers groaning but unbroken.

The men stood at the rail, hollow-eyed, salt-streaked, and grinning. One began to whistle, another laughed outright. Relief rolled through the deck like a fresh wind.

Jon drew a deep breath, his lungs full of the salt-clean air. The ship smelled of tar and wet wood, but also of life, of endurance. His gaze strayed forward where the masts stood tall, ropes taut, the brigantine whole despite the night’s fury.

“God’s mercy,” muttered one seaman, kissing the wooden rail. Jon nodded as he thanked God for delivering them from the storm. His eyes on the horizon, he asked himself, with all that behind them, what might lay ahead?

Beside him, Fisk stretched his back with a wince. “Well, Mr. Haraden,” he said, a ghost of humor in his voice, “she’s proved herself a brigantine already. Not many ships take a blow like that their first week rigged.”

Jon managed a tired smile. “She’s sound, Captain. And thanks to Providence, so are we.”

“Now to see if Cook has been able to fix us something hot to eat,” said Fisk. “I’m famished and I imagine the crew is tired of hardtack.” Giving a curt nod to the deck, he shouted, “Mr. Stockman, you’ve the watch. Set the warrant officers to secure the lashings, pump her dry, and see the men know they’ll have a hot meal. Join me in my cabin once the deck’s settled.”