Page 29 of The Salamander

Jon bowed his head. He thanked God for the Savior, the Tyrannicide’s safe return, for their successful captures, and for the food spread before them this evening.

Martha, bustling in, set down a great platter of roast cod with onions, carrots and parsnips, steam rising into the warm room. “Eat your fill,” she told Jon, her chin high. “Let’s see if you can do justice to my kitchen now.”

Jon laughed softly, shaking his head. “This is a feast, one I’ve not tasted since I was last at home.” He caught Mrs. Mason’s glance, warm and approving, and for a moment the ache of his absence eased.

“Tell us about the ships you captured!” Hannah insisted, eyes shining. “Were there awful battles?”

Jon set down his fork. “Very well,” he said, noticing Silas leaning into the room from the kitchen doorway, “but first there was a storm unlike any we’d known.”

“A storm?” Mrs. Mason leaned forward. Hannah’s eyes grew wide.

“Aye. Off Bermuda, the wind blew so fierce it tore canvas from the yards and near carried away our bowsprit. For a day and a night, the crew pumped without ceasing, and the waves rose higher than the Tyrannicide’s masts. More than once I thought we’d founder.” He paused, meeting Hannah’s gaze. “But God was merciful, and when morning came and the seas calmed, the men cheered as if we’d won a battle.”

“And what about the British ships you captured?” Hannah prompted, as Martha came in to gather empty plates.

“We took four fat prizes, merchantmen carrying flour and powder among other things bound for British troops.”

“But there were only three ships behind the Tyrannicide when you sailed into Salem,” Hannah protested. “What happened to the other one?”

“Good eye, sweetheart. The first ship we captured was a snow, the Ann, bound for Jamaica with a cargo of flour and lumber. We sold her in St. Eustatius for needed coin. She also carried dispatches bearing the seal of the Crown. I put those in Captain Fisk’s hands for General Washington. All the captured ships carried cargo. We made harbor at St. Eustatius, where the Dutch are glad enough to trade with Americans. That is where I bought this.” From the floor, he lifted the small parcel of sugar, molasses, and coffee onto the table. “Martha can use the sweets for her puddings, if she likes. And I will be glad enough to drink the coffee.”

“Hmph,” said Martha, though her eyes softened when she looked at Jon’s gifts. “We’ll see what use your gifts can be put to.”

“It was thoughtful of you to remember the household,” said Mrs. Mason. She coaxed a spoonful of mashed parsnip toward Polly, who promptly pushed it back out with her tongue, smearing her gown. “And what is next for you and the Tyrannicide?”

“I expect the Board of War will have new orders soon enough. I may know more tomorrow when I meet with Captain Fisk.”

When all the platters had been cleared, Martha returned from the kitchen with a steaming apple pie, its crust golden and sugared, the scent filling the room with a sweetness that cut through the winter air.

“Apple pie!” Hannah clapped her hands.

Polly reached across her tray, squealing, and Mrs. Mason quickly cut a small piece into tiny morsels for her. The child ate the soft apple filling with sticky delight, smearing it across her cheeks and the high chair table. “I believe Polly loves the pie, Martha,” said Mrs. Mason.

Jon chuckled. “A feast indeed, Martha. You’ve outdone yourself.”

The corners of the cook’s mouth twitched. “A sailor home from sea deserves more than fish and bread.”

It was then, over pie and candlelight, that Jon leaned back in his chair and, turning to Mrs. Mason, said, “I’ve been thinking it might be time to invite my cousin Andrew Haraden and his wife Lydia from Gloucester. He’s outfitting ships and doing quite well. He and Lydia are raising six daughters. And just to make it lively, one is named Hannah, though they call her Joanna, and their youngest is called Polly.” He smiled at his own girls in turn. “I’ll send them an invitation to come to Salem. When duty calls me back to sea, their household can join ours, and Andrew and Lydia can have my chamber while they are with us. You’ll all be kin in truth then.”

“That branch of the Haradens is a stout crew,” said Silas, ambling in from the doorway with a glint in his eye. “Andrew’s father, now there was a shipwright with tar enough in his veins to wrestle his sloop, the Squirrel, right out of pirate hands. Sent those sea wolves off yelpin’, he did. A real hero, and no mistake.” He chuckled, his whiskers twitching. “So, if the Gloucester cousins come, mind you, this house will be brimful of Haraden salt.”

Hannah’s eyes shone. “More cousins!”

“Aye, more cousins,” Jon said with a laugh. “And more laughter in this house.”

For a moment, he let himself believe it would last, the glow of hearth and candles, Polly’s delighted chatter, the women’s steady presence about him, the snow muffling the world beyond their walls. The sea would call soon enough, and he would eagerly go, but tonight he was only Jonathan Haraden: father, cousin, son of Salem.

Derby Wharf, Salem

THE TIDE LAPPED against the pilings, gray water flecked with ice, as Jon strode the length of Derby Wharf. His breath rose in white clouds, whipped away by the northeast wind that rattled every loose line and set the Tyrannicide’s rigging humming like a harp. Snow crusted the planks, crunching under his boots. On either side, stacks of barrel staves, crates of salt fish, and casks of flour bound for the Indies stood rimed in frost, while hogsheads of molasses newly landed from the islands steamed faintly in the cold air.

Merchants in greatcoats stamped their feet for warmth, while apprentices carried ledgers close against the cold.

Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the creak of tackle and the steady hammer of shipwrights at work. The smell of tar and oakum mingled with brine was pungent and familiar. The Tyrannicide was moored snugly, her sails furled in neat bands, her deck alive with movement. Cauldrons of bubbling tar steamed in the frigid air as men caulked seams split in the storm and battles, while others bent fresh canvas to spars.

Captain Fisk stood near the gangway, a folded paper in hand, conferring with the carpenter. At Jon’s approach he looked up, his ruddy face bright against the wind.

“Haraden, you’ve the look of a man ready for orders.”