Page 32 of The Salamander

“I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast; for I intend to go in harm’s way.”

– John Paul Jones

CHAPTER 8

The middle of the Atlantic Ocean, April 1777

THE ATLANTIC HEAVED in long blue swells, the two Salem brigantines riding them with steady grace. The Tyrannicide and the Massachusetts had been out scarcely a fortnight when, on the morning of the 8th of April, the lookout’s cry carried down from the foremast. “Sail ho! Off the larboard bow!”

Jon raised his glass, the April wind whipping his hair as he steadied himself on the Tyrannicide’s quarterdeck. The stranger loomed on the gray horizon, sails straining eastward, a bluff-bowed bark, deep in the water with cargo. Her canvas strained under a freshening breeze, bound westward. No colors flew from her mast.

He lowered the glass, jaw tightening. “What ship runs without colors in these waters?”

Israel Thorndike, his new first lieutenant, shaded his eyes. “Could be a neutral, Captain. Or she’s British and waiting to see if we dare press her.”

Jon’s gaze flicked to the Massachusetts a cable’s length away, her sails taut as she kept station. “Let’s press her.” Through his glass, Jon studied the vessel. On her taffrail gleamed the name Lonsdale, though she showed no port of registry. “Name sounds English, and she’s five hundred tons, if she’s an ounce,” he said, lowering the glass. “She’s no coaster. That’s an ocean trader, ripe for plucking.” Jon lowered his glass and turned to his first lieutenant. “Mr. Thorndike, signal the Massachusetts. We’ll wear Dutch colors.”

“Aye, sir.”

A seaman sprang to the halyards. Moments later, the Tyrannicide’s Dutch tricolor climbed her peak. Across the water, the Massachusetts answered with the same, her own Appeal to Heaven and Continental Union flag hauled down and replaced. To the Lonsdale’s watch, two harmless traders now bore down upon her.

He lifted his speaking trumpet. “Mr. Lovett, bring us down across her wake. Clear away the starboard guns.”

Fisk, aboard the Massachusetts, hailed across the chop. “Shall we try her, Haraden?”

Jon gave a short nod. Both Salem ships broke from their line, adjusting sail to cut across the bark’s course. To all eyes they wore the tricolors of Holland, safe passage for merchantmen, or so the Lonsdale’s master might believe.

The hours dragged as the Americans closed. Finally, the bark hoisted her own flag: a red ensign. A British merchantman.

“She shows her teeth,” Thorndike muttered at Haraden’s elbow.

“Aye. And we’ll see how sharp they are.”

At pistol-shot range, Haraden gave the order, “Strike the Dutch flag!” The Dutch flag snapped down, and in its place soared two banners of the United States: the Continental Union flag and the Appeal to Heaven pine tree flag, streaming proud in the April wind.

The bark’s deck erupted with shouts. A gun boomed from her larboard side, the shot falling short.

“Mr. Moses,” Haraden called, “run out the starboard battery.”

The Tyrannicide’s guns heaved against their tackles. Her crew stood tense at the batteries, matches poised, handspikes braced. Powder boys clutched their bags, eyes wide.

Jon lifted his trumpet, his voice carrying above the wind. “Stand by! …Fire as your guns bear!”

Through the smoke, Thorndike shouted, “Fire!” And his order was relayed down the line.

The broadside thundered, the ship staggering as flame and smoke leapt from her flanks. Round shot smashed into the Lonsdale’s hull and rigging. Splinters flew like hail, and her foretopmast shivered but held. She answered with a ragged volley, iron balls shrieking overhead and spouting spray from the sea.

From windward a lookout aboard the Massachusetts pointed, bellowing across the water. Fisk hoisted a private signal and cupped his hands to shout, “Strange sail to weather! Bearing down!”

“At your discretion!” Jon answered through the trumpet. “Learn her nature and rejoin!”

The Massachusetts put her helm up and shouldered off under a press of canvas, slewing away on a slanting course. In moments she was a tumble of wake and white cloth, leaving the Tyrannicide to grapple the bark alone.

For three hours they hammered at one another, close-hauled in the rolling Atlantic. Twice the Lonsdale tried to sheer off, but the Tyrannicide clung to her flank, gunners working like furies under Moses and Lovett. The bark’s planking was split and scarred; her sails hung in tatters.

A moment passed and the red ensign that had flown so stubbornly wavered, then came down.

Thorndike, powder-smudged and exultant at Jon’s side, shouted, “Colors struck, Captain!”