Page 56 of The Salamander

Now the cutter Royal George tried her luck, darting close, spitting iron. Jon’s jaw tightened. “Bring her under our bow. Mr. Carnes, give her the chase gun.”

The bow-gun thundered, smashing into the cutter’s deck. She sheered off, her colors drooping.

For half an hour the sea boiled in smoke and flame. When at last the echoes faded, all three enemy vessels lay struck, their colors down. The Pickering’s deck was scorched and black with powder, her planks littered with spent wads and tangled rigging, smoke still burning Jon’s eyes. But beyond the haze he saw his men grinning, wild with disbelief, their triumph written plain.

And from amidships, Bobby Grover beamed up at his captain.

Thorndike, face streaked with soot, laughed aloud. “Three to one and not a man here thought it possible. Captain, the men will never forget this day.”

Later, when the deck was cleared, the wounded tended, and the prize crews aboard the captured vessels and headed for Salem, Jon supped with his officers in the great cabin. He had invited the chaplain, David McClure, to join them and give God their thanks. The cook proudly served salt beef, ship’s biscuit softened in broth, and a pie of salt pork and onions, to which Jon added a bottle of Madeira.

McClure bowed his head, his voice steady though the cabin rocked with the sea. “We thank Thee, Lord, who brought us through fire and smoke this day. Grant us mercy for the wounded, justice for our foes, and safe return for all. You have been ever kind to us. Lastly, we thank you for this meal.”

“Amen,” said Jon before pouring the Madeira. Their conversation was low, exhaustion dulling the edge of victory as they ate.

It was Bobby Grover, the cabin boy, who slipped in with a jug of water, cheeks still smeared with soot. He hesitated, then blurted, “Beg pardon, Captain, but I thought you should know. The men are calling you the Salamander.”

Jon looked up sharply. “The what?”

Bobby shuffled his feet. “The Salamander, sir. They say you thrive in fire, like the creature of old, where any other man would burn. You stood like the guns themselves, cool as ever, while the whole sea was aflame around you.”

The officers chuckled, Thorndike grinning as he lifted his glass. “A fitting name, Captain. And mark my words, one that will carry.”

Jon studied the boy, then the faces around the table. At last a smile tugged his mouth. “If the crew must give me a name, let it be for their own pride, not mine. But see to it, Bobby. Tell them a salamander endures the fire because God is with him and his men fight with courage. Without God, we could not prevail. And without them, I’m nothing but another mariner.”

Bobby’s eyes shone. “Aye, Captain. I’ll tell them.”

Thorndike raised his glass higher. “To the Salamander and to the Pickering!”

The other officers raised their glasses in response. “To the Salamander!”

Glasses clinked. Outside, the sea rolled on, carrying the name forward into Jon’s future.

The West Indies, November 1779

IT WAS A GOOD time to be in the Caribbean. The weather was warm and balmy and not oppressively hot. Jon stood on the quarterdeck drinking his morning coffee as the Pickering rolled in a long swell. Canvas sagged in the light air, the sea as blue as molten glass.

He was just handing back his mug to Bobby when the lookout’s hail carried down to him. Jon raised his glass to see a stout ship on the horizon, square-rigged, flying the red ensign bright against the clear blue sky.

“Royal Mail,” Thorndike muttered, narrowing his eyes. “They’ll be armed. They always are. And fat with bullion”

Jon’s mouth curved faintly. “All the better. A prize worth the fight and gold for the cause.”

“Beat to quarters!” Jon commanded.

Thorndike’s voice rang out at once, carrying the order down the deck. “Beat to quarters! Hands to stations!” The drummer rattled his sticks, the fife shrilled, and bare feet slapped the planks as men leapt to their guns.

The first exchange was savage. Iron screamed overhead, splinters flying as balls smashed through bulwarks. The deck quivered under the blast of the enemy’s broadside. “So, she wants a fight,” Jon said, smiling.

The Pickering answered with her own thunder, fire belching from the gunports, acrid smoke choking the air until it seemed the world itself was aflame.

Hours dragged. Both ships broke off, crews heaving at pumps, men hauling lines and spars. Jon wiped powder grit from his brow, sweat stinging his eyes. The Pickering’s rigging hung in tatters, yet he gave no thought of yielding. He was just getting started.

“Captain,” Carnes said hoarsely, “powder’s near gone. Barely enough for a single broadside.”

Jon looked across the swells at the Royal Mail ship, her rigging ragged but her flag still flying. His voice stayed calm. “Then one shot is all we need. But first, we must make her ready.”

The crew worked like demons to patch sails and reload what little powder remained. By dawn they were ready. Jon ordered the Pickering brought close, her bowsprit looming almost over the enemy’s deck. “Her captain can see my blue coat,” said Jon, “but we can get closer still.” When the distance closed to pistol range, Jon stepped forward, his voice carrying like iron over the smoke.

“Strike your colors, or I’ll rake you stem to stern!”

For a moment there was silence, then the red flag fluttered down.

A ragged cheer burst from the Pickering’s decks. Men laughed, shouted, embraced.

Thorndike, his face streaked with soot, barked a laugh. “By God, sir, they’ve struck! And you had but one shot left in the locker.”

At the rail, Bobby Grover’s voice came in a hushed whisper, eyes wide with awe. “That’s why they call you the Salamander, Captain. Fire and smoke don’t touch you.”

Jon set his hand to the rail, his gaze on the fallen British flag drifting down the enemy’s mast. “No, Lad. The fire touches us all. But we prevail because Providence is with us and we endure together. Never forget that.”

The boy’s eyes shone as though lit from within, and Jon felt the sight settle in his mind. Whatever he said, the name would cling. In Salem, at sea, in every port that whispered the tale, he would forever be the Salamander.