Page 80 of The Salamander

“These are the times that try men’s souls.”

– Thomas Paine 1776

CHAPTER 19

Oranje Bay, St. Eustatius, early March 1781

FROM THE QUARTERDECK, Jon scanned the bay crowded with masts as the Pickering slowly sailed into the anchorage at Oranje Bay. To starboard rode the recaptured Boston ship, Captain Curtis striding her deck with new pride, the Stars and Stripes snapping in the breeze. And behind them, the Pickering’s prizes.

Jon’s eyes swept the shore. The rows of Dutch warehouses, the taverns and counting houses of the Lower Town were the same. The red-roofed buildings he had seen before still stood on the hills surrounding the port. And, over all, the Dutch flag flew over the fort. This was neutral ground, a safe harbor at last. Repairs and respite lay just ahead. But amidst it all an eerie discomfort gripped his chest. Something was not right.

“I am anxious for the good meal I last had in this port,” said Thorndike at his side.

Jon allowed himself a small smile. “Aye, Eustatius has ever been a friend to our cause.”

But before his words had finished echoing, the lookout aloft gave a shout that froze the deck. “Sail ho! Fleet to windward! British ensigns, by God!”

Jon snatched the glass from Thorndike. Canvas as far as the eye could see, lines of ships of the line, frigates bristling with guns, their masts like a forest. And at their heart, the flag of Admiral Sir George Rodney.

Thorndike’s face went pale. “The British have taken St. Eustatius!”

Jon swung his glass shoreward. Redcoats poured down from the fort above Oranje Bay, muskets flashing in the sun. The Dutch tricolor still flew but St. Eustatius was neutral ground no longer.

“Captain!” Curtis cried hoarsely from his deck. “British ships! We are trapped!”

And trapped they were. Already the men-of-war in the bay were wheeling broadside-on, hemming them in, their gunports open like black, waiting mouths. Astern, more sails filled the channel they had entered, closing the gate. There was nowhere to run.

Jon’s hands clenched at the rail, fury hot in his chest. To fight was to see his men slaughtered pointlessly, prizes lost in flame and wreck. He forced the words out, steady and hard. “Better trapped in honor than fleeing like cowards. Mr. Carnes, strike our colors before they rake us with broadsides. We’ll not waste lives in a hopeless fight.”

A groan went up from the deck. Still, the order was obeyed. With heavy hearts, the Stars and Stripes fluttered down. Across the water, Curtis’ Boston ship struck her flag as well. And behind them, Jon’s prize crews lowered the American flag. Silence followed, heavier than the roar of any guns.

The officers and cabin boys clustered around Jon and Thorndike as they came down to the main deck. Within the hour, British boats swarmed them. Officers in scarlet strode aboard, pistols drawn. Jon handed over his sword without bowing his head.

The boarding officer sneered as he accepted it. “To Admiral Rodney,” he said, tucking the blade under his arm.

Jon’s voice rang clear enough for his men to hear. “Tell him he takes a ship, not her spirit.”

Thorndike and the other officers were disarmed beside him. Curtis and his Boston crew were driven from their reclaimed deck at bayonet point. Together, captains and men alike were ferried ashore under guard.

Once ashore, they were herded into the West India Company’s weighing house on the Lower Town quay, its thick stone walls swallowing the sunlight. The cavernous hall smelled of dust, rum, and sweat. Great beams loomed overhead, iron scales dangling like gallows. Straw was scattered across the floor for bedding, already fouled by the press of captives. Faces crowded the windows, hollow-eyed men staring out at the bay where their ships lay under foreign flags.

Jon turned to his officers and the cabin boys who crowded together like saplings in a gale, their faces hollow with worry. “Stay close. We’ll not be separated if I can help it.” He looked to a gaunt man near the far wall. “When did this happen?”

“Only weeks ago,” came the weary reply. “They took the Dutch unawares. One lone Dutch frigate couldn’t stand against fifteen of Rodney’s warships. The garrison was but sixty men, no match for the landing force. Rodney seized near one hundred and fifty ships in the harbor.”

“And the Dutch flag?” asked Jon. “A ruse?”

“Aye, the British fly the Dutch flag over St. Eustatius to lure unsuspecting enemy ships. Most were American.”

A Dutch voice, raw with anger, added, “The Jews fared worse than the rest of us. Rodney singled them out for harsh treatment. They were beaten and robbed of everything they had, even stripped for cash or precious stones secreted in their clothing. Then he ordered them expelled on one day’s notice, without telling their families or giving them access to their homes.”

Another said, “They were here in the weighing house for a time before they were deported to St. Kitts, even the ones who were British.”

Jon set his jaw. “Rodney picked on people who brought commerce to the island. It’s dishonorable to the last. Meantime, we’ll endure. We’ll not rot here forever.”

Bobby, pale but resolute, lifted his chin. “Not while you lead us, Captain.”

The words rippled through the room, drawing murmurs of courage from the weary men. Jon rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his heart set like iron. Whatever came, they would not break.