Chapter 2
“To be prepared for war is one of the most effectual means of preserving peace.”
JON STRODE ALONG Water Street, passing Salem’s wharves, his excitement rising for what lay ahead.
The breeze off the water loosened the heaviness of his sorrow just enough to let hope seep in.
Each step toward the Tyrannicide was a step away from the shadow that had clung to him since Hannah’s death.
The tang of salt and fish were sharp in the air, as gulls rose in the sky to shriek overhead.
Passing barrels and chests ready to be loaded, he spotted the Tyrannicide looming ahead, her single mast tall against the blue sky, her fourteen cannon gleaming under fresh canvas, a sleek sloop of war flying the Massachusetts pine tree flag.
Beneath his cocked hat, John Fisk stood by the gangway smiling at Jon’s approach.
“Haraden,” Fisk called, clasping Jon’s hand.
“Good. You’re here. The General Court commissioned the Tyrannicide today under a letter of marque.
In addition to you as First Lieutenant, Joseph Stockman will be Second Lieutenant and Warrant Officer Benjamin Moses will be our bos’n.
Our Sailing Master, Benjamin Lovett, is a man of some experience in the coastal routes we’ll be navigating. ”
“A good beginning,” remarked Jon, returning Fisk’s smile, for he knew the men and counted them friends. “Have you a need for cabin boys? I can recommend one, Johnny Deadman, a distant cousin of Hannah’s.”
“Of course. By the time the crew is all here, we’ll have many. Some wealthy Salem families are sending their boys to us to learn the sea, and others from poorer families hope to become seamen, even officers. And I’ve assigned one to myself and one to the surgeon.”
Jon was glad he could help the lad, who had come to see him only that morning. “I’ll send Johnny along when I return.”
“Meantime,” said Fisk, “British ships hit Gloucester last week, raiders off Cape Ann, likely from Halifax. We’re to cruise from Massachusetts to New Hampshire, chasing down British merchantmen.”
“I await with impatience our sailing,” said Jon.
He climbed the gangway beside Fisk, running a hand along the sloop’s oak rail, noting the ship’s six-pounders polished for battle.
The sea’s pull stirred him, a balm to the grief that had clung to him like a damp fog since Hannah’s passing.
“She’s a fine sloop, Captain,” said Jon, recognizing Fisk’s new position. “Seventy-five crew, then?”
“Aye,” Fisk replied, “which is why it’s taking some time for them to arrive.”
Jon nodded, scanning the deck where a few crewmen hauled ropes and others tested a cannon for range.
“Word is,” said Fisk, “your service in the militia was so outstanding they raised you to a First Lieutenant after a month. Cabot wanted you for my ship and so did I.”
“Or he desperately needed a first officer,” said Jon with a chuckle.
Fisk laughed. “Come, let me show you your meager cabin.”
Jon followed Fisk down the companionway leading to the stern of the ship, the narrow steps creaking beneath their boots.
From somewhere forward came the rhythmic thud of a caulker’s mallet, the rattle of block and tackle, and the low murmur of men at work, sounds that spoke of a vessel on the brink of action.
The scent of fresh pine, tar, and oiled wood mingled with the sharp tang of the sea, a heady reminder of the life ahead.
Fisk stopped before two adjoining doors set opposite the captain’s quarters. “This one’s yours,” Fisk said, pressing his hand against the door on the right. “Not much space, but enough for a man who spends most of his time on deck.”
Jon pushed the door open and stepped inside to the earthy small of fresh oak. Sunlight from the single porthole dappled the boards and framed the blue water beyond.
The cabin was small but tidy, bare wooden walls, a shelf bed with a rough-spun blanket folded on top, drawers beneath for stowing clothes. A low shelf held a copy of The Naval Discipline.
Having been on merchant ships, Jon had not expected a larger cabin. Meeting Fisk’s inquiring gaze, he said, “Fits a man who’s ready for a fight.”
“Aye,” Fisk agreed. “And we’ve a grand fight ahead, for we go against the most powerful navy in the world.”
“But our cause is grander still,” Jon said. “’Tis liberty itself. Every mile of sea we command is a mile the British navy cannot.”
“Come,” said Fisk, “I’ll show you the captain’s quarters next door. It’s got a bit more elbow room. Our meetings will take place there.”
Fisk pushed open the captain’s door, revealing a cabin bright with afternoon light spilling through four stern windows, the glass thick and slightly wavy.
In the center of the space that spanned the width of the ship’s stern, was a table and chairs for six.
A broad desk was bolted to the deck on one side of the cabin, its surface neat save for a chart of the New England coast and a brass-bound compass.
A sea chest sat beneath the stern windows, and a bunk was built into the starboard wall, its dark blue blanket tucked with military precision.
A rack of small arms—pistols, a cutlass, and a hanger, its curved blade good for slashing, hung within easy reach.
Jon took in the commanding view aft where the ship’s wake would churn white against the blue when underway.
Beyond the harbor’s sunlit waters, Jon pictured the unbroken horizon and the restless sea.
A flicker of the old fire stirred within him.
“A fine place from which to keep the king’s ships on the run. ”
Fisk’s mouth quirked into a smile. “That’s the aim. We’ve precious few ships in the Massachusetts service, but if we use them well, we’ll make the British feel the pinch from Halifax to Portsmouth and remind them the sea is not theirs to keep.”
Jon smiled, content to be serving with John Fisk.
Some minutes later, Jon bid Fisk a good day and descended the gangway to return home, Fisk shouted after him from the rail, “If you’ve a dark green wool coat, plan to wear it.
Green and white are the new colors for naval officers in the Massachusetts Navy, as prescribed by the Council.
Let them see our colors before they feel our guns. ”
Haraden house, Salem, late June 1776
EUNICE KNELT BEFORE her trunk, lifting out clothes and books as the late afternoon sun made the sprig wallpaper glow. From the sideboard came the faint scent of lavender, drifting from stalks in a pewter pitcher. A welcome kindness from Martha she hadn’t expected.
Next to the lamp on the chest of drawers lay her mother’s Kashmir shawl, neatly folded, a gift that tethered her to home. The spiraling red and orange patterns seemed to hold warmth in their threads, enough to brighten the drabbest gown and chase away a lonely night.
The door to the girls’ sleeping room stood open so that Eunice could hear Polly’s cry should she wake.
The wet nurse had left a short time ago and the child slept.
Eunice hummed a hymn, as she lifted her Bible from the trunk, worn from years of use.
When Thomas had died, the hymns helped to remind her God had not forsaken her.
Jonathan Haraden gazed from the silver-framed portrait on the shelf, his eyes somehow more alive in the portrait than when she’d last seen them shadowed by loss.
Perhaps she would offer to put the portrait in the girls’ sleeping room.
Meantime, she would pray his new position as an officer on the Tyrannicide helped him recover.
Surely a position of such great importance would distract him from his grief.
She was just finishing emptying her trunk when a creak announced Hannah in the doorway, her golden hair catching the candlelight, her pretty face drawn into a wary frown. “Mama sang better,” she said after a moment. “Her songs kept Polly content.”
Eunice paused, setting down a folded gown. “I’d love to hear your mama’s songs, Hannah. Maybe you’ll teach me one?” Her voice carried hope for friendship.
Hannah’s frown deepened, but she stepped closer. “She liked lavender,” she murmured, glancing at the flowers. “She said it smelled like summer.” Her voice wavered, a crack in her guard.
“I think so, too.” Then remembering the small portrait, she said, “Hannah, would you like your papa’s portrait in your room? We can move it there if you like.”
She nodded, her gaze darting to the small painting of her father.
“Then we shall do it,” said Eunice, smiling at Hannah.
Polly began to stir, emitting a grunt. Eunice rose and reached for the small portrait. “Let’s check on your sister.” She offered her hand. Hannah didn’t take it but followed with light footsteps.
In the girls’ sleeping room, Eunice set the small silver frame with its portrait on the chest under the window and then went to the cradle.
Polly smiled up at her reaching with her small arms. Martha bustled past the doorway carrying a stack of linens and stopped, her mob cap askew. “You’ve a knack for calmin’ that one.”
Eunice’s cheeks heated. “Thank you, Martha.” She lifted Polly out of the cradle and checked her cotton clout. “She needs changing.”
“Here,” said Martha, handing her a cotton square from the stack she carried, “a fresh one. Do you know how to change it?”
“As it happens,” said Eunice, “I do. From changing my older sister’s babies.”
Martha put the linens in a hall cupboard, then joined Eunice to watch her place Polly on the bed and change her.
“You’re fittin’ in well, Mrs. Mason. Keep it up and you just might keep this house from fallin’ apart.
” Her crinkled smile showed trust, a bond forming over shared care for the girls.
“Here, give me the soiled one and I’ll put it with the others to be rinsed and washed. ”
Eunice handed the clout to Martha and carried Polly downstairs. Hannah trailed behind her. “Shall we read a story to Polly while Martha prepares supper?”