Chapter 2 #2
“Mama told me a story about a man named Jonah who was swallowed by a giant fish.”
Eunice smiled, imagining the scene. “That’s a good story. There are many good stories in the Bible. Would you like me to tell you another?”
For the next hour, Eunice told Hannah the story of the shepherd boy, David, how he killed a lion and a bear that threatened his sheep and how he honored God in slaying a giant. She had many questions and Eunice took care to answer every one.
“How old was David when he killed Goliath?” Hannah asked, leaning forward.
“A good question, Hannah. The Bible doesn’t tell us exactly. Both King Saul and David’s older brothers called him a ‘boy’. He was the youngest of eight brothers. He might have been only twelve or in his early teens.”
After puzzling over that for a moment, she asked, “Why did he take up five stones when he only needed one to kill Goliath?”
“Ah,” Eunice said with a smile, “that’s something my father told me when I was your age. Goliath had four brothers, all giants like him.”
As the smells of supper filled the parlor, the front door opened, and Mr. Haraden stepped inside. He appeared a different man than when he had left, the shadows in his eyes eased, the set of his shoulders lighter than when she’d first met him.
Hannah ran to him and he lifted her into his arms. “How’s my girl?”
“I am good, Papa. Polly, too.” He kissed Hannah on the cheek and set her down.
“Evening, Mrs. Mason. I see you have Polly well content. Have you settled in?”
“I have, thank you. How did you find your new ship?”
For the first time since she’d met him, Eunice saw a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “She’s a beauty, a fine sloop with polished decks and new guns just waiting to be fired. With a name like the Tyrannicide, we’ll make sure the British tyrants think twice before they sail our waters.”
Eunice laughed. “Indeed.”
Martha came into the parlor. “Evenin’, sir. Supper’s ready as soon as you are.”
“I’ll be down in a bit,” he said, turning to ascend the stairs.
Martha nudged Eunice. “He’s got that look again, off to fight the British, this time on the sea.”
Eunice smiled, as she lifted Polly and carried her into the kitchen. Walking beside Eunice, Hannah said proudly, “My papa’s going to sea.”
“Yes, he is,” Eunice replied, meeting her gaze. “Our country needs him and others like him. The fight for liberty will not be easily won.”
JONATHAN SPENT THE next week on the Tyrannicide, getting to know the crew, directing the stowing of supplies, drilling the men on the fourteen cannon and poring over coastal charts with Captain Fisk. The weather held fair, as July’s sun made the work almost pleasant.
Midweek, Johnny Deadman came aboard and quickly found his place among the other cabin boys. Jon often caught sight of the boy’s mop of blond curls darting from belowdecks to quarterdeck on some errand for the captain or cook.
Jon watched Bosun Moses aloft in the rigging, the man’s hands sure as he checked the lines. “How’s it looking, Moses?” Jon called.
“Sound as a church bell’s cord, sir,” Moses replied, securing a knot. “Taut for gales off Cape Ann!”
A blur of blond shot past. Johnny Deadman again, a powder sack clutched under one arm.
“Not so fast, Johnny!” Jon barked. The boy slowed, throwing him a sheepish glance.
Running on a wet deck was asking for trouble, and a lad with dreams of becoming an officer needed the habit of discipline.
There were a dozen such boys aboard, most barely into their teens.
The captain had said many would leave after the first cruise.
However long young Deadman stayed, Jon meant to keep an eye on him.
Jon wore the new uniform colors prescribed by the Massachusetts Council, a dark green coat to which he added a buff waistcoat, breeches, and a white cravat. Fisk approached, his own coat a crisp green, clearly fresh from the tailor.
“Lieutenant Stockman, secure those casks!” Fisk called.
Stockman, shorter than Jon but carrying himself smartly, echoed, “Aye, aye, Captain.” “Move sharp, lads!” he urged, as men rolled barrels of salt pork across the deck, then directed the stowing of fresh cod, beef, grog, and hardtack.
Amid the bustle, a sailor hefted a small cask clearly marked Coffee.
Jon’s eye lingered on it. The barrel was a well-made piece, its staves tight and true.
Years ago, as an apprentice in the Cabots’ cooperage, he’d learned to judge a cask’s worth at a glance.
The sight of it, and the promise of coffee at sea, brought a smile to his face.
“When you’ve finished,” Fisk told Stockman, “see to the rum, then join Haraden and me in my cabin.”
At the helm, Warrant Officer John Bray looked up from his tally. “Salt pork, salted cod, fresh cod, and beef, a month’s worth, Captain, if we eat the fresh stuff first.” He sealed a pork barrel and added, “I’ll get this to the cook.”
“Good work, Bray,” Fisk said.
Turning to Jon, he added, “Haraden, you should meet our chaplain, John Marsh, and our cook, John Reed. They came aboard this morning and have gone belowdecks. Benjamin Lovett, our sailing master, will be along later, as well as Henry Malcom, the surgeon.”
Belowdecks, Jon found Chaplain Marsh in a cabin even smaller than his own.
A dignified clergyman with dark hair, he wore the black suit typical of clergy at sea.
A small sea chest served as table and storage; a well-used Bible rested on top beside the man’s spectacles.
The chaplain’s pale skin hinted at more time spent indoors than out.
“Salem-born,” Marsh said when Jon asked what brought him to sea. “Ships have been my neighbors all my life. I wanted to serve the cause. This was the natural choice.”
“I was in the militia,” Jon said. “But the sea’s in my blood, so when the position was offered, I took it. I recently lost my wife to a fever…the sea is my refuge now.”
“Children?”
“Two daughters. A governess and staff keep them safe. My wife and I also lost three sons, all very young.”
Marsh rested a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Then I will pray for you, Lieutenant, that God eases your burden and comforts you in your loss.”
Jon nodded, the simple promise comforting him.
From there, he headed to the galley where the sound of pots and pans clanging together drew him.
Cook John Reed bent over an open sack, taking stock.
Sunlight from a porthole caught the man’s dark red hair.
Around him, small barrels lined one wall, and a cast-iron stove dominated the space.
He had yet to don an apron and wore only loose-fitting breeches, a light tan shirt and a blue waistcoat left unbuttoned.
“Does the galley suit?” Jon asked after introducing himself.
“Aye,” Reed said. “It’s smaller than I’ve had, but new and clean. I’ve served the Cabots and Captain Fisk on their merchantmen for years, mostly sailing to the West Indies. This is my first time in the Massachusetts Navy.”
Jon nodded. “It’s the first time for all of us since the navy’s new and the war’s just begun in earnest. The captain clearly asked for you, so I’ll be expecting good cooking.”
Reed grinned. “You’ll have it. And when the fresh meat’s gone, I make a fine Cheshire Pork Pie from salt pork. I brought pippins and onions aboard for it.”
“Sounds like a feast worth waiting for.”
Jon went next to the captain’s cabin where he and Stockman joined Fisk over a chart of the New England coast. The captain traced the coastline with one finger, marking shoals and the latest British sightings.
While they were discussing the latter, Sailing Master Benjamin Lovett stepped inside. “Captain, do you want me in on this?”
“Yes, Lovett,” said Fisk. “You can give my lieutenants a better sense of the hazards we’ll face along the coast.”
Introductions were made, and the older sailing master leaned over the chart, his weathered hands moving with the ease of long habit as he spoke of hidden rocks, fickle tides and sudden squalls.
The room filled with the salt-and-tar scent clinging to his coat.
His quiet authority drew their attention.
When he’d finished, Fisk gave a satisfied nod. “If we’re at full strength by day’s end, gentlemen, and all is in readiness, we sail tomorrow.”
IN THE HARADEN parlor, Eunice stood in the doorway, rocking Polly in her arms, hoping the baby would finally settle.
Silas sat cross-legged by the hearth, his callused fingers working a length of rope.
Hannah perched on a small stool beside him, her eyes fixed on the looping and twisting of the strands.
The hearth was laid for a fire, but the pleasant evening didn’t require one.
Jon was at the wharf again, drilling the crew on the cannon. His talk at supper lately had been all charts, sightings of British ships, and Captain Fisk, sure signs they’d sail soon.
“This here’s a sailor’s knot, Lass,” Silas said, his voice roughened by years of salt air. “Saved me off Jamaica when a storm near tore our ship apart. Loop it like so, strong as your papa’s will.” His grin softened his weathered face.
Hannah took the rope, brows knitting as she copied the twist. “Did Mama know knots?”
Silas chuckled, helping her with the rope. “Your mama? She’d have tied a prettier knot than me, but her gift was stitchin’ and embroidery. Twern’t no one like her for such.” He guided Hannah’s small hands, the rope slipping at first. Hannah’s brow furrowed, but she looped it, her fingers steady.
Martha bustled in, her apron smudged from kitchen work, her hazel eyes glinting as she scanned the parlor. “Knots won’t bake bread, Silas! Hannah can help me in the kitchen.”
“Her papa’s going to sea,” Silas countered, “and she means to tie him a proper knot before he leaves.”
“Ah, well, that’s all right then,” said the cook. Her crinkled grin belied her grumble, her love for Hannah shining through. Martha headed back to the kitchen mumbling about biscuits in the oven.
Hannah’s lips twitched, but her voice trembled when she asked, “Will Papa be safe?”
Silas leaned in, lowering his tone. “Your papa’s a fine sailor. On the Tyrannicide with Captain Fisk, he’ll only get better.” He patted her shoulder. “There. Solid as a church rope.”
Eunice stepped forward to tuck the now sleeping Polly into her cradle. “A fine knot, Hannah. Your papa will be proud.”
Hannah’s eyes flickered, a small smile on her lips.
The front door opened and Jon stepped in, his eyes betraying a weariness. Eunice was glad to recognize fatigue and not grief.
“Evening, Mrs. Mason,” he said to Eunice. She nodded in reply.
Hannah jumped up and held her work to him. “Papa! See my knot!”
Jon took the knot in his hand and turned it over, nodding. “Good work, Hannah. Silas, you’ll make a bos’n’s mate of her yet.”
“Aye, sir. She has the makin’s.”
Martha glided into the parlor carrying a plate of fresh-baked biscuits, the scent of the treats making Eunice’s mouth water.
Hannah stepped to the plate and took one. “Cracknels!”
Jon shifted his gaze to Eunice. “Cracknels are Hannah’s favorite.”
Eunice was familiar with the baked treat made with flour, butter, sugar and caraway seeds. As a child, they had been one of her favorite treats, too.
Martha offered her one and she took it, taking a bite. “They are very good, Martha.”
The cook smiled and offered Jon some. “Sailors don’t eat air, sir. Fill your belly with a few of these fresh from the oven. ’Twill be some time afore supper’s ready.”
He thanked her and took one from the plate. Heading upstairs, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll be down in a bit. I’ve some papers to read and my chest to pack. We sail tomorrow!”
Martha set the plate of biscuits on the table and shared a look with Silas. “You will take the master to his ship?”
“Aye, we’ll need a cart for the chest.”
Hannah began to look teary-eyed. Eunice took a seat in a chair facing the child. “Just think, Hannah, by the time your papa returns from his first cruise, Polly may be walking.”
Hannah gazed at her younger sister sleeping in her cradle. “I’ll help her learn like big sisters do.”
“Won’t your papa be proud!” exclaimed Eunice.
Martha arched a brow at Silas. “Meantime, Silas Turner, the child would do better to take up sewin’ or cookin’ than ropework.”
Silas shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You don’t mean that, Martha, my sweet.”
“None of your nonsense, now,” said Martha, turning toward the kitchen. “You talk more than you work.”
“Only when the company’s worth it,” he said with a look that made Martha’s cheeks redden.
Eunice winked at Hannah, thinking her charge enjoyed the banter between the old seaman and the cook as much as she did. It had become clear to Eunice that Silas had a fondness for Martha, and the cook tolerated his teasing with only mild protests.