Chapter 3
“We are in the very midst of a revolution the most complete, unexpected and remarkable of any in the history of nations.”
FOUR DAYS OUT from Salem, the Tyrannicide sliced through gray swells under a heavy sky, her pine tree flag snapping in the wind. Spray leapt from her bow, scattering cold salt water over the quarterdeck where Jon stood, spyglass trained on the sea ahead.
A pale fleck danced at the horizon. “Sir,” he said to Captain Fisk standing beside him, “a sail.”
A heartbeat later came the lookout’s shout from the fighting top. “Sail ho! Dead ahead!”
Shading his eyes, Fisk asked, “What is it?”
The fleck swelled into the sharp lines of a schooner. Jon steadied the glass. “Eight carriage guns…twelve swivels. A schooner flying a British ensign. Could be a packet bound for New York. We’ve the guns to take her.”
Fisk took the glass, studied her, and handed it back. “Aye. Let’s close in and test her mettle. Packets carry messages, sometimes important ones.” Lifting the speaking trumpet from its hook, he shouted, “Beat to quarters!”
The fife sounded and the drum rolled. The ship came alive. Barefoot powder boys dashed to the magazine deep within the ship’s hull, as gunners ran out the six-pounders. The smell of salt and tar was overtaken by the sharper tang of slow matches burning.
Jon spotted Johnny Deadman, his face serious beneath his blond locks as he cradled a powder sack for a sweating gunner. His fellow cabin boy, Bobby Grover, passed round shot to the crewman at the next gun.
“Load and prime the cannon!” Jon bellowed.
“Aye!” echoed Stockman from amidships. “Move sharp, lads!”
Bosun Benjamin Moses called up to a tar clinging to the ratlines, “Shorten that sail and make her snug!”
The schooner’s bow swung, her swivels flashing. The hiss and whine of shot were followed by splinters exploding from the Tyrannicide’s starboard rail. A ball smashed into the galley stores. Staves burst in a spray of oak and coffee beans.
For an instant, through the smoke and chaos, the familiar scent took Jon’s mind home, the deep, earthy fragrance of fresh beans as he’d known them in the Cabots’ cooperage, stacked in the cool dim light of the storehouse. His hands remembered the ring of the hammer setting hoops.
Then the memory was gone, swept away by the next broadside. “Fire!” roared Fisk.
Seven of the Tyrannicide’s six-pounders thundered in unison, the deck trembling beneath Jon’s boots. Smoke billowed, choking, as iron smashed into the British schooner’s hull.
She fired back. The roar of the broadside split the air, and for Jon the world slowed.
The schooner rolled and dipped with deliberate grace, the arcs of smoke curling like lazy ribbons.
A cannonball spun end over end through the haze, its black iron gleaming in the sunlight.
He noted its path without flinching, his hands steady on the rail.
While others shouted and ducked, he found himself unfazed as he measured angles, gauging their next move.
In that instant, Jon understood. This was where he was meant to be.
“Hard to starboard!” Fisk ordered. Sailing Master Benjamin Lovett spun the wheel, and the Tyrannicide swung to rake the schooner’s stern.
“Target her rigging, lads!” Jon called. “Slow her down!”
Round shot tore through the British sails, rigging cascading down in tangles. Jon could now read her name in the swirl of smoke…Dispatch. Fitting, he thought grimly, for a packet ship running for New York.
For an hour and a half, the ships traded hammering fire.
The Tyrannicide shuddered from hits. One man lay dead, ten others wounded.
Surgeon Malcom, black brows drawn tight beneath his cocked hat, shouted for men to carry the injured to the orlop deck, where his mates would be working in the cramped, reeking heat.
At last, the Dispatch’s guns fell silent and she struck her colors. Cheers erupted from the Tyrannicide’s crew. Johnny and Bobby clapped each other on the back, grinning through powder-smudged faces. The captain’s cabin boy, Joshua Trask, came to join them in celebration.
“Well done, Haraden,” Fisk said, clapping Jon’s shoulder. His grin was quick but his brown eyes were hard. “Let’s board her.”
They crossed over in a small boat with a few armed crewmen to the boarding ladder the captured ship tossed down, the tarred hemp black against the splintered planking.
Jon climbed first, Fisk behind him. The Dispatch’s deck was a wreckage of torn lines and shattered spars, the acrid reek of powder thick in the air. Blood smeared the scuppers where bodies had been dragged aside.
The first lieutenant, face blackened with smoke, stepped forward and surrendered his sword, the steel dull with salt spray.
“Your commander?” Fisk asked.
“Captain Gutteridge is dead, sir. The bos’n as well.”
“And his papers?” Jon asked.
“Overboard, before we struck. Those were our orders.” His voice was firm, but there was raw bitterness in his eyes.
A quick tally showed eight carriage guns, twelve swivels, twenty small arms, sixteen pistols, twenty cutlasses, powder, and shot, everything in good order despite the fight. In addition to the captain and the bos’n who’d been killed, seven crewmen on the Dispatch were wounded.
“Return to the Tyrannicide,” Fisk ordered Jon. “Set a prize crew on her and assess our damage. I’ll join you shortly.”
Jon appointed Lieutenant Stockman as prize master. He, in turn, selected several crewmembers to go with him. “Take a gunner,” said Jon. “You’ll be sailing the Dispatch into Salem.”
“Yes, sir.”
Once Stockman and the prize crew were aboard the Dispatch, Jon was joined by Fisk on the Tyrannicide. “The damage report, Jon?”
“One crewmember dead and ten wounded being tended by the surgeon. The ship has shattered spars, torn sails, a damaged topmast and a hole in the gunwale. I recommend we return to Salem.”
The captain gazed around him. “I agree. Still, not bad for our first prize. And we can take the weapons we found aboard the schooner and her cargo of flour and rum. Let Lieutenant Stockman know he’s to follow us.”
That evening, Joshua Trask, the captain’s cabin boy, delivered cod-and-beef stew to the captain’s cabin where Fisk dined with Jon, Chaplain Marsh and Surgeon Malcom.
“What is the state of the crew?” asked Fisk.
“The wounded will recover,” Malcom reported.
Marsh inclined his head. “I’ll conduct services for our dead, and for Captain Gutteridge and the Dispatch’s bos’n, if the surviving officers wish it.”
“Very good, Chaplain,” said the captain. “We can offer.”
Salem Harbor, 16 July 1776
THE TYRANNICIDE ROUNDED Marblehead Neck under shortened sail, her pine tree flag lifting in the light morning wind.
Ahead lay Salem’s wharves bristling with masts and rigging.
From the quarterdeck, Jon saw gulls wheeling, dockhands rolling casks, and the fishwives’ stalls glittering with the morning catch.
The peal of the bells from the Old North Church rolled across the water, not the slow toll for a funeral, but a quick, jubilant clamoring.
“They’ve heard,” Captain Fisk murmured, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Word of the Dispatch’s capture has run ahead of us.”
Jon thought it strange. They’d made all speed from far out in the Atlantic where they’d met the Dispatch, yet somehow news had beaten them home. Still, in a harbor town, word could travel on the wind.
The captured schooner, under Lieutenant Stockman’s command, had followed them in, her patched rig drawing stares and pointed fingers from the crowd. Murmurs swelled into cheers, hats raised and waved.
As the Tyrannicide eased alongside Derby Wharf where the state’s ships docked, lines were tossed ashore and caught by waiting dockhands. The crowd pressed close to the edge of the planks, waving hats and shawls, the hum of voices rising to a roar.
Jon followed Fisk down the gangplank into the crush, the smell of tar, salt, and drying nets mingling with the warm scents of bread and molasses from the market. Someone clapped Jon on the back. Another called out, “Well done, lads!”
“Haraden!” A familiar voice cut through the noise. Jon turned to see Silas, grinning. “Have you heard the news, sir? We’re free men now, right as a fair wind!”
“What’s that?” Jon asked, though the glint in Silas’ eyes and the shouts all around hinted at the answer.
Silas thrust a folded sheet of the American Gazette into Jon’s hands. The bold heading leapt out: In Congress, July 4, 1776. Beneath it ran the words of the Declaration, printed in tight columns.
“They read it aloud not an hour ago in Town House Square,” Silas said. “Straight from Philadelphia! No more petitions, sir. We’ve declared our independence!”
Jon’s eyes traveled over the page as the breeze tugged at its edges.
Men he had fought beside, men he had buried, seemed to stand with him in that moment.
The words struck like the crack of a broadside.
…that these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be, Free and Independent States.
He felt the familiar salt sting at the corners of his eyes, though whether from wind or pride, he could not say.
“Mr. Haraden!” The call was lighter, warm. Eunice Mason came through the crowd, her bonnet ribbons fluttering, her eyes alight.
Hannah was gripping her right hand. “Papa!” she shouted, waving.
The governess stopped just short of him, smiling openly. “We saw your ship from the upper windows. Martha says the whole town’s speaking of your victory, only days after you sailed!”
Jon bent to hug his daughter.
“We prayed for you, Papa!”
He smiled at Hannah, then at Eunice. Behind them stood Silas with a pleased expression. “Well, your prayers were answered. We took a British packet bound for New York. She’ll serve the cause better here than in British hands.”