Chapter 3 #2
Silas glanced toward the Dispatch riding at anchor giving her the quick survey of a sailor measuring a ship’s worth. Then he looked back to Jon. “Aye, sir, and she’ll fly better colors for us than she ever did for King George.”
“Just think,” said Mrs. Mason, “you brought her in on the very day we learned our country is free. Two victories, Lieutenant.”
“One for Salem, perhaps,” Jon said quietly. “The other belongs to us all.”
“That’s the ship you captured?” asked Hannah, pointing to the damaged schooner.
“Aye,” said Jon. “Like the Tyrannicide, she’s a bit worse for the battle.”
“Is that why you’re here?” asked Mrs. Mason.
“Yes, we must make repairs before our next cruise.” The words had barely left his mouth when, further up the wharf, Captain Fisk’s voice rang out, “Haraden! Report!”
Jon folded the newspaper with care and tucked it into his coat. “Until later, Mrs. Mason, Hannah, Silas.”
The governess nodded, her smile lingering.
Hannah waved. “Till later, Papa!”
Past the cheering townsfolk, beyond the smell of tar, salt, and the fish market’s drying nets, Town House Square lay up the hill.
Jon tried to imagine that morning when a voice rang out over the cobbles, reading the Declaration of Independence to the gathered citizens of Salem.
And now, with the prize ship safely anchored and the war still ahead, Jon felt, for the first time, the truth of it.
They were no longer British subjects, but a free people with their own country.
THE SCENT OF roasting chicken met Eunice as she came down the stairs and went into the parlor. Hannah was perched on a stool beside Silas, who sat on the hearth rug, showing her a new knot she had yet to try.
“A reef knot this time, Miss Hannah,” he said, the rope moving deftly through his callused hands. “Strong as they come. Holds when the wind howls and comes free when you ask it.”
Martha appeared in the doorway, her cheeks dusted with flour. “Strong knots don’t put food on the table, Silas Turner.”
Silas grinned without looking up. “Aye, but they might keep the table from driftin’ off in a gale.” Eunice failed to stifle a chuckle as she caught an appreciative tilt of Silas’ head toward the kitchen. “That chicken you’re cookin’ smells mighty good, Martha.”
Eunice shook her head, smiling despite herself. This back-and-forth had become part of the household’s music. She glanced toward the stairs. She had heard Mr. Haraden come in and go up to change out of his sea-stained coat. Eunice hoped he returned before Martha’s chicken cooled.
Minutes later, he descended the stairs as if summoned. Hannah was on him at once. “Papa! Silas showed me a new knot.”
“Then you’ll have to show me after supper,” Jon said, giving her a brief hug before offering a nod to Eunice. “I’m starving.” Then to Eunice, “Shall we?”
In the dining room, Martha brought in the roast chicken on a large platter, the golden skin gleaming in the candlelight.
“She’s a fat hen cooked to perfection if I do say so myself.
” Turning to reach for two bowls, she placed them on the table, adding with quiet pride, “The peas and carrots are from my garden, and there’s potatoes, too. ”
“All looks wonderful, Martha,” said Eunice as she took her place across from Hannah.
Mr. Haraden sat at the head of the table and proceeded to carve the bird with an ease that spoke of long practice.
His demeanor had changed since his last meal at this table, a change she’d first noticed on the wharf when the Tyrannicide arrived.
There was a steadiness about him now, as though he was at ease with himself and his chosen path.
Partway through the meal, the wet nurse slipped in with Polly, drowsy and smelling of warm milk.
She laid the baby gently in Jon’s arms. He looked down at his youngest daughter, his expression softening, and Eunice felt something ease in her own chest. He brushed his hand over the tufts of blonde hair on Polly’s head before kissing her cheek and handing her back with a quiet word of thanks.
The wet nurse placed the sated baby in her cradle and bid the family a good evening.
Martha came in to see how the meal was going. Hands on hips, she said, “Well, what’s the verdict?”
“Everything is delicious, Martha,” said Eunice.
“I fed Silas some from a second chicken,” said Martha, “and he seemed to like it.”
“Silas would like anything you cooked,” said Mr. Haraden, “but in truth, the meal is superb. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Martha smiled. Her love for the family and pride in what she could do for them was there in her eyes.
She returned to the kitchen and brought back the Indian pudding.
Eunice found the earthy smell of cornmeal mixed with molasses, cinnamon and ginger to be comforting.
“That looks tasty,” she told Martha, who set the large dish on the table.
“It does, indeed,” said Jon, dishing out some for his daughter.
Hannah leaned forward eagerly. “Papa, tell us what you’re fixing on the Tyrannicide to sail again. Silas told me some but I want you to tell me.”
Jon set down his spoon and licked his lips. “A sprung plank near the bow, new spars and rigging aloft, and a topmast for the main. Beyond that, there’s a hole in the hull near the gunwale and the entire deck needs to be cleaned. We’ll be in port for several days.”
Eunice nodded, thinking of the list against the backdrop of the war. “Enough time for Hannah to learn another knot,” she said with amusement.
Jon smiled faintly. “One I will be happy to see,” he said to his daughter. “And more meals like this one before we’re off again.”
When the dishes were cleared, Eunice lingered a moment, candlelight glancing off the silver.
Through the clatter from the kitchen and the sound of Hannah chattering to Martha, her thoughts returned to the look in Jon’s eyes, that quiet confidence she had not seen before.
Whatever had happened at sea had tempered, not hardened him.
She knew the shape of grief well enough to see when something stronger had taken root alongside it, and she found herself silently speaking her gratitude to God.
She asked him about the crew and was delighted to hear of the cabin boys. “So many!”
“Aye, yet they all seem to be well-occupied. There’s much to do with seventy-five crew and officers. I was able to help a lad, Johnny Deadman, the son of one of my wife’s distant relatives gain one of the cabin boy positions.”
Eunice could see he was pleased. “It must have felt good to help him,” she said.
“It surely did, and if he does well, he’ll have a life at sea if he wants one.”
When they moved back to the parlor after supper, Martha was already there with her knitting, spectacles perched low on her nose.
Silas lounged in the corner chair, drinking coffee while stretching one leg gingerly before him.
He had told Eunice the old injury made itself known when the weather changed.
“You missed a fine puddin’, Silas,” Martha said without looking up. “Not that you deserve any, sittin’ idle while others work, but I left some for you in the kitchen.”
Silas grinned at her over the top of his mug. “Idle? I’ve been hard at it all evenin’, keepin’ your seat warm for you. It’s not my fault you chose another chair.”
“Hmph. I’ll thank you not to flatten it.”
Hannah giggled, and even Mr. Haraden’s mouth twitched at the corner as he looked up from his well-thumbed copy of The Practical Navigator, a book Eunice had seen left on the small table near his chair.
“The pudding is quite good, Silas,” Eunice encouraged. “You might want to try it.”
“I just might.” Silas leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I hear you’ve a sprung plank, sir. Best let me watch the shipwrights, to make sure they’re not skimpin’ on the oakum.”
“Watch them?” Martha snorted. “More like get in their way and talk them half to death.”
“Aye,” Silas said, utterly unoffended, “but I’ll do it with style. Can’t have the Tyrannicide lookin’ shabby in port.”
“No,” said Mr. Haraden with a smile, “we can’t have that.”
Inwardly, Eunice smiled, too, noting the fondness under their bickering. In a house that had known too much loss, such scraps of humor felt to her like a kind of ballast, keeping them steady for whatever lay ahead.
THE NEXT MORNING Eunice rose early, the light from the summer sun spilling across the floorboards before the church bell struck six.
By the time she and Hannah left for the harbor with Silas, Mr. Haraden had departed for the Tyrannicide, Martha was busy in the kitchen, and Polly was in the wet nurse’s care.
They arrived to find the tide high and the wharves alive with shouts, hammering, and the cry of gulls overhead.
The Tyrannicide still lay alongside Derby Wharf, her pine tree flag stirring in the light breeze, her sails furled.
Men swarmed her deck and rigging, voices overlapping as they hauled lines and lowered spars.
The topmast had already been removed. The smell of fresh-cut timber mixed with tar and the sharper scent of oakum filled the air.
As they drew closer, Eunice’s eyes fixed on a ragged hole above the waterline near the gunwale, the planking bent inward and splintered like broken stakes, as if something had punched through from the sea.
Sunlight glinted off damp wood inside the gap.
She felt an involuntary shiver, thinking of shot slamming into the ship while Captain Fisk and Lieutenant Haraden stood aboard.
“That’ll be patched today,” Silas said at her elbow, leaning on his cane. “A six-pounder did that, near took the gun crew with it I expect. Lucky shot for the king’s man, but not lucky enough. She’ll be sealed like a ship’s rum jar before the tide’s out.”
Hannah’s hand tightened in Eunice’s. “Was Papa there when it happened?”
“Aye, Miss Hannah,” Silas said, “but your papa’s quicker than splinters, and twice as hard to knock down. ’Sides, he was likely on the quarterdeck.”
From where Eunice stood, she could see Mr. Haraden near the bow, coat off, sleeves rolled, speaking with a shipwright whose face was browned like old leather. He gestured toward the forward planking, the movement decisive. The shipwright nodded once, then turned to bellow an order.
“That’s the sprung plank he spoke of,” Silas added. “Takes a man who knows his ship to spot it before she lets you know herself, usually in the middle of a blow.”
Mr. Haraden caught sight of them then and came down the gangplank, the smell of pine tar clinging to him as he approached. “Up early?” he asked, a smile touching his mouth.
“We thought we’d see the work beginning,” Eunice said. “And perhaps walk to market after.”
“You’ll find it busy,” Jon said, glancing toward the cluster of ships unloading cargo farther down.
From behind her, Silas asked, “Has the prize court convened yet?”
“Soon,” said Mr. Haraden. “Langdon will want every detail of the Dispatch’s capture.”
Eunice inclined her head. “Will you be testifying?”
“Perhaps. The captain has already written a report of the capture. Our first priority is to get the Tyrannicide ready to sail.”
Silas said, “Martha told me should you come home with tar on your trousers, sir, you’ll answer to her.”
“I imagine I will,” he said, looking at his trousers blackened in places with soot. Eunice saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes before he turned back toward the Tyrannicide.
“Will you be home for supper, Papa?” Hannah inquired.
“I will. You can tell Martha I look forward to another great meal. Meantime, the ship’s carpenter is waiting, and I must not delay him if we’re to go to sea soon. The war will not pause for us.” He gave them a brief nod as he turned back toward the gangplank.
Eunice and Hannah left Derby Wharf and followed Silas toward the market square. It was no formal hall, but a patchwork of stalls and carts set out along the open street near the Custom House, with the smell of the docks mingling with wood smoke from cookfires and the tang of freshly cut herbs.
Women in homespun gowns bargained with fishermen in tarred jackets, their hands still smelling of the sea.
A boy darted past with a basket of crabs, the shells clacking together like castanets.
Beside the fishmongers, a farmer she recognized from Danvers had laid out baskets of green peas, carrots with their feathery tops, and heads of cabbage pale as candlewax. “Morning,” Eunice said to him.
“Mrs. Mason,” he replied, dipping his hat.
Hannah’s eyes grew wide at the sight of a fisherman lifting a huge silver cod from his tub, the scales flashing like coins in the sun. “For the kitchen?” Hannah asked, looking up at Eunice.
Eunice smiled. “For Martha.” She handed the man a shilling, dear enough, but worth it for so large and fresh a catch. He wrapped the fish in clean linen and set it in her basket atop a loaf of rye bread from a nearby baker’s stall.
Silas lingered near a merchant selling small kegs of molasses, running his hand over the smooth staves as if judging the workmanship.
“You keep your barrels tight and your door hinges tighter,” he told the merchant with a wink, “or you’ll be patchin’ kegs and cleaning molasses off the street before winter’s through. ”
Hannah watched the two men, then turned to Eunice. “Papa knows barrels. Silas, too.”
Silas glanced at Eunice. “Martha would put some of this to good use.”
Eunice nodded. “For the gingerbread she’s been wanting to make.
” She passed over a few coins to the merchant for a small keg of molasses.
The merchant’s helper hoisted it into the basket beside the cod.
The mingled scents of sea-brine, fresh bread, and the dark sweetness of molasses rose to meet her.
“Martha will be happy,” said Hannah.
“Here,” said Silas. “That basket’s heavy by now. I’ll carry it.”
“You’re a true gentleman,” said Eunice, handing him the now full basket.
As they turned for home, the church bell began its slow toll for the hour.
The sound carried above the gulls’ cries, a reminder that the day of prayer and fasting called for by the House of Representatives was approaching.
Would Mr. Haraden be at sea then? She tightened her hand on Hannah’s, thinking of the Tyrannicide riding the ocean’s swells toward danger.
Somewhere beyond that horizon, war was waiting.
She wondered if the sea felt as wide to him as it did to those left ashore.