Chapter 4
“Courage, then, my countrymen, our contest is not only whether we ourselves shall be free, but whether there shall be left to mankind an asylum on earth for civil and religious liberty.”
THE DUCK HAD been stewing since early afternoon, the rich scent of claret wine, herbs, and bone broth filling the kitchen and drifting into the dining room and beyond.
The wonderful smells had drawn Eunice to inquire of the cook. “Shall I call Mr. Haraden and Hannah to supper?”
“Aye, ’tis time if they want it hot. His last meal before sailin’ ought to be one he’ll remember.”
“What about Polly?” asked Eunice. The baby was with the wet nurse and due to return.
“She’ll be here any moment. Only a month until the wee lass is weaned. I’ve already found my old receipts for gruel and pottage.” Martha’s eyes twinkled. “Truth be told, if she’s like Hannah, the child will likely prefer gingerbread.”
“Anyone would,” said Eunice, going back to the parlor to announce, “Martha says supper is ready.”
“Good,” said Mr. Haraden, closing his book and rising from his chair. “The smells coming from there have been tormenting me since she started cooking.”
Hannah looked up from the knot Silas was showing her.
“You go, Lass,” Silas said. “We’ll finish it after supper.”
Filing into the dining room, Mr. Haraden took his place at the head of the table. Hannah and Eunice sat in their usual places across from one another.
With a flourish, Martha brought in the stewed duck, the skin browned to a deep mahogany and the meat so tender it threatened to part from the bone.
Following the duck, the cook set down a bowl of mashed potatoes with a glossy gravy thickened from the pan drippings, and a platter of asparagus fresh from the garden, still bright and green from its brief boiling.
“Mind you don’t get that gravy on my tablecloth,” Martha teased, arching a brow at Hannah as she handed Mr. Haraden the serving ladle. “It’s the last clean one ’til Monday wash.”
“We’ll all be careful,” said Mr. Haraden with a wink at his eldest daughter.
Martha returned to the kitchen as Eunice poured Mr. Haraden and herself glasses of claret, and Hannah watered cider. Mr. Haraden lifted a plate and ladled out portions. Finally, he served himself.
The first mouthful of duck melted against Eunice’s tongue, savory with wine and herbs, underpinned by the richness of the broth.
The potatoes were buttery smooth, the gravy deep with the essence of the roasting pan.
“This food is wonderful, Martha,” Eunice said loud enough for the cook to hear in the kitchen.
Martha reappeared, hands planted on her hips, a confident tilt to her chin. “And I’ll warrant you’ll not taste better in Boston or the West Indies, so mind you remember it, sir, when the ship’s cook serves you salt pork.”
Mr. Haraden’s mouth quirked. “I expect I’ll be dreaming of your duck when walking the deck at night.”
Hannah giggled into her cup, glancing between them as if she’d just witnessed a private contest of wits.
Eunice smiled into her claret, struck by the quiet ease between them, the rhythm of a household already formed around her presence in ways she had never anticipated. “Are all the repairs completed on the Tyrannicide?” she asked.
“Aye,” said Mr. Haraden, “and the crew’s been returning over the week.”
Hannah’s eyes lit. “What about the cabin boys? Mrs. Mason said some are near my age.”
“Most of the lads signed for ninety days. I expect many have renewed. The Tyrannicide is a good place for them to learn.”
Eunice set down her fork. “While you are at sea, Hannah and I plan to go with my mother to East Church for the day of prayer and fasting on the fifth. We’ll pray for your safe return.”
“I’ll say a prayer, too,” Hannah said.
Eunice smiled at her charge. “I think God would like that very much.”
When the duck was gone and plates cleared, Martha returned with a plate of dark, moist gingerbread, the crust still faintly crisp from the oven. The warm scents of ginger and spice curled into the room.
“The molasses you brought from market is baked right in,” she told Eunice and Hannah with pride.
Mr. Haraden’s smile deepened as he took a bite. “If this is how you see me off, I’ll be counting the days until I’m back.”
The summer evening brought a soft light through the windows as they adjourned to the parlor where Mr. Haraden poured them a glass of sherry. Outside, the waterfront waited for the next tide.
Hannah resumed her lesson in knots with Silas, who sat opposite, a length of rope coiled in his hands.
“Now,” he said, “where were we? Ah. Half hitch, snug it tight. A loose knot’s no better than a hole in your shoe.”
Hannah’s tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she worked. “Like this?”
“Near enough to hold a cow, or your papa’s ship, if you keep at it,” Silas chuckled.
From the doorway, Martha called, “Mind you tie that knot tight, Hannah. Your papa’s bound to need every line holdin’ fast.”
Silas gave a grunt of approval. “A knot worth trustin’ is a knot worth takin’ your time on.”
Hannah’s fingers moved more carefully over the rope. “Then I’ll make one Papa can trust.”
Mr. Haraden leaned forward, setting down his glass. “Mind your tuck there, Hannah,” he said, pointing. “If the line slips, you’ll lose the whole knot.” His tone was mild, but his eyes sharp, as Eunice imagined they would be on deck.
Silas gave a grunt of approval. “Aye, that’s a captain speakin’.”
Martha’s mouth curved in a small, satisfied smile as she vanished back toward the kitchen, leaving the scent of gingerbread in her wake.
From the corner of the parlor, Eunice shared a glance with Mr. Haraden. They had just witnessed an old sailor passing down his craft to a girl who, in her way, was as much part of the Tyrannicide’s crew as any man aboard.
On the Tyrannicide at sea, 5 August 1776
MORNING SUNLIGHT GLINTED off the Tyrannicide’s damp rigging, still wet from the sea spray.
Jon watched the waters around the ship, calm as glass.
From the fo’c’sle came the muted rasp of holystones, the brittle sandstone used to scrub the deck, mingled with the creak of blocks hoisting and adjusting canvas.
Johnny Deadman, barefoot and quick as a cat, picked his way toward the quarterdeck with a steaming tin mug. “Your coffee, sir,” he said, holding it out with a grin. “Captain says he’ll be up in a minute.”
Jon took the mug, warm in his hands, and inhaled the bitter steam. “You’ll make a sailor yet, Johnny, if you don’t spill it.”
“Not a drop, sir,” Johnny declared, swiping his sleeve across his nose.
As the Tyrannicide cruised between Cape Sable and Nantucket off the Massachusetts coast, the early morning passed uneventfully with routine sail trimming, the occasional course correction, and a distant school of porpoises breaking the surface like skipping stones.
From the foretop, the lookout’s voice rang sharp across the water.
“Sail ho!”
Jon’s head snapped up. “Where away?”
“Two points off the larboard bow, sir. Brig-rigged!”
The Tyrannicide came alive, Jon shouting orders. Men swarmed aloft to loosen canvas, the helmsman brought her around, and the deck tilted underfoot as the wind filled the sails.
Within the hour, the brig lay dead ahead. Through his glass, Jon spotted her crew scattering as the Tyrannicide ran out her guns. Two warning shots and a burst of boarding pikes later, the British brig St. John was theirs, her cargo of flour, rum and naval stores a welcome prize.
Captain Fisk had come to the quarterdeck and, upon his order, Jon sent Lieutenant Stockman aboard the St. John with a prize crew.
As the boarding party reached the St. John, the lookout’s cry came again. Another sail, this time a trim schooner, the Three Brothers. From what Jon could see through his spyglass, the schooner was straining under every stitch of canvas to escape. “This one will not yield easily,” he said to Fisk.
“I’ll let you take her,” said Fisk. “Good practice.”
Jon watched as the schooner ran hard before the wind, every sail straining. “Fire the first bow chaser!” he ordered.
The schooner answered the Tyrannicide’s first bow gun with a swivel blast that shattered the sloop’s rail. Splinters flew like darts. Men ducked, and one tar cried out clutching his cheek.
“Run out the starboard battery!” Jon bellowed. “Give her the next one amidships!”
The Tyrannicide’s deck thundered with the recoil of her guns. The schooner lurched, wood flying from her bulwark, but she swung to return fire.
For twenty minutes the two ships traded shots, smoke and flame writhing in the breeze, the sea alive with round shot skipping across its surface.
Twice the Tyrannicide’s rigging shivered under hits aloft.
A halyard parted with a snap and a yard came down with a crash, narrowly missing the gun crew below.
Still, Jon ordered the crew to press closer to the British ship. With the breeze freshening in their favor, the Tyrannicide ranged up across her stern and loosed a raking broadside. That settled her. The schooner’s colors dropped to the deck in surrender.
Jon wiped sweat and powder grit from his brow, then sent Benjamin Moses with a prize crew to take her in.
“Good capture,” said Fisk with a grin.
But the day was not yet done. By mid-afternoon, another merchantman loomed, a fat catch. She struck her colors without a shot, and Jon ordered John Bray forward with a third prize crew.
The prize had barely hove to when the cry from the foretop came sharp and thin against the wind. “Frigate to windward!”
Jon swung round. A great hull bore down, sails taut, gunports bristling black. The Royal Navy had arrived.
“Abandon the prize!” Jon shouted, the order echoed at once by Fisk. Bray and his men pulled back in haste, the merchantman left wallowing.