Chapter 4 #3
A chair scraped nearby. Elias Hasket Derby, broad-shouldered, auburn-haired, in a brown coat, turned toward them.
“You speak sense, Captain Fisk, and you, Lieutenant Haraden. A brigantine brings her prizes home safer. More sail to run when the king’s cruisers prowl, and space enough in her hold for what she seizes, which is important to us merchants. ”
Across from him, William Gray, younger and keen-eyed, lifted his chin. “Each lawful capture fattens Salem’s purse and starves the enemy. Make the change quickly so both commerce and Congress can profit.”
“Not commerce enough if New York’s lost,” someone muttered at a neighboring table, and a hush fell.
Samuel Ropes, nineteen, a bundle of papers under his arm, hovered at the edge of their circle.
“Beg pardon, sirs. Dispatch out of Boston says Howe’s troops landed at Kips Bay.
General Washington quit the city and fell back to Harlem Heights.
They say our men gave a smart account of themselves there, but the line won’t hold forever. ”
Derby gave the youth a patient look. “Your father sends you to listen, does he, Lad?”
Samuel colored but kept his chin up. “Our business Page & Ropes would rather be early than surprised, sir.”
A ripple of laughter, kindly enough, went round the table.
Fisk raised his cup. “Let New York fall if it must. At sea, we’ll make them pay. A brigantine Tyrannicide will do her part, I promise you that. We’ll fetch cargo that will bring a smile to General Washington’s face.”
Moses and Stockman lifted their cups. Jon followed, though his thoughts had already slipped beyond the smoke and talk to a stripped hull that would soon wear two masts, and to a quiet parlor where he’d left a little girl bent over her letters with a governess whose quiet strength graced his home.
SEPTEMBER LIGHT SLANTED pale and thin through the parlor windows, pooling on the table where Eunice sat with Hannah bent over her copybook. The fire on the hearth crackled softly, taking the edge off the chill that seeped in from the waterfront as the afternoon lengthened.
Polly sat on a blanket on the floor, playing with an old pot and wooden spoon, her blue eyes alight with the noise she was making.
Hannah traced her letters, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
Eight years old as of the first of the month, she wore the blue ribbon Eunice had given her for her birthday, tied in her golden hair.
The ribbon had slipped loose as she leaned forward, brushing against her cheek until she tucked it back with an impatient hand.
She wore her mother’s locket still, and the two tokens, ribbon and locket, seemed to tether her between past and present.
The room was quiet save for Polly’s cheerful banging and the faint scratch of Hannah’s quill. Outside, the wind off the water carried the distant creak of rigging and the call of gulls, but here, in the parlor, there was only the fragile rhythm of a household that had found its balance again.
“Make the loop higher,” Eunice said, her hand guiding Hannah’s quill over the tall stroke of the h. “There, now try it again without me.”
Hannah carefully shaped the letter, then dipped the quill before scratching the next word. Beside her lay a slate with ciphering problems, a worn Bible, and a dog-eared primer from their earlier lessons.
“Here,” said Eunice. “Take a look at this. It’s a note your papa wrote to Martha.
He has beautiful script, don’t you think?
See how his capital A curls like a wave, and how the tall strokes lean just so?
” Eunice tapped the page with her finger.
“He writes as steady as he sails, never wandering from the line. You could not want a more perfect model.”
Hannah studied her father’s handwriting and sighed. “Even his numbers are perfect.”
Eunice laughed softly. “And so will yours be. Now, let’s try a different subject.
” Eunice had discovered the girl had a quick mind and did best when the lessons moved often from one subject to another.
“Read me the verse you copied yesterday,” Eunice prompted, and Hannah obeyed, her small voice sounding out the words from the Gospel of Matthew.
The front door opened and closed with a thump, admitting a gust of salt air and the scent of coffee. Mr. Haraden stepped inside, brushing his coat. Strands of his hair had pulled free of his queue to lay on his shoulder.
“Any news?” asked Eunice.
“It’s been decided. The Tyrannicide’s to become a brigantine with two masts and more sail.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Two masts! Then she’ll be twice as fast?”
Mr. Haraden shared a look with Eunice at his daughter’s words, then crouched beside Hannah, smiling at the earnestness in her face. “Not twice as fast, sweetheart. But steadier, stronger. She’ll carry more canvas and hold her course better. A ship with two legs walks steadier than one.”
She nodded, then grinned holding up her writing. “Look, Papa, I can write your name.”
As Mr. Haraden bent over Hannah’s copybook, he smiled. “Well done. Stay at it, and you’ll be keeping my logbook before long.”
“Your handwriting is so beautiful,” said Eunice to Mr. Haraden, “I think a page or two from your logbook would greatly assist Hannah’s lessons. I only had your note to Martha regarding the household to use as an example.”
“Well, I thank you for the compliment,” said Hannah’s father.
“Old Cabot insisted all who worked at the cooperage kept perfect letters. I’ll see if I can dig up some examples of my writing for you.
It will give Hannah a model to practice when I’m away on a long voyage.
Fisk is thinking of the West Indies once the Tyrannicide is out of the shipyard. ”
As he continued to engage with Hannah, Eunice watched them, her gaze warm though shadowed with the knowledge of what a “long voyage” meant.
The Haraden home, with its crackling fire, shared meals and humor, seemed a fragile defense against the world waiting beyond the harbor.
A world at war. Yet like the even strokes in his handwriting, she let herself believe their home was a strong enough bulwark against the tide of war.