Chapter 5
“We fight not to enslave, but to set a country free, and to make room upon the earth for honest men to live in.”
THE AUTUMN WIND off the harbor carried the smell of salt as Jon strode the length of Becket’s Yard.
Autumn leaves skittered orange and gold across the ground.
All around him, shipwrights called to one another, their mallets thudding, saws rasping, the rhythm of labor woven with the creak of timbers.
Before him, the Tyrannicide stood proud in her berth, her new rig rising against the October sky.
What had once been a swift sloop now bristled with the taller masts of a brigantine, her rigging taut, sails neatly furled.
She looked like a creature transformed, lean and purposeful, waiting only for the sea.
Captain Fisk approached, wiping pitch from his hands with a rag. “She’ll run steadier now,” he said with a nod toward the ship. “More sail to set in fair weather, and better balance when the winds turn foul. She’ll hold her course, none of that constant coaxing at the helm to keep her steady.”
Jon studied her a long moment, pride stirring. “A fine change, Captain.” And then with a grin, he added, “I don’t suppose my cabin has somehow grown larger in the process.”
Fisk’s mouth twitched in the barest ghost of a smile. “Cabin’s as snug as ever, Lieutenant. But she’ll serve you well enough.”
Jon chuckled, the sound more frequent of late. “A brigantine it is, then, with the same officer cabins, but with more canvas, more fight. Let the redcoats beware.”
Fisk reached in his coat and drew out a folded broadside, the Essex Gazette, its creases worn and ink blurred.
“Speaking of redcoats, have you seen this news just in from New York?” He handed Jon the paper.
“Washington’s been driven from the Heights.
Fort Washington’s lost with men deserting. Yet he still keeps them marching.”
Jon scanned the sheet, the clamor of the yard dulling as he read. His jaw set hard. “Then we’ll play our part at sea. If the land war falters, with God leading us the sea will answer.”
“We’re needed more now, since most of General Benedict Arnold’s fleet was captured or destroyed by General Carleton at Valcour Bay between the New York mainland and Valcour Island.”
Jon shook his head at the additional news. “So, we are losing both on land and on water.” Yet even so, the sight of the Tyrannicide, re-rigged and ready, lent him a surge of resolve.
In a week’s time, she would put out to sea, bound for the West Indies. The thought steadied Jon. Yet it also caused him a pang of regret, for it meant leaving his daughters behind, and for how long he could not say.
Haraden house, Salem, late October 1776
CANDLELIGHT GLOWED WARM against the cream-colored walls as the household gathered for supper, and Mr. Haraden prayed over the meal. Eunice admired his faith and shared his desire for his daughters to grow to be women of God.
The prayer ended, and Eunice breathed in the fragrance of stew thick with turnips and carrots, and the fresh-baked loaf Martha set down with a flourish. Polly, in her high chair, banged a wooden spoon against the tray, laughing with delight as if she ruled the table.
“She’s a year old now and a clever child,” Martha declared, spooning a bit of gruel into a small bowl. “She takes to her porridge like a sailor to rum.”
Hannah giggled, reaching to help feed her sister, her hair ribbon slipping to her shoulder. Martha quickly shooed her hand away. “Mind your ribbon, Child, or it’ll end up in the gruel.”
Hannah sat back, smoothing the blue ribbon back into place with exaggerated care. “I only wanted to help.”
“Martha,” said Eunice, “I think it’s fine if Hannah helps Polly. It is what her mother would have wanted, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, very well,” said Martha.
Hannah smiled at Eunice. They were beginning to form a bond, one Eunice hoped would heal a hurting child.
Mr. Haraden’s gaze was fixed on his two daughters, their golden heads so alike.
“You are correct, Mrs. Mason. Their mother would have approved. She told Hannah to care for her sister and she is doing so.” Then turning to Hannah, he said, “You are helping, sweetheart. Polly will always know her sister is watching over her.”
Eunice glanced across the table, her gaze approving as Hannah resumed helping to feed Polly. “The girls thrive, Mr. Haraden,” she said softly. “That’s no small blessing.”
As Martha set the rest of the bowls on the table, Silas limped in from the harbor, his coat still smelling of the wharves, his expression grave. He leaned his hands on a chair back and said, “News is grim. General Washington’s men are in retreat. Some say the cause is near lost.”
A silence fell over the table. Hannah’s hand crept to her locket as if to shield her heart.
“Lost, is it?” said Martha. “Well, someone best tell the redcoats, because they don’t seem to know they’ve won. And I’ll not waste good flour bakin’ bread for quitters.”
Jon set his spoon down. “The cause isn’t lost. General Washington has taken losses to be sure, but he will find his ground again, and we’ll do our part at sea.”
Eunice met Mr. Haraden’s gaze, and in it she saw the quiet strength that answered the fear in the room. Soon enough he would be gone again, the sea calling him to duty, and they would miss him sorely.
Hannah’s voice broke the silence. “How long will you be gone, Papa?”
“Longer than before, sweetheart. With fair winds, it’s four or five weeks to the West Indies. And we shall be there for a while hunting British merchantmen. But I will think of you and Polly every day.”
“And we will pray for you,” said Eunice.
THE DAYS THAT followed passed in a quiet rhythm of preparation.
Repairs were checked, stores loaded, and the Tyrannicide readied for sea.
Jon kept the hours at home close, letting himself be drawn into small moments: Polly’s laughter at Martha’s jingling keys, Hannah reciting her catechism at Eunice’s side, the glow of candles softening the cream-painted walls each evening.
Those he tried to hold against the tide already tugging at him, treasures to be recalled in his long days at sea.
By the twenty-eighth, the house carried a hush of unspoken knowledge.
His sea chest stood at the door, ready. When Jon rose at dawn on the twenty-ninth, the harbor air was sharp with salt and wood smoke, the gulls crying overhead.
The Tyrannicide tugged at her moorings like a horse eager for the course.
He kissed his daughters, lingered at the door, sharing a smile with Eunice a heartbeat longer than he meant, and then was gone, the sea calling him to duty.
On the Tyrannicide, off the Carolinas, early November 1776
THE RASP OF holystones carried across the deck at dawn, the men scrubbing in steady rhythm as seawater sloshed from buckets. It was the ordinary sound of a ship at sea, until the sky drew Jon’s eyes.
The eastern horizon was bruising, a low bank of clouds thickening with an odd, greenish cast. The wind had a weight to it now, heavy and damp.
“Belay that scrubbing!” Jon’s voice cut sharp. “Hands aloft! Reef topsail! Lash everything that moves. Gale coming on!”
The stones were quickly set aside as men scrambled to their stations.
Bare feet slapped the wet deck, canvas cracked overhead, and the ordered calm of the morning turned to the taut urgency of preparation.
Guns were double-lashed, hatches battened down, and in the rigging the topmen clung like gulls, hauling in sail before the squall could tear it loose.
Even the cabin boys threw themselves into the work.
Johnny Deadman darted between the gun crews, snatching at loose gear before it could roll, his thin frame moving quicker than men twice his size.
His fellow cabin boy, Bobby Grover, hauled at a line alongside the seamen, his face tight with effort.
Jon’s eyes caught them both, and for a moment pride steadied his chest. With the oncoming storm, every soul aboard was proving his worth.
Captain Fisk came up to the quarterdeck, the wind tugging at his coat. He gave one measuring glance at the sky, then nodded once, brisk and certain. “Good eye, Lieutenant. Keep her snugged down tight. We’ll ride it out. Send a hand to see the lashings doubled on the longboat. We’ll not lose her.”
“Aye, sir,” Jon answered, already signaling the order. He felt the crew respond, steady hands working faster, confidence flowing from the quarterdeck down through every station.
The first hard gust hit moments later, shrieking through the rigging. The Tyrannicide heeled, but she was ready, secured, braced, her crew at their posts.
By late afternoon, the gale was in full fury. Seas mounted higher than a house, gray-green walls that threatened to swallow the brigantine whole. Spray slashed across the deck in icy sheets, and the men’s shouts were snatched away by the wind.
Jon clung to the weather rail, his voice raw from giving orders. “Ease her off! Keep her bow quarter to it. Steady!” The helmsman wrestled the wheel, knuckles white.
Fisk moved beside Jon, calm as ever, his voice pitched low, steadying. “You’ve the feel of her, Haraden. Don’t fight the sea, ride her through.”
Jon’s hand tightened on the weather rail, knuckles white, though his voice rang firm above the storm.
“She’s sound, and so are her hands. The sea may try us, but it won’t have us.
” The words were as much for the crew as for himself, and he saw heads lift along the deck, shoulders squaring against the gale.
As the storm raged, spars groaned, ropes strained, but the brigantine held. They had stripped her canvas to bare poles. Still she flew, driven by the screaming wind.