Chapter 5 #2
Midnight found Jon on his feet still, every muscle aching, salt caked in his hair and on his coat.
A sea broke across the ship’s waist, sweeping two men off their feet, but hands caught them, hauled them gasping back.
One man’s arm was broken, another cut by a flying block, the injured sent to the orlop deck.
Fisk’s lantern swung in the blackness, casting a thin light. “Hold fast, lads. Dawn’ll break before long, and this devil will blow itself out.” His words, quiet but certain, carried more weight than the gale itself.
When the first light came, it revealed a sea transformed. The storm was spent, the horizon clean, and above stretched a sky as brilliant and blue as hammered glass. The Tyrannicide rose and fell on long, even swells, her timbers groaning but unbroken.
The men stood at the rail, hollow-eyed, salt-streaked, and grinning. One began to whistle, another laughed outright. Relief rolled through the deck like a fresh wind.
Jon drew a deep breath, his lungs full of the salt-clean air. The ship smelled of tar and wet wood, but also of life, of endurance. His gaze strayed forward where the masts stood tall, ropes taut, the brigantine whole despite the night’s fury.
“God’s mercy,” muttered one seaman, kissing the wooden rail. Jon nodded as he thanked God for delivering them from the storm. His eyes on the horizon, he asked himself, with all that behind them, what might lay ahead?
Beside him, Fisk stretched his back with a wince. “Well, Mr. Haraden,” he said, a ghost of humor in his voice, “she’s proved herself a brigantine already. Not many ships take a blow like that their first week rigged.”
Jon managed a tired smile. “She’s sound, Captain. And thanks to Providence, so are we.”
“Now to see if Cook has been able to fix us something hot to eat,” said Fisk.
“I’m famished and I imagine the crew is tired of hardtack.
” Giving a curt nod to the deck, he shouted, “Mr. Stockman, you’ve the watch.
Set the warrant officers to secure the lashings, pump her dry, and see the men know they’ll have a hot meal.
Join me in my cabin once the deck’s settled. ”
“Aye, sir,” Stockman replied, already turning to the warrant officers with clipped orders.
Jon followed Fisk down the companionway, his shoulders leaden, the salt crust in his hair and on his coat itching his skin.
The air below reeked of wet wood and tar, but as he walked toward the forecastle a warmer scent struck him from the direction of the galley.
“I’ll just check on the cook’s progress, sir,” said Jon.
At Fisk’s nod, Jon ducked into the galley.
“Burgoo, sir,” Reed said without looking up, his ladle stirring steadily. The pot hissed, thick with salt beef, biscuit crumbs, and what barley Reed had salvaged. “Give me a half-hour and the officers and men’ll have it hot in their bellies.”
Jon nodded. “The crew will need it. The sea near broke them last night.”
In the captain’s cabin, sunlight poured through the stern windows, falling bright across the table. Fisk removed his coat, urging Jon to do so as well, then eased himself into a chair with a grunt, poured two measures of watered rum, and pushed one toward Jon.
“To the goodness of Providence, and to a sound ship,” Fisk said.
Jon lifted his glass, his hand trembling from exhaustion. “To Providence,” he echoed. The rum burned, then spread its warmth through him. For the first time since the gale struck, his breath came easy.
Fisk leaned back. “You handled her well, Haraden. A man shows his mettle in a blow.”
Jon met his captain’s eyes. “She’s a good ship. And her men trust her. That’s what carried us through.”
“Our crew trusts you, Haraden. ’Tis obvious.” Fisk’s tone was quiet, almost offhand, but the words landed heavier than praise of his seamanship.
“Thank you, sir.”
A knock at the door broke the moment. The captain’s cabin boy, Joshua Trask, entered and began laying out pewter bowls, setting a small wheel of cheese and a dried apple pie beside them, the captain’s stores, kept aside for such moments.
Stockman arrived soon after, salt still crusting his coat, hair plastered to his brow. “Deck secured, sir. Pumps are working, lashings tight, and the men know they’ll have hot food within the hour.”
“Well enough,” Fisk said. “Lose your coat and sit, Joe. You’ve earned it as much as we have.”
Stockman hesitated only a moment before taking off his coat and dropping into a chair, fatigue etched deep in his face.
Joshua delivered the burgoo shortly thereafter and poured each man a measure of rum with a boy’s earnest care, glancing nervously to Fisk for approval.
Fisk nodded at Joshua as Jon reached for the ladle, filling their bowls, the steam rising rich with beef and biscuit.
It was hot and well-seasoned. After the long night, it tasted near to a feast. For a time, the only sound was the scrape of spoons and the creak of the timbers.
Weariness pulled at all of them, but with warm food in their bellies the storm seemed less a terror survived than a trial endured.
Fisk finally set down his spoon, eyeing Jon over the rim of his rum. “Storm’s behind us. Next test will be the enemy. But I think the Tyrannicide’s ready.”
Jon answered with a smile, his shoulders loosening. “So do I, sir. And so are her men.”
As the meal ended, Fisk pushed back his chair. “Get a few hours of sleep, gentlemen, and then see to the men. After supper, join me in my cabin. We’ll lay out our course into the Indies.”
Jon and Stockman nodded, exhaustion weighing heavier now that the worst was past. Above deck, the sun climbed higher, gold on the blue sea, and the Tyrannicide’s crew worked in weary shifts—pumping, patching, resetting canvas—while their officers finally allowed themselves rest.
By nightfall the ship was steadier, her decks cleared, the crew fed and in good spirits. The storm seemed already like a dark memory left astern.
In the captain’s cabin, the lantern swayed with each roll, throwing gold light across the worn chart of the Leeward Islands spread over the table where Fisk had gathered Jon and Stockman again, compass, dividers, and a pewter mug sliding a fraction with each lift of the sea.
Fisk tapped the chart with a blunt finger.
“There lies St. Eustatius, the ‘Golden Rock’. The Dutch call her neutral, but every mast in the Caribbean knows better. They’re supplying Washington’s men as steady as the tide.
Powder, shot, muskets, saltpeter. And they’ll pay good coin for flour and naval stores we capture from the British. ”
Stockman frowned, his dark brows drawn together, his arms folded. “It’s a risk. The Crown calls it smuggling and piracy. We bring a prize into a Dutch port, and the British may claim we’ve broken faith.”
Fisk gave a dry smile. “The Crown calls all we do piracy, Joe. Let them howl. If the Dutch keep their doors open, we gain. If they shut them, better to know now than to learn it when our holds are full and our throats bare of water.”
Jon traced the lines of latitude with his thumb, considering.
“It’s close enough to our course. And if the harbor’s thick with flags, as you suggest, sir, it will be difficult to single out one American brigantine among that press.
A short stay, then off again with fresh water, rum, and whatever coin they’ll give us for our prize’s cargo. ”
Fisk leaned back in his chair, the timbers creaking. “Aye. We’ll not linger. Just long enough to test the Golden Rock’s welcome, and to remind the men what we fight for. Every cask rolled ashore there is another musket bound north to General Washington. That’s worth the risk.”
Jon caught Stockman’s skeptical look, then met Fisk’s eyes, nodding once.
“Very well,” said Fisk. “We’ll try her harbor with our first prize. If the war falters in New York, then it must be carried on the sea. And the sea runs through St. Eustatius.”
The lantern swung again, throwing shadows across the chart.
For a moment, Jon thought of Salem, of his daughters’ golden heads bent together, of Eunice’s quiet voice guiding Hannah’s quill.
Then he set the thought aside. Ahead lay prizes to be had, the island they called the Golden Rock, and the test of Dutch neutrality.
Off the Leeward Islands, December 1776
THE LOOKOUT’S CRY cracked the quiet. “Sail ho!” A snow, brig-rigged, and wallowing heavy with cargo, lay off the starboard, running north under British colors. The crew clustered at the guns, their excitement thinly veiled under the shouts of command.
Jon’s voice rang clear across the deck. “Steady her. Keep the windward advantage!” He stood with his hand tight on the rail, eyes fixed on the fleeing vessel. He could taste the moment: the first test since their refit at Salem.
The Ann tried to claw away, but with her new brigantine rig the Tyrannicide overhauled her swiftly.
A warning shot from the bow-chaser sent splinters flying off the snow’s quarterdeck.
The British captain wavered, his colors still up, until Fisk cupped his hands and shouted across the narrowing water.
“Strike your colors, or we’ll rake you fore and aft! ”
The tension snapped as the red ensign sagged down the mast. A cheer burst from Tyrannicide’s men, relief and triumph in one. Jon felt the thrill in his blood.
The Ann’s captain, red-faced and bitter, surrendered his papers and his sword. Cheers rolled across the Tyrannicide’s deck. Jon sent Lieutenant Stockman and a prize crew aboard, their grins broad. “We’ll sail with you to St. Eustatius,” he said.
St. Eustatius in the Dutch Antilles, December 1776
THE LITTLE VOLCANIC island rose out of the sea like a fortress, at its crown the Quill. Its skirts were dotted with red-roofed houses and Dutch warehouses stacked high with goods. Jon stood next to Fisk at the rail eyeing the sight before him.
“The harbor is a forest of masts,” said the captain. “French, Spanish, Dutch, American, even the occasional British merchant likely lying low under false papers. When I was merely a merchantman, I often saw this harbor. Two hundred ships can fit in her roadstead.”
As the Tyrannicide eased into the anchorage beyond the harbor under truce of Dutch neutrality, Jon felt every eye aboard drinking in the sight.
Longboats darted across the glittering water and merchants shouted before anchors were even down.
Rum, sugar, muskets, powder, everything the colonies lacked, the island seemed to pour forth in abundance. Here, the war was commerce.
Dutch customs men, stiff in their blue coats, received Fisk and Jon at the quay as they climbed from their longboat. Dutch clerks fussed over seals and signatures, but Jon caught their eyes following more closely the coin than the ink. Silver spoke louder here than Britain’s protests.
Stockman joined Jon on the quay and handed him a leather packet marked with the seal of the Crown. “Found these on our prize.”
Jon passed the packet to Captain Fisk. “Sir, the second lieutenant has made a find, papers from London. These documents may serve General Washington better than coin.”
Fisk nodded. “Indeed.”
By afternoon, the captured Ann’s cargo of flour and naval stores was stacked in a counting house, and Fisk signed receipts with the flourish of a man doing God’s work. In return, casks of rum and sugar rolled down to the water’s edge, and quiet parcels of powder were whispered into their hands.
Jon walked the crowded quay, where sailors from half a dozen nations jostled, tavern doors swung wide, and tongues in Dutch, French, and English mingled.
He saw the eagerness in his men’s faces, felt it in his own chest: proof that their fight stretched far beyond Massachusetts.
Every barrel shifted here was another musket for Washington’s line, another shipload denied the Crown.
As dusk fell, he and Fisk stood together watching the bustle.
Fisk’s voice was low. “Remember this, Mr. Haraden. The war isn’t only fought with powder and shot.
It’s fought in warehouses, on ledgers, in every hand that takes a coin for liberty’s cause.
The Golden Rock feeds Washington as surely as we do. ”
Jon nodded, the bustle of the quay echoing in his mind, barrels rolling, taverns alive in a dozen tongues.
In Fisk’s cabin later that evening, over the chart of the Leewards, one of the Dutch factors, plump and red-faced from the heat, let slip an important tale.
Dabbing at his brow with a kerchief, his pride evident, he said, “Ach, it was but last month, ya. An American brig-of-war, the Andrew Doria, anchored here under your new flag. Fort Oranje gave her eleven guns, and the salute was answered shot for shot. The first time your colors were honored by any power in Europe or the Indies. The English—” he spread his hands with relish—“they are still gnashing their teeth over it.”
Jon felt the words strike like a hammer blow. “A salute,” he murmured, picturing the Continental Union flag flying against the Caribbean sky. “Then the world has seen us for what we are. Not rebels, but a new nation.”
Fisk’s gaze lingered on the Dutchman, then shifted to Jon, quiet approval in his eyes. “Every musket and barrel of powder slipped ashore here since has carried that salute with it. Remember that when you look at these Dutch warehouses, Mr. Haraden. They’re the arsenal of liberty.”
The factor shrugged, as though it were nothing but good business.
In that moment, Jon realized more fully the importance of trade to the war.
He pictured American ships carrying goods into European ports as well as cannon into battle.
Surely American captains could do both. The Revolution did live in ledgers as much as in broadsides.
The sea was his battlefield, but here in this crowded harbor he saw the breadth of the struggle. He saw the future.
Watching the lamps flicker on the quay, he thought of the endless barrels of sugar, rum, and powder piled high on St. Eustatius. Yet far to the north, British blockades were already choking New England’s harbors, cutting off the delivery of goods. How long before shortages reached Salem’s markets?
His thoughts turned homeward, to Hannah bent over her copybook, to Polly pounding her spoon in her high chair, to Eunice’s quiet strength keeping the household on an even keel, and to Martha with her garden and Silas at her side.