Chapter 6
“The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”
MARTHA PULLED THE hood of her cloak up to protect her ears against the bite of the wind.
The snow lay hard-packed along the streets, but the market square still thronged with people, a murmur of anxious voices rising from under woolen hoods and shawls.
Prices had climbed again, flour fetching twice its worth, sugar scarce as gold, and molasses gone before noon.
Wives muttered of hunger and of merchants grown fat while soldiers froze and starved.
Martha’s grip tightened on the empty basket she carried. If the war was to be won, the hearths of Salem must be kept burning, and food at the ready for hungry people. She would not see her neighbors cheated into want.
Near Needham’s Bakery, a knot of women pressed forward, their voices rising.
“How am I to keep my children fed,” one cried, “when every penny buys only half a loaf?”
Another called, “Fair price or no price, Patriots can’t be allowed to starve while the cause marches on!”
Martha stood among the women, her arms folded, her chin lifted. “You’ve bread enough in your bins, Mr. Needham,” she accused, her voice ringing. “Raise your price again and you’ll answer to every wife in Salem!”
The baker came from his shop to snap back, “Mind yourself, Woman! I’ll not be robbed by fishwives and cooks!” He shoved at Martha’s shoulder.
A hand caught her before she stumbled. Silas, strong as ever despite his limp, moved between them, his voice low but firm, his eyes narrowed on the baker. “Easy, Needham. Best watch your tongue. No man prospers long spitin’ hungry neighbors.”
Martha’s cheeks burned, but she tossed her head. “Aye, Needham, best mind yourself, or you’ll be eatin’ your own loaves for supper.” Laughter broke out among the women, though their eyes stayed hard on the baker.
The baker, seeing the faces ranged against him, muttered and dropped his price by a shilling.
Silas gave Martha a look both reproving and admiring as he took her arm. “Next time,” he muttered, “give a body warnin’ before you take on half the town.”
Martha sniffed. “Next time, Silas, I expect you to be at my side, not trailin’ after.”
The parlor fire glowed against the gathering dark when Martha swept into the house, Silas behind her.
Her cheeks were still flushed from the cold and the quarrel.
She set her basket down on the parlor table with a thump, harder than she meant, and muttered something under her breath about “graspin’ bakers. ”
Mrs. Mason, who had been mending by the hearth while the girls played, looked up. “Martha? What’s happened?”
Silas stamped the snow from his boots as he hung up his cloak. He gave a grunt. “Your Martha near led a riot at Needham’s stall. Had half the wives of Salem ready to storm his bins.”
Martha entered the parlor, unrepentant. “He thought to raise the price again, but I told him plain, keep on, and he’s soon be eatin’ his own bread. That cooled him fast enough. Why, I’ll teach every woman in Salem to bake better bread than his.”
Mrs. Mason pressed a hand to her mouth. “Martha! You didn’t!”
“Aye, she did,” said Silas. “Took the man’s head off. Would’ve been a riot if she’d gone on longer.” Silas shot her a sidelong look, half-admiration, half-exasperation. “I’ll say this: the man dropped his price soon enough.”
Martha pulled off her cloak with a huff. “What’s happened is robbery paradin’ as trade.”
Silas shed his jacket and lowered himself onto a stool with a groan.
“I’ve heard talk on the wharves, talk of similar scenes in Boston, Portsmouth, even farther south.
And it’s not just bread, but coffee, tea, sugar, and flour.
Anythin’ folk can’t do without. Women won’t see their children starve while merchants line their pockets.
It’s not the first time, won’t be the last.”
Mrs. Mason, a serious expression on her face, said, “Part of this must be caused by the British blockade of our ports.”
“Aye,” said Silas, “and the Continental Army takin’ large amounts of flour has created local shortages.”
Martha sniffed, though her chin was high. “And some merchants use that as an excuse to raise prices. They shouldn’t. If the men are away fightin’, it falls to us to keep the hearth and feed the children. Patriots can’t be expected to starve while we pray for victory.”
Mrs. Mason set her needlework aside, her voice gentle. “I only pray you’ll be careful, Martha. Words in anger can cut as deep as any blade.”
Martha softened a fraction, though she would not admit it. “Well, if the menfolk won’t keep bakers honest, someone has to.”
Hannah looked up at Martha, “I think you won.”
Silas chuckled, shaking his head. “Won this bout, maybe. But if I’m to keep her out of the gaol, I’ll need eyes in the back of my head.”
A smile tugged at Martha’s lips. “Nonsense. Salem’s better for a sharp tongue now and then.”
From the corner of the room, little Polly crawled to a chair and lifted herself up. Hannah, watching with bright eyes, smiled at the progress her little sister was making. Martha caught it. “Soon the child will be walkin’.”
On the Tyrannicide off the Leeward Islands in the Caribbean, January 1777
THE TRADE WINDS filled the Tyrannicide’s canvas, driving her north along the edge of the Leeward Islands, the sea rolling blue and steady beneath her.
Jon stood at the rail, the memory of St. Eustatius still vivid, the bustle of the quay, the Dutch factor’s tale of the salute to American independence, the casks of sugar and powder shifting from hand to hand.
The lookout’s cry broke the morning calm. “Sail ho! Off the larboard bow, a brig, deep laden!”
Jon’s heart leapt. He snapped his glass open and steadied himself against the roll.
A broad-shouldered vessel lay ahead, brig-rigged, her wake sluggish under her heavy cargo.
British colors streamed at her gaff. “The Henry and Ann,” Jon muttered, his spyglass snapping shut.
“Bound north for New York, I’ll wager, fat with provisions. ”
Fisk gave a curt nod, and his orders rang across the deck. “Hands to stations! Run out the guns, and trim her sharp. We’ll close the gap.”
The men moved with eagerness sharpened by their recent victory.
Sailors vaulted into the rigging, the braces creaked as canvas was trimmed, and the brigantine leaned into the wind.
Jon felt the thrill course through him. The Tyrannicide was no longer a sloop running for her life but a hunter in full stride.
The British brig tried to bear away, but she was slow, heavy with stowed goods.
Within the hour, the Tyrannicide gained the advantage, standing upwind.
Swinging downwind, she crossed astern of the British ship, lining up to rake her vulnerable quarter.
The bow-chaser barked flame and smoke. Shot smashed through the Henry and Ann’s bulwark, sending splinters spinning.
Still she ran, stubborn, her crew answering with a single stern-chaser that splashed wide. Jon’s jaw set. “With your permission, sir, I would take action to see she is ours.”
“All yours,” said Fisk.
Jon called from the quarterdeck, “Mr. Moses, give her a broadside she won’t mistake.”
The port guns thundered, the deck shuddering beneath their feet. A round tore through the brig’s mizzen, sending rigging slithering down in a tangle. Her flight was broken. Jon imagined the British captain’s shoulders sag. A moment later, the red ensign dipped, fluttered, and dropped.
“Colors struck!” came the cry.
A cheer erupted from Tyrannicide’s men, raw and triumphant. Jon allowed himself a tight smile. “Boarding party away,” he ordered. Senior warrant officer Benjamin Moses led the prize crew, their boat splashing down and pulling hard toward the wounded brig.
When the British master was brought across, he grimaced with fury and defeat. Handing Fisk his sword with stiff formality, he said bitterly, “Brig Henry and Ann, laden with flour, pork, and oats for His Majesty’s troops in New York.”
Fisk passed the sword to Jon. “Mr. Haraden, see to it, if you will, and send her into St. Eustatius.” Jon felt the sword’s weight in his hand, the war now measured not in glory but in bushels and barrels.
Washington’s men were starved for want of such cargo.
Here, in the tropics, the Revolution’s lifeblood had been found.
Jon set the blade aside. “Your ship will serve a better cause now,” he said evenly.
By afternoon, the Henry and Ann was under prize crew command and on her way to the Golden Rock, her holds deep with foodstuffs that could keep an army on its feet.
Jon watched the British ship heading downwind under the hand of the prize crew.
The British captain stood rigid at her stern, forced to look back at the ship that had mastered him. After a moment, Jon turned to Fisk.
“What becomes of them in the Dutch port, sir? The prisoners?”
Fisk’s eyes followed the departing brig. “In a neutral port like St. Eustatius, they’ll be paroled ashore under Dutch oversight, their word given not to take up arms until exchanged. They won’t like it, watching their cargo sold and carted off to feed Washington’s men, but they’ll have no choice.”
Jon frowned. “Paroled? You mean they are free to walk, so long as they swear an oath?”
“Aye,” Fisk said, his voice flat. “It’s honor that binds them. They’ll be shipped off soon enough on some Dutch or Spanish vessel and sent back to their own ports. But until then, they’re no threat to us.”
Jon’s gaze narrowed on the emptying horizon. “Strange, isn’t it? We parole their men, treat them fair. Yet ours rot in the hulks off New York, starving in the dark. Some never see daylight again. Others waste away in English prisons.”