Chapter 7
“Freedom is not a gift bestowed upon us by other men, but a right that belongs to us by the laws of God.”
JON STOOD ON the quarterdeck with Fisk as the Tyrannicide came beating up through the ice-stippled waters of Salem Harbor, taking long angled runs and then tacking back, clawing her way upwind.
Jon gazed upward to see her canvas stiff with frost, her lines creaking as though weary from the long haul north.
Behind her, the John, the Three Friends, and the Henry and Ann followed, their prize crews guiding them toward the familiar wharves.
Smoke rose from the town’s chimneys, carried thin and gray in the winter air.
Along the wharf, a crowd had gathered despite the cold.
On the quarterdeck beside him, Fisk let out a low breath, the ghost of a smile crossing his weathered face.
“No one can argue with our success. Look at them, staring at the three prizes we’ve brought in.
And they’ve yet to hear of the Ann we sold at the Golden Rock.
We’ll save that story for later, when they’ve caught their breath. ”
Jon’s gaze swept the wharf. Merchants craned for the manifests, townsfolk hungry for news, wives and children waving mittened hands.
His own eyes found Hannah first, her golden hair flying free of her hood, bright even in the gray morning.
He’d been gone mere months, but already she had grown taller.
Her hand lifted high catching his eye. Beside her stood Eunice Mason, smiling broadly beneath her hooded cloak.
Behind them was Silas, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
“Bring her to, Mr. Stockman,” Fisk ordered. “Let’s show Salem what she’s worth.”
The anchors splashed down, sails furled stiffly against their yards, and a cheer rose from the crowd, muffled but strong in the frozen air. Lines were cast ashore, and the brigantine settled against Derby Wharf with a groan of timbers.
Jon stepped down at last onto the wharf’s planks. Hannah ran to him, her hair streaming behind her. He swept her up, the chill forgotten in the warmth of her arms.
“Papa, you came back!” she whispered fiercely, as though daring the sea to prove her wrong.
“Of course I did, sweetheart.”
Their governess met his eyes, her expression bright with something unspoken. She inclined her head, almost formally, though her gaze lingered. In the morning light with her cheeks red from the cold, her brown eyes sparkled.
“Welcome home, sir!” she exclaimed.
Jon inclined his head in thanks, feeling the warmth of her words despite the chill.
Silas stepped forward, dipping his head.
“Well done, sir. Brought back half the Indies, by the look of it. Salem’ll eat well now.
Martha’s home by the hearth with Polly. She’ll have a feast waitin’ once you’ve done with these wharf folk.
And I’ll wager the Board of War’ll be smilin’ wider still, for I reckon you’ve more than pork and flour in them holds. ”
Jon gave Silas a nod. “Aye, we’ve a few things for General Washington.”
Behind them, dockhands and merchants surged to meet the prize crews, tallying barrels and crates.
The Board of War’s clerk stood ready with his ledger, quill scratching furiously, his grin broadening as he heard the tally of pork, flour, powder, muskets and rum.
To the clerk, it was numbers on a page, for he must account for the cargo before any could be sold.
To Salem, it meant bread on the table and hope for the cause.
Jon let his eyes roam over the town he had left in autumn. It seemed smaller now, quieter, after the bustling quays of the Caribbean. Yet it was here his heart returned, here his daughters waited, here faith and duty balanced the call of the sea.
Fisk came down the gangway, his boots sounding on the planks.
He clasped Jon’s shoulder. “Mr. Haraden, see to the prize masters’ reports and make certain the Board’s clerk has the manifests.
Mind the cargo tallies and the men’s welfare.
When that’s done, you’ve leave to take supper with your family.
Report back in the morning, and we’ll confer on orders. ”
Jon inclined his head. “Aye, Captain.” Turning to Silas, he said, “I’ll be home as soon as I’ve finished here.”
Haraden house, Salem
THE SCENT OF roast cod, winter carrots, and Martha’s brown bread met Jon the instant he crossed the threshold.
Under his arm he carried a small parcel wrapped in sailcloth that contained molasses, sugar, and coffee brought from St. Eustatius, a gift for the household.
Behind him the night air gusted in, sharp with the bite of snow.
The warmth of the hearth, the familiar creak of the old floorboards under his boots, struck him like a wave.
The day had been both exhausting and exhilarating, and he relished the safe harbor of home.
Martha met him at the door with Hannah at her side, beaming up at him. “Supper’s ready, sir, whenever you are.”
“I’m eager to taste your cooking, Martha, but need to change out of these salt-soaked clothes. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Do hurry, Papa,” said Hannah, tugging his hand.
Mrs. Mason, with Polly in her arms, peeked her head into the parlor. “Good evening, sir.”
Jon returned her greeting with a nod and took the stairs two at a time.
When he returned, face and hands scrubbed and a clean shirt beneath his waistcoat, he took his place at the head of the oak table.
Frost feathered the windowpanes, blurring the snowdrifts outside into pale shapes, as if the world beyond were held at bay.
Inside, the candles burned steady against the drafts, their glow warming the pewter dishes and the steam rising from serving bowls. In the hearth, a fire burned steadily.
Hannah sat on his right, bright with expectation.
Mrs. Mason had strapped Polly into her high chair on his left and took her place next to his youngest. The little one was already reaching for a chunk of bread, smearing more of it across her cheeks than into her mouth.
Mrs. Mason gently wiped her face with a kerchief, only for Polly to swat her hand and giggle.
Jon bowed his head. He thanked God for the Savior, the Tyrannicide’s safe return, for their successful captures, and for the food spread before them this evening.
Martha, bustling in, set down a great platter of roast cod with onions, carrots and parsnips, steam rising into the warm room. “Eat your fill,” she told Jon, her chin high. “Let’s see if you can do justice to my kitchen now.”
Jon laughed softly, shaking his head. “This is a feast, one I’ve not tasted since I was last at home.” He caught Mrs. Mason’s glance, warm and approving, and for a moment the ache of his absence eased.
“Tell us about the ships you captured!” Hannah insisted, eyes shining. “Were there awful battles?”
Jon set down his fork. “Very well,” he said, noticing Silas leaning into the room from the kitchen doorway, “but first there was a storm unlike any we’d known.”
“A storm?” Mrs. Mason leaned forward. Hannah’s eyes grew wide.
“Aye. Off Bermuda, the wind blew so fierce it tore canvas from the yards and near carried away our bowsprit. For a day and a night, the crew pumped without ceasing, and the waves rose higher than the Tyrannicide’s masts.
More than once I thought we’d founder.” He paused, meeting Hannah’s gaze.
“But God was merciful, and when morning came and the seas calmed, the men cheered as if we’d won a battle. ”
“And what about the British ships you captured?” Hannah prompted, as Martha came in to gather empty plates.
“We took four fat prizes, merchantmen carrying flour and powder among other things bound for British troops.”
“But there were only three ships behind the Tyrannicide when you sailed into Salem,” Hannah protested. “What happened to the other one?”
“Good eye, sweetheart. The first ship we captured was a snow, the Ann, bound for Jamaica with a cargo of flour and lumber. We sold her in St. Eustatius for needed coin. She also carried dispatches bearing the seal of the Crown. I put those in Captain Fisk’s hands for General Washington.
All the captured ships carried cargo. We made harbor at St. Eustatius, where the Dutch are glad enough to trade with Americans.
That is where I bought this.” From the floor, he lifted the small parcel of sugar, molasses, and coffee onto the table.
“Martha can use the sweets for her puddings, if she likes. And I will be glad enough to drink the coffee.”
“Hmph,” said Martha, though her eyes softened when she looked at Jon’s gifts. “We’ll see what use your gifts can be put to.”
“It was thoughtful of you to remember the household,” said Mrs. Mason. She coaxed a spoonful of mashed parsnip toward Polly, who promptly pushed it back out with her tongue, smearing her gown. “And what is next for you and the Tyrannicide?”
“I expect the Board of War will have new orders soon enough. I may know more tomorrow when I meet with Captain Fisk.”
When all the platters had been cleared, Martha returned from the kitchen with a steaming apple pie, its crust golden and sugared, the scent filling the room with a sweetness that cut through the winter air.
“Apple pie!” Hannah clapped her hands.
Polly reached across her tray, squealing, and Mrs. Mason quickly cut a small piece into tiny morsels for her. The child ate the soft apple filling with sticky delight, smearing it across her cheeks and the high chair table. “I believe Polly loves the pie, Martha,” said Mrs. Mason.
Jon chuckled. “A feast indeed, Martha. You’ve outdone yourself.”
The corners of the cook’s mouth twitched. “A sailor home from sea deserves more than fish and bread.”