Chapter 7 #2
It was then, over pie and candlelight, that Jon leaned back in his chair and, turning to Mrs. Mason, said, “I’ve been thinking it might be time to invite my cousin Andrew Haraden and his wife Lydia from Gloucester.
He’s outfitting ships and doing quite well.
He and Lydia are raising six daughters. And just to make it lively, one is named Hannah, though they call her Joanna, and their youngest is called Polly.
” He smiled at his own girls in turn. “I’ll send them an invitation to come to Salem.
When duty calls me back to sea, their household can join ours, and Andrew and Lydia can have my chamber while they are with us. You’ll all be kin in truth then.”
“That branch of the Haradens is a stout crew,” said Silas, ambling in from the doorway with a glint in his eye.
“Andrew’s father, now there was a shipwright with tar enough in his veins to wrestle his sloop, the Squirrel, right out of pirate hands.
Sent those sea wolves off yelpin’, he did.
A real hero, and no mistake.” He chuckled, his whiskers twitching.
“So, if the Gloucester cousins come, mind you, this house will be brimful of Haraden salt.”
Hannah’s eyes shone. “More cousins!”
“Aye, more cousins,” Jon said with a laugh. “And more laughter in this house.”
For a moment, he let himself believe it would last, the glow of hearth and candles, Polly’s delighted chatter, the women’s steady presence about him, the snow muffling the world beyond their walls.
The sea would call soon enough, and he would eagerly go, but tonight he was only Jonathan Haraden: father, cousin, son of Salem.
Derby Wharf, Salem
THE TIDE LAPPED against the pilings, gray water flecked with ice, as Jon strode the length of Derby Wharf.
His breath rose in white clouds, whipped away by the northeast wind that rattled every loose line and set the Tyrannicide’s rigging humming like a harp.
Snow crusted the planks, crunching under his boots.
On either side, stacks of barrel staves, crates of salt fish, and casks of flour bound for the Indies stood rimed in frost, while hogsheads of molasses newly landed from the islands steamed faintly in the cold air.
Merchants in greatcoats stamped their feet for warmth, while apprentices carried ledgers close against the cold.
Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the creak of tackle and the steady hammer of shipwrights at work.
The smell of tar and oakum mingled with brine was pungent and familiar.
The Tyrannicide was moored snugly, her sails furled in neat bands, her deck alive with movement.
Cauldrons of bubbling tar steamed in the frigid air as men caulked seams split in the storm and battles, while others bent fresh canvas to spars.
Captain Fisk stood near the gangway, a folded paper in hand, conferring with the carpenter. At Jon’s approach he looked up, his ruddy face bright against the wind.
“Haraden, you’ve the look of a man ready for orders.”
Jon returned the smile. “That I am, sir. Tell me what the Board of War has decreed for us.”
Fisk held up the sheet, its edges fluttering. “No new orders yet. But there’s news you’ll like better than any commission.” He tapped the paper. “You wanted a bigger cabin. Well, you’re going to get one.”
Jon raised a brow. “A bigger cabin, sir?”
“As of the twentieth,” Fisk said, his voice carrying pride as well as certainty, “you are made Captain of the Tyrannicide. I’m to be given command of the Massachusetts, another brigantine, and a fine one.
You’ll have Israel Thorndike of Beverly, late of the schooner Warren, as your First Lieutenant.
A good man. Benjamin Moses of Salem will be your Second.
Aye, I know you respect him. Benjamin Lovett of Beverly is Master, and Thomas Hunt Master’s Mate. ”
For a moment, Jon simply stared at him, the hammering and gull cries dimming into silence. Captain. The word struck him like a broadside. More than he had dared expect, more than he had sought. He drew a breath.
“This…this is your doing,” Jon said at last, his voice low but firm. “Without your support, John, such a commission would never have come my way.”
Fisk’s eyes twinkled. “Nonsense. You’ve earned it with your skill and your courage. The men respect you, and so do I. The Board merely had the sense to make it official.”
Jon clasped Fisk’s hand. “Even so, you have my thanks. I’ll not forget it.”
Fisk gripped Jon’s shoulder, then gestured toward the brigantine, her masts stark against the winter sky. “Then go, Captain Haraden. See to your ship. She’s yours now, and I suspect we’ll be sailing together for a time.”
“Nothing would please me more,” Jon said, turning to the Tyrannicide.
His gaze lingered on the stern where the name stretched proud across blue scrollwork, the four stern windows beneath gleaming like watchful eyes.
He had seen her before many times, of course, but now it was different.
Painted stars framed a small shield in red, white, and blue, a bold emblem of defiance aimed squarely at the British Crown.
Against the gray chop of the harbor and the snow-piled wharves, her ochre hull and bright trim shone like a banner of resistance.
She was no ordinary brigantine, but a fighting ship christened for rebellion itself.
In her lines he felt the pull of the sea and the cause, as if both had been waiting for him all along.
And now she was his.
THE DOOR CREAKED against the winter draft as Mr. Haraden stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders.
Eunice looked up to see a raw flush on his cheeks, and something else besides, a brightness in his eyes that was not merely from the cold.
Something that was not there when he’d left for the harbor that morning.
She rose from her chair by the hearth where Polly had been playing with a new doll. Hannah sat at the oak table with her primer, lips moving soundlessly as she worked her way through a psalm verse. Both girls looked up, their father’s presence filling the room before he had spoken a word.
He hung his cocked hat and cloak on its peg and let his gaze travel over them, steady and intent, as if he had carried them all with him down Derby Wharf. “News,” he said simply, his voice low but charged.
Martha stilled at the settle and turned, her hands planted firm on her hips. “Out with it, then, afore the stew goes cold,” she said, a glint of humor in her eyes.
Silas leaned in from the passage, his gray brows lifted in expectation.
Eunice held her hands together, willing her heart to slow. Whatever he had to say, she knew it would shape the household as surely as the tide shaped the stones of the harbor.
“The Tyrannicide is now mine to command,” Jonathan said. For a long minute, silence hung in the air before they understood. “Henceforth, it’s Captain Haraden!”
Hannah gasped and half-rose from her seat, her blue eyes alight. “Captain, Papa? Truly?”
“Truly, my brave girl.” His smile was proud, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
Eunice’s hand rose to her heart. “Congratulations, sir,” she said, smiling. “You deserve to take command.”
Martha gave a short, approving nod, though her voice was brisk. “About time, if you ask me. The Board of War could scarce do better.”
Silas chuckled from the doorway. “Aye, the old girl’s got a captain worthy of her timber.”
In Eunice’s mind the word captain kept repeating, unsettling her.
She saw at once what it meant: longer absences at sea, greater exposure in a battle and the children clinging to her and to Martha when storms of fear came ashore.
And yet, she could not deny the way his bearing filled the room, as if he had stepped into the place Providence had marked for him from the beginning.
And she realized this was always his destiny.
Hers was to keep faith at home and help shape his daughters as they grew.
Eunice glanced toward Hannah and at Polly nestled in her father’s arms. In that moment, she felt both the weight and the honor of it, as if Providence had bound their paths together in different but equal callings.
Polly, though not aware of the gravity of the situation nor the honor bestowed upon her father, still realized something was afoot. She smiled at her papa, hugging his neck. He pressed his face to her curls as though to seal the moment. “Aye, sweet one,” he murmured, “your papa’s a captain now.”
Eunice watched him, her heart stirring strangely.
The house had lost so much with his wife’s passing, yet after nearly a year, tonight it seemed to gain something new, a sense of purpose as bright as the winter stars outside.
She prayed silently that God would keep him safe upon the ocean as he sailed forth to face the enemy.
Derby Wharf, Salem, March 1777
THE HARBOR TEEMED with life as the townsfolk gathered along Derby Wharf. Eunice stood a little apart with Hannah and Polly, Martha and Silas flanking her like steadfast sentries, her gaze fixed on the ship that would soon carry Captain Haraden across the sea.
Children darted between the legs of sailors and merchants, craning for a glimpse of the two brigantines at anchor.
Hawkers cried out, “Hot chestnuts and ginger cakes!” Their voices carried over the slap of rigging against masts.
The crowd pressed close, for all Salem knew this morning marked more than a departure, it was a declaration.
Two state ships, the Tyrannicide and the Massachusetts, would sail together to strike the enemy across the ocean.
The Tyrannicide drew many eyes: her ochre hull gleamed against the gray chop of the water, her blue stern scrollwork and painted stars catching the weak spring sunlight. The townsfolk pointed at her proudly, whispering her new captain’s name.
Captain Haraden stood on the wharf, not far away, his sea cloak drawn tight against the March wind, returning greetings with nods and brief words, and conferring with his new first lieutenant, Israel Thorndike, to whom Eunice had only just been introduced.
The first officer was tall and broad-shouldered, young but with an alertness about him that marked him as more than a seaman.
A year ago, Captain Haraden had been a first lieutenant.
Today, he bore the full weight of command.
Eunice and his whole family were very proud of him.
John Fisk, brisk and booming beside the new captain, barked last-minute orders to his own officers aboard the Massachusetts before turning to clap Captain Haraden’s shoulder.
“The tide waits for no man. Let’s show His Majesty what two Salem brigantines can do.
As soon as the good reverend blesses our ships, we’ll be off. ”
Johnny Deadman came running down the gangplank to Captain Haraden’s side. “Your cabin is all in order sir,” he said breathlessly. “Your chest is in place and your instruments and books are set where you told me you like them.”
Captain Haraden placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Good lad, Johnny.”
Hannah tugged at her bonnet, breathless with excitement, while Polly wriggled in Eunice’s arms, more interested in the bustle than the ships.
Eunice’s parents had joined them. Her father, Reverend James Diman, grave in his black preaching robe, stood nearby, a dark figure against the gray harbor.
Beside him, the face of her mother, Mary Diman, softened with concern.
They had come to see the ships off and to pray for their successful return.
Eunice’s mother bent close to Eunice, her voice low but insistent. “You have done well with Captain Haraden’s children and household,” she said gently, “but at twenty-five you are still young. In time, should you wish it, you might think of marrying again.”
Eunice adjusted Polly in her arms. “This is where God has me, Mother. This is where I belong. They need me.” She kept her eyes on Captain Haraden, knowing her answer was true, whatever her future might hold.
“Very well,” said her mother. Her glance flicked toward Captain Haraden. “There will be suitors enough when you are ready.”
When all was prepared, Eunice’s father stepped forward, his black preaching robe blown back by the raw March wind.
He lifted his voice above the harbor noise, and the crowd hushed as he prayed aloud, commending the ships and their crews to God’s keeping, asking for courage, for wisdom, and for triumph over the foe.
His words rolled out strong and certain, the same cadence Eunice remembered from her youth.
Captain Haraden crossed the short distance to his family, bending to press a kiss to Hannah’s brow before turning to Polly in Eunice’s arms. He kissed the little girl’s cheek, and in doing so, his head came so near to Eunice’s that she caught the clean salt scent of the sea still clinging to him.
For an instant her breath quickened, then she took hold of herself, dismissing the feeling as swiftly as it came.
“Mind your lessons, my girl,” he said to Hannah, his voice calm as his eyes softened. “Do all Mrs. Mason asks of you.”
“I will, Papa,” Hannah whispered fiercely. “Bring us back a prize!”
He chuckled. “I will certainly try.” Then he turned to Eunice, Martha and Silas.
The din of the harbor faded, and there was only his quiet gaze meeting hers.
“The house is in good hands,” he told them.
His gaze rested on each in turn before settling on Eunice.
“I’ll not worry while I’m at sea. Not while you hold those I love. ”
“You have our prayers,” Eunice answered, her tone calm, though she felt her heart clench.
Martha sniffed and muttered, “Best be bringin’ back more than prayers.”
Silas gave a gruff chuckle, lifting a hand in salute.
The sailors cheered when Captain Haraden strode up the gangplank, and the bos’n’s whistle trilled. Lines were cast off, canvas climbed the masts, and with the captain’s orders, the Tyrannicide eased from her berth.
The brigantines stood out together, bowsprits cutting eastward, sails swelling white against the pale sky. From the deck, Captain Haraden lifted his hand in farewell. The crowd’s cheer rose as they waved.
On the wharf, Hannah raised her voice high and clear. “God keep you, Papa!”
“Yes, good captain,” Eunice whispered, “God keep you.”