Chapter 9 #2
Mrs. Mason bowed her head and Martha bowed hers, too. Around them, the children fidgeted in silence. Martha prayed as hard as she ever had, that the captain lived, that Providence watched over him, that the whispers of capture would prove only shadows.
When the hymn rose—“O God, our help in ages past”—the Haraden pews sang with the rest, voices thin but resolute, clinging to the promise that God’s hand still guided those on the seas.
Marblehead Harbor, 23 July 1777
THE MASSACHUSETTS CAME to anchor off Marblehead on a clear summer morning, her sails worn thin from weeks of hard weather.
Captain John Fisk stood at the rail, watching the town stir along its narrow streets and crowded wharves.
Here was home, though not quite. Salem was where his hearth lay, but Marblehead was where the ship belonged.
“Strike the colors and furl her neat,” he told his men. “We’ll make her tidy before the yardmen set eyes on her.”
The brigantine had come in lean, her crew thinned by prize crews sent off, her timbers sorely in need of a carpenter’s care.
John wasted no time once they dropped anchor.
He dispatched a runner to Boston with his official report for the Board of War.
Clerks and shipyard hands came aboard to tally goods, and he gave orders to strip out tired cordage, mend spars, and bring in provisions for the next cruise.
Pausing on the quarterdeck, his gaze lingered toward the northwest, where Salem lay only three miles distant.
Duty first, always. But when the Massachusetts was squared away, he meant to ride to Salem at once.
Word had reached him in France and must be carried: Captain Haraden was not captured or worse, as rumor had it, but safe at Bilbao, his brig refitted and prizes in tow.
The wharf was crowded with townsfolk craning for a glimpse of the Massachusetts’ captain and crew. A boat was lowered, and John came ashore, shoulders stooped with weariness, his coat salt-stained from the Atlantic. Yet there was a brightness in his eyes that belied his grave manner.
The people pressed in around him, voices clamoring:
“Captain Fisk! What of Haraden?”
“Is the Tyrannicide taken?”
“Speak, sir,” said another, “we’ve heard the worst!”
John lifted a hand for quiet. “Friends,” he said, his voice hoarse but clear, “when last I parted from Captain Haraden, I feared him lost. The British squadron had us both in chase, and when I saw flashes of their guns, I thought him taken.”
A groan rippled through the crowd. Heads bowed, women clutched children tighter. But John’s tone shifted, rising firm above the murmurs.
“Yet before I quitted France, a schooner out of Bilbao brought tidings. Haraden was safe! The Tyrannicide ran the gauntlet, threw her guns and stores overboard to lighten the ship, and so made Bilbao Harbor. He is free and sound, with prizes of his own to boast.”
The wharf erupted, cries of joy, hats flung aloft, neighbors clasping hands in sudden relief. “Alive! Haraden lives!” the call rang, carried into the town.
John’s face eased into a weary smile. “I’ll not tarry. Salem must hear this. Captain Haraden’s children have waited long enough for the truth.”
He stepped into a waiting chaise bound for Salem. The crowd parted with cheers and blessings, following him with their eyes until the road turned inland.
Salem, later that day
EUNICE WAS WITH Hannah in the parlor when the knock came. She rose and opened the door to find John Fisk himself on the step, sunburned and his hair lighter with the sun, but with a spark in his eyes.
“Captain Fisk!” she exclaimed, stepping aside at once. “Come in. Have you news?”
Martha came from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. “I can see from your face what news you carry is not bad.”
Eunice gestured the captain to a chair. “Please sit.”
Hannah stared, wide-eyed, at the familiar seaman. Polly looked up from the hearth rug where she had been playing.
“I’ve come from Marblehead,” Fisk said, lowering himself wearily into the chair, his cocked hat in his hand. “And with news I think you’ll welcome.”
Hannah’s voice burst out before Eunice could hush her. “Is it Papa? Have you seen him?”
“I have not seen him, Child,” Fisk said gently.
“But I have word. You may put aside your fears. A schooner out of Spain brought the report to Nantes where I had put in. Captain Haraden made Bilbao safe. He threw his guns and stores overboard to outsail a British squadron, and he’s alive and well.
” Then with a chuckle, he added, “Took two prizes since, bold as ever.”
Eunice felt Hannah’s grip tighten on her hand, then loosen in sudden relief. Her own spirit was awash in joy for the news. “He is saved! God be praised, our prayers are answered.”
Martha’s eyes shone as she gave a sharp nod. “Aye, God heard us plain enough.”
Fisk went on, his tone firm. “The Massachusetts is laid up for refit in Marblehead. Captain Haraden, God willing, will follow me home in due time. When he does, he’ll come into Boston, for his brigantine will need more than a patch and a spar.
But until then, you may know he lives, and he fights still. ”
“You’ll be stayin’ for supper and no questions,” Martha told Captain Fisk as she hurried off to the kitchen. “Wait till Silas hears this!”
In the stillness that followed, Hannah pressed close to Eunice, her eyes bright with hope.
Polly clambered to her sister and stood.
Eunice, her heart steady for the first time since the fearful news, resolved to write to the Gloucester cousins that very night.
They must hear that Captain Haraden lived, and that Salem’s prayers had been answered.
Boston Harbor, 30 August 1777
JOHNNY DEADMAN APPEARED at the cabin door, holding a steaming cup with both hands. “Coffee, Captain. Strong as you like it.”
Jon accepted the mug with a grateful smile, the boy’s eagerness softening the morning’s weight.
Outside the stern windows, Boston’s spires had just crept into view, pale against the haze.
The Tyrannicide moved stiffly through the anchorage, her sails weathered, her timbers aching for care, but she was home.
Fresh cannon gleamed at her ports, gifts of Bilbao, yet the long crossing and endless strain had left her needing more than new guns.
Setting the coffee aside, Jon bent to his writing table, quill scratching across the page:
My dear Mrs. Mason,
By God’s mercy we are safely arrived in Boston this morning.
The Tyrannicide is sore spent by our cruising but still afloat, and I long to see Salem again.
I thank you for seeing to the welfare of my daughters.
Tell Hannah and Polly their father lives and thinks of them each hour.
I shall come as soon as the Board of War releases me from my duties here.
Jonathan Haraden.
He sanded and folded the page, sealing it fast. Johnny would carry it ashore to a post rider bound for Salem before the day was out.
A knock at the cabin door brought a clerk from the Board of War, papers under his arm, his face grave. “Captain Haraden,” he said, “the Board bids me welcome you home. And there is much you’ll wish to know, some news is good, some not.”
Jon gestured him in, and they sat with the harbor breeze fluttering the dispatches. One by one the clerk gave the tidings. “Congress has resolved a new flag for the United States: thirteen stars in a blue field, thirteen stripes red and white.”
Inwardly, Jon smiled. “America’s banner for us to fight under at last.”
“On the 5th of July, Fort Ticonderoga was abandoned. A bitter blow.”
Jon’s jaw tightened.
“Earlier this month at Oriskany, New York, the field was made bloody with stubborn fighting, but our militia stood their ground.”
Jon shook his head. “Is there no good news for Washington?”
“Aye,” the clerk’s voice lifted with pride. “You’ll like this one. On the sixteenth, at Bennington, our New England boys gave General Burgoyne’s detachment a drubbing. Captured cannon, prisoners, the works. A true victory.”
Jon exhaled slowly, the words settling in. “So, the tide runs both ways.”
“It does,” the clerk said, meeting his gaze. “And General Washington holds firm. His fortitude keeps the army whole when little else does. That is the truth of it.”
Jon nodded. “He is a great leader.”
The clerk placed a folded Boston Gazette on the table. “Here, Captain. Best read the rest yourself.”
Left alone, Jon laid a hand on the paper but let his eyes wander instead to the open window. Shipwrights were boarding the Tyrannicide to measure her wounds. She would need months of repair. But Salem lay a day’s ride away, and in Salem were two daughters who had believed him lost.
His heart was already gone from the harbor, racing ahead up the road.
Salem, early September 1777
THE LAST OF the daylight slanted across Charter Street when Jon knocked at his door. It swung wide, and he heard Martha mutter about late callers, as she wiped her hands on her apron. Then she looked up and blinked. “Captain Haraden!”
Jon knew what a sight he made, his dark blue coat road-dusted, his hair sun-bleached and salt-tangled, his shoulders weary from months at sea. “Why, Martha, you don’t look half so pleased as I’d hoped.”
“Pleased? Aye, and vexed besides. You’ve near put us in mournin’ with your silence. Best come in before I scold you proper.”
From the stairs came a cry. “Papa!” Hannah flew down and flung herself into his arms.
He hugged her tight, his voice rough. “Hello, sweetheart. Grown taller, I see.”
Mrs. Mason followed, hand to her breast at the sight of him. “Oh, my! It is you. How wonderful!” She steadied herself, then stepped forward. “Your letter came, sir. It was thoughtfulness itself to write the moment you reached Boston.”
He bowed his head slightly, eyes warm. “I owed you that much.” With a glance at Martha, he added, “Too long have you borne rumor and silence in my stead.”
With tears in her eyes, Martha shooed him inside. “No standin’ on the step like a stranger. Supper’s near ready, and more than enough to feed one more.”
Jon laughed, the sound joyous in his own ears. “God bless you all,” he said as he set down his satchel and came into the parlor.
“Would you like a glass of wine or cider, sir?” asked Mrs. Mason.
“Claret if you please. The carriage from Boston was dusty, and I had enough captures to keep us well stocked.” He went into the parlor and sank into his chair. Mrs. Mason handed him a glass of claret with a smile.
“I see you’re keeping Hannah, and I presume Polly, fat and rosy as apples, Martha.”
“The child’s napping,” said Mrs. Mason. “You won’t recognize her, Captain. She’s walking now.”
“I helped,” said Hannah proudly.
“You did, indeed,” said the governess.
Just then, Silas came in from the yard, shoulders dusted with flour. “Been helpin’ a neighbor grind corn.” He stopped short, blinking, then strode forward with hand outstretched. “Captain! By God, you’ve slipped the king’s jaws again.”
Jon clasped his hand firmly. “Not for the first time, and I pray not the last. I see you’ve kept the hearth stout, and that’s worth as much as any broadside.”
“Aye,” Silas said, pride thick in his voice. “But it’s no hearth without the master. Welcome home.”
When supper was laid, they all filed into the dining room, Mrs. Mason bringing Polly from her nap. Seeing Jon, the child reached for him, “Pa-pa.”
“She’s nearly two now,” said Mrs. Mason, handing the young child to him. Jon wrapped his arms around his youngest, her warm body a comfort to his soul. He kissed her forehead and handed her back to Mrs. Mason, who slipped Polly into her high chair.
The table was filled with light and noise as dishes were set down. Roasted fowl, turnips, vegetables from Martha’s garden and brown bread. “A feast!” exclaimed Jon.
“There’s apple pie, too,” said Martha. “Just set it to coolin’ this mornin’.
Jon sat at the head of the table, Hannah on one side and Mrs. Mason and Polly on the other, the girls’ chatter tumbling over each other.
Mrs. Mason poured him another glass of wine.
“We had your cousins from Gloucester with us in June,” she told him, smiling at the memory.
“Six daughters filled the house from hearth to stair, every bedchamber filled. Hannah here found herself with another Hannah, though they call her Joanna. The two are fast friends, and we had two Pollys besides.”
Jon could not resist a smile at the thought. “Then you’ve had a regular garrison of girls in my absence. I almost pity you, Mrs. Mason.”
“She bore it better than I did,” Martha snorted, though affection softened her tone. “But it kept the house lively, and that was no bad thing.”
The meal was a chorus of voices, Hannah telling of her lessons, Polly showing the doll the Gloucester cousins had left behind, Martha breaking in to correct details with her sharp tongue.
Silas came in at the end of the meal to gruffly supply the latest town gossip. Jon listened, soaking in every word, his gaze often straying to Eunice, whose quiet composure seemed to anchor the household as surely as ballast steadies a ship. How fortunate are we to have her.
When the candles burned low, Jon leaned back, contentment flowing through him.
For one evening, the sea was far away, the guns silent, and he was only a father at his table, home among his own.
The sea had its compass, but this house had Martha, Silas and Eunice, hearth and heart together, and they kept its course as sure as any star.