Chapter 11 #2
THE BOARD OF War chamber was close with heat, the tall windows open to the summer air. Jon sat stiff-backed before the member of the board. At the secretary’s desk the clerk read aloud the letter just received.
The agents at St. Pierre protest the great sums advanced in refitting the Tyrannicide and the Hazard. They find fault especially in regard to rations. Henceforth, such requisitions will not be complied with.
Rations. Jon’s hands clenched behind his back.
He thought of the sick men he had left in Martinique’s hospitals, of the three already consigned to the sea’s grave, of those he had inoculated against smallpox on the open deck, fever hollowing their faces.
He remembered writing for funds while barely able to hold the quill upright.
And the Board’s concern was the cost of bread and beef?
The clerk droned on, finishing with a thin smile: “The Board expresses surprise the commander applied for rations at all. In the future, no such requisitions will be granted.”
Jon pushed back from the desk, the secretary’s quill splattering ink across the margin.
His voice cut the silence. “They’ve no notion what it takes to keep a crew alive.
I ate what the men ate. The so-called ‘extra’ was the strength that kept me standing on my feet when I could scarce draw breath.
If you want commanders half-starved at their guns, say so plain.
” He rose, jaw tight, and fixed the Board with a hard gaze.
“But if this be your answer, you will have to find yourselves another commander. I resign my commission.”
A stir rippled through the chamber. The secretary’s quill scratched furiously, noting every word, but Jon did not linger to explain. He had said what needed saying.
Outside in the yard, his officers Thorndike, Moses, and Lovett waited. Back aboard ship, he told them plain what had transpired.
Benjamin Moses shifted uneasily. “They think you extravagant, Captain. Triple rations for yourself, double for us. They’ll never see it for what it was.”
Jon looked around the table at their faces, drawn but loyal. Lieutenant Thorndike spoke for them all. “We’ve served honorably. We’ve risked everything. Yet now we’re treated like schoolboys.”
Jon tapped the Board’s letter against the table, then laid it aside.
“Gentlemen, I have resigned my commission. With reluctance, aye, but I will not command under such misarrangements. The Tyrannicide will sail again, but not under my command. We are mariners, not beggars. If Massachusetts wants her brigantine, she must find another man to sail her.”
For a long moment, there was only the scrape of chairs, the creak of timbers in the quiet cabin. Then Thorndike said what all of them felt. “Where you go, Captain, we go.” Every head nodded in turn.
Jon felt resolve harden in him like iron. He had served the Commonwealth faithfully. Now he would serve in his own way, freer, bolder, and with better reward for his men. Privateering was the course ahead.
Salem, early summer 1778
THE LETTER CAME in Jon’s own elegant hand, though the script wavered at points as if written through fatigue. Eunice broke the seal at the parlor window while Hannah read her lesson nearby, and Polly played with her new doll on the hearth rug.
My dear Mrs. Mason,
I have been very unfortunate since last I sailed. That is not to say we didn’t have many captures. But my crew has been sick more or less every day of the whole cruise. Some I was obliged to leave in Martinique’s hospitals, some I had to inoculate against the smallpox, and some I buried at sea.
Near fifty were on the doctor’s list when we limped into Boston.
In such a state I could not hope to stand against any armed vessel.
Providence spared us, and I give thanks, but I confess I am worn to the quick.
The Board of War has taken issue with our expenses, which has displeased both me and my officers.
I have much to tell you, and God willing I shall be home soon, though not in the Tyrannicide.
Yours in esteem,
Jon Haraden
Eunice read the letter twice over, her eyes lingering on the places where the ink had blotted, as if his hand shook from fever.
She could almost see his dark blue eyes, clouded with sickness and grief for the men he had lost. She had grown accustomed to his calm assurance, the strong presence that anchored his household even when he was away at sea.
Without him, the house felt less secure.
“Is it from Papa?” Hannah asked, pressing close. She was nearly ten now, old enough to read her father’s hand for herself.
“Yes, dear.” Eunice folded the paper quickly. “He writes that he is safe and will be home soon.”
Little Polly walked across the floor to lay her doll in Eunice’s lap, the child’s blonde curls now falling to her shoulders, her steps sure at three. Eunice caught her up, pressing her cheek against the child’s curls.
She prayed silently for the captain’s return, and wondered at his words. Not in the Tyrannicide. If not in his ship, then what had happened? What had driven him to come home by horse, or perhaps by carriage, and what tales of misfortune weighed upon him?
Setting Polly down, the child skipped off to see her sister. Leaving the girls, Eunice went to the kitchen where Martha was baking bread.
“Who was the letter from, then?” she asked, one eyebrow arched.
“Captain Haraden,” Eunice answered quietly. “He writes that he is coming home…but not sailing the Tyrannicide.”
Martha gave a snort. “Trust the Massachusetts Navy to wear out a brig and a man both. Best he comes home on wheels. At least they won’t sink under him.”
Eunice could not resist the small smile, though the words in the letter still pressed heavily on her heart.
Haraden house, Salem, summer 1778
LATE IN THE afternoon a carriage rolled up Charter Street, wheels jolting on the cobblestones. Eunice heard the clatter and hurried to the doorway, Hannah at her side, Polly toddling close behind.
The carriage door swung open and Jon stepped down first. He was thinner than when she’d last seen him, his face worn from fever and grief, yet his bearing was unshaken. He bent to kiss Hannah on the forehead and swept Polly into his arms, then turned to give Eunice a weary smile.
Behind him came a broad-shouldered young man, nearly as tall as the captain, an officer by his dress.
Two seamen followed, hefting sea chests.
Gesturing to the officer, the captain said, “Mrs. Mason, this is Lieutenant Israel Thorndike of Beverly. He served with distinction aboard the Tyrannicide and will be my lieutenant when next I sail.”
Thorndike bowed politely, his dark eyes bright with youthful confidence. “An honor, Ma’am. The captain has spoken of his household often.”
From the kitchen, Martha appeared with flour still on her hands. She gave a sniff. “Another officer, is it? Best you’ve a stouter constitution than the poor souls the captain’s had to deal with. I’ve no patience for men who sicken at sea.”
Jon chuckled faintly. “Aye, many were sick on my last cruise, including me, Martha.” Eunice watched him, thinking the house was already a happier place for his return. “Thorndike will do fine,” he added. “He’s stout as any man I’ve known.”
The London Coffeehouse, Salem, summer 1778
THE COFFEEHOUSE WAS thick with pipe smoke and the hum of talk, as merchants and seamen gathered around small tables where news of the war mingled with shipping lists and wagers on the next convoy from the Indies. Light streamed in through the tall windows flooding the large room.
When Jon and Israel Thorndike stepped through the door, the room fell to a murmur. Jon heard the whispers on every tongue: the captain who had struck blow after blow at British trade had resigned his commission in disgust with Boston’s Board of War.
George Williams rose and waved him over to a table where he sat with John Fisk and Elias Hasket Derby. Jon crossed the room to join them, Thorndike at his side.
Williams clasped Jon’s hand. “Take a seat, Haraden.” Then he waved the server over.
“Two more coffees if you will.” When they were seated, Williams said, “Boston may carp over accounts, Haraden, but Salem knows her own. You’ve brought in more prizes than any brig they’ve yet commissioned.
If the Board of War will not keep you, then we will. ”
Jon introduced the men to Thorndike. “Israel served as my First Officer and did a fine job. I invited him to Salem for the interim.”
Fisk leaned forward to shake Thorndike’s hand.
“Haraden and I sailed together for some while,” he said, smiling.
Then to Jon, “Privateering is no easy venture, Haraden. But you have the name and the skill to draw a crew. And the returns—well, with the right ship and the right man, they may be beyond reckoning. We believe you are that man.”
Derby leaned forward, his voice carrying over the murmur of voices and scrape of chairs.
“The Board tied you down with quills and complaints. Salem’s merchants will free your hands.
Now that France has entered the war on the side of America, we’ve an ally we can count on and many investors are building letter of marque ships for privateering.
” He tapped the table for emphasis. “There’s a ship nearly fitted here in Salem, the General Pickering, a two-masted brig, one hundred eighty tons, sixteen guns, and berths for at least fifty men.
She’s named for Timothy Pickering. You know him, of course.
A Salem man, who sat in the General Court and served at Boston.
He now rises fast in the Continental Army.
A sound name for a sound ship and one to stir pride in Salem. ”
Jon inclined his head. “Aye, I know him. Salem will take pride in a ship that carries his name, a name that will make her feared on the sea.”
“Williams and Fisk will stand bond, along with me,” said Derby. “With your name as commander, she’ll not lack for crew nor for backers.”
The two men Derby named nodded.
From the side, Thorndike spoke up, his voice firm. “And she’ll not lack for officers. It will be my honor to stand by the captain, as I did aboard the Tyrannicide.”
Jon smiled at his former first officer. “As would be my desire, Israel.”
A rumble of assent went around the table. Other shipmasters and merchants who sat nearby raised their cups, men eager to see the Pickering under Jon’s command.
Jon looked from face to face, taking in Williams’ open confidence, Fisk’s careful nod, Derby’s sharp conviction, and Thorndike’s loyalty bright in his eyes.
He thought of his officers who had left the Tyrannicide with him, refusing to serve another.
The leaders of Salem were offering not only a ship, but a fresh beginning, one he was eager to accept.
He lifted his cup. “Then ’tis settled. If Boston will not have me, Salem shall.
We can do more than disrupt British trade, we can carry goods to Europe, bringing profit to you.
It has long been my thought to do both. With your bonds and God’s favor, the Pickering will sail: for this town, for liberty, and for every prize we can wrest from the king’s commerce. ”
The coffeehouse erupted in cheers, cups raised high. Salem had claimed her captain anew.