Chapter 12 #2
Carnes leaned forward, nodding with approval. “The French dress their captains in lace and braid, and it serves them well. I’d wager the sight of you on the quarterdeck will give more pause than any broadside.”
“Then let’s be sure the ship sails as fine as her captain,” Thorndike said with a grin, raising his glass high.
The other officers followed, glasses lifted. “To the Pickering and her captain!”
McClure’s voice was firm as he added, “And may Providence grant her victory.”
From the doorway, Mrs. Mason stood with Hannah beside her, the child’s eyes shining. Polly clung to her skirts, yawning, but even she gazed round-eyed at her father in his new finery. “You cut a fine figure, Captain,” the governess said as she stepped forward to offer more wine to their guests.
Her compliment meant more than his officers’ good-natured chiding. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Mason.”
Derby Wharf, Salem, late September 1778
THE MORNING SUN struck the waters of Salem Harbor, turning the ripples to gold.
Along Derby Wharf, men bustled with casks and crates, voices raised above the cries of gulls wheeling overhead.
The Pickering lay at her berth, fresh timbers gleaming, rigging taut, her guns run out and black against the bright sky.
Jon stood on the wharf with Thorndike and Carnes beside him, overseeing the last of the provisions.
Bosun Bowan shouted orders as barrels of salt beef and fresh water were rolled aboard.
Sailcloth, powder, and ball followed, checked against the purser’s list. Around them the crew gathered, some seasoned seamen with weathered faces, others young and eager, gripping their sea bags with nervous pride.
Jon had selected each man for his skill, experience and worth.
Merchants stood off to one side, George Williams, John Fisk, and Derby himself, their hands clasped behind their backs, eyes fixed on their investment. Derby’s nod was curt but satisfied. “She’ll do, Captain. And may she bring Salem profit as well as honor.”
Jon inclined his head. “She will. You have my word.”
A little way off, Mrs. Mason stood with Hannah and Polly. Martha and Silas had come, too. Hannah’s face shone with pride, as she clutched her governess’ hand tightly. Polly, restless, leaned against Martha, watching the fevered activity with wide eyes.
Thorndike noticed them first and nudged Jon lightly. Jon crossed to where they stood, the gold braid on his dark blue coat catching the morning light. Hannah rushed into his arms, and he bent to kiss Polly’s fair curls before straightening to meet the governess’ steady gaze.
“You’ll keep them well,” he said quietly.
“As always, Captain,” she replied, her voice composed though her eyes softened. “God go with you. Write when you can. The girls look forward to your letters.”
“And you, Mrs. Mason? Do you also look forward to my letters?”
A blush came to her cheeks. “Of course.”
Martha said with a sniff just loud enough for him to hear, “Mind you bring yourself back with the ship, Captain. We’ve no use for a fine brig without her master.”
“I shall,” said Jon with a smile for his housekeeper.
Silas touched his hat. “We’ll keep the house and hearth in order till you return, sir.”
Jon gave a brief nod, then turned back toward the ship. Already the crew were mustering, lining the deck as Thorndike called them to order. Jon mounted the gangplank, his step firm.
On the wharf, Hannah waved furiously, and Polly tried to copy her. Mrs. Mason stood still, watching as the lines were cast off and the Pickering drifted from her berth, sails loosed to the wind. She raised a single hand and he thought he heard her say, “Godspeed.”
The brig gathered way, her bow turning toward the open sea.
From the quarterdeck, Jon raised his hat in salute, to his daughters, to the governess who cared for them, to Martha and Silas, to Salem itself.
The wind filled the canvas, the gulls cried overhead, and the Pickering slipped past the headland into the waiting ocean.
THE PICKERING WAS no sooner at sea than she proved herself swift and willing.
Her crew, a mix of Salem and Beverly men and eager lads drawn by the promise of prizes, were working well together.
Jon drove her hard across the Atlantic, her holds heavy with American goods—fish, flour, lumber—bound for French ports.
Outward, he sailed as near to a blockade runner as a man could be, slipping through the teeth of British patrols with the boldness of a smuggler.
On the homeward leg, she would show another face, her guns speaking when opportunity offered.
A brig or schooner here, a merchantman there, not enough to fill a newspaper, but enough to line purses and prove her mettle.
One raw December morning off the Banks, Thorndike leaned beside him on the quarterdeck, coat collar turned up against the wind. “She’ll do, Captain. Quick in the chase, steady in the blow. The Pickering’s a lucky ship.”
Jon’s eyes swept the horizon. “Not luck, Mr. Thorndike. Discipline and Providence. And France. Their fleets keep the Royal Navy looking over its shoulder. Britain must fight in every sea now, not just one.”
There was little time in Salem, but they managed brief returns between voyages. A night or two under his own roof was welcome. From his letters, Hannah had questions, which he answered, delighted at her interest. Polly would fall asleep in his arms before the candle guttered.
One such night, with the girls abed, Mrs. Mason sat across from him by the hearth, mending Hannah’s gown. The firelight caught the gold strands in her brown hair as she looked down at her work.
“Tell me true, Captain,” she said softly, looking up, “is the ship and your new freedom as a privateer all you wished them to be?”
Jon watched the flames a moment before answering.
“Aye. She gives me command without interference, profit for my men, and profit for Salem. But ’tis not freedom entirely.
The sea never grants that. Nor does the war.
France fights with us now, God be thanked, yet the British strike still.
You tell me Savannah has fallen. Aye and they will not stop there.
We do our part at sea, but it will be a long fight. ”
Her needle paused, her brown eyes meeting his. “Then may Providence grant you more than the next chase, Captain. May God grant you victory on the sea and safe home again.”
For Jon, it was a year of consistent profit, though without the great triumphs he hoped would eventually come.
But in Salem, his reputation grew. Townsfolk whispered of Captain Haraden, no longer a man bound to Boston’s Board of War but the master of his own ship, one who could slip through blockades and return with prize money in his purse.
It was satisfying to be free of the Board’s petty dealings but not enough for Jon.
He looked for the greater triumphs that still lay ahead.
The London Coffeehouse, Salem, February 1779
THE WINTER HAD been hard, the harbor bound in ice for weeks, but by February the merchants were gathered again at the London Coffeehouse, where the talk ran to ships, convoys, and France’s fleets abroad.
Jon entered with Thorndike at his side, stamping the frost from his boots.
Williams, Fisk, and Derby beckoned him to their table. Coffee was soon delivered.
“You’ve kept the Pickering busy,” Derby said, his sharp eyes taking measure, “for which we are grateful. But now I understand you want to re-rig her as a ship. Another mast, more canvas, and more men, all of which require more money. Why should we?”
Jon set down his cup as his gaze swept the three men.
He was prepared for the question. “The Pickering must be more than a brig if we are to do what we have set out to do. She sails fast, aye, but with two masts her reach is limited. Step a third mast, rig her as a ship, and she will run before the wind like no other privateer out of Massachusetts. We’ll not only hunt prizes but carry goods to Europe and back.
A ship’s rig will give us speed, endurance, and the look of a predator.
At a distance we may be mistaken for a naval frigate.
The enemy will think twice before standing to fight. ”
Thorndike leaned forward. “The captain speaks true. I’ve seen what she can do as a brig. With a third mast, she’ll run down anything afloat.”
Fisk’s brows drew together. “We trust your judgment, Jon, and yours, Israel. If you say a third mast is necessary for the long runs to Europe and for success against British vessels, well, I won’t oppose it.”
Williams took a drink of his coffee, and set down his cup. “It would give her presence. A ship-rigged Pickering would be spoken of not only in Salem, but in every port in Europe. That alone is worth the expense.”
Jon’s gaze swept the three men. “Gentlemen, this is not just for Salem’s merchants, though you will see your profits.
Every British ship we seize starves their army and feeds ours.
Last winter, Washington’s men froze at Valley Forge.
This winter, their lot is somewhat improved in New Jersey, but shortages of food, clothing, and gunpowder remain.
The Continental Navy is too small to do all America needs done.
But we privateers can deliver. Ship-rigged, with the skilled crew she carries, the Pickering will be feared wherever she sails. ”
Derby tapped his cane against the floor, thinking. At last, he gave a short nod. “Very well. You have convinced us. We’ll see her altered. But make the cost worth it, Captain. Every pound we spend must come back in prizes.”
Jon inclined his head. “You have my word, gentlemen. The Pickering will earn her keep.”
Haraden house, Salem
WHEN JON RETURNED to Charter Street that evening, his daughters scrambled to meet him, Hannah with her eager questions and news of her day and Polly climbing into his lap, her small voice saying, “Papa.”
Mrs. Mason looked up from her sewing where she sat by the fire, her brown eyes shining as she listened to him speak of the merchants’ agreement.
“They have agreed to rig her as a ship,” Jon told her, pride warming his voice. “Three masts, square-rigged. She will look every inch the hunter she is.”
“I’m so glad you prevailed upon them,” said the governess.
Thorndike, who had walked back with him, bent to stir the fire.
“And Salem folks will stare at her as though she were a frigate. A ship for a captain of your renown, sir.” His glance shifted toward the governess, and his smile softened.
“Would you not like to see her, Mrs. Mason, when her new mast is stepped?”
She returned the smile politely, smoothing Hannah’s hair where the child leaned against her. “If Captain Haraden permits, Hannah and I would both like to see her.”
“Oh, yes, Papa! I want to see your ship’s new mast.”
Jon caught the exchange between his first officer and the governess, a flicker of something stirring in him, pride in her interest, and a trace of possessiveness at Thorndike’s easy gallantry.
At that moment, Martha came in from the kitchen with a tray of bread and cheese.
She set it down with a thump. “So, the merchants will part with their coin after all? About time. A fine ship needs feedin’ same as a family.
’Tis good you include the lieutenant in our suppers, Captain, so I can see if he eats as heartily as he talks. ”
Thorndike laughed, bowing slightly in her direction. “I’m honored, Ma’am. You are an excellent cook.”
Jon hid a smile. Martha’s tongue could be sharp, but in her way, she had welcomed his officer into the household.
Salem Waterfront & Derby Wharf, May 1779
THE SPRING AIR smelled of tar and salt, mingled with the sharp bite of oak being sawn for spars.
The Pickering stood high in her berth, scaffolding up around her as shipwrights swarmed the deck.
The new third mast had just been stepped, its fresh timbers pale against the weathered hull, riggers perched like gulls along the yards.
Salem folks lined the wharf, pointing and whispering that Haraden’s brig had become a ship.
Thorndike leaned close as Jon inspected the work. “She’s becoming all you promised, sir. With your leave, I should go to Beverly for a few days. My father has business that needs me. I’ll be back before the drills begin.”
Jon clasped his shoulder. “Go then, Israel. The ship will wait, but she won’t drill herself. Be back in time to teach the new hands their work. We should be at sea by sometime in September.”
Meanwhile, Jon was restless with much to do.
There were carpenters and gunners still to be hired, as well as additional seamen.
The posters had just gone up around Salem seeking new recruits, and his lieutenants Carnes and Cowan were meeting men at the taverns.
But Jon would make the final choices himself.
In the midst of this, Jon found time for his family.
A day later, he proposed a walk to the harbor with Hannah and her governess.
His eldest daughter clapped her hands in delight.
Polly would stay home, but he promised her a trip to see the ship when the work was done.
Together the three of them walked down Charter Street toward the wharves, Hannah skipping ahead.
On the wharf, the crew working alongside the shipwrights waved at him. “Good day, Captain! She’s coming along.”
Turning to his companions, Jon said, “I would take you both aboard but, as you can see, the deck’s a bit messy just now. When the work is finished, you can come back to see her from the deck.”
Even the wharf was cluttered with boards and supplies.
The governess’ skirts brushed a stack of lumber as she attempted to navigate her way.
Jon steadied her arm past coils of rope and casks being rolled aboard.
She stood beside him, watching his ship grow into its new form, as much a part of his world as any of his officers.
“The changes suit her,” she said softly, her gaze following the new mast. “She looks stronger, as though she has grown with you, Captain. The two of you seem well matched.”
Jon’s throat tightened, though he only said, “She’ll be ready for the wider seas by summer’s end.”
“What flag will she fly?” Mrs. Mason asked, glancing toward the stern.
“The Stars and Stripes when it suits. But a captain must sometimes borrow another flag—a ruse of war, nothing more.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, a smile coming to her lovely face. “I had forgotten that sometimes it is necessary to sail in disguise.”
Hannah stood wide-eyed next to the gangplank watching as a sail was hoisted. “Papa, will she ever be finished?”
Jon and the governess shared a laugh. “Yes, but not as soon as I might like.”