Chapter 13 #2
Sure enough, the strangers crowded on sail, bowsprits knifing the water, spray flying as they bore down.
By sundown they were close enough to see the Pickering’s ports and guns, only then realizing she was no merchantman.
Panic flickered. The cutter and her consort clawed for escape with canvas spilling and booms swinging wide.
As night thickened, Jon raised his night glass, watching the two split, one north, the other south. “They’ve scented us,” Thorndike muttered.
“Cut free the drogues!” Jon snapped. “Hands to braces! Bring her about smartly.”
Axes bit through rope, and the ship leapt forward, freed of her burden. Canvas cracked taut, the deck shuddering as she surged across the wind. At nine bells, the larger vessel hove about. Jon cupped his hands and hailed her, but no answer came.
“Run out the starboard battery!” Thorndike barked. “Mr. Carnes, see the men to their guns! Master Gunner, light your matches!”
The crews heaved the cannon outboard, iron wheels grinding on the planks. Slow matches glowed in the gathering dark, their sulfurous reek mixing with the salt air.
“Fire!” Jon commanded.
The broadside split the night with a roar like thunder. Smoke billowed, choking and acrid, sparks drifting. The cutter staggered under the blast, but her rigging held and she drove on, lanterns swinging wildly in her shrouds.
“They’ve more stubbornness than wit,” Thorndike growled, wiping powder grit from his cheek.
Jon’s jaw tightened. “Then tack across her bow. Give her another broadside.”
The helm creaked, yards groaning as the Pickering came about. “Stand fast!” Thorndike called, his voice cutting through the din. The gunners braced, and the second volley ripped out, flame and iron flashing in the blackness.
This time, Jon’s hail was answered through the smoke. “From New York!”
Jon’s reply rang iron-hard. “Then strike your colors!”
Almost at once lanterns dipped, sails shivered, and the cutter’s flag came down. Fourteen guns, thirty-eight men, and she was theirs without another shot fired.
When the cutter struck, the men gave a ragged cheer. Jon lowered his glass long enough to see the smaller sloop’s stern vanishing into the dark.
Thorndike muttered, “She’s clean and fast, Captain. No catching her now.”
Jon’s expression did not change. “Let her run. We’ve work enough with the prize in hand.” Leaning on the rail, he met the eyes of his first officer. “Remember this, Mr. Thorndike. Providence sometimes favors nerve and guile.”
Off Sandy Hook, New Jersey, 13 October 1779
THE WIND CARRIED the bite of powder even before the first gun fired.
Off Sandy Hook, three British privateers bore down on the Pickering: the Hope with fourteen guns, the brig Pomona with twelve, and the cutter Royal George with another dozen.
Together they mounted more metal than the Pickering, and Jon could see by their faces his crew knew it.
At Jon’s side on the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Thorndike snapped his glass shut. “All three are standing for us, sir. They mean to crush us outright.”
Jon kept his voice calm, almost cool. “Then we’ll not waste shot.” Turning to Mr. Carnes, he said, “Beat to quarters!” and to Mr. Bowan, he shouted, “Run out the long guns. Powder division, open your tubs.”
The shrill of the fife cut across the deck, drums rattling in answer. Bare feet slapped the planks as men rushed to stations. Gun tackles groaned, wheels squealed as the nine-pounders were heaved outboard. The bos’n’s mates passed the word. “Silence there! Hands to your stations!”
The bite of powder drifted up from the hatch, stinging Jon’s nose as the cartridges came on deck.
Jon raised his hand and the hustle stilled.
He swept his gaze along the deck, every man’s eyes on him.
“We’ve danced with worse. Hold your fire till I give the word.
Let them think us timid. When they are in close, we’ll strike. ”
The enemy closed, white water curling from their bows.
Smoke drifted from their forward chasers, balls whistling overhead to thud into the sea.
One struck the bulwark near the quarterdeck with a crash that sprayed splinters past Jon in a burst sharp as knives.
He did not flinch. “Steady, lads. The closer they come, the harder we’ll bite. ”
The ship Hope ranged up on the larboard quarter, her gunports yawning black. “Now, Mr. Thorndike. Give her the larboard battery.”
“Fire!” Thorndike bellowed to the larboard gunners.
The Pickering leapt in smoke and thunder.
Flame spat from eight guns, the crash reverberating through her very bones.
The blast scorched the air, smoke stinging Jon’s eyes and burning in his throat.
Through the haze, he glimpsed British rigging part and spars tumble, men’s shouts carrying faint over the roar.
“Reload smartly!” Carnes cried. The ships’ boys dashed with round shot and cartridges, gunners swabbed and rammed. Jon watched, pleased the rhythm held despite the chaos.
The brig Pomona pressed close on the starboard side, her broadside hammering the Pickering’s hull.
Splinters slashed the air. A man cried out, clutching his arm.
Blood slicked the planks where he fell, cabin boys leaping over him with cartridges clutched to their chests.
Two hands lifted him, bearing him to the surgeon belowdecks.
“Starboard battery, fire!” Jon’s order cut through the chaos. The reply was instant: another roar, another sheet of flame and iron tearing into the Pomona until her foretopmast crashed down in a snarl of rigging.
Now the cutter Royal George tried her luck, darting close, spitting iron. Jon’s jaw tightened. “Bring her under our bow. Mr. Carnes, give her the chase gun.”
The bow-gun thundered, smashing into the cutter’s deck. She sheered off, her colors drooping.
For half an hour the sea boiled in smoke and flame.
When at last the echoes faded, all three enemy vessels lay struck, their colors down.
The Pickering’s deck was scorched and black with powder, her planks littered with spent wads and tangled rigging, smoke still burning Jon’s eyes.
But beyond the haze he saw his men grinning, wild with disbelief, their triumph written plain.
And from amidships, Bobby Grover beamed up at his captain.
Thorndike, face streaked with soot, laughed aloud. “Three to one and not a man here thought it possible. Captain, the men will never forget this day.”
Later, when the deck was cleared, the wounded tended, and the prize crews aboard the captured vessels and headed for Salem, Jon supped with his officers in the great cabin.
He had invited the chaplain, David McClure, to join them and give God their thanks.
The cook proudly served salt beef, ship’s biscuit softened in broth, and a pie of salt pork and onions, to which Jon added a bottle of Madeira.
McClure bowed his head, his voice steady though the cabin rocked with the sea. “We thank Thee, Lord, who brought us through fire and smoke this day. Grant us mercy for the wounded, justice for our foes, and safe return for all. You have been ever kind to us. Lastly, we thank you for this meal.”
“Amen,” said Jon before pouring the Madeira. Their conversation was low, exhaustion dulling the edge of victory as they ate.
It was Bobby Grover, the cabin boy, who slipped in with a jug of water, cheeks still smeared with soot. He hesitated, then blurted, “Beg pardon, Captain, but I thought you should know. The men are calling you the Salamander.”
Jon looked up sharply. “The what?”
Bobby shuffled his feet. “The Salamander, sir. They say you thrive in fire, like the creature of old, where any other man would burn. You stood like the guns themselves, cool as ever, while the whole sea was aflame around you.”
The officers chuckled, Thorndike grinning as he lifted his glass. “A fitting name, Captain. And mark my words, one that will carry.”
Jon studied the boy, then the faces around the table.
At last a smile tugged his mouth. “If the crew must give me a name, let it be for their own pride, not mine. But see to it, Bobby. Tell them a salamander endures the fire because God is with him and his men fight with courage. Without God, we could not prevail. And without them, I’m nothing but another mariner. ”
Bobby’s eyes shone. “Aye, Captain. I’ll tell them.”
Thorndike raised his glass higher. “To the Salamander and to the Pickering!”
The other officers raised their glasses in response. “To the Salamander!”
Glasses clinked. Outside, the sea rolled on, carrying the name forward into Jon’s future.
The West Indies, November 1779
IT WAS A GOOD time to be in the Caribbean. The weather was warm and balmy and not oppressively hot. Jon stood on the quarterdeck drinking his morning coffee as the Pickering rolled in a long swell. Canvas sagged in the light air, the sea as blue as molten glass.
He was just handing back his mug to Bobby when the lookout’s hail carried down to him. Jon raised his glass to see a stout ship on the horizon, square-rigged, flying the red ensign bright against the clear blue sky.
“Royal Mail,” Thorndike muttered, narrowing his eyes. “They’ll be armed. They always are. And fat with bullion”
Jon’s mouth curved faintly. “All the better. A prize worth the fight and gold for the cause.”
“Beat to quarters!” Jon commanded.
Thorndike’s voice rang out at once, carrying the order down the deck. “Beat to quarters! Hands to stations!” The drummer rattled his sticks, the fife shrilled, and bare feet slapped the planks as men leapt to their guns.
The first exchange was savage. Iron screamed overhead, splinters flying as balls smashed through bulwarks. The deck quivered under the blast of the enemy’s broadside. “So, she wants a fight,” Jon said, smiling.
The Pickering answered with her own thunder, fire belching from the gunports, acrid smoke choking the air until it seemed the world itself was aflame.
Hours dragged. Both ships broke off, crews heaving at pumps, men hauling lines and spars. Jon wiped powder grit from his brow, sweat stinging his eyes. The Pickering’s rigging hung in tatters, yet he gave no thought of yielding. He was just getting started.
“Captain,” Carnes said hoarsely, “powder’s near gone. Barely enough for a single broadside.”
Jon looked across the swells at the Royal Mail ship, her rigging ragged but her flag still flying. His voice stayed calm. “Then one shot is all we need. But first, we must make her ready.”
The crew worked like demons to patch sails and reload what little powder remained.
By dawn they were ready. Jon ordered the Pickering brought close, her bowsprit looming almost over the enemy’s deck.
“Her captain can see my blue coat,” said Jon, “but we can get closer still.” When the distance closed to pistol range, Jon stepped forward, his voice carrying like iron over the smoke.
“Strike your colors, or I’ll rake you stem to stern!”
For a moment there was silence, then the red flag fluttered down.
A ragged cheer burst from the Pickering’s decks. Men laughed, shouted, embraced.
Thorndike, his face streaked with soot, barked a laugh. “By God, sir, they’ve struck! And you had but one shot left in the locker.”
At the rail, Bobby Grover’s voice came in a hushed whisper, eyes wide with awe. “That’s why they call you the Salamander, Captain. Fire and smoke don’t touch you.”
Jon set his hand to the rail, his gaze on the fallen British flag drifting down the enemy’s mast. “No, Lad. The fire touches us all. But we prevail because Providence is with us and we endure together. Never forget that.”
The boy’s eyes shone as though lit from within, and Jon felt the sight settle in his mind. Whatever he said, the name would cling. In Salem, at sea, in every port that whispered the tale, he would forever be the Salamander.