Chapter 14 #2
Eunice smiled at Hannah as she leaned close to her father. “The girls have been well, Captain. Hannah keeps her copybook neat, and she’s beginning her embroidery in earnest. Her manners are impeccable. Polly knows nearly all her letters now and will read in another year.”
Polly beamed. “I read ‘cat’, Papa!”
The captain’s laugh rumbled, and he leaned over to kiss the top of her curls. “Then you’ve bested half the ship’s crew already, little one.” His gaze shifted back to Eunice, gratitude plain though unspoken. “You’ve done much for them.”
Her cheeks warmed at his words. “They are eager pupils,” she said, lowering her eyes to her plate.
The candles flickered, the fire glowed, and the talk flowed on, of lessons and neighbors, of the girls’ antics and the house kept in his absence.
And beneath it all, a quieter thread ran, unspoken but felt in every glance across the table: this was more than a hero’s return. It was the weaving together of a home.
When the last of the chicken had been carved and the platters picked over, Martha shooed the girls to the kitchen to wash their sticky fingers. Silas followed with an armful of dishes, humming under his breath about Salem’s “Salamander”.
The captain leaned back in his chair with a sigh, the glow of cider in his cheeks. “I’d forgotten how fine a meal ashore can taste. Martha, you’ve spoiled me.”
She sniffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “See you don’t forget it again too soon, Captain.” With that, she disappeared after the others.
Eunice rose quietly. “Shall we adjourn to the parlor for a glass of claret?”
“A fine idea,” he said.
In the parlor, she poured them each a glass of wine, then gathered her needlework and took a seat by the hearth opposite him.
He shed his boots and stretched his legs toward the blaze. For a while they listened to the steady fire, the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen, and the voices of the girls talking to Silas as the house settled into its evening rhythm.
“It’s a different kind of battle here,” he said at last, staring into the flames. “Not guns or sails, but lessons and hearths and little shoes left in the hall. I wonder sometimes which asks the greater courage.”
Eunice folded her hands in her lap, her needlework forgotten. “You have both kinds of courage, Captain. You fight at sea for our country, and here you fight to be a good father. Your daughters will remember both.”
His gaze lifted, meeting hers across the firelight. “And they’ll remember the woman who cared for them when I was at sea.”
Heat rose in her face. It had nothing to do with the fire. She bent her head over her sewing, though she could feel the weight of his regard. “They’ve cared for me, too, in ways I cannot fully explain.”
From the dining room came a burst of girlish laughter, followed by Martha’s scolding tone as she herded them toward the parlor. “Best move to the hearth fire before you wear Silas out with your chatter.”
Hannah and Polly tumbled in, cheeks flushed, their energy spilling into the room like sunlight through a window.
The captain set down his glass, his gaze softening as he looked at his daughters. “That’s home,” he said softly.
For Eunice, it was more than home. It was the continuation of a beginning.
The London Coffeehouse, Salem, winter 1779
THE LONDON COFFEEHOUSE stood close to the harbor.
So, as Jon entered with Thorndike, he expected to see merchants, sailors, and ship captains.
He was not disappointed. Every table in the large common room was occupied, the air thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of coffee and rum punch.
The scrape of chairs and clatter of tankards blended into a babble of men hungry for news.
Steam rose from cups of coffee, mingling with the haze from pipes.
As Jon stepped inside, the noise swelled into cheers. Men rose to clap him on the back, tankards lifted, voices calling his new name. “The Salamander! Here’s the Salamander!”
At his side, Thorndike grinned broadly, brushing snow from his cloak as he clapped Jon’s shoulder. “Aye, cheer him, lads. I stood at his side when three British wolves thought to bring us down, and never once did he flinch. His crew has named him the Salamander, and ’tis a name well earned.”
George Williams waved them over with Fisk and Derby already on their feet. “Captain Haraden,” Derby said, his sharp eyes alight as he offered his hand. “Five prizes in four months, and boldest of all, three at once. All Salem is celebrating.”
Jon shook their hands. “You know Lieutenant Thorndike, of course.”
The men nodded and invited them to sit.
Williams added with a grin, “The ships came in heavy with goods, and the town is already counting the profit.”
“And the bullion,” Derby put in, tapping his cane. The others nodded gravely. “General Washington will be glad to see the gold.”
Jon inclined his head, his voice measured. “Providence favored us, and much credit belongs to the men. They fought like lions.”
Thorndike leaned forward, his tone quieter now, less for the crowd than for Jon. “Aye, I’ll agree with you about Providence. But as for the men, it was your hand at the helm, sir. Courage alone doesn’t win a fight. You made them believe, and that’s what carried them through.”
Jon met his first officer’s gaze briefly, saying nothing, though the corner of his mouth tightened with something near to gratitude.
“Aye,” said Fisk, “and the sea itself will remember. Even John Paul Jones, with his Bonhomme Richard, could ask for no greater.”
At that, the talk shifted to the battle at Flamborough Head, the tale already flying across the Atlantic of John Paul Jones’ courage under fire. “It occurred just after you sailed,” Fisk said. “Jones’ battered ship locked to the Serapis, refusing to strike though his decks were awash in blood.”
“Finally, with both ships in tatters,” said Fisk, his eyes gleaming, “and the Bonhomme Richard about to sink, the British captain yielded.”
“’Twas a good thing,” said Derby. “Jones had to order his crew to move to his prize.”
“Tenacity like that,” declared Williams, “reminds me of the stories going around about you, Haraden. You and Jones are cut from the same cloth.”
Jon said nothing, only let the hot coffee steady him, but he was honored by the comparison.
Jones had fought beneath England’s gaze and won great notoriety, but both of them fought for America—and for liberty.
“I’ll not claim Jones’ fame, but we share the same sea, the same enemy, and the same duty. ”
Fisk leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Yet not all news of the war is so bright. Count d’Estaing failed to recover Savannah. The south remains in the king’s grip.”
“And Washington?” Jon asked.
Williams’ face sobered. “Camped at Morristown. Worse than Valley Forge, they say. Snow deeper than a man’s waist, scarcely food or clothing enough. A third of his men are unfit for duty. While we count our prizes, they freeze.”
The cheer dulled at that truth. For a moment, only the scrape of chairs and the muffled cough of a sailor carried.
Fisk broke the silence. “Washington had his soldiers build a log house city for shelter. The location between New York and Philadelphia provides a good supply of water and wood.”
Williams nodded. “’Tis said he is inoculating the army to combat the threat of smallpox.”
“A wise thing to do,” said Jon.
“There is some brighter news,” said Derby. “Lafayette has returned to France to plead our cause. He promises he will not rest until more ships and soldiers are sent. If his voice carries in Versailles, as we believe it does, France may yet turn the tide.”
“Amen to that,” muttered Fisk.
Thorndike lifted his cup. “Then let us pray Providence grants him success, as it has granted us a captain who keeps America’s flag flying.”
Jon set down his tankard, his voice low but firm. “We’ll give all we can, gentlemen. Salem will not be found wanting.”
Derby’s smile was keen. “Salem grows fat on such voyages, and you do well, too, Captain and Lieutenant.”
“While the Pickering is being refit,” Williams said, “take some time with your families. Spring will be here soon enough.”
“Thank you,” said Jon. “My family will welcome the time.”
Derby leaned forward, a pensive look on his face. “In the spring, I’ve a mind to have you transport a shipment of sugar for Bilboa. The sugar is from Martinique and piled high in my stores. Bilbao hungers for it, and I want the Pickering to take it there under your command.”
Jon inclined his head. “Then it shall be done. A full hold of sugar, and on the way home we’ll see what prizes the seas offer. Salem and the cause will profit twice over, feeding America’s coffers and bleeding the king’s purse.”
Derby returned him a satisfied smile.
Outside, the winter wind howled down Central Street, but inside the coffeehouse, camaraderie and Patriot resolve reigned, the name Salamander on every tongue.
Haraden house, Salem, Christmas Eve 1779
SNOW LAY BANKED along Charter Street, the ruts of cartwheels frozen hard, yet lantern light winked from windows as the Haraden kin from Gloucester arrived to celebrate the Savior’s birth.
Their laughter carried ahead of them, boots crunching, cloaks flung back as they stamped off the cold.
Eunice welcomed them in, the house filling at once, as Martha pressed steaming mugs of spiced cider into chilled hands.
Captain Haraden introduced Lieutenant Thorndike with quiet pride, “My first officer,” and Eunice caught the approving nods from Andrew Haraden and his wife, Lydia. It pleased her to see the captain and his officer recognized in his kin’s eyes.
Eunice helped the girls slip off their woolen cloaks while the captain relieved Andrew Haraden of his hat and hung the heavier garments on pegs near the door.
The brass buttons on the captain’s own blue coat gleamed in the firelight as he clasped Andrew’s hand.
His voice carried warmly. “Where is your eldest daughter?”
“Joanna is with her new husband in Gloucester,” Lydia said, a broad smile softening her face. “John Langford. They married in November.”
“Good heavens,” said Captain Haraden, “how old is she now?”
“Twenty-one,” replied Lydia.
“Time moves on,” said the captain, dipping his head gravely. “I trust it is a good match?”
“A very good one,” said Lydia. “John is a fine young man.”
“So, it’s only the five youngest with us,” Andrew added, flicking his dark locks from his forehead.
The two little Pollys, both four, danced in circles, their piping voices calling “Merry Christmas!” while the older girls crowded round to greet Hannah, all laughing together.
Silas joined them. “Should you not have heard, we celebrate more than Christmas.” Lifting his mug high, his weathered voice carried above the din. “To Captain Haraden and his victories, may the Salamander keep the fire burnin’ in Salem’s hearths and endure the fire on the Pickering’s decks!”
The Gloucester Haradens looked puzzled at the strange title until Silas, full of relish, explained how the Pickering’s crew had christened their captain after his battles in smoke and flame.
The congratulations that followed appeared to Eunice to leave Captain Haraden faintly abashed, though his smile lingered when his gaze found her, causing her cheeks to warm.
That night the two families walked together to East Church, the cold stinging their faces, their breath rising in clouds.
Reverend Diman in his black robe with white bands welcomed them at the door.
Inside, the press of bodies soon warmed the pews.
Candles flickered in the drafts, and shadows leapt on the whitewashed walls as the congregation lifted its voice to sing the carol “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night”.
Eunice’s heart stirred at the fervent sound, the children’s treble voices weaving with the deeper tones of sailors and townsfolk. Beside her, the captain bowed his head, his daughters nestled close, the hush of reverence binding them all.
Reverend Diman’s words rang out, his message a call to endure in time of war and a reminder of joy in Christ’s birth.
Finally, he prayed for Washington’s army at Morristown, “hungry, cold, yet faithful”.
He gave thanks, too, for Salem’s mariners who had brought victories home.
Eunice felt the weight of the words, yet also the hope, and knew she would carry the sound of that prayer in her heart.
Back at Charter Street, supper was laid with plenty of noise. Martha brought out steaming bowls of clam chowder with hot bread and butter, followed by a raisin pudding. The warmth of the food was welcome after the bitter cold of the night air.
Thorndike sat near, cheerful as ever, though Eunice more than once caught his glance straying toward her. She kept her composure, yet she sensed Captain Haraden noticed it too, the brief tightening of his jaw before he forced his attention back to the laughter of his cousins.
Later, when the girls had gone upstairs with their Gloucester cousins and the house grew quiet, the adults sat before the fire in the parlor.
After some discussion of the past year and the places the two Haradens had been, Thorndike turned to the captain.
“With your leave, sir, while the ship is refit, I’ll be spending some weeks in Beverly.
There’s a young woman there, Mercy Trask.
I met her last time in port, and I mean to court her. ”
The captain’s brows lifted. “Mercy Trask? Sister to young Joshua, one of our cabin boys?”
“Aye. She’s a good sort, and I’ll not deny, I’ve hopes she’ll have me.” His smile was boyish, shy even.
“She’ll have you,” Eunice said gently. “A rising officer in Salem’s service? Of course she will.”
The captain clasped Thorndike’s shoulder with approval. “Then you’d best see to it, Israel. A man should not put off such things forever.”
Thorndike grinned, raising his glass. “Not forever, no.”
The fire burned lower, the house settling to quiet. Eunice lingered only a little longer with the three men and Lydia before she rose, smoothing her skirts. “Well, gentlemen and Lydia, I leave you to your wine. Until tomorrow.”
As she climbed the stairs, the soft rumble of their voices drifted after her, but her thoughts lingered on the captain, the way he had looked at her in the candlelight at Thorndike’s words, and the way her own heart had answered.