Chapter 15
“Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the Ladies we are determined to foment a Rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation.”
MORNING DAWNED CLEAR and sharp, the snow along Charter Street glittering under a pale winter sun.
Frost feathered the windows when Jon came down the stairs, the smell of salt pork and johnnycakes rising from the kitchen.
In the parlor, his cousins from Gloucester sipped coffee near the fire, while children darted about in their stockings.
A small fire burned in the dining room hearth as Martha called them to breakfast. With Silas assisting, she set steaming platters on the long table, an extender added to accommodate twelve.
The cook’s cheeks glowed from the stove.
“Sit yourselves, all of you. ’Tis Christmas mornin’, and you’ll not leave my table hungry. ”
Eggs, fried pork, johnnycakes with maple syrup, and crocks of cider warmed with nutmeg filled the board. Jon took his place at one head, Andrew at the other. Eunice sat along the side, passing syrup and bread to the little ones.
As chatter rose, Andrew leaned toward Jon and passed an envelope to him. “For the extra expenses.”
Jon passed it back. “The Almighty has blessed me. You have my thanks, but it is not necessary.”
Andrew nodded. “I am glad you prosper, Cousin. When next will you sail?”
Jon wiped his hands. “Come spring, if the shipyard does its part. Derby has in mind a sugar run to Bilboa. And if the seas give us prizes, so much the better.”
Andrew lifted his brows. “Spain? That’s a far reach. And dangerous seas between.”
Jon’s mouth curved faintly. “Danger is the sea’s native tongue. Better we speak it than shy from it.”
Andrew chuckled, shaking his head. “You speak more like a legend than a sailor.”
Jon waved the comment off, though his eyes gleamed. “Fame’s a fickle wind, Cousin. Best we trim our sails to Providence and not pride.”
Andrew raised his mug. “Aye, and may that wind hold.”
After breakfast, the younger Haradens clamored for the yard. “Snowballs! A snowman!” cried the two Pollys together, and soon cloaks and mittens were flying on. Jon followed them out, his greatcoat collar turned high against the cold.
The yard rang with shrieks as snowballs flew. Hannah’s strong arm sent several square at her father, while little Polly darted about like a sprite. Andrew’s older daughters pelted their cousins, their voices ringing with mirth.
Thorndike joined in, laughing, scooping a double handful and hurling it at Jon. The ball burst across his shoulder in a scatter of white shards. Jon grinned, stooped, and returned fire with an aim that sent Thorndike staggering back.
“Papa’s the best shot!” Hannah crowed, clapping mittened hands.
From the porch, Eunice laughed, her hood fallen back, hair dusted with snow.
When Jon lobbed a ball toward her skirts, she gasped, then scooped her own handful and flung it true.
It struck him square, and the children shrieked in delight.
Soon her mittens and cloak were powdered white, her laughter mingling with theirs, and Jon’s breath caught at the sight, though he turned quickly back to the melee.
By afternoon, the house glowed with candles and the scent of roast goose.
Martha had tended the birds since Michaelmas, and now their skins gleamed gold on the platters, juices hissing as Jon carved.
Lydia and Eunice set out apple, mince, and pumpkin pies with loaves of bread.
Platters of steaming goose went round, glasses raised in toasts to family, to Salem, to victories past and to come. For a time, the war seemed far away.
Jon lifted his glass toward Martha as she swept in with another dish. “A toast to our cook. Martha, you’ve outdone yourself. Goose fit for an admiral, and better company to share it with.”
When the feast was done, they gathered in the parlor.
Silas heaved a log onto the fire so it leapt high.
The girls sang carols, then begged riddles of their uncle and aunt, who obliged with roaring laughter.
Thorndike played draughts with Andrew, while Lydia and Martha set the younger children to forfeits.
Soon the girls crowded near Silas, clamoring for a story. With a wink, he drew a coil of line from his pocket and perched on a stool. “First, a lesson,” he said, fingers moving nimbly. “A proper knot can save a ship, or a sailor’s life.”
Hannah copied his motions carefully. “Like this?” she asked, holding up a neat bowline.
“Aye, well enough for a young mate,” Silas said, grinning.
Polly tried next, but her line snarled in her curls. Laughter erupted as Silas freed her. “That’s the mermaid’s knot, rare and dangerous, but harmless ashore.”
“Now a tale!” the girls begged.
Silas leaned closer to the firelight. “Once, off Cape Ann, I saw a monster rise from the deep. Scales like iron, eyes like lanterns, teeth the size of anchors. It followed us three leagues before it dove, leavin’ foam enough to swamp a yawl.”
The children squealed, half-thrilled, half-terrified. Just then, Martha bustled in with a tray of spiced nuts and steaming mugs. “Silas Turner, you’ll give them nightmares!” she scolded. “Best you tell them of dolphins chasin’ the ship instead.”
The room rang with laughter. Jon, stretched in his chair with cider warm in hand, added, “Best they hear both the wonders and the terrors. That’s the sea, after all.”
As evening deepened, one by one the children drooped. Lydia and Betsey shepherded the younger ones upstairs until only the fire’s glow and the murmur of adult voices remained.
Andrew turned to Jon. “There’s talk enough comparing you to John Paul Jones. It makes us proud, Cousin.”
Thorndike said quietly, “I saw him stand fast against three ships at once. Seamanship like that deserves every word.”
Martha, pausing in the doorway, gave a brisk nod. “And every woman here prayed you home. Victories may belong to the sea, but waitin’ belongs to us.”
Lydia smiled, glancing at Eunice. “And you’ve kept the captain’s daughters thriving, Mrs. Mason. No small victory there.”
Eunice’s cheeks warmed at the praise. Jon met her eyes across the firelight, gratitude plain though unspoken.
The talk drifted to neighbors, to the shipyard, to Derby’s plans for spring.
Jon stretched his boots toward the blaze, letting the moment settle.
The sea would call him soon enough, but tonight he was only a man among kin, his daughters safe in their beds, and across the hearth sat the quiet figure of the governess who had become more than he dared name.
For that Christmas night, it was enough.
Haraden house, Salem, February 1780
THE GLOUCESTER HARADENS had returned to their home the month before, and Jon missed the chatter of so many daughters and the conversations he often had with Andrew.
By February, snow still clung in dirty heaps along Charter Street, though the day’s thaw had left the cobbles slick. By evening, frost hardened again, and the lamps along the street shone in halos of ice. Inside the Haraden house, however, warmth and noise reigned.
The girls had spread themselves across the parlor rug: Hannah arranging her embroidery threads in neat rows while Polly and her doll staged a pitched battle with wooden soldiers Silas had carved for her. Laughter spilled in bursts as Polly toppled her army with a sweep of her hand.
Martha hurried in, calling all to the dining room where she had set steaming bowls of beef stew with root vegetables, the scent of the stew and fresh bread filling the air. “Mind yourselves, now! The table’s set, and I’ll not have the victuals grow cold.”
Jon rose from his chair by the hearth where a fire blazed and crossed to lift Polly into his arms, grinning as she squealed, “Papa! My soldiers fell!”
“They’ll stand again,” he told her, kissing her cheek before carrying her into the dining room and setting her on a pillow in her chair, for she no longer needed the high chair. “As long as their captain is brave.”
As the family gathered at the table, a knock came at the front door. Mrs. Mason went to open it. Returning, her face alight, she said, “It’s Mr. Thorndike just arrived in Salem!”
Jon welcomed his first mate, though he frowned at the governess’ enthusiasm for her admirer. “Sit and have some stew, Israel.”
Israel Thorndike stepped in, brushing snow from his blue coat, his cheeks ruddy from the cold.
He looked a little sheepish, but his eyes shone with a warmth Jon hadn’t seen before.
Bowing lightly to Mrs. Mason, then to Martha, he clasped Jon’s hand.
“Forgive me, Captain. My ‘few weeks’ in Beverly stretched longer. But a man weds only once, and I’ve just done it. ”
The room stilled. Jon’s daughters looked at him as though waiting for him to explain what this meant.
Mrs. Mason broke the silence with a smile. “Married? How wonderful! And to whom?”
Thorndike took a seat, Martha bustling to set another place before him. His grin widened. “To Mercy Trask, sister of young Joshua. We wed in January. She’s a jewel, Captain. I’d have brought her tonight, but she’s with her people still and searching for a home for us in Beverly.”
Silas stepped in from the kitchen, a slice of bread in his hand, and gave a low whistle. “So that’s what kept you, Lieutenant. I thought you’d fallen into a snowbank and couldn’t dig yourself out.”
Laughter rippled around the table. Martha wagged her spoon at Thorndike. “Then we’ll expect her here soon enough, to see if she can keep you properly fed.”
“Aye,” Thorndike said with mock solemnity. “Mercy manages me well already, and she can cook, Martha.”