Chapter 15 #3
At that moment, Elias Derby approached, his manner brisk, his cane tapping on the planks in brisk rhythm.
“Haraden, there’s news from Boston, confirmed this time.
A French fleet of forty vessels is assembling at Brest under General Rochambeau.
Six thousand sailors, marines and officers and more than five thousand soldiers. ”
A murmur of excitement swept along the wharf as others heard his words. Sailors leaned on their coils of rope, merchants paused over their ledgers, the very air seemed to catch.
“Can it be true?” Thorndike asked, his voice carrying his wonder at the news.
Derby nod was curt. “The reports are strong enough that I’ll not dismiss them. God willing, those ships will sail by summer and America will fight with the strength of the French navy.”
Jon’s chest tightened at the thought. French soldiers landing on American soil, fighting at Washington’s side. For months, the news from Morristown had been grim, and darker still from the south. But if Rochambeau came, then Providence had indeed answered their prayers.
George Williams joined them to hear the last of Derby’s report. “Mark me, Haraden, if that fleet crosses the Atlantic, the war changes. Until then, we must keep the sea lanes bleeding red with captured ships. Spain will have sugar, and Salem will have prizes.”
Derby’s sharp gaze flicked back to Jon. “And the Pickering will be at the fore of it.”
Jon inclined his head to them both. “She’s near ready. We’ll give Washington what help we can.”
Two days later, on Easter Sunday, Jon gathered with others in the East Church.
The air inside was chill despite the crush of bodies.
Candles guttered in the draft. Reverend Diman spoke of endurance in hardship, of Christ’s resurrection as the blessed hope, the pledge that death had been defeated, and despair would never have the final word.
He prayed openly for Washington’s army at Morristown, and thanked God for the expected aid from France.
Jon bowed his head, Hannah pressed close on one side, Polly on the other. Beside them, Mrs. Mason prayed. When the prayer ended, the hymn began, “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today”, their voices strong despite the cold.
Jon held his daughters close and let the hymn rise in worship to God.
For this Easter morning he was home, anchored in the blessings of hearth and family.
Yet he knew the sea waited, and soon enough the Pickering would carry him far from Salem’s shores once more.
Silently, he asked God to go before him.
Derby Wharf, Salem, April 1780
THE MORNING AIR was sharp with salt and the smell of pitch as Jon gazed up at the blue sky above the harbor.
Gulls wheeled overhead as the Pickering lay heavy against the wharf.
Her gunwales rode low, barrels of sugar stacked in her hold until she looked more merchantman than privateer.
Jon smiled at the thought. He was content to be both, and her sixteen guns stood ready, black mouths peering from their ports, a promise she was no common trader.
On the planks, clerks with tally books checked off kegs of powder, casks of beef, and bundles of canvas as they were swung aboard.
Barrels of shot clinked as they rolled, muskets in their racks clattered on sailors’ shoulders, and a stack of boarding pikes gleamed like a hedge of iron.
Sailors tramped past with sea chests and their own pistols and cutlasses belted on, voices raised in rough shanties that mingled with the creak of tackle and the slap of waves against the piles.
Jon stood with Thorndike at the foot of the gangway beside Elias Derby and George Williams. He and his first officer wore their officers’ dress, dark blue coats with brass buttons, buff breeches, and buckled shoes, their hair queued beneath cocked hats.
The two merchants were sober in brown, their white stockings neat.
“As you see, gentlemen, the Pickering carries a full load,” Jon said, a smile coming to his lips. “Your sugar.”
“Your ship is both sword and plowshare, Captain,” Derby replied, his cane tapping the planks. “I’ve every confidence you will see she serves us well.”
Williams clapped Jon’s shoulder with quiet warmth. “And see she brings you home again. Salem has had glory enough from your last cruise, but your daughters will settle for nothing less than your safe return.”
Jon inclined his head gravely. “If that is to be, gentlemen, then I ask your prayers.”
Down the wharf, Martha stood with Silas and the girls, Hannah’s hand clasped tight in her governess’, Polly bouncing in Mrs. Mason’s other hand. Hannah waved furiously, calling, “Papa!” Polly echoed her in a piping voice.
Jon excused himself and strode to them, kneeling to gather both daughters into his arms. “Mind your letters, Polly,” he said gently, “and you, Hannah, keep to your sewing and your cooking.” His smile masked the ache beneath.
His daughters did not ask when he might return.
Raised in a ship captain’s house, they knew he could not promise a date.
He could not even promise he would return at all.
Jon kissed each girl, then rose. Martha tugged her shawl close. “Don’t forget, Captain, thanks to your provision, there’s food enough in the pantry for when you return, and mind, the girls will want you at the table again.”
Silas raised his hat, his weathered face steady. “The Lord guard you, Captain. We’ll keep the hearth warm and your family safe till you’re home again.”
Jon’s throat tightened. He looked to Mrs. Mason then, her eyes warm as she held fast to his daughters. In that moment he knew she was very much a part of his family now. For an instant, the noise of the wharf dimmed.
As Jon rose, a tug at his sleeve made him turn. Bobby Grover stood there, cap in hand, his brown locks blowing in the wind, his grin wide. “Captain, all’s ready in your cabin, your sea chest’s stowed and your logbook set out. I’m ready to serve you again, running every errand quick as a shot.”
Jon ruffled the boy’s hair, pride in his tone. “You’ve already proved yourself, Bobby. Stand fast, and you’ll do more than errands before long. While you’re here, meet my daughters. Turning to his girls he said, “Hannah will be twelve this year—your age—and Polly will be five.”
Bobby doffed his hat to Hannah and smiled at Polly, who looked up at the boy in wonder.
From the Pickering’s deck came Thorndike’s sharp call: “Hands aboard! Loose the lines!”
The gangway thudded as men hurried up, Bobby among them, quick as a sprite. Jon lingered only a moment longer, lifting his hat to Mrs. Mason, the girls, and to Martha and Silas, then he followed.
Lines were cast off, sails sheeted home with a snap of canvas, and slowly, heavily, the Pickering eased from the wharf. The crowd that had come to see them off raised a cheer, hats waving, voices carrying across the water.
Jon took his place on the quarterdeck, the familiar roll beneath his boots, and watched Salem’s rooftops fall astern.
The cheer of the crowd faded, gulls shrieked above and the sharpness of tar gave way to the clean salt of open sea.
Home, hearth, and harbor slipped away. Ahead lay the wide Atlantic and whatever trials God set before them.