Chapter 16 #3
THE SMOKE LAY heavy, stinging eyes and throats, the roar of guns rolling across the bay like thunder upon thunder. The Achilles loomed close alongside, her decks crowded with men, her sides vomiting fire.
Jon stood firm on the quarterdeck, his voice carrying through the chaos. “Steady, lads! White boot tops, aim low!”
The Pickering shuddered under each broadside, timbers groaning, rigging slashed to ribbons. Splinters flew like knives.
Thorndike came running, his face blackened with powder. “Captain, the lockers are near empty! We’ve shot near all our rounds!”
Jon’s jaw clenched. He had seen the enemy’s rigging hold, though sails fluttered ragged where shot had found canvas.
To break her, he needed more than iron. He thought for only a moment before turning to the master gunner.
“We’ve crowbars in the cargo. Use them and whatever iron you can find.
Fire it into her rigging. She’ll not stand long with her wings clipped. ”
Word swept the deck, and men scrambled to load what they had: crowbars from the stores, shards of iron scavenged from the hold, even bent bolts.
Rammed home and fired, they screamed aloft with savage force.
A cheer went up as iron bars scythed through Achilles’ rigging, sails tearing loose, ropes parting in a shower of sparks.
“Again!” Jon roared, and the next broadside sent more of the makeshift shot into the enemy’s spars. The Achilles faltered, her foreyard sagging, a tangle of canvas trailing into the sea.
Still the Achilles hammered back, her weight of metal thundering. Yet many of her shots screamed overhead, tearing sky instead of timbers. Jon knew their low profile was saving them, the sugar in the hold, which had seemed a burden, now made her a deadly weapon.
For near three hours the duel had raged, broadside for broadside, until at last Jon saw what he had prayed for: the Achilles’ helm came over, her bow swinging away. She was breaking off.
A ragged cheer swelled from the Pickering’s crew, hoarse but fierce. Men leaned from the ports, shouting after the retreating lugger. Jon lifted his glass, watching her dwindling stern, then let it fall with a slow breath. She was hurt, aye, but too swift to be caught now.
He turned to Thorndike, his voice steady though his heart still hammered. “Come about. We’ll have the Eagle back.” And Bobby.
As the Achilles fell away, the Eagle’s captain, who had stood silent on the Pickering through the carnage, let out a low, grudging breath. “By rights, she should have sunk you. God help me, but no man alive handles a ship like that.”
Jon glanced toward the fading Achilles, Thorndike at his side. “If this day proves anything, Lieutenant, it is that our cause is no fleeting venture. Britain may have power, but America has heart enough to match it, and Providence goes before us.”
The Pickering wheeled across the churned water, smoke drifting from her scarred flanks. Soon the prize hove into view again, the Stars and Stripes raised once more as Carnes and the American prize crew cast off their captors.
Jon stepped to the rail as they drew alongside, calling across the gap, “Mr. Carnes, well held. Bring her in to Bilbao with us. Keep the prisoners safe.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” returned Lieutenant Carnes.
As the Eagle came alongside, Bobby could be seen at her rail, grinning through the grime, cap waving high. His eyes met Jon’s across the narrow strip of water, alight with triumph, as if to say without words: I told them you’d have us back.
The two ships limped into Bilboa Harbor, battered but unbowed. And though the men were blackened with powder, their clothes torn and their bodies bruised, they lifted their voices in triumph.
Bilbao, Spain 4 June 1780
THE HARBOR BOILED with life. Small boats swarmed about the Pickering and the Golden Eagle until the sea itself seemed paved with wood.
Spaniards shouted and cheered, some dipping oars to keep pace, others waving hats and kerchiefs.
Boys scrambled barefoot to the gunwales, shrilling their delight.
The air was thick with the scent of powder smoke and salt, but it was laced now with wine, garlic, and roasting meat drifting from the quay.
With a glance at the main hatch, Jon said, “Mr. Thorndike, the prisoners—are they secure below?”
Thorndike gave a brisk nod. “Aye, Captain. Well-guarded, and the men on watch tonight will have their run of Bilbao tomorrow. They’ve earned it.”
“Captain Scott may go with us into Bilboa. I have given him his freedom on parole, and those of his men who fought with us. Once the Eagle is sold, those men will have their reward.”
Thorndike’s brows rose, but he nodded. “As you wish, sir.”
Jon glimpsed Joshua Trask lingering at the quarterdeck rail, already bearing the look of a servant grown.
When John Fisk took command of the Massachusetts, Joshua had insisted on staying with Bobby to serve under Jon.
His eyes met Joshua’s, and the lad straightened, lifting a hand as though to remind the captain he still stood ready.
Jon gave the boy an approving nod. “You did well, Lad.”
“Captain,” the surgeon said as he came to Jon. “My place is with the wounded for now. Once they are seen to, I’ll come ashore.”
“You do rightly. They’ll know you care. And I will see them tonight.”
Turning to gaze over the flotilla of small craft, Jon stood amazed. Beside him, Thorndike said, “By God, you could walk ashore over their boats if you dared.”
Jon stared at the sight. “Best we don’t try, but I’ll not forget this sight while I live.”
At anchor, the Spaniards’ fervor only deepened. When Jon stepped ashore with Thorndike, Carnes, Cowan, and the others, a roar went up, echoing off the stone houses of Bilbao. Bobby Grover, now off the Eagle, ran to Jon. “You did it, sir! I told them on the Eagle you would.”
Jon rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You did well.”
A dozen men pressed forward, seized Jon by the arms, and before he could protest, they bore him aloft on their shoulders.
Hats flew into the air, women cried blessings, and a chant rose.
“?Viva el Capitán! ?Viva!” He was carried through the narrow streets in triumph, the crowd swelling around him until he was set down at last before a broad-arched tavern whose windows blazed with lamplight.
Inside, the Spaniards had laid a feast, bread crusty from the oven, bowls of olives slick with oil, roasted fish, platters of lamb and pork, pitchers of Rioja wine.
Jon’s men, still blackened from smoke and salt, were pressed into seats and given brimming cups.
Laughter and music swelled, a fiddler striking up while townsfolk clapped the rhythm.
At a heavy oak table near the hearth, Jon sat with Thorndike, Carnes, Cowan and several other officers.
Bobby darted in and out like a spark, sometimes perched on a Spaniard’s knee to tell the man he was Captain Haraden’s cabin boy.
Sometimes he dashed back to Joshua to whisper some mischief.
Chaplain McClure, who had followed them in, rose to say a prayer of thanks in English and halting Spanish.
The townsfolk bowed their heads before the clamor resumed.
The Spaniards would not let the cups of the Pickering officers stand empty, and soon Lieutenant Cowan, glass in hand, leaned forward as the Spaniards listened eagerly.
Cowan’s voice was rough from smoke but carried the weight of awe.
“The Pickering,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “looked like a longboat beside that great lugger. And yet…” He paused, searching the faces before him.
“And yet Captain Haraden fought with a determination that seemed superhuman. Shot flew round him like hail, but the captain”—Cowan gestured at Jon, “—he was as calm as though it were but a shower of snowflakes.”
A hush fell for a moment, broken only by the murmurs of the Spaniards at Cowan’s words. Then the tavern erupted in cheers as they pounded the tables, raising their cups. “?Viva el Capitán!”
Jon inclined his head, his smile betraying nothing of the storm still quieting inside him. “It was the Pickering’s crew who stood fast today. No captain wins a battle alone.”
A dark-haired Spanish beauty slipped through the crowd, her eyes flashing, her bodice bright with embroidery.
She leaned over Jon’s chair, pressing a kiss to his cheek, murmuring in broken English, “Brave Capitán…hero.” Her long dark hair brushed his sleeve, her perfume sharp and sweet, and her hand lingered warm upon his shoulder. “I can reward you as others cannot.”
For an instant the room seemed to hush, the offer shimmering before him like wine in the cup he held in his hand.
But his gaze did not follow her dark eyes.
In his mind rose another face, a gentler one, that of Eunice Mason, standing on Salem’s wharf with Hannah and Polly, her smile like a harbor light.
Jon reached up, gently lifting the Spaniard’s hand from his shoulder.
“You honor me, dear senorita,” he said, his tone courteous but unyielding. “But my heart is already spoken for.”
The woman laughed, unoffended, and whirled away into the press of dancers. Jon watched her go, then set his untouched cup back on the table. His thoughts were already turning homeward, to the woman whose face appeared in his mind.
From across the table Thorndike gave a low chuckle, lifting his glass. “Ah, but I’ve seen the woman who holds his heart, and she is beyond compare. No senorita in Spain could rival her.”
A murmur of agreement passed among the Salem men. Bobby, perched nearby, nudged Joshua with a grin. “Told you the captain’s heart was already taken. I could tell.”
Jon smiled faintly, saying nothing, but the warmth that stirred in his chest was not owed to wine or cheers.