Chapter 17
“It is not in the still calm of life that great characters are formed. The habits of a vigorous mind are formed in contending with difficulties. Great necessities call out great virtues.”
THE SOUND OF children’s voices drifted through the open window with the slight breeze.
Hannah and Polly were in the garden with Martha, “helping”, or so they said.
Eunice sat in the parlor, using the afternoon light to finish her mending, though her thoughts were far out at sea.
Every knock at the door quickened her pulse.
Where was Captain Haraden now? The question was not without significance.
Something had happened between them when he was last at home and her heart was now tethered to his.
The front door opened and Silas Turner stamped dust from his boots as he stepped inside, his face alight with the look of a man bearing tidings. He wore no jacket, the day too hot for that. From his waistcoat he drew a folded newspaper and held it up.
“Letters from Spain have reached Boston,” he said, his voice brimming. “The Independent Chronicle carried the report. Best you hear it here, ‘fore the streets are bawlin’ it loud enough for the gulls to carry across the harbor.”
From the back of the house came Martha’s firm voice: “Girls, take your shoes off in the kitchen, mind you! Then come along.”
A moment later she entered the parlor, wiping her hands on her apron, the girls trailing behind her in their stockings. She gave Silas a pointed look. “What news have you? Is there news of the captain?”
“Not in his own hand, no,” said Silas, “but about him. Shall I read it?”
Martha frowned. “Of course, read it. Don’t dawdle, Silas!”
“It’s about Papa, isn’t it?” asked Hannah, who had been standing in the doorway with Polly.
“It is, Child,” said Martha.
Silas unfolded the sheet and smoothed it against his knee, as his voice took on the careful cadence of printed words.
“‘By letters just received from Spain, we are informed that Captain Jonathan Haraden in the ship Pickering, of sixteen six-pounders and forty-eight men and boys, on his passage from Salem to Bilbao fell in with a British cruiser… and after engagin’ her for five glasses obliged her to sheer off, the Pickering sufferin’ great damages. ’”
Eunice’s mind focused on the word “damages” as she beckoned the restless Polly to her. Pulling the child into her lap, she whispered, “Let’s listen.”
Silas read on, the tale unfolding of a prize taken, the Golden Eagle. “The Pickering was makin’ the best of her way into Bilboa with the prize when she was pursued by a very large lugger.”
Eunice’s heart stopped.
Martha gasped softly. “Oh, Lord preserve them.”
“What’s a lugger?” asked Hannah. Eunice had gone over the ships they frequently saw in Salem’s harbor but this was a new term for Hannah.
“That name refers to the sail configuration,” said Silas. Looking back at the paper, he added, “This wasn’t just any lugger. ’Twas the Achilles, the largest ever fitted out from Britain, havin’ forty-three guns and one hundred and thirty men. She re-captured the Eagle from Captain Haraden.”
“What happened then?” asked Martha, her voice impatient.
Eunice held her breath.
Silas’ voice carried on, “A most violent contest ensued and continued for nearly three hours. The lugger, larger and stout as she was, should have won the fight, but the Pickering won and the Achilles was glad to leave them.” Silas stopped and smiled. “He sent the brute runnin’!”
“And?” asked Martha.
Silas looked down at the paper. “The Pickering pursued the prize and took her again, in sight of their vanquished enemy, and the two sailed into Bilboa.”
The room was still when he finished, the only sound the ticking of the mantel clock.
Eunice set Polly down and rose, crossing to the window.
A tear slipped down her cheek as she gazed out toward the harbor beyond the rooftops.
Her heart beat with mingled pride and fear.
“He has looked into the very jaws of death,” she murmured, more to herself than to the others.
“And yet God preserves him.” Turning to the others, she said, “Our prayers are answered. He lives and triumphs.”
Martha wiped her eyes, her voice trembling. “The Lord surely holds him in His hand.”
Hannah’s voice piped high and clear. “Papa won! When will he be home?”
Eunice gathered her composure with effort. “It may be some months yet, sweetheart. His ship will be needing repairs and his prize must be sold. But we’ll keep praying.”
The London Coffeehouse, Salem
LATER THAT SAME day, anxious to share the news, Silas made his way to the London Coffeehouse where the captain often met with his merchant sponsors.
The smell of roasted beans and pipe smoke hung heavy in the air as he stepped in. Merchants crowded the tables, voices buzzed with the talk of convoys, prices, and the war. The scrape of quills tallying accounts mingled with the low hum.
Silas shouldered through, the folded paper clutched in his hand. Not seeing the merchants he was looking for in the crowd, he slapped the paper on a table. “Gentlemen! News out of Spain, hot as pitch and worth your ears. It’s our own Captain Haraden, the Salamander!”
Heads turned; cups stilled halfway to lips.
Silas cleared his throat and read aloud, his voice rising with each line: the duel with the British cruiser, the capture of the Golden Eagle, and then the great contest with the Achilles.
By the time he reached the line, “The lugger, large and stout as she was, was glad to leave them,” the room erupted in cheers. Men leapt to their feet, pounding the table, some crying, “Three cheers for Haraden!”
One older shipowner shook his head in wonder. “Forty-three guns against sixteen? I’d not have believed it if it weren’t in print.”
Another raised his cup high. “Salem breeds no common captains!”
From the corner, a merchant called, “Aye, the Salamander indeed!” and the name was taken up in a chorus.
Silas grinned, savoring the moment. He thought of Mrs. Mason at the window, tears in her eyes though she tried to hide it.
And he thought of Hannah and Polly, anxious to see their beloved papa.
Slapping the table with the paper, he said, “Mark me, lads, this ain’t just a victory at sea.
It’s proof enough Britain misjudges us yet, but America’s sons won’t be cowed. ”
The cheer that answered him shook the rafters, a roar of pride for Salem’s own.
Bilbao, Spain, September 1780
THE MORNING SUN spilled over the tiled roofs of Bilbao and onto the crowded quays.
There, it caught the banners and kerchiefs waved by the crowd.
Bells clanged from church towers, their peals rolling down to the water where the Pickering rode at anchor, refitted and provisioned for the long passage west.
Jon stood on the quarterdeck, hat tucked under his arm, watching as carts rattled down the quay bearing the last gifts from the Spanish merchants: fresh fruit, casks of wine, bolts of sailcloth.
Their generosity had been near boundless since the battle, their gratitude reflected not only in feasts and parades but in supplies laid aboard at no cost.
Along the quay, another vessel lay with Spanish colors newly hoisted, the Golden Eagle, no longer theirs, her timbers and cargo already sold into other hands. Jon’s gaze lingered on her only a moment. She had been hard-won, but prizes passed quickly into commerce.
Earlier in the week, he had seen Captain Scott and the few British who had fought beside his men safely paroled, bound home under their word of honor.
The rest of the Achilles’ crew he had left in Spanish custody.
Mr. Franklin in Paris would be glad enough of them, for every British prisoner in Europe could be weighed against an American languishing in irons.
The thought of giving more of his countrymen a chance at freedom pleased Jon.
His charge now was the ship that bore his men and his flag home, well provisioned, with prize money secured, and carrying with her the honor of triumph against the odds.
Thorndike came to his side, eyes scanning the throng. “They’ll cheer us till their throats are raw, sir. I’ve never seen the like. We’re heroes here.”
Jon returned Thorndike a slight smile. “Heroes fade quickly, Mr. Thorndike. But ships and men, they must endure.” He looked again to the quay, where women tossed flowers into the tide. “Let them remember the flag we carried, if nothing else.”
From the dock rose a cheer as the lines were cast off.
Oars dipped, the ship’s boats tugging their charges clear of the shore until the sails could take them.
Bobby and Joshua scrambled aloft with the other boys, nimble as cats, their shrill voices mingling with the creak of rigging and the flap of canvas.
Overhead, three white swans took flight as the wind filled the sails.
Jon lifted his gaze, taking it as a good omen, and his spirits rose with them.
As the Pickering leaned into her course, the cheers of Bilbao swelled.
“?Viva el Capitán! ?Viva América!” Hats flew skyward, church bells tolled again, and for a moment the very harbor seemed to shake with it.
Jon lifted his hat in return, bowing once toward the town that had feted him like a king. Yet even as he did, his thoughts turned westward, past the wide Atlantic, past the dangers yet to come, to a quiet house in Salem. That vision steadied him more than all the cheers of Spain.
“Set our course, Mr. Thorndike,” he said at last, setting his hat back on. “West for Salem. And whatever prizes God sends us along the way.”
Thorndike’s grin was wolfish. “Aye, Captain. Salem will not see us return empty.”
The sails bellied, the water foamed under the bow, and Bilbao’s voices faded into the morning haze.
In the Atlantic, September 1780