Chapter 17 #2
THE BAY OF Biscay fell astern, its green headlands fading into haze. Ahead stretched the vast Atlantic, steel blue and glittering in the sun, the endless road back to Salem. The Pickering, tight in her rigging and sound from her refit, moved like a hound eager for the chase.
Jon took his place on the quarterdeck with Thorndike at his side, scanning the horizon.
On the main deck, the crew’s spirits ran high.
They had the coin promised them, honor earned, and the scent of more prizes in their noses.
Yet when Jon’s thoughts turned inward, it was not to silver nor to spoils, but to Eunice Mason’s soft brown eyes waiting across the sea, the words he would speak to her.
It was Thorndike who spied the merchantman first. “Captain,” he said pointing, “a square-rigged ship, fat in the water and sluggish with cargo.”
The lookout confirmed the sighting with a shout. “Sail ho, starboard!” Jon raised his glass and saw the truth at once. English colors, no escort, and no match for a ship as nimble as the Pickering.
“Clear for chase,” Jon said calmly.
Thorndike echoed the orders and the men sprang to their stations. Sails were trimmed sharp, and the ship surged forward, overtaking the merchantman in hours. A warning shot across the bow was enough; the Rodney hove to without a fight, hauling down her colors.
The Rodney’s master, pale and tight-lipped, was brought aboard the Pickering, his hat clutched under his arm, his brown salt-stained coat damp at the seams. He offered up his papers with a trembling hand.
Jon flipped through them without triumph, merely duty, but noted with satisfaction her cargo: tobacco, lumber, rice, fish, sugar, and rum.
“One hundred and twenty tons,” he remarked to Thorndike, “and bound for London.” To the merchantman’s master, he added, “We’ll be seeing you safely into Salem.”
The Pickering’s crew gave three cheers as Lieutenant Carnes was sent over with a prize crew. Bobby darted after him, wide-eyed at the captured vessel, but Jon’s voice checked him. “Not this time, Lad. You’ve had enough of prizes for now.” Bobby flushed but nodded, returning to his station.
The captured captain was lodged in a small aft cabin, under watch of a sentry, treated with civility but kept well away from Jon’s papers and charts.
Days later, when the seas lay glassy under a pale sky, another sail rose on the horizon.
She proved to be the brigantine Myrrh, smaller than the Rodney but swifter, her master unwilling to yield.
The chase dragged on, canvas straining, as the Pickering pressed harder, until Jon ordered a shot.
The ball screamed past the brigantine’s quarter, splintering spray. Still she ran.
“Another, Mr. Thorndike,” Jon said evenly.
This one struck home, shattering her mizzen.
The Myrrh faltered, her flight ended. Her captain surrendered with bitter grace.
Once onboard the Pickering, he bowed stiffly before Jon and handed over his sword, muttering darkly, “The sea grows thick with you Salem men. One cannot trade in peace for fear of you.”
Jon’s eyes flickered with amusement. “The sea is thick with Patriots, good sir, for America means to win this war.”
“Your cargo, sir?” asked Thorndike.
The Myrrh’s captain shrugged. “Stores for British troops, blankets and tents for the winter.”
Thorndike gave a sharp grin, eyeing her sound hull. “She’ll fetch a fine price and keep Patriots warm instead.”
Jon nodded, though his eyes softened as he watched the prize crew hoist the Stars and Stripes above the Myrrh’s mast. “Another step toward home,” he said quietly.
It had just turned October and the nights were cool, the myriad of stars sharp as ice, when they came upon the brigantine Venus, her hold heavy, her pace slow.
She offered a token broadside, but her guns were few and her men apparently not well trained.
Within a half-hour she, too, struck her colors.
Jon received her master courteously, then turned the matter over to Thorndike.
When the British captain was taken below, Jon turned to his men on deck and shouted loud enough for all to hear.
“Three prizes in as many weeks. Providence has favored us again, for which we must all be grateful. But lest we forget how swiftly matters can change, let us see our prizes into Salem.”
The men answered with cheers, Bobby loudest among them, and Joshua right beside him, both boys flushed with pride.
Salem Harbor, October 1780
THE AUTUMN WIND carried the scent of wood smoke across Salem Sound as the Pickering came on, her sails weathered.
Astern, in a stately line, followed the Rodney, the Myrrh, and the Venus, each flying American colors aloft.
The sight was enough to set the town astir before the cannon of Winter Island at the mouth of Salem Harbor could give a salute.
By the time Jon brought the ship across the bar, half of Salem crowded the wharves and headlands. Men stood on warehouse roofs, boys scrambled up rigging on other ships, women waved shawls from balconies and windows. A murmur swelled into a cheer that rolled over the harbor like surf.
“God save us, he’s brought three!” a man on the dock shouted, cap flying from his hand. “Three in one cruise and already took the Golden Eagle and bested the Achilles!”
From the quarterdeck, Jon kept his hat tucked beneath his arm, his expression composed, but his heart thudded.
He thought of the lads clinging to the shrouds, Bobby and Joshua waving their caps with the other cabin boys, their grins fierce with pride.
He thought of his weary men at the guns, blackened by powder, straight-backed and smiling, as the ship carried them home in triumph with more prize money soon to be had.
And he thought of Eunice Mason somewhere in that throng.
Thorndike grinned broadly. “All Salem’s turned out, Captain. I reckon they’ve been starved for good news.”
“Then let us give them their fill,” Jon said.
The Pickering fired a single gun, its report echoing off the warehouses. Cheers answered like thunder. The prizes followed her in, their rigging manned by prize crews who called across to one another, voices sharp with victory.
At Derby Wharf, the crowd surged so thick that sailors had to hold the line to make room for the gangways.
A band of local boys struck up “Yankee Doodle” on fifes, the tune shrill and defiant above the roar, while a dozen boys beat their drums until the planks themselves seemed to tremble.
Merchants elbowed forward, hats in hand.
Jon smiled at the thought of them already weighing cargo in their minds.
Wives and sweethearts wept openly, reaching for men not yet ashore.
Jon rested his hand on the rail, his gaze sweeping the chaos with quiet pride. “Salem will eat well this winter,” he murmured. Then, more softly still, “And I am home.”
THE PRESS OF bodies on the wharf was nearly suffocating, the air thick with wood smoke and salt spray.
Eunice held fast to Polly, who tugged and strained to see above the crowd.
Martha had Hannah’s hand in a firm grip.
The thunder of the salute gun still echoed when the fifes took up “Yankee Doodle”, high and piercing, answered by the steady tattoo of boys’ drums.
“There, Child, do you see?” Martha said, pointing across the harbor. “Your papa’s ship, and three more behind her.”
Hannah gazed wide-eyed, her face pale with awe, while Polly, wriggling free, clapped her hands.
Eunice shaded her eyes, her breath catching at the sight.
The Pickering came on proudly, sails patched, her flanks scarred from battle yet defiant.
Behind her the prizes flew the American flag, bright against the gray of sea and sky.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, swelling into a roar as the ships closed the distance.
“There he is!” Polly cried, pointing at the quarterdeck. The girl had just turned five and was a bundle of energy. Eunice had her hands full most days.
She saw him then, tall and handsome with an air of serene composure. With his hat tucked beneath his arm, he dominated the quarterdeck. Though he appeared composed, she knew how his heart must be pounding. The sight brought a sting to her eyes, though she blinked it away quickly.
When Jon lifted his head toward the throng, his eyes found her across the distance, amid the crush of townsfolk and the thunder of drums, as though no one else existed. Their gazes met and, for a breathless moment, neither looked away.
Martha sniffed sharply beside her, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “Well, God be praised, he’s home again. And richer than ever, I’ll warrant.”
But Eunice scarcely heard. All the noise and movement of the wharf faded, leaving only the unshaken look of the man on the quarterdeck. Her heart answered it, fierce and sure.
The gangways were laid, sailors straining to keep the press of townsfolk from surging forward too soon. Children scrambled onto barrels for a better view, and merchants jostled to the fore, calling out greetings as if their voices alone might hasten the captain ashore.
Eunice watched as Silas pushed through, his broad shoulders parting the crowd. He planted himself near the landing place, arms crossed, a grin spreading through his salt-stubbled beard.
As Jon descended the gangway, Silas lifted his voice above the din. “Captain, you’ve near emptied the Atlantic of British trade and filled Salem with cheer besides! A finer homecomin’ I’ve never seen.”
Jon clasped the old sailor’s hand warmly before the crowd surged around them. “Thank you, Silas. The sea gave us a hard trial, but Providence brought us through. Salem will eat well this winter.”
The roar of welcome rose again, but for Eunice it blurred to nothing as Jon’s dark blue eyes found hers once more, closer now, steady as ever.
The Haraden house, Salem, October 1780