Chapter 18
“We have this day restored the Sovereign to whom all alone men ought to be obedient. He reigns in Heaven, and with a propitious eye beholds His subjects assuming that freedom of thought, and dignity of self-direction which He bestowed on them. From the rising to the setting sun, may His kingdom come.”
JON HAD COME at the request of George Williams and Elias Derby, who wished to discuss the prize money from the sale of the three ships.
The moment he stepped inside, the aroma of strong, bitter coffee hit him, and the low roar of men talking ships, trade, and war.
Heads turned, hands reached for him, confirmation the news of the Pickering’s return had run through Salem faster than fire in dry pine.
He made his way to the table where Derby and Williams bent over their notes. The merchants rose to greet him warmly, and chairs scraped as others pressed close to listen.
“You are to be congratulated, Captain,” Williams said. “For your brilliant command of the Pickering. Your crew sings your praises in every tavern on the waterfront.”
Jon inclined his head. “I am blessed with a wonderful crew, every man a Patriot.”
Williams tapped the papers with his quill. “We thought you would like to know the Rodney sold this day for ninety thousand pounds.”
Jon’s brows rose despite himself. “Ninety thousand!” He let the figure roll in his mind, a fortune beyond most men’s imagining. “A fine price for a fine ship.”
Derby leaned in. “And bought, I might add, by none other than George here.”
Williams gave a modest nod, but the ripple of approval through the crowd spoke louder than words.
Jon sat back and stared at Williams. The man was clearly successful. After all, he owned the Pickering, but ninety thousand pounds?
“The Myrrh,” Derby went on, “fetched twenty-five thousand and thirty. Stores, blankets, tents aplenty. The king’s loss will be Washington’s gain.”
“The brigantine Venus,” Williams concluded, “sold for twenty-four thousand. Sound hull, good cargo. She went quick.”
Slate pencils squeaked, quills scratched. Men leaned back in their chairs, eyes alight as though the coins already lay in their purses.
A smile crossed Williams’ face. “With these sales settled, Captain, you and your men will soon see your prize shares. Salem’s coffers prosper, aye, but so too shall every hand that served aboard the Pickering.”
Jon inclined his head. “My men are counting on it.”
Derby drummed his fingers on the table. “George and I have been talking about your next cruise, Captain. The Indies, perhaps. Winter seas there are more kindly than the Atlantic. What say you?”
“Aye,” Jon said with a nod. “The Caribbean would be a welcome respite for my men.”
Williams cast a glance at Derby, then bent to lift a large, cloth-wrapped parcel from beside his chair. “We have something for you, Captain, to memorialize your victory over the Achilles and in thanks for the many prizes you have taken.”
The room stilled as he drew back the cloth.
A heavy silver plate gleamed in the lamplight, its edge wrought with scrollwork.
In the center was engraved Captain Jonathan Haraden of Salem, and beneath it the words: From a grateful town and its merchants who extol his courage under fire and his victories at sea for America’s independence.
A murmur of admiration rippled through the merchants.
Jon felt the weight of every eye upon him as Williams set the plate before him.
For a moment, he could only run his hand lightly over the engraving, struck silent.
At last he said, “I thank you, gentlemen. This honor belongs not to me alone, but to every man who stood his post aboard the Pickering.”
An older merchant sitting nearby fixed his gaze on the silver. “Three prizes and Salem is richer by near one hundred and forty thousand. It is fitting to honor such a man. No wonder London fears Haraden’s name.”
From the corner, where he sat with his seafaring friends, Silas raised his cup, his voice rough with pride. “Haraden’s our Salamander! He’s given the British proof we’ll not be starved nor cowed.”
The cheer that followed rattled cups on the tables.
Jon traced the inscription once more, then covered the plate with the cloth.
The cheer still rang in his ears as he bid Williams and Derby a good day and left the coffeehouse with Silas at his side.
Outside, the afternoon mist had crept in from the harbor, softening the outlines of masts and rooftops.
The silver plate weighed heavy under his arm, but heavier still was the thought that the town’s gratitude could never match what he most desired.
“Fine gift,” Silas said, pulling his coat tighter. “Salem’s proud of you, Captain.”
“Perhaps,” he acknowledged, though his eyes turned eastward, toward the streets that led home.
What was silver or renown, compared with the quiet look of Eunice Mason when she met his gaze?
And the thought of spending the rest of his days with her that came to his mind.
The town might call him their Salamander, but it was she who steadied the fire in him.
The Haraden house, November 1780
THE FIRE ON the parlor hearth burned low, its glow soft upon the walls. Outside, the wind rattled the bare branches against the windows, but within, all was still. Eunice sat with a glass of claret in her hand, the warmth of it spreading through her even as her heart beat with a different heat.
It had been weeks since Captain Haraden’s return, weeks of dinners and laughter, of Sundays spent walking home from church with Hannah and Polly skipping between them. Yet tonight, seated alone with him, she felt the weight of every moment they had shared pressing toward some unspoken end.
Jon leaned forward in his chair, his face lit by the shifting glow.
His dark blue eyes held hers, unflinching.
“Mrs. Mason,” he began, his voice quiet but firm, “these weeks at home have been more precious to me than I knew could be granted a man who lives by the sea. You have cared for my daughters with a tenderness and patience that humbles me.” For a moment, he seemed to weigh words too dear to spend lightly.
Then his gaze lifted to hers, steady and intent.
“They have made me see clearly what it has taken me too long to speak. I have admired you since first I saw how my girls looked to you,” he went on, his voice thickening.
“But admiration is not the word any longer. ’Tis love that fills my heart when I gaze into your lovely face. Too long have I left it unspoken.”
Her breath caught. Tears welled and slipped unchecked down her cheeks.
She had hoped, prayed, but never let herself believe it might be true.
“Love?” she whispered. “I had not believed it could return to me after all that was lost.” Her voice broke as she whispered, “And love it is I have for you, Captain.”
For a moment neither moved, only the fire filling the silence between them. Jon rose then and came to her, taking her hands gently into his own as he knelt before her. His touch was firm, warm, anchoring her trembling fingers. “And yet here it is, between us.”
Eunice searched his face, both afraid and full of hope. “And your daughters? What will they think?”
His answer came with a quiet certainty. “I will speak to them. But as I see it, you are already their mother.”
Her tears fell freely then, though her smile broke through them. “And I, their own.”
“Then hear me,” he said, his voice roughened with feeling. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? When I return from this next cruise, I would have your father marry us. If you will consent, it would be my greatest joy.”
“Yes,” Eunice breathed, the word breaking with her sob. “Yes, with all my heart.”
He bent and kissed her hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. The fire crackled softly, and outside the wind sighed through the eaves. But within the parlor, there was only their joined hands, the promise spoken at last, and the knowledge that no ocean between them could unmake it.
THE NEXT MORNING dawned clear, the air sharp with the bite of late autumn.
The red and gold leaves had fallen from the trees but the first snowfall had yet to come.
Jon buttoned his coat and called to the girls, who came running, cloaks flapping, eager for the promise of a walk.
They made their way along the lane toward the common.
What leaves remained were crisp beneath their boots, their breath visible in the chill.
Hannah skipped at her father’s side, her hand tucked into his, while Polly darted ahead to chase a crow that strutted along the fence rail. Jon watched them both, his heart full, then drew a steadying breath.
“My dears,” he began, his voice gentle, “I’ve something to ask you.” They turned to him with expectant gazes. “You know Mrs. Mason has cared for you these last several years, taught you, guided you, and watched over you. Since you were a baby, Polly.”
Hannah looked up as if waiting for more. “And?”
“She makes us practice our curtsies,” said Polly, twirling to show hers.
Jon chuckled, then grew more serious. “I hold her in the highest regard. More than regard, in truth. I have come to love her. I have asked her to be my wife, but I would not do so without knowing your hearts. What think you, if she were to become your mother?”
The girls stopped in their tracks. Hannah’s eyes widened, thoughtful beyond her years. She had not worn her mother’s locket in some while, which he took to mean she was healing. Polly clapped her hands in delight. “Then she’ll always stay with us?”
“Yes,” said Jon. “She would really be your mother.”
Hannah’s gaze softened. “She is already like a mother. I should like it very much.”
“Me, too!” said Polly.
Jon felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He gathered them both close, his voice thick. “Then it is settled. We will be a family in truth, not just in name.”