Chapter 18 #3
Bobby clung to the mizzen shrouds on the quarterdeck, eyes wide at the carnage. “Captain, sir, shall I fetch water for the men?”
“Stand fast, Lad,” Jon said sharply, though his tone softened after. “This is no place for you.” He nodded to Thorndike. “See him below. The surgeon may find use for his hands.”
“Aye, Captain,” Thorndike said, waving the boy toward the companionway.
At last, Jon gave the order to sheer off, his eyes stinging from smoke.
Thorndike frowned. “Sir?”
Jon strode the quarterdeck, calm despite the chaos. “Only a pause. Make fast repairs! Double-shot the guns. This ends today.”
Thorndike’s voice cracked like a whip. “Boarders, stand ready! Topmen, patch those braces!”
Catching the drift of their captain’s intention, the men fell to it with a will. Canvas was hastily stitched, jury braces spliced, the decks cleared. Within the hour the Pickering came about once more, her scars showing but her spirit undimmed.
Jon cupped his hands and bellowed across the narrow gap between the Pickering and the mail packet, his voice carrying clear above the groaning timbers, “You have five minutes to strike your colors, or I’ll send you to the bottom!”
The British master stood stiff on his quarterdeck, lips pressed thin. His men wavered behind him, faces gray. Three long minutes passed, heavy as lead. At last the Union Jack fluttered down.
A ragged cheer rose from the Pickering’s crew, powder-grimed voices breaking into triumph. Hats waved aloft. Even Thorndike allowed himself a grin.
Jon decided to see for himself what the battle had wrought. Leaving Second Lieutenant John Carnes in command, he went over the side into the longboat with Thorndike at his back.
The packet’s deck told the price of victory. Blood ran from the scuppers, pooled dark around fallen men. The stench of powder and iron filled the air.
The packet’s captain met him there, face haggard, his coat in tatters. Wordlessly he drew his sword, its edge nicked and stained, and presented it hilt-first.
Jon accepted it with a grave bow, then returned it. “You fought with courage. Keep your blade. You will need it again, if Providence spares you.”
On the packet’s quarterdeck, slumped in an armchair, sat an old man in fine clothes now stained with blood. His jaw was clenched, one cheek torn through by a musket ball. Yet his grip was firm on the blunderbuss he had fired through the long ordeal.
“The governor, most like,” Thorndike murmured.
Jon inclined his head in respect. “Sir, you fought bravely. You shall have treatment for your wound. Our surgeon remains aboard the Pickering to tend our wounded, but yours shall have whatever supplies he requires.”
The old man’s eyes met his, fierce even in pain. He gave a single, stiff nod.
Jon straightened, his voice carrying to friend and foe alike. “See to the wounded, ours and theirs. Let it be known the Pickering grants no quarter to dishonor, but mercy to the valiant.”
The men moved quickly, binding wounds, carrying the dead below. It was a grim victory, but necessary, one more blow against Britain’s might, and another proof that even the king’s ships could not sail the Indies without fear of Salem’s privateers.
As Jon turned to go, the wounded governor lifted his blunderbuss once more, not in threat but in salute. Jon acknowledged the gesture with a nod, a warrior’s respect passing silently between enemies.
THE PICKERING HAD scarcely patched her sails from the mail packet fight when fortune placed another sail upon the horizon.
At first glance, Jon thought her British.
She was trim in her lines, her course set north.
But when he raised his glass, he saw the truth: a Boston vessel, long familiar in Salem, now flying British colors.
Thorndike’s jaw tightened. “One of ours, sir. Taken and pressed into His Majesty’s service.”
Jon lowered his glass. “Then we must have her back.”
The chase was short. Her British prize crew, unnerved and outnumbered, fired a few token shots, but their hearts were not in it. Within the hour, the Union Jack came down, replaced swiftly by the Stars and Stripes.
When Jon stepped aboard, he was met by the ragged cheers of her original crew, men who had been penned below since their capture. They stumbled into the sunlight, weeping, grasping the hands of Pickering sailors, crying out thanks to God and to Jon.
The British lieutenant surrendered his sword with a sour look. “She was ours by right of conquest.”
Amused, Jon took the blade, his tone iron. “By theft, not right. She belongs to her home port, and now, her people will have her again.”
Thorndike grinned as the men raised their voices in joy. “Salem will bless your name twice over, Captain, once for the prizes, and once for bringing her sons home.”
Jon looked to the recaptured crew, and his heart swelled. This was no golden cargo, no prize to line purses, but a victory of another kind, for they had restored brothers-in-arms to freedom, sending them home to families who thought them lost.
He stood at the rail, watching the colors snap in the wind. “Set a course to keep her with us,” he ordered. “No man taken from Salem shall be left to rot under another flag if we can help it.”
Thorndike tipped his hat against the sun. “Aye, Captain. We can protect her on the journey home, if her master wills it, once we leave the Golden Rock.”
Jon nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sea met sky. St. Eustatius and the Dutch free port that welcomed American traders lay ahead, a safe harbor where his damaged ship could procure the repairs she desperately needed.
From the hatchway came a stir, then the gaunt figure of her master was helped on deck, blinking in the sunlight. His coat hung loose, but his bearing was unmistakably that of a master mariner.
Jon stepped forward. “Captain, welcome back to your own deck. I am Jonathan Haraden of Salem.”
The man bowed slightly. “Nathaniel Curtis, late master of this vessel out of Boston. Sir, I owe you more than words. I thought never to see the open sky again.”
Jon clasped his arm firmly. “Then let me ask, do you wish the Pickering to see you safe home? We can keep you under our protection as far as Boston or Salem, if that is your desire. But first, we must put in to St. Eustatius for needed repairs.”
Curtis glanced to the horizon, then back at Jon with gratitude. “Aye, Captain. If it be no great burden, I would welcome your escort. My men have seen enough shot and chains. To sail in company with the Pickering is to sail under Providence itself.”
Jon inclined his head. “Then so it shall be. We’ll stand together into safe harbor.”
Thorndike, who had listened in silence, gave a satisfied nod. “Boston and Salem both will bless your name for this, Captain. Twice over.”