Chapter 19 #2
Rodney’s laugh was rich, contemptuous. “Fine words. Yet words do not mend your torn sails or return your prizes. Your gallant Pickering will soon ride at anchor in His Majesty’s fleet, a toy for stronger hands.
As for you…” He gestured carelessly with his quill.
“Rot here, or rot in St. Kitts. It makes little difference to me.”
Jon met his gaze. “I’ll not be rotting, Admiral. A man who chased off your Achilles won’t lie idle while Britain strangles the Indies. You’ll see me again, free and armed.”
Rodney’s smirk faltered just a fraction. He rapped the desk. “Take him back. I’ve no patience for the boasts of beaten men.”
The guards seized Jon by the arms and marched him out. He did not resist. But as he stepped into the blinding sun, his thoughts burned hotter still. Rodney plunders, Rodney gloats, but Rodney has given me one gift. He thinks me finished. And that is his mistake.
At the weighing house, the guards released Jon’s hands from the shackles and shoved him inside.
The heat of the day pressed down like a weight of its own.
Jon found a seat against the stone wall, his wrists red where the irons had chafed.
The stench of unwashed bodies and stagnant water filled the low chamber.
Through the single barred window, he caught a glimpse of the harbor.
Thorndike crouched nearby, his face hollow. “What did he say, Captain?”
Jon frowned remembering the conversation. “He mocked me. Spoke of the Achilles, then called me a fool for walking into his trap. Said we could rot here or in St. Kitts, he cares not. He takes pride in plunder and calls it victory. The man has no honor.”
Curtis, seated a few feet away, gave a weary, bitter laugh. “That’s the man for you. Half a merchant, half a butcher. Our fellow prisoners say he’s sold half the island already, and the other half’s dying of hunger.”
“And all arrogance,” Jon said. “He’ll choke on it one day.”
From a dark corner came a hoarse voice, one of Jon’s seamen. “He’s right, sir. They’ve taken the stores. We’re to get no food but moldy biscuit and foul water. Men are starving.”
Jon turned toward him, his tone firm but gentle. “We’ll endure. You hear me? We’re not beaten yet.”
Beside him, Bobby shifted uneasily. “I—I gave my biscuit to Joshua, sir. He’s bad sick.”
Jon laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You did right, Lad. Tonight you’ll have half of mine.”
Thorndike shook his head. “Captain, you can’t—”
“I can,” Jon said quietly. “A captain eats last.” He leaned his head against the wall, eyes half-closed.
He could still hear Rodney’s smooth derision, rot here or rot in St. Kitts, and felt it coil in his gut.
Let Rodney preen over his plunder. The man mistook patience for defeat.
Jon would bide his time, learn every stone of this place, every guard’s habit, and when the hour came, he would break his chains the same way he had broken the British blockades.
In the meantime, he would encourage the men so they did not lose heart.
Outside, the afternoon breeze carried the faint scent of the sea. The guards laughed somewhere up the lane. From time to time a wagon rumbled by, heavy with crates, the spoils of a conquered island.
Curtis drew a slow breath. “The Dutch townsfolk have hearts yet. One of them bribed a guard today to bring me this.” He opened his coat to show a papaya and a coarse loaf. “Said more might come if we keep quiet and don’t draw notice.”
Jon looked at the offerings, then at the men slumped in the shadows. “Divide it. All of it.”
A few murmured thanks, the sound rough with exhaustion.
“The Dutch haven’t forgotten who filled their warehouses,” Curtis added. “They’ll risk much to see us fed.”
The afternoon turned to evening as heat ebbed from the stone walls. Somewhere near dawn, a man coughed his last. The others said nothing, only bowed their heads.
At length Thorndike spoke, low and urgent. “We can’t stay like this, sir. The men will die. What’s your mind?”
Jon stared up at the faint light edging through the barred window.
“Rodney thinks we’ll rot here. He’s wrong.
There’s not a prison yet built that can hold a man with reason to fight.
We’ll ask the Dutch who are yet free to aid us.
America will not forget them for it.” He turned his head toward Thorndike and Curtis, eyes hard but alight.
“Watch the guards. Count their rounds. Learn which one drinks and which one listens. The Dutch here remember who their friends were before the redcoats came. They may lend us a hand for more than food. When the time’s right, we’ll take the harbor back one soul at a time. ”
Thorndike leaned forward. “Captain, I can take a few men to check the soil in this building. Perhaps there is a place to dig unnoticed.”
Jon nodded. “Good. See what lies beneath these stones. You have my blessing for the effort.”
Bobby looked up, his voice small but certain. “You’ll get us home, Captain. I know you will.”
Jon managed a smile. “Aye, Lad. We’ll see Salem again. By God’s grace, we’ll see it.” Calling his chaplain to him, he said, “Chaplain McClure, pray for us all and call the devout to join you.”
McClure’s face softened. “I’d be pleased to do that, Captain. I have been praying with the men, but I think a group prayer will be stronger. ‘Where two or more are gathered…’”
That night, as the island cooled a little, the wind stirred through the broken shutters, carrying the faint hum of the sea.
Despite their situation, hope sparked in Jon, fragile and defiant, like a match struck in a storm.
He leaned against the stone, closed his eyes and thought of Eunice, wondering what she would feel when the news of their capture reached Salem.
Salem Market, June 1781
EUNICE WALKED brISKLY through the crowded market as the summer sun climbed higher, bright on the roofs of Salem and warm upon her shoulders.
Hannah kept pace at her side, the wicker basket swinging between them, its bottom lined with linen and green sprigs of mint.
The air smelled of the sea and of fresh produce, salt, fish, and ripe berries mingled with the scent of baking bread from the stalls along Essex Street.
“The Gloucester Haradens will think we’ve laid a feast,” said Hannah, her blonde curls escaping from beneath her bonnet.
“I hope so,” Eunice replied, smiling faintly.
“Martha wants everything to be perfect for their arrival later today and we’ve a lot to find if we mean to return before the heat grows unbearable.
We must find butter, two roasting fowl, potatoes, some greens and berries for tarts. Then we can go home.”
They moved between vendors calling their wares.
Hannah found some ripe strawberries. Eunice paused to consider the chickens, purchased two, then bargained for new potatoes.
Yet her thoughts were elsewhere, turned toward the south and the long silence from the Indies.
Six months now since Jonathan’s last letter, his elegant hand promising to return before midsummer to claim his bride.
A shout from the wharf end of the market broke her reverie.
A rider had come through the crowd, his horse flecked with foam, calling out news from the harbor.
“Packet ship in from Antigua! Word from the Indies! Rodney’s fleet has taken the Dutch island of St. Eustatius! Every American vessel in port seized!”
The market stilled. A murmur swept through the people. One man cried, “Do they name the ships?”
The rider unrolled a damp sheet of gazette print. “They do. Merchantmen, brigs, and privateers, among them the Pickering of Salem!”
Eunice’s hand went to her throat. “No…”
Hannah tugged her sleeve. “What did they say about Papa’s ship?”
Eunice swallowed hard. The child was old enough to know. “They say it’s been captured.”
The thought caused Eunice’s knees to nearly give way. A fishwife caught her arm, steadying her. “God’s mercy, Miss, it may be rumor yet. The gazettes are full of errors.”
But the words rang clearly in her mind. The Pickering of Salem.
She managed to whisper, “We must go home.” With their basket in hand, Eunice pressed through the crowd, her heart hammering. Beside her, Hannah’s face had gone pale. Faces blurred past, the market noise receding into a dull roar, until at last the gate of the Haraden house came into view.
The garden gate banged behind them as she and Hannah hurried up the path. Silas was in the yard splitting kindling. He straightened at once when he saw their faces. “Mrs. Mason? What’s amiss?”
She could barely find her breath. Hannah, stricken with worry, clung to Eunice, wide-eyed and silent. “The market,” said Eunice. “News from the Indies. Admiral Rodney has taken St. Eustatius.” Her voice broke. “They’ve captured the Pickering.”
The basket slipped from her grasp. Strawberries rolled across the flagstones, bright as spilled blood. Silas caught the basket before it fell, his face paling as though the strength had gone out of him. “Lord help us,” he said at last. “Are you certain?”
Eunice shook her head, tears blurring everything. “They named her, Silas. They named his ship.”
The front door opened. Martha appeared on the step, shading her eyes against the glare. “Mrs. Mason? Hannah? What has happened?”
Silas turned toward her. “Word from the Indies. The Pickering’s taken by the British.”
For a moment, Martha seemed carved from stone.
Then she came swiftly down the steps, her skirts brushing the stone, and took Eunice by the shoulders.
“Hush now,” she said softly, drawing both her and Hannah close.
“We’ll not believe every harbor cry till the minister reads the dispatch himself. Come inside, my dears.”