Chapter 19 #3
Her voice was steady, but Eunice could feel the tremor in her hands. As the door opened, the scent of supper drifted from the kitchen, onions and bread and something stewing. The small, ordinary comforts of life continuing in the face of ruin.
As Martha guided her and Hannah toward the parlor, Eunice glanced back. Silas still stood in the doorway, the basket hugged to his chest, staring toward the harbor where the gulls wheeled above the masts. “God bring him home,” he said.
The long summer light still lingered over Salem when the Gloucester Haradens arrived, the carriage rattling to a stop before the house. Though her eyes were still red from crying, Eunice went to the door to meet them.
Lydia Haraden stepped down slowly, her full figure showing the burden of pregnancy, one hand braced on the arm of her daughter, Lydia, now seventeen.
Her husband, Andrew, helped their other four daughters down one by one, dark-haired girls all, their lively eyes betraying both curiosity and fatigue.
“Welcome! We are glad you’ve come.”
“And we to be here,” Lydia said. “Though I think this child means to be born before the week is out,” she added, pressing a hand to her belly. “The ride from Gloucester was longer than I remembered.”
“We put lots of pillows in the carriage to make Mama’s ride more comfortable,” said sixteen-year-old Betsey.
Silas came to help with the baggage, and Eunice noticed he whispered something to Andrew that made his face take on a concerned look.
Inside, the air was warm with the smell of roast fowl and potatoes cooked with onions and spice, and strawberries stewed with sugar.
Yet even with all the bustle, the house felt hushed.
Eunice had dressed carefully and set the table, but her eyes were swollen from tears.
Lydia was the first to notice. “Something has happened.”
It was a minute before Eunice could summon an answer.
She felt as if the words themselves would make the loss real.
At last she said quietly, “Once you are settled in your chambers, we can gather in the parlor and tell you all we know.” They had agreed not to speak of St. Eustatius until their guests were seated and calm.
A quarter-hour later, the Gloucester Haradens were gathered in the parlor. The mantel clock ticked with unhurried gravity. Hannah and Polly sat together on the hearth rug, hands clasped, their faces pale in the shifting light. Martha and Silas stood just inside the door.
Her hands folded in her lap, Eunice began. “You know from the captain’s letter before he sailed that he and I are to be wed upon his return to Salem.”
“Yes,” Lydia interrupted, “and we were delighted to hear it.”
“His last letter,” Eunice continued, “written months ago, spoke of prizes and a happy crew. And then nothing until today. News arrived by packet from Antigua. Admiral Rodney has taken St. Eustatius, and the Pickering is named among the captured ships.”
Lydia Haraden gasped and covered her mouth.
Betsey stared, dark eyes wide. “Captured? Uncle Jonathan?”
The younger girls, Jane and Polly, said nothing, their lips pressed tight.
“Is he dead?” asked fourteen-year-old Peggy.
“Papa’s not dead!” Hannah cried.
“No, darling,” Eunice said quickly. “No one said he was dead. He lives. I know in my heart he lives. We must trust God to bring him home.”
Silas, who had been standing by the door, moved forward, and produced the crumpled Gazette.
“This was read aloud at the market,” he said, smoothing it with his hands before handing it to Andrew.
“It names the Pickering of Salem, Captain Jonathan Haraden taken in Oranje Bay. The Dutch island is now under British control.”
Andrew studied the page, his mouth set. “Rodney’s work. The man’s half-admiral, half-pirate. When did he take St. Eustatius?”
“In February,” Silas replied. “The captain would have sailed into what he believed was a friendly port, unaware of its capture.”
“Rodney will strip that island bare before he quits it,” Andrew muttered, his face twisted in anger.
Lydia Haraden laid a hand on her husband’s sleeve. “There’s no comfort in anger, Andrew. We must pray for Jonathan.”
“Aye,” said Martha softly. “Why don’t you adjourn to the dinin’ room where we can do that. You must be hungry after your travel, and supper is ready. Even sorrow needs strength, especially you, Mrs. Haraden, for the sake of the babe.”
When they had gathered around the table, Eunice asked Andrew to say the blessing. He bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, we trust You with Jonathan and his men. Bring them home and bless this food to our bodies.”
The murmur of Amen was soft, uncertain. For a time, there was only the clink of plates and the whisper of the younger children. A log shifted in the hearth with a sigh.
Lydia looked across the table at Eunice, who had not touched her food. “Child, you are pale as milk. Have you eaten at all?”
Eunice shook her head. “I can’t. It feels wrong to eat when I don’t know if the captain has bread or water. Rodney is said to be cruel.”
Lydia reached for Eunice’s hand. “He will have both, and more. God has not forgotten him.”
Silence settled again, broken only by the faint noises of people eating. Then the youngest Gloucester girl, Polly, looked up from her plate and said softly, “Will Uncle Jonathan come home soon?”
Every adult at the table seemed to draw breath at once. From the doorway to the kitchen, Martha managed a smile. “Aye, sweetin’. He will come home when God wills it. Your uncle is a brave man, and the best captain on the seas. The Lord watches over him.”
Andrew Haraden lifted his glass. “With that in mind, I toast my cousin, Captain Jonathan Haraden, and all who serve the cause of liberty upon the sea.”
The family murmured assent, their voices thick with feeling as they raised their glasses.
Outside, the harbor bells tolled the last light of day, and the wind off the sea carried a chill even in summer.
In the evening quiet, the hope of his return bound them together, a fragile, steadfast light against the gathering dark.
Later, when the younger girls had been shown to their beds, the adults gathered again in the parlor. The candles burned low, their flames wavering in the draft. Eunice poured wine for their guests, her hands still trembling.
A knock sounded at the front door. Silas opened it to find Eunice’s father, Reverend Diman, hat in hand, his face grave. “Good evening, Silas.”
Recognizing the familiar voice, Eunice rose and went to him. “Father.”
“I heard the word at the docks,” he said quietly. “I thought I should come at once. We’ll hold a special service tomorrow at the church, a prayer meeting for Captain Haraden and his men.”
Tears welling in her eyes, Eunice could only whisper, “Thank you.”
The mantel clock struck nine. Its measured beat filled the silence as if to mark their vigil. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of salt and the promise of a new day.
East Church, Salem, the next morning
THE BELL OF the East Church tolled slowly above the harbor, its sound carrying through the still June air. From every lane and alley came townsfolk, merchants, sailors’ wives, apprentices, widows, and children. All drawn by the same anxious news.
Eunice walked with Martha, Hannah and Polly between the gravestones that bordered the path leading to the church door, the scent of salt and lilac on the morning breeze.
Silas followed with the Gloucester Haradens, Lydia supported by Andrew’s arm, her other hand pressed protectively to her round belly.
The younger girls walked solemnly, their dresses bright against the gray of the old stones.
Inside, the church was cool and dim, its tall windows open to the breeze off the harbor.
Shafts of sunlight struck the whitewashed walls and fell across the polished pews.
The air smelled faintly of wax and pine boards.
As the congregation settled, the soft murmur of voices faded until only the restless creak of the pews remained.
Reverend Diman ascended the pulpit steps, his black robe stirring faintly with the draft from the open doors. He laid a hand on the great Bible before him, his voice deep and measured.
“Brethren, we are gathered to pray for those who sail under our nation’s flag, and most especially for Captain Jonathan Haraden of Salem and the men of the Pickering, now taken prisoner in foreign seas.
The Lord has said, ‘When thou passeth through the waters, I will be with thee.’ Let us take comfort in that promise, for the waters are deep and the night is long, yet He does not forsake His own. ”
A murmur ran through the pews, soft as the sigh of surf. For a moment Eunice closed her eyes, her fingers tight around Hannah’s hand.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the reverend’s gaze sweep the congregation.
“Let us remember that the fight for liberty is not waged by soldiers and sailors alone. The wives who wait, the mothers who pray, the children who grow older without fathers, they, too, are part of this struggle. Their courage—your courage—upholds the nation as surely as cannon or musket.”
He paused. From the pews came a stifled sob. Lydia Haraden dabbed at her eyes.
“So we pray,” Eunice’s father continued, his voice gaining strength, “that God will guard the Pickering’s company; that He will give wisdom to her captain and grant them favor in the eyes of their captors; and that He will bring them home again, not for glory’s sake, but that righteousness may be established among the nations. ”
When the final prayer ended, the congregation rose, the benches creaking like timbers in a ship’s hull. The voices joined together in the hymn “Jesus, Lover of My Soul”, rising pure and plaintive against the rafters.
Eunice’s throat tightened as she sang. She thought of her captain, standing tall on his quarterdeck, his voice steady as he spoke commands, and she prayed that somewhere across the sea he might hear this very hymn carried on the wind.
As the last notes faded, sunlight spilled through the open door, striking her face with its warmth. Martha slipped her arm around her shoulders. “He will come home,” she whispered.
Eunice nodded, unable to speak. The bell began again, slow and solemn, its sound mingling with the murmur of the tide, as though the sea itself were joining in the prayer.