Chapter 20
“We shall never be abandoned by Heaven if we act worthy of its aid.”
THE HEAT HAD settled like a blanket over the bay.
From the barred windows of the weighing house, Jon watched the harbor shimmering in haze, masts wavering in the glare, gulls circling lazily above the half-sunken hulks left by Rodney’s plunder.
Inside the weighing house, the air was thick with the smell of salt, sweat, and mildew.
Flies droned over the buckets of brackish water by the wall.
Jon gazed toward Fort Oranje, where the Union Jack still hung limp against its pole. Rodney had dropped his ruse of flying Dutch colors months ago. Thorndike joined him, wiping sweat from his brow. “The guards are slow this morning,” he murmured. “I think they’ve heard the news.”
Jon turned. “About Rodney?”
“Aye. Gone back to England, taking half the fleet and all the plunder and gold he could carry.”
Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Then the devil’s tail has quit the island. That’s good news, even if he’s left us in his wake.”
Across the room, Curtis looked up from the scrap of sailcloth he’d been patching into makeshift bedding. “If Rodney’s gone, his dogs may grow careless.”
Jon nodded. “Careless guards and hungry men. That’s a mix that can open doors. Keep your eyes sharp.”
He moved through the dim chamber, stepping over the sleeping forms of two wounded seamen.
The Dutch prisoners had managed to bring in fruit and dried fish that morning, smuggled through a bribed sentry.
A little of the food lay spread on a board in the corner, mangoes shriveled but sweet, a loaf of coarse bread broken into pieces.
Bobby crouched beside them, dividing the food. “It’s more than we had last week, sir,” he said, his voice thin but hopeful. “The Dutch woman with the red shawl says she’ll come again.”
“Give her our thanks if you see her,” Jon said quietly. “And our promise that we’ll pay our debts when we’re free.”
Jon took a piece of bread, broke it in two, and handed half to Thorndike. “You see how Providence moves? Even now He stirs hearts outside these walls. The Almighty sends us not plenty, but enough. ’Tis like manna in the wilderness.”
Thorndike chewed slowly. “Enough to live, perhaps. But not to wait forever. The men are restless. Curtis and I have spoken about the loose soil behind that back wall. We’ve been digging a little each night. Soon, we might reach the cistern trench beyond.”
Jon glanced toward the far end of the room where a heap of broken crates hid the wall’s lower stones. “How long, do you think?”
“Three months, perhaps less if the Dutch help us hide the dirt.”
Jon drew a slow breath, then nodded. “We begin in earnest at dusk. Keep the noise down. Tell the men it’s work worth their lives and their liberty.”
A faint stir passed through the prisoners as Thorndike spread the word. Curtis joined Jon at the window again. “When we get out, what then? The harbor’s still thick with guns.”
Jon’s gaze fixed on the glinting water. “Then we wait for night and for mercy. A Dutch sloop lies moored beyond the point. Her master’s kin to one of our benefactors. When the time comes, she’ll bear us clear. And there are fishing craft that may come now that the tyrant is gone.”
Curtis smiled faintly. “You’ve thought it through.”
“I think of it every hour I draw breath,” Jon said. “A man must plot his freedom as he would a course through reefs, a little each tide, until the way is open.”
A gust of wind carried in the sound of the surf and, faintly, the toll of a bell from the Upper Town. It mingled with the rasp of a shovel as the men began to dig. They moved slowly, careful and steady. Hope had returned to their hands.
Jon closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the rhythm of the digging beneath his boots. The work of faith, he thought, was not only in prayer and trust but in persistence, one handful of earth at a time.
The weighing house, St. Eustatius, early September 1781
NIGHT CAME EARLY now and the trade winds had stilled. The air inside the weighing house hung heavy as soup, the stone walls slick with dampness. Jon sat near the small barred window, stripping his last scrap of sailcloth into bandages while Bobby fanned a wounded seaman with a broken palm frond.
From the shadows, Thorndike emerged, his shirt streaked with earth. “Captain,” he whispered, “we’re through the first layer. Only sand now between us and the cistern trench. Another week, maybe less.”
Jon looked up, the dim lamplight catching the sharp lines of his face. “How deep?”
“Four feet, perhaps five. We’ve been careful, taking out the soil in our pockets, hiding it under the broken planks. The guards think we’re patching leaks in the wall.”
“Good,” Jon said softly. “Better to let them think us tame than desperate.”
A soft cough came from the corner. Curtis, thinner than ever, had risen from his place among the sleepers. “Tame men don’t survive this long. We’ve lost three already, God rest them. Another week will kill the sickliest if the British keep cutting our rations.”
“They’ll not die here,” Jon said. “We’ll move them first when the tunnel opens. They’ll have the night air before any of us.”
Bobby looked up from his work, his voice small. “Do you think the Dutch sloop will still be waiting, sir?”
“She will,” Jon replied, though even he could not be sure. “Her captain’s a man of conscience. He’ll not leave before the rainy season ends.”
A sudden clatter of boots echoed down the corridor outside. The men froze. A guard’s drunken voice slurred, “Up with the lantern, you lazy curs—inspection!”
Thorndike darted to the corner, sweeping the loose earth with his sleeve. Bobby kicked the empty shovel beneath a pallet just as the bolt scraped open. Two redcoats stumbled in, muskets at the ready, the sour smell of rum on their breath.
The taller one squinted at the gloom. “What’s that hole in the floor?”
Jon stood calmly, straight-backed and barefoot. “A drain, Sergeant. The rains have swelled the wall cracks. We’ve been keeping the floor dry.”
The guard grunted, swinging the lantern closer. Thorndike held his breath as the light hovered inches from the patch of disturbed stone. Then the other soldier burped, muttered, “Smells like hell in here,” and turned away.
The first one sneered. “Enjoy your paradise, Yankees.” He slammed the door behind them, the bolt grinding home.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Bobby exhaled shakily. “That was close.”
“Too close,” Thorndike muttered.
Jon crouched beside the false drain and brushed the dust from the edge. “We’ll cover it better. From now on, we dig only after midnight. No talk, no lamplight. One sound could hang us all.”
Curtis nodded grimly. “We’ll manage.”
Jon leaned against the wall, feeling the faint vibration beneath his palm—the pulse of the sea, or the faint echo of shovels still working. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he pictured Salem: the harbor bells, the smell of the market, Eunice’s voice reading by firelight.
“We’ll see it again,” he murmured. “If God grants us three more weeks of darkness, we’ll see the dawn at sea.”
Thorndike’s tired face broke into the ghost of a grin. “Then let’s keep digging, Captain. I’d rather drown free than sweat in this tomb another night.”
Jon met his eyes, nodded once, and reached for the shovel. “So be it. We finish what we started.”
Haraden house, Salem, October 1781
THE EVENING WIND carried the faint smell of wood smoke from the town chimneys and the harbor where masts stood like bare trees against a copper sky, gulls crying over the ebb tide.
Eunice sat by the open window with her sewing basket untouched, her eyes turned to the horizon as if she could will a sail into view.
From upstairs came the sound of the girls playing.
Martha sat beside her, taking a rare break from her kitchen duties.
Behind them a fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth welcome on the chilled night.
Footsteps sounded on the path. A moment later Silas came in, hat in hand, his coat still carrying the smoke of the coffeehouse hearth.
“You’ve been long,” Martha said, rising. “Did you hear anythin’ worth the tellin’, or was it all wharfside gossip again?”
Hanging up his coat, Silas glanced toward Eunice before answering.
“Some of it might be gossip, some might be Providence movin’.
” He set his hat on the table. “News from London papers brought in by packet. Admiral Rodney’s left St. Eustatius.
Sailed for England with a convoy heavy as Pharaoh’s treasure, thirty-odd ships, they say, filled with gold, sugar, and goods stolen from every merchant and privateer doin’ business on the island. ”
Martha snorted. “Aye, and may it sink him to the bottom.”
But Eunice had risen from her chair, one hand pressed to her breast. “He’s gone? Truly Rodney’s gone from the Indies?”
Silas nodded. “Aye. Left what remains of the garrison under some colonel’s charge.
They say Rodney was so intent on guardin’ his plunder that he near forgot there’s a war on.
French ships caught his treasure convoy off the Channel and took the whole of it, three million pounds, so the paper claims.”
Martha let out a low whistle. “So greed’s bitten the hand that fed it.”
Eunice could scarcely breathe. “Then, if he’s gone, perhaps the prisoners have been left behind. Perhaps…the captain will find some mercy without him there.”
Silas’ expression softened. “That’s what I thought when I heard it. I came straight back. The men in the coffeehouse said Rodney’s folly cost Cornwallis his rescue. Seems he was too busy linin’ his pockets to block the French fleet from reaching the Chesapeake.”
Martha looked up sharply. “And if that’s so, maybe the war will turn at last.”