Page 33 of The Salamander

A cheer split the Tyrannicide’s deck. Cabin boys whooped, and the marines in their green coats thumped their muskets in triumph.

“Steady, lads,” Jon called, his voice firm over the din. “Mr. Thorndike, detail men for the prize crew and see them armed and ready. Mr. Sibley will take command as prize master and take her into Boston.”

Thorndike gave a sharp salute and went at once, calling men to the boats.

Jon took one last look at the battered bark as lines were passed across. Her deck was littered with splintered spars and wounded men, their surgeon already moving among them.

A little before sunset the Massachusetts came foaming back into company, her topsails drawing handsomely. Fisk cupped his hands to hail the Tyrannicide. “A Frenchman flying the Bourbon flag. No harm done. I see you’ve got the bark!”

“We have,” Jon called back. “Sibley will take her into Boston with a prize crew.”

Fisk tipped his hat. “Godspeed to them, and to you, Captain.”

As the Tyrannicide and Massachusetts bore away on their new course, Jon looked back to see the Lonsdale wallowing under shortened sail, now flying American colors above her scarred hull. He allowed himself a tight smile. One more blow struck for liberty, and the first prize of his command.

TWO WEEKS LATER, Jon came on deck to join his first lieutenant and accept his morning coffee from Johnny. Taking a sip of the hot brew, Jon gazed out at the Atlantic, rolling gray and restless, whitecaps whipping under a stiff westerly. The Tyrannicide and Massachusetts kept close company, their canvas straining eastward toward the stormy Bay of Biscay off the west coast of France.

“Convoy to windward!” The lookout’s cry snapped every head up.

From the quarterdeck, Jon handed his mug to Johnny and swung his glass, bracing against the pitch. Far off, sails glimmered against the horizon, a line of ships, nine or ten at least, crowded together under escort.

Fisk hailed across the chop from the Massachusetts: “British convoy! Bound west, by the look of her!”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “For New York, if my guess is right. See there, two men-of-war with them. One of sixty, another of fourteen guns.” He lowered the glass. “Too rich for us to swallow whole.”

But even as he said it, one vessel lagged, hanging astern of the convoy, struggling to keep pace.

Thorndike’s eyes flashed, as he pointed. “Captain, a straggler.”

Jon raised the glass again. The brig wallowed clumsily, sails straining, her escort already drawing away with the fleet. “Aye, the Favorite, and no one turning back for her.” He shouted to Fisk on the Massachusetts, “That one’s ours!” And to the Tyrannicide’s crew, he ordered, “Hoist away!”

The two brigantines bore down under every stitch of canvas. As they closed, the lone brig hoisted the red ensign. Jon raised his glass, catching sight of figures scrambling on her deck and muskets glinting in the sun. “She carries troops.”

Within musket shot of the brig, Jon’s voice cut through the wind: “Strike your colors and heave to!”

A sputter of musketry cracked from the brig in reply, balls whining overhead into the sea.

“Answer them!” Jon barked. The Tyrannicide’s marines leveled their muskets, the volley thundering in return. Fisk’s Massachusetts swung alongside to cover the other flank, her guns run out, her marines firing as one.

For a heartbeat the British brig held on, stubborn against the twin predators closing on her. Then her red ensign fluttered down. A ragged cheer burst from the Tyrannicide’s deck.

Thorndike grinned. “She yields, Captain!”

“Pass the word to Fisk. He’ll furnish the prize crew,” Jon ordered. “We’ll take a few of the soldiers from the Favorite.” Flags broke from the Tyrannicide’s halyards, signaling across the water. From the Massachusetts, boats were lowered at once, prize master and armed sailors pulling for the captured brig.

Jon soon discovered the troops the brig carried were Hessians, sixty-odd soldiers in green coats with red facings, tall boots, and scowling faces beneath black cocked hats. “Chasseurs in full kit,” said Jon to Thorndike. “Light infantry from Germany hired as auxiliaries by the British, and known as expert marksmen.” The chasseurs who were ferried across to the Tyrannicide under guard, bore sullen expressions. Their cartridge boxes and sabers were taken, their mutters in guttural German punctuated with black looks.

The Tyrannicide received a handful—officers and men enough for questioning—while the bulk of the Germans remained aboard the Favorite under Fisk’s guard. One spat into the sea as his comrades scowled beneath their cocked hats.

Benjamin Moses watched grimly as weapons clattered into piles. “Better in the holds of our ships than in the hands of the British army.”

Jon looked on, his face hard, though a spark of satisfaction burned behind his eyes. “Aye. Washington will know how to put such a windfall to use.”

Fisk’s voice carried from his own quarterdeck as he hailed across the water, “Well taken, Haraden! That’ll nettle the Crown more than a dozen merchant brigs.”

Jon nodded as the convoy, sails swelling, vanished westward over the horizon, but their straggler, the transport Favorite, now stood captured, her Hessian passengers sullen captives of the Massachusetts’ Navy.

Off the coast of Cape Clear, Ireland, late April 1777