Page 41 of The Salamander

Just then, Silas came in from the yard, shoulders dusted with flour. “Been helpin’ a neighbor grind corn.” He stopped short, blinking, then strode forward with hand outstretched. “Captain! By God, you’ve slipped the king’s jaws again.”

Jon clasped his hand firmly. “Not for the first time, and I pray not the last. I see you’ve kept the hearth stout, and that’s worth as much as any broadside.”

“Aye,” Silas said, pride thick in his voice. “But it’s no hearth without the master. Welcome home.”

When supper was laid, they all filed into the dining room, Mrs. Mason bringing Polly from her nap. Seeing Jon, the child reached for him, “Pa-pa.”

“She’s nearly two now,” said Mrs. Mason, handing the young child to him. Jon wrapped his arms around his youngest, her warm body a comfort to his soul. He kissed her forehead and handed her back to Mrs. Mason, who slipped Polly into her high chair.

The table was filled with light and noise as dishes were set down. Roasted fowl, turnips, vegetables from Martha’s garden and brown bread. “A feast!” exclaimed Jon.

“There’s apple pie, too,” said Martha. “Just set it to coolin’ this mornin’.

Jon sat at the head of the table, Hannah on one side and Mrs. Mason and Polly on the other, the girls’ chatter tumbling over each other.

Mrs. Mason poured him another glass of wine. “We had your cousins from Gloucester with us in June,” she told him, smiling at the memory. “Six daughters filled the house from hearth to stair, every bedchamber filled. Hannah here found herself with another Hannah, though they call her Joanna. The two are fast friends, and we had two Pollys besides.”

Jon could not resist a smile at the thought. “Then you’ve had a regular garrison of girls in my absence. I almost pity you, Mrs. Mason.”

“She bore it better than I did,” Martha snorted, though affection softened her tone. “But it kept the house lively, and that was no bad thing.”

The meal was a chorus of voices, Hannah telling of her lessons, Polly showing the doll the Gloucester cousins had left behind, Martha breaking in to correct details with her sharp tongue.

Silas came in at the end of the meal to gruffly supply the latest town gossip. Jon listened, soaking in every word, his gaze often straying to Eunice, whose quiet composure seemed to anchor the household as surely as ballast steadies a ship. How fortunate are we to have her.

When the candles burned low, Jon leaned back, contentment flowing through him. For one evening, the sea was far away, the guns silent, and he was only a father at his table, home among his own. The sea had its compass, but this house had Martha, Silas and Eunice, hearth and heart together, and they kept its course as sure as any star.