Page 55 of The Salamander

Sure enough, the strangers crowded on sail, bowsprits knifing the water, spray flying as they bore down. By sundown they were close enough to see the Pickering’s ports and guns, only then realizing she was no merchantman. Panic flickered. The cutter and her consort clawed for escape with canvas spilling and booms swinging wide.

As night thickened, Jon raised his night glass, watching the two split, one north, the other south. “They’ve scented us,” Thorndike muttered.

“Cut free the drogues!” Jon snapped. “Hands to braces! Bring her about smartly.”

Axes bit through rope, and the ship leapt forward, freed of her burden. Canvas cracked taut, the deck shuddering as she surged across the wind. At nine bells, the larger vessel hove about. Jon cupped his hands and hailed her, but no answer came.

“Run out the starboard battery!” Thorndike barked. “Mr. Carnes, see the men to their guns! Master Gunner, light your matches!”

The crews heaved the cannon outboard, iron wheels grinding on the planks. Slow matches glowed in the gathering dark, their sulfurous reek mixing with the salt air.

“Fire!” Jon commanded.

The broadside split the night with a roar like thunder. Smoke billowed, choking and acrid, sparks drifting. The cutter staggered under the blast, but her rigging held and she drove on, lanterns swinging wildly in her shrouds.

“They’ve more stubbornness than wit,” Thorndike growled, wiping powder grit from his cheek.

Jon’s jaw tightened. “Then tack across her bow. Give her another broadside.”

The helm creaked, yards groaning as the Pickering came about. “Stand fast!” Thorndike called, his voice cutting through the din. The gunners braced, and the second volley ripped out, flame and iron flashing in the blackness.

This time, Jon’s hail was answered through the smoke. “From New York!”

Jon’s reply rang iron-hard. “Then strike your colors!”

Almost at once lanterns dipped, sails shivered, and the cutter’s flag came down. Fourteen guns, thirty-eight men, and she was theirs without another shot fired.

When the cutter struck, the men gave a ragged cheer. Jon lowered his glass long enough to see the smaller sloop’s stern vanishing into the dark.

Thorndike muttered, “She’s clean and fast, Captain. No catching her now.”

Jon’s expression did not change. “Let her run. We’ve work enough with the prize in hand.” Leaning on the rail, he met the eyes of his first officer. “Remember this, Mr. Thorndike. Providence sometimes favors nerve and guile.”

Off Sandy Hook, New Jersey, 13 October 1779

THE WIND CARRIED the bite of powder even before the first gun fired. Off Sandy Hook, three British privateers bore down on the Pickering: the Hope with fourteen guns, the brig Pomona with twelve, and the cutter Royal George with another dozen. Together they mounted more metal than the Pickering, and Jon could see by their faces his crew knew it.

At Jon’s side on the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Thorndike snapped his glass shut. “All three are standing for us, sir. They mean to crush us outright.”

Jon kept his voice calm, almost cool. “Then we’ll not waste shot.” Turning to Mr. Carnes, he said, “Beat to quarters!” and to Mr. Bowan, he shouted, “Run out the long guns. Powder division, open your tubs.”

The shrill of the fife cut across the deck, drums rattling in answer. Bare feet slapped the planks as men rushed to stations. Gun tackles groaned, wheels squealed as the nine-pounders were heaved outboard. The bos’n’s mates passed the word. “Silence there! Hands to your stations!”

The bite of powder drifted up from the hatch, stinging Jon’s nose as the cartridges came on deck. Jon raised his hand and the hustle stilled. He swept his gaze along the deck, every man’s eyes on him. “We’ve danced with worse. Hold your fire till I give the word. Let them think us timid. When they are in close, we’ll strike.”

The enemy closed, white water curling from their bows. Smoke drifted from their forward chasers, balls whistling overhead to thud into the sea. One struck the bulwark near the quarterdeck with a crash that sprayed splinters past Jon in a burst sharp as knives. He did not flinch. “Steady, lads. The closer they come, the harder we’ll bite.”

The ship Hope ranged up on the larboard quarter, her gunports yawning black. “Now, Mr. Thorndike. Give her the larboard battery.”

“Fire!” Thorndike bellowed to the larboard gunners.

The Pickering leapt in smoke and thunder. Flame spat from eight guns, the crash reverberating through her very bones. The blast scorched the air, smoke stinging Jon’s eyes and burning in his throat. Through the haze, he glimpsed British rigging part and spars tumble, men’s shouts carrying faint over the roar.

“Reload smartly!” Carnes cried. The ships’ boys dashed with round shot and cartridges, gunners swabbed and rammed. Jon watched, pleased the rhythm held despite the chaos.

The brig Pomona pressed close on the starboard side, her broadside hammering the Pickering’s hull. Splinters slashed the air. A man cried out, clutching his arm. Blood slicked the planks where he fell, cabin boys leaping over him with cartridges clutched to their chests. Two hands lifted him, bearing him to the surgeon belowdecks.

“Starboard battery, fire!” Jon’s order cut through the chaos. The reply was instant: another roar, another sheet of flame and iron tearing into the Pomona until her foretopmast crashed down in a snarl of rigging.