Page 64 of The Salamander

“A rare gift for your family,” Williams said, his voice easy, before leaning closer. “But you’ll not lack for work once she’s ready. The war presses on.”

Derby’s finger tapped his cup. “You and Mr. Thorndike came for news, I think?”

“Aye,” Jon said. “The yard rings with mallets, but a man wants to hear what stirs beyond Salem.”

Derby lifted his cup. “Some of it brighter than months past. We are hopeful Lafayette will meet with success. If God wills it, he’ll soon bring back ships and gold.”

Thorndike leaned forward, eyes bright. “If he brings French ships, Captain, your next prizes may sail under their very guns.”

“A pleasant thought,” Jon said.

Williams nodded. “Franklin stays in Paris, bargaining for more loans. The French know America bleeds, but they also see our ships take prize after prize. Trade keeps their hopes in us alive, and Franklin keeps commissioning privateers.”

“And in the north?” Jon asked.

Williams’ smile faded. “Washington’s army still lies at Morristown. Snow waist deep, soldiers starving. Yet he holds them together somehow. He’s begging food and forage from New Jersey farmers, and so far they answer. That alone is a miracle.”

Derby’s voice cut in, brisk as ever. “But mark this: if the south falls, the king will claim half the continent. I hear whispers of Charleston next. We’ll need more victories at sea to keep the tide from turning.”

Jon felt every eye on him, merchants and captains alike. He set down his cup, his voice firm. “Then we’ll do our part. If Spain hungers for sugar, Salem will deliver it. And between here and Bilbao, we’ll strike what blows we can. Not only for trade, but for America, and for liberty.”

A murmur of approval passed around the table, and even Derby’s sharp eyes softened. Williams gave a slow nod, practical as ever, while Thorndike looked fit to sail that very night.

Outside, the wind howled down Central Street, but inside the coffeehouse the air seemed warmer, as if Salem’s pulse beat in that room.

Derby Wharf, Salem, March 1780

BY LATE MARCH, the Pickering had been moved from the shipyard to Derby Wharf. Her hull, freshly caulked and pitched, gleamed dark against the water. Alongside her, barrels and hogsheads were being hoisted aboard, the air sharp with the smell of molasses and raw sugar. Kegs of powder, casks of salted beef, and crates of hardtack stood ready on the planks, guarded by Derby’s clerks with their tally books in hand. The ship’s crew, some fresh from Beverly and Gloucester, drifted back to her decks with their sea chests, voices lifted in shanties that carried down the wharf.

Jon stood with Thorndike near the gangway, his eye running over the bustle with quiet satisfaction. “She rides lower already,” he said. “By the time Derby’s sugar is stowed, she’ll sit deep in the water. But she’ll carry it.”

Thorndike grinned. “And with Spain’s gold at the end of it, Derby will be thinking it was well worth the wait. And the men’ll like it, too. Word of prize shares keeps them eager.”

At that moment, Elias Derby approached, his manner brisk, his cane tapping on the planks in brisk rhythm. “Haraden, there’s news from Boston, confirmed this time. A French fleet of forty vessels is assembling at Brest under General Rochambeau. Six thousand sailors, marines and officers and more than five thousand soldiers.”

A murmur of excitement swept along the wharf as others heard his words. Sailors leaned on their coils of rope, merchants paused over their ledgers, the very air seemed to catch.

“Can it be true?” Thorndike asked, his voice carrying his wonder at the news.

Derby nod was curt. “The reports are strong enough that I’ll not dismiss them. God willing, those ships will sail by summer and America will fight with the strength of the French navy.”

Jon’s chest tightened at the thought. French soldiers landing on American soil, fighting at Washington’s side. For months, the news from Morristown had been grim, and darker still from the south. But if Rochambeau came, then Providence had indeed answered their prayers.

George Williams joined them to hear the last of Derby’s report. “Mark me, Haraden, if that fleet crosses the Atlantic, the war changes. Until then, we must keep the sea lanes bleeding red with captured ships. Spain will have sugar, and Salem will have prizes.”

Derby’s sharp gaze flicked back to Jon. “And the Pickering will be at the fore of it.”

Jon inclined his head to them both. “She’s near ready. We’ll give Washington what help we can.”

Two days later, on Easter Sunday, Jon gathered with others in the East Church. The air inside was chill despite the crush of bodies. Candles guttered in the draft. Reverend Diman spoke of endurance in hardship, of Christ’s resurrection as the blessed hope, the pledge that death had been defeated, and despair would never have the final word. He prayed openly for Washington’s army at Morristown, and thanked God for the expected aid from France.

Jon bowed his head, Hannah pressed close on one side, Polly on the other. Beside them, Mrs. Mason prayed. When the prayer ended, the hymn began, “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today”, their voices strong despite the cold.

Jon held his daughters close and let the hymn rise in worship to God. For this Easter morning he was home, anchored in the blessings of hearth and family. Yet he knew the sea waited, and soon enough the Pickering would carry him far from Salem’s shores once more. Silently, he asked God to go before him.

Derby Wharf, Salem, April 1780

THE MORNING AIR was sharp with salt and the smell of pitch as Jon gazed up at the blue sky above the harbor. Gulls wheeled overhead as the Pickering lay heavy against the wharf. Her gunwales rode low, barrels of sugar stacked in her hold until she looked more merchantman than privateer. Jon smiled at the thought. He was content to be both, and her sixteen guns stood ready, black mouths peering from their ports, a promise she was no common trader.