Page 75 of The Salamander

“We have this day restored the Sovereign to whom all alone men ought to be obedient. He reigns in Heaven, and with a propitious eye beholds His subjects assuming that freedom of thought, and dignity of self-direction which He bestowed on them. From the rising to the setting sun, may His kingdom come.”

– John Adams 1776

CHAPTER 18

The London Coffeehouse, Salem, mid-October 1780

JON HAD COME at the request of George Williams and Elias Derby, who wished to discuss the prize money from the sale of the three ships. The moment he stepped inside, the aroma of strong, bitter coffee hit him, and the low roar of men talking ships, trade, and war. Heads turned, hands reached for him, confirmation the news of the Pickering’s return had run through Salem faster than fire in dry pine.

He made his way to the table where Derby and Williams bent over their notes. The merchants rose to greet him warmly, and chairs scraped as others pressed close to listen.

“You are to be congratulated, Captain,” Williams said. “For your brilliant command of the Pickering. Your crew sings your praises in every tavern on the waterfront.”

Jon inclined his head. “I am blessed with a wonderful crew, every man a Patriot.”

Williams tapped the papers with his quill. “We thought you would like to know the Rodney sold this day for ninety thousand pounds.”

Jon’s brows rose despite himself. “Ninety thousand!” He let the figure roll in his mind, a fortune beyond most men’s imagining. “A fine price for a fine ship.”

Derby leaned in. “And bought, I might add, by none other than George here.”

Williams gave a modest nod, but the ripple of approval through the crowd spoke louder than words.

Jon sat back and stared at Williams. The man was clearly successful. After all, he owned the Pickering, but ninety thousand pounds?

“The Myrrh,” Derby went on, “fetched twenty-five thousand and thirty. Stores, blankets, tents aplenty. The king’s loss will be Washington’s gain.”

“The brigantine Venus,” Williams concluded, “sold for twenty-four thousand. Sound hull, good cargo. She went quick.”

Slate pencils squeaked, quills scratched. Men leaned back in their chairs, eyes alight as though the coins already lay in their purses.

A smile crossed Williams’ face. “With these sales settled, Captain, you and your men will soon see your prize shares. Salem’s coffers prosper, aye, but so too shall every hand that served aboard the Pickering.”

Jon inclined his head. “My men are counting on it.”

Derby drummed his fingers on the table. “George and I have been talking about your next cruise, Captain. The Indies, perhaps. Winter seas there are more kindly than the Atlantic. What say you?”

“Aye,” Jon said with a nod. “The Caribbean would be a welcome respite for my men.”

Williams cast a glance at Derby, then bent to lift a large, cloth-wrapped parcel from beside his chair. “We have something for you, Captain, to memorialize your victory over the Achilles and in thanks for the many prizes you have taken.”

The room stilled as he drew back the cloth. A heavy silver plate gleamed in the lamplight, its edge wrought with scrollwork. In the center was engraved Captain Jonathan Haraden of Salem, and beneath it the words: From a grateful town and its merchants who extol his courage under fire and his victories at sea for America’s independence.

A murmur of admiration rippled through the merchants. Jon felt the weight of every eye upon him as Williams set the plate before him. For a moment, he could only run his hand lightly over the engraving, struck silent. At last he said, “I thank you, gentlemen. This honor belongs not to me alone, but to every man who stood his post aboard the Pickering.”

An older merchant sitting nearby fixed his gaze on the silver. “Three prizes and Salem is richer by near one hundred and forty thousand. It is fitting to honor such a man. No wonder London fears Haraden’s name.”

From the corner, where he sat with his seafaring friends, Silas raised his cup, his voice rough with pride. “Haraden’s our Salamander! He’s given the British proof we’ll not be starved nor cowed.”

The cheer that followed rattled cups on the tables.

Jon traced the inscription once more, then covered the plate with the cloth. The cheer still rang in his ears as he bid Williams and Derby a good day and left the coffeehouse with Silas at his side. Outside, the afternoon mist had crept in from the harbor, softening the outlines of masts and rooftops. The silver plate weighed heavy under his arm, but heavier still was the thought that the town’s gratitude could never match what he most desired.

“Fine gift,” Silas said, pulling his coat tighter. “Salem’s proud of you, Captain.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged, though his eyes turned eastward, toward the streets that led home. What was silver or renown, compared with the quiet look of Eunice Mason when she met his gaze? And the thought of spending the rest of his days with her that came to his mind. The town might call him their Salamander, but it was she who steadied the fire in him.

The Haraden house, November 1780