Page 8 of The Salamander

Jon nodded. “It’s the first time for all of us since the navy’s new and the war’s just begun in earnest. The captain clearly asked for you, so I’ll be expecting good cooking.”

Reed grinned. “You’ll have it. And when the fresh meat’s gone, I make a fine Cheshire Pork Pie from salt pork. I brought pippins and onions aboard for it.”

“Sounds like a feast worth waiting for.”

Jon went next to the captain’s cabin where he and Stockman joined Fisk over a chart of the New England coast. The captain traced the coastline with one finger, marking shoals and the latest British sightings. While they were discussing the latter, Sailing Master Benjamin Lovett stepped inside. “Captain, do you want me in on this?”

“Yes, Lovett,” said Fisk. “You can give my lieutenants a better sense of the hazards we’ll face along the coast.”

Introductions were made, and the older sailing master leaned over the chart, his weathered hands moving with the ease of long habit as he spoke of hidden rocks, fickle tides and sudden squalls. The room filled with the salt-and-tar scent clinging to his coat. His quiet authority drew their attention.

When he’d finished, Fisk gave a satisfied nod. “If we’re at full strength by day’s end, gentlemen, and all is in readiness, we sail tomorrow.”

IN THE HARADEN parlor, Eunice stood in the doorway, rocking Polly in her arms, hoping the baby would finally settle. Silas sat cross-legged by the hearth, his callused fingers working a length of rope. Hannah perched on a small stool beside him, her eyes fixed on the looping and twisting of the strands. The hearth was laid for a fire, but the pleasant evening didn’t require one.

Jon was at the wharf again, drilling the crew on the cannon. His talk at supper lately had been all charts, sightings of British ships, and Captain Fisk, sure signs they’d sail soon.

“This here’s a sailor’s knot, Lass,” Silas said, his voice roughened by years of salt air. “Saved me off Jamaica when a storm near tore our ship apart. Loop it like so, strong as your papa’s will.” His grin softened his weathered face.

Hannah took the rope, brows knitting as she copied the twist. “Did Mama know knots?”

Silas chuckled, helping her with the rope. “Your mama? She’d have tied a prettier knot than me, but her gift was stitchin’ and embroidery. Twern’t no one like her for such.” He guided Hannah’s small hands, the rope slipping at first. Hannah’s brow furrowed, but she looped it, her fingers steady.

Martha bustled in, her apron smudged from kitchen work, her hazel eyes glinting as she scanned the parlor. “Knots won’t bake bread, Silas! Hannah can help me in the kitchen.”

“Her papa’s going to sea,” Silas countered, “and she means to tie him a proper knot before he leaves.”

“Ah, well, that’s all right then,” said the cook. Her crinkled grin belied her grumble, her love for Hannah shining through. Martha headed back to the kitchen mumbling about biscuits in the oven.

Hannah’s lips twitched, but her voice trembled when she asked, “Will Papa be safe?”

Silas leaned in, lowering his tone. “Your papa’s a fine sailor. On the Tyrannicide with Captain Fisk, he’ll only get better.” He patted her shoulder. “There. Solid as a church rope.”

Eunice stepped forward to tuck the now sleeping Polly into her cradle. “A fine knot, Hannah. Your papa will be proud.”

Hannah’s eyes flickered, a small smile on her lips.

The front door opened and Jon stepped in, his eyes betraying a weariness. Eunice was glad to recognize fatigue and not grief.

“Evening, Mrs. Mason,” he said to Eunice. She nodded in reply.

Hannah jumped up and held her work to him. “Papa! See my knot!”

Jon took the knot in his hand and turned it over, nodding. “Good work, Hannah. Silas, you’ll make a bos’n’s mate of her yet.”

“Aye, sir. She has the makin’s.”

Martha glided into the parlor carrying a plate of fresh-baked biscuits, the scent of the treats making Eunice’s mouth water.

Hannah stepped to the plate and took one. “Cracknels!”

Jon shifted his gaze to Eunice. “Cracknels are Hannah’s favorite.”

Eunice was familiar with the baked treat made with flour, butter, sugar and caraway seeds. As a child, they had been one of her favorite treats, too.

Martha offered her one and she took it, taking a bite. “They are very good, Martha.”

The cook smiled and offered Jon some. “Sailors don’t eat air, sir. Fill your belly with a few of these fresh from the oven. ’Twill be some time afore supper’s ready.”