Page 85 of The Salamander

“We shall never be abandoned by Heaven if we act worthy of its aid.”

– Samuel Adams 1777

CHAPTER 20

The weighing house, St. Eustatius, late July 1781

THE HEAT HAD settled like a blanket over the bay. From the barred windows of the weighing house, Jon watched the harbor shimmering in haze, masts wavering in the glare, gulls circling lazily above the half-sunken hulks left by Rodney’s plunder. Inside the weighing house, the air was thick with the smell of salt, sweat, and mildew. Flies droned over the buckets of brackish water by the wall.

Jon gazed toward Fort Oranje, where the Union Jack still hung limp against its pole. Rodney had dropped his ruse of flying Dutch colors months ago. Thorndike joined him, wiping sweat from his brow. “The guards are slow this morning,” he murmured. “I think they’ve heard the news.”

Jon turned. “About Rodney?”

“Aye. Gone back to England, taking half the fleet and all the plunder and gold he could carry.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Then the devil’s tail has quit the island. That’s good news, even if he’s left us in his wake.”

Across the room, Curtis looked up from the scrap of sailcloth he’d been patching into makeshift bedding. “If Rodney’s gone, his dogs may grow careless.”

Jon nodded. “Careless guards and hungry men. That’s a mix that can open doors. Keep your eyes sharp.”

He moved through the dim chamber, stepping over the sleeping forms of two wounded seamen. The Dutch prisoners had managed to bring in fruit and dried fish that morning, smuggled through a bribed sentry. A little of the food lay spread on a board in the corner, mangoes shriveled but sweet, a loaf of coarse bread broken into pieces.

Bobby crouched beside them, dividing the food. “It’s more than we had last week, sir,” he said, his voice thin but hopeful. “The Dutch woman with the red shawl says she’ll come again.”

“Give her our thanks if you see her,” Jon said quietly. “And our promise that we’ll pay our debts when we’re free.”

Jon took a piece of bread, broke it in two, and handed half to Thorndike. “You see how Providence moves? Even now He stirs hearts outside these walls. The Almighty sends us not plenty, but enough. ’Tis like manna in the wilderness.”

Thorndike chewed slowly. “Enough to live, perhaps. But not to wait forever. The men are restless. Curtis and I have spoken about the loose soil behind that back wall. We’ve been digging a little each night. Soon, we might reach the cistern trench beyond.”

Jon glanced toward the far end of the room where a heap of broken crates hid the wall’s lower stones. “How long, do you think?”

“Three months, perhaps less if the Dutch help us hide the dirt.”

Jon drew a slow breath, then nodded. “We begin in earnest at dusk. Keep the noise down. Tell the men it’s work worth their lives and their liberty.”

A faint stir passed through the prisoners as Thorndike spread the word. Curtis joined Jon at the window again. “When we get out, what then? The harbor’s still thick with guns.”

Jon’s gaze fixed on the glinting water. “Then we wait for night and for mercy. A Dutch sloop lies moored beyond the point. Her master’s kin to one of our benefactors. When the time comes, she’ll bear us clear. And there are fishing craft that may come now that the tyrant is gone.”

Curtis smiled faintly. “You’ve thought it through.”

“I think of it every hour I draw breath,” Jon said. “A man must plot his freedom as he would a course through reefs, a little each tide, until the way is open.”

A gust of wind carried in the sound of the surf and, faintly, the toll of a bell from the Upper Town. It mingled with the rasp of a shovel as the men began to dig. They moved slowly, careful and steady. Hope had returned to their hands.

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the rhythm of the digging beneath his boots. The work of faith, he thought, was not only in prayer and trust but in persistence, one handful of earth at a time.

The weighing house, St. Eustatius, early September 1781

NIGHT CAME EARLY now and the trade winds had stilled. The air inside the weighing house hung heavy as soup, the stone walls slick with dampness. Jon sat near the small barred window, stripping his last scrap of sailcloth into bandages while Bobby fanned a wounded seaman with a broken palm frond.

From the shadows, Thorndike emerged, his shirt streaked with earth. “Captain,” he whispered, “we’re through the first layer. Only sand now between us and the cistern trench. Another week, maybe less.”

Jon looked up, the dim lamplight catching the sharp lines of his face. “How deep?”

“Four feet, perhaps five. We’ve been careful, taking out the soil in our pockets, hiding it under the broken planks. The guards think we’re patching leaks in the wall.”