Page 58 of The Salamander

Eunice bowed her head as he spoke the blessing, her hands folded in her lap. When she raised her eyes, she caught his gaze lingering on her across the candles, warm, and unguarded. Her breath caught, and her heart gave a startled leap.

Tonight was not only a homecoming for him. It felt like a beginning, though she dared not speak it yet, not even to herself.

Eunice’s voice was quiet across the table. “You must tell us where you’ve been. We hear so many rumors in Salem, and Silas brings us stories from the harbor, but I would rather have the truth from you.”

The captain’s expression softened. “It was warmer in the Caribbean, I’ll say that much. The sea was bright as glass, though it burned hotter in the fighting. The Royal Mail ship there thought to make sport of us. She learned different. And off Sandy Hook, three of them came against us at once, but the Pickering sent them all limping to Salem behind us.”

Hannah’s eyes went wide. “Did you fire all the cannon, Papa?”

Jon chuckled, handing her a portion of chicken. “Every last one, sweetheart, and when we had but a single shot left, we made it do. That’s all it took.”

Martha clucked her tongue as she set fresh bread on the table. “A wonder you’re here to tell it.”

At that moment, Silas came in from the kitchen, cap in his hands, his weathered face grinning. “The whole harbor’s ablaze with talk, Captain. Five prizes tied up, and your name on every tongue. They say no Salem man has ever done the like.”

Jon shook his head, though his eyes gleamed. “Then let them say so, Silas. The crew made it possible. They work well together.”

Silas gave a satisfied sniff, tugging at his cap. “Aye, sir. But still. I hear they’re callin’ you the Salamander, their captain who is impervious to fire.” His grin widened before he ducked back toward the kitchen, leaving the words hanging in the air.

“The Salamander?” asked Eunice.

“Aye. The crew gave me that name when we took three ships at one time with flames shooting across the deck.”

“’Tis a fitting nickname, Captain,” said Eunice, “and it says much about your men’s affection for you.”

He appeared to ignore the compliment but she detected his pleasure at the term. Glancing at his daughters, he asked, “How have my girls been?”

Eunice smiled at Hannah as she leaned close to her father. “The girls have been well, Captain. Hannah keeps her copybook neat, and she’s beginning her embroidery in earnest. Her manners are impeccable. Polly knows nearly all her letters now and will read in another year.”

Polly beamed. “I read ‘cat’, Papa!”

The captain’s laugh rumbled, and he leaned over to kiss the top of her curls. “Then you’ve bested half the ship’s crew already, little one.” His gaze shifted back to Eunice, gratitude plain though unspoken. “You’ve done much for them.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words. “They are eager pupils,” she said, lowering her eyes to her plate.

The candles flickered, the fire glowed, and the talk flowed on, of lessons and neighbors, of the girls’ antics and the house kept in his absence. And beneath it all, a quieter thread ran, unspoken but felt in every glance across the table: this was more than a hero’s return. It was the weaving together of a home.

When the last of the chicken had been carved and the platters picked over, Martha shooed the girls to the kitchen to wash their sticky fingers. Silas followed with an armful of dishes, humming under his breath about Salem’s “Salamander”.

The captain leaned back in his chair with a sigh, the glow of cider in his cheeks. “I’d forgotten how fine a meal ashore can taste. Martha, you’ve spoiled me.”

She sniffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “See you don’t forget it again too soon, Captain.” With that, she disappeared after the others.

Eunice rose quietly. “Shall we adjourn to the parlor for a glass of claret?”

“A fine idea,” he said.

In the parlor, she poured them each a glass of wine, then gathered her needlework and took a seat by the hearth opposite him.

He shed his boots and stretched his legs toward the blaze. For a while they listened to the steady fire, the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen, and the voices of the girls talking to Silas as the house settled into its evening rhythm.

“It’s a different kind of battle here,” he said at last, staring into the flames. “Not guns or sails, but lessons and hearths and little shoes left in the hall. I wonder sometimes which asks the greater courage.”

Eunice folded her hands in her lap, her needlework forgotten. “You have both kinds of courage, Captain. You fight at sea for our country, and here you fight to be a good father. Your daughters will remember both.”

His gaze lifted, meeting hers across the firelight. “And they’ll remember the woman who cared for them when I was at sea.”

Heat rose in her face. It had nothing to do with the fire. She bent her head over her sewing, though she could feel the weight of his regard. “They’ve cared for me, too, in ways I cannot fully explain.”