Page 69 of The Salamander

Aboard the Pickering offshore of Bilboa, Spain

THE SMOKE LAY heavy, stinging eyes and throats, the roar of guns rolling across the bay like thunder upon thunder. The Achilles loomed close alongside, her decks crowded with men, her sides vomiting fire.

Jon stood firm on the quarterdeck, his voice carrying through the chaos. “Steady, lads! White boot tops, aim low!”

The Pickering shuddered under each broadside, timbers groaning, rigging slashed to ribbons. Splinters flew like knives.

Thorndike came running, his face blackened with powder. “Captain, the lockers are near empty! We’ve shot near all our rounds!”

Jon’s jaw clenched. He had seen the enemy’s rigging hold, though sails fluttered ragged where shot had found canvas. To break her, he needed more than iron. He thought for only a moment before turning to the master gunner. “We’ve crowbars in the cargo. Use them and whatever iron you can find. Fire it into her rigging. She’ll not stand long with her wings clipped.”

Word swept the deck, and men scrambled to load what they had: crowbars from the stores, shards of iron scavenged from the hold, even bent bolts. Rammed home and fired, they screamed aloft with savage force. A cheer went up as iron bars scythed through Achilles’ rigging, sails tearing loose, ropes parting in a shower of sparks.

“Again!” Jon roared, and the next broadside sent more of the makeshift shot into the enemy’s spars. The Achilles faltered, her foreyard sagging, a tangle of canvas trailing into the sea.

Still the Achilles hammered back, her weight of metal thundering. Yet many of her shots screamed overhead, tearing sky instead of timbers. Jon knew their low profile was saving them, the sugar in the hold, which had seemed a burden, now made her a deadly weapon.

For near three hours the duel had raged, broadside for broadside, until at last Jon saw what he had prayed for: the Achilles’ helm came over, her bow swinging away. She was breaking off.

A ragged cheer swelled from the Pickering’s crew, hoarse but fierce. Men leaned from the ports, shouting after the retreating lugger. Jon lifted his glass, watching her dwindling stern, then let it fall with a slow breath. She was hurt, aye, but too swift to be caught now.

He turned to Thorndike, his voice steady though his heart still hammered. “Come about. We’ll have the Eagle back.” And Bobby.

As the Achilles fell away, the Eagle’s captain, who had stood silent on the Pickering through the carnage, let out a low, grudging breath. “By rights, she should have sunk you. God help me, but no man alive handles a ship like that.”

Jon glanced toward the fading Achilles, Thorndike at his side. “If this day proves anything, Lieutenant, it is that our cause is no fleeting venture. Britain may have power, but America has heart enough to match it, and Providence goes before us.”

The Pickering wheeled across the churned water, smoke drifting from her scarred flanks. Soon the prize hove into view again, the Stars and Stripes raised once more as Carnes and the American prize crew cast off their captors.

Jon stepped to the rail as they drew alongside, calling across the gap, “Mr. Carnes, well held. Bring her in to Bilbao with us. Keep the prisoners safe.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” returned Lieutenant Carnes.

As the Eagle came alongside, Bobby could be seen at her rail, grinning through the grime, cap waving high. His eyes met Jon’s across the narrow strip of water, alight with triumph, as if to say without words: I told them you’d have us back.

The two ships limped into Bilboa Harbor, battered but unbowed. And though the men were blackened with powder, their clothes torn and their bodies bruised, they lifted their voices in triumph.

Bilbao, Spain 4 June 1780

THE HARBOR BOILED with life. Small boats swarmed about the Pickering and the Golden Eagle until the sea itself seemed paved with wood. Spaniards shouted and cheered, some dipping oars to keep pace, others waving hats and kerchiefs. Boys scrambled barefoot to the gunwales, shrilling their delight. The air was thick with the scent of powder smoke and salt, but it was laced now with wine, garlic, and roasting meat drifting from the quay.

With a glance at the main hatch, Jon said, “Mr. Thorndike, the prisoners—are they secure below?”

Thorndike gave a brisk nod. “Aye, Captain. Well-guarded, and the men on watch tonight will have their run of Bilbao tomorrow. They’ve earned it.”

“Captain Scott may go with us into Bilboa. I have given him his freedom on parole, and those of his men who fought with us. Once the Eagle is sold, those men will have their reward.”

Thorndike’s brows rose, but he nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

Jon glimpsed Joshua Trask lingering at the quarterdeck rail, already bearing the look of a servant grown. When John Fisk took command of the Massachusetts, Joshua had insisted on staying with Bobby to serve under Jon. His eyes met Joshua’s, and the lad straightened, lifting a hand as though to remind the captain he still stood ready. Jon gave the boy an approving nod. “You did well, Lad.”

“Captain,” the surgeon said as he came to Jon. “My place is with the wounded for now. Once they are seen to, I’ll come ashore.”

“You do rightly. They’ll know you care. And I will see them tonight.”

Turning to gaze over the flotilla of small craft, Jon stood amazed. Beside him, Thorndike said, “By God, you could walk ashore over their boats if you dared.”

Jon stared at the sight. “Best we don’t try, but I’ll not forget this sight while I live.”