After an annoying bout of illness, I’m back to bring you the second sneak peek of Down Salem Way. I’m having a lot of fun writing from James’ point of view. It’s allowing me a unique perspective into James and Elizabeth’s lives in Salem in 1692.

For those of you who have been contacting me to ask about the publication date of Down Salem Way, don’t worry! The book will still be available for preorder on James’ birthday–April 19. Everything is coming along nicely. I think this book may be longer than the three novels in the Loving Husband trilogy, which averaged about 87,000 words.

Enjoy!

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Despite the ceaseless sounds of hammering, it was still quieter than usual by the docks. The ship crossings lessened during the winter months. Twas hard enough for the ships to cross the unfriendly seas during calmer weather. Cold ocean crossings happened, but they were unstable at best and more dangerous than usual at worst. Whilst it may have been warmer in the southern destinations, in Massachusetts tis nearly impossible to navigate the ships safely into harbor. 

Still searching for my father, my heart beat in time with the snapping of the waves on the shore. I watched the shipbuilders brace themselves against the weather, the men’s woolen doublets hanging over their white linen shirts, their breeches coarse with work, their Monmouth caps fallen over their eyes. They tossed their coats carelessly aside since the physical labor warmed them more than any wool could. The fishwomen and the builders’ wives lifted their voluminous skirts just enough to step over the day’s catch, not enough to be dragged before the courts for indecency, while they tugged the kerchiefs around their necks toward their nose to keep the Pox away.

I made my way toward the huddled men and indeed found my father amongst them. I heard his hearty, stage actor’s laugh before I saw him near the wooden frame that would become The Elizabeth in a few months time. My father smiled when he saw me. He threw his arm around my shoulders, and though my father is several inches shorter than I, there was something about his infectious laugh that always made him appear taller, as though he might fill any room he entered. My father’s balding head was covered under a flat hat with flaps hanging to his ears. 

“Do you like the hat, Son?” my father asked. “The milliner finished this morn. It keeps what is left of my brain from freezing.” My father’s slanted blue eyes brightened whilst the other men bowed in my general direction. “You see, friends, here he is. My James. What better son could any father wish for?” The men murmured their agreement, then turned their eyes to watch the gray foam wash in from the bay.

“You look worried, Father,” I said. “Can you see trouble with the ships from here?” 

“Tis a troublesome time for the ship owners,” my father said. “The waiting could kill you. Anything could happen from there to here and back again, and tis all too easy to lose goods and good men.”

“And profits,” said a portly gentleman. The man peered into the horizon as though he could make out his ships if he squeezed his eyes tightly enough. I thought to loan him my spectacles, then remembered I did not have them. 

“One bad decision, or one bad wind, and everything we have disappears to the depths of the ocean,” my father said. I have heard my father’s laments over the dangers of the shipping trade many times. My father, having tried his hand at several importing and exporting ventures, had settled on rum as his trade. The rum, made in New England, is shipped to Africa where tis traded for human beings, who were then sold to Caribbean plantation owners where sugar was purchased and brought back to New England to make rum. It could take a complete year for the ships to make the full journey, and that was a year of worry for the ship owners. Together, these men had built wharves along the bay, a safe place to unload goods destined for local markets or load cargo onto ships bound for distant ports. They also constructed warehouses and fashionable homes so everyone would know that they were not merely merchants, but successful ones. They also engaged with privateers when they felt they needed to—thefor business reasons. These men were more than shopkeeps who bought and sold goods. Some, like my father, had come from England with success already filling their pockets. Some had come from England with nothing more than the clothes they wore, and the wealth followed as a result of their enterprising spirit. The men gathered round my father were well dressed in their finely fitting, jewel-toned fabrics, perhaps a flashing jewel here and there. The merchants are not so overdressed as to be ostentatious since there those among the Puritans who would call them sinful for their vanity. The merchants wear just enough for others to see that they can afford that ruby ring, that jewel-studded walking stick, that finely tailored suit. 

The ship owners leaned their heads close in order to share both body heat and gossip about whatever they knew of interest in the Town or the Village. Many, including my father, had ties to Boston so they shared that gossip as well. The five-inch cock feathers on their hats reached towards the sky as though together they might lift off in flight. It was, I thought, not unlike a wake for ships not yet sunk or sailors not yet lost. I stood close enough to the group so I would not seem distant, but I do not care for the men my father keeps company with. My father has a small but profitable role in the trading—his ships travel to and from England, sending fish, rum, and molasses to the Mother Country, receiving beads, copper, cloth, and hardware in return, which he sells around the colonies for a healthy profit. I know that my father needs the cooperation of those with more extensive roles in the merchant trades, so I humor them for his sake. My father, ever ready with a bawdy joke and a vivacious laugh, finds the cooperation he needs. My father clasped my shoulder even more firmly and brought me closer into the circle of men. The sweet smell of rum, provided freely by my father, wafted toward me.