Chapter One

There are few men in this world who can say they have seen their father die twice. God's truth, I might be the only one.
Mine is not a pretty tale, but it begs telling nonetheless. It begins when I was three years old, after my mother died.
When the men started coming to our home . . .
They slipped in and out like ghosts, shadows dancing from wall to wall. They talked in low whispers with my father. If the weather was warm, I would lie in my bed and listen to the whispers. For me, it was a comforting sound, like the water in Boston Harbor as it caresses the shore. But if the weather was cold, wintry, I would cry when left alone, my tears turning to ice, the heat from the warming pan long gone. One of the men would scoop me up, blankets and all, and carry me to sit before the roaring fire.
My favorite was Josiah Black. Ofttimes he sat me on his lap as I alternately turned my gaze from Josiah to the fire and back to Josiah again, pulling my blanket close. Josiah was tall. His skin was pale, his nose strong and sharp, his hair black and shining as a crow's feathers. His eyes were like wells of ink, and he smelled of tobacco and rum. It fast became my favorite smell.
On these nights, my father would finally say, "Do you not think Daniel should go to bed? 'Tis past the midnight hour."
Puffing contentedly on his long pipe, Josiah would reply, "There will be time for sleep later. Let the boy stay."
When I was seven years old, too big to be sitting on anyone's lap, Josiah Black took me to a hanging. I'd never seen a pirate hanged before.
There were three of them. I knew they were evil men-wicked to the core, doomed, for I'd heard it at the meetingho