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grave during the reading of the will.
    Who was he now? His true father, if rumor was to be believed, was an unknown uncle. The man had left him and his mother to their fate, skulking away to Bristol. How could he have done such a vile thing? Had it been Drake, he would have taken his lover and son and left England, not slink away like a dog with its tail between its legs.
    All he knew was that he hated him for it.
    Suddenly a sound broke through Drake’s remembrance. Muffled sobbing reached him from several bunks down. The full moon lent a surreal light through the portholes, casting a ghostly gleam on the sleeping passengers. Sitting up, he searched for the sound’s source. His first inclination was to turn over and ignore it, but something about the shaking of the thin shoulders, the dark tousled hair reminded him of a long forgotten memory, and he found himself going to the cot and squatting down on the rough planks of the floor.
    “What is the matter, boy? Are you hurt?”
    A tear-streaked face of about nine rose up from a wadded blanket that served as pillow. “Who are you?” Resentment filled the response. “I don’t need nothin’ from you.”
    Drake resisted the urge to get up and leave. Instead he sat down on the floor, settling in. “Well now, you may not, but I just woke up from a ghastly nightmare, and I was hoping you would tell me something to get my mind off it. Are you sure there is nothing you want to talk about?”
    The boy sniffed and drug the sleeve of his arm across a runny, freckled nose. Propping his head on his hand he asked, “What was your nightmare about? I ’ave the same one all the time.”
    “Oh yes? Tell me yours and I will tell you mine.”
    The boy sat up, wrapping thin arms around bony upraised knees, looking half-scared and half-excited to have such a rapt audience. “The ship wrecks in a terrible storm, takes on water like the very devil and . . . people are drownin’ and I . . . I’m tryin’ to save my mum. She’s drownin’ . . . going under the waves. They always grow bigger and bigger, but somehow I’m floatin’ above ’em. I–I always wake up and don’t know if I’ve saved her or not.” His voice caught but he quickly rallied, lifting that pointed chin. “Bet yours ain’t worse than that ’un.”
    Drake smiled, feeling suddenly better than he had in weeks. “No, not worse, but equally bad. Mine involves a sea monster trying to drag me down to a cold, watery grave. Must be those beans we have been eating for our dinner. Did you have the dream tonight?”
    The boy looked around and then whispered, “No, sir. I . . . I was just missin’ my mother. She stayed behind with my little brothers and my sister, Ella. Pap took me and Sean with ’im to get our start.” He paused and stared off into the distant moonlight. “I don’t know when I will see ’er again. Or if ever I will.” His voice became a whisper. “I’ll see ’er again someday, don’t ya think?”
    “Of course you will. What is your name?”
    “Danny Oliver. And yours, sir?”
    “Drake—” Drake’s true name hesitated on his tongue, but he held it back. Giving the boy a small smile, he finished, “Drake Winslow. Good to meet such a fine young fellow. You know, I went away to boarding school when I was about your age.”
    “Really sir? Can you read, then?” The lad’s eyes were shining now with something far better than tears.
    “Certainly. Have you had no schooling?”
    Danny shook his head. “I wish I could read, though. I would most like to write. My mum says my head is full of stories. I would write them down if I could.”
    Drake thought back on his prized education at Eton, the private tutors he’d abhorred, something he’d taken very much for granted.
    “What was boarding school like, sir?”
    Everything from floggings to illicit excursions to Town flitted through Drake’s mind. “Well, I attended Eton. The first two years were the worst. The older boys initiate the