“Brothers and sisters,” the captain said, and everyone straightened abruptly, as he’d addressed them in what Roger thought must be the voice used on his quarterdeck, raised to be heard over the flapping of sails and the roar of cannon. Cunningham coughed, and repeated more quietly, “Brothers and sisters in Christ, I bid you welcome.
“Many of you know me. For those who do not—I am Captain Charles Cunningham, late of His Majesty’s navy. I received a call from God two years ago, and I am endeavoring to answer that call to the best of my ability. I will tell you more about my journey—and yours—toward God, but let us now begin our services this morning by singing ‘O God, Our Help in Ages Past.’”
“I think he’s actually going to be good,” Bree whispered to Roger as the congregation obligingly rose.
The captain was good. After the hymn—which roughly half the congregation knew, but it was a simple tune, and easy enough for the rest to hum along—he opened his worn leather Bible and read them Matthew 4:18–22:
“And Jesus, walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers.
And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.
And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.
And going on from thence, he saw other two brethren, James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother, in a ship with Zebedee their father, mending their nets; and he called them.
And they immediately left the ship and their father, and followed him.”
After which, he set down his worn leather Bible and told them, with great simplicity, what had brought him here.
“Two years ago, I captained one of His Majesty’s ships, HMS Lenox, on the North American Station. It was our charge to blockade the colonial ports and carry out occasional raids against rebellious communities.”
Roger felt the instant wariness that spread through the room like lowlying fog. Some of those present were bound to be secret Loyalists, though most of those who had declared themselves openly had done so as rebels, whether from conviction or from a pragmatic desire to ally themselves with their landlord—the landlord sitting in the third row—he didn’t know.
“My son Simon had recently joined the ship as second lieutenant. I was very pleased, as we had not seen each other for at least two years, he having seen duty in the Channel.”
The captain paused for a moment, as though looking into the past.
“I was proud of him,” he said quietly. “Proud that he chose to follow me into the navy, and proud of his conduct. He was a very young lieutenant—only just eighteen—but enterprising and courageous, and with a great care of his men.”
He pressed his lips together for a moment, then took an audible breath.
“While patrolling the coast of Rhode Island, we encountered and pursued a rebel cutter, and brought her to action. My son was killed in that action.”
There was a muffled sound of shock and sympathy from the congregation, but Cunningham gave no evidence of having heard it, and went steadily on.
“I was no more than a few feet away from him when the shot struck him, and I caught him in my arms. I felt him die.
“I felt him die,” he repeated, softly, and now his eyes searched the congregation. “Some of you will know that feeling.”
Many of them did.
“There is no time to mourn, of course, in the midst of an action, and it was nearly an hour later that we took possession of the cutter and made her crew prisoners. I sent the cutter into port under the command of my master’s mate—normally, that duty would have fallen to my son, as lieutenant. But at that point, all activity, all motion, all the need to lead and command—all of that dropped away. And I went to bid my son farewell.”
Roger glanced involuntarily down at Jemmy, at the soft swirl of hair on the crown of his head, the backs of his clean, pink ears.
“He was below, laid on a cot in the sick bay, and I sat down beside him. I cannot say what I felt, or what I thought; the space within me was void. Of course I knew what had happened to me, the loss of a part of myself, a loss greater than any loss of limb or physical injury—and yet I felt nothing. I think”—he broke off and cleared his throat—“I think I was afraid to feel anything. But while I sat, I watched his face—that face that I knew so well—and I saw the light enter it again.
“It changed,” he said, looking from face to face, urgent that they should understand. “His face became … transcendent. And beautiful, suddenly, the face of an angel. And then he opened his eyes.”