3
Boston Harbor slept under a blanket of fog as Enoch Munro guided their gig away from Hancock Wharf. Duncan and Conawago used oars to push past the hulls of the closely packed merchant ships as they coasted into deeper water and then, with a nod from Munro, hoisted the small, solitary sail. The breeze flexed the canvas, and the sturdy little boat swung to the northeast, ghosting past half a dozen huge square-rigged vessels recently arrived from the Wine Islands and the West Indies. No one spoke. It had been a grim, debilitating night, and now they were proceeding toward more death. Conawago settled into the bow and stared straight ahead, as still and somber as a figurehead. Duncan lowered himself against the slender mast. The gentle rocking of the boat soon lulled him to sleep.
“Captain
