Even so, for more than two years there had come no ship bearing such a pennant. Her loneliness had become so acute that she had begun wondering whether it had all been a dream—the making of the pennant, her giving it to Adam, and even his promise that he would indeed fly it when he returned to her.

Suddenly feeling foolish, Constance shook her head. No, she realized. I did make that pennant. I also know in my heart that one day I will see it flying from my love’s mainmast, announcing his long-awaited return . . .

As the wind rose and the sky darkened, she took a moment to look down at her dress. The pink leg-of-mutton sleeves and broad skirt accentuated her narrow waist, which lay imprisoned by stiff, whalebone corseting. On her feet she wore low, square-toed slippers made of fabric. She always dressed formally, though her friends would tease her about it. Constance would only smile and tell them it was because she enjoyed dressing this way, but in truth there was a secret reason for it. When Adam’s ship finally appeared, she wanted to waste no time preparing.

At last she picked up the brass spyglass that lay on the neighboring chair. It is time, she thought.

After taking another wistful look at the waves, she finally left the porch and went into the house, where she lit each of the first-floor lanterns. With her spyglass and a lantern in hand, she climbed the set of stairs leading to the widow’s walk. Putting her items down on an old table that stood there, she cast her hope-filled gaze across the restless sea.

By now, the sky had darkened, and it had begun raining. The waves were stronger, striking the rocky shore with even greater intensity and literally exploding into infinite numbers of salty droplets. After again gathering her woolen shawl closer, she pulled open the old telescoping spyglass and put it to one eye.

Although protected from the rain by a shingled roof, Constance knew that the worsening weather would make searching the harbor difficult. The rain was coming nearly sideways, stinging her face and soaking her dress. Even so, she would not be dissuaded from her task. Hoping to improve her view, she stepped closer to the railing, but the darkness and the raindrops collecting upon the lens of her spyglass conspired to make searching the harbor increasingly difficult.

Some moments later, Constance caught her breath when she saw a tall ship nearing, her great bulk being cast up and down at the waves’ behest as if she were some child’s bath toy. Nevertheless, as Constance searched further she saw no bright red pennant flying at the mainmast, and her heart sank. Deciding to search another area of the harbor, she leaned against the railing while still holding the spyglass in place.

What Constance did not know was that over the years, this particular section of her widow’s walk railing had grown rotten and weak from the constant assaults by the salty sea air. As she leaned against it, the railing suddenly gave way, giving her no chance to catch herself. Screaming, she tumbled end over end as she fell, first striking the roof of the porch she had just left and then crashing headlong onto the jagged shoreline rocks.

As the light left her eyes, her final thoughts were of Adam.

HIS NAME WAS ADAM JAMES CANFIELD, and for as long as he could remember, he had always loved being on the ocean.

Half a world away, Adam rubbed his weary eyes and leaned back against his desk chair. He had been writing a letter to Constance and because he could not be sure about when they might next put in, he knew that there was a good chance he would arrive home before the letter did. After staring down at the written page for a few moments more, he decided to finish it later. He never wrote well when he was tired, and he always wanted to properly convey not only his great love for his wife, but also his reassurances that he was remaining true.

This had been a long voyage and he was tired right down to his bones. His fatigue was not entirely the sort that one earned from honest labor. Rather, it was an insidious anxiety that had plagued him for nearly two years now; a strange ennui that even he could not properly describe. It would end only when he at last walked back down the gangplank in New Bedford and took Constance into his arms. He desperately needed to be home, as did every other man aboard this whaler.

Adam was captain of the American whale ship Intrepid, a 299-ton vessel out of New Bedford, Massachusetts. Owned by the Simon Pettigrew & Sons Whaling Company, she had set sail in June of 1838 and headed straight for the South Atlantic, where the hunting had been poor. With the Intrepid’s hold still empty and her crew grumbling about their lack of success, Adam had decided to round Cape Horn and then sail on into the Pacific Ocean.