The first time he saw her had been in Dublin. He had been a mere ten years old. She had made quite the impression on him. She had possessed the face of what he had imagined an angel would look like; soft features, slightly upturned nose, wide expressive eyes, an expression so fierce and yet so vulnerable that it remained forever burned in his mind. Her long curly hair had flowed down over her shoulders and over the chest of the tight gown she wore.
That face had haunted his dreams over the last few years. He would wake up at night seeing that face, remembering the dozens of roses intertwined in her hair and down her gown.
He had not expected to see that face again in Boston. He had moved here with his parents earlier in the year. He had mixed feelings about the move. In some ways Boston wasn't that much different than Dublin. The streets were just as crowded if not more so. Those who were obviously Irish were just as looked down upon by the English which made life hard for him since his mother was from London but had fallen in love with an Irish man and had given him first a son and now a daughter.
Still, with the exception of the Redcoats and Inspectors who seemed to abuse or murder whoever they wanted, the Irish and English here were not openly murdering each other in the streets. His parents had fled Dublin for that reason, each parent terrified that the other and their children would be butchered or worse if they remained.
Now as he gazed upon that face that had haunted his dreams, he felt a sting in the corners of his eyes. Her soft features were now marred with scars and deep gouges. Parts of her hair and the beautiful roses that had adorned it and her gown were missing. Part of her lip had been torn away. The colors once so vibrant were now muted, darkened by age, weather, and hardship, or in some cases missing altogether.
Nor was the damage to her face alone. Portions of her gown showed great trauma as well, with sections smudged or torn entirely away. The better part of one arm was missing, as were two of her masts and several sections of the deck railing. Entire sections of her hull had obviously been replaced, the new wood much lighter and containing a slightly different wood grain.
When he had first seen her, Jonathan had wanted to sail aboard her. He still did. But somehow he knew the Queen of Argyll would never quite be the same as she was back in that day in Dublin. She had been like an innocent girl back then. Now she had lost that innocence but gained an experience. She was every bit as captivating as she was before, just in a slightly different way; much like the difference in the loves of a first crush on an innocent girl and the mature love after she has moved on from her first lover.
Gripping the box tightly in his hands, and giving the ship one last long look, he turned and headed home. Once again, he vowed to himself he would find his way aboard that ship.