It wasn’t as if Mathew’s wife would never hear of her husband’s demise. She would find it out when his pay stopped, but that seemed so harsh, so cruel. With this reminder the man again sat before the sea chest to write. He disposed of the ink stained sheet and pulled out his last piece of paper. Once again he rewrote what he had had before and tried to think of a way to continue. The other men in the forecastle left him alone; they knew what he was doing. It put him in an isolation usually reserved for officers.
While I realize that this letter brings you bad news and grief, I hope that you will find comfort in my condolences.
The man was just about to write more, his pen still on the page, when another sailor, pushed by an irate shipmate, staggered into him. The man stared down at his page, with the long line that now slashed across it. He just couldn’t continue. He couldn’t send off a serious letter with a pen mark through it. It was disrespectful. Nor could he start over like he had before, he had no more paper. He had done his duty, he had tried, he couldn’t do more then try.
Someone else would have to tell Mrs. Blackwell, and even as he told himself that, he knew no one would.
No comments:
Post a Comment