Dear Mrs. Blackwell,
Though we have never met, it has become my painful duty to inform you of the death of your husband, Mathew Blackwell, on the twenty-fifth of March of this year.
The dim light of the forecastle slush lamp illuminated the paper. The man leaning over it, using a sea chest as a desk, set down his pen. He had no idea how to continue such a letter. He had barely known Mathew Blackwell, but as the only man who could write in a fair hand in the forecastle he felt the letter was his duty.
The man was dressed in the plain checkered shirt and loose pants of a common sailor but there was something in his manner and the familiar way he held his pen that spoke of something else. Yet another victim of the press gangs that swept the streets of
We held an auction of his possessions and I will attempt to obtain the proceeds for you.
The image of Mathew face, in his final illness, floated through the man’s mind, sunken and wasted in his sick berth, refusing all food. The man had never gained a sailor’s morbid acceptance of death, and the face haunted him. It was a relief when the ships bell rang and the whistle blew for the change of watch, breaking his train of thoughts and forcing him to put aside his writing.
The next day the man forced himself to pick up his pen again. No inspiration had come to him overnight. No ideas that would make the writing of the letter easier, or less painful.
He died a peaceful and painless death.
The man tore up the sheet of paper, even thought it was one of only a few sheets that he had. While such a sentence would be a comfort to the woman, who did not yet realize she was a widow, the man couldn’t stand the lie. He took out a new sheet of paper and rewrote what he had had the day before. Again he paused to consider how to continue the letter.
He passed away after long illness, surrounded by his friends and companions.
That was true at least, and the part about him being surrounded by friends could be considered a comforting thing. He was better satisfied with the letter now, but he was again at a loss at how to continue it.
Overhead the man could hear the piping for all hands and he leaped up, there were penalties for being late when all hands were called. Then the man swore, he had left a blot on the paper in his hurry. There was no time to see to it though. He would just have to start the letter again; the blot obscured half of the writing.
The wind had changed; the ships had to be changed accordingly. It would be difficult to reach their destination now. Even as the other hands discussed the possibilities of half rations if they were stuck at sea for too long because of this, the man could only think about his unfinished letter.
It was so unfair, had Mathew died in any other way the matter would have been taken out of the man’s hands. Had Mathew died in battle the captain would have written an official letter that would have included Mathew in the list of dead. Those usually ended up in the papers. Had Mathew not been married there would have been no need for a duty letter. If Mathew had fallen over board even, the man wouldn’t have felt the need to write such a letter, not if Mathew was only presumed dead. Again the man could see Mathew’s wasted face, no Mathew had not been so kind.
To be continued.....
That was very good!
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