My grandfather sat back and rubbed his hand up through his hair behind, as he would often do when in perplexity. At last he said, "Well, well, it's hard to tell. We should never know what we'd burnt, if we did.... We'll look, Stevy.... An' I'll read no further than I need. Come, the Belize letter's first.... Send I ain't doin' wrong, that's all."
He tore open the cover and pulled out the sheets of flimsy foreign note-paper, holding them to the light almost at arm's length, as long-sighted men do. And as he read, slowly as always, with a leathery forefinger following the line, the grey under the old man's eyes grew wet at last, and wetter. What the letter said is no matter here. There was talk of me in it, and talk of my little brother—or sister, as it might have been for all my father could know. And again there was the same talk in the second letter—the one from La Guaira. But in this latter another letter was enclosed, larger than that for my mother, which was in fact uncommonly short. And here, where the dead spoke to the dead no more, but to the living, was matter that disturbed my grandfather more than all the rest.
The enclosure was not for me, as I had hoped, but for Grandfather Nat himself; and it was not a simple loose sheet folded in with the rest, but a letter in its own smaller envelope, close shut down, with the words "Capn. Kemp" on the face. My grandfather read the first few lines with increasing agitation, and then called me to the window.
"See here, Stevy," he said, "it's wrote small, to get it in, an' I'm slow with it. Read it out quick as you can."
And so I read the letter, which I keep still, worn at the folds and corners by the old man's pocket, where he carried it afterward.
Dear Father,—Just a few lines private hoping they find you well. This is my hardest trip yet, and the queerest, and I write in case anything happens and I don't see you again. This is for yourself, you understand, and I have made it all cheerful to the Mrs., specially as she is still off her health, no doubt. Father, the Juno was not meant to come home this trip, and if ever she rounds Blackwall Point again it will be in spite of the skipper. He had his first try long enough back, on the voyage out, and it was then she was meant to go; for she was worse found than ever I saw a ship—even a ship of Viney's; and not provisioned for more than half the run out, proper rations. And I say it plain, and will say it as plain to anybody, that the vessel would have been piled up or dropped under and the insurance paid months before you get this if I had not pretty nigh mutinied more than once. He said he would have me in irons, but he shan't have the chance if I can help it. You know Beecher. Four times I reckon he has tried to pile her up, every time in the best weather and near a safe port—foreign. The men would have backed me right through—some of them did—but they deserted one after another all round the coast, Monte Video, Rio and Bahia, and small blame to them, and we filled up with half-breeds and such. The last of the ten and the boy went at Bahia, so that now I have no witness but the second mate, and he is either in it or a fool—I think a fool: but perhaps both. Not a man to back me. Else I might have tried to report or something, at Belize, though that is a thing best avoided of course. No doubt he has got his orders, so I am not to blame him, perhaps. But I have got no orders—not to lose the ship, I mean—and so I am doing my duty. Twice I have come up and took the helm from him, but that was with the English crew aboard. He has been quiet lately, and perhaps he has given the job up; at any rate I expect he won't try to pile her up again—more likely a quiet turn below with a big auger. He is still mighty particular about the long-boat being all right, and the falls clear, etc. If he does it I have a notion it may be some time when I have turned in; I can't keep awake all watches. And he knows I am about the only man aboard who won't sign whatever he likes before a consul. You know what I mean; and you know Beecher too. Don't tell the Mrs. of course. Say this letter is about a new berth or what not. No doubt it is all right, but it came in my head to drop you a line, on the off chance, and a precious long line I have made of it. So no more at present from—Your Affectionate Son,
Nathaniel.
P.S. I am in half a mind to go ashore at Barbadoes, and report. But perhaps best not. That sort of thing don't do.
While I read, my grandfather had been sitting with his head between his hands, and his eyes directed to the floor, so that I could not see his face. So he remained for a little while after I had finished, while I stood in troubled wonder. Then he looked up, his face stern and hard beyond the common: and his was a stern face at best.
"Stevy," he said, "do you know what that means, that you've been a-readin'?"
I looked from his face to the letter, and back again. "It means—means ... I think the skipper sank the ship on purpose."
"It means Murder, my boy, that's what it means. Murder, by the law of England! 'Feloniously castin' away an' destroyin';' that's what they call the one thing, though I'm no lawyer-man. An' it means prison; though why, when a man follows orders faithful, I can't say; but well I know it. An' if any man loses his life thereby it's Murder, whether accidental or not; Murder an' the Rope, by the law of England, an' bitter well I know that too! O bitter well I know it!"