‘W. M., A.B.’
Tom ceased, and we looked at one another.
‘The man who wrote that never sailed in a ship’s forecastle,’ said Mr. Bates.
‘Why not?’ said Tom. ‘There was a University man before the mast in one of my ships. Is it the education here that palls ye? I believe every word of it.’
‘Butler, the brig’s been boarded,’ said Mr. Bates, ‘and found abandoned, and some joker scrawled out this piece of humour before leaving.’
‘I believe every word of it,’ repeated Tom, running his eye over this huge ocean address to those concerned. ‘How long would it take you to draw those things and think and write this out? No man would come prepared with it. Where’d he get the facts? We’ll look for the papers.’ He tried to draw the nail, broke the sheet from it, glanced at the other side (the Portuguese coast) and rolled it up.
The foremost berth on the port side had been the captain’s. Seemingly nothing had been touched. Some clothes hung against the bulkhead; there was bedding in the narrow fore and aft bunk. All the necessary appliances for the navigation of the vessel were here: Two good chronometers snugly stowed in hair in a locker, a sextant and a quadrant, mathematical instruments, such charts as the voyage might demand, and the needful navigating books. A little hinged table stood open in a corner; upon it was a plain writing-desk with the key in the lock, and inside a parcel of letters in a woman’s writing, some note-paper and a bag of sovereigns, which Tom counted and made twenty-two.
‘Where’s the log-book?’ said Mr. Bates.
‘Here’ll be her papers,’ said Tom, after opening a locker.
He pulled out a tin box and read the papers with the quickness of a man used to such documents.