A Confession Unrecorded
_[From the personal diary of John Timmons, cabin steward, found among his effects in San Francisco, 1920.]_
Feb 3, 1913
The _Beacon_ man came again today asking about the Captain. I told him what I told the lawyer - nothing that would hold up. But I cannot sleep.
That last night, November 6th - the Captain was not himself. Three glasses of whisky before the storm hit, maybe four. When Mr. McCausland came to the cabin after 10 PM, I heard them through the door.
"You need to lie down, sir," McCausland said. "The glass is falling fast."
"This is my ship, Ewan," the Captain replied. "And I will chart our course."
But his voice was thick. And when McCausland left, I heard the Captain muttering: "Should have taken the north like the Irishman said. Should have listened."
He knew. Even drunk, he knew the safer route. But pride - or the bottle - made him hold to the southern passage.
Forty-seven souls. The Company paid me well to forget, but I cannot forget the widows at the dock.
_[Entry ends. Subsequent pages water-damaged.]_