captain, gave him the letter, and told him only what was necessary to
tell. He was on the bridge, and was occupied with giving directions, so
he asked me the substance of the letter, and handed it back to me,
requesting me to make a copy of it soon and leave it in his cabin. I
then took all the papers to my cabin, and locked them up. I give here
the substance of the letter which was to be made public:

Because you know how much I have suffered physically while on board
this ship, and because you have been kind to me, I wish, through
you, to say my last word to the world: though, indeed, this may seem
a strange form for gratitude to take. Dying men, however, make few
apologies, and I shall make none. My existence, as you know, is an
uncertain quantity, and may be cut short at any moment in the
ordinary course of things. But I have no future in the active
concerns of life; no past on which to dwell with satisfaction; no
friends to mourn for my misfortunes in life, nor for my death,
whether it be peaceful or violent; therefore, I have fewer
compunctions in ending a mistaken career and a worthless life.

Some one will profit by my death: who it is matters not, for it is
no friend of mine. My death adjusts a balance, perhaps not nicely,
yet it does it. And this is all I have to say. . . . I am
going. Farewell. . . .

After a brief farewell to me added, there came the subscription "Charles
Boyd;" and that was all. Why he cried out "Man overboard" (for now I
recognised that it was his voice which gave the alarm), I do not know,
except that he wished his body to be recovered, and to receive burial.

Just here, some one came fumbling at the curtain of my cabin. I heard a