Richard Charlston to John Charlston, 12th of July 1856.

Dear Father,

I know I have not communicated with you in many months - perhaps it has been over a year now - but now that I have set sail away from the shores of England I feel free enough of the entanglements that choked our filial bond to send you this letter. Or perhaps it is cowardice; this would appeal to you, I think, as a judgement of my actions - if you think of me anymore that is. But I shall not descend into bitterness; the sea air is apt enough in quaking the heart that one does not wish for more than nature already foists upon them. I will say, then say no more, that I hope you have improved or one day soon will pause your descent and see the incline of sobriety as a prospect worth devoting what years you have left to, at the very least for the sake of your daughter who I know lashed herself in regret at her possible neglect of you at a time when your frailty hung in the balance. As promised, I will say no more on a subject I know will be loathsome to your eyes, prideful as they are, and will move onto other, freer subjects.
Anne may have told you of my desires to visit the orient under guise of my martial responsibilities, so perhaps it will serve as a balm towards our joint misfortunes for me to recount my adventures thus far in hopes, not of reconciliation, but of granting you solace that one of your blood still has life in them worthy of consideration, should pride in the Charlston name still be of any value to you that is. I for one have a greater clarity through the hardship of being wrenched from all that I know, which, as you are no doubt cognizant of, or were in your lucid days, is usual when our former concerns are made trivial by the harshness of greater powers – Gods of Seas and Storms, Neptune and Jupiter; each have made me question the veracity of any mortal presumption to power, be it over other men, or the land and elements. Even ourselves are at times unmasterable but the acceptance of such and submission to the futility of fighting the relentless wind has the tranquilizing ability to make such mastery obsolete.
One may ask what business we have in traversing this realm of hideous convulsion; a labile land that burrs the edges of each spine and sunders the palsied will under its rise and fall. The stomach tells of discontent and begs for the stability of soil and grass, yet some make this place their home and treat it as the ripest of fields, ready for the harvest, be they whaleman or no, eager to extract the salty swathe from its cresting waves to lick off their lip with the...