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Authors: Wayne Johnston
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the captain is certain I have caught malaria. I have told him that I suffer from “transient debilitation” owing to the energies I expended raising money for this expedition. In three weeks, we are supposed to leave for Patagonia, from which, in July, we set out for the Southern Ice. But the captain and the others will not make for Patagonia until what they call my condition has improved. Nor will they let another spring go by without either heading for the pole or turning back. We have been stalled here now for seven months
.
I know the cause and therefore, I hope, the cure of my despair. It is a piece of information that I have been keeping to myself since just before your father disappeared. What you are about to read will surprise or even shock you, so prepare yourself before you read on
.
I could not imagine what sort of disclosure Dr. Cook was about to make. I felt so light-headed I almost fell from my chair.
Not long before he disappeared on the North Greenland expedition, your father took me aside and told me something that I dismissed at first as the delusion of a man who had for some time, owing to the rigours of Arctic exploration, been acting strangely. But he repeated what I would have called an accusation against his wife except that his tone was so deliberate, so calm. He said that you were not his son
.
In the hope of making him see how much the strain of the expedition was affecting him, I asked him what proof he had that he was not the father of the boy whom the rest of the world knew to be his son. He supplied certain details that convinced me his revelation was true. These details convinced me of something else, too, which I kept to myself. I have had few enough liaisons with women in my life to remember all of them. But even if I was a man of the world, I would remember my first time. It came to me, as your father told his story, that the boy he was speaking of could be no one’s son but mine
.
You have only my word that all of this is not complete invention on my part. Aside from having no reason to invent such a story, I am putting myself at great risk in confiding in you. You hold in your hands a document, in my handwriting, bearing my signature, that if made public could do me and mine great harm. You and your aunt and uncle would likewise suffer, and great harm would be done to the memory of your parents, your mother’s especially. My heart has never been so close to breaking as when I heard from your father—that is, from Francis Stead—the manner of your mother’s death
.
You are, Devlin, too young to understand how rare a thing true love is, how unlikely in this world to happen, and when it does, how unlikely to endure. And once it is lost, how hard to live without. I have tried “writing” to your mother, directing my thoughts to her, asthough she was still alive, but I derived no comfort from it. Finally, I realized that it was to you I should be writing
.
I write in the full understanding of how this letter will affect you. I cannot myself imagine receiving such news at your age. Only by blood now, the cold blood of biology, are you my son and I your father. How this can change, I am unable to foresee. I cannot, for obvious reasons, publicize the contents of this letter. (Your uncle will speak to you of this at greater length.)
Nevertheless, may I write to you again? In my next letter, I will provide you with such details as will convince you beyond all doubt that my claim is true. I have omitted to do so in this one not to whet your curiosity, but because I could not bear to relate the whole of my story to someone from whom I might never hear again
.
In your uncle’s presence, after he has finished speaking to you, I want you to write “Yes” or “No” on this envelope and give it to him. He will forward your answer to me. If your answer is yes, I will write to you and you will receive my letters by an arrangement of a sort that I suggested to your uncle. If your answer
.
I know the cause and therefore, I hope, the cure of my despair. It is a piece of information that I have been keeping to myself since just before your father disappeared. What you are about to read will surprise or even shock you, so prepare yourself before you read on
.
I could not imagine what sort of disclosure Dr. Cook was about to make. I felt so light-headed I almost fell from my chair.
Not long before he disappeared on the North Greenland expedition, your father took me aside and told me something that I dismissed at first as the delusion of a man who had for some time, owing to the rigours of Arctic exploration, been acting strangely. But he repeated what I would have called an accusation against his wife except that his tone was so deliberate, so calm. He said that you were not his son
.
In the hope of making him see how much the strain of the expedition was affecting him, I asked him what proof he had that he was not the father of the boy whom the rest of the world knew to be his son. He supplied certain details that convinced me his revelation was true. These details convinced me of something else, too, which I kept to myself. I have had few enough liaisons with women in my life to remember all of them. But even if I was a man of the world, I would remember my first time. It came to me, as your father told his story, that the boy he was speaking of could be no one’s son but mine
.
You have only my word that all of this is not complete invention on my part. Aside from having no reason to invent such a story, I am putting myself at great risk in confiding in you. You hold in your hands a document, in my handwriting, bearing my signature, that if made public could do me and mine great harm. You and your aunt and uncle would likewise suffer, and great harm would be done to the memory of your parents, your mother’s especially. My heart has never been so close to breaking as when I heard from your father—that is, from Francis Stead—the manner of your mother’s death
.
You are, Devlin, too young to understand how rare a thing true love is, how unlikely in this world to happen, and when it does, how unlikely to endure. And once it is lost, how hard to live without. I have tried “writing” to your mother, directing my thoughts to her, asthough she was still alive, but I derived no comfort from it. Finally, I realized that it was to you I should be writing
.
I write in the full understanding of how this letter will affect you. I cannot myself imagine receiving such news at your age. Only by blood now, the cold blood of biology, are you my son and I your father. How this can change, I am unable to foresee. I cannot, for obvious reasons, publicize the contents of this letter. (Your uncle will speak to you of this at greater length.)
Nevertheless, may I write to you again? In my next letter, I will provide you with such details as will convince you beyond all doubt that my claim is true. I have omitted to do so in this one not to whet your curiosity, but because I could not bear to relate the whole of my story to someone from whom I might never hear again
.
In your uncle’s presence, after he has finished speaking to you, I want you to write “Yes” or “No” on this envelope and give it to him. He will forward your answer to me. If your answer is yes, I will write to you and you will receive my letters by an arrangement of a sort that I suggested to your uncle. If your answer
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