He can see now that Edwin is not at his best, but only Hattie is genuinely alarmed for him. Hattie is eighteen, sensitive, and sympathetic. June is thirty-one, stolid and established. He claps Edwin on the back, says that Father wouldn’t want to see him this way. He then leaves for work. Hattie finds a shawl for Edwin’s shoulders, washes and patches his clothes, sits with him to make sure he eats three entire pieces of toast dripping with butter and drinks a cup of strong coffee. Her voice is commanding—sit down, drink this—but also gentle. The maternal behavior that Edwin found so objectionable in Panama, he now craves. He only worries that too much kindness will make him cry so hard he will never stop.

That evening, by candle, fire, and moonlight, June shares the details of Father’s death as he knows them. Shadows jump about the room. There’s a loud rain outside, and occasionally a drop falls through the chimney, lands with a hiss on the fire. Hattie reaches out and takes Edwin’s hand. Her skin is so much warmer than his. He wishes to take that warmth in, but fears the opposite is happening. Hattie’s hand cools as he holds it.

Everything he hears adds to Edwin’s pain. Father died on board the J. S. Chenoweth, never having made it back to Baltimore. Someone was with him at the end, but it wasn’t the son who’d been tasked with caring for him. It was a stranger, a young man named James Simpson. Simpson had recognized Father on deck earlier and then a few days later, noticed his absence. He’d made his way to Father’s cabin, where the smell of sickness was overpowering.

Simpson had the cabin and linens cleaned, sat by Father’s bed, and asked what else he could do. Father was already past coherence. “He spoke but I could understand nothing,” Simpson said. “Only that he had suffered a great deal and been exposed to much.” Simpson was holding his hand when he died. Father’s last words were “Pray, pray, pray.”

Later Edwin will learn more of those final weeks. At some point while re-crossing the Isthmus (and probably drunk), Father had been robbed of all the money he’d made June give him. Penniless and disoriented, he’d gotten as far as New Orleans on the charity of strangers. There he’d taken an engagement at the St. Charles Theatre, where he performed over six nights and earned more than enough to get back to home. His reviews had been excellent, many noting his remarkable vigor and energy.

But sometime after boarding the Chenoweth, he’d fallen ill. He’d told no one, but remained in his cabin, drinking copious amounts of water drawn straight from the river. It may have been the water that killed him. It may have been the lack of prompt medical attention. Had Edwin been with him, he might very well have lived. Edwin certainly thinks so. He never forgives himself.