It was so hard to compete with you, brother. You were such a bloody success. Everything you touched turned to gold. I know I shouldn’t have felt a need to compete with that, but I did, and that was where I went wrong. Success didn’t come to me quick enough, so I tried to rush it. And when that didn’t work, I turned more and more to drink, which was truly my downfall.

It got to where I didn’t know what I was doing half the time. I hired captains who were less than honest. One was rumored to have been a pirate in his younger years, but since he promised to make me rich, I ignored the rumors. I let them advise me. Everything they told me sounded reasonable; at least when I was foxed it did. But they were under the mistaken impression, which I gave them, of course, that I had an endless supply of blunt backing me. Well you might imagine how some business strategies might work in that case, where they wouldn’t otherwise.

I’m not making excuses. I’ve done that all my life, but no more. My failure was the culmination of a lot of bad decisions, all of them mine. I never should have started something that I had no experience in, and when it began to turn sour, I wallowed in self-pity and drink instead of seeking proper help. I was blaming everyone else at the time, including other shippers, because I simply couldn’t own up to the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing. So someone else had to be the culprit, not I. Childish, I know, but at least I can recognize that now.

I left England in a panic, of course. My letter to you then might have indicated that, though I confess I don’t recall everything I said to you in it. Ironic that neither of my two ships was in port at this moment of desertion, so I stowed away on another ship—and was discovered the first day out to sea and put to work scrubbing decks. At least they didn’t boot me off the ship in the middle of the ocean.

I haven’t had a drink since I left England, nor do I want one. Being completely broke on my arrival in America, I had the choice of begging or getting a job. Pride notwithstanding—that had been completely crushed when I was on my knees swabbing decks—I found a job as a baker’s helper. Really nice chap, the baker. He’s taken me under his wing, teaching me his craft, and is even talking about expanding, now that I’ve become so adept with the ovens. I don’t mind saying my muffins are good enough to drool over.