Captain · William · Turner

When I was a lad, I would go to church with my mother. I remember very little of my time before coming to the Caribbean, but I do recall my mother’s clear voice singing a hymn. I did not understand the song, and to this day I understand very little of it, but I remember her voice next to me, holding my small hand as she sang it.

Ave Maria, gratia plena Maria, gratia plena Maria, gratia plena ave, ave dominus dominus tecum. Amen.

It is not without still some sadness that I recall my mother. She died far too young, when I think on how old she must have been. I did tell my father of her death when I first was aboard The Flying Dutchman. It saddened him, but the woman who was my mother in his memory was being worn away by the ship. At times we speak of her. She died of consumption, or so that is what the doctors told me. She had very little to leave me after the doctor’s bill. I worked only a brief time to get the last of the money to come to the Caribbean to find my father.

Often I think of what she would have thought of who I have become. I still cannot guess. I think back on the few memories I have of her and am thankful for them, but they are very small pieces from years passed, not enough for a clear picture. In her memory, at times, I find myself humming the hymn.

Captain William Turner