Amanda Silver

The tragedy of the Essex is the story of men. And a Demon.

We were headed for the edge of sanity… like we were aberrations, phantoms. Trust gave way to doubt. Hope to superstition.

You know, I heard a man from Pennsylvania drilled a hole in the ground recently and found oil. That can't be true.

Oil from the ground! Fancy that.

We were weeks in the doldrums. That part of the Pacific is more desert than ocean. The sun beating down.

Greed took hold of our captain and first mate. So we headed out. A thousand leagues along the equator. Where knowledge ended, speculation began. That's where the whales had gone to hide. As far from man as they could possibly go. But we hunted them down. Centuries before, sailors feared sailing off the edge of the Earth. But we where headed for the edge of sanity. Trust gave way to doubt. Hope to blind superstition.

Take the money and leave! The devil's bargain.

It's a privilege to know the moment of one's death in advance - be able to prepare for it. Cursed to be so far from home - without a chance to say goodbye, without a chance to make peace; without a chance to settle scores. Then let us at least settle those between us, Captain.

The Essex was lost through no fault of yours. I was as much to blame for...

What do we do, do you think, George? And what offense did we give God to upset him so?

Not us? In our arrogance, our greed. Look were we find ourselves.

You really feel like an earthly king after everything that we've been through? We're nothing. We're... we're specks. And dust.

Yes, it is. And very shortly we will be off-island for some time, and I'll be very much at home.

To return to port without a single barrel of oil would be a mistake, sir. And not behoove a man whose name is Pollard. Or Chase, for that matter. And the best thing for both of us would be to work all hours Gods sends us, fill this ship with oil and be home inside a year and rid of one another as quickly as possible. Trust me, I am every bit as desirous of that as you.

Benjamin, what are you doing?

Look at me. Look at me, Benjamin. No right-minded sailor discards what might yet save him.

Something else you've given me tonight.

The courage to go where one does not want to go.

How does one come to know the unknowable? What faculties must a man possess? Since it was discovered that whale oil could light our cities in ways never achieved before, it created global demand. It has pushed man to venture further and further into the deep blue unknown. We know not its depths, nor the host of creatures that live there. Monsters. Are they real?

Or do the stories exist only to make us respect the sea's dark secrets?

The question both vexes and excites me, and is the reason I've written you a second time to request a meeting. A conversation with you, sir, I believe will serve me well for the novel I intend to write, currently entitled: Moby Dick. I hope you will reconsider my offer. The unknown. That is where my imagination yearns to venture. And so the question plagues me still: How does a man come to know the unknowable? Sincerely, Herman Melville.

No, sir. The devil loves unspoken secrets. Especially those that fester in a man's soul.