The Millionaire's Captain

April 15, 1912. 11:56pm 

I am The Millionaire’s Captain. The Safe Captain. The White Star Line’s Marvel. 

Or, at least I was.

In less than two hours, my prosperous history will be buried in the depths of the North Atlantic, along with my adoring passengers who made it such. Three thousand of my passengers. Three thousand lives. Three thousand living, breathing souls with stories yet untold and seasons yet unspent. 

My inmost regret is that I accepted the faith they placed in me. They elevated me on a pedestal and leveled me with God. But now that they truly are in His hands, I can only pray that He shows them the mercy I was powerless to provide.

I may have been capable of preventing the tragedy to come had I not been so dismally ambitious. Had I only acknowledged the iceberg warnings. Had I only abided by the hull-speed protocol. Had I only insisted on equipping the Titanic with the essential lifeboats. Instead I recklessly considered myself inviolable, and I am about to endure my utmost discipline- which is not my own demise but the demise of those depending on me. 

Never have I so clearly understood why the Captain must go down with his ship. My guiltless passengers entrusted me and I failed, and like the God they likened me to, I am ultimately responsible for their legacy.

I will either save them or die trying.

And as I am so helplessly undivine, the outcome will surely be the latter.

And so, on the assumption that by sealing this futile letter in the bottle of my final toast I have spared it the same fate as The Unsinkable Ship, I want the world to know that I am sorry.

Regretfully yours,

Not the Millionaire’s Captain nor White Star Line’s Marvel, and certainly not God,

Captain E. J. Smith