Free The Man Who Went Down With His Ship by Hugh Fleetwood

it enough to publish it as it was.
    ‘You see,’ his letter went on, as Alfred started to feel giddy and as if he was in for one of his attacks, ‘I don’t know whether your story is precisely true, whether it’s “faction”, or whether it is fiction.
    ‘But I do know that the laws of libel being what they are, I couldn’t possibly let this come out as it stands. Because though one cannot defame the dead, and the captain himself could not sue you, a great many of the people you mention are still alive, and could indeed take action against you. And against—more to the point from my point of view as a publisher—me.
    So Alfred, what I must ask you to do is this. Not change your story. I would never ask you to do that, as, I must repeat yet again, it is too good to be changed. But change just the superficial accessories, if you will, of the story: the names of the people, the name of the ship, maybe even the nationality of the ship (couldn’t it be English, “The Shelley”, or Italian, “The Dante” or “The Leopardi”?). And make just the tiniest adjustments to timing, so the actual date of the sinking can’t be identified. That way—true or not!—I think we could bring the story out as a novel without too much fear of having its publication blocked by the courts; and, from your point of view now, without the danger of you being branded as, not to put too fine a point on it, a mythomaniac or a liar.
    ‘I do hope you will not be offended by this, Alfred; and yet again I must assure you of my admiration. But I must also assure you that if you do not make certain changes, not only cannot we publish it, but you will never find a publisher for it. Neitherhere in Paris, nor anywhere else. Therefore, my dear Alfred, think over what I have told you, and tell me you’ll do what I ask. For really, this is so good, it must be published.’
    So, Alfred thought, sitting down heavily on the grass of his little garden (whereupon an ant promptly ran up his leg and nipped him, announcing thereby that his truce with nature was over?) they have won. Or, to be precise, they will win. Because now he had just two alternatives. Doing what he was asked, having his story made, as Claude had requested, into a work of fiction, and waiting for the success that his book would have, among his friends if not with the public at large—‘Oh, Alfred darling, it’s wonderful ! All that time you were twittering on about that boat we had no idea you were just planning a novel . Oh, darling, you are clever, and it’s so marvellous to have you back!’—or reverting to his former idea of not having the book published at all in his lifetime. A decision which, now that word was presumably out that Alfred had actually written his ‘boat story’ might not be enough to save his life. Oh God, he thought, realising that the sun was burning his bald head, that it was summer now rather than spring, and that not only was it starting to be uncomfortably hot but there were fewer flowers now amidst the beginning-to-be-parched grass than there had been a couple of weeks ago: what am I going to do?
    This was a question he asked himself several times over the next few days, as he sat in his house listening no longer to the singing of birds, but to the chirping of crickets; a sound that had always conjured up visions of dryness, sterility and death in his mind. And a question that he asked himself with particular emphasis five days after he received his letter when, walking dejectedly down into the village to do some shopping, he was overtaken on the little country lane by two young men on a large motorcycle. Two young men dressed in black leather and wearing black helmets; two young men who turned to look at him as they raced past, then having sped round the corner, changed direction and drove back past him more slowly, staringat him quite deliberately now, as if they wished to note his features for future reference; and two young men who were