Chapter Six

"Tell me again why it is we are out walking at this hour? I must be mad. You must be mad. It's bloody cold, it's January for God's sake. I'm freezing my balls off. And I just may have need of them."

Lieutenant Francis Eccleston flapped his arms across his chest for warmth as he and his companion struck out toward Southsea Common. The Hard and the High Street behind them, they strode along briskly in a useless effort to offset the frigid wind from the Channel. The overcast sky had yielded no snow, but the hard ground was well-covered. Hats, greatcoats and mufflers were insufficient to ward off the chill.

The hour was as ungodly as the temperature, for Chadd had knocked on the door of his chamber just as The George's servants were stirring to tend the fires.

"A walk, sir? Clear the head?" No doubt they both needed to blow away a few cobwebs. Each had spent the night in the arms of his lover, each was torn between making the most of the unexpected opportunity for a tender farewell on the one hand and returning, on the other, with all appropriate haste to Indefatigable, which was currently in a frenzy of 'round the clock activity.

Now that the French had executed their king, His Britannic Majesty's ships were preparing to go to war in earnest. The fleet's orders to sail were pending, but could only be a day or two off at the most. It was Chadd had who received an unanticipated message via one of the ship's boats. Informed of the news, Eccleston first flushed and then went pale: His dear love was but one cold, dark, wet boat ride away across The Solent, waiting for him in The George Inn.

Against his customary reticent character and knowing full well it was beyond a cheek, he had drawn himself up and asked Captain Pellew for shore leave. He was met with a look that beggared description. Miraculously, however, the Captain had granted his two most senior officers thirty-six hours ashore -- as long as they undertook to chivvy the dock master out of a spare mast and looked out whatever eighteen pound shot might be available.

Blowing on his hands, Eccleston now cast a weather eye to the southeast. Though a weak sun had broken free of the horizon, the ladies were no doubt still tucked up in their beds, he mused, or perhaps were just now arising to a lovely hot cup of tea. Spurred on by the vision of Lydia standing by the bed dishabille, he was just taking breath to harangue his companion into turning back when Chadd harrumphed to clear his throat.

"I am, um, requested and required as it were, to put it to you, sir -- that, is I have been asked to explain.

"Good God, man, get on with it." Chadd, usually cool and almost preternaturally self-possessed, was behaving most oddly.

Chadd stopped on the footpath and turned to face his friend, crossing his arms and bracing his feet apart. "Right. Right." He drew a deep breath. "Here's the thing."

Eccleston, too, stopped and cocked his head to listen. As he took in what Chadd was saying, an incredulous expression spread across Eccleston's refined features. The thing was, the thing was unbelievable. Impossible. His reunion with Lydia had been sweetness itself and yet tinged with regret. Honour did not allow. But he continued to listen without uttering another word.

What if there were a means? What if he could ask Lydia to be his wife while his honour remained unassailable? Could he compromise at all for such a purpose? He yearned to marry her with all his heart. What other reason to throw himself more wholeheartedly than ever before into his country's service? He had already admitted to himself that he now had "prospects" -- he had gained that footing the moment that King Louis had lost his head. Out-and-out war meant that he had every chance of being posted captain sooner rather than later. When that happened, he had already sworn to himself, he would make Lydia a proposal of marriage. Until that time, he had reconciled himself to wait.

But fate, or at least Lydia's stepdaughter (and Chadd's lover) Cornelia, seemed to have a different plan. Cornelia had put it to Chadd like a lawyer and now Chadd put the same arguments to Eccleston. First, there were his improved prospects. Separate from the likelihood of a posting, there was the probability of becoming quite well-off, if not rich, from prize money even before he was offered a post. (Both men knew as well as they knew their own names that the wardroom officers would share out an eighth of the value of all prizes, but Chadd could not help but be impressed at the depth and accuracy of Cornelia's information. He was thinking of recommending her to the Admiralty as a spy.)

Second, it should not be overlooked that Indefatigable's captain was a man of rare ability and ambition, increasing the chance of early prize money by, well, by at least tenfold. Neither of the lieutenants needed convincing on that score.

Third, Lydia's circumstances had changed. Cornelia barely suppressed a sly smile as she had recounted this part to Chadd. Lydia's trustees had agreed to allow her to lease out her London house (in which she held a life estate) for many thousands of pounds. She would no longer be dependent upon her trustees and could live anywhere she liked in her present style. It would not be a question of Eccleston sponging off his wife, for (A) he would be at sea for the foreseeable future and (B) he would soon be wealthy in his own right.

(As a realist, Chadd had immediately spotted the flaw in the entire argument. He almost said to himself "fatal flaw" but banished the thought at once. He realized it might be more in line with his enlightened self-interest to keep his mouth shut. Almost against his nature, he found Cornelia's headlong involvement in this scheme -- right up to her pretty eyelashes -- unabashedly romantic but quite endearing.)

But to continue. Fourth, the lady's disposition on the matter should by no means be ignored. She was as devoted to Eccleston as he to her. So much so in fact, that she had overcome her retiring nature and had permitted her solicitor, Melchior, to obtain a special marriage license from the representatives of the Archbishop of Canterbury. She and Eccleston could wed in any church without the banns having been read. In other words, today. Surely Eccleston would see that Lydia could not have been persuaded to do this unless her feelings were as passionate, deep, and desperate as his own.

Well, there it was and it was all up to him now. His happiness and that of his love were in his hands. He could carry on with a stiff upper lip and whatnot or he could pull himself together and….

"Steady on, old chap! Are those really Cornelia's words or do you now speak for yourself?" Eccleston pulled his head back to look literally down his nose at his friend.

"Me, sir. Respectfully." Chadd's lips twitched with sardonic humor. "The point is, Mrs. Trent wishes you to propose. She has done everything in her power -- or rather permitted Cornelia to do everything in hers -- to allow you to do so. And if you do so, she will undoubtedly accept. With pleasure. Oh, and Cornelia's had a word with the vicar at the Royal Garrison Church -- don't ask me when, I have tried to keep her occupied -- and he is free to perform the ceremony at five o'clock this afternoon."

The expression on Eccleston's face mingled shock, realization, delight and embarrassment in more or less equal measure. Chadd grinned broadly. As long as he himself was not involved, the entire business was vastly amusing. Without another word, the two men turned as one and made their way back to The George.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chadd and Cornelia had perched themselves one step below the first floor landing on The George's paneled, dimly lit staircase. Every few seconds, Chadd raised an eyebrow and turned to Cornelia, who tossed her hair or rolled her eyes upward in response. They had been sitting there in a cold draft for nearly ten minutes, listening to Eccleston pacing the hallway just above.

"Why doesn't he get on with it?" Cornelia muttered. Chadd leaned close to hear properly and shook his head, but he was smiling. "Be patient, my love. He's made up his mind, I'm sure of it. He's only considering how to go about it. You can't blame the chap, can you? This is one of the most important questions he will ever ask."

Cornelia raised an eyebrow of her own. "I believe you mean to say the most important question he will ever ask, do you not?"

He smiled broadly now. He found Cornelia endlessly entertaining. He was sure -- well, almost positive -- she did not wish to be proposed to herself. Yet her views toward her young stepmother and Mr. Eccleston were unreservedly romantic. "Yes, of course," he said wryly. "That is exactly what I meant to say."

"Shush!" she whispered suddenly, pointing up the stairs. A telltale creak of the floorboards, not heard before, was followed by pronounced throat clearing, scuffling of boots and the opening of the chamber door directly above.

The two on the stairs looked knowingly at each other. Cornelia appeared quite prepared to remain at her current station, but Chadd rose and held out his hand to her.

"Come, madam." He gave her a mocking little bow. "I fear this could take some time. Shall we go down to the parlor and order up a pot of tea?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Resolved, and astonishingly composed, Francis knelt down before Lydia, not on one knee but on two. Tall as he was, and with Lydia seated, they were more or less at eye level. He clasped both her hands in his.

"Lydia, dearest," he said simply, "I have come to ask you to be my wife."

She nodded emphatically, smiling, unable to speak for a moment. Her countenance, radiance itself, expressed everything he could wish.

"It seems," he went on, "that certain matters I should have seen to myself have been taken out of my hands."

Lydia nodded again. "Cornelia --" she managed to say. "Mr. Chadd --." She withdrew one of her hands and waved it vaguely about.

"But are you sure, sweetheart? I love you, you know. Did I say that? I want your happiness even more than I want my own. I have excellent prospects, at last. I will do everything in my power to care for you and to make you a good husband."

Lydia's smile grew even wider as she wiped away a tear.

"But you will be on your own for months at a time," Francis was saying, "perhaps even years. Even now, we shall have precious little time together. I must leave you in the morning and…."

"There's no need to make a speech, love. My answer is, I will. What could I ever say to you but that I will?"

He had taken a deep breath and now exhaled.

"Besides," she said, taking both his hands again and raising her chin, "I am braver than you think."

"If you are going to marry me, I think you must be the bravest woman in the world."

She freed her hand then and threw her arms about his neck and he kissed her most tenderly as they rose up on their feet. They sat together for a few moments more on the edge of the bed, hearts full. All too soon, they must part for a short time -- but to meet again at the altar. Chadd must be consulted on the exact time. Apparently, a wedding supper was also already in hand, Mr. Tuckey the landlord having been apprised of the circumstances.

Calmly and with an unexpected confidence, Lydia explained the events that had led her and Cornelia to race pell-mell for the South Coast with only the slenderest hope that she and Francis would actually be reunited in Portsmouth. He heard all about Lady Rutledge's part, various solicitors, special licenses, freezing carriages and so forth, until his head quite swam with the details. In truth, he was only focused on Lydia's lovely face and the sure and certain knowledge that she would soon be his wife. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, the Indefatigable loomed over all, but for now -- just for now -- he was first and foremost a bridegroom.

There were a few matters more, as it happened, that his bride wanted to convey -- just a few basic facts that a husband ought to know. The house near Golden Square was to be given up. She had determined, with the means now available to her, to take a house in Southampton. Not only did she have family nearby -- cousins of her mother's -- but it was a "stone's throw" from Portsmouth and easily reached from London.

Eccleston was reassured by the sense of her choice. Any naval port like Portsmouth or Plymouth was bound to be a bit rough. There may be officers a-plenty, and their ladies, but that did not change a town's fundamental character. Southampton was a spa town, with some claim to elegance and culture. He would be far happier picturing Lydia there than in any of the Channel ports.

She was saying that Cornelia would surely come and stay with her. In Southampton, she would have all the war news almost as soon as it reached England. She did not think she would be so very lonely, especially if she got a little dog. And they would write. He would know everything that happened in her world.

While she, Eccleston was equally determined, would know almost nothing of what happened in his. His letters, instead, would play upon the future. In view of his current position, their life together was bound to be respectable and prosperous, perhaps enviable, possibly even glorious. Well, no need to tempt fate, he said to himself as he stood. With a final, heartfelt kiss to the palm of her hand, he took his leave.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Cornelia, along with two of the little chambermaids, had helped Lydia into the gown she had packed, in such hope and haste, for this very eventuality. It was soft wool, the palest blue. Since she had walked to the church wrapped up to her eyelashes in her hooded cloak, her hair was adorned with a fine scarf of ivory Venetian lace rather than a hat.

Eccleston, standing ramrod straight at the altar with his coat well brushed and neckcloth wrapped tight, was struck again by her beauty and how much he loved her as she walked directly up the aisle to meet him. Cornelia trailed in her wake, wearing dark emerald green. She gave Chadd a saucy wink and Eccleston's heart expanded further. He possessed a fortune already, not only in his bride but in his friends.

At this moment, Lydia resembled nothing so much as an earthly angel. He knew it was absurd, but had he not loved her even before he had known her? He was sure that it must be true. The vicar opened his prayer book and cleared his throat. Eventually, the bride and groom left off gazing at each other and turned to face him.

Days, weeks, or even months later, Francis found he was unable to recall very much of what happened after that. He remembered repeating the significant words: "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow." He remembered the fervent hope that he would have the worldly goods in question. He remembered that Chadd produced a ring, a slender gold band, but he never had any idea where it came from.

He remembered kissing Lydia--very soundly indeed--at the clergyman's behest and the sound of Chadd and Cornelia's happy laughter in response. The ceremony had been so short that her cheeks were still cold at the end of it. He remembered the warmth in his heart during the wedding supper, Chadd dishing up roast goose onto his plate along with ribald remarks about keeping his up his strength. There was quite a lot of claret splashing about and it was very good. Two jollier marriage witnesses than Chadd and Cornelia could not have been found. The four of them were at ease together, talk and laughter flowing like the wine. He was careful, though, not to drink much. The evening was full of joy, but his wedding night lay ahead. The one thing he wanted to do before morning was give Lydia all the pleasure she could stand.



*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Indeed, only an hour or two later, Lydia had found herself in the throes of ecstasy. Or had lost herself in them. But then, it was Francis who put her there and, really, why was it that she bothered trying to form any thoughts at all at a time like this?

He's the dearest man on earth, she had mused, just as he was slipping himself, naked, into their excessively large and comfortable bed--what was now, in fact, their marriage bed. Her heart did a little dance, either because she had somehow, miraculously, received her deepest desire, or perhaps because her husband's large hand was sliding slowly up the bare skin of her inner thigh. Or possibly both.

She was not the slightest bit tipsy, though she may have lost count of exactly how many glasses of wine she had drunk at supper. Such a merry group they had made, Cornelia nearly as radiant as Lydia herself and the usually reserved Chadd positively convivial. The bride and groom spent the meal exchanging besotted looks and breaking into foolish smiles. Their companions, meanwhile, beamed with pleasure, teased each other unmercifully, and took turns topping up everyone's glass.

"Lydia!" Francis was saying. "I trust I have your full attention on our wedding night."

"What? Oh, of course you do, darling," she replied at once, having realized that he was only being dry. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close.

"My husband," she whispered. "I love you. I am so happy."

"Mrs. Eccleston," he said, trying the words on his tongue, grinning.

"Francis, can you not be serious for one moment, even now?" She was on the edge of laughter again herself.

He shook his head, dark gold hair gleaming in the firelight. "I cannot. I am far too happy to be serious." He had both hands under her flimsy nightgown, stroking her waist and hips. He nuzzled her ear and she sighed a little in response.

That always roused him and she knew it. Her response was not quite involuntary.

"Minx," he exclaimed, for he knew she knew it. He suddenly withdrew his hands, threw back the bed cover and came over her, pushing her nightgown all the way up. Her perfect body lay exposed to him in the room's dim glow. She quivered, just a little, until he lowered himself upon her.

"You do have a cheek, sir. What a word to use to your wife."

"Oh, Lydia," he said then, no longer smiling. "I do believe that you will always tempt me as no wife should."

She wriggled her shoulders and shivered deliciously. What a very pleasing thing for him to have said. And so seriously, too.

His grin broke out again. "I believe I have you just where I want you, do I not?"

"I believe I may return the compliment." She reached toward the very impressive male part poised just above her thighs. "But, Francis, please! Let us not digress, tonight of all nights."

He gave her the sweetest of smiles. "No indeed, my love. Just this once, I shall not keep you waiting." Francis bent to his task with the greatest goodwill, bestowing kisses most loving and tender, commencing upon her lips, proceeding to her milky bosom.

Lydia adored her husband for many reasons, not least that he knew so well how to love her. Once a shy and somewhat hesitant lover, he had gained immeasurably in assurance, buoyed by her adoration. Where once she had tended to lead, she now willingly allowed herself to be led.

His lips brushed her breast, she felt his warmth and strength against her and she sighed again, her breath ruffling his hair. He rose up, knowing the state of her, and entered her yielding body, smoothly, swiftly. A wave of ecstasy swept through her, eyebrows to toes. He withdrew himself, slowly, slowly, and hovered, his thick affair still just within her, poised to find its way home.

"Ah, Francis!" He must move, he must bury himself in her again or surely madness would follow. Her eyes fluttered to take in the sight of him, his face slightly contorted and impossibly beautiful. Her fingers gripped his shoulders convulsively.

"Please, love….

And then at last he did. He came back to her, gliding into her silken slipperiness, deep and deep, to her very center. Only a moment more and she felt the crisis upon her, so soon that she was nearly taken by surprise. She lost herself, given up to joy.

Her arms dropped upon the bed as she panted her release, her heart pounding, head tossing upon the pillow. He rested with her, then began again, urgently, seeking his own release but taking her with him. Up and up they rose together and then he slowed for a moment, waiting for her. She felt herself beginning to fall apart and knew that Francis was falling with her, into her. He groaned his release and at last, more than ever, they were one.

"Body, mind, and spirit," he murmured a few minutes later. They lay enfolded in each other's arms, covered by the bed clothes and moving their feet around to find the snuggest position.

"Sorry?" said Lydia, her voice drowsy.

"I would give anything if I did not have to leave you tom--"

"Shush, Francis. You must not fret about leaving."

"Well, I will, you know. But I have come to trust that you will look after yourself." He smiled. "And that Cornelia will help you do so."

She, too, smiled in the dark. "You will have so many, such lengthy and detailed letters from me, that I fear you will become quite bored."

He shifted to peer at her, keeping her hand clasped in his and held against his chest. "Shall we see who can bore the other first? No doubt we shall both write up a storm. It's the sending and receiving of letters that will be hit or miss, I am afraid."

"Mmm. But I shall just keep writing. I know I shall feel closest to you by telling you what is happening and what is in my heart."

"There you are then. I have already laid in a prodigious supply of paper. If I can keep it dry and keep Chadd from borrowing too much of it, you shall have at least a line or two from me every day our voyage allows."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At a truly ungodly hour next morning, the two lieutenants convened briefly in the chilly parlor, each having just taken private and tender leave of his lady. By some unspoken, entirely mutual, agreement among them all, the ladies remained in their chambers. There was little chance they would sleep, but they perhaps were grateful for an opportunity to rest quietly and compose themselves. Meanwhile, the officers downed a pot of coffee and a plate of kippers between them. Eccleston paced the whole time, refusing to sit down even to eat. In a few moments they would be wrapped up in their cloaks, striding down to the quay in the dark to meet the ship's boat.

Chadd, whose outward languor was slightly disparaged by ruffled hair and a certain tension around the eyes, lolled back in his chair. He poured himself more coffee and cleared his throat.

"Get any sleep at all, old man?" he asked dryly.

Eccleston bristled. He had a damned good notion just how much of that insouciance was feigned. To avoid rising to the bait, he took a deep draught of the landlord's strong brew before speaking.

"Not much as it happens," he shot back. "But then don't expect me to believe that Cornelia gave you a moment's peace." He marveled at himself. He must be giddy to be speaking so unguardedly.

Chadd grinned. He was much happier bantering than brooding.

"Not a bloody second," he replied brightly. "I did nip off to the dockyard yesterday morning, by the way. We've managed to produce that spare mast, plus a boatload of eighteen pound shot." He smiled even more broadly. "I don't suppose the Captain will refuse three extra casks of Madeira, either."

"You can be a good sort when you want to," said Eccleston. "I say, you haven't acquired a fiancée overnight by any chance?"

Chadd shook his head, his smile fading a bit. "I don't think either of us is the marrying sort, to be honest."

The senior lieutenant ceased his pacing and turned to face his friend. "Look here Chadd, in all seriousness…." He paused before continuing. "The service doesn't look kindly on married lieutenants, you know. I've explained to Lydia and she'll explain to Cornelia. I don't intend to inform the Captain. At least not yet."

"Whatever you say, sir. Still, it will be in the parish register, won't it? Though I don't suppose the Captain will be leafing through the parish register anytime soon."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chadd had a disconcerting and entirely annoying habit of being right. No one on board Indefatigable read so much as a sentence on dry land for quite some months. A war ship engaged in the business of war, she hunted the enemy relentlessly from the time she weighed anchor in the choppy waters of Spithead.

Still, an encounter with any British ship, be it a packet or a man-o- war, might yield letters for the officers and crew. Lydia, as her husband had suggested, numbered each letter she wrote, sending multiple copies by various routes. "May as well play the odds," Francis had said. As she wrote, she felt as though she were speaking to him. It brought him so close to her thoughts that she was sure she could hear his voice murmuring in her ear.

Eccleston's opportunities to post letters were sporadic at best, but good as his word he wrote at least a line almost every day, sometimes a great deal more. The days when Lydia's manservant returned smiling and nodding from the docks were few, but when he was successful she would have page after page to devour rapidly or savor slowly, just as she pleased.

Cornelia, for her part, might dash off a letter to Chadd haphazardly as the mood took her, detailing the activities of the various societies she had joined upon their move to Southampton or expounding at length upon some treatise she was editing for an exiled Frenchman or would- be viscount scholar. She read the letters she was writing out to Lydia, who pretended not to notice her stepdaughter's transparent attempts to sow the seeds of . . . curiosity, if not jealousy.

As Francis's letters arrived, Cornelia eagerly asked Lydia for all the news, then immediately affected such studied disinterest that even gentle Lydia could not help but tease. One or two letters did arrive from Chadd, blithe and cheeky. "If Eccleston grows any thinner, he will come in very handy should we need to jury-rig a mast. " That sort of thing. Cornelia would read the single page, roll her eyes, and toss the letter on the dining table.

"That man is such a, a noodle!" she would exclaim. But Lydia would catch her tripping down the stairs the next day, smiling and humming to herself.

They were snug enough in a little three-story house that over looked the seafront, and busy enough with societies, assemblies, and charitable good works. Nevertheless. "We live and die by the post," Lydia told her friend Lady Rutledge in yet another letter. Their lot, she felt, was nothing compared to the rigors of life at sea or the sacrifice and hardship of war, but she liked to think that her letters were a comfort to Francis, that he felt her near him whenever he held a page she had written or remembered some little thing she had said. It brought solace to think so, anyway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bay of Biscay, September 1794

In the aftermath of battle, more than one kind of battle as it happens, two men stood side by side on the quarterdeck of Indefatigable, each with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I believe there is something else I should tell you, sir."

Captain Sir Edward Pellew lowered his gaze from the foretop mast and regarded his somewhat battered acting lieutenant. Horatio Hornblower had just experienced what were no doubt the most tumultuous 24 hours of his young life: A cutting-out expedition directed at the French ship Papillon nearly gone awry, a pistol ball to the head at the hands of a malicious fellow midshipman named Simpson, the attacks of several French warships, the disappearance of his closest friend, the loss of his expedition commander (requiring him to assume command of the Papillon and arrest the traitorous Simpson), engaging the enemy yet again and thereby rescuing the Indy herself, accepting Simpson's demand for "satisfaction" and so suffering a second wound in a scurrilous "duel", yielding to Simpson's pleas not to shoot him down as he so richly deserved, nearly being stabbed in the back, and finally, seeing the scoundrel righteously (Pellew paused in his internal narrative to straighten his shoulders and raise his chin) shot down like the dog he had shown himself to be.

"Yes, Mr. Hornblower?"

"You asked me to look after Mr. Eccleston's things . . . " Hornblower explained quietly about the letters he had found in Eccleston's sea chest. Dozens upon dozens of them. Perhaps he should not have opened them, but he had been such a private man. Who was his next of kin? Who, indeed.

"So you see, sir," he concluded, "it seems that Mr. Eccleston was married. His wife lives in Southampton."

"Hmm, yes," the captain replied. He wished that Eccleston had confided in him, though he understood the impulse not to do so. The two men stood in silence for quite some time. At last Pellew spoke.

"Mr. Hornblower, be so good as to send Mr. Eccleston's sea chest to my cabin. I shall go below shortly."

"Aye aye," came the prompt reply and in the fading light, Hornblower disappeared.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The letters had been carefully folded and ordered, bound up in a waterproof pouch and tucked into Eccleston's sea chest, beneath his spare shirts. Sir Edward had meant only to discover Mrs. Eccleston's whereabouts, but once he started reading them, he found he could not stop. Lydia's tenderness toward her husband and the love she bore for him were evident in every sentence, on every page.

He thought of his own dear wife's letters and what they meant to him, even when she complained about the farm or told him something he really did not want to know. He thought of all the letters between husbands and wives and families, among the English and the French, as well--what they must mean both to the author and the reader. He thought of all the letters that were never written and all those that might be written, if only a husband or wife could write. Hornblower, he felt, understood something similar. Why else speak of the letters at all? Why not just say that Lieutenant Eccleston had been married and leave it at that?

With profound regret, he thought of Eccleston, who was proud and dutiful and who, when it mattered, had given his all for his country. He sighed deeply. Fueled by his second pot of coffee and the need to get on with things, at last he picked up his quill.

"Dear Mrs. Eccleston," he wrote. "It is my very sad duty to inform you of the death of your husband, Lieutenant Francis Eccleston, upon the 19th of September last, while engaged in battle against the foreign enemy. I hope that it will comfort you to know…."

The Captain rubbed his aching forehead with his left hand. After this, it would be a letter to Chadd's mother and father. After that, how many others? He was sure that this year of Our Lord 1794 was still only the beginning. He dipped his quill again, and continued.

The End

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