Epilogue
Dear Grace,
My friend, since my last letter, such good news! I’m sick every morning. If John is in port, he winces, then grins like a Rock Ape. ‘It will pass, dear heart,’ he says. ‘Let me get you some ship’s biscuit. You’ll keep that down.’ Then, drat his hide, he adds, ‘Weevils and all.’
We have informed Pru and Allan. Imagine my delight when Pru told me, ‘Mama, I will be a big sister again!’ I cried. Who wouldn’t? John tells me I cry at everything now. He exaggerates.
Late May is the time of my confinement. I expect we will still be here on Menorca, as Admiral Collingwood intended, the Swallow patrolling, with occasional assistance here and there in the Mediterranean.
John groused to Admiral Collingwood about showing the flag but just patrolling, until the admiral pointed out to him that is precisely what keeps the French bottled up in Toulon.
John’s little fleet does not keep a predictable schedule, lest any French observers notice a pattern. They also patrol the many inlets found in these islands. ‘There will be no more flaming torches,’ John states. ‘We learned that lesson.’
Admiral Collingwood and Bounce visit here occasionally, which delights our children.
I think the admiral feels the most content when he and John—if he is in port—chat about small matters in the sitting room.
I mend and darn, which still relaxes him.
Poor man. I do not know why the Admiralty forbids him even a quick visit to England. It saddens me.
He sold the house and wants to purchase another closer to Port Mahon itself, where we have taken up residence. For myself, I enjoy our own place, right in the centre of Port Mahon with an excellent view of the docks.
We are all protected by Sergeant David Bartleby. He is much happier since his recent return from Cornwall, wife in hand. Maggie Bartleby is a welcome help to me—a wonderful cook and a friend already. I know there will be more babies in this house!
You asked about the Americans. Captain Tyler and the Hartford sailed two months ago.
He made port to see us and our new house before following the convoy with the Constitution.
I asked John what he thinks of the Americans.
He shrugged. ‘I trust them, for the most part, but we might find ourselves at odds again. Mind you, Yanks are better friends than enemies.’
There you have it, Grace. We are content here on Menorca.
The ‘war’ I fight now against Napoleon consists of keeping morale high.
Captain Beattie tells me that a happy captain means a happy ship.
He’s far removed from the desperate man who knocked on my door.
I hope to never see that particular captain again.
This one suits me right down to the ground.
Much love from all of us, dear Grace.
Anna Beattie