I had set down the quill — though I have no occupation but to write — and I take it up again. I must add to my account that my nerves were agitated within me at Dr. Trefusis’s discourse, and (it shames me to say) I felt myself not entirely well dispositioned towards him, who is the kindest and most generous of men. When we went above-decks for me to conduct Dr. Trefusis back to his shallop, he paused and said that I seemed out of my humor; to which I replied that the battle weighed heavily upon me. He entreated me again to tell him of the events, now no mirth in his demeanor.

It was then that I told him of the battle — so much as I could — and of my fit upon the bridge that left me without motion; I confessed my cowardice in freezing thus, unable to stir my limbs. He hastened to mollify me.

“’Twas not cowardice,” said he, “but overwhelming compassion.”

“It served no purpose,” said I. “No one was saved.”

He smiled kindly. He said, “Socrates served as a soldier in the Athenian host. At Potidæa, he became so engaged in a question of ethics that he remained standing in his armor, unmoving, insensate, for a full day and night altogether.”

“I do not care, sir,” I said. I told him: “I do not care a whit.”

The old man’s face fell; he was in some confusion, before he regained his pride, and with a hint of a gentleman’s hauteur said, “Octavian, I was merely attempting to soothe —”

“Did you need speak of Dunmore’s doubts? Did you need tell us he was foolish and uncertain?”

“I was attempting, Octavian, to reveal the truth of —”

“You spake thus, sir, to vent wit, so that you might regale us with the acuity of your observation. The comedy of the wrist.”

If he had been previously startled, he was now stunned, even frightened in his demeanor. And still, ruthless fool, I continued: “Sir, you may jest at the foibles of His Lordship — because you are —” (I could not say it) “— because you are as you are, sir — but for us, this expedition — sir, this expedition — it is our sole hope. If it fail, we die. We are transported to the Sugar Isles. We are hanged. I beg you: do not jest with our fates.”

At this, his heart melted, and he wept a tear and embraced me, begging my pardon and calling me the most excellent of beings, the most tender of grandchildren. He said he was abject, and told me his stomach was taken sick with the very thought of his vanity, and praised and thanked me profusely for my candor. I could not retain any anger against this gentle soul, my longtime benefactor, at this display, and I begged his pardon for my harshness; and thus, reconciled, we parted, both more secure in the other’s affection.