We arrived back at Gwynn’s Island this morning, the 4^th of July. When we reached the isle, rowing between the great ships of the floating town, coming to rest upon the dirt of the beach, our return was greeted with no emotion of surprise or elation; save later by our close familiars, who wept to see us again, and wept for those who did not return with us. Nsia greeted her husband with shouts; and then they grew silent. They were too solemn for speech. Dr. Trefusis embraced us, weeping.

Works upon the isle proceed as ever: still the futile fortifications, though the rebels glower high above us from the shore. The Otter sloop-of-war is hove to and careened in the channel while it undergoes repair; men crawl upon its belly, scraping at barnacles and repairing the work of the worm. Governor Eden of Maryland pays his respects to Lord Dunmore, exiled from his Colony, and I hope they made a pleasant supper of the collapse of all authority and safety together.

There is weariness and defeat upon every face. Among the sickly, great numbers are dying. There is scarce time to bury them. There are no memorials to these entombed upon the island, save crosses drawn upon the brown loam, which †’s serve the Christians for hope even when racked; and serve the heathens as a suitable sign of the mountain of the living reflected in the lake of the dead. There are many buried there.

By the graves sit the community of dirt-eaters, now fifteen or twenty in number. They will not take sustenance. They sit or lie upon the ground, arms too thin for human limb, faces too drawn for flesh, smeared white with powder. In their eyes, there is already retreat; they are already in the land of the dead.

Dr. Trefusis informed me that Will was among them.

For three days he hath resided there. Will hath sustained many sorrows, as have we all; and he receiving word of the capture of so many of our Company, he could no longer support such harrowing news, and repaired to the grave-grove, there to die. I cannot with ease think upon him and his friend John, newly fled, telling the tale of their turkey call.

When we made our dinner, I went to deliver some of the corn mash to him.

I found him among the red pines. He sat apart from the rest of the cult of suicides, his legs crooked impossibly. There was spittle upon his chin; and he stared at me without recognition.

I presented the mash; which he did not take; nor, in his sickness, did he remonstrate when I held the mash before his face.

I presented it between his lips; but the tongue did not move, and the jaw was without motion. The mash lay in his mouth, or dripped forth, cutting a channel in the soil of his chin.

I reached up and closed his mouth. At this, he could not breathe, and shook his head as might a sleeper. He spat forth the mash, and resumed his empty look.

Determined that he should stir from this deathly posture, this fatal repose, I filled the spoon again, and held it before him as a command.

Once more, he did not eat.

He asked merely, “Why?”

Said I, “Why?”

He nodded, and repeated, “Why.”

I held forth the spoon, and answered, “Because Slant of our Company is dead; and Jocko of our Company is dead; and Pomp of our Company is gone. And John of our Company is sold.”

“John, aye, sold,” he said.

“And they did not fall so that you may sit.”

“Aye,” he said. “Aye, John.”

For a time, we sat together. After a time, he nodded slowly. He took a finger’s pinch of the mash, and ate it. He closed his eyes.

“Octavian?” he said.

“Yes?” said I.

“Octavian,” he repeated.

At supper-time, I brought him home.

In the evening, I write our tale of this last week. We spake it during supper, as once, at the inception of our Regiment, all told the tales of escape; now we tell the tales of the return of soldiers to bondage. We tell of how our companions fell, and how we are become murderers.