Temeraire had been allotted the entire starboard section, the better to ease his wound, but the rest of the dragons lay in a complicated many-colored heap of entangled limbs, stirring rarely. The scene upon the dragondeck was very different now, with nearly all the formation crammed aboard. Her sails were all hung out loose and billowing men were clambering over her masts, getting her rigging back into order, looking much like busy ants at this distance. Having gained the forecastle, he limped for a moment to the larboard rail to rest, pretending it was to look over at their prize, the Chanteuse. Making his way back up to the dragondeck was a slow affair of easy stages. He did not get up right away, but sat looking out the windows at the empty ocean, in silence. Having done at last, he shut up his small writing-desk and collected the letters, each one sealed and wrapped in oilcloth against rain or sea-water.

He had written a long and grinding description of the battle in his report for the Admiralty he did not have the heart to paint a lighter picture of it for her eyes. It was difficult to write easily, after the earlier task he confined himself to assuring her of his health and Temeraire's, dismissing their collective injuries as inconsequential. Laurence set it aside and wrote a few lines of a more personal nature, these to his mother: news of the engagement would certainly be published in the Gazette, and he knew she would be anxious. It was the last of the obligatory letters, and the thinnest: there had not been very much to say of earlier acts of valor. He had lost friends near his own age enough as a mid and a young lieutenant, and one thirteen-year-old boy under his own first command even so he had never before had to write a letter for a ten-year-old, who by rights ought still to have been in his schoolroom playing with tin soldiers. HE LAID THE pen down and folded over the letter it was miserably awkward, inadequate, and yet he could do no better. I pray that you may find some Comfort in the sure Knowledge that he died as he would have lived, valiant, fearing nothing but Almighty God, and certain to find a Place of Honour among those who have sacrificed All for their Nation. His Loss must grieve all those who shared in the Privilege of his Acquaintance, and none more so than those honoured to serve alongside him, and to see in him already formed the noble Character of a wise and courageous Officer and a loyal Servant of his Country and King. and the Conduct of your son was in all ways both heroic and gentlemanly.

Adam george eliot