This morning he had been planning to write to his mother and father about the Tsar’s death. The news of it had reached the English through the telegraph, before it could get to the Russians. Lord Raglan had sent Lord Burghersh into Sebastopol, a white flag ahead of him, with the intelligence. It was said that the Cossacks had not believed him, suspecting a ruse until he took out his betting book and offered to wager them £50 apiece that it was so. At this he was given credence. It was rumoured that the Emperor’s demise might hasten the end of the war. This was the story William had meant to tell his parents.

Derrington had lately been sent from a London supplier a small campaign table, which served them both as desk and dining table. Upon it Gale had before him several handfuls of the bulbs which he had collected. These were the source of the dearest little white flowers, tiny lanterns which hung at the end of tender green stems, their faces drooping down like shy children. These snowdrops covered the ground beyond the camp, together with crocus and small wild hyacinths. It had become something of a craze, among the officers, to send quantities of the bulbs home. He had thought to enclose some of the bulbs – each no bigger than a peppermint – in his next letters home.

The empty page over which his pen hovered must now contain sadder things. In all his letters home, he had tried to maintain a levity which, to say the truth, seldom matched the circumstances in which he found himself. Only to his father did he occasionally confide the more sober sentiments he was sometimes prey to; even to his wife he had held back from describing the true horrors of this past winter. To his family he outlined the barest sketches of those battles he had participated in and the occasional skirmish, without dwelling on the losses incurred. Such reticence was somewhat in vain, for the wretched Times correspondent supplied more unpleasant detail than William ever cared to; and made many errors besides.

The boy’s hair he would not consign to the treachery of the seas, but keep with him until he came home. But the letter he must write and with haste, for he guessed there could be no rest for his parents, nor his sister besides, until they knew the end of poor Algie.