Day after day we struggled with our necessities, and I confess I saw nothing but starvation staring me in the face. What was to be done? My faithful Augustine deliberated with me in our misfortune, with great patience, and we agreed that it would be most desirable for her to return to her uncle, and endeavour to move the family of her father to a reconciliation with us both. Her infant, she thought, could not fail to excite commiseration; but how were we to defray the expenses of so long a journey? However, having received several wounds in the service, I was entitled to what is commonly termed “blood money.” A certificate to that effect, and signed by my commanding officer and the adjutant of my regiment, I now had by me. This was to be presented to the parson of the parish in which I was resident one month after my discharge. The Honourable Dr. Wellesley, brother to the Duke of Wellington, being rector of Chelsea, I appealed to him, and he referred me to a Mr. Walsford, Secretary of the Patriotic Fund, No. 80, Cornhill. But this gentleman was even more Spartan than the Lords Commissioners, for after two or three struts up and down his office, he suddenly stopped, and staring me very stupidly in the face, said, “Damn it, Sir! did you expect to fight with puddings or Norfolk dumplings? If men go to battle, what else can they expect but wounds! I am now busy, and cannot be troubled with you.” I returned to Chelsea—represented my situation to Mr. Wellesley, and through him, succeeded in obtaining a small sum—five pounds—for the wound at Waterloo, but none for the others which I received in the Peninsula. With this scanty supply we proceeded to Dover, thence to Calais, and from thence to St. Omer, where, taking leave of my beloved Augustine and her infant (_for the last time_), we parted. She promised to write me word immediately she succeeded with her family, and, if not, it was agreed that as soon as my circumstances improved she should return to me. “Ne m’oubliez pas” were her last words: as she squeezed my hand.