I was shot in the battle of Buxar, eighteen months ago.

For a time the surgeons thought that it was going to be fatal; then I rallied, and for some months it seemed that, in spite of the ball that they were never able to find, I was going to get over it, and should be fit for service again.

Then I got worse; first it was a cough, then the blood used to come up, and they said that the only chance for me was to come home.

I did not believe it would be of any use, but I thought that I would rather die at home than in India, so home I came, and have now been a week in London.
"I thought at first of going down to my place at Reigate, and having you and your boy there with me; but as I have certainly not many weeks, perhaps not many days, to live, I thought I would come down to you; so the day after you receive this letter I shall be with you.

I shall not bring my little girl down; I have left her in good hands, and I shall only bring with me my Hindoo servant.