It was in the dusk of a July evening of the year 1813 (July 27, to be
precise) that on my way back from the mail-coach office, Falmouth, to
Mr. Stimcoe's Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen, No. 7, Delamere
Terrace, I first met Captain Coffin as he came, drunk and cursing, up
the Market Strand, with a rabble of children at his heels. I have
reason to remember the date and hour of this encounter, not only for
its remarkable consequences, but because it befell on the very day
and within an hour or two of my matriculation at Stimcoe's.
That afternoon I had arrived at Falmouth by Royal Mail, in charge of
Miss Plinlimmon, my father's housekeeper; and now but ten minutes ago
I had seen off that excellent lady and waved farewell to her--not
without a sinking of the heart--on her return journey to Minden
Cottage, which was my home.

My name is Harry Brooks, and my age on this remembered evening was
fourteen and something over. My father, Major James Brooks, late of
the 4th (King's Own) Regiment, had married twice, and at the time of
his retirement from active service was for the second time a widower.
Blindness--contracted by exposure and long marches over the snows of
Galicia--had put an end to a career by no means undistinguished.
In his last fight, at Corunna, he had not only earned a mention in
despatches from his brigadier-general, Lord William Bentinck, but by
his alertness in handling his half-regiment at a critical moment, and
refusing its right to an outflanking line of French, had been
privileged to win almost the last word of praise uttered by his
idolized commander. My father heard, and faced about, but his eyes
were already failing him; they missed the friendly smile with which
Sir John Moore turned, and cantered off along the brigade, to
encourage the 50th and 42nd regiments, and to receive, a few minutes
later, the fatal cannon-shot.