Wolfe was determined to go and fight. Nothing could stop
him. There was no commission for him as an officer. Never
mind! He would go as a volunteer and win his commission
in the field. So, one hot day in July 1740, the lanky,
red-haired boy of thirteen-and-a-half took his seat on
the Portsmouth coach beside his father, the veteran
soldier of fifty-five. His mother was a woman of much
too fine a spirit to grudge anything for the service of
her country; but she could not help being exceptionally
anxious about the dangers of disease for a sickly boy in
a far-off land of pestilence and fever. She had written
to him the very day he left. But he, full of the stir
and excitement of a big camp, had carried the letter in
his pocket for two or three days before answering it.
Then he wrote her the first of many letters from different
seats of war, the last one of all being written just before
he won the victory that made him famous round the world.

Newport, Isle of Wight, August 6th, 1740.

I received my dearest Mamma's letter on Monday last,
but could not answer it then, by reason I was at camp
to see the regiments off to go on board, and was too
late for the post; but am very sorry, dear Mamma, that
you doubt my love, which I'm sure is as sincere as
ever any son's was to his mother.

Papa and I are just going on board, but I believe
shall not sail this fortnight; in which time, if I