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Jonathan de Bourgh spent ten years at St. Mary’s.

His sermons were considered to be well-formulated and theologically sound by his peers.

If some of the young ladies blushed and giggled over his sonorous voice and blue eyes, it went relatively unnoticed except in that attendance grew during his tenure.

He continued his work amongst the poor and soon had organized a home for crippled soldiers and sailors who had no money or family to support them.

The parish tithed funds for the lease on a house; the ladies sewed various necessities and donated baskets of foodstuffs.

Jonathan was even able to hire two nurses, knowledgeable men recently returned from the American wars, to tend to the veterans’ injuries and assist in their recovery and rehabilitation.

Although Jonathan did not seek notice, his work came to the attention of many, including Sir Paul Churchill.

A former navy commander before retiring to a desk job in the War Department, Churchill had cared deeply for his men and kept track of them in later years as best he could.

After hearing praise for the young curate from several of his former sailors, he made an unannounced visit to the home for veterans, now called St. Elmo’s House in honor of the patron saint of sailors.

Pleased with the clean conditions and the cheerful attitude of the men, he identified himself to the housekeeper, intimating that he might be willing to subscribe to the institution’s financial support.

He was further impressed with the businesslike manner with which the staff treated him—giving him a brief tour and summarizing the services, noting what they had and what was needed without any groveling.

Sir Paul sent his card around, applying to the young curate for a meeting.

The two men were pleased with each other and the meeting was extended into a luncheon.

Jonathan discussed oddities at St. Elmo’s that had become innovations.

The adoption of a miserable little dog with a gash on its leg that had been found huddling under a bush in the rear garden had provided the men with a mascot.

One young ensign who had not spoken in the six months recovering from the amputation of both legs and bad burns over his face and torso, had finally begun talking while clutching the yellow mutt to his chest and hiding his tears in its fur.

Later, three bedraggled kittens were added to the menagerie after being rescued by a nurse on his walk to work.

The rear garden had been another unexpected innovation in recovery.

Originally a rather dull patch of lawn ringed with unprepossessing yews, it was rapidly being converted into a rather spectacular garden.

One area had been sectioned into patches for those men who wished a small plot of their own, and, as many of the sailors had been farmer’s sons before escaping to the sea, the kitchen at St. Elmo’s was soon serving fresher produce than many a Mayfair townhouse.

A rainbow of annuals, perennials, and rose bushes were flourishing and the men had established a rota for “garden duties” as they had come to be called.

Sir Paul smiled at this, easily recognizing that these former military men were unconsciously defining a structure in which they were familiar—few of the invalids would be comfortable going outside to simply “take the air” with no goal.

Now, even the amputees were involved, finding niches for themselves and comfort in their ability to work.

A small library of gardening books was being built up and a day trip to the Chelsea Physic Gardens was being discussed.

Jonathan paused for a sip of wine and suddenly realized that, in his enthusiasm, his host had cleared his plate while Jonathan’s was barely touched.

Sir Paul chuckled at the younger man’s embarrassment.

“Not to worry, my boy. It warms my heart to hear of your progress and plans. I’ve seen too many good men fall into melancholy upon returning to Britain after serving abroad. ”

After some further conversation, Jonathan mentioned that a house across the square from St. Elmo’s had been shut up for all the years he had known it and Sir Paul agreed to look into its ownership and see if it might be possible to lease or even purchase the property to expand the hospice.

The older gentleman nodded thoughtfully as the younger man described his idea of having a second house where those in the final stages of recovery (and more comfortable receiving visitors) might live while finding work.

Churchill himself suggested that perhaps a parlor might be outfitted almost like a club, providing a place where other military men could drop by for a visit with old comrades, discuss battles past and present, play cards, or merely rest for a time in a place where empathy abounded.

“I often think of them as the walking wounded—men who finish their service with all their limbs intact and few visible scars, but who have seen too much of pain and suffering to fall easily into their old lives. The family and friends that you dreamed of returning to…” The older man trailed off, staring unseeing into the distance and sighing deeply.

After some moments, the Commander’s thoughts returned to the present.

Blinking, he looked up at the younger man and noted the question in his eyes.

“Battle of Lagos,” he said simply, referring to one of the great naval battles of the Seven Years War.

“It was a great victory and Admiral Boscawen a great commander…

but to this day I still hear the screams of those French sailors when the Redoubtable was driven up on the rocks off Gibraltar.

Then I was given command of the Intrepid and made it to Quiberon Bay just in time to follow Admiral Hawkes into the shoals.

Jonathan nodded quietly, having heard stories from sailors who had survived the terrifying naval battle in which French and British fleets had fought desperately while dancing around reefs and shoals, buffeted by stormy winds.

Sir Paul grimaced toward his leg and cane.

“Caught shrapnel. I’ll never forget that day; storm waves crashing on the rocks and reefs popping up where you’d never expect it.

I thought we were pulling in around an island to sneak up on the French flagship when out pops this frigate with guns ablaze.

It would have been quite a sight if I was a painter, but as a young officer trying to rally a green crew… ” He shrugged, sighing.

“Well, we got ourselves put together and took that frigate after some fancy sailing, but about a minute after they ran up the white flag I looked down to see why my right boot was squishing more than the left. There was a splinter as big as your thumb sticking out the side of my thigh. Didn’t even notice it in the heat of the battle but by then, I’d leaked enough that my boot was full of blood and I nearly keeled over in the arms of my bosun. ”

“I was young and stupid—thought I could just have the ship doctor pull it out, bind me up, and get me back out to finish up the surrender. Made it another five hours before collapsing again. Teakwood—went septic.” He grunted, cringing at the painful memory.

“Didn’t lose the leg, but spent about a month in fevers and surgeons, then another six months recovering at home with my mother fussing about. ”

Jonathan nodded his understanding.

“Spent another six months at my father’s house wandering through my old life like a fog.

” Sir Paul continued. “I knew I didn’t want to try for another command at sea—I’d been a good officer but not a brilliant one—but I wasn’t sure of much else.

I’d been affianced to a girl two years before—our families were close and she was a sweet little thing—but it seemed to me that we had nothing in common after I returned.

We broke it off amicably enough and I was happy when she got engaged to some lord a few months later. ”

“I had just about convinced myself that going out drinking every night with my old mates wasn’t doing much for me when my uncle came for a visit.

He’d been an army man—talked to me enough to understand that he’d seen some ugly things while serving in America when the colonies revolted.

Then he did something that probably saved my life—suggested I take myself up to Scotland and spend some time at the family’s hunting lodge, getting myself together.

Mama fussed quite a bit but he was her elder brother and she trusted his advice.

“So, I packed my kit, saddled my horse and headed north.

Mama had insisted I take my valet but Abbot had served me through my recovery and I knew he could use a bit of time to himself so I dropped him off in Surrey to visit his family.

When I got to Scotland, the elderly couple that kept the property had the lodge opened up and got me settled before going off back to their cottage.

“I spent a couple months barely speaking to another person. The McGills came by now and then to do the cleaning and keep my larder provisioned but largely let me keep to myself. I went on some long hikes through the hills and slept rough when I’d walked too far.

Did some fishing but could barely even look at a gun, let alone think about hunting for sport.

“McGill’s collie adopted me in my roving and we had some good long talks about philosophy and civilization.

It was only years later that I realized that his camaraderie was much less spontaneous than it seemed.

Turned out that McGill was my uncle’s batman in the army and my family had settled him and his wife as caretakers of the lodge when Uncle Thomas retired as thanks for his service.

That dog was smart as a whip and as well-trained as a twenty-year master sergeant.

I’ve no doubt at all that he was sent along to keep me out of trouble.