My Dear Sweet Rebbecca,
It is darkest night as I write this letter. Poor little Emily (bless her heart), could no longer stay awake, even with the treat of destruction, and she is now resting comfortably against me. Sanders and I are on watch duty tonight, and she volunteered to come along. The three of us had a wonderful time of it all, talking and laughing together. It brings me such joy to know that we can still laugh in such dire times. Sanders is currently stirring a pot of coffee, something to take the edge off our weariness. Never have I seen a man manage to make coffee whilst simultaneously monitoring the horizon like he does. It's a reassuring feeling. William is dealing with this whole situation admirably; he has taken to carrying no less than three rifles on him at all times, and the way he maintains them you would think they were his children! You know, he named one of them after me – an old, splendidly crafted Ottoman matchlock, from a time when firearms were a sign of status; frankly I'm flattered by the notion. What's more, he's taken to carving insults into the jacket of every shell he carries. When I asked him about it, he merely said that it helps his accuracy. In a way it makes sense; it's something that I feel makes every shot he takes more meaningful
I'm afraid that I must end this letter here, my love; Sanders says he can see them moving across the roadway – they're up to something and we need to insure the safety of the others. Know that you are always in my heart, and that I pray to God that we will reunite soon.
With all of my Love,
Gustauve
