Skinner Letter 0

The following letter was written by Isaiah Skinner to his mother in the days before the incident at the Knudsen farm.

Letter
My dearest mother,

Here it begins. You made me promise to keep up with my writing, fearing that my time in his excellency's service would somehow wear that skill away like water trickling on a stone, so here I sit in my room, straining my eyes in the dim lantern-light, putting quill to paper. Well, if I have to write them, you'll have to read them, I suppose.

It is my pleasure to inform you that I am now a duly-sworn member of the ranks of Lord Worthy's Peacekeepers, having taken the oath just a week ago this past Monday. After all of the drilling, parading, cleaning, spit-polishing, and being a general dogsbody for some upstart lieutenant too big for his britches, I am, at last, my own man, or at least I own myself insofar as when I'm not directly under orders.

My starting wages will amount to $27,500 per annum, certainly exceeding what little my meager needs entail. Yes, mother, I will ensure that I get three solid meals daily. The mess here is passable, though they certainly do not hold the culinary arts in as high esteem as you do. I still miss your cobbler. My first sizeable outlay will most likely involve the purchase of a serviceable rifle. Besides my wages, the quartermaster has seen fit to issue me with a revolver, a couple of new uniforms, and some other miscellany. I also have the use of a placid mare named Duchess whenever there is a significant distance to travel, and a good dog, Jack, who is so intelligent he could almost speak. You would have to see him in action to believe how well-trained he is.

The companions in my squad are interesting enough. Besides the Reverend, or, as he is now styled, the Sergeant Piermont, well known to you, God bless him, I have the honor of knowing three other similarly-placed misfortunates. There's the Captain, who has been otherwise engaged, though I've met him a couple of times in passing and he seems to be a man of quality, such as what you would expect in an officer. There's the Doctor, Hartwell O'Brien, who we call Doc. I find him to be well-educated, as befits one of his trade, though somewhat of a ditherer and hand-wringer, and operates strictly by-the-book. The combination of those traits means that we spend a great deal of time on paperwork, so much, in fact, that much to my dismay, your concern about my frittering away my education at your hands may be ill-founded. The man is positively religious about his papers and forms, and besides which he knows words that are so fantastic that I am always surprised to discover that they even exist in our dictionary. That volume will be well-thumbed by me; you can be sure of that.

Then there's Zedekiah Lamont. He is a fine enough gentleman, but I find that his blood runs a little cold. We do not interact a whole lot, and from what I have seen of him, he has a subtle cruel streak that I would take care not to duplicate. He has also given unique appellations to each weapon in his arsenal. Rumor has it that he talks to them as he cleans them. I have seen enough of his gunplay on the training range to know that he stands head and shoulders above the rest of us in terms of ability. I count myself fortunate, though, that he is on our side, employing his talents to the benefit of our community. I would quail to face him in a lethal confrontation.

I hope things are going well with you. I do hope that Father's friends are leaving you well alone now that the old man is where he belongs. I am sorry to have written that, but it is how I feel, and you told me always to be honest about how I feel. If they give you any trouble, do not hesitate to send word. Please do let me know how the new Preceptor is getting on. I hope his sermons will be, if not as fiery in temperature, at least more illuminating in subject, than were the good Reverend-turned-Sergeant could muster. Now I am the one who is subject to his tender rhetorical mercies. Though I jest. I do share your love for the man. We both owe him so much, don't we?

The hour is now late, and I must see to my kit and get myself to bed. Sometimes I hear your lullabies on the wind. I miss you, ma.

Your loving son,

Isaiah