oned some pain in
Mauritius. The illness became acute at the end of 1813. He was only 39
years of age, but Mrs. Flinders wrote to a friend that he had aged so
much that he looked 70, and was "worn to a skeleton." He mentioned in his
journal that he was suffering much pain. Yet he was never heard to
complain, and was never irritable or troublesome to those about him. He
was full of kindness and concern for his friends. We find him attending
sittings of the Admiralty Court, where his friend Pitot had a suit
against the British Government, and he interested himself in the
promotion of two of his old Investigator midshipmen. He urged upon the
Admiralty with all his force that his own branch of the naval service was
as honourable and as deserving of official recognition as war service.
The only inducement for young officers to join a voyage of discovery, and
forego the advantages arising from prizes and active service, was the
reasonable certainty of promotion on their return. "This," he observed,
"certainly has been relied upon and fulfilled in expeditions which
returned in time of peace, when promotion is so difficult to be obtained;
whereas I sailed and my officers returned during a war in which promotion
was never before so liberally bestowed. Yet no one of my officers, so far
as I have been able to ascertain, has received promotion for their
services in that voyage, although it has been allowed the service was
well executed."* (* Flinders' Papers.)

The illness increased during 1814, while the "Voyage" and its
accompanying atlas were passing through the press. He never saw the
finished book. The first copy of it came from the publishers, G. and W.
Nicol, of Pall Mall, on July 18th, on the day before he died; but he was
then unconscious. His wife took the volumes and laid them upon his bed,
so that the hand that fashioned them could touch them. But he never
understood. He was fast wrapped in the deep slumber that preceded the
end. On the 19th he died. His devoted wife stood by his pillow, his
infant daughter (born April 1st, 1812) was in an adjoining room, and
there was one other friend present. Just before the brave life flickered
out, he started up, and called in a hoarse voice for "my papers." Then he
fell back and died.

Upon the manuscript of the friend who wrote an account of his death,
there is pencilled a brief memorandum, which chronicles a few words
muttered some time before death touched his lips. The pencil-