This narrative cannot close without that note of pride and sadness which, alas, characterises so many records at this time in the history of the world. Since the first chapter was written two more of our company have laid down their lives. The words of appreciation which it was hoped would have given pleasure can only be wreaths to their memory. Charles Jeffery, of Lowestoft, who joined at Whitstable and was with us to the last, who grew from boyhood to manhood on Mana, has met with a hero’s death on a minesweeper.
Henry James Gillam rests in a Sicilian grave. Volunteers were called for, for specially dangerous work in capturing submarines; Gillam responded—it is impossible to picture his doing otherwise—and he fell in action in April 1918. The loss to his country is great; to us it is very real and personal. The whole voyage of the Mana is a tribute to his skill. His high intelligence and character secured him universal confidence, while his unvarying good temper—in bad times as well as in good—made him a delightful companion. One can only think of him in that other life as still keen for some new work or enterprise, and carrying it out with perfect loyalty and success.
Thus from land and sea, in defence of a Great Cause, have our comrades of the Expedition made their last voyage “westward.”
I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.
Whittier.
And now the story is told. The Expedition has, we hope, brought some new pieces to fit into the puzzle which it went out to study, but the help is needed of every reader who has more to bring, from whatever part of the world; so alone can be finally solved the Mystery of Easter Island.