'Sir, a drink—a drink, for God's sake!' The cry stabbed me. From the indistinguishable pile of flesh and—other things—I saw at my feet a blood-stained head, a sheet-white face lit up by two burning eyes, and an arm stretched towards me. I gave it—this thing—my water-bottle. The wounded man seized it with both hands, but after a second let them fall helplessly, his head lolling back on someone's enormous and blood-smeared boots.
'Ach! cold. Cover me.' He was in an ague.
It was sickening, revolting, horrible. I tried to slip out, but involuntarily my eyes were caught by the sight of a grinning face on which danced the expiring light of the flickering wall-lamp. A smile? and amid such surroundings? Stepping carefully across the wounded men, I went up to it. No! it was not grinning: 'twas the play of light and shadow on the face of another cold corpse. The rows of teeth, the half-opened lips, and the fixed, glazed, staring eyes—a ghastly grin indeed.
Along-side, with his face turned towards and almost touching this—this grin—lay another mangled man, groaning piteously and breathing fast. Every now and then he opened his eyes, but apparently did not know where he was. What would have been his feelings, I wonder, if on the way to Arthur he had come to himself? Throwing my handkerchief across the dead face, I jumped out of the waggon and hurried to the station, to find the wrangle still continuing. I was boiling with fierce indignation. I kept hearing the animal noises and groans of hundreds of suffering men imprisoned in this train, which till a few hours before had been, as was amply evident, filled with cattle.
I left this inferno and went off and joined the artillery. We soon started, and marched through the moonlight night, along with troops, transport, and herds of cattle, all hurrying, scurrying towards Port Arthur, passing many Chinese villages, seemingly quite deserted. Once we heard a shout, 'The Japanese cavalry are on us!' By dawn on the 27th, having again gone more than thirty miles, we arrived at the station of Inchenzy. Worn out and hungry, and finding no food at the station, we lay down on the platform. At six o'clock some hot food was provided for the men. The officers were asked to have some refreshment in a saloon carriage, the very one in which, three days ago—little expecting what was in front of us—I had gone to Kinchou. At seven I left for Port Arthur in one of the trains of wounded coming from Nangalin, and at nine o'clock I reached the Fortress. The town was stupefied.
THE LAST OF DALNY
When Dalny heard the heavy fire from the direction of Kinchou early in the morning, little did the people think how that day would end for them. Afraid of what would happen, they had some weeks before asked permission to leave for Port Arthur; but Stössel had strictly refused, and had even sent back one or two families which had started: he had told the Mayor that there was nothing to be alarmed about, that he would send word directly there was any need for them to move. The sound of firing increased, but the town remained quiet—life moved along the usual track. Even if some felt doubtful as to the result of the battle, there was no idea that the 26th would be the last day for them in Dalny. Midday came; the distant firing slackened off, then increased, and the curious collected on the church tower to see what was happening, for no information had been received from the staff of the district. [Stössel was about that time celebrating his 'victory,' not thinking of Dalny.] The sun sank in the west and evening came on; still no news, and complete ignorance as to what was happening at Kinchou. Evening changed to night; the electric lights blazed up in the streets, and Dalny went to bed.