But for one dead man that Llewellyn saw there were at least a dozen wounded, and those for the most part lay sick and uncomplaining, as still almost as the dead. Or they would simply try to raise themselves on their arms and plead for a little water; sometimes the words would be but a whisper. Even as they did so it was no uncommon thing to note a spasm of agony come over the face, and a jerk to one side, then hands that drooped and eyes half shut, and gradually the placidity of death.
There were some wounded men dying even as the doctor bent over them.
Llewellyn tried to raise one poor fellow, whose whole shoulder had been torn away by part of a shell, and who seemed struggling to sit.
"Can I do anything for you?" said the young officer.
"Yes: tell her to come, and bring baby. I want to see baby. Where is the light?"
Ah! indeed, where was the light? His head drooped like a wounded bird's, the spirit fled, and Llewellyn laid him gently back.
Some of the faces of the wounded were so disfigured, so shot away I might call it, that they were fearful to behold. Some, they said, had scarcely mouths to eat or drink with, the lower jaws being carried clean away. Faces these were to live in one's dreams for ever and aye.
But enough of this picture—enough of the ghastliness of war.
The allied armies, who, some say, might have marched directly into Sebastopol on the day after their great victory, did not resume their advance until the 23rd.
The wounded of the enemy had at first been in great distress, and when our army went on, Dr. Thompson, assistant-surgeon of the 44th, volunteered to stay behind and look after them. And his servant, M'Grath, stayed also.