"They are going to dig roots for fuel, then light their fires if they can. They are running to keep themselves warm; they are laughing and chaffing to keep up each other's hearts. Ah! there are no soldiers like the British."
"Poor beggars!" said Sturdy, "Why, we were never so badly off as that even at sea, Reikie."
"Well, how we are to get through the dismal winter the good Lord only knows, my friend."
* * * * *
Things grew ten times worse in the British camps before very long.
I have no desire to draw a harrowing picture of the sufferings of our soldiers and sailors, but the reader should know a little of what war is at its worst. Though most of the poor men that languished in pain and misery through the next two or three months before Sebastopol are dead and gone, one feels pity even now when thinking of their wretchedness, and one feels burning with anger also to think that the greater part of all they underwent might have been prevented by ordinary care and good management on the part of those who held the reins of authority at home.
Sturdy paid another visit to the front in December. Again he met Reikie, but this time in Balaklava, and with him were Jack Mackenzie, and a few marines to carry back stores. Both the surgeon and Jack had burdens to bear.
"Well," said Jack, "how do we look this time?"
"You look old and worn, Jack, I assure you. I'm sorry for you. How about your honour and glory, lad?"