Some moaned, others showed by their faces that they were suffering agonies of pain; and although their messmates were as gentle with them as if they had been sick infants, every now and then one could hear such expressions as—"Gently, Jack, gently!" "Mind my leg, Bill!" "Yes; now I'm easier, thanks, thanks!"
These last words were indeed spoken by a poor soldier of the 77th, whose head drooped back the very next moment—the man was dead.
The march to Balaklava of Dr. Reikie's detachment of sick was far more sad than any funeral procession ever seen.
The movements of the horses, gingerly though the poor wise brutes tried to step, as if sensible of the weary load they had to bear, caused the wounded to moan and groan; but many lay with closed eyes as if dead, while others, horrible to relate, were attacked by fits of wild delirium on the march, and had to be held down by force.
Then the horses often slipped, and more than one fell.
As gently as possible the men were lifted off on their arrival at Balaklava, and conveyed on board the Gurnet.
Here Reikie made them all as comfortable as circumstances would permit.
But do not think, reader, that their sufferings were ameliorated when the Gurnet, after considerable delay, got off to sea. No, it was increased tenfold; for these sick were packed on the decks side by side, with hardly room for the attendants to step between.
Alas! the attendance they got was but little, though every one, from the doctor downwards, tried to do what they could for them.
To their other miseries were added all the horrors of sea-sickness; for a storm had come on, and although the vessel was under steam, she made all too little headway. She shipped seas at times, or the spray dashing inboard cold and white soaked the wretched patients to the skin.