On French mule litters, and on horses, many wounded and dying men were being borne from the redoubts down to Balaclava; and as my progress was very slow, with two worn-out, half-starved nags, a terrible procession passed before me. Many of the poor fellows were nearly over their troubles and sorrows. With closed eyes, relaxed jaws, and hollow visages, they were carried down the snowy path by the Ambulance Corps, and the pale steam that curled in the frosty air from the lips of each alone indicated that they breathed.
Two dismounted hussars—for amid their rags, I discovered them to be such—were carrying one who seemed like a veritable corpse, strapped upright on a seat; the legs dangled, the eyes were staring open and glassy, and the head nodded to and fro.
"Comrades," said I, "that poor fellow is surely out of pain now?"
"Not yet," said one. "He is an officer of ours, badly wounded and frost-bitten."
"An officer!"
"Captain Raikes. He won't last till morning, I fear."
"Raikes," said I through my clenched teeth; "Valentine Raikes—and here!"
"Ay, here, sure enough," said the hussar.
My heart bounded, and then stood still for a moment. At last I said—
"Place him on the gun, comrades, and I will take him on to Balaclava; but first, here I've some raki in my canteen. Give him a mouthful, if he can swallow."