He was up before sunrise, however, and hard at work, though the waves were still high, and landing horses would be no easy matter.
And worse [end of line is blank]
He came on Jack prowling anxiously among the black masses just wakening into life again.
"Hello, Jim!" he said hoarsely. "Where were you? Did you get damp?"
"We're not landed yet. Too rough for the horses."
"Lucky beggars! I never had such a night in my life. It was ghastly. Why the deuce couldn't they let us have some tents? Those French beggars had theirs, and the beastly Turks too. We're the worst-managed lot I ever heard of."
"What's this?" asked Jim, staring open-mouthed at a muffled figure at his feet--stiff and stark, though all around were stirring. "Why doesn't he get up?"
"He's got up," said Jack through his teeth. "He's dead, and there's a score or more like him. Dead of the cold and want of everything. Hang it! why aren't we Frenchmen or Turks!" A sore speech, born of great bitterness.
And Jim felt it almost an insult be so warm and hearty and well-fed, with that dumb witness of the dreadful misery of the night lying silent at his feet.
And the thought of it all bore sorely on him and brought the lump into his throat. To pull through the bad times at Varna; to come all that way across the sea, indomitable spirit overcoming all the weaknesses of the flesh; to land at last in the high flush of hope,--and then to die like dogs of cold and misery, on the wet shingle, before their hope had smallest chance of realisation! Oh, it was hard! It was bitter hard!