"We lose a number every night with the cold."
"Bad management---- The Prince is off. I must go. Good luck to you, boys! I shall come over and look you up from time to time. Keep out of mischief!" And he waved a cheery hand and was gone, and the boys went down among the ghastly piles to do what they could.
But it was heart-breaking work; the total of misery was so immense, and the means of alleviation so feeble in comparison.
The French wounded were safe on board ship within an hour after they were picked up. It was two days before all the English were disposed of, though every man who could be spared set his hand to the work.
In the afternoon of the second day after the fight, Jim was going wearily down the hill, after such a time among the dead and wounded as had made him almost physically sick.
All the French, and he thought almost all the English, wounded had been seen to. The Russians had necessarily been left to the last.
As he passed a grisly pile he thought he caught a faint groan from inside it, and set to work at once hauling the dead men apart, with tightened face and repressed breath. The job was neither pleasant nor wholesome, but there was no one else near at hand and he must see to it.
Right at the bottom of the pile, soaked with the blood of those who had fallen on top of him, he came upon a young fellow, an officer, just about his own age. And as he dragged the last body off him, he opened his eyes wearily and groaned.
Jim put his pocket-flask to the white lips, and the other sucked eagerly and a touch of colour came into his face. He lay looking up into the face bending over him, and then his chest filled and he sighed.
"Where are you hurt?" asked Jim, expecting no answer, but full of sympathy.