MORE DISASTERS. 37

CHAPTER VIII.

MORE DISASTERS.

To the civilian and to the ordinary reader the chief business of the soldier seems to he to fight: to form square when the enemy appears ; to put a cart¬ ridge into his rifle and fire it off; to charge at the sound of the bugle ; to kill as many men as he can ; and to avoid being killed himself. People do not think

of the long, long marches with heavy knapsacks ; the getting up to start per¬ haps across a waterless desert, at half-past one in the morning ; the looking after jaded horses and unruly camels ; the going without water under a terrific sun for hours and hours ; the dragging of guns over, commonly speaking, im¬ passable ground ; the hard fighting for long wearying hours, at any time of day or night, with or without meals ; the glaring sun ; the intense heat; the parched throat ; the aching legs and arms ; the likelihood of surprises ; and, not least, the absence of all news from home : no letters, no newspapers, no word at all from the longing wife and the loving children ; really quite alone in the horrible desert ; behind—a thousand miles to the nearest seaport ; in

front—three hundred miles of desert, and two hundred thousand black savages waiting for blood. These are some of the things that make up war. Perhaps the fighting is the best part of it. There is excitement in that, there is some tangible evidence of the result of hard work ; there is the chance of being mentioned in despatches ; there is the praise given in the general orders. But before the battle—what hardships ! and after it—what agony often ! If one hundred men die on the battlefield, how many people, think you, weep at home ? Too many poets sing the “ pomp and circumstance of war ; ” too few

poets weep the pain of wounds, the pang of loss.

Wounds and loss now followed in thick succession. Elated by the grand defeat of the gallant Hicks the rebels grew bold. Tokar is surrounded, Sincat is surrounded. The latter place cannot be reached, and brave Tewfik Bey, the commander of its little force, is left to die. The black hordes come up to the walls and shout curses at its gallant defenders. There is no food ; the last dog even is killed to keep off starvation. Half a pound of grain in the twenty-four hours is all the fighting men get now. And at last there is but one sack of this left. They make up their minds. The guns are spiked ; the stores burned ; the magazines blown up, and the six hundred men who are left to defend Sincat resolve to cut their way through the enemy. They fill their pouches with cartridges and sally forth. Osman’s