Large bodies of troops, columns of infantry on the march,
covered by cavalry and accompanied by guns, were now perfectly visible
in the distant plain.
"Look to your front!" cried the Russian officer peremptorily to
Stanislas, as he stole a furtive, lingering glance back. "Faster! Spur
your horses, or we may be picked up or shot."
All hope was gone now. This was the end of the Tchernaya valley. Up
there opposite were the Inkerman heights, the sloping hills that a few
months before McKay had helped to hold. This paved, much-worn
causeway was the "Sappers' Road," leading round the top of the harbour
into the town.
No one stopped the Cossacks.
They passed a picket in a half-ruined guard-house, the roof of which,
its door, walls, and windows, were torn and shattered in the fierce
and frequent bombardments. Even at that moment a round shot crashed
over their heads, took the ground further off, and bounded away. The
sentry asked no questions. Some one looked out and waved his hand in
greeting to the Cossack officer, who replied, pointing ahead, as the
party rode rapidly on.
Time pressed; it promised to be a warm morning. The besiegers' fire,
intended no doubt to distract attention from the movements in the
Tchernaya, was constantly increasing.
"What dog's errand is this they sent me on?" growled the Cossack
officer, as a shell burst close to him and killed one of the escort.
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