He was a prisoner, but an honoured guest, and they freely
pressed their flasks of _vodkhi_ upon him when with great difficulty
he had swallowed a few spoonfulls of the black porridge.
They talked, too, incessantly, notwithstanding their fatigue, always
on the same subject, this interminable siege.
"It's weary work," said one. "I long for home."
"They will never take the place; Father Todleben will see to that. Why
do they not go, and leave us in peace?"
"It is killing work: in the batteries day and night; always in danger
under this hellish fire. This is the best place. You are better off,
comrade, than we" (this was to McKay); "for you are safe under cover
here, and in the open a man may be killed at any time."
"He has dangers of his own to face," said the under-officer in charge
of the barrack, grimly. "Do not envy him till after to-morrow."
McKay heard these words without emotion. He was too wretched, too much
dulled by misfortune and the misery of his present condition, to feel
fresh pain.
Yet he slept again, and was in a dazed, half-stupid state when they
fetched him out next morning and marched him down to the water's edge,
where he was put into a man-of-war's boat and rowed across to the
north side of the harbour.
Prince Gortschakoff, the Russian commander-in-chief, had sent for him,
and about noon he was taken before the great man, who had his
headquarters in the Star Fort, well out of reach of the besiegers'
fire.
Pages:
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372