‘Well, I’ve got cause enough here,’ said Linham. ‘Seven months’ campaigning, and never anything for us to do that a militiaman on a donkey couldn’t have done as well. Sent to the most unhealthy places they could find, and, to wind up with, a prospect of winter under canvas in a hole like this with nothing to do but escort sick and wounded or haul stores up from Balaclava. What’s the use of cavalry here, that’s what I want to know.’ ‘Never mind, sergeant, I’ll get you a cup of coffee made directly,’ said Jack as he unsaddled Dainty. ‘And I’ll grub about for a bit of wood,’ said Will; ‘that commodity is getting uncommonly scarce.’ Jack took a pail and went off to the river for the water. Several others were bent on the same errand, and all had filled their buckets and were on their way back to the camp when suddenly there was a shrill, horrible screaming overhead, and something fell with a crash just in front of them. ‘Shell! Down all of you!’ cried a man of the 11th Hussars; and Jack threw himself flat on his face. In an instant there was a blinding flash, a terrific roar, and the earth seemed almost to quake. For a few seconds no one moved; then, half-dazed, they raised up their heads and slowly got on their feet. Jack found he was drenched with water from his pail and covered with earth, otherwise he was not hurt, nor were any of the others; but his pail had disappeared, having been blown clean away. In front of them was a hole big enough to have buried a horse in. ‘That was a close call,’ said the man of the 11th Hussars. ‘A bit too close,’ said Jack; ‘but I must have some water. Will any one lend me enough from his pail to fill our pot?’ ‘Come back with me and help to fill mine again, chum,’ said the Hussar, ‘and I’ll give you some out of it.’ Jack’s pot was thus filled, and presently he sat down beside the fire Will had managed to make, and thought for a moment over his escape. ‘What’s up, Jack? You look as solemn as if you were going to your own funeral,’ said Will, who was trying to roast some green coffee-berries on a mess-tin. ‘I did jolly nearly go just now,’ said Jack; and he related what had happened. ‘Whew!’ whistled Will, ‘that’s too near to be pleasant. I thought I heard a shell pass pretty close. But give me a hand with the grinding, will you?’ The scorched berries were put into a piece of an old exploded five-inch shell, and then with a couple of nine-pounder balls the trumpeters crushed them up, finally emptying them into the pot when the water boiled. They at last succeeded in making a greasy sort of browny-coloured liquid, having fragments of berries floating about on the top of it, and this, with some hard biscuit, was to form their breakfast. They had hardly, however, tasted this beverage, which, poor stuff that it was, was more than welcome, when _bang! bang!_ rang out a couple of carbines.