It was dark when we turned our backs upon Chiu-lien-cheng and set out for camp. The distance by way of the pontoons was ten miles, whereas it was little more than five if we crossed the islands direct. We decided to take the short cut, believing that the rivers in our line of march had been pontooned for the artillery that passed us on the way. At the first stream we found no bridge, but were directed to a ford by a soldier who kept watch by the bivouac fire on the bank of the river. For a hundred yards or so the water was shallow enough, but it grew deeper and deeper, until two of our horses were swimming and another was struggling on the edge of quicksand. There was nothing for it save to turn back and seek the aid of pontoon boats in which guns and horses were being transported. As we rode along the bank our horses shied at several dark objects on the sand. They were dead soldiers, who lay as they had fallen in the fight of that morning. The boats took us to the other side, and we felt that our troubles were over. They had, however, only begun, for at the main stream, which is several feet in depth, and four hundred yards wide, there was no pontoon, and the boats were carrying soldiers. It looked as if we must retrace our steps or remain on the island all night. Long and diligent search was made for an officer who would give us authority to commandeer a boat, but none could be found. For an hour or more we stood helpless in the shadow of the temple, where a sergeant was sorting official papers by the feeble light of a Chinese lantern. At last we determined to take a boat and row ourselves across. Our craft was made of two pontoon boats held together by a platform that gave room for four horses, and was propelled by heavy sculls. In due time, and without great difficulty, we landed half our party on the south island, and some rode away, leaving others to return for their comrades. I remained to take charge of the horses, and was looking anxiously over the dark river when two soldiers approached very cautiously, and with their rifles ready. Halting about twenty paces distant they spoke, but what they said I could not understand. “_Akokojin_,” I replied. “Englishman.” Whereupon they came up and went through a little pantomime, which I have no doubt was intended to convince me that I had come very near being shot for a Cossack. With a soldier for guide we reached at last the bridge that spanned the south stream, and at four o’clock in the morning were in camp. It had taken twelve hours to get those messages censored, and they had still to be carried hundreds of miles on foot through Korea before they could arrive at a telegraph office. Chapter XV “THE PEACE OF THE EAST.” ANTUNG CITY.