In handing Captain Smeaton's glasses back, I noticed that one of the mules harnessed to the Maxims had just been struck by a bullet, which passed clean through the animal's neck. The wounded mule, by name Tommy, was evidently quite a pet amongst the gunners, and though it looked rather anxious and depressed, it dragged the Maxim with unabated vigour. In places, as we marched along, the ground was strewn thickly with bodies, as the fire had struck the enemy down in little heaps. In one spot I saw a ring of nine men and three horses, all evidently slain by the explosion of a single shell. One Dervish, as I passed, raised his face to mine with a ghastly smile, as if deprecating our vengeance, and throwing his _gibbeh_ on one side, displayed an awful wound. A shell splinter had struck the miserable man full in front, and literally ripped his body open from side to side. Another man lay face downward upon the sand, breathing bubbles through a pool of gore, and actually drowning in his own blood! As a rule, however, the features of the dead were not distorted. They lay as if asleep, with a peaceful look upon their faces, and many of them were handsome men of magnificent build. The sun by this time was terribly hot, and, after the excitement of the fight, the fatigue of the day's work, and the absence of sleep on the previous night began to tell upon the men. Several halts were made, and at last a string of camels laden with _fantasias_ (metal water tanks) made their appearance. The men crowded round, and filled their bottles to the brim. The water was quite warm, but the troops drank it with avidity. I filled my bottle, and then, plunging the whole thing into a bucket, waited till evaporation should cool the contents. Meanwhile I crawled under a Maxim carriage. The scanty shade was perfectly delicious, and I should have gone to sleep but for the mules, which became restless, and kicked out occasionally with their hoofs in unpleasant proximity to my head.