Just outside the town an engine with a number of laden wagons was upon the point of starting.
The sun was blazing fiercely down, and at the suggestion of one of the sailors, who, though ready enough for a spree on shore, were viewing with some apprehension the prospect of the long trudge along the dusty road to Sebastopol, Jack asked the officer in charge of the train for permission to ride up.

This was at once granted, and Jack, his trunk and the sailors, were soon perched on the top of a truck-load of barrels of salt pork.
Jack could scarcely believe that the place was the same which he had last seen, just when winter was setting in.

A large village had grown up near the mouth of the valley, wooden huts for the numerous gangs of navvies and laborers stood by the side of the railway.

Officers trotted past on ponies, numbers of soldiers, English, French, Turkish, and Sardinian, trudged along the road on their way to or from Balaklava.

The wide plain across which our cavalry had charged was bright with flowers, and dotted with the tents of the Turks and Sardinians.