We were first taken to the barracks in the evening, scrambling up a
stony hill. The building looked like the disreputable ruins of
somebody's "Folly." Half the roof was off, and the walls were full of
holes. We stumbled up some black steps and entered a huge dark barn with
four log fires down the centre of the room.
Round these were huddled crowds of men. They pulled some rough planks
out of a hole in the wall to let in the sunset light, and the icy Borra
rushed in, playing with the smoke and setting the men to coughing. Here
and there on the ground were long mounds, covered completely with rough
hand-woven rugs. These were the invalids, who moaned as the rugs were
pulled off their faces. A great many had malaria; others had, as far as
we could see, very bad pleurisy; and one old Albanian with rattling
breath was huddled up in a far corner, too miserable to speak.
Whatmough sent for a dribble of camphorated oil he had stored in his
knapsack, "to cheer them up," said he, and rubbed everybody who had pain
and a cough.
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