Rotting carcasses of horses and cattle, killed by the rebels' artillery-fire, lay stenching here and there, and there was no possibility of disposing of them.

A day came very soon, indeed, when horse, or occasional transport bullock, was all there was to eat, and a night came when Govind Singh, the leader of the Sikhs, came to him and remonstrated.
The old man had to be carried to Byng's tent, for a round shot had disabled him, and he had himself set down by the tent-door, where the General sat on a camp-stool.
"General-sahib, I have not been asked for advice; I am here to offer it." The huge black dome of heaven was punctuated by a billion dots of steely white that looked like pin-pricks.

All the light there was came from the fitful watch-fires, where even the wagons were being burned now that the meagre supply of rough timber was giving out.

The rebels, too, were burning everything on which they could lay their hands, and from between the spaced-out glow of their bonfires came ever and again the spurt of cannon-flame.
"Speak, Govind Singh!" "Sahib, we have no artillery with which to answer them.

We have no food; and the supply of ammunition wanes.