Sevastopol

You go to the wharf – a peculiar odor of coal, manure, dampness, and of beef strikes you; thousands of objects of all sorts – wood, meat, gabions, flour, iron, and so forth – lie in heaps about the wharf; soldiers of various regiments, with knapsacks and muskets, without knapsacks and without muskets, throng thither, smoke, quarrel, drag weights aboard the steamer which lies smoking beside the quay; unattache