Living snow

We have stopped again for the night, and I hear music. One of the boys managed to spirit a violin along with him, and he's playing something Irish and singing. 

Whilst marching this morning, I noticed along the path a set of small tracks, probably left by some rodent. I realized that snow is unique in that it records the presence of those who walk upon it. Unlike rain, it bears witness to the life passing before it, and it tells a story, for the time it is here. Then it melts away, and with it the evidence of those who've touched it.

Marching (sept 13, 1775)

Two days out, and it feels like weeks. We march and we march, though I think a more proper word would be trudge. The snow is unrelenting and heavy, and our boots are not adequate for this environment. At Princeton, (and, indeed, during my childhood in New Jersey) I remember my friends and I would welcome each new snow fall, gallivanting through the white landscape and so forth. But here in the thick of it, I fear the magical beauty of snow shall be forever ruined for me. I become numb to it, living with it here at all hours. It is said that a loss of innocence is the ultimate price of war, and I am now starting to discover that this loss is all encompassing. 

A lad died this morning of scurvy. General Arnold held a brief service for him before he prepared to set out again. The General seems a fine leader and a patriot. I noted this evening that, in the wake of this death, many of the men are making a point of eating all the fruit they can get their hands on. I think they'll find that rationing would be the best course of action. 

War (Sept 11, 1775)

Today we set out for British Canada, under the command of General Benedict Arnold. We are to trek some 500 miles to Quebec. It will be a frigid journey, no doubt, but I look forward to engaging the Redcoats in battle. We are to meet General Montgomery and his army in the frozen north.